A Present From Milton Keynes, by Catherine Redfern

He got on at Milton Keynes

and took the window seat

I thought of Mohammed Sabat, of Khomeni

and Bin Laden.

Yes; the headgear and the robe.

And the fidgeting began.

At first I thught: He's not comfortable

next to a woman with no burqa.

But another thought intruded:

Why this recklessness? Why this

constant checking of his watch?

And there was the phone call

on his mobile. In Arabic, of course.

But, even so .....

And the bag at his feet. Every now and then

he bent down to it. Checking a mechanism, perhaps?

Where? When would he strike? Nearly

at New Street now. Of course!

Maximum damage would be there!

I was glad I was right next to him,

not further down the carriage.

The end would be quick: over in a moment.

Should I phone my family? Last-minute messages

like at 9-11?

Better he shouldn't hear. But I could text them.

As we walked up the platform,

the train twenty minutes late,

I could see him hurrying ahead.

Hurrying to his waiting wife and children.

They all looked happy as he held up

the bag:

Baklavas made by his sister.

All the warm sweetness of the Lebanon

tempering this sad foreign land:

A present from Milton Keynes.

Two Coffees, by Sandie Zand

Way back, when it mattered, I'd said: "There's only one rule and that is there are no rules."

You laughed. “You can’t do that,” you said. “Can’t say there aren’t rules and make that a rule – it’s a contradiction.”

“Okay,” I said. “Call it a guideline then. No rules, that’s the guideline. Agreed?”

“Yeah, cool,” you said. You laughed again, you sounded full, and I knew I had you.

You were making coffee. Instant. You didn’t drink the proper stuff back then. Even with coffee, you wouldn’t follow the rules; you’d pour hot water into the cups then sprinkle granules on the surface where they’d float in belligerent denial of purpose. You had to stir it for ages before they dissolved.

Now you’re making coffee again, in the espresso maker we bought last June, and you hand me mine – black, just as it comes. Into yours, you shake sugar from the bag, not caring whether you get one measure or five, and you stir the sticky brew with an egg spoon for ages.

“I was wondering,” you say, “what the guideline would be for seeing other people.”

The coffee burns my top lip, hits the roof of my mouth and burns that too. I swear, jerk the cup away, hot liquid curls over the edge and spills onto my shirt.

“I mean theoretically,” you say, “you know.”

“Why ask me?” I dab at the spill with a tea-towel, but it’s seeped right through and is clinging fast. I go to the sink, dampen a cloth and press the stain gently, glad to have my back to you. I wait for you to speak.

“Well, as guardian of guidelines,” you say. “I mean they are always yours, right? So I thought, well, you might have... you know... one in reserve…”

You move forward and peer over my shoulder.

“Rub soap on it,” you suggest.

“It’s silk,” I say, “dry-clean only.”

“They always put that, just covering their backs, it needs soap.”

You do the laundry with the same reckless will with which you sweeten your coffee. I had to make it a guideline in the end – after the first couple of months of sludge-grey whites – that we each take care of our own clothes.

“So…” You drain your cup in one mouthful, swallow it down on the pause. “What say you?”

“I suppose it’s a case of to thine own self be true,” I say.

“That’s the guideline?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay,” you say. “Cool. It was just theoretical, just curiosity, you know.”

You put down your empty cup.

I stand by the sink, a circle of damp encroaching on my chest.

And I wait for you to leave.

Voyage through Galaxy XG#∑₲₼4a, by Penny Simpson

Year 192: orbit of StarXG#365y

Week 16: 3^rd planet.                

The 3^rd planet initially attracted our attention because of its unusual blue green colour. As we approached, we observed that, in addition to a relatively large moon, the planet has a series of rings. At first, we assumed the rings to be made up of dust and gases similar to those of two of its larger neighbours (already documented see reports from Weeks 12 &13). But closer inspection revealed that they are made up of fragments of some unknown highly reflective material that catches light from the star and reflects it causing dazzling flashes as bright as gas flares.

We also picked up radio signals from sources with coordinates inside the ring and on the surface of the planet. (but none from its silent moon). So we decided to enter the planet’s atmosphere, locate and make contact with the transmitters.

The landing team were entranced by the third planet’s beauty reporting how its surface appeared to shimmer and move as white trails and clouds of vapour veiled and then revealed its complex faces.

In the last report we received before losing contact, they had deciphered aerial images emanating from the radio waves. These images were many and varied but they identified two main types: distressing images of an unknown violent species of biped that the team have named ‘the devils’. The playful, furry quadrupeds that feature in the other type of image were known as ‘kittens’.

(This story and the three which follow are all variations on the following theme: "Imagine a report by aliens visiting Earth after humans have become extinct")

The Species, by Graham Attenborough

Interim Report on Blue Planet; Star System #**~^#**<~*: Extinction Event.

We began our survey of the Blue Planet many generations ago. Since that time much has occurred, culminating in a catastrophic extinction event, which has decimated almost all flower and fauna on land and much of the planets ocean besides.

Initially, the species responsible for this event had made little impact on the planet's Eco systems, living, more or less, in harmony with its fellow creatures. However, on subsequent visits we found that the species had multiplied exponentially; had begun to form large settlements, and was systematically destroying the environment.

Only a few generations ago, we were extremely alarmed to discover that the species had spread to such a degree that much, of what had once been a Paradise Planet, had been so badly damaged by their activity, that many of its fellow species were either extinct or surviving in captivity and small corridors of natural habitat.

A word here on the species. The species in question is a problem-solving, tool-using biped. The species is basically a scavenger. The species is highly social and in small groups is capable of living within its means. Unfortunately, it would appear that, approximately thirty thousand of the planet's years ago, an anomaly occurred in its evolution, leading to arrested development in the species. This anomaly allowed the species to believe that it was unique, in some way special, and that its immediate (and largely imagined) needs outweighed those of all others with which it shared the planet. Eventually, the species came to see themselves as a kind of god and that the Blue Planet and everything in it belonged to them to do with as they pleased.

Herein is the sorry tale of this most wonderful planet: that it spawned a creature that saw itself more important than the planet that had spawned it. There is hope however. Once the species finally recognised the irreversibility of its actions, it began to use its destructive power on itself like never before. Their final war, over what sparse resources remained, exterminated billions leaving only a few thousand of the most powerful and despicable of the species. These few have escaped the Blue Planet and are now seeking a new world to inhabit.

It is the regrettable recommendation of this report, that these survivors be sought out and destroyed before they are able to infect any other habitable planet. It is essential, for the well-being of the galaxy, that the species is completely nullified forthwith.

*#¥~<~+^#*

Translated by Graham Attenborough (2016)

Nanobot Future, by Peter Morford

They had been watching the sun for many of their own revolutions and could already see the signs of its ultimate inflation. But for now it was well worth visiting.  There had been evidence of intelligent life on its third planet and it would be in the interests of science to take a closer look.

            There were the usual arguments about finance.  How, people asked, could the Ruling Party countenance the danger, effort and expense in an enterprise which could bring no benefit for generations to come?   How long would it take to travel the 7 light years?

        The boffins did the sums and made a concession.  “We’ll not send live souls, we’ll use micro-organic robots. They are expendable.”

            “How long?” the sceptic repeated.

            “At 10% of the speed of light – 70 years.  One way.”

            On Earth, if there had been any men on it, they would have said the date was AD10,301. But Man and all the mammals and marine creatures were long gone from a planet which only supported plant life south of Capricorn and north of Cancer belts.  The rest was hot enough to melt tallow.  From the trickle of water that had been the great oceans mountains rose 7 miles high.

            The arguments were over at last. The exploration was on.

            It wasn’t much of a spectacle. In the early days a space launch was dramatic and noisy. Crowds would watch the great tube hoist itself into the sky, belching fire, dropping bits off until it disappeared into the ether.

            But now, in AD10303, a very small craft took off with the dignity of an aircraft, went into low orbit and, well out of sight of its sponsors, released a cloud of microbots which would stream away, driven by the solar wind and cyclotron radiation. They would sail separately and only reunite at their destination. Earth.

            The trillions of ‘bots, tethered to their sails, orbited Earth for several weeks before choosing a landing place near the edge of the fertile region. They discarded their sails and gathered together on a flat plain.

            Only insects would have seen them. The bigger ones picked up individual microbots, found them indigestible and cast them out.

            The microbots formed  themselves into machines; diggers, chemical laboratories, transmission devices, vehicles for both land and air. 

            They started to dig in the hard ground, looking for evidence of intelligent life.

             They were still digging and moving and digging again in AD10506.  Nothing yet, they reported.

            Mission aborted.

New Discoveries in Paleography, by Peter Shilston

The archaeological team is proud to report a major breakthrough in the excavations at building 402. Painstaking work by our experts has enabled us to transcribe some of the writing from fragments of a document which has, quite by chance, survived to destruction which overtook the settlement. Although the language of these vanished people is still wholly unknown to us, we are able to make a few tentative guesses as to the document’s nature and meaning.

   It was clearly some form of letter addressed to the resident. It would appear that his name was:

  “New Bengal Restaurant and Takeaway”

And that he lived in a street called:

   “Opening Soon!”

In the town, or possible the province, of

   “Free Delivery on Telephone Orders!”

“New”, as he was probably called by his friends and family, would have read, on the reverse of this letter, communications such as:

  

   “Lamb Samosa £4.20”,   and

   “Chicken Biryani £7.50”

There has been speculation in certain of the media that the recipient was a priest in a temple, and that these words were religious chants or magical incantations. I have even seen sensational so-called “reconstructions”, where New and his family are depicted standing in a circle to perform these rituals. I must stress that, in our opinion, there are as yet no grounds whatsoever for any such fancies. The writings could just as easily be a bill for repairs to his roof! In the meantime, I once again commend the excellent work of the palaeographers, and wait eagerly for more information about our friend New and his town of Free Delivery.