Dystopian Med Volume 3: Dystopian Med, #3

By Nicholas Stillman

Dystopian science fiction writer Nicholas Stillman gives you five more doses that will leave you thrashing in your sleep:

"Space Squalor"

The one humane astronaut must stop his entire crew from partying to death with newly discovered aliens.

"One Bow, One Arrow"

Earth declines while waiting for one astronaut to prove our DNA space-worthy.

"Top of the Totem"

Only a mad veterinarian and his cyborg sewer pets can save two warring cities from destruction.

"The K-Type"

An adventurous young man runs from organ harvesters in a future city of lifelong party animals.

"Fix the Universe"

A reserved child prodigy and his father resist the sweeping control of health tyrants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Stillman
• Release date: Feb 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524280284

Nicholas Stillman

Nicholas Stillman writes dark but entertaining science fiction. His weekly short stories and collections aim for variety and novelty with fun and thought-provoking twists. They often branch into dystopia, crime, horror, medical fiction, black comedy, romance, adventure, adult, and the completely new. Some of Stillman’s themes include civilizational collapse, addictions of the future, medicine in space, dark psychology, and the terrifying fate of our healthcare. Stillman offers monthly free short stories at StillmanSciFi.com. Get yourself free, easily accessible short stories for life--the perfect way for any science fiction fan to spend time on commutes or at home.

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Dystopian Med

Volume 3

By Nicholas Stillman

© 2016 Nicholas Stillman

Get free short stories monthly at stillmanscifi.com

Space Squalor

All in favor of breaking the Civilizational Collapse Protocol?

As soon as Marty said it, Dixon leaned back and folded his fingers. He knew the other nine crewmen sitting around the conference table would eagerly raise their right hands. And they did. Dixon’s peripheral vision caught most of it, but he didn’t want to look at all. Everyone on board had raved about meeting the aliens face-to-face, quite illegally, for the past four years.

The nine arms, Marty’s included, lowered in the same unison in which they had raised. Dixon finally looked around at his fellow crewmen of the extrasolar spacecraft Salut. They had all straightened their personally fitted jumpsuits to make their facile argument appear proper. The magnets beneath the floor pulled their suits’ metal plating downward, but they never let it show by slouching in the fake gravity. The crew all resembled knights, albeit with fancier suits of armor and shaven faces. And like knights, they’d soon invade a whole world as they would some inconsequential patch of feudal farmland. Their human germs will fly, and the alien peasants will die.

So, Marty said, nine to one in favor of breaking the Civilizational Collapse Protocol. Dixon, do you want to say anything to sway the vote should we have a second one?

Yes, Dixon said. "I shouldn’t have to say anything. The law demands we follow the CCP. By breaking it, we violate the trust which all of Earth invested in us. We arrive at planet Kepler as criminals, as liars and invaders. We don’t get to vote on our orders from Earth, 16-year-old orders or not.

"We have clear evidence, right here from orbit, that our Keplerian neighbors have endured a global collapse of some kind. We even knew of the catastrophe four years ago when we stopped receiving their radio signals. A society that can’t even get one radio broadcasting tells us a great deal. They simply won’t have the quarantine procedures or medical technology to survive an imperiling visit from us. As I’ve tried to explain to you all for months, our arrival on their surface could easily cause a pandemic and kill the remaining population.

"Now I’d love to go and say ‘Hello’ to them too, but not if it involves sharing our bacteria and starting a plague which could knock them down even further. All of Earth decided this for us. If all goes normal, we talk to them from orbit and make efforts to translate. But should the aliens nearly destroy themselves or suffer any of the disasters listed in the protocol files, then we quietly back away. We take orbital footage and leave, no matter how far into our 16-year journey it happens. The aliens on Kepler need to rebuild before they can handle any epidemic or cultural dilemmas introduced by us.

"We don’t know one word of their language or their religious status yet. We haven’t even seen one of them yet. Imagine the upheaval, the crisis of faith, if we show up when most of them believe in their aloneness or uniqueness in the universe. We could spark a religious war or a mass suicide right at their lowest point. They just haven’t had radio long enough to hone in on our signals.

"And if we break even one protocol, especially one as important as the CCP, you can all forget about Earth sending any more Salut missions."

Dixon finally gazed around the white room. He looked all nine crewmen in the eyes. Though their faces under those rounded helmets differed from his, these men supposedly scored identically on personality tests.

If we back out, Dixon added, if we follow the protocol, they’ll send another team in a few decades. They’ll build on our findings, our legacy.

Alright, Dixon, Marty said. "We already know all that, but thank you for revoicing your concerns. And as you know, we’ve already tackled all those concerns. All of us except you believe our sanitization methods will decrease the risk of introducing plague to almost zero. We plan on sterilizing our skin, GI tracts, spacesuits, and equipment before we touchdown.

We don’t all assume the worst outcomes regarding this religious war you dreamed up. The aliens’ transportation systems have probably collapsed. So we doubt any philosophical debates we stir up in our landing area can spread to other regions. As for breaking Earth protocol, we all agree—except you, Dixon—that we have better knowledge than anyone on Earth to make our decisions regarding this mission.

You think the ten of us have better knowledge than all of Earth? Dixon asked. All the lawmakers, committees, the brightest scientists, entire nations pooling their ethical judgments?

"Well, Dixon, we don’t claim to outsmart all those people. But most of us agree on the likelihood that no other vessel will get sent. Only Salut, only we, will have this chance to make contact with otherworldly life."

They thought of that, Marty. Back on Earth, they thought of everything.

"I know, but no one can predict anything so complex, especially in 16 years’ time. We don’t know the exact nature of the aliens’ collapse. They have really nice houses down there, Dixon. Still intact, too. Their true circumstances might not match anything in the protocol list of disasters.

"Following your plan, Earth’s old rules, we might return home and have the whole world scream at us for wasting this one shot. They’ll call us cowardly pedants for obeying all the rules and wasting a 32-year round trip out here. Maybe, if they send a second Salut vessel, the crew will arrive at a completely dead planet. We’ll have lost our chance at contacting the only alien life ever discovered."

You, none of you, get to make that call, Dixon said. We have systems of law for that.

Dixon, I remember you telling me about how you used to bathe on Earth. You said you would turn in the tub and dunk your whole face, then scrub all the soap off with a facecloth while holding your breath.

So?

Oh, Christ. Where would Marty go with this? Dixon glanced at each crewman, tallying the ones he had told his bathroom routine to. He gave up at five. Would every stupid conversation to pass the time in space get used against him? At this point, would anything rescue the one voice of opposition?

Well, Marty continued delightedly, "you exchanged brain cells for thoroughness and cleanliness. Holding your breath underwater all those times, all those years, would have killed brain cells. Not many, but mind you, it adds up. So most of us agree that your views on the protocols carry less weight compared to our views. Your mind, in some imperceptible way, has less ability to reason as our minds. No offense.

It might explain why no one here agrees with you, Dixon. We all had the same IQ, the same gender, race, age, et cetera when selected for the mission. They really wanted us to get along and agree on things for this most important of space missions. This mission, Dixon, has millions of times more significance than all others confined to our solar system. Maybe the accumulated neuron loss from your bathing methods changed you too much. It didn’t affect your test scores 16 years ago; but maybe it strikes later, much like chronic obstructive pulmonary disease getting worse years after someone quits smoking.

Dixon stared at the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. He wanted to hear only the slight buzz of the bulbs over Marty’s voice. The others sat without expression, without protest to this ridiculous attack. These bored assholes would conjure any justification to have their little visit on another world.

Those fucking scientific journals did this. The idea of neuronal death from holding one’s breath for ten seconds sounded alarmist and paranoid. It probably arose from a misinterpretation of some famous study. Dixon recalled another stupid myth about humans only using ten percent of