"According to David Hartwell, the literary World Fantasy Awards exist because the genre needed its specificity recognized, mostly as separate from that of Science Fiction (SF.)" This text was first published in James Gunn’s Ad Astra thirteen years ago. As the situation depicted herein can hardly be said to have improved, it seemed time for an update.
The first dead scientist she’d found had scrawled in his own blood, “Upon darkness, seven types of hell will descend.” Everyone on the recovery team had agreed they’d heed that warning and bug out before dark.
Madison leaned forward with exaggerated care, bent down, and peered into the eyepiece of her younger brother’s backyard telescope. There! In the center of the viewfield hung the Visitor. At least that’s what all the news feeds called it.
“Sunday! Sunday! It’s Sunday and that means it’s Primetime for Crimetime! I’m Bryce Boyd for WFLK The Flock, with non-stop coverage of the best punishments fully licensed under the New Penal Authority…”
The atmosphere wouldn’t allow my companions the dignity of fire. The ship instead collapsed like a house of cards. There was barely a sound. I might have imagined the sound for their sake, since, though eulogies may be given, they’ll be delivered from a distance even ghosts can’t hear. That was eight hours ago.
If Earth people had to breathe Martian air, I think they’d make more effort to look after their own. For one thing there isn’t much of it. You’d have trouble getting it into your lungs in the first place. And once there, it wouldn’t do any good. There’s plenty of oxygen, but it’s all bound with carbon, which isn’t going to let it go to keep humans alive. You could last a few minutes, and few more if you had time to prepare, but you’ll suffocate soon enough.
Forgive me, Source. I have begun to dream of touch.
While we are alive while we gather the pages while we still have nice things balanced on an edge before age