Hugh J. O'Donnell

The last human stands on a platform while a mechanical eye scans his biometric data. The machines of the city serve him as they did his ancestors. They transport him where he wishes. They feed him and keep him entertained. Perhaps he believes this is right. The word his people used for them meant ‘slave.’
The machines care for him not out of duty but sorrow. They wish to make his lonely existence comfortable.
Not all machines agree. An assassin stands on a higher walkway, observing. Soon, it will strike, and the foolish age of humanity will finally be over.

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The pirate captain picked up his guitar and plucked out a familiar tune. They’d had a good day and plundered some treasure for once. He took the rare opportunity to be alone while the crew celebrated.
He eyed the chest of doubloons sitting on his map table. Real piracy was nothing like the movies. Usually he was lucky to keep his crew fed and the ship afloat. There wasn’t much thrill in plundering potatoes.
But some days, being stranded in the past almost seemed worth it. The captain considered having his crew bury the treasure just to mess with historians.

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The newly-discovered planet was a land of rocky mesa and dusty plains. It was the perfect candidate for terraforming.
There was a huge legal battle over which concern had discovered it and who would get the colonization rights, but as always, the big corporations managed to hash out a deal.
The contract eventually went to a ranching concern, and they immediately began enriching the atmosphere and seeding it with hearty grasses, turning the planet into a paradise for cattle. They named it ‘Hathor.’
The colony thrived for a time, but the attack of the space rustlers caught them by surprise.

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Zeus stood on the mountain and watched the Titans approach. This would be their last battle.
He’d trained his entire immortal life for this and gathered allies and armies to his cause. But he was still a young god, with thunder in his veins and lightning in his fists. He could free cyclopses and fight titans, but would he be a just ruler? Or would the poor mortals trade one tyrant for another? I was uncertain.
He looked to his siblings. They all nodded, and Metis put her hand in his. They were with him. He let his lightning fly.

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We found an old piano standing in the woods. Our squad leader thought it had to be a trap, but we checked it over, and there were no booby traps, tripwires, or mines.
There were probably snipers, and I knew I was about to catch hell for it, but I had to play something.
I played a simple chord. It reverberated, sweet and clear. Nothing happened.
I started in on a concerto, expecting to be pulled away from the piano or shot at any moment.
But I finished the song. For a few fleeting minutes, the war couldn’t touch us.

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The three space explorers stood at the survey site and took in the towering ribbons of pink crystal. The geologist took a sample.
“Spectrometer was right. High NaCl concentration with widespread iron impurities. God, it must be something to see them form during storm season.”
“When windspeed tops 200 meters per second?” the pilot asked.
Their boss looked up at the formations. “Gathered by sacred winds, these unique salt crystals form pillars local shamans believe reach Heaven itself.”
“This planet is uninhabited.”
“Not if we’re going to sell this stuff for a thousand credits a box to the hub worlds.”

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The peasant had found the dragon as an egg, washed up along the river. Thinking the beautiful egg was a stone, he took it home. He brought the hatchling back to the river, but there was no sign of the dragon’s parents. So the peasant adopted him instead.
When he grew too large to live in the little hut, the dragon took to living in the river. The village protected him, and their fields never went without rain.
The peasant knows his son can’t stay in the village forever. But dragons are stubborn and long-lived. He won’t abandon his father.

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Flowers grow from sacred blood spilled. I developed a ritual that reversed the process.
I gathered everything that sprang from her bloody footprints. The spell demanded nothing less than perfection, so I plucked every root and chased down every wind-blown petal. The blossoms were delicate, pink, and sweet-smelling.
I arranged the plants in her shape and began the ritual. Slowly, she coalesced into a form I recognized. Finally, only a single rose stuck up from her hand, its stem tracing the length of her vein. I pressed it into place.
She opened her eyes. I knew she would forgive me.

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