A short story-come-novella with a devastating sense of menace. A survivor struggles to remember how she came to be the last known surviving human while in constant peril from predatory aliens. This story covers environmental collapse, AI technology, and civilisational collapse without ever letting up on the action or tension.
A short story-come-novella with a devastating sense of menace. A survivor struggles to remember how she came to be the last known surviving human while in constant peril from predatory aliens. This story covers environmental collapse, AI technology, and civilisational collapse without ever letting up on the action or tension.
The survivor stumbles forward, her steps echoing in the oppressive silence. Her heart pounds like a jackhammer. She doesnât know where sheâs heading. All she remembers is running. Terror chasing. Everything lost.
Broken and fragmented recollections tumble around her head. Fear courses through her body. Her breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps as desperation claws at her throat. Dehydration consumes her, and a raging thirst feels unquenchable.
There must be a way out. As she moves through the foreign area, memories begin to gel. Disaster had ploughed through her lifeânot just hers, everyoneâs.
Panic presses down with suffocating intensity. Shadows twist. Distressing creaks and groans from the metal structure amplify her fear. Death is coming.
Metal structure? The feel of the cold steel beneath her feet cuts through the delirium. She is no longer running. Her mind focuses on her surroundings. Everything seems wrong. Where is she? A narrow passage of continuous walls emits a faint, sickly yellow glow. There are no rivets or bolts. No panels. Each wall is just one long piece of whatever the material is.
A mechanical whirring breaks through her mental fog, and the survivor becomes aware of a large shape beside her. The outline solidifies into a robot. It plods along, the thud of its footfalls strangled by the thin air.
The survivor halts to examine the robot. Its design is utilitarianâcold, metallic and tarnished by age. Glowing blue eyes provide the only touch of warmth. Importantly, although oversized, the robot is human-shaped, and that could mean human-made.
The robot extends an arm, its joints moving with a quiet hiss, and points down the corridor, a swift gesture indicating she should continue. The gesture isnât threatening, but it is definite and disturbing.
Staggering on numb feet, she follows the robot as it guides her through labyrinthine corridors. The sterile, clinical and featureless environment contrasts with the earthy uncertainty that grips her. The air feels strange, without texture, confirmation that nothing here is alive. No plants. Nothing with an organic presence.
And itâs cold, a temperature sheâs never experienced before. A handful of rags covers parts of her. She tries to recall what she had been wearing during the chase, but her recollection is nearly blank. Frozen images of blood and darkness blend with fleeting sensations of dread. No, itâs more than dread, something primal and wild.
Animal.
In contrast, the robotâs methodical movementsâdeliberate, exact and focusedâradiate an unemotional control. In some respects, thatâs worse. The robot doesnât seem a threatâitâs not designed for warâbut sheâs still doing what it wants. What if she runs? Will it follow? Will it kill? It occurs to her that the robot is talking.
â⌠no survivors,â it intones, a distorted voice cranking out of a failing speaker.
Where is she? The image of sharp, snarling teeth lunging out of the darkness hits her, a horrific memory shard unlocked.
âWhat do you mean by âno survivorsâ? There must be others,â the survivor says.
âSeven chronars of data state no human survivors. The search continues,â the robot replies.
âChronars? Whatâs that?â
âIn Earth terms, one chronar is mathematically equivalent to 1,733 Earth months.â
âEarth months? I donât understand.â
âYou have been in stasis in excess of one thousand Earth years.â
âNo, I mean, where are we?â the survivor asks.
The light flickers, throwing the corridor into darkness. To the survivor, the momentary glimpses of the robot in the flashes put it into stop-motion snapshots that separate it from the mechanised sounds, another level of detachment in an already shaky reality. When the lighting returns, the numbers register.
âOne thousandâNo!â The survivor loses her footing as the blood drains, causing her to fall against the wall. It is freezing to the touch and sucks at her skin.
âYou must be careful,â the robot says. âDo not try to damage yourself.â
She looks up at the giant hunk of metal. Can it have a human understanding of damage?
âControllers summon you,â it continues. âYou must maintain an unblemished exterior.â
âControllers? What do they want?â
âThey request information regarding events,â the robot says.
Another snatched image: A dark forest. Pounding feet on the soil. A spotlight chasing. Bloodstained bodies.
âI recall a ⌠hunt,â she says.
The survivor approaches a heavy, circular door, its presence as unsettling as it is mesmerising. The doorâs surface undulates gently, its texture resembling a cephalopodâs shifting, iridescent skin. Bioluminescent veins trace delicate patterns along its rim, glowing softly in violet and blue. They throb like a slow, steady heartbeat.
Tiny, translucent tendrils extend from the doorâs circumference and shake as the survivor nears, whispering like a breeze through rushes. The door ripples open smoothly from its centre. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, like dry lips slowly preparing to speak, leaving a space that feels charged with a curious, watchful energy. Beyond lies the control deck.
The robot halts before the entrance; its blue eyes flash in an alternating pattern. It gestures for the survivor to enter. She hesitates, cautiously peering into the room. A pulsating deep purple bathes the area. It appears empty. She checks back with the robot, searching for a hint of reassurance. It says and does nothing.
âDid the Controllers make you?â
âNo.â The response is definitive. The robot motions again for her to enter.
Taking a deep breath, the survivor steps across the threshold. The door seals behind her, exuding a pungent smell. She gags on the fumes.
Under her feet, accompanied by the drone of the shipâs engines, she feels a slow vibration from unseen machinery. A purple glow is so intense that it renders her partially blind. The air pressurises, sending her head spinning. Sounds dim.
âHello?â The word disappears as soon as she speaks.
There is no response. The survivor steps with mounting caution to the centre of the room. All she is aware of is the rasp of her breath, the rawness of her throat highlighting her dehydration. But she doesnât hunger for water.
Chimera by Mark Lingane is a bit too long for a short story, and it certainly feels like the beginning of something largerâan epic human-alien spaceship saga. It offers a gripping experience, laced with horror, that is tailored specifically for sci-fi fans. The opening is intriguing and unsettling: the survivor, as she is referred to, wakes up from stasis to find herself utterly alone. Sheâs bound to ask some questions, right? To begin with, where exactly is âhereâ? And for the love of whichever deity humanity worships then, what happened here? Unfortunately for her, the only human-like thing nearby is a robot that appears to have seen the bad times and isnât forthcoming at all. But this robot is willing to walk her to those running the show. The aliens. Those about to unleash more horror in the quest to fulfill their mission. Even the aliens arenât safe: when the survivor asks if she is safe, one alien tells her no one is safe, and the other one admits that "Humanityâs extinction is causing extreme consequences."
Undisputedly, Survivorâs present nightmare might not be her own making, but it sure stemmed from neglected environmental concerns, humanityâs greed, and alien invasion. As she pieces together what little information the aliens feed her, she realizes that the earth has been destroyed. Not by the aliens but by the humans themselves. Especially the leaders, who agreed to play second fiddle to the aliens. She admits, âIn our desperation, we turned on each other. Neighbours became enemies; communities became battlegrounds. The food riots were the first sign, but then came the darkest stage.â
The story shifts from the present, where Survivor faces the horrors of being alive when the others arenât, to the past, where again she tells the story of how it all began, how humanity dug itself the deepest grave. And itâs all coming together, the survivorâs horrors. Such that the reader is not left behind at all, of course about events of the past and present. This paints a sense of hopelessness: no help coming anytime soon. Only death shall grant the survivor the peace she so much craves, and sheâs denied even that.
Here, Lingane demonstrates the power of writing in the present tense, his sentences are largely short and descriptive, greatly capturing the mood. âA dark feeling begins to rise from deep within her memory. Itâs merely a shape, but it will take form and make her wish she had never been born. She knows this is coming.â
Overall, Chimera impressed me, and Iâm sure it will leave readers craving for more of the survivor.