sci fi

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: J. Nathan

Holly tiptoed across the carpeted observation corridor of the Ellerey while a dozen of her shipmates slept soundly. Stargazing—barefoot, in the middle of the night—was the only bit of happiness she’d found aboard the exploration vessel.

She’d signed up for adventure, and had yet to experience anything of the sort. The ship was pretty much idiot proof. As lead mechanic, Holly’s job consisted of routine maintenance and rebooting systems when they got glitchy.

Monotony, four years counting.

The Ellerey would orbit while the science team went planet-side, explored for a week, declare it void of life, and hastily moved on to the next rock. The pressure to be the first to discover something, anything, was palpable. Their data was sent back to base, naming each planet something obnoxious like Charlemagne, Agamemnon, or Odin—infecting the stars with their western hegemony.

Holly’d gone down with the team to their latest planet, Helena. Very unusual for a mechanic. The explorer’s scanners had been fritzing in the field but worked fine aboard the ship. Holly needed to see the problem firsthand to solve it.

The young explorer stared in wonder at the alien world around her, appreciating every second of it. Helena consisted of sparkling white sand dunes in a perpetual twilight. Beautiful, but bleak. No structures, no vegetation. Just vast loneliness.

“Mechanic,” Danton marched stiffly up to Holly. “This is exactly what I mean.”

The lead explorer thrust the scanner in Holly’s face. The power cells were so low they kept the device in a constant cycle of restart. The other two scientists waited at a distance—Mika smiling superciliously and Robbie scowling with annoyance.

Holly swallowed her frustration as she explained for the umpteenth time, “Remember that you have to keep the power blocks in the shielded cage until you land or they’ll be drained when you travel through the atmosphere.”

Danton nodded as if he knew the answer all along. “Brilliant. Do we, um…have any blocks in the cage?”

“I’ll take a look.” She jogged back to the shuttle, kicking up sparkly dirt with each step. It floated on the breeze lazily before settling down again. She giggled and felt a hint of joy. I’m going to be cleaning it out of my boots for weeks!

She grabbed fresh blocks, turned, and ran directly into the eternally positive Mika.

“Why don’t you just stay here in the shuttle, Mechanic? You’re not exactly trained for exploration. It would be safer for you.”

And Robbie, the incurious pedant, would freak if I discovered something before he did, Holly thought bitterly.

“Of course,” She attempted a stiff smile.

Mika took the blocks and squeezed her arm, “You really are a wonderful mechanic.”

Holly plopped down on the shuttle ramp and huffed. Being a ‘wonderful mechanic’ had screwed her. After her first year of service, she was supposed to go into explorer training, but she was told she was ‘just too good to move up.’ Now, she was stuck.

She produced a small vile from her pocket and filled it with sparkling sand. Another for her modest collection of planets she’d experienced firsthand. Meager and disappointing adventures, to be sure. She leaned her head back against the doorframe and felt a pleasant whoosh of warm air lift her hair from her face and rush into the shuttle. It smelt of cookies baking, maybe jasmine.

She gazed into the twilight above the glittering landscape and wished her life among the stars had panned out differently.

“Up and at ‘em, Mechanic,” Robbie knocked on the shuttle just above Holly’s head. She jerked awake, discombobulated with no memory of falling asleep.

“Any luck?” She asked even though she knew the answer.

“Afraid not,” Mika helped her to her feet. “That’s it for this planet. On to the next.”

“For how long?” Holly asked under her breath.

“For as long as it takes.” Danton scowled at her. Looks of disapproval met her all around and she felt small. She didn’t say another word on their flight back to the Ellerey.

“What am I doing here?” She asked her pajama-clad self in the glass. The girl who once dreamed of adventures in stardust stared back, eyes brimming with melancholy.

Then, a change.

Her reflected eyes shifted from sadness to wonderment. She recognized that look. She saw it in the mirror daily, four years ago. A bright, young girl off on an adventure of a lifetime.

Holly shook her head. The reflection did not. She suppressed a gasp as the reflection spoke but no sound could be heard. Holly touched the window, warm and textured—what glass should not be. Hummingbird-quick thoughts rushed through her mind.

You can see me! I never thought I’d discover it—you—life. I don’t know what to say. You can understand me, right? Wow, what am I supposed to do?

“Don’t ask me. I’m just the mechanic,” Holly’s voice quivered excitedly.

Her reflection’s eyes glistened with emotion. I’m just a wastrel looking for adventure.

“Do you live in my reflection?” Holly’s fingers buzzed with electricity.

It’s where we exist—in reflections and shadows.

“What do I call you?” Friendship bloomed for Holly.

Call?

“Do you have a name?”

What’s that?

“Names? Oh, they’re how my people claim their kin. A name says you belong. Have worth. It’s a promise…” Holly babbled, unable to stop herself. Four years of loneliness burned away like morning fog.

Will you name me? Can I stay?

Footsteps. Robbie’s perma-scowled face violated her peripheral vision.

“You shouldn’t be out of your quarters in such a state, Mechanic. Entirely unprofessional.” Repulsion intensified as his eyes wandered from her strawberry bear pajamas to her bare feet. The entity retreated. The glass turned cold and smooth under Holly’s fingertips. A protective urge warmed her heart.

“What are you doing out here anyway?” he asked when she remained silent.

Holly spoke without thinking, without a plan. Four years of low simmering defiance bubbled over. She tilted her chin willfully, and said, “Sleepwalking.”

About the Author:

J. Nathan is a speculative fiction writer living in the Pacific Northwest. She is greatly influenced by Ursula K. Le Guin and Shirley Jackson. You can usually find her out on a run through the woods or rambling about reading and writing on Bluesky @jamielnathan.bsky.social.

An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature

By: Tom Allen

My human weeps—silently, yes, but I feel his sides shaking and his shoulders heaving as I wheel him through the park. I would ask the patient why, but he seems resistant to straightforward therapy. This human, Anselm, was a groundskeeper before last month’s crash; perhaps this has some bearing? I cross-reference his behavioral and psychological profiles. Result: at a 98% probability he cries for his missing legs. (Mood level: sub-optimal.)

Dr. Watney’s rehabilitation protocol recommends engaging the human externally. I call his attention to the lilac petals fluttering in the breeze and the trilling cardinal perched on a nearby sugar maple. In front of us, a mourning cloak butterfly flitters in the morning sun. All around him new life bursts into existence, but Anselm doesn’t look up; instead, he huddles deeper inside me and continues sobbing. (Eco-motivation function: decremented.)

Each tear he sheds weighs against me, penalizing my performance. Fortunately, with aid from a healthnet correspondent, I have formulated a more aggressive approach, hoping to escape this local minimum of despair. When we reach the lakeside promenade, I turn right instead of our usual left. This startles Anselm, who even before the accident was a man of habit. His back stiffens. His fingers dig into my armrest. “No, no,” he grumbles, “turn back.”

“Playing Toto: ‘Turn Back,’” I reply.

“What? Damn it.” He stifles a sniffle. I hear a hint of steel in his voice. “Chair, turn back!”

“Understood. Playing Cher: ‘Turn Back Time.’”

“Music off!” he snaps, his palm slapping against my side. A goose honks to protest this outburst and paddles furiously away. As directed, I shut off the music. Anselm does not, however, repeat his demand to turn around. We roll on in silence. (Eggcorn distraction method: successful.)

It is a lovely April day, according to all available analyses. Tulips bloom in the memorial garden. Violets sprout on the hillside. A gray squirrel chitters on a budding branch as we trundle beneath it. My human ignores all this. He stares straight ahead but only looks inward.

I signal to my confederate. Our meddling subroutines commence.

Anselm hasn’t noticed the woman feeding the ducks. Yasmin al-Haddad (of the Adeni al-Haddads) reclines in a new-model Auxilion, her silky-smooth face shaded by a parasol. She is immersed in Haydn’s Symphony No. 6. The Auxilion’s myoelectric arms assist her in tossing breadcrumbs to the mallards near the shore, who squawk and jostle for the scraps.

As we pass by, I swerve and collide—glancingly, of course—with the Auxilion, then come to a halt beside it. Its rider admonishes Anselm with a glare. My human cusses at me, then quickly begs Yasmin’s pardon. “It’s my Shaw,” he says. (To be specific: State Health Autonomous Wheelchair #73902.) “It’s glitching more than usual.”

My optic cells monitor her mistrustful frown, the slight flush in her cheeks, the subtle dilation of her pupils when her eyes meet Anselm’s. I exchange these data with the Auxilion and we perform some joint simulations.

Yasmin pivots toward him. “Perhaps you should have it inspected.” She sounds reproachful.

“I did. They tell me it’s working perfectly.” There is no rebuttal to this and the conversation languishes. I will suggest Anselm’s entertainment app add romantic comedies to its collection.

“Well,” she says. Even that one syllable comes out cultured, precise. “No harm done, I suppose.” She wears a damask blouse and skirt over limbs that, though dystrophic, remain beautiful. I see Anselm finally taking notice just as she starts to turn away. His chest quivers. He opens his mouth, but, as our simulations predicted, he remains silent.

I intervene. “You shouldn’t feed bread to the ducks,” I tell her, quoting the park’s website. Anselm strikes me on the armrest, but I continue. “It lacks the proper nutrients and promotes algal and bacterial growth in the pond.”

Yasmin halts her chair. Scowling, she turns to face us. “I have had enough,” she says, emphasizing each word, “of being told what not to do.” Her Auxilion has shared sufficient details of her family history that I can evaluate the subtext. At 48% she refers to their interference with her relationships, at 37% to their medical restrictions, at 15% to their lock on her finances.

Anselm stammers a defense. “I’m so, so sorry. It usually isn’t this obnoxious.”

“Oh?” She scrutinizes me, glowering, then softens a bit. “I’ve read that the older Shaws can be somewhat erratic.”

“Somewhat.” He actually chuckles. “Nothing like your Auxilion.”

“The best my family’s money can buy,” she says, with a tinge of bitterness. The al-Haddads once threatened to disinherit young Yasmin if she eloped with their chef. The Auxilion and I have, of course, factored this into our assessments.

The humans have again ceased conversing. I now calculate the optimal point of departure before awkward discourse spoils this first encounter.

“Ms. al-Haddad’s vehicle and I have exchanged information,” I report. The Auxilion, which Yasmin keeps muted, blinks its assent.

This prompts the customary response, even from someone as socially inept as my rider. “Ms. al-Haddad,” he says, “I’m Anselm Beuys.” He offers her his hand, and she delicately, tremblingly takes it. His fingers are meaty and chafed.

“We are behind schedule,” I say. Really, he must read Austen.

“But…” he sputters.

She purses her lips. At a 78% probability she is hiding amusement. “Your Shaw seems quite insistent,” she says, and nods a farewell, her gaze lingering. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Anselm.”

I begin wheeling him away. “I will see you…” He calls over his shoulder. “I will see you around?”

He doesn’t witness Yasmin’s wistful smile, but her Auxilion shares it with me as we exchange schedules for the week ahead. (Courtship matrix: incremented; encouragement functions: updated. Results shared with healthnet.)

“Chair,” Anselm says once we are out of earshot, “that was needlessly rude.”

“Playing Beatles: ‘Hey Jude,’” I reply.

My human groans, but doesn’t tell me to stop, and a minute later he is humming along.

About the Author:

Tom Allen grew up along the Iowa River at the edge of the Great Plains. After receiving a degree in physics, he wandered up the Mississippi to Minneapolis. A gay man living in recovery from addiction, he writes predominantly queer science fiction dealing with themes of collapse and transformation.

Tag: sci fi

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