365 tomorrows

Author : J. S. Kachelries

“Objection, your honor; asked and answered,” stated the defense attorney.

“Sustained,” replied the judge. Then addressing the plaintiff’s attorney, “Move on, counselor.”

“Your honor,” he protested, “the witness is intentionally being evasive. Again, I appeal to the court to compel the defendant to submit to a paternity test.”

The defense attorney objected again. “Unacceptable, your honor. As the President of the United States, my client is entitled to ‘super-privacy.’ Clearly, the plaintiff initiated this frivolous lawsuit in a blatant attempt to influence the upcoming election. I motion the court to dismiss this case outright. The mere fact that the President of the United States has flatly denied these baseless allegations should be enough for an acquittal.”

“Your honor,” interjected the plaintiff’s attorney, “my client is entitled to due process.”

The judge rapped his gavel on the sound block. “My chambers, gentlemen. Court is in recess for one hour.”

A few minutes later, the judge sat at his desk facing the two attorneys. “Gentlemen, I will not have my court turned into a circus. We need to resolve this dispute without it becoming a he-said-she-said debate. Do I make myself clear?”

The defense attorney had anticipated this development, and pounced. “Your honor, perhaps I have a solution. If my client can convince you, privately of course, that he is irrefutably not the father of this child, would you consider summarily dismissing the case?”

“Perhaps, counselor. Have him show me this ‘evidence’ and I’ll make a ruling. No promises, mind you, until after I evaluate its validity. When can he be ready?”

“If my esteemed colleague will step outside, your honor, we’re ready now.”

The plaintiff’s attorney reluctantly left the room, and the President entered. The judge leaned back in his chair and said, “Mister President, your attorney tells me that you can prove you’re not the child’s father.”

“Yes, your honor, I can. However, if it pleases the court, may I ask that this information be kept confidential, based on the potential political ramifications.” After he saw the judge begrudgingly nod his head, he continued. “Thank you, your honor. OK then, do you happen to have a Phillips head screw driver?”

His attorney quickly interrupted. “No need to look, your honor. I happen to have one in my coat pocket.”

When court resumed, the judge made his ruling. “Based on evidence presented to me, I am dismissing this case with prejudice.” He quickly pointed his gavel at the plaintiff’s attorney. “And, counselor, before you rush to appeal this ruling, I recommend that you thoroughly explain to your client the penalties for perjury, and for knowingly filing a false paternity suit. Because, she will be found guilty.”

Two weeks later, the President’s reelection campaign “leaked” documentation implying that the President was sterile, and that his opponent was behind the lawsuit in a desperate attempt to humiliate the President in an effort to win the election. Since the American people don’t like dirty politics, the President’s poll numbers went up 30 points.

Two weeks after that, the judge was watching the election results on holovision. The President won reelection in a Reaganesque landslide. The judge mentally debated his oath of secrecy, but had to concede that the “sterility” disclosure was at least a half truth. After all, an android could not be the biological father of her child.

Author : Debbie Mac Rory

The high preacher approached the lone figure at the front of the hall of remembrances. He passed gases through his membranes in such a manner, that if he were human, would have been called a polite cough. The particle entity turned it’s attention to the high preacher.

“I wished to sympathize with your loss” it intoned, “and I wished to inquire if perhaps you might permit me to suggest an action which may help to relieve your current malaise”

The entity appeared to sigh, but raised itself from its place of dejection. The high preacher led its charge to one of the secluded sections of walls, and with a brief gesture from one of its pseudopods, the wall turned transparent. The particle entity absorbed the light that entered through the now transformed wall, taking in the view of a not too distant yellow star and another particle entity drifting slowly towards it, like the one inside the ship in more ways than it was different, but somehow the internal combustion that drove that species was omitted.

“Some feel that it is comforting, seeing the remains of the loved one move on.” The high preacher tilted its visual receptors, marginally changing the selectivity of the wavelengths of light it was receiving. “Just as emissions from stars such as this one are collected by the ships sails to provide us power and energy, so are our remains sent to them, so we may feel their presence once more”

“And the fate of the inhabitants of this star?”

The query from the particle entity washed over the high preacher as waves shape the sand on a beach. It changed the angle of its visual receptors once more, to receive the information its charge had already absorbed, and perceived the objects which appeared to be in regular orbit around the star.

The high preacher commenced a series of chemical reactions, forming for its species, a gentle smile. “Decisive tests have already been conducted. We would of course never use any star in any manner than could bring harm to its inhabitants. The species developing around this star are as yet, quite primitive, and in time, perhaps we can begin to open up communications with them. But for now, we harvest the energy and we wait”

Both the beings fell silent for a time watching as the extinguished entity was engulfed and consumed by the star. The flare from the its consumption rose up from the surface of the star in a glorious swirl of colour that far transcended the range of visible light, and was swept on solar winds to be shared throughout the system, the planets circling their sun, and the other ships, drifting in silence.

“And perhaps those creatures developing there have the ability to see some of these flares our bodies create. And perhaps, we have already communicated with them, and brought beauty to their lives”.

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

The UES Celeste coasted into the outskirts of the Trifid Nebula, and pulled alongside two stationary vessels that were tethered to each other. Captain Briggs studied the view screen suspiciously. “Well chief, what do you make of this?”

“I don’t know, captain. According to our records, the USS Baychimo disappeared 81 years ago, and the USS Joyiya 113 years before that. The combined crew and passengers totaled 244. All were presumed lost.”

“Do you think anybody could still be alive?”

“Their decedents, perhaps. Both ships appear to have power, but they are not responding to our hails. I recommend we try boarding the Baychimo. Their hatch configuration is more similar to ours.”

“Agreed, Chief. Take a security and medical team with you. And, chief, I want you to keep a channel open at all times.”

The Celeste’s shuttle positioned itself over the Baychimo’s hatch, and the magnetic grapples firmly secured it to the hull. After the automated docking skirt sealed the perimeter, the tunnel was pressurized. The chief grabbed a spanner wrench and rapped on the Baychimo’s hatch three times.

To his astonishment, the hatch opened slowly from the inside. Four armed men holding antique percussion weapons stood on the other side. A woman, who the chief estimated to be in her late 40’s, pushed past the armed men to address the chief. “I’m captain Cornwell. Who are you, and why have you boarded my ship? You are interfering with a rescue mission.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We thought that you needed assistance. This ship has been missing for over 80 years.”

“What are you talking about? We left spacedock six months ago. We were charting the nebula when we spotted the Joyiya. It’s been missing for over 100 years. Our EVA team reported seeing living people through their observation windows.” She paused for a few seconds, and then continued, “Come to think of it, you may be able to assist. We can’t dock with the Joyiya because of their antiquated hatch system. But you appear to have that capability, although I don’t know how. We’re the flagship of the fleet.”

“Perhaps it would be best captain Cornwell, if you would accompany us to the Joyiya. I think we need to pick up their captain and return to my ship. There are complicating factors that we need to discuss.”

Three hours later, Captain Mills of the Joyiya, and Captains Cornwell and Briggs sat in the executive briefing room of the Celeste. “I’m sorry, this must really be a shock for you and your crew,” said Captain Briggs. “To find out so suddenly that everybody you left behind is gone. To be pulled decades into your future by a phenomenon that we don’t understand. I can’t begin to imagine what that might be like.”

Just then, a person in dress uniform materialized out of thin air into the middle of the room. “Hello,” he said with a smile. “I’m Captain Fokke of the UFP Dutchman. Ah, you must be Captain Briggs. Our DNA scans told us you were still alive. This is utterly amazing. We thought the crew of the Celeste died over 130 years ago. And yet, you don’t appear to have aged a day. How may we be of assistance?”

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Author : Viktor Kuprin

“This is the last call for evacuation. Everyone must leave. Go to the park for water, food, and medical care. If you cannot move, call out or make a noise, and we will help you.”

Spaceman Kuzmin tried not to look at the bloated red sun as he walked the deserted urban streets. No one had come even though he played the message three times at every city block just as he had been ordered. Only fools or the deranged would wait so long, he thought. The unstable sun the locals called Sosnovka would soon end this miserable world.

The motion detector pinged, and Kuzmin halted. Something in the shadows of an alley, but he couldn’t see anyone there. He keyed his helmet’s external speaker.

“Come out. I am CIS Space Force. I have water.”

Then he saw it. Scruffy and dusty, a big orange tom cat wobbled out of the alleyway and collapsed onto the hot pavement. It panted and gasped for breath as it looked up at Kuzmin, its tongue distended from its mouth.

Kuzmin gently picked up the cat and felt its sides heaving.

“Poor old koshka, did you get left behind? Here, a little of this.”

He drew a handful of water from his drink tube and slowly, carefully, dripped the cool liquid onto the cat’s lips and tongue. It began to lap and swallow.

Kuzmin unzipped his light suit. The air felt like an oven’s heat striking his chest. Slowly, he slipped the cat inside his cooled coverall, and there it rested without complaint or struggle. He could barely feel the old tom feebly rumbling, trying to purr.

And so, he continued on to complete his route, but no other strays, human or animal, were met.

As Kuzmin walked back to the evacuation center, he saw others who had been successful. The last inhabitants of Sosnovka Prime were a sorry lot. Two of his crewmates forcibly led a wild-eyed man who cursed them for their efforts. Others helped a grossly overweight woman whose clammy white skin indicated severe heat stroke. Dirty street children huddled, looking anxiously at the shuttles.

Kuzmin was refilling his drink tube when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around on his heels.

“You durak! Idiot! I told you that looting was forbidden!”

It was Second Lieutenant Burkhanov, the section commander. With a jerk, he pulled open the front of Kuzmin’s suit. A furry orange face with flattened ears and frightened eyes stared back at the officer.

“What the?! Kuzmin, get rid of this … infectsia! It can carry disease! Understand me?!”

Kuzmin shook his head. “No, sir. Sorry. I won’t leave it here to burn.”

Burkhanov eyes opened wide with rage. But then he paused. It wasn’t often that a Spaceman Recruit refused an order. And never Kuzmin, one of the better spacehands.

“Bah! Make ready for liftoff!” He stomped off towards the shuttle.

As the days passed, the orange tom took to starship life quite well. Kuzmin was in the mess hall, slipping a few sproti fish to the new mascot when a crewman yelled, “It’s started!” Everyone dropped their food and ran to the portholes.

The flashpoint had been reached: Immolation. Waves of fire swept over the planet below.

A man next to Kuzmin gasped and made the sign of the cross. It was Burkhanov, his sad face illuminated by the hellish flame storms.

Kuzmin watched nervously as the old koshka wandered between the officer’s ankles. He was amazed when Burkhanov picked it up, placed it against his shoulder and began to pet Sosnovka’s littlest refugee.

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Author : James Smith

Murphy took a bench and pulled a paperback from his coat pocket. He dialed down his shades to read better, and sipped his coffee. After a few pages, he became aware of a presence on the bench next to him.

“Oh, wow. Paper. You drive gas, too, huh?”

He looked up. White girl, half his age, red hair cut into some sort of n-dimensional shape that confused him and made him feel old.

Murphy smiled. “Digital paper. The real stuff’ll get you thrown in jail.”

“Mm. What are you, a cop?”

Her eyes widened a bit when he told her he was a detective. She leaned closer, their knees touched. She asked if he carried a gun, if his job was dangerous. She saw the scar on his cheek. He wouldn’t tell her the story of how he got it; she was sure it was something fantastic. He had the kind of body you’d imagine a dangerous man to have; she told him her hotel room wasn’t far.

In the hotel. She sat up in the bed, rolling a joint. Murphy lay on his back with his eyes shut.

“You wanna smoke this with me?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got to meet my ex-wife later.”

“You really a P.I.?”

“You really a redhead?”

“I think there’s a few real ones left. A generation to go, at least, before they’re all bred out.”

He asked her how she got into the business. Most Modern Girls were depressives looking for some way to hurt their parents, but feel like they were hurting themselves. This girl, who called herself Pepper, claimed to really have DID, and had gotten the chip implant to referee her various personalities. She had three, she said: Pepper, August and Katherine.

It was a cliche’, she admitted, to get the chip and become a Modern Girl. But the freedom people talked about, to simply turn that person on, to do whatever you wanted in that body, and then- at will- to shunt it aside like it never happened… Well, not many people had that option. It was hard to pass up.

His phone rang. It was the one ringtone he couldn’t ignore, so he crossed the room and pulled it out of his pants. Pepper licked the spliff and watched Murphy as he talked in clipped, cryptic phrases. She watched his shoulders. He didn’t get tense or upset; she figured it wasn’t his ex.

He finished and turned to look at her.

“I’ve got to go.” He took a wad of bills out of the same pocket, already clipped together, and put it on the dresser.

“Mm hmm. Same thing next week?”

“Why don’t we try a little older. Maybe Asian. Japanese?”

“Thai would be more convincing, with my bone structure. And the melanin tweak will run you extra.”

“Sure.”

“You gonna let me read that book one of these days?”

“No,” he said. “Every good romance needs a bit of mystery.”

He dressed and left.

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Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“Hey boss, can you come down to the lab? Ah, the prototype has disappeared.”

“It’s supposed to, you idiot. That’s what stealth technology does.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to say it disappeared. I meant to say it’s gone, as in, we can’t find it. Hello? You there, Boss?” All he heard after that was the sound of the phone bouncing onto a desk, followed by footsteps quickly fading away.

Two minutes later, Drake Griffin burst into the lab. “All right, Kemp, where’s my ship? Start from the beginning.”

“Well, sir, as you know, this was the first manned test. Tom Marvel, the test pilot, entered the prototype 45 minutes ago. He activated the start sequence in accordance with the test plan. The ship disappeared as expected. Then, Tom used the antigrav system to elevate from Alfa Stand. We know this happened because the weight sensors dropped to zero. He was supposed to hover for 30 minutes, then fly to Bravo Stand. But according to the sensors, he never made it.”

“Maybe the sensors are defective? Have you checked them?”

“We tested them prior to securing the hangar. But we cannot enter the hangar again until the ship reappears, or we get approval from an S-Level Director. That would be you, sir.”

“What are the risks?”

“Well, for one thing, the ship could be hovering directly above your head when it lands.”

“Can’t you radio Tom, or instruct the aircraft to decloak?”

“No, sir. Visible light and radio transmissions are the same thing, except for wavelength. All electromagnetic radiation curves around the ship. That’s how the cloak works.”

“OK, Kemp. Here’s my plan. You’re going into the hangar with a hard wired camera mounted onto a 20 foot pole. Then you poke around in there until the camera disappears. If you’re killed, I’ll make sure you get a big fat raise. Now, go find my ship.”

After 40 minutes of very tentative “poking,” Kemp located the ship on the floor, approximately 100 feet from Alfa Stand. The camera revealed that the area inside the stealth bubble was pitch black, except for the feeble glow of the instrument panel. Marvel was on the cockpit floor, curled up into a fetal position. Kemp hastily jury rigged a transmitter onto the end of his pole, and pushed it through the cloak. He then instructed the ship to power down. The ship materialized, and instantly frosted over. Kemp sheepishly touched the hull. “It’s ice cold, sir. I wasn’t very good in thermodynamics, but my guess is that the cloak is endothermic somehow, and it sucked all the heat from inside the bubble. It looks like poor Tom froze to death.”

“Why didn’t the earlier test reveal this endo-thingy?”

“We never engaged the cloak for more the 15 minutes. And those tests were run by the onboard computers. The electronics are not sensitive to the cold. I guess Tom’s core body temperature dropped so fast he didn’t have time to abort. What should we do, sir?”

“Well, the first thing is to get Tom’s body out of there. Then, I’m going back to my office and write a directive to the effect that after the research boys say they’ve solved this problem, they all get to ride in the next test flight.”

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Author : Francesco Navarro

The air scrubbers were failing. Generators were running at less than fifteen percent. Only one large bio dome and four of the sixty life support shelters remained of the mission complex.

Father Nandres died a week ago and there was no one left who could operate a harvester or any of the larger terraforming machines.

This field was the only one remaining and it was slowly dying.

Still, there were twenty six other souls whose bodies needed the nourishment the field could provide. Most of the survivors were acolytes with only a class three technical training, just like him.

There were no clouds anymore. Only a baleful yellow sun glared down at him from a fiery orange sky. The seminary had not prepared him for the magnitude of the impossible.

The recirculated air in the containment suit was stale and dry. Thick gloves made pulling up the low tubers clumsy. The words of a four thousand year old prayer formed on his parched lips as he worked.

”Teach me to be generous,

Teach me to serve you as I should,

To give and not to count the cost,

To fight and not to heed the wounds,

To toil and not to seek for rest,

To labor and ask not for reward,

Save that of knowing that I do your most holy will…”

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Author : Joe Carter/Kyle French

37 hands. Zed shook his head. The 84 candidates running for President were asked if they believed in Sixism, and only 37 raised their hands.

He couldn’t believe this debate was still going on. For years they had assumed that the Manhattan Inflation Trial in 4838 had put the lid on the silly notion that the universe contained billions of galaxies. Billions! Zed looked out the window at the smooth black plane of the night sky. One-two-three-four-five-six. Six galaxies. There they were. It was so basic, so obvious. Any kid with a neutron telescope could make the observation for themselves!

The moderator turned to Governor Tembke of South Africa. “Madam, are you a Big Banger?” There were dampened giggles at the pejorative. Everyone knew what a ‘banger” was.

Rev. Tembke sniffed. “I’m running for the office of president, not planning on writing a 5th-grade textbook on astrophysics.”

“Aargh!” Zed threw his shoe at the screen, but it flew through the image of the Senator from Zimbabwe instead. He stood up and began to pace. He tried to breathe deeply, as if that would lower his blood pressure.

He used to be patient with relativists. He really did. But at a debate at ultra-conservative Harvard University, he’d made the mistake of asking one to explain how this galactic disappearing act occurred. The answer the nut had given him had been so ridiculous, he’d written it down:

“As the universe expanded, the force pushed the galaxies outward faster and faster. As they surpassed the speed of light, their light shifted to infinitely long wavelengths and dimmed. A similar “cloak of invisibility” befell the afterglow of the Big Bang, a faint bath of cosmic microwaves, whose wavelengths shifted so that they are now buried by the radio noise in our own galaxy. There was also an element called deuterium, but it is in deep space now. To be seen it needs to be backlit from distant quasars, and quasars, of course, have also disappeared.”

Totally unqualified. Unprovable! Billions of galaxies–similar in size and shape to the six observable galaxies – simply sped up and – poof! – became invisible. “Yeah, that happened,” Zed chuckled to himself, turning back to the debate.

Zed was particularly frustrated that the relativists were able to prop up their beliefs with… ancient texts! The silly belief was dying out until an archaeological dig in New Atlantis produced evidence of near universal belief in relativism by ancient world civilizations. Einstein, Hubble, Hawking… proto-scientists believed in an inflationary universe, so why shouldn’t we?

“Science is based on observation,” he grumbled, “not faith in theories about a Big Bang, cosmic radiation, and an expanding universe in which galaxies go missing.” Why couldn’t they just embrace the facts? Why did they insist on clinging to mythical beliefs? Were they just stupid?

Zed collapsed back into his recliner. Fortunately, time was on the side of science. Eventually, the old beliefs would finally fade away. After all, everyone knew the modern system would collapse if the rules could ever change.

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Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer

Consciousness seeped back slowly; recognizable sounds gradually replacing static; blackness giving way to a dull aching in his head. He resisted the urge to open his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” The voice reminded him of someone, a woman he knew? He couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“What happened? Where…” Memory of the moment started leaking back in, vaporously thin and with apparent gaps. “My experiment, my lab… did something go wrong?” He risked a look, blinking back against the light.

“No Rick, everything went pretty much the way I’m sure you envisioned it would.” Blue eyes smiled at him from beneath blond bangs, she looked not unlike like his assistant, and yet subtly different. “This will just take some adjusting.” She studied his face for a moment, thrusting her hands deep in her lab coat pockets before turning away.

The walls seemed to vibrate with light, crisp luminescent tile covering the room floor to ceiling. “Is this the past?” He half whispered to himself. “Or is this some other part of the complex? I don’t know this place.” From the corner of his eye, he could swear her hair was darkening, shortening, but when he looked at her, it was the same shoulder length mahogany cut as before. Was it brown before?.

“No, you haven’t been to this place, and this isn’t the past, not yet.” She turned to face him, her voice almost reproving. “You can’t simply wander backwards in time Richard, I’m afraid your concepts and equations are interesting, but flawed.” He found himself captivated by her eyes, chestnut flecked with amber. “Time is all about absolutes Richard. Moving forward. Displacement equations were what you should have been looking for, but I think they’re a little beyond your comprehension. No matter though, ideas like yours are precisely why we’re here.”

“I don’t understand.” The room seemed to be fading in and out of focus, he could barely make out the books on his bookcases. “Here? In my study? Why are you here?”

“You’ll make a fine teacher Richard, you’ve got so much of the future in you, I’m sure you’ll do wonderful things.” Her glasses glimmered in the pale firelight, hands stuffed into the pockets of her cardigan.

Richard stared down at the tome open upon his desk, following the same lines of text over and over several times without reading it.

“Santayana?” A woman’s voice. He met the gaze of his teaching assistant, wrapped in her cardigan in the corner chair on the other side of his desk.

“What was that?” Had he said something just then? He felt a sense of unease, as though something was about to happen, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

“You said ‘Those who do not learn from history’…” She began to repeat the phrase.

“Are doomed to repeat it.” He finished it reflexively, then paused, the words familiar on his tongue, but with no idea where the thought had come from.

“Santayana isn’t it?” She regarded him quizzically. “Are you ok? You look a little lost.”

“No, I’m fine, I think I’m fine. Santayana, yes, yes you’re right.” He pushed back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes and feeling suddenly so very old. “We should pack up for the night though, I’m tired, and I’ve got a class to teach tomorrow.” Class to teach. Why did that seem so foreign a concept? He must be tired, he would sleep, and everything would be better tomorrow, he was somehow sure of that.

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Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“How’s this thing work?” asked Dean O’Banion, the man Alan Mitchell had reluctantly asked to come to Seattle to bankroll his invention that could provide the world with unlimited, cheap, green energy. Although O’Banion was not the most reputable businessman on the planet, he was the only one that didn’t laugh in Mitchell’s face after reading his abstract on the Potential Benefits of Crumpled Space.

“Well, Mister O’Banion, it’s simple really. With nonscientists, I usually demonstrate the principle with piece of paper and a 2-D analogy. I’ll draw circles on this paper representing the galaxies in our local group. This circle represents the Milky Way, this one Andromeda, and Triangulum, both Magellanic Clouds, and so on…OK, that should be enough. Now, as you can see, there are about two inches between each galaxy. But, if I crumble the paper into a tight ball, some of the galaxies actually touch each other. My theory predicts that space is actually crumbled this way in the fifth dimension, although we can’t see it. Now, if we create a wormhole in this fifth dimension, between our galaxy and the one that is practically touching us, we can travel there in a few years, rather than millions. Unfortunately, there are two limiting factors: I cannot change the shape of crumpled-space, so we can only travel to the galaxy that happens to be folded over us; and creating a wormhole that large requires more energy than our entire galaxy emits.

“Mister Mitchell, I don’t see how any of this is going to make me rich, as you said, beyond the dreams of avarice.”

“Yes, unlimited energy. OK, on the grand scale, let’s assume the entire universe is crumpled as I’ve suggested. Now, we can take my analogy one step further, into the realm of micro-crumpling, so to speak. On this much smaller sub-scale, Earth-space is crumpled within itself. And it takes much less energy to create a wormhole between two places on Earth. As it turns out, just a few meters from this lab, in the fifth dimension, is the bottom of the Marianas Trench. With this device,” he pointed to a contraption sitting on the floor, “I can open a wormhole between the Marianas Trench and here. As water rushes through the wormhole at 15,000 psi, that’s 1,000 times atmospheric pressure, it can turn a turbine with 100 times the power of Niagara Falls. I’ll demonstrate the concept with a real pinhole size wormhole.” Mitchell adjusted the controls of his wormhole generator, aimed the focus straight up, and activated the instrument. It shot a thin column of super-high-pressure water through the ceiling and upward into the sky for several miles.

“Well, I’m impressed, Mister Mitchell. How easy is it to control?”

“Child’s play. I have all the instructions written in this manual.”

“Fantastic.” O’Banion promptly pulled a gun from his coat pocket and shot Mitchell between the eyes. Then, he nonchalantly packed up Mitchell’s equipment and returned to his home outside Chicago.

Two days later, the lead story in the Chicago Sun-Times read: “Dean O’Banion, a prominent Chicago businessman, was mysteriously killed last night when a volcano erupted on his estate, creating a 2000 foot lava dome. Scientist cannot explain the eruption, since there are no known magma chambers in the Chicago area. Scientists are also baffled by the fact that this particular type of basaltic lava is only known to exist in Iceland. The damage was so extensive…”

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