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    Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction
    Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction
    Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction
    Ebook250 pages3 hours

    Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction

    By Rob Shelsky

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    About this ebook

    With Worlds Collide II, the second volume of Rob Shelsky's dark stories, we pick up where the first volume ended. Included in this anthology is a novella, An Imperial Death. This intricately wrought tale could be called space opera, but is also much more! Along with this piece are dark sci-fi stories, a dark fantasy about a spirit elemental, and an Indiana Jones-style tale of treasure hunting.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRob Shelsky
    Release dateAug 3, 2010
    ISBN9781452387796
    Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction
    Author

    Rob Shelsky

    Rob Shelsky is an avid and eclectic writer, and averages about 4,000 words a day. He has several novels to his credit and two anthologies, with two romances out now, a Regency romance, Verity, along with the sequel, Faith, and soon to come, a time-travel romance.Rob has written science fiction articles for such magazines as The Internet Review of Science Fiction, numerous articles for AlienSkin Magazine, Neometropolis, Midnight Street (UK), Doorways, and other publications. Rob has had short stories published with Jim Baen’s Universe, Aberrant Dreams, AlienSkin, Gateway SF, Fifth Dimension, Continuum SF, Sonar4, Uncial Press, Planetary Stories, Pulp Spirit Magazine, Sex & Murder, and many more. He has a novella coming out in early 2010 with Aberrant Dreams Magazine’s first hardcover edition anthology, The Awakening. Rob’s novella, Avenger Of The People, will appear there alongside the works of such sci-fi greats as Alastair Reynolds, Ian Watson, Jana Oliver, Robert Madle, and just so many others. There is even an introduction by Jack McDevitt.Rob has a short story, Green Waters, now out with Sonar4’s Phase Shift anthology, and a paranormal story, Light On The Moor, coming out with Smashwords and Amazon.com.Now, Rob Shelsky is not only a writer, but a contributing editor for Currate.com travel articles, as well as being a reviewer for Novelspot. He is also a resident science fiction columnist for AlienSkin Magazine.Although widely traveled and continuing to travel, Rob now lives in North Carolina. He enjoys contemplating ideas for new stories while watching the sunsets over the mountains and sipping a glass of red wine, preferably a decent Merlot.Oh and check out this site for my Smashword books:Ebookswelove.com

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      Book preview

      Where Worlds Collide II, A Dark Anthology of Science Fiction - Rob Shelsky

      * * * * *

      WHERE WORLDS COLLIDE II

      A Dark Science Fiction Anthology

      by

      Rob Shelsky

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * * *

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Rob Shelsky on Smashwords

      Smashwords ISBN: 978-1-4523-8779-6

      Where Worlds Collide II

      A Dark Science Fiction Anthology

      Copyright © 2010 by Rob Shelsky

      All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      * * * * *

      There is one person I’d especially like to thank, because I owe him so much.

      George Kempland, I wish to acknowledge you for your loyalty, dedication, mountains of help, and always just being there for me. Again, thank you, so very much.

      .

      * * * * *

      WHERE WORLDS COLLIDE II

      A Dark Science Fiction Anthology

      * * * * *

      Table Of Contents

      Brane Drane

      Ancient Enemies

      Cry Of A Distant Child

      An Imperial Death

      Lost Beacon Of The Vanished

      Red Flag

      Shepherd Of Babylon

      Treasure Of The Guardian Templar

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      BRANE DRAIN

      by

      Rob Shelsky

      * * * * *

      I saw my dead wife, Ruth, for the third time this week. She was very transparent. The sightings were short, but there was no mistaking her. I didn’t tell my current wife, Jenny. She didn’t need more stress. Besides, she was probably dealing with her own ghosts.

      Of course, the real reason I didn’t say anything, was even though Ruth was gone, my love for her was still there. It burned mercilessly, consumed my heart in an intense but private funeral pyre. It was not for public consumption.

      Jenny may have had suspicions about this. If so, I didn’t wish to confirm them. In any case, the secret of seeing my beloved Ruth was mine alone, for as long as I could keep it that way. I knew it wouldn’t be forever. Ghosts were about, walking amongst us. Everyone knew this.

      Oh, to hell with it, Jenny said, shattering a diffident silence.

      We were sitting on the red Victorian sofa her mother had given us, supposedly watching a discussion about the apparitions on television.

      What is it? I asked, stupidly, because I usually knew better than to do this. Such outbursts were a sign Jenny was in a bad mood.

      "Do you care?"

      I turned to her. Some would call Jenny a very plump woman. I disagree. For me, she was a living, breathing Rubens, having those same generous curves. Artists could paint her, too, no doubt, but not with her current sour expression, as if she’d just bitten into an unripe persimmon.

      What's wrong?

      "Admit it. You don’t love me like you loved her."

      Well, so Jenny did know something was up, but how could she, I wondered. How does any woman for that matter?

      "You do. Don’t you?"

      Who? What are you talking about? Opening my eyes wide, I gave her my practiced portrayal of bewildered innocence.

      Her gaze narrowed, became dagger-like. Don’t play that game with me, Frederick, she said, jabbing an admonishing finger just short of my chest, making me flinch involuntarily. I know better. Answer me.

      Well, so much for trying to look pure and virtuous. That hadn’t worked. I, like most men, would persist in using ploys that didn’t succeed with women. Why didn’t our sex ever grasp the futility of such gambits? Are we like just so many lemmings? Perhaps we were, because I’d have cheerfully hurled myself from the nearest cliff at that very moment.

      Okay, I said. I do still love Ruth, but not in the same way I love you.

      Don’t give me that, Frederick. So I’m not an intellectual, like your dearly departed, but I’m not stupid. You still love her more than you do me. Admit it!

      I felt my head shaking in automatic male denial. Our sex may be emotionally ignorant, but we’re not that suicidal.

      I can’t, I assured her. I love you more than anything else in this world. This was accurate as far as it went, but these days, that wasn’t very far…

      Is that true?

      I gave a vigorous nod of my head. It is. You do believe me?

      She canted her head to one side, gave me an unreadable look. A little, very little, but it’s enough. She sighed in a long low hiss, like a cooling kettle, before saying. It’ll have to do, I suppose.

      I relaxed. Another crisis passed--I devoutly hoped.

      * * * * *

      Traveling into Manhattan is always an ordeal at the best of times, but the ghosts certainly made it much worse. Always, there seemed more of them and they were such a distraction. Ghosts streamed from invisible buildings, singly and in groups, floating across the street, ten, twenty, or more stories above the road. Some were more mundane in their behavior. Transparent men and women, dressed in various strange fashions, and all looking as if cast from glass or clearest crystal, glided along the actual sidewalks. However, these specters would ruin this look of almost-normalcy by passing through closed doors of existing shops. Others went right through the walls. Still others seemed to glide off upwards, as if climbing unseen ramps, or floated downwards, as if descending equally imperceptible hills. Their movements gave little thought to our real urban terrain. Apparently, they had their own.

      Many hovered a few feet above the road in seated positions, as if driving unseen vehicles, which frequently passed right through ours. Okay, I admit these ghosts weren’t so mundane, especially, when it seemed one was sitting next to you, or even on or right in your lap, but at least they weren’t drifting about the city hundreds of feet in the air!

      Accidents for real people were common because of all this. If you think changing radio stations is a dangerous diversion while steering a car, try having some fat spirit passing right through you. Now that can make you take your eyes off the road! And it wasn’t just seeing them that made commuting, and life in general, a problem. People’s reactions caused trouble. Civil disorders, such as religious riots and panics, were common. Those often took the lives of actual people.

      Work wasn't any better. Ghosts came and went, doing whatever ghosts felt like doing, as if we weren’t there. Maybe to them, we weren’t. Maybe, we were their ghosts. Some would occasionally glance in our direction, as if catching a fleeting glimpse of us. But all this made it very difficult to concentrate. Productivity suffered, and not just where I worked, but in businesses around the world. As a result, economies plunged. Surprise, surprise; my commissions dived with them.

      Did you hear the latest? Markham, an egg of a man, both in roundness of shape, baldness of head, and blandness of personality, leaned over the low wall of my cubicle.

      I turned to him, my work forgotten. What?

      Now, they’re saying that they aren't ghosts at all, but people from other branes.

      Well, duh, I thought. Nobody but the simpleminded or religious fanatic could think of them as being true apparitions, because they didn’t behave that way. We just called them ghosts for convenience's sake. Nevertheless, his mention of branes was new to me.

      What do you mean by brains, I asked, curious despite myself. You’re saying our minds are conjuring them up?

      Egg-man rolled his eyes upward in exasperation. It was an annoying habit of his. Not brain, as in your head, he said in a tone that implied I should’ve known better. It's spelled b-r-a-n-e. That’s short for membrane. It means like another universe or dimension. They think some of them are running into ours, intersecting at a nexus point, or overlapping sort of.

      I attempted to look attentive, but already I felt my eyes glazing over. The subject matter wasn’t the problem. It was just that he, personally, bored me so utterly!

      Well? he asked, focusing his eyes on me. They made me uncomfortable, those twin blue wells of apparent emptiness. I shifted my gaze higher, noticing the way the fluorescent lighting reflected off his hairless head. It was as if an officious Humpty Dumpty loomed over my cubicle wall, interrogating me.

      Well, what? It was hard to conceal my innate contempt from my voice.

      What do you think about it?

      I don’t know. I shrugged to make it look good. Seems like a logical explanation.

      He nodded. I thought so, too, he said.

      Then without another word, he turned and left. I watched him through my doorway as he waddled off down the grey-carpeted corridor, passing cubicle after identical cubicle, receding slowly into the distance. His lumbering progress made me smile. It was an anchor point in an otherwise uncertain world. I was grateful to him for that, at least. Then I frowned, as two so-called ghosts crisscrossed the corridor behind him. Damn, but they were distracting!

      * * * * *

      Jeez, this is too much! Jenny exclaimed from the confines of our kitchen later that evening. I can’t take it anymore. Someone has to do something about this.

      Jenny, what are you going on about? I yelled this from the living room.

      This one had some color to it.

      What?

      Frederick, are you slow or something? I said they’re getting color. It walked right through the refrigerator.

      I rose from my chair and crossed the few steps to our so-called kitchen, which was really more of a wide spot on the way to the one bathroom the apartment claimed. There was no sign of anything extraordinary there, except our little refrigerator quietly humming to itself, which considering its advanced age was quite extraordinary, in my opinion.

      Exactly what did you mean by color? I asked, after glancing about the place.

      Well, I didn’t mean it was a minority. Jenny’s hands were on her hips now, always a bad sign.

      What then?

      It was…it was sort of getting real, fleshy.

      I felt my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Fleshy?

      Yeah, fleshy.

      You’re sure?

      With hands still on hips, she jutted her chin out at me. Despite being only five feet, two inches tall, Jenny could look very aggressive.

      What--you think I’m lying? Those dreaded green flickers sparked again in the depths of her beautiful eyes.

      No, no, I said, holding up my hands in man’s age-old warding gesture against approaching evil. I just wasn’t sure what you meant.

      I meant, Jenny drawled, as if I were mentally slow, that these ghosts are starting to look like people, like real people.

      Oh.

      Jenny was right--caustic, but right. The ghosts were taking on shading and reality. Over the next days, it became increasingly difficult to distinguish them from the real thing. They were everywhere, becoming major disruptions. The news broadcasts now showed the world was in a real mess. There were places that had massive food shortages, electricity failures. A few countries even announced martial law. In any case, conditions made work impossible for me. So temporarily, I stayed home and just prayed the situation would resolve itself soon. I think everyone did. We’d all had enough.

      That’s when Ruth again appeared.

      Jenny had fled our apartment, supposedly to do some shopping. I think this was just an excuse, because I’d bet anything she wanted somewhere to escape to for a while, a place where there might be fewer ghosts. I wished her good luck in that endeavor! The damn things seemed to be everywhere, even in the bathroom. One couldn’t take a decent squat without one of them gliding through. And, I had the sneaking suspicion some of them could actually see me sitting there!

      She was under stress, no doubt, as we all were. Of late, she had a constant temper, a burning resentment toward me--not her normal behavior. Jenny's reactions were understandable. When she needed me most, I was mentally elsewhere, brooding, unavailable to her emotionally. That would be enough to make anyone angry, I suppose. But I just couldn’t help it.

      She’d been gone just a short while when I walked out of our kitchen and into the living room, holding a cup of coffee. It slipped from my fingers when I saw Ruth standing there. The cup hit the hardwood floor with a bang and shattered.

      The sound was like a rifle shot. I ignored it and the resulting mess. I felt consumed by just one feeling when I realized, when I first understood, that my Ruth was there, standing solid and beautiful in front of me, like some wonderful gift from ‘The Beyond.’

      She was back! It was as if the world drew in its collective breath and held it. I know it all sounds silly, cliché even, like something out of a bad romance novel, but it was as if time had stopped for me. I don’t know that I even breathed for ages.

      You’re alive in this timeline, she said. Her tone sounded flat, almost accusing.

      I just nodded.

      She shook her head, short auburn curls swaying delightfully, just as I remembered they always had. I don’t get any of this. In my universe, you died in a car accident. But…here you are?

      Here I am. I knew my voice was low and gruff, made so by a whole symphony of conflicting emotions playing out within me, not the least of which was guilt for how happy I felt at seeing her there, in front of me, alive again. And you. Here you are.

      Am I dead here?

      I hesitated before saying, Yes, my dear. I nodded, as I spoke. In this timeline, you passed away over two terrible years ago.

      And you remarried? I’ve seen some woman walking around here during the overlaps.

      I shrugged. That would be Jenny, I guess. Everyone said I should move on with my life. Finally, I listened to them. I think it was a big mistake.

      Ruth regarded me with a sympathetic expression. People can be so pushy, she said. And relatives are the worst. It was that way for me, too, when you passed.

      They mean well, I suppose. They just don’t understand.

      Ruth nodded. Her eyes were brown, large, and luminescent, as if on the verge of filling with tears. Do you love her? She asked this in a tiny voice.

      Not like you, I qualified. She’s a good person, but not like you. Never like you, my Ruth.

      I went to her and hugged her to me. She didn’t resist--far from it. She embraced me back with a fierceness and determination I’d never before known in her. For long minutes we hugged, each of us kissing the other all over, lips, cheeks, ears, anything our mouths could reach. It wasn’t out of passion so much as simple love, a love we thought we’d lost forever.

      We’d relinquish our hold every so often. Then, with a renewed intensity, we’d hug each other again, as if we were the last two leaves clinging to a tree limb, weathering some awful tempest that threatened to tear us apart and swirl us away from each other.

      This is wrong, I said, breaking from her at last. Now, I stared into her gentle face, her deep brown eyes. You aren’t my Ruth. She’s dead and gone.

      And you aren’t my Freddy. But I don’t care. You look, sound, and act just like him. So I don’t care! Ruth sounded defiant, even angry, as she said this.

      We sat and talked. We compared notes on our lives, on when and how we’d lost our loves. How very strange it was sitting there, conversing with each other, about each other, and our deaths. So surreal, yet it was so right, so complete to be with my Ruth again.

      There was so much to say, so much to hear, and so much to try to comprehend. Through it all, I had to keep telling myself that this wasn't really my Ruth at all, but just a look-alike. Yet, the longer I was with her, close to her, the harder it was for me to believe this.

      So, I said at last and after an amiable silence had stretched long between us, our lives, our timelines, as they say, were identical while we both were still together, it seems.

      Ruth nodded and smiled at me. It was like dazzling sunshine breaking through fog on a cold autumn morning. That smile always had made me feel better--no matter what. It did now.

      Her little hand patted my larger one. Yes, but now what do we do, Freddy? This can’t go on forever.

      Why not?

      Ruth gave her old habitual shrug that I remembered so very well. Our scientists say it’s a cyclical thing. The universes keep branching, quantum probability waves they call them, and then at some point they collapse back to just a few mainstream ones. Just before they do, these crossovers can occur, but only for a short duration and only once in a great while. The timelines will separate again and this will end. Is that what your people are saying?

      Much the same, only they’re calling them branes here.

      Ruth shook her head. Incomprehensible, isn’t it? It’s as if God was dreaming all possible dreams and then woke up every so often.

      Jenny’s gotten very religious, I offered. "To be expected,

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