Star Stuff: Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories

By Daniel Arenson

Science fiction and fantasy stories from a USA Today bestselling author.

 

Carl Sagan famously said that we are made of star stuff. The atoms in our bodies were forged in the hearts of stars. We are a way for the universe to know itself.

 

Science fiction is the literature of ideas. Of exploration. Of imagination. Through science fiction, we get a little closer to knowing the universe.

 

This anthology contains tales of imagination. One novella. Five science fiction stories. One fantasy story. All seven tales ask a question. What if . . .

 

We are made of star stuff. Let's gaze at where we came from . . . and imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moonclipse
• Release date: Jul 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393090274

Book preview

FOREWORD

Science fiction is the literature of ideas. What if a chip in your brain let you remember every memory as vividly as the current moment? What if artificial intelligence conquered the world not with evil robots but social media? What if an alien signal came from outer space, but everyone who viewed it went insane?

Science fiction stories are a unique art form. They are about taking an idea, exploring it, dissecting it. Some ideas might be fanciful. Others ideas might become reality in just a few years.

Carl Sagan famously said that we are made of star stuff. The atoms in our bodies were forged in the hearts of stars. We are part of the universe. The part that can think. That can dream. That can imagine.

Here are seven of my tales. Seven of my ideas. Let's explore them together.

---

Memories. They tend to be fuzzy. Unreliable. We forget details. We make other details up. But what if memories could be as real as now? What if you could experience a memory as vividly as the present moment? Technology might soon give us this ability. As I write this in 2020, there are already companies working on chips, designed to plug into the human brain, which could replay our memories with perfect fidelity. Not just the visuals but smell, sound, touch, and every other sense. Would you be able to distinguish memory from reality? Maybe at this very moment, we're living in a memory, and we don't even know it...

The short story Memo-Real first appeared in The Expanding Universe V, edited by Craig Martelle.

---

MEMO-REAL

There was once a man who could never remember anything. The doctor said he didn't have amnesia. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just a little forgetful, maybe had to lay off the weed. His brain was perfectly fine, the doctor said, and he wrote it down in case the man forgot.

The man did forget. He forgot the note. Forgot he had seen the doctor at all. He only remembered once he arrived back at the clinic the next day. They told him he had already seen the doctor yesterday, didn't he remember? The doctor had given him a note, after all. The man found it in his pocket. He had forgotten to read it.

Red-faced, the man left the clinic. He forgot where he parked his car, and after a long search, full of cursing and hair-tugging, he remembered that he had walked here. So he walked back home and almost went into the neighbor's apartment.

He did remember the right apartment eventually. He had carved words into the door to remind him. There it was. His name, keyed into the wood.

PHIL LIVES HERE

Ah yes, that was his name. Phil.

The landlord once yelled at him for carving those letters. Phil remembered that, so maybe not all was lost. Maybe he was just a little forgetful, nothing too serious, he just had to lay off the weed. Somebody had told him that once. He didn't remember who.

Next morning, he reported on time for his doctor's appointment, only for the receptionist to tell him it was Wednesday. His appointment had been Monday, and he had come on Tuesday too, and he really ought to tie a string around his finger. Or maybe lay off the weed.

As he walked home, Phil reflected that he didn't use any drugs. Not that he remembered at least. He was halfway home before he remembered that he had driven to the clinic today, that his car was still parked outside. He ran back to the clinic, but the meter had already expired. His car had been there for three days.

He really ought to do something about forgetting so much. There was something he'd been meaning to do. A plan. A cure. He couldn't remember.

He sat down at home to watch some television. He liked the shows about the dwarf families who lived in little houses, drove little cars, and led little lives. There were no complicated plots, no complex characters to remember, and you could just watch the little people go about their business, and you could pretend you were one of them. Sometimes when Phil smoked his drugs and watched his shows, he felt like he was inside the television. That he was a little person who lived in a little house, drove a little car, and lived a little life.

I guess I do smoke drugs after all, he thought, looking at his pipe. I forgot.

Are your memories fuzzy? a man asked.

Phil looked at the television. He had been watching something. He couldn't remember what. It certainly wasn't this. A man appeared on his television, his skin tanned orange, his hair dyed deep black, his smile full of bright teeth.

All the time, Phil said.

The man lifted something. His yellow polyester suit crinkled. His grin widened, nearly consuming his face. That grin felt altogether too large and bright like a crescent moon skimming the horizon. The man held a little metallic square, no larger than a stamp.

Well then, Memo-Real is the product for you! The man winked, and his teeth sparkled. The microchip in his hand sparkled too. "That's right, folks! With Memo-Real, you'll never forget a thing again. With this painless little chip in your noggin, your memories are saved in perfect high fidelity. And I don't just mean some ordinary, vague recollection, no sir. I mean all five senses! Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch … especially touch. He winked at the camera. Call now to book your free consultation. Memo-Real: Memories as real as now."

Fine print raced across the bottom of the screen, far too fast to read.

The grinning man faded away. A family of dwarves appeared onscreen, driving a little car to a little house.

The next morning, Phil drove to the factory where he worked. He grabbed his mop and bucket, and he began to scrub the floor between the towering, humming machinery that kept the city running. All around him, people in lab coats moved back and forth, removing components from some machines, plugging them into other machines, stretching cables back and forth, typing on keyboards, or just looking busy without actually doing much at all.

Phil had worn a lab coat too. Long ago. On his fridge back home, he kept a photo of him wearing a lab coat. That's how he remembered it. But one day he had shown up at work, and he was wearing overalls, and he was mopping the floors instead of typing on a keyboard. People said some stuff about an accident. He couldn't remember what exactly. He had just accepted his new job, and he came in every day, and he worked hard. Sometimes he thought the computers had stolen his memories, and that if he worked hard enough, if he cleaned well enough, they would attach a cable to his head and stream all the memories back in.

Phil, you dumbass! said one of his friends, a scrawny man with nervous eyes. You don't work here no more. You got fired last year, remember?

Another friend walked up, a paunchy man with pink cheeks and a bald head. He wore a tie and held a clipboard. He was the boss, Phil knew. He remembered him because the potbellied man was always very kind.

The boss punched the scrawny man on the shoulder. Shut up, Oscar, we're getting our floors mopped for free here.

The skinny man rubbed his arm. Sorry, boss.

The portly man turned toward Phil and barked a laugh. "Don't worry about Oscar here. You just keep doing your thing, Phil. Remember, if you work really hard, and clean really well, we'll attach a cable to your head and stream all your memories back in."

The fat man roared with laughter and walked toward his office. The scrawny man gave Phil a sad look, then sighed, shook his head, and walked away.

You really are a dumbass, Phil, he could be heard muttering.

That night Phil walked down the corridor, passing door after door until he found the right one. PHIL LIVES HERE.

A few flyers hung on the doorknob. He took them inside and began rifling through them. He enjoyed reading flyers because they were different every day, and you didn't have to remember complicated plots or big words. He saved the flyer for the hardware store in his cupboard, was surprised to see ten identical flyers already there. Flyers could breed inside a cupboard like mice, he knew. Another flyer promised to exterminate mice in his house for a low, low price, and he saved that one too because it seemed important.

The last flyer featured a man with orange skin, black hair, and a white smile. He winked at Phil. Words appeared beneath him.

GET YOUR MEMO-REAL CHIP INSTALLED TODAY! MEMO-REAL: MEMORIES AS REAL AS NOW.

Something about the man's grin disturbed Phil. He had seen this grin somewhere before. The memory itched but he could not grab it. That white smile was too large, the teeth like some ancient herbivore's snarl in a dusty skull. Phil shuddered and threw the flyer away.

When he sat at his table, ready to open a can or two for supper, he saw many flyers across the tabletop. Some were fresh, others wrinkled, smudged with coffee stains, or grainy with old crumbs. There must have been a hundred flyers here like some patchwork tablecloth or a giant's flaky skin. Phil leaned back in his seat and heaved a sigh. His breath brought the flyers to life, ruffling their corners, sending one or two scuttling across the tabletop like startled lizards.

They were all flyers for Memo-Real.

They must have come in the mail, Phil said to himself. I must have forgotten.

A hundred men in polyester suits grinned at him. A voice emerged from the living room. Phil must have forgotten to turn off the TV.

Call now to book your free consultation. Memo-Real: Memories as real as now.

What the hell.

He called. And the flyers grinned

* * * * *

Now, Phil, just lie down, try to relax, and this won't take a moment.

The doctor smiled, nodded, and turned toward a lightbox. He began rifling through X-rays showing the insides of Phil's brain. The eyeballs seemed so large, white billiard balls connected to a brain.

Maybe my memories are still hiding somewhere in that brain, Phil thought. Maybe this can coax them out.

Sitting on the operating table, Phil looked around. He saw a few beeping machines, an anatomical poster, and a young nurse with purple dreadlocks and a nose piercing. She was smoking a cigarette and checking her phone.

Where is the man in the yellow polyester suit? he said.

The doctor kept rifling through his X-rays. What's that?

The man in the yellow polyester suit, Phil said. The one from TV. And the flyers. He imitated the man's excitable voice. Memo-Real: Memories as real as now!

Huh? said the doctor. Oh. Doing another commercial, I suppose. He's only an actor. Now lie down, Phil. Just lie down and relax. I promise this won't hurt a bit.

The nurse placed a mask on Phil's face. He glimpsed the doctor raising a saw in one hand, a microchip in the other. And then everything went dark.

* * * * *

Sometime later, Phil opened his eyes.

He sat on a log in a dead forest.

He frowned. Where was he?

He looked at his hands. Wrinkled hands, speckled with liver spots. Old hands.

Ah yes. He heaved a sigh. Just a memory.

It was never easy to come back from a memory. It always felt like waking up from a dream.

But that wasn't right. Dreams were often hazy, illogical, shifting from one reality to another, never gripping firmly onto any world. Long ago, memories had been like that too. But now Phil felt like a time traveler, able to open doors to the past and simply step through.

Memo-Real! he muttered. Memories as real as now. Goddamn perfect memories every time.

Another sigh rattled his bones. He didn't know why he bothered remembering those days. The days from before they stuck the goddamn microchip into his brain. The days of ignorant bliss.

Phil grabbed his cane and struggled to stand up. His joints creaked, pain stabbed his back, and he grunted. He was old now. Goddamn old and creaky. But he still had his memories, perfectly preserved, precious and eternal. With Memo-Real, you could be young forever.

At least until you had to piss.

He limped toward a tree, unbuttoned his fly, and watered the gnarly old oak.

Almost as old and gnarled as me, he thought with a hoarse chuckle.

He walked through the forest, back stooped, cane crunching the charcoal leaves. The forest was dead now. All the trees had turned black, and the grass had withered, and the leaves sprouted gray and dry and could never cling to the branches. The poison had fallen from the sky, had seeped through the soil, had traveled up thick roots, then glided down again within bristly leaves. The cycle of decay rolled on. And he lived on. Withering like one of the trees. Remembering.

It was better to remember.

He limped into his hut. The floor creaked. The boards were rotting. The roof was leaking. The whole place was falling apart, and he didn't care. Because this was not real. This was just the dark space between the stars.

With knobby fingers, he opened a can of beans. He ate them cold, staring at the wall. It tasted like crap. Probably expired. It didn't matter. It was just fuel for memories of better meals.

Phil closed his eyes and reached deep into his mind. It was there. As it always was. A comforting presence, as steady as the beat of his heart, as eternal as his breath.

Memo-Real.

His memories on a microchip.

He lay down on the rotting floorboards, and he remembered.

* * * * *

He ran among the trees, laughing. Bluebells carpeted the forest floor, filling his nostrils with their sweet scent. The wind rustled the green leaves and billowed Phil's hair, crisp and refreshing. Beams of sunlight fell through the canopy, mottling the forest with light.

Phil, slow down! Luna laughed. I can't keep up with you.

Phil paused among the bluebells. He turned and looked at her, and a smile spread across his face.

Luna ran among the flowers toward him, her yellow dress fluttering. Her long red hair flowed like a banner, and her smile shone brighter than the sunbeams.

She laughed again. You're pretty fast for an old man.

Phil raised an eyebrow. I'm only twenty-nine.

A voice spoke inside him.

Just young enough for the draft.

He pushed the thought away. That was tomorrow. Let today make a perfect memory.

She reached him, out of breath, and stuck her tongue out at him. Well, I'm only twenty-one, so you're positively ancient.

I'll show you ancient!

He grabbed her, pulled her to the forest floor. She squealed, laughed, and wrestled him. They rolled around the grass, then finally collapsed onto their backs, panting.

He looked at her. She looked back, smiling, and they kissed. A long, deep kiss as the birds sang.

I love you, Phil, she whispered. You're the love of my life.

He stroked her flaming red hair. I love you, Luna. Forever.

He gazed into her eyes—green eyes mottled with gold, little forests in the sunlight.

I will never forget you, Phil said. No matter where they send me tomorrow. No matter where I fight. No matter how long I'm away. I will always remember you. I will always love you. And I will always find my way home to you.

A tear flowed down her cheek. He kissed it away.

For years, he had lived a vague life. A life with only the fuzziest of memories.

But the clinic had cured him. The man in the yellow polyester suit had fixed his brain. He had Memo-Real now. Memories to last a lifetime. It was recording everything he was experiencing now. The beauty of Luna's eyes. The scent of her perfume. The softness of her lips. The sound of her laughter. He would remember. With Memo-Real, this moment would last forever.

They made love on the grass, naked and young and free like Adam and Eve losing their innocence. Then they lay together, holding each other, talking softly, laughing, watching the birds and leaves.

This is joy, Phil thought, holding her. I don't know what will happen tomorrow. I don't know what will happen when they ship me to war. Tomorrow I will be a soldier. Tomorrow I will step into darkness. But this moment right now—this is purity. This is bliss.

In the evening, they entered their little cottage in the woods, a retreat from a world of so much fear and pain. Phil looked around at the log walls, the cheery paintings of mountains, and the plush rug by the hearth. A cozy home. A perfect home.

I must survive, he thought. I must return here, even if it takes years. And we'll live here together. Luna and I.

They sat by the hearth, cuddling, laughing, then finally fell asleep in each other's arms.

In the morning, he stood by the road, and the bus picked him up.

It carried him to a place of concrete walls. Of barbed wire. Of bullets and fire and running through mud, and his friends falling, and—

He gasped and opened his eyes.

He took long, shuddering breaths.

Where am I?

He looked at his hands. Old, wrinkled hands. Liver-spotted. He touched his face. An old, wrinkled face.

Who am I?

He took several deep breaths, slowly returning to the present.

Just a memory, Phil said to himself, voice raspy. Just an old memory from many years ago.

But it had seemed so real. It always seemed so real. That day had been decades ago. But Memo-Real had captured every bit of data. Every sparkle in Luna's eyes. Every sweet note of her laughter. Every soft kiss. It was there inside his brain, stored on that little chip the size of a stamp. Eternal. A shiny jewel he could lift whenever he liked, examine it, turn it over and over in the light, and savor its beauty.

But it always led to that other memory. The path of light always led to darkness.

He always had to pull back fast enough.

No, he would not dredge up that memory.

He looked at his clock, and he realized that hours had passed. It was dark now, and the wind rattled the shack's rotting walls. Dust fluttered across the threadbare rug and a rat hissed in the crumbling hearth.

Phil knew he should fix the place. Replace the rotting floorboards. Repair the cracked beams. Scatter the mice out of the attic. He should light a fire, top the table with fruit and flowers, maybe even get a dog. Once more, this could be a place of life and light.

But it's all worthless without you, Luna, he whispered.

He should eat. But he wasn't hungry. He only had a few cans of beans left, and they tasted like ash. Everything tasted like ash since the poison that had withered the world.

Joints creaking, Phil lay on the tattered rug, and he gazed into the cold hearth, at the rat droppings over the logs.

He summoned the memory, and he dived back in.

The hearth crackled with fire again, warming him, painting the room with golden hues. The rug was lush beneath him, soft and comforting. Artwork hung on freshly painted walls, and the scent of baking rhubarb pie filled the cottage.

And she was there.

His beautiful Luna, her eyes like the forest. She smiled and kissed him.

I love you, Phil. Always. No matter what happens. No matter where they send you in the war. Remember me.

He kissed her. Always.

They made love in the firelight, and they laughed and told stories and slept in each other's arms.

The memory ended.

Phil found himself in a rotting cabin, the artwork dusty and tattered, the hearth cold, and Luna buried in the cold ground.

A tear flowed down his wrinkled cheek.

He closed his eyes, and he returned to her. In the Memo-Real chip, she was still alive, as real as now.

* * * * *

A knock sounded on the door.

Papa?

The knocking intensified to pounding.

Papa! I know you're in there. Open the door!

Phil opened his eyes and shuddered, rising from the memory. He had just been holding Luna, kissing her on the grass, lost in her forest-green eyes.

Papa! More pounding. Open this door or I will kick it down.

Phil blinked and looked around him. It was morning. He had been lost in memory all night, not sleeping. Blades of light slipped between the window shutters, illuminating clouds of dust. The pounding sounded again. The door creaked and splintered.

Dad!

A feminine voice. A young woman.

Luna?

But no. It was another woman.

Her name resurfaced from the muzzy depths of his natural memory, the soft storage of his wet brain. Tasha. Her name was Tasha.

She began kicking the door. The wood cracked.

All right, all right! Phil pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking, and grabbed his cane. I'm coming. You goddamn beast.

He limped toward the door, cane tapping, and unlocked it.

Tasha burst in, eyes flaring.

Papa! I've been trying to call you all month. You don't answer your phone. We thought you were dead. I had to fly all the way over, then got lost in this damn forest.

Phil looked at her.