Alien Science Fiction Vol. 1

By Simon J. Cooper

Ranging from humorous to dark and gritty, to the downright dark, every story in the Alien Science Fiction series has one thing in common — aliens.

The first five stories here either directly take an alien's viewpoint, or feature the effect of alien life on humans, or journey to alien worlds, whether real or virtual.

The first story is No Cry For Help is a whodunit set on an alien world where a humanoid species have developed from a dolphin like ancestor. When Professor Cree Caarlso receives a desperate call from an old friend, he finds himself the only one who can help.

Next up is Alien Plant Dreams, where a lonely man's life takes a sinister turn when he raises a truly alien plant species inside his house.

Third in the series is Blood Sick. A vampire must have blood to survive, even if that vampire is an alien shipwrecked on Earth after a secret landing to harvest human blood. But surviving on human blood comes at a high cost, both for this vampire, and her victims. A dark tale, not for the faint hearted.

In We, a story of an alien takeover of earth is told from the perspective of a hive minded species determined to eliminate humanity. But can humanity, unwittingly, convince the hive mind to change itself, and stop the carnage.

Fifth in the series and last in this volume is Happiness Worms on Lamm??? Lurk on a travel forum from another galaxy and help a Gooboy find the answers to questions like —what is true lasting happiness, and how can you find it? What's the truth about the Happiness Worms on Lamm Island? And just who exactly are the Transync Monks?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holbrook Publishing
• Release date: Dec 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465796714

Simon J. Cooper

Simon J. Cooper grew up on a farm in rural Donegal, Ireland, and spent his time avoiding farm work, digging for dragon skulls, and daydreaming about the kind of characters and worlds he now turns into stories. When his family moved to England, Simon fell in love with County Derbyshire, (you should go there,) and ale! It was there, at age eighteen, that he embarked on a quest for the meaning of life. This led to becoming down and out in both London and Paris, and three years philosophising in Lancashire, and a lot of other unprintable stuff, great and awful. Finally, he found an answer, his own at any rate, and got lucky, and married, in Northern Ireland, which is where he lives now with his wife, two children and a dragon – sorry, dog.

Book preview

Alien Science Fiction Vol. 1

Simon J. Cooper

Copyright Simon J. Cooper 2011

Published by Holbrook Publishing at Smashwords

Covers by ENC

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Contents

No Cry For Help

Alien Plant Dreams

Blood Sick

We

Happiness Worms on Lamm???

No Cry for Help

The house system bleeped, waking Professor Cree Caarlso from a generous snooze on his office chair. The working day ended two hours ago, so he let it go to message, he could reply if there was anything urgent. In Caarlso's experience, one cetecan's definition of urgent was very different to another's.

There was the sound of laboured breathing, and then a whisper. Cree… are you there, Cree?

Caarlso blinked and sat upright, the sudden movement sending a jolt like electricity up his leg. He swore, sitting forward onto the edge of the chair, squeezing his thigh as he answered.

Hardlin? Is that you? The house put the call through at the sound of Caarlso's voice.

Cree. Hardlin seemed to rally for a moment at the recognition, before his voice cracked, his breath catching in his throat as if he was about to cry. I'm sorry Cree, forgive me for calling, but who else would I call for counsel? He laughed in a sharp burst.

Hardlin? What's wrong? What's happened? Caarlso asked.

Would you meet with me, Cree, tonight? I know this sounds crazy, but you're used to dealing with madness. Something terrible has happened.

Caarlso nodded, shocked by the urgent need in this weakened voice. The Hardlin Lambin he once knew never asked for help and never admitted to needing it. Where are you?

#

For a sixty year old cetecan, Cree Caarlso ached before his time, and in the taxi on the way to Lambin's he took a packet of pik-ups from his coat, popped a blue tablet, and chewed. It was his fifth in the hour since the call, and he didn't want to think about how many packets he'd chewed through since sunrise. Caarlso was more aware of the tablets than usual.

Caarlso and Lambin's paths had diverged four decades earlier. Caarlso towards psychology, Lambin into chemical engineering. Hardlin Lambin invented pik-ups, and became rich beyond anyone's dreams because of that one inspiration, and his single minded driving of its application.

Due to the combination of an oxygen rich atmosphere, and a dolphin-like evolutionary ancestor, cetecans had evolved small lungs and long limbs. Their muscular legs were three times longer than the squat torso from which they extended. Their supple arms stretched to their thighs, and their rounded heads perched on thick necks. Pik-ups streamlined the body's oxygen use, and when taken in moderation, they were harmless.

Caarlso's overuse had weakened his circulatory system. Warmth spread through Caarlso's shoulders as the little blue soldiers fought their battles, yet these days, the dull ache never fully disappeared.

#

Hardlin Lambin's townhouse wasn't the largest on the Boulevard Mairtin, but still dwarfed most in the city. Built in the late Copican style characterised by bulbous arches and swollen pillars, Caarlso strained to take it all in. Though he didn't like the style, or its resurrection, this was an impressive fake. As the cab pulled up outside the front door he got out, asking the driver to wait.

The front door was slightly open, only a faint glow of light evident. He knocked, but no one came. He pushed the door fully open. A globe lamp on a table at the far end of the foyer provided enough light to pick out a few details.

Hardlin? It's Cree Caarlso.

No reply. Caarlso felt along the wall to his left and triggered the main lights. He shuffled towards the lamp where a short corridor led to another room, its oval door closed.

Hardlin? Caarlso knocked the door. Hardlin, are you there?

Caarlso opened the door, and his heart thumped heavily inside his chest. A man's body lay on the study floor, his skin tightened, as if drained of all fluids. He was fully clothed, but the sleeve on his right arm was rolled up, and buried in it was an empty syringe. Beside his arm was a second syringe, this one was also empty.

Caarlso knelt beside the body, a sickness in the pit of his stomach at the sight, and the strong smell of salty pork. The corpse's dried out grey skin strained against the skull making the mouth an ugly hole, and the nose a pointed stone, but it was still Hardlin Lambin. In a horrible way he looked closer to the younger version Caarlso knew than the bloated captain of industry that appeared intermittently in the news.

Caarlso twisted at the sound of voices from the corridor. He stood, slightly off balance. A woman entered the room pointing a snub rifle at his head. A nervous young man flanked her, he was also armed.

Stretch your arms out, the woman said.

Can I_

Shut it.

Caarlso spread his arms to the side. The stance exaggerated the weight of his limbs, and the immediate pain was a hated reminder of how unfit Caarlso had become, and the school exercise classes he enjoyed skipping.

Name? The woman glanced from Caarlso to the body at his feet.

Cree Caarlso.

Okay Caarlso. I'm Inspector Morrow. Step to your left three paces.

Caarlso obeyed.

Kandin. The woman nodded to the junior detective who holstered his gun and searched Caarlso. He nodded back at his senior.

Inspector Morrow holstered her rifle. She entered the room, taking a data-M from her coat, and a red hologram screen projected out flat from the device. She glanced at Caarlso. You can lower your arms.

Caarlso's twitching arms slumped to his sides.

Morrow read the screen text, Professor Cree Caarlso. AGF-00632-8289, Director of the Institute for Cetecan Understanding. Aims: To promote mentally healthy being in all cetecans. You're a header.

Caarlso's lips strained. A psychologist, yes. Where did you get that information?

"Don't panic, Professor, I haven't impinged any privacy laws, your