ISSUE.

54

Third anniversary issue!

 ISSUE 54

v54b

TABLE OF CONTENTS
2 Overlords’ Lair: RGR’s Third Anniversary The Ties That Bind, Part Three
by Johne Cook by Justin R. Macumber
3 Sky Voices 33 Deuces Wild, Season Two
by Alice Roelke Space-pale
6 Just A Room, Out in Space by L. S. King
6 by Matthew Wimmer 37 RGR REVIEWS
12 What World is Made Of 40 The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
12 by Casey Chan Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda
17 CALAMITY’S CHILD — CHAPTER 8 by Johne Cook
ROP: King in the Corner 48 THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
by M. Keaton Endgame, Part Two
25 C.MOIRA’S CHOICE by Keanan Brand
by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt 54 RGR Author Bios
28 ARTIST INTERVIEW: Christian Nauck
29 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN

OVERLORDS (FOUNDERS/EDITORS) Cover Art

Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn “Robojourney” by Christian Nauck

Matthew Winslow Book Reviews Editor
Shannon McNear Lord High Advisor, Grammar Consultant, Listening Ear for Overlord Lee
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, Executive Tiebreaker, desktop publishing
L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer
Bill Snodgrass Site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor,
confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing
Ray Gun Revival Issue 54 © 2009 by Double-edged Publishing,
a Memphis, Tennssee-based non-profit publisher.

Submissions Editors John M. Whalen, Alice M. Roelke. Martin Turton

Special Thanks
Serial Authors M Keaton, Keanan Brand. Justin R. Macumber, Johne Cook, L.S. King Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative

Page 1
 ISSUE 54

Overlords’ Lair: RGR’s Third Anniversary fiction, however, I think the oppo-
by Johne Cook site. I think it fills the very wide ex-
panse between hard science fiction
(on the one side) and Tolkienesque
fantasy (on the other). There are
be overlooked, it is currently enjoy-
ing a huge resurgence in popularity.
Science fiction author Alastair Reyn-
olds just signed a ten year, ten book,
one million pound contract writing

W ith this issue, Ray Gun Revival

magazine celebrates our third
anniversary and starts our fourth
year of publication. When we start-
ed publication in 2006, we modeled
our magazine on Deep Magic, a ven-
erable magazine devoted to fantasy
and science fiction, ‘a safe place for
minds to wander.’ Deep Magic was
around for four years, and I’ve al-
ways had it in the back of my mind
that if we could make it that long,
we’d be a success. But where DM
was largely a fantasy publication,
RGR was going for something dif-
ferent. Fantasy has been enjoying a
lot of attention and book sales. But
what about space opera of the kind
I grew up with? Who was writing
those stories?
Joss Whedon, for one. If there
was any one catalyst for Ray Gun
Revival, it was Whedon’s Firefly
TV series and Serenity movie. That
was the kind of story we wanted
to tell. We were collectively so ex-
cited about the setting and yarns
from Firefly that when the plug was
pulled on the TV series, a number of
us still had so much enthusiasm for
the genre that forming the maga-
zine was almost second nature, a
foregone conclusion.
It is axiomatic that while Paul and
I were kicking around space opera
story ideas, Lee King had already in-
dependently had the same thought.
Starting the magazine was hard, but
deciding what to write about was
easy.
But what, exactly, is space opera?
John Scalzi’s recent observations
about design flaws in the Star Wars
films flared up into heated, and sur-
prising, ‘nerdrage.’ Scalzi claims Star
Wars is science fiction. We space
opera fans know otherwise.
Some think of Space Opera as
science fiction without the science.
That isn’t quite true. It is more ac-
curate to say that Space Opera is sci-
ence fiction with a lessened empha-
sis on rigorous science and a greater
emphasis on adventure, character-
ization, and sprawling scale.
In the beginning, Space Opera
used to be Doc Smith’s Lensman
stories, pulp sci-fi where the story
was more important than the sci-
ence. Today, Space Opera has been
revamped and re-imagined to fea-
ture more plausible science in ser-
vice of the wildest, largest stories
imaginable.
You might think Space Opera as
the smallest subgenre of science
rousing debates about defining just
what, exactly, Space Opera is, but in
my mind, it is simply Science Fanta-
out a Space Opera series with UK
publisher Gollancz. That’s getting up
into J.K. Rowling territory, and that’s
sy, the best of both worlds. great for Space Opera. And as long
Everything about Space Opera is as there’s Space Opera, there will be
big, and the best recent treatment Ray Gun Revival magazine.
of the genre is an anthology is called At least for another year. ;)
The Space Opera Renaissance. It
weighs in at 941 pages and covers Johne Cook
the entire history of the genre from Overlord
the early days (the Redefined Writ- Breezeway, WI USA
ers) to the present (the New Wave). September, 2009
Editors David G. Hartwell and Kath-
ryn Cramer do a phenomenal job of
getting their arms around this most
browbeaten, overlooked genre.
Space opera… means colorful,
dramatic, large-scale science fiction
adventure, competently and some-
times beautifully written, usually
focused on a sympathetic, heroic
central character and plot action,
and usually set in the relatively dis-
tant future and in space or on other
worlds, characteristically optimistic
in tone. It often deals with war, pi-
racy, military virtues, and very large
stakes. What is centrally important
is that this permits a writer to em-
bark on a science fiction project that
is ambitious in both commercial and
literary terms.
And while Space Opera used to

Page 2

Sky Voices
by Alice Roelke
“I can see the sky, the stars so
clear,” murmured the pilot.
She blinked at the overhead stars,
coming ragged through her tears.
Through her cockpit’s cracking win-
dow. “It’s like I never saw them be-
fore.”
She remembered standing on
the hillock of the red Martian soil
of her family’s land, staring into the
thin sky as it turned deepest black.
The chill touched her fingers, made
them curl into her palms. But the
heat of the stars warmed her heart.
Someday I will go, she’d thought,
and her heart felt bird-wild and free.
“Shh now,” said the voice through
her crackling radio. “We’ll get you
back. There’s no damage the boys
and girls back at the dock can’t fix.
I’ll tow you back and we’ll be laugh-
ing about this over coffee in a couple
hours, see if we don’t. You’re just
lucky your radio had enough power,
that’s all.”
She breathed raggedly, blinking
back her diamond-cold tears, swal-
lowed. “You’ll tell my mom and
dad I love them?” Terror and cold
traversed her limbs, made them
shake.
“You’ll tell them yourself,” came
his reply, too hearty and thin across
the void. The void that was leaking
into her ship. Her gaze fastened on
the crack barely visible, like a piece
of hair. Her air sucked towards and
out it, leaving with each lungful
less.
“Someday this war will be over,
and the Earthers will go home,” he
said. “You and I and the rest, we’ll
be farmers again.”
“Watching the moons rise.” Her
good eyelid fluttered convulsively.
Her other one lay plastered shut. If
she could seal the crack, listen to his
voice, let it carry her home... “Keep
talking.”
“I—of course I will.” His voice fal-
tered, as though caught unawares,
freezing up.
In the cramped confines of her
fighter, she used her left hand to
push up her right elbow, press her
numb and lost right hand against
the crack. Watching with interest
as it caught up against the widest
length of the crack. Like the little
boy with the...she tried to think of
the word. It was an Earth tale, a lit-
tle boy stopping a leak with his fin-
ger. Had he lost his hand, too? Hers
would be amputated either way. If
she survived. If.
Breath came ragged and too fast
again; the stars, the dark closing in,
the confines of her deathtrap cabin.
“Talk to me,” she begged, almost
screamed. Then more calmly, “That
is, tell me about yourself.” Her teeth
chattered.
“We’re almost there.” He repeat-
ed what couldn’t be true. “Don’t die
on me, hear?” he went on desper-
ately. “How old are you, anyway?
You don’t sound much older than
me. I’m nineteen.”
“Eighteen,” said Vale. “I’d nev-
never h-have learned to fly without
the war.”
“This damned war.” He sounded
like he wanted to spit. “You and I,
we’d be worried about dates and
schools and maybe the crops, if it
weren’t for the war.” He hesitated.
“I’d ask you out, maybe.”
She laughed at the absurdity, the
brilliance of that remark. How nor-
mal it made everything seem, pro-
saic like old friends meeting with
new ages on them, the ordinary
mating dance of humanity.
“I’d say yes.” She laughed again,
too close to tears, closed her eyes
and wished herself back to the hill-
ock, to reach a message to that lit-
tle girl. Tell her...what? To not care
about her planet? To stop wanting
Sky Voices, by Alice Roelke
ISSUE 54
the stars, yearning for things be-
yond her fingers? Tell her to let her
heart bleed dry so she could plant
it, anchor it to soil and never look
up, never raise her eyes to the sky?
“Did we win the battle, or don’t
you know?” she asked.
“Don’t know. Tell me your
name.”
“Vale.”
“I thought it might be something
like that. After one of the Valles, I
suppose?”
“Marineres.”
“That’s where we’re completely
different. My parents didn’t want
me to join up. They’re immis from
earth. I’m first gen. They hate even
thinking about revolution from good
ol’ Earth. Whereas you’re probably
third generation if you’re a day.
Bleed rust red.”
That explained his accent. Vale
looked down on the darkening mess
of her arm. “Something like that.”
Yet when she spoke, the face
of her father swam before her. He
hadn’t made anything like the pro-
testations of her mother, but some-
thing in his face had gone still and
scared when she told him. He with-
drew, like he was already waiting
for the news of her death. Like he
Page 3

knew.
The other pilot had fallen silent.
Without his distraction, the night
began to seep back into her soul.
“Keep talking. I can’t die if you’re
talking.” They were connected,
and all the forces of sky, war, night
couldn’t cut that thin thread formed
between their radios. If he’d just
keep talking!
“Only you see it’s not like that
for me.” He moved the words to-
gether too fast. “My sort ain’t liked
by yours. Don’t even let you in some
restaurants, if you’re a first genny.
So you wouldn’t say yes. And I prob-
ably wouldn’t even ask.”
He was still on about that? “So
war brings people together,” she
said. “Tell me something new.”
“What?”
Tell me about your farm, she want-
ed to say. But you couldn’t assume
with anyone whose family hadn’t
been here from the first. Maybe
he was a sharecropper. Maybe he
worked in a city. “Tell me anything,”
she gasped, staring at her arm, the
swollen and twisted fingers pressed
against the ship’s wound. “Tell me a
story.”
He grasped that. “Sure. Sure.
Sometimes I think my whole life is
a story. I’ve been telling lies since I
could first speak. I lied to impress
people, stay out of trouble, be more
popular than the next guy. Only it
never quite worked. Even if nobody
figured it out, I knew. I knew I was
the kind of guy who tells lies. May-
be—I always will be.”
She listened to the harshness of
her breathing, loud in the silence. Is
he trying to tell me something?
Were they even moving? She
couldn’t tell, with her instruments
not working, and her equilibrium
messed up by the delirium. Were
they just spinning off together into
space? Had his engines failed, too?
“You’re not,” she murmured as
heartily as she could. “You’re my
rescuer. We’ll go back, land, have
that...coffee.” Her voice trembled
on that word, the absurdity of it.
Medical attention would be top pri-
ority, if they got back.
But for an instant, she closed her
eyes, and tried to believe it. Tears
tracked down her face and froze.
She pictured the two of them,
months from now, safe and warm,
happy despite a long recovery. She
might feel self-conscious about hav-
ing one arm, would cradle her mug
with the left.
But it wouldn’t matter. They’d be
friends, and maybe more, no matter
what.
“Are we really going to make
it?” she said, her voice trembling
beyond all conscious control. She
couldn’t stop shaking, a deep-bone
shake that went down to her cold,
chilled marrow. They don’t tell you
how cold space is. She pictured it
eating her, this many-jeweled night-
mare of darkness and stars.
He still hadn’t replied.
“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, if we
weren’t going to make it?” Her voice
quavered. “You’re my rescuer. You’d
tell me the truth, no matter who
else you lied to, wouldn’t you?”
His breathing came ragged over
the thin radio connection. “I’m not.
I’m—not your rescuer. I’m—I lied.
I’m the pilot you damaged, who
damaged you. I’m not towing you
back. We’re both disabled, drifting.
My air’s running out. I had enough
for two hours, but now my gauge is
broken and I don’t know, maybe it’s
less. I don’t know enough about the
doohickey to fix it, much less under-
stand what’s wrong. Barely taught
me to fly before sending me out
here. The battle’s moved on. Left us
to die, unless we get incredibly lucky
and someone comes by. Or I should
say, one of us gets lucky.”
Tears trembled in Vale’s eyes,
the last of them. She could feel the
eyeball skin drying even as they slid
down, added to the icicles on her
face. “Why’d you lie?” I was prepar-
ing for death, and then you made
me hope again, made me care.
Sky Voices, by Alice Roelke
ISSUE 54
The dreams of future now lay cut
off. Could think: only a few minutes
ahead. Could prepare? Barely at all.
Could do? Nothing. Not even leave
a recorded message for her family.
That had been one of the first things
she’d tried, after calling for hopeless
help.
She could imagine...father, moth-
er. No, mustn’t imagine. Dying, out
here, with her enemy, her fiend. I
hope they never know. Never try
to guess about these last few mo-
ments. Hope they don’t think I was
cold or frightened or in pain. Be-
cause I am.
The cold numbed her pain,
though. She could no longer feel
anything below the neck. She
writhed against these last moments,
and their shreds of cruel hope.
Would someone arrive, a real res-
cuer with a last moment reprieve,
to stay death’s claws? Or would she
slip into that undiscovered country
with only this monster, this liar for
company?
“You shouldn’t have lied.”
I am going, she thought. I am
drifting away and I’ll never even
know why he lied to me. What good
could it possibly have brought him?
“Are you just an evil person? Why
would you do that?”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Over the ra-
dio, his voice broke. Sounded like
Page 4

he wanted to cry as badly as her
dry eyes did. “I heard you scream,
your voice on mayday. You sounded
just a kid, even younger than me. I
wanted more than anything to be
the guy who could rescue you. But
I just made it worse.”
“You did.” Her ship drifted, like so
much rubble. Which it was.
Like in a nightmare or a horror
movie, she saw the crack widen
under her cadaverous hand. Felt
and heard the air hissing thinner all
around. Barely any time left now.
Death coming.
I hope it’s not as cold as here.
He was talking again. “When I
said all that, I really could imagine
us together, maybe raising a fam-
ily and a crop on one of those red
farms down there. That’s what Mars
is about, isn’t it? People who aren’t
wanted on Earth, making them-
selves a new place to belong. I don’t
know why I’m fighting to keep her
under Earth control. I didn’t want
you to be so alone and scared. But
I’ve made it worse, haven’t I? I’m
sorry I lied.”
She couldn’t die angry with her
only companion. “I forgive you.” Her
voice shook. “Try and get a mes-
sage to my parents, if you live. Love
them.” Her teeth chattered almost
too hard to speak.
“I will,” he choked.
With the drift of her ship, his
came into focus. She felt a momen-
tary flame of pride; she had too hit
the side, aft engine, good and clear.
Then pride dimmed. Far, far below
lay the red orb of home. That beau-
tiful, dried-blood red home. Mars.
With all her heart she yearned for
it.
So many years it took to get away,
and now I wish I could see home
one last time, drink the silty water
from our well. I was glad to leave,
and now I’ll never—
With tired dry eyes, she gazed at
the red orb below. “We’re not even
in orbit. I can’t even give my ashes
back to Mars.”
“You think a lot of Mars, don’t
you?” His voice sounded bitter. Or
maybe envious?
In the hissing dark, she nodded.
“Maybe a place is only really yours
when you feel like it needs you.”
His voice cracked. “I wish I could
have met you some other way. Any
other way. I’m using up my air, but I
can’t shut up. Talk to me. Please.”
She thought. “Tell me—your
ship’s name.”
“It doesn’t have one. I didn’t think
to name it.”
She took a thin breath; it hurt.
“Let’s—name. Together.”
“Yes. Together. That’s a good
name.”
ISSUE 54
Hadn’t been quite what she © 2009 by Alice Roelke
meant, but okay. She imagined him
christening it with his blood, his
death, didn’t want to even think
that, much less say it. It seemed too
morbid, even for an enemy—if he
were still that.
But her voice was slipping away;
she couldn’t say anything more if
she wanted to. The saliva on her
tongue bubbled, as if boiling. The
vacuum must be nearly complete.
If only they could have met under
other circumstances. To really say
what you meant to one other per-
son. But could they have talked like
this, under any other circumstance?
Now that she couldn’t speak any
longer, she thought of a million
things to say. Did you stare at the
stars, she wondered, as the crack
suddenly widened, as her fingers
slipped through and the last of the
air slid out. Did you stare into the
stars.
But her voice was gone, her
breath was gone, her heartbeat
slowed. No anger, trying, angst, only
the soft detaching of her soul, like
Velcro, winging its way home. Her
frozen arm looked like it was reach-
ing out, into, to touch the cold sky,
the face of God.
Sky Voices, by Alice Roelke Page 5

Just A Room, Out in Space
by Matthew Wimmer
“W hat happened? Is it over?
Please tell me it’s over.”
The sweet, trembling voice floated
into the empty room.
“I don’t know yet, Angela,” re-
plied a gravelly, drinker’s voice. “It
does seem to have settled down.”
“Do not move yet, people! Stay
put!”
“Screw that.” A slight, educated
man hopped down out of the top
bunk. “I say it’s okay.”
From under the bottom bunk
emerged the even slighter figure of
a girl in her late teens or early twen-
ties, skinny, with mousy brown hair
and a cute face. She slithered out,
then stood, holding onto the bunk
support. “You guys think everything
is okay?” She suppressed a sob. Her
wide blue eyes gleamed.
“Well, that was quite a shaking,”
said retired Navy Admiral Jed John-
son. He stood up behind the couch.
“We are still alive, it appears. That
is a plus.”
He smoothed his bright blue tu-
nic, stretching it over his large frame.
He brushed his short-cropped white
beard and cleared his throat. He
walked to the bathroom door and
after a brisk knock said, “Command-
er Farson?”
by Matthew Wimmer Page 6
The bathroom door opened and
Commander Bill Farson appeared,
a thirty years younger match to the
older man. Farson had thick black
hair where Johnson’s was white
and sparse, a solid physical build to
Johnson’s slightly paunchy softness.
“Ah, I thought I saw you run in
there. The Kromarty really gave us a
wallop. What happened, man?”
“Hold on, sir. I, uh, need to check
something.”
He brushed past the old man and
saw the girl sitting on the lower bunk
next to the bald man with glasses.
They were talking quietly. The girl
turned and saw Farson.
“Billy! Oh, it was terrible, such
shaking!” She jumped up and leapt
at him, the fringe of her yellow
jumpsuit swishing. He caught her.
“Angela! Oh, I got the right room.
I couldn’t be sure, but...dear, hold
on one second.”
He tried to set her down, but
she clutched him in an iron grip. He
dragged her with him to the control
panel indented next to the door
and gazed into it’s dark surface. As
she plastered him with kisses he
pressed the screen where he knew
the communications button should
be. He groaned. There was only one
reason the unit wouldn’t be receiv-
ing power. Angela dropped lightly to
her feet.
“Okay, Farson,” Johnson said,
yanking the younger man around.
“Some answers, please.”
“I don’t know. I was running down
to check on the engine room. I was
out in the corridor and I heard the
bulkheads starting to collapse. So
I ducked in here. Pure luck, man.
Pure luck!”
“Pure luck, right. And in the mid-
dle of a fight,” said Nelson.
“What, sir?” Said Farson.
“Oh, nothing. So, we were getting
it good, eh?” said the bald man with
glasses. “I was telling Angela that
we should be dead right now. A ship
doesn’t shake like that and survive
intact. I mean, four to seven odds?
Against the Kromarty? No chance!”
“And what’s your name, sir?” re-
plied Farson.
“I am his Eminence George Nel-
son, sir. Ambassador. I was hitch-
ing a ride with the seventh fleet to
Arjon when you somehow thought
you could take out that Kromarty
fleet. At two to one odds!”
“We didn’t know there were that
many. Four of them were blacked
out. By the time they joined in,
there was no chance. We should be
so much radioactive dust!”
“Why is that?” said Angela, con-
tinuing to hold onto Farson. She
leaned into his stalwart frame.
Just A Room, Out in Space,
ISSUE 54
“Johnson? I can’t...”
“Darling, the Kromarty don’t take
prisoners. Or leave ships intact.
They blast them to pieces. All or
nothing.”
“So, then, we won! Cause we’re
still here!”
Her brightening expression only
managed to darken the faces of the
three men.
“No, darling, I’m afraid not. I
think I can explain our situation,”
said Johnson. “Farson, if you don’t
mind.”
He brushed Farson away and
moved his hand towards the door
panel. Farson grabbed his arm.
“What? The bulkheads out there
collapsed. It’s exposed to space!
And, anyway, there’s no power,” he
said.
“Then it won’t matter if I push
the button or not?” He shook off
Farson’s hand and pushed the but-
ton.
The door slid open. Everyone but
Johnson lurched towards the near-
est solid object. But there was no
explosion of air.
“What?!” Farson said as looked
out and gasped.
The other two joined Johnson
and Farson and gazed out into what
should have been the familiar grey
metal of corridor 7-B. What they
saw instead was the black empti-
ness of space, punctuated by the
occasional star and glowing hunks

of ship.
“You see! The ship was de-
stroyed,” said Johnson.
“But, then how... oh, your emer-
gency force field?!” Farson said.
“Of course. I always stay in a room
with an emergency generator!”
“Wait.. what? Explain this to the
dummy in the room.” Angela said.
“You see that box over there in
the corner, that you’ve been keep-
ing your hyper-wave set on these
past six weeks? It’s a force field
generator. It’s powered by atomics.
And, it’s fully contained within this
room,” Johnson said.
“So, the ship could still be okay?”
She said.
“Well, as the evidence shows...”
and he pointed out the door.
“But, why weren’t other places
protected, then?”
“Well, unfortunately, these gener-
ators are fairly expensive. It’s an, uh,
Admiral’s privilege. Doesn’t cover
much more than one room. It’d still
never take a direct blast, though.
Mostly it’s to seal the environment
in case of a breach.”
“You mean, we’re completely
sealed in?” Said Angela
“Sure. You wouldn’t even need
the room. Could be just you and this
generator in space. It holds in oxy-
gen, anything.”
Farson loosened Angela’s grip
by Matthew Wimmer Page 7
ISSUE 54
on his shoulder. He dropped to his there’s debris all around. Anyway, Farson and Nelson, along with
knees and gasped. Angela kneeled would you want them to find us?” Angela, pushed Johnson back until
and held him. He looked up into her Farson said. he fell onto the couch.
eyes. “So, what do we do?” Shouted “Okay. Okay. I thought it could be
“Don’t you see? We’re all that’s the bald man with glasses. over with, quick-like. Without need-
left! The whole ship is gone! It’s just “I don’t know,” replied Farson. lessly upsetting people. I guess I’ll
us! This room!” “We have no signaling beacon, no have to explain it more carefully,”
engine, no weapons, no comm. We he said. His eyes glinted from one
# just sit.” face to another.
Jed Johnson stroked his beard “Farson! Are there any human
“So, we’re okay, then?” Angela
and said, “Here’s what we do. And, ships left! Answer. Quickly!”
said.
Angela, I’m sorry, you may take this “No!” Shouted Farson. He let
“Well, for now...” replied John-
hard, but, we must turn off the go of Johnson’s flabby frame and
son.
shield generator.” backed away. “No way. We had to
“What do you mean, ‘for now’?”
The others stood as if they hadn’t drop out of the fight, due to our
stated Nelson.
heard him. beams failing. I saw the Freemont
“Well, we have oxygen enough.
“Okay. I’m going to turn it off.” and the Tooling both take direct
There are tanks in the room.”
Johnson rose and started toward hits. No way they survived.”
“What about rescue?” Nelson re-
the generator box. He opened the “So our fleet is destroyed! Ange-
plied.
panel and started fiddling inside it. la! You’ve been watching the fleet
“Farson? Any chance one of our
“No!” roared Farson. He ran and deployments on your hyper-wave.
ships survived?” Johnson asked.
grabbed Johnson’s hands. “What Is there any other fleet within ten
“Oh. Well, there’s always the
the hell, man? Kill us all? I’m afraid light years of us?!”
chance that one of them slipped
we would all take that hard!” Angela relaxed her grip on Jed’s
off while the others were being de-
“Look, we’re dead anyway,” re- collar. “No,” she said, “The third fleet
stroyed, but...”
plied Johnson, and in a fatherly tone, was between Arjon and M’tharn,
“But what, Billy?”
“I’m sorry, Angela. I have grown about, uh, thirty light years away.”
“Well, then, why would they
fond of you over the past month She stepped back.
come back? Only to be destroyed as
and a half. You’re young, and I hope “Okay, now, uh, your name?”
well?”
we can help you accept this...” “George Nelson, God damn it!
“So we’re just a room, sitting in
George Nelson interrupted him. Ambassador! To Arjon!”
space? With no engines or comm or
“Bull, man. You don’t just say that “Okay, now, how long can we live
anything?” She wailed. “Why don’t
kind of thing to a young girl! And, on four tanks of oxygen?!”
the Kromarty shoot us, then?”
what the hell are you talking about? George stepped back.
“They couldn’t detect a single
We’re fine. We just wait to be res- “For four people, about, uh, ten
room. Space is big, you know. And
cued!” days, I’d say.”
Just A Room, Out in Space,

Johnson laid unmolested on the
couch.
“Okay! Now that I’ve got your at-
tention. I know it’s hard, but we can’t
refuse to accept the situation!”
Johnson struggled up. He adjust-
ed his tunic again.
“We have some stuff to talk out,
Bill,” he said.
“Okay,” replied Angela. She
wagged a finger at Jed. “As long as it
is how we are to be rescued!”
“Okay, I said it might be hard for
you to take, dear, but...”
Bill Farson rammed him down
onto the couch again.
“Into the bathroom!” He yelled
through clenched teeth.
“She must know, at some point,
Bill.”
“I don’t care! Double exclamation
point!!” His eyes bulged. “We do it
in there!”
“Okay, Farson, just let me up. I
don’t want my last half hour of life
to be with a crushed diaphragm.
“Okay. Angie, Bill, as your fiancé,
has taken ward of you and has de-
manded that we discuss our, very,
immediate futures in the bathroom,
where I’m sure just he and I can fit,
rather uncomfortably. Therefore we
must exclude, uh, this gentlemen
and yourself.”
Angela glared at Bill Farson.
George Nelson patted the generator
by Matthew Wimmer Page 8
he was leaning against.
“Look, fellas. If it has to do with
the unplugging of our savior, here,
then I demand that I, and Angela,
for that matter, be in on it. We’re all
sentient beings, and we all deserve
a say in our futures!”
Farson turned to Johnson and
looked inquiringly at him.
“You really want to have this out.
In front of everyone?” He said.
“Yes,” replied all three.
“Okay. We might as well get com-
fortable,” Johnson said.
Farson leaned protectively against
the shield generator box. George
Nelson sat on the lower bunk of An-
gela’s bed. Angela sat on the floor
and leaned against the generator
box at Farson’s feet.
“Well,” began Farson, “perhaps
retired admiral Johnson would like
to begin. Why did you try to kill
us?”
“I, uh, would just like to say, first,
that I have at heart all our best in-
terests.”
“How is that, sir, when you tried
to kill us?” said Nelson.
“Okay. I’ll just be blunt, from here
on out, sorry Angela. We are dead,
no matter what we do.”
There was silence.
“First off, we only have, as Mr.
Nelson said, some ten days of oxy-
gen.”
ISSUE 54
“But that’s enough, isn’t it?” Said “But, we can’t just give up,” said
Angela. She looked up at Johnson. Farson. “It is our duty, as humans, to
“Well, it’s enough for ten days of fight till the last breath.”
life, sure. But what about after ten Johnson looked at the group in
days? As she is the smallest, Angela front of him.
will die first, in the slow convulsions “Even if that means unbearable
of anoxemia...” torture and unlimited pain at the
Farson charged toward Johnson hands of the Kromarty?”
again. Johnson sighed and braced
for the impact, but Angela grabbed #
him and spun him around. She poked
Johnson sat on the toilet seat as
Farson in the chest and said, “Billy!
Farson knelt before him. He tried
Listen, mister. You don’t have to
to brush down his disheveled tunic.
spare me from nothing. I’m twenty
George Nelson squatted on the sink
two years old, and I’ll be treated as
and, even with his slight frame, had
a grown up! So go on, please, Jed!”
to hang out of the small alcove into
She dragged Farson back to the gen-
the space over Farson’s head.
erator box and sat down, gripping
“So, you’re saying that no one
her knees.
has ever reported back after being
“Okay,” said Johnson. “We have
captured by the Kromarty?” Nelson
no hope of being rescued in ten
asked in a subdued voice.
days.”
“Absolutely. That is why I would
George Nelson pointed at John-
maneuver us onto a quicker death.
son, “Says you, buddy. I don’t even
A quicker one than the Kromarty
know you! I can’t accept that.”
would grant us,” replied Johnson.
“Okay, but Commander Farson
Farson reached up for Johnson’s
said that there is no way that any of
throat, then brushed his tunic in-
our fleet survived the attack on the
stead.
Kromarty. So there is no help there.
“But we don’t know! Damnit,
And, Angela, who I know has been
man!”
following the major fleet action on
“Okay! Keep your voice down.
her hyper-wave set, has said there
You yourself said that there are only
is no fleet within thirty light years.
Kromarty ships out there. No hu-
So, I will submit to you that there
man ones!”
are no human ships within ten days
“Yah, but...”
distance of us”
Just A Room, Out in Space,

“So what if one of those Kromarty
ships happen upon us? Huh? They
either blast us into radioactive dust,
or they take us prisoner.” He swiv-
eled his head slightly to see Nelson’s
face. “Yes, George, the Kromarty do
take prisoners. Either we die, as I in-
tended us to, quick, or we are cap-
tured by the Kromarty. Do you want
to go through that death? Do you
want Angela to?” He said, now star-
ing down Farson, four inches from
his face.
Farson stopped, looked at Nelson,
then back to Johnson. He leaned
onto Jed’s chest and pushed his
forearm into his throat.
“You think the Kromarty are gon-
na find us?” he said.
“I don’t know. All I know is that
we can make it so that they don’t
find us. So they don’t flay your skin
and bathe you in acid to get the
names of the fleet commanders out
of you, Farson. So they don’t inject
a thousand poisoned needles into
Angela to get the fleet placements
out of her. So they don’t inject mol-
ten metal into your hands, George
Nelson, to find out what you know
about Arjon!”
George looked at his hands, then
pushed Farson’s head back to get a
more clear look at Jed.
“Sorry, Farson. Molten metal, Jed!
You know that, for a fact?”
by Matthew Wimmer Page 9
“That’s the one, uh, semi-report
we’ve gotten back from a man cap-
tured by the Kromarty. They inject-
ed some kind of molten metal into
his hands. And then, well, other
unpleasant things that, ultimately,
killed him. Slowly.”
“It doesn’t matter, George. We
know the Kromarty torture. They’ve
found out certain things, base loca-
tions, fleet maneuvers, things they
never could’ve known without our
men giving it up.”
“So, again, I must say...” began
Johnson.
“Wait!” Shouted Farson. He
jumped up, knocking Nelson off the
sink. They fell in a heap, entangled.
Farson moved George’s arm out of
his face and shouted, “At least we
wait until we know! We wait until
the last possible moment, then we
do it. I’ll agree to that.”
George Nelson groped toward
door with his hand and hit the pan-
el. He tumbled out of the bathroom
and stood, brushing his tunic down
and shaking his head.
“Damn it! People.” He walked
away.
Angela stood at the door. When
she saw Farson struggling to stand
in the cramped space, she grabbed
his arm and helped him up.
“What the heck is going on in
there? You guys aren’t fighting are
you? You should have let me go in
there and you stay out here.”
“It’s okay, darling,” said Johnson.
He straitened his tunic. “Bill just got
a little excited. Excuse us for one
moment, please.”
He grabbed Farson and whispered
in his ear.
“You have a better way?”
Farson whispered into Jed’s ear.
“Yes. Pills. Painless. Quick.”
# gonna get bad before then, any-
“Okay. I must admit my mis-
take. Bill Farson and, uh, our es-
teemed diplomat have talked rea-
son into me. We have a hope that
the Kromarty have moved on. They
should have found us by now, if they
were looking.”
Angela jumped and clapped her
hands, yipping. She turned and
hugged Bill Farson.
“I knew it! Oh, thank you Billy.”
He turned and kissed her lightly
on the cheek.
“Okay, George...George Nelson!
We’re having a meeting, if you will
please jump down off that bunk and
take part?” Said Jed.
“Okay, Mr. Boss Man.” he jumped
down with his usual sprightliness.
“What?”
“We’re not out of the woods, yet.
We need to discuss our situation.”
Just A Room, Out in Space,
ISSUE 54
He sat on the couch with a groan.
“We can sit.”
Angela sat cross-legged on the
floor next to the bunks, at Farson’s
knee. Nelson continued standing.
“First of all, food and water. Bill?”
“Each room has about an eight
day supply, for two people. We four
could stretch it to eight, maybe ten,
if we ration.”
“Okay, since we only have ten
day’s oxygen, that’s fine. Things are
way.”
“Bad, how?” asked Angela.
“Well, without being too graphic,
waste products. Firstly, there are
no carbon dioxide scrubbers in this
room. Those were located in an-
other part of the ship, not too sure
where, but...”
“Section A2, behind the waste ac-
climators,” injected Farson.
“Which brings us to the second
thing. There are no, uh, waste facili-
ties.”
“But, the bathroom...” began An-
gela, pointing.
“True, but, with the shield up, the
pipes, well, uh, they don’t go any-
where.”
“So it’ll just be smelly. We can live
with that? Right?”
“If it comes to that, I suppose.
But, and this is the hard part. I was
premature in my actions before. If it

comes to it, and we should all hold
out hope that it won’t, but, we have
a better way. Bill?”
Bill reached into his vest. He fum-
bled around, then pulled out his fist
and looked into it. He opened it to
the group.
“What? What are they? Billy?”
Said Angela.
“Cyanide pills. Right Farson?” said
Nelson, “Or, some other poison?”
“Saxitoxin. A million times faster
than cyanide. And safer,” he said. “I
mean, to handle.” He moved them
around on his palm, looking at
them. “I just happen to have four.
Course you can always break them,
if you have to. Never thought I’d ac-
tually need to. You, uh, put it in your
mouth and bite down. Then swal-
low. Bite down first. Otherwise it
won’t work.”
He picked one out and dropped
it into Johnson’s hand. Jed took
it without looking and dropped it
into his tunic pocket. Farson then
extended his hand to Nelson, who
looked at it without moving.
“George, c’mon. Just take it. You
don’t have to use it if you don’t want
to,” said Farson.
“Wouldn’t have to think about it
if you hadn’t abandoned your post
to find your little fiancée,” he said.
“Excuse me? What was that?”
Farson clenched the pills in his fist.
by Matthew Wimmer Page 10
“Like you didn’t know Angie
would be in this room, with Jed’s
stupid generator!”
A steely look came over Farson.
He approached the smaller man.
“Look, you little…”
But George wasn’t looking at Far-
son, or at the pills in his hand. He
stared out the still open door at Far-
son’s back.
“Never mind, just give it to me!”
He shouted. He grabbed for Farson’s
hand and knocked the pills to the
floor.
“What the hell! George, settle
down. Where’d they go? What’s
got into you?” Farson said. As he
and George scrabbled around on
the floor after the pills, Johnson,
having seen the true object of Nel-
son’s stare, walked to the door and
peered out.
“Hurry up, gentleman. Angela,
come here, dear.”
“What, Jed?” She said, her voice
shaky.
She stood and walked to Jed. He
pointed out the door and whispered
to her.
“Oh,” she said.
“Quick. Get the pills, Farson. Bring
them over to the table. We can help
each other.”
Farson, who was half under the
bottom bunk, shouted, “What? I
can’t hear you. I think they fell into
the air duct down here.”
“I said there’s a Kromarty ship out
there. And I think it’s heading our
way,” he said, his voice stricken.
Johnson took a pale-faced Angela
by the shoulders and led her to the
table where she sat. He sat next to
her and took the pill out of his pock-
et. He took her hand and laid it on
the table, palm up, then placed the
pill into it.
“Oh, god,” she muttered. “Billy, I
can’t.”
Farson scrambled to the table,
followed by Nelson.
“I only found one. We’ll have to
break it,” he said out of breath.
“Okay, quickly. Bill, attend to An-
gela. I’ll break it. We haven’t much
time.
Farson dropped the pill onto the
table top and pulled his chair next
to Angela. He held her head and
looked into her eyes.
“Okay, it’ll be quick, dear. Just put
it in your mouth, and...” he began.
“No, I...I can’t. I don’t want to
die.” She began sobbing.
Johnson struggled to break the
other pill.
“George, I can’t. My fingers.”
George stood at Johnson’s side.
He was looking at the backs of his
hands, glassy eyed.
“George, here! Break it!”
George looked up and smirked.
Just A Room, Out in Space,
ISSUE 54
“Here, give it to me, old man,” he
said.
He grabbed the pill and, after a
quick glance around the group, he
sighed and put it in his mouth. He
bit down. A tear slid down his face.
He gulped and collapsed.
“Oh, god...” Angela sobbed.
“Bill, break her pill.”
“Noooooooooo!” shrieked Ange-
la. She clenched the pill in her hand
and scrambled from Bill’s grasp. She
dove for the bunk.
“Angela, don’t!” shouted Bill.
“Grab her, Bill,” shouted Jed.
She scrambled under the bunk
with a cry and had plenty of time to
ditch the pill in the air duct before
Bill Farson grabbed her by the foot
and yanked her out.
“Damnit, Angela! She doesn’t
know, Jed!”
He turned to see Johnson once
again kneeling before the shield
generator box, fumbling with the
hatch cover.
“Hold her, Bill!” He shouted.
“No, no no!” Screamed Angela.
She pounded her fists into Farson’s
chest as he held her down.
“Hurry up, Jed!”
“Ten seconds.”
“Don’t unplug it! Don’t unplug it!
Don’t unplug it!” She whined, still
struggling, “I can’t do it! No, Billy!”
Johnson turned to look at her.

“Please, don’t!”
“Angela, you don’t know what
they’ll do to us!” Farson whispered
in her ear.
“Just one more button, Farson.”
“Well, hurry up, damn it!”
“No!” begged Angela.
Johnson stared into her face, his
eyes wet.
“Johnson. What are you waiting
for? Do it!” Bill roared.
Johnson stood. He snapped the
hatch cover back on.
“She deserves a chance,” he mut-
tered.
Farson scrambled off Angela and
towards the generator. Johnson
grabbed for him. They struggled
briefly before Bill threw him to the
ground. As he groaned and held
his hip, an intense orange glow
bloomed.
“Bill, look!” He shouted, point-
ing towards the door. It no longer
opened onto the blackness of space.
Orange suffused his face, the begin-
nings of tears in his eyes.
“The Kromarty ship!”
Farson turned. He gazed out onto
the exploding Kromarty ship. It was
a supernova in miniature, an ex-
panding ball of orange fire, with jets
of blue and violet shooting out like
coronal streamers.
“Yes!” shouted Jed and Farson
simultaneously. Angela rolled over
by Matthew Wimmer Page 11
ISSUE 54
onto her front and gazed out. Her tack. We tried to warn you, but He saluted and left the room.
puffy red face was washed in or- they’d already closed in behind you. “Oh, poor George, if he’d just
ange. She sobbed. We backed off, and I guess they waited,” said Angela.
didn’t see us. After waiting out the Farson reclined on his couch
# attack...” again. He said, “Angela, listen. I...”
“How did it go?” asked Farson. “Not now, Bill. Please. I’ve just
“Gosh dang, miss! How the hell
McDougall glared at him, then stopped crying.”
did you live?”
continued. “It was for our own good. If the
The medical orderly stood before
“After waiting out the attack, Kromarty had captured us... It’s
the group who reclined on couches
which left just one functional Kro- easy enough to forget a stupid sup-
in the mess hall of the convoy sup-
marty ship...you fought well...any- ply ship.”
ply ship Gargantuan.
way, we started to creep out of here “Okay! I don’t care. I know you
“There was nothin’ left! Never
before they found us. But that Kro- came to save me, but, just shut up
saw nothin’ like it before. Just a
marty ship didn’t leave and, after for now.”
room, out in space like that.”
some, uh, tense discussion amongst Jed said, “It’s true, Angie. You’ll
The door slid open and the cap-
my crew, we snuck up on her and see that someday.”
tain of the Gargantuan strode in.
launched our one torpedo. And Angie closed her eyes. The others
Farson sat up, then stood. He ap-
bang, must’ve hit her reactor core. thought she had fallen asleep when
proached the captain and saluted.
Then we get you on our radar. With- she said, “Thank you, Jed. I’ll never
“Commander Bill Farson, sir!”
out the ship’s anti-radar hull, you forget what you did for me. Just,
“No one asked you anything,
stood out like a, well, like a tiny dot thank you.”
commander. Sit back down.”
amongst a bunch of slightly smaller
“Okay, sorry. I’m shook up.”
dots, but worth a check.
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“We’ll get a full report from you
Captain McDougall stood before
after you’ve had a chance to rest.”
the group with his arms crossed.
With a slight salute to Jed, he
“Just. Uh. Um... How?” Johnson
stalked out of the room.
muttered.
“Well, I’ve got you three on IVs,
“There’ll be time for that. Later,
uh, don’t know why, you were only
sir.”
out there for thirty minutes or so.
“As a retired Admiral, I have the
Just stay in bed, Admiral. Your hip’s
authority to order...” Jed began.
broke, if you didn’t already know. I’ll
“Okay.” McDougall interrupted
let you rest. Uh, sorry about your
him with a raised hand.
fourth party member. He was dead
“We saw the four blacked out
when we found him, must’ve died in
Kromarty once you started the at- © 2009 by Matthew Wimmer
the attack.”
Just A Room, Out in Space,

What World is Made Of
by Casey Chan
T he World was held together by
lies. The buildings were rooted
in foundations of lies and rose up
on rafters of lies. Conversation was
a language of lies; egos were inflat-
ed with lies; and relationships were
bound together by lies. People en-
tertained themselves with lies. The
economy supplied and demanded
lies. Everything that mattered in the
World was held together by lies,
which was why a breath of truth
could destroy the World, and truth-
telling was forbidden, and truth-tell-
ers were killed.
And it was under these circum-
stances that Praydo, a mild, gawky,
awkward intellectual, realized that
his students in his SuccessPrep™
“Master the Validation Ordeal Semi-
nar®” were not in fact “achieving
their dreams” as they had been
promised, if only they would “shoot
for the stars,” nor were they getting
the “average ten point bump” on
their practice ordeals. In fact, few
of them were scoring well enough
to be validated at all, let alone at an
elite level.
And so Praydo had written an e-
mail to Pejoria, the Regional Prelate
of SuccessPrep™:
Greetings Pejoria, I am writing to
express my concerns over my cur-
rent validation course. In short, the
students are not doing well. Most of
them are not scoring above a Theta,
which, as you know, does not make
one a competitive candidate at even
a mediocre validation program.
Unfortunately, my current class
does not appear to be an anomaly. I
have been teaching for Success for a
year now, and each of my ten cours-
es have been the same: students
paying the high price for our course
yet getting a poor result.
Tonight is my final class, the “Suc-
cessPrep Graduation Party,” and I do
not feel that I can face my students
with another round of platitudes,
knowing that at the end of the eve-
ning I will return their latest practice
ordeals, which show their dismal
results, which, as we know, are a
strong predictor of how they will ac-
tually score on the actual Ordeal.
Please do write me as soon as pos-
sible and help me know what to do.
I know that these are clumsy words,
but they are the truth as I see it.
–Praydo
When Praydo hit “Send,” the e-
mail rumbled away into cyberspace
as if it were a boulder crashing down
a chute; the computer shook, and
released squeals and smoke as its
circuits fried. Praydo leapt back from
the monitor. For all the advances in
haptic interfacing, he’d never seen
anything quite like that.
It was a matter of minutes before
Pejoria replied:
Praydo: I am concerned as well,
but for a different reason. Rather
than being worried about your stu-
dents, who, if they simply apply the
SuccessPrep™ Mastery Methods®
will surely achieve their dreams, I
am instead worried about you. Such
cynicism is unworthy of a Don of
SuccessPrep™. staff from the Center, and we will
First, it is imperative that you en-
gage in proper messaging: therefore,
it is not “Success,” as you so casually
put it, but “SuccessPrep™.” It is not
“validation course” but “Master the
Validation Ordeal Seminar®.” Vast
resources have been invested in
creating these trade names, and it is
certainly not for you, only a junior
member of our Employee Family®,
to cast them aside.
Moreover, your statement sug-
gesting that our students get any-
thing less than an exceedingly valu-
able return on their investment in
themselves borders on the libelous.
What World is Made Of, by Casey Chan
ISSUE 54
SuccessPrep™ has brought ruinous
litigation against people for less. I
certainly don’t mean to threaten you
Praydo, but only to warn you. I only
wish to help you achieve a correct
attitude: but your so-called “truth”
could hurt you and those around
you. In fact, when your reckless e-
mail arrived, this year’s teacher por-
trait burst into flames. It was sitting
on my desk and nearly scalded me.
Be more careful, Praydo.
Because of your actions, we must
meet tonight before your class.
You must assume the famous Suc-
cessPrep™ can-do position for your
students. Therefore, I am coming
directly to you along with certain
convene.
Best,
Pejoria Negrosangre
Regional Prelate, SuccessPrep
University™
“Shoot for the stars and you’ll
achieve your dreams!”®
Praydo’s stomach felt tremulous
and his skin cold. He’d known his
e-mail was a bit out of line, but to
be threatened so blatantly was both
shocking and chilling. His idea of
what he should say had always been
a bit off (his mother had once called
him “clumsy little fool!” after he’d
broken a ceramic vase shaped like a
Page 12

holiday elf by saying, “but you said
it was the ugliest thing you’d ever
seen,” in front of the woman who’d
given it to his mother, sharply con-
tradicting the effusive praise which
she had been lavishing on the gift).
Frankly, it was Praydo’s clumsiness
with words that was to blame for his
being employed with SuccessPrep™,
instead of with a real university or
validation school. He’d never had
the knack for saying what people
wanted to hear.
He stared at the monitor for a
long time, his thin brown hair grow-
ing damp with sweat. He tried draft-
ing several reply e-mails to Pejoria,
but he couldn’t really find an apol-
ogy that didn’t consist of him taking
back what he’d said, and he wasn’t
ready to do that. He’d simply report-
ed the fact that his students weren’t
doing well, and he didn’t see why he
should be threatened or punished
over it, as if the facts were his fault.
Praydo opened a new browser
and went to his FriendWeb™ page.
At the top of his profile was his ava-
tar, followed by his vital statistics,
including his height (1.83 meters),
weight (78.75 kilograms), and Vali-
dation Rank (Junior Alpha), as well
as some trivia such as who his first
sex partner had been (Kendra Gail-
braith), and how much money he’d
take to sell his parents into the
uranium mines (“I’d pay to have it
done!” he’d cheekily volunteered).
Underneath these was a blue link
“View My FriendWeb™.” Praydo
clicked on it.
A diaphanous, glittering web
filled the screen, each webbing con-
necting one friend’s name to an-
other, with great clusters of faces
around certain nodes like university
or validation school or hometown
or favorite gladiator or favored
technocrats. Praydo zoomed in on
the validation school node, where
he found the avatar of Gregor, a
strapping Aussie. Gregor was his
good friend since school and also a
SuccessPrep™ colleague. Prayo had
once pulled Gregor out of a frozen
pond in Minnesota he’d fallen into
during some drunken antics, after
which Gregor had sworn lifetime
loyalty to Praydo.
Clicking on Gregor’s image, Pray-
do forwarded him the correspon-
dence between himself and Pejoria
with the note, Who’s crazy here, me
or the Prelate?
Gregor’s image flickered upon his
momentary reply.
Are you blinkered, mate? What
do you think you’re doing sending
me this kind of contraband? Your
e-mail just torpedoed in here and
smashed out my window! Don’t go
getting destructive. And don’t forget
who fills our coffers: where are your
loyalties? Let’s forget this ever hap-
pened. –G
Praydo mashed up his face at
Gregor’s response, and he immedi-
ately shot back:
G, what the hell? I can only as-
sume your response was a joke;
perhaps you assumed my message
was the same. But I am not joking.
I am truly concerned that our stu-
dents are putting their faith in us,
and in return we are selling them
a bill of goods. Please tell me what
you make of this analysis. Please tell
me that I’m wrong! Tell me that your
students are, in fact, averaging a ten
point increase on their ordeals...or
that any of the guarantees of suc-
cess we provide them to convince
them to “fill our coffers” are coming
true. –P
Praydo hesitated a moment over
his mouse, unsure if sending this
reply was wise. But the burning in
his chest consumed his caution,
and he fired off his message like a
gun shot. And then he sat in front
of his screen, nervously strumming
his fingers, awaiting a reply. Soon
enough, the screen flickered with a
new message, but it was not from
Gregor, but rather the FriendWeb™
Magistrate.
What World is Made Of, by Casey Chan
ISSUE 54
Dear Friend, your friendship with
Gregor Handel has been deleted.
Within the shimmering image of
Praydo’s FriendWeb™, the strand
that had connected him to Gregor
dissolved. Praydo pounded out a
message to Gregor demanding an
explanation, but it was simply re-
jected:
Gregor Handel has blocked in-
coming messages from Praydo Al-
exander.
“What in the name of...?” Pray-
do said, falling back into his swivel
chair, slapping his palm to his fore-
head. The screen flickered again
with a message:
Dear Friend, your friendship with
Gwendolyn Chang has been delet-
ed.
Praydo squinted at this. Gwen
was a former girlfriend of Gregor.
Now that Praydo was no longer a
friend of Gregor, apparently he was
no longer Gwen’s friend either. The
screen flickered again:
Dear Friend, your friendship with
Iris McElroy has been deleted.
Iris was Gwen’s friend. The screen
flickered again.
Dear Friend, your friendship with
Javaris Handel has been deleted.
Javaris was Gregor’s brother. For
several minutes, messages arrived
in a continuous stream, bearing
news of further friendship dele-
Page 13

tions. In Praydo’s FriendWeb™, so-
cial connections were flashing into
non-existence like lightning in a
distant storm cloud. Soon Praydo’s
FriendWeb™ looked like a moth
eaten rag.
Praydo turned away from the
screen and put his face in his hands.
He was taking deep breaths trying
to calm himself when the computer
screen chimed, and the attractive,
lean, chestnut colored face of Pejo-
ria materialized.
“Praydo, I am in conference room
Daleph on Level Q. Please join me
immediately.”
Her image disappeared before
Praydo could respond.
Praydo, wobbled on weak knees
through the translucent corridors
of SuccessPrep University™ until
he arrived at the conference room.
He stepped through glowing white
doors and was met by Pejoria, sleek-
figured and black-clad, as well as a
squadron of solicitors in their scar-
let and purple robes, all sitting in
martial array around the long, oval
table.
“Sit, Praydo,” Pejoria said, and
he took the chair at the foot of the
table, looking directly across a long
span at Pejoria. Praydo was scruti-
nized for a long time before Pejoria
finally spoke.
“Praydo, Praydo, Praydo,” she
cooed. “How are you, my dear?”
She smiled a dazzling smile that was
menacing under the circumstances.
Praydo cleared his throat, and
the sound seemed to fall flat in the
chilly, cavernous room.
“Actually, I...” he started to answer,
but before he could finish, Pejoria
hurled a handful of metal scraps at
him, some striking him, and others
clattering across the table or crack-
ing against the back wall.
“Do you know what that was?”
Pejoria yelled. “That was my com-
mendation award, which I’d won
for ‘Best Regional Teacher Morale.’
Today, upon receiving your delight-
ful message, it snapped into little
pieces and fell off my wrist.”
Praydo cowered into his chair be-
fore Pejoria’s fury.
“I liked that watch, and I will hold
you responsible for replacing it. But
that is hardly why I am here.”
Pejoria rose from her chair and
stalked like a panther down the aisle
toward Praydo. A gray-eyed solicitor
handed her a tablet as she passed
by. Pejoria came to Praydo’s side
and slammed the tablet down in
front of him. On it were the words
of a Confession, some of it having
been unwittingly drafted by Praydo
himself:
I, Praydo Alexander, hereby swear,
that the following statements,
though made by me, are false and
libelous:
“...the students are not doing well,
in fact most of them are not scoring
above a Theta...I have been teach-
ing for Success for a year now, and
all of my 10 different courses have
been the same: students paying the
high price for our course and getting
a poor result...I do not feel that I can
face my students...knowing . . I will
return their latest practice ordeals,
which shows their dismal results,
which as we know are a strong pre-
dictor of how they will actually score
on the actual Ordeal...”
I hereby swear that I will not re-
peat these words or any such words
to the same effect, and if I violate
the terms of this agreement, I will
forfeit my membership in the Suc-
cessPrep™ Employment Family®
along with all of its rights and privi-
leges, including my salary both past
and present.
Furthermore, I swear that if I do
not abide by the terms of this agree-
ment, I confess a judgment of invali-
dation against myself to be added
to my permanent record with the
Validation Council of the United Na-
tions of America.
(signature)
Praydo Alexander
Don, SuccessPrep University™
What World is Made Of, by Casey Chan
ISSUE 54
After Praydo read the Confession,
Pejoria dropped a stylus onto the
table in front of him.
“Mark it,” she demanded.
Praydo balked.
“I don’t understand why all of this
is necessary...”
Pejoria leaned her face toward
his, propping her arms on the table,
her eyes growing wide.
“You don’t understand? Are you
daft? Are you stupid? You cannot
possibly be stupid given your Vali-
dation Rank, but I have to ask again,
are you stupid? Are you naïve?” Her
voice was a spectral growl.
“I...I don’t understand.”
“Your reckless, negligent words
threaten this entire university and
the livelihoods of everyone who de-
pends on it, both students and the
Employee Family®. Your reckless,
negligent words could destroy it all.
My watch isn’t the beginning of it.
Do you have even the slightest in-
kling of how irresponsible you have
been?”
Sweat beaded up on Praydo’s
face.
“But the things we’re promising
students, about how they’ll succeed
on the Ordeals, they’re not true. I
don’t want to be lying to them.”
A tremor shook the room, evok-
ing an anxious, hostile grumble
Page 14

from the solicitors.
But Pejoria laughed, a high-
pitched exclamation.
“Ha! Lies, Praydo? You’re con-
cerned about lies? My dear, dear
Praydo, perhaps you are simply
naïve. Lies are simply constructive
truths. Truths are simply the propo-
sitions the community has invested
its faith in. Millions of people have
invested in SuccessPrep™ and its
Mastery Methods®. By attacking
these things, you’re not telling the
truth: you’re destroying it.”
Praydo put his face in his hands.
“I need to think...”
“There’s no time,” Pejoria said
curtly. “Your class begins in five min-
utes.”
“I can’t teach class tonight,” Pray-
do gasped.
“You can and you must,” Pejoria
retorted. “Your students must have
your complete assurance behind
them for the SuccessPrep™ Mastery
Methods® to fully benefit them.”
Praydo gazed up at the striking
woman in her dark suit, hanging
over him like an ominous precipice;
he pleaded by shaking his head.
She slid the Confession closer
to him and spoke in a melodious
whisper. “You must sign this Con-
fession and teach your class or else
the full weight of our solicitors will
be brought down not only on you,
but on everyone associated with
you. You will be socially ostracized
and financially ruined. Your choice
is simple. Your so-called truth telling
may hurt us, but it will hurt you far
more.”
Praydo thought of his father’s po-
sition with SuccessPrep’s™ parent
corporation, Consolidated World
Medium, and how his younger sister
was still at university and depend-
ing on their father’s coffer. Weakly,
Praydo lifted his arm and signed the
tablet.
“Good,” Pejoria said. “All is forgiv-
en, but we will be watching you. Now
go quickly and change your shirt.
You’ve sweat yourself through.”
# over, it was time to hand back the
The bright blue sky and billowing
white clouds filled the vista of the
window-walled Excellence Room.
The students filed in promptly:
Ross, the prematurely balding,
wise-cracking, pseudo-intellectual;
Shane, the genial frat boy; Coral, the
spunky, nervous Israeli, and a gaggle
of other university students. Praydo
managed to teach the final lesson,
a review of the Mastery Methods®,
although it was a more stilted les-
son than usual, as he practically
read verbatim from the Don’s Mas-
tery Manual® to keep his frazzled
mind on track. It was clear that Ross
would never be able to do physics
in a timely manner and that Shane
still seemed to fail to grasp the most
basic rules of formal logic and that
Coral was so jittery she would most
likely be undone by panic during the
actual Ordeal, nevertheless Praydo
managed to choke out the prefabri-
cated Confidence Boosters®: “Mas-
ter the Mastery Methods®, and
you’ll master the Physics Ordeal!”
and “SuccessPrep™ has given you
every tool you need to conquer the
Analytical Ordeal!” and “You don’t
need to worry because when you
chose SuccessPrep™, you chose suc-
cess!”
However, when the lesson was
most recent practice ordeals. Pray-
do glanced over the scores and saw
that no one had exceeded a Theta.
After spending a small fortune of
time and money on the course,
none of them had gotten above the
fiftieth percentile. Scores like these
wouldn’t get them admitted to a
school anywhere in the United Na-
tions nearer than Validation Luna-
rae, about which the common joke
was that ‘being invalidated by (fill in
one’s alma mater) was better than
being validated by Lunarae.’
Praydo buzzed for the Upsilons
who were waiting in the hall, and
What World is Made Of, by Casey Chan
ISSUE 54
who entered with buffet dishes and
mobile banquet tables and began
setting up for the graduation party.
Praydo affixed the golden Success-
Prep™ graduation seal to the final
score reports, and he then began
to walk down the aisles, placing
students’ tests facedown on their
desks. The students began murmur-
ing as they learned their scores.
Praydo went to the computer
screen and pushed a button, and
the murmuring was drowned out by
festive, island music.
“Well, everyone, congratulations
on completing the SuccessPrep™
‘Master the Validation Ordeal Semi-
nar®.’ You’ve all learned so much,
and I’m sure you’ll all do, uh, just
fine on the real thing,” Praydo said
in a wavering voice. “Now, please,
help yourself to some food.” The
students stirred uneasily in their
desks; one student made his way
to the buffet, but the rest of them
were pinned to their chairs by the
weight of their futures having col-
lapsed on them.
Praydo avoided eye contact with
the students. He felt particularly un-
able to look at Coral, but he knew
she wouldn’t be ignored.
“Professor Praydo,” she said
in a broken voice as she raised a
trembling hand. She’d been such
a conscientious student. Just then,
Page 15

through the back door, Pejoria
slipped in, coming to observe the
celebration. Coral continued.
“Praydo...my score...is really
bad...” her voice was cracking and
her eyes were tearing up. “What am
I going to do? I’ll never get into vali-
dation school with a score like this.”
Praydo couldn’t meet Pejoria’s
eyes, even though he knew she
was staring at him and arching her
eyebrows, as if to say, ‘You know
what to do.’ The Don’s Mastery
Manual® had an answer to this spe-
cific concern: “Don’t worry!” it said.
“Your score on your Practice Ordeal
doesn’t necessarily predict how
you’ll do on the real thing! Most of
our students score better on the real
Ordeal than on their practice tests!
It just takes time for all the Mastery
Methods® to come together. Keep
working between now and the Or-
deal, and you’ll be just fine!” (Say
this in a confident voice to fill your
students’ sails with confidence! the
Don’s Mastery Manual® advised.)
The statement was technically
true. Sixty-three percent of stu-
dents scored higher on the actual
ordeal than on the practice ordeal.
The rub was that the improvement
was by an average of 1.3 points, not
enough to make even a one percen-
tile difference. As for whether the
Mastery Methods® ever “came to-
gether” or whether a student would
“be just fine!” was entirely a matter
of interpretation.
Praydo looked up at Coral, and he
glanced back at Pejoria, who was
glowering at him as he stammered.
Praydo felt as if he would collapse
under the forces of Coral’s vulner-
ability and Pejoria’s crushing glare.
“Yeah, man,” Ross, the pseudo-in-
tellectual, said, “I thought we were
supposed to score, like, ten points
better after this course.”
“Yes, that is what’s our studies
show,” Praydo said, still not look-
ing at Pejoria directly, but sensing
her approval to his answer, and
the clutching around his throat and
heart eased. But then he noticed
Coral. She was slowly shaking her
down-turned head.
“I guess I’m just really stupid,” she
said, tears were rolling down her
cheeks, tears that had been drawn
out by his ‘constructive truths.’
“No, Coral, you’re not stupid,”
Praydo said, a flame lighting in his
chest, and he lifted his eyes to meet
Pejoria’s glare.
“Well, I’m obviously a lot dumber
than the people in your study,” Cor-
al replied, and Pejoria shrugged her
shoulders as if to say, ‘that may, in-
deed, be the explanation, my dear.’
“No,” Praydo said. “That study is
meaningless. It was based on ten
students who’d never taken any of
the subjects, and so they did get a
ten point bump, but their final grade
was about an Eta. None of them
even went to validation school.”
The answer stunned the students
into silence. A small, high-pitched
noise seemed to be emanating from
the back window-wall of the class-
room, and its frequency rose until
it was a piercing wail. Suddenly the
glass wall exploded. Fibrous shrap-
nel sprayed through the air. The
students screamed as they were
scathed.
Ross was angry—because of the
cutting glass and what he’d been
told about the study.
“Then what the hell does that
say for us? And what the hell is the
point of this course?”
“The truth is that your scores
probably won’t go up ten points,”
Praydo said. Again, the high-pitched
humming sounded, ascending in
frequency more quickly this time,
and then another wall burst, show-
ering the room with shards of glass.
“The bottom line is that most of you
won’t get into validation school,
and this course was a waste of your
time and money. And for that, I’m
truly sorry.” A third wall burst, and
everyone ducked under their desks,
except for Praydo, and also Coral,
who each were flayed and sliced,
What World is Made Of, by Casey Chan
ISSUE 54
and Coral was buried under a pile of
debris.
There was chaos and then moan-
ing, but when the students’ groan-
ing quieted, Pejoria called out from
the back of the class.
“He’s lying,” she snarled, and the
students turned to her. “He’s lying,”
she yelled to Ross, who wouldn’t
believe that he wasn’t one of the
smartest people in the World. “He’s
lying!” she said to Shane, who
wouldn’t believe against the World
he’d known. “He’s lying!” she called
to the other students, who all still
craved validation. “He’s lying!” she
snapped again.
“Yeah,” Ross said, “He is lying.”
“He’s lying,” Shane repeated in a
drone. A chorus of agreement ran
through the class.
“Look what his lying has done,” Pe-
joria yelled, surveying the destroyed
room. “He must be stopped!”
“Let’s get him,” Ross yelled, and
then he crouched down, picked up
a slab of glass and threw it, strik-
ing Praydo and knocking him back.
Shane was next to pick up a shard
and hurl it at him. Then Pejoria, in
her stiletto high heels charged Pray-
do and shattered a blade of glass
across his face. Soon, all of the stu-
dents were hurling debris at Praydo,
and it was not long before he had
been smashed and cut to death.
Page 16
 ISSUE 54

CALAMITY’S CHILD — CHAPTER 8

ROP: King in the Corner
When they’d finished, Pejoria by M. Keaton
gathered the students around her
and reassured them that they would
Part One “Red Dog knew fool humans
all soon be validated, and if they
would break own laws someday
were not, they could simply return
to SuccessPrep™ where they would
be offered supplemental seminars “W elcome to Red Dog’s
world.” The Cillian spread
his upper four arms wide, as if to
and hunt Red Dog. Red Dog is pre-
pared. Red Dog has sent supplies
for years.” The sand gave way to
at discount rates.
embrace the wind-blasted desert cracked red clay and rock. He led
As the students began to dis-
and sun-baked sandstone. them into a narrow canyon then up
perse, there was a stirring under
Beside him, Priest looked tiny. The a switchback on the side. “Red Dog
a pile of rubble. Slowly, a hand
man’s red robes whipped frantically likes high ground. Better range.”
pushed its way out from under the
in the wind, and he wore a comically The cave sat just below the peak
wreckage, and after a long while,
wide grass hat donated by Wu Lung. of what might charitably have been
Coral crawled out from under the
“You own this world?” called a mountain. In truth, it was
remains of the Excellence Room.
“All Red Dog sees is Red Dog’s. closer to a mesa that time and
Dazed, and squinting because she’d
All reality is made by Red Dog for wind had filed into a jagged point
lost her glasses, she stumbled about
Red Dog.” The alien watched Wu’s surrounded by similar peaks worn
until she came upon Praydo’s body.
shuttle rise from the desert floor lower. From it, Priest could see a
On his forehead, they’d smeared
in a miniature sandstorm, leaving nightmarish land marked by spires
the word “liar” in blood. Coral spit
them behind. “Fool humans will of rock that leaned and moaned in
on her hand, and rubbed off the epi-
come. Red Dog needs guns.” He set the omnipresent wind; a series of
thet.
off across the sands, waves of legs chasms split the ground below like
“What’re you doing?” Ross called
undulating his two-ton body for- a shattered window pane. Every-
out from behind her, having returned
ward. Priest struggled to keep pace. where, sand blew and sifted into the
to retrieve his Mastery Manual®.
Within minutes, he began to lag be- gaps, piled against any windbreak.
She looked up vacantly at Ross
hind, the heat sapping energy and “Beautiful,” Red Dog said at
and spoke, although not so much to
moisture from his body. his shoulder. “Much better than
him as to herself.
“I can’t keep up, great one,” Priest replacement Earth.” The Cillian
“He wasn’t lying,” she said. “He
panted. “The heat.” pushed a canteen at Priest. “More
was telling the truth.” And the
“Red Dog likes heat. Reminds Red water in cave. Red Dog has buried
World underneath SuccessPrep Uni-
Dog of Cillia home.” He studied the water tank. Keeps tanks under pres-
versity™ quaked.
human before setting off again at sure, prevents evaporation and
a slower pace. “Water at cave with keeps water cool. Priest can drink
guns.” from tap on wall.”
© 2009 by Casey Chan “You have a place here?” Priest drank deeply. The water

Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 - ROP: King in the Corner, by M. Keaton Page 17


tasted stale, metallic, and wonder-
ful. “How long can we hold out?”
“Enough water for Red Dog for
years. For Red Dog and human, may-
be six months. Red Dog planned to
fight here with human.” He hesitat-
ed. “Not Priest, different human.”
“Steponovich?” Priest asked.
Instead of answering, Red Dog
moved into the cave. “Food in crate
on shelves above water tap. Plenty
to eat but do not lose can opener or
Red Dog eats Priest.” The man fol-
lowed, drinking from the canteen.
“See hole in floor?” He waved an
arm at a foot-wide pit in the middle
of the area. The floor of the entire
cave sloped gently toward it. “If
grenade tossed in, kick grenade in
hole.” Red Dog opened a massive
cabinet mounted on the stone of
the cave wall. A bank of monitors
sat on a set of sagging metal shelves
beside it. On the other side of the
cabinet, a heavy blast door was set
into the stone. “What kind of gun
Priest want? Red Dog has good se-
lection.” It was a grotesque under-
statement; to Priest’s eyes, it looked
as if the cabinet contained at least
two of every weapon imaginable.
“Red Dog likes .50 caliber machine
gun, shotgun, and grenade launch-
er. Sometimes rocket launcher for
variety.” The Cillian gestured toward
his eyes. “Red Dog does not like to
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 18
aim.” He slung guns and ammuni-
tion bandoliers around his torso,
finishing with a belt of stick bombs.
Stepping back from the cabinet, he
added, “Do not stand close to Red
Dog during fight.”
As Red Dog waited, Priest flut-
tered his hands, searching for the
right words. “I’m sorry, great one.
The guns. I can’t.”
“Red Dog has pistols too if guns
too heavy.”
“It’s not that. We, the Hamatsa
I mean, we can’t. All destruction is
sacred but destruction is different
from merely bringing death. It’s dif-
ferent for you—you’re an avatar,
but for us—for me—killing would
be a selfish act.” He sputtered to a
halt. “I’m not a warrior,” he finished
lamely.
To his surprise, Red Dog closed
the cabinet. “Worker drone,” Red
Dog pronounced. “Watch monitors,
build bombs, reload guns. Prob-
lem?”
“No,” Priest said in relief. “Not at
all.”
“Good drone.” Red Dog flipped
a series of switches in rapid suc-
cession and the silent monitors
began to glow with life. “Station-
ary cameras on every approach to
cave. Red button below monitor
triggers landmine in front of cam-
era. Only one mine per camera.”
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
The Cillian crossed the cave to the
blast door. “Explosives in here.” He
spun the large spoked wheel in the
door’s center and swung it open.
“Red Dog has two more caves set
up same,” he said, moving out of
sight into the explosives chamber.
“Next cave is maybe sixty miles to-
ward sunrise. Red Dog and Priest
separated, return to cave. If cave is
invaded, move to next cave. If Priest
is captured, tell where next cave is.
Red Dog does not mind. No rescue.”
The Cillian returned carrying a pair
of plastic crates in his upper pair of
arms. He closed the blast door and
set the crates on a rickety table.
“You really think some one will
come after us?” Priest asked.
“Yes. Red Dog expects many.
Maybe army.”
“How long do have?”
Red Dog waved his upper cilia.
“Unknown. Assume enemy comes
now.” He lifted smaller boxes out of
the crates. “Priest takes putty, rolls
into ball, roll ball in steel bearings
until covered.” He demonstrated as
he spoke. “Put cap in ball. Carefully
so not to die. Put ball with cap in
soda can.”
“How long do we stay?” Priest
asked, joining him at the table.
“Until all fool humans dead.” Red
Dog tilted his head to one side, add-
ing, “Or Ivan comes.”
ISSUE 54
#
At first, Kylee could not identify
the noise that awakened her. She
listened without opening her eyes.
A rapid thumping, swift taps like
someone drumming their fingers
on a desk, then a dragging, scuf-
fling sound. The thumps again and
a wet snort. Already smiling, Kylee
opened her eyes, turning her head
slowly toward the sounds.
Less than a foot away, soft brown
eyes met hers. The suni was barely
eight inches tall, its tiny hooves and
horns doll-like, belying the fact that
they were also razor sharp. The an-
telope looked at Kylee from where it
had been butting at her pack with an
expression that, had she not known
better, she would have sworn was
guilt, like a shy child caught playing
with someone else’s toy.
They stared at each other for long
seconds. “Boo,” Kylee whispered
and the suni vanished in a flurry of
hooves and dust, back into the se-
curity of the underbrush, running to
put distance between itself and its
imaginary pursuer. Kylee laughed,
a merry ringing sound that carried
over the veldt.
“Little pests,” Pharaoh said cheer-
fully. “Come over to the fire and
have some breakfast.” They did not
need the fire, not for warmth; but it

kept the larger animals at bay. There
was something necessary and right
about the campfire that guaranteed
its presence every night.
“What I don’t get is, if they’re so
skittish, why do they keep getting
into our stuff?”
“Curiosity, I would guess.” Pha-
raoh poured something thick and
black into a mug from a tin pot at the
edge of the fire. “They are not skit-
tish enough. There are too many of
them and they do not have enough
fear.”
Kylee took the mug, blowing
across the top. “Fear of people?”
“Fear of anything. There are too
many of them and not enough pred-
ators.” He dug a pipe from his shirt
pocket and began packing it with
tobacco. “The veldt has a checker-
board ecology. Selous populated
it from what he could find. Some
things worked. Some things did not.
The jaguarundi replace the leopard,
but nothing replaces the lion.” He
paused, lighting his pipe with the tip
of a twig from the fire. “The veldt is
short on predators and scavengers.”
He sighed. “I should be glad of that.
The herds recover quickly from bad
years and we can trap and hunt
without fear of reducing the herds
too far.”
“But?” Kylee prompted.
“But, it is also something that we
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 19
have to do. In the good years, we
must be the predators. I dislike cull-
ing the herds.” He took a slow draw
from his pipe. “Still, no one has ever
gone hungry on Selous.”
“What about the langer? Aren’t
they predators? That’s a nasty hab-
it,” she added, nodding at his pipe.
“It is indeed. That is why Ma does
not let me do it. As for the langer,
they are the wrong kind of predator.
We brought a few across the river
once to see how it would work.” He
made a pained face. “Getting them
here should have been enough to
convince us it was a bad idea.”
Kylee sipped from her mug,
coughed suddenly in surprise.
“That’s not coffee!”
“It is close enough. We are low
on coffee. I stretched it with some
tea and some—” Pharaoh stopped
himself and grinned at her around
his pipe stem.
“Uh-unh, I’m not going to ask.”
She drank, swallowing loudly. “So
what happened with the langers?”
“They were too slow. The langer is
a specialized predator. They mainly
prey on each other. Big and strong.
Good traits in the jungle—not the
best for the veldt. Two killed each
other, one starved to death, and the
jaguarundi got the last one after it
was too weak to defend itself.” He
slid a cast-iron skillet from the coals
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
and flicked sizzling pieces of meat
from it into a shallow pan. Finishing,
he licked his fingertips and passed
the pan to Kylee. “Breakfast,” he
said. “Maybe it is your little friend’s
brother.”
Kylee refused to rise to the
bait, counter-attacked on a differ-
ent front. “Better than tobacco for
breakfast.”
“This,” Pharaoh replied philo-
sophically, “is for my health.”
“Then let me smoke.”
“No. Nasty habit, I was once
told.”
“Do the boys get to smoke?”
“No. They were raised better. I
am a better father than Nimrod, in
that respect.” Pharaoh grinned. “He
taught Ivan and I all manner of hor-
rible habits. Ask Ivan to show you
how he can spit through his teeth.”
“That’s not that hard.”
“Ten feet, with a mouthful of
food.”
Kylee snorted, succumbing to
full blown laughter. “Where are the
boys, anyway?” she asked, regaining
her breath.
“Maybe dead. This is rough coun-
try,” Pharaoh deadpanned, sending
her laughing again. “John is dressing
out the eland they killed this morn-
ing,” he hesitated, scowling at her,
“while you slept. James took the
truck back to the lodge.”
ISSUE 54
“Shouldn’t someone have gone
with him?” It was not the first trip
they had been forced to make. They
had orders for more animals than
the truck’s cages could hold, and
twice before it had made the long
trip north to unload its cargo and
return. But always before whomev-
er had drawn the short straws had
gone in pairs, both to provide an ex-
tra driver and for safety.
“A second driver is meeting him.”
Kylee widened her eyes. “Mar-
tha’s coming down?”
“No,” Pharaoh said, enjoying her
confusion. “Not Martha.”
Her brow furrowed in thought
then she leapt to her feet, coffee
spilling down the sides of the mug.
“Ivan’s here?” she shouted excit-
edly. “He’s finally here?”
“Once Ivan is here, nothing will
get done,” Pharaoh continued. “We
will have to work extra hard for the
next two days. You should finish
eating.” When she remained stand-
ing, staring distantly to the north,
he added, “Watching will not make
them drive faster.”
#
Priest slung another saddlebag of
explosives across Red Dog’s back.
“I’ve been wondering, how do we
get off this world if Ivan doesn’t

come?”
“Ivan will come.”
“You don’t have an escape plan?”
Red Dog clapped his mandibles in
agitation. “Farther south is mining
company. Mostly machines but few
humans watching work. Transport
brings supplies every maybe three
or four weeks. If Priest scared, Priest
can walk to mines and ask nicely for
ride.”
“I’m curious,” Priest snapped.
“Not scared. I’m in this fight, just like
you. It just seemed odd to me that
you didn’t have some way to get off
the planet if you were stranded.”
“Red Dog appreciates Priest’s
confidence in Red Dog.” A shudder
rippled up and down the Cillian’s
body, settling the bags. “Red Dog re-
turns soon.”
Priest watched him head down
the mountainside, then returned to
the cave and the assembly of shaped
explosive charges and braiding fuse
wire. An unexpected side-effect of
his vocation and religious training
as a member of the Hamatsa was
a marked proficiency in demolition
and explosives, enough so that Red
Dog had almost ceased to refer to
Priest as a fool human. Instead, he
found himself promoted to useful
drone.
“We’re out of soda cans,” he said
as Red Dog entered, dropping the
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 20
now-empty bags into a heap.
“Many cans die nobly in service of
Red Dog,” the alien joked. At least,
Priest thought he was joking. He
was beginning to get a read on the
alien’s tones and body language.
“Among the Kwakiutl, we believe
that when we destroy something as
an offering to Kakwas, he will return
it to us in the afterlife. You’re going
to have a lot of scrap metal.”
“Red Dog does not believe in af-
terlife.”
Priest shook his head, finishing
the charge he was working on with-
out looking up. “Grim way to live.
Nothing to hope for, no future re-
ward.”
“Red Dog does not believe in fu-
ture. Red Dog does not believe in
past. Red Dog only believes in now.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Priest
said, twisting on his work stool to
face Red Dog. “You set up this place
to use in the future. You’re planning
on Ivan coming to rescue you. It
sounds like you believe in the future
to me.”
“Did Red Dog set cave or does
cave exist now because Red Dog
wills it to be so? Maybe here is only
memory of present when Ivan res-
cues Red Dog. All Red Dog knows is
what Red Dog knows.”
Priest shook his head again. “If
this cave exists because you will it to
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
be so then why don’t you just will
us to safety? For that matter, why
are we even in this mess to begin
with?”
“Fool humans do not understand.
Cillians are smarter, understand uni-
verse better. Red Dog will explain.”
The alien gnawed absentmindedly
on the edge of a can as he thought.
“Red Dog has Red Dog conscious
mind but Red Dog also has alter-con-
scious mind. Alter-conscious makes
challenges for conscious so Red
Dog is not bored. Job of conscious
Red Dog is to do now. Job of alter-
conscious Red Dog is to oppose con-
scious Red Dog. Together, Red Dog’s
reality made stronger, and Red Dog
is made stronger in Red Dog’s real-
ity. Is simple.”
Priest snorted. “I suppose all oth-
er Cillians are also products of your
imagination?”
“Now Priest wants Red Dog to
explain nidus and vespiary. Red Dog
refuses.”
“Why? I’m just a figment of your
imagination.”
Red Dog rattled in agitation. “Not
figment, projection of Red Dog’s
reality. Priest is real. Red Dog per-
ceives Priest.”
“And since you perceive me, that
makes me real?” Priest was sudden-
ly struck by the irony of being on the
questioning end of a philosophical
ISSUE 54
discussion.
“Yes.”
“And therefore part of your reality
and under your control, or at least
the control of one of your minds?”
“Yes. Finally Priest begins under-
standing.”
“What about the Blank and the
war?” Priest asked skeptically. “An-
other challenge from your second
mind?”
“Alter-conscious,” Red Dog cor-
rected. “Past only has meaning re-
lated to now. Think. Cillians fought
for—” He made a sputter of hisses
and clicks that did not translate.
“—in war with fool humans. Hu-
mans win war. Cillians put under
quarantine. Cillians not under quar-
antine die. Except Red Dog.” The
alien tilted his head and cracked his
mandibles together. “Now Red Dog
most powerful Cillian in universe.
Red Dog’s alter-conscious very
smart. Red Dog’s reality very pow-
erful.”
Priest rubbed his forehead. “So,
when you say you don’t believe in
them, is it that the past and future
aren’t real or that you don’t—”
An alarm squealed from the
shelves holding the monitors.
“Ship,” Red Dog rumbled, grabbing
weapons in a flurry of arms and
heading outside. “Bring detonator.”
Priest scooped up the transmitter

and a pair of binoculars as he left
the cave.
The ledge leading did not give
an unobstructed view of the des-
ert beyond; too many other spires
of crumbling rock interposed. But
the shuttle decelerating from orbit
was obvious. The fiery glow of its
heat shields as it entered the at-
mosphere punctuated by the blue-
white glare of its deceleration jets
stabbing downward filled the sky,
dwarfing even the hot blaze of the
sun. As it descended, ionized gas
formed around it in dark clouds
and discharges of lightning danced
between the clouds and the ship’s
hull.
“Not Ivan,” Red Dog said. “Friendly
ship would comm first. Follow ledge
down to overlook, watch landing.
If ship tries to leave, detonate sets
one and two.”
“What about you?”
“Red Dog must get closer, move
fast.” The Cillian disappeared over
the ledge, running down the near-
vertical slope faster than he could
fall. Priest tuned the transmitter to
the first set of detonation codes and
jogged along the ledge as it twisted
lower through the wastes until he
reached the flat shelf that over-
looked the desert. Even here, over
a mile away from the landing, the
shuttle seemed enormous. It settled
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 21
onto the sands, kicking up a der-
vish of dust devils, static electricity
crackling across its hull.
Priest covered the last few feet
to the edge of the overlook on his
stomach. Lifting the binoculars, he
waited as the miniature sandstorm
died away and the ship cooled,
blasts of liquid nitrogen spraying at
intervals beneath it to hasten the
process. He had not considered be-
fore what a calculated ambush the
landing area really was. On a planet
strewn with rubble, every stone had
been removed from the area, leav-
ing the closest thing to a flat, clear
strip for miles around. Theoretically,
a shuttle could land anywhere on
the planet but, given the conditions,
the cleared area was a pilot’s dream.
Priest smiled; for someone who did
not believe in the future, Red Dog
had planned his stand on this world
to an almost obsessive level.
The shuttle opened on both sides
simultaneously while a ramp low-
ered from its rear compartment as
well. Men ran from the sides, seek-
ing cover and firing positions with
the tense urgency of professionals,
prepared for the possibility of land-
ing under enemy fire. Priest was
still trying to get an accurate count
when a pair of vehicles rumbled
down the rear ramp. He refocused
the binoculars and looked closer.
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
They looked to be modified bug-
gies, four-wheeled shells of tube
steel, driver and motor protected
only by metal sheets welded to the
sides and front of the frame. Behind
the driver, a platform held a pintle-
mounted machine gun. A harness of
webbing fluttered in the wind, wait-
ing to secure a future gunner.
The men held their perimeter as
the buggies were offloaded and still
more men emerged, stacking crates
of supplies onto the sand away from
the shuttle. Some of the workers
returned to the ship while others
loitered by the crates. Priest gave
up trying to get an exact count, es-
timating their numbers at around
forty. He waited, wondering where
Red Dog was, wishing something
would happen so he could move.
The blistering rock beneath him and
the sun baking down were combin-
ing to leech the last drops of mois-
ture from his body.
The shuttle test-fired its lift en-
gines, blowing up a new cloud of
sand. The men moved farther away,
some sheltering behind the stacks
of crates. The shuttle came to rest
again then, moments later, ignited
its lifters in earnest, rising slowly up
from the desert. Priest keyed the
transmitter.
With a sound like the harrumph-
ing bark of a gigantic dog, the sur-
ISSUE 54
face of the cleared landing area
erupted upward in a surge of sand,
obscuring everything as the explo-
sives buried beneath detonated.
Men shouted in the confusion,
some screamed. There was a crunch
of metal on metal; a series of flash-
es bloomed inside the dust cloud
to the beat of their own drumming
blasts. With a squeal of sheering
steel, the shuttle lurched above the
churning sand, slewing drunkenly to
the side before stabilizing. The fire
of its lift jets cut like massive blow-
torches across the desert and men
below, no longer a pure blue-white
light but a bloody ruby instead.
Fighting, it rose higher.
There was a mushroom of flame
and black smoke as the fuel tank
of one of the buggies erupted, the
ammunition of its machine gun
popping in the heat like a string of
firecrackers. Gunfire snapped inef-
fectively in the bedlam, men shoot-
ing blindly at an enemy they could
not see. Another gout of flame rose
above the curling mist of sand and
fire, spreading great black wings
of smoke like a raven taking flight.
Priest grinned and gave thanks to
be alive to witness such glorious
beauty.
Almost invisible in the chaos,
a streak of white lanced from a
nearby shelf of rock and exploded

against the side of the shuttle’s hull.
The ship shuddered and a second
rocket followed the first by seconds.
This one found the intake of a lift jet,
a shower of liquid flame spewing
from the newly formed rupture in
the hull. The shuttle dipped, twist-
ing. Skimming the sand, it seemed
to recover, beginning to describe a
slow helix across the sky as it fought
for altitude with its remaining en-
gines.
A final contrail bisected the arc
with deadly accuracy. The shuttle’s
jets shrieked, clawing themselves
apart as the power they were meant
to channel instead ran wild within,
spraying gleaming fragments of
metal from the ship in their death
throes. The shuttle sliced into the
sand at lightning speed, crumpling
as it hit like one of Red Dog’s soda
cans. The entire desert seemed
to quake with the impact. White
hot sand whipped into the air like
swarms of angry hornets amid re-
newed shouts and screams as the
men on the ground begged the
mountains for shelter.
To Priest’s amazement, he heard
the motor of the second buggy roar
to life. In the excitement, he had
almost forgotten the transmitter
waiting patiently at his elbows as
he gripped the binoculars with both
hands. Quickly, he dialed in the sec-
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 22
ond frequency and keyed the deto-
nator. A new round of explosives
gave voice to Red Dog’s dislike of
visitors, these anti-personnel mines
set outside the earlier ones, almost
at the foot of the mountains. The
landing fell silent save for the cries
of wounded men and the devilish
crackling of fire.
“Red Dog is out of SAMs,” buzzed
a voice behind him. Priest lowered
the binoculars, twisting to look at
the alien. Red Dog carried a rocket
launcher on either side of his shoul-
ders like giant extensions of his own
mandibles. Priest crawled backward
to avoid being silhouetted on the
ridge then fought to his feet.
“Sams?”
“Surface to Air Missiles.”
“Will we need more?”
“No. Shuttle must come from
ship in orbit but orbiting ship only
has one shuttle, maybe. If ship has
another shuttle, humans will not
land again unless at mines.” Thun-
der rolled in the depression below
as the fires ignited a fresh explo-
sion. “Land war now. Red Dog has
achieved air superiority.”
“There are still some alive, down
there,” Priest noted.
“Even Red Dog will not go into
inferno now.” He swung the chitin
wedge of his head side to side. “Lat-
er, Red Dog will kill survivors. If more
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
ISSUE 54
come, Red Dog kills more until none sive aggression, and a dozen other
left.” Red Dog unfolded an arm, pat- odd tasks mounted to fill the day—
ted Priest on his scalp. “Priest did all of which involved considerable
well. Good drone.” amounts of lifting, twisting, and
The human tried not to shudder heaving of sluggish animals while
as the cilia fringing the arm caressed tensely watching for signs of re-
him with a mind of its own. newed awakening that would sig-
nal a dangerous panicked struggle.
# Kylee’s arms felt like lead and her
eyes stung with sweat.
Kylee dragged into her tent and
She reached for the coiled spring
sank to the ground. She leaned to
she had placed at the edge of her
pull her bag of tools closer, ignoring
oilcloth. Not finding it, she turned,
the twinges of pain sparking in her
expecting to find one of the twins
back and shoulders. All she really
holding it with a grin, teasing her
wanted was a shower—little more
for being slow. Instead, something
than a bag of water and a hose
resembling a cross between a wea-
hung from a tree limb, warmed to
sel and a red fox sat reared on its
whatever lukewarm temperature
hind legs, holding the spring in its
the sun had deigned to give it over
forepaws as it nibbled the metal
the course of the day, but a won-
experimentally. Pharaoh was right;
derful luxury nonetheless. Before
they needed more predators. “Stop
she could, the gun came first. The
or I’ll shoot,” she said, glaring at it.
gun always came first. Pharaoh had
“Pest. This keeps up, I’m going to
taught her creature comforts could
get a dog.”
wait but there were times when the
It responded by dropping to all
need for the gun could not. More
fours and running a few feet away,
by muscle memory than conscious
spring held in its teeth, before re-
thought, she began to strip and
suming its inspection. Deciding it
clean her rifle.
could not eat the ends, it nipped
Even with the captures finished,
experimentally at the center. It
there remained work to do in the
twitched its nose in displeasure and
veldt—animals to be tranquilized,
scolded Kylee with a series of bark-
checked for signs of disease, and
ing chirps. She replied with an exac-
tagged. Others needed relocation
erbated hiss. It blinked, the lighter
because of overcrowding or exces-
fur around its eyes and snout mak-

ing it look even more wide-eyed
than it already was, and dropped
the spring, trotting toward edge of
camp. Once there, it paused, turned
and stood again to scold her a final
time before disappearing into the
grass.
“And now you know who’s been
digging all those holes you bounce
the jeep off of,” said a familiar voice
behind her. “Yellow mongoose or
red meerkat, I can never remem-
ber.”
“Ivan!” she screamed, bounding
to her feet. Kylee threw herself into
his arms, staggering him with the
impact. He returned her embrace
with equal ferocity.
“Damn I’ve missed you, kid,” he
said, squeezing her with desperate
intensity.
“Watch your language,” she told
his chest, fighting back tears and
laughing at the same time.
“I forgot.” He kissed her on top
of her head. “You’re at least a foot
taller. Stronger too.”
“Because Pharaoh works me like
a mule.” She pulled back and he let
her go. “You’re grayer,” she teased.
“Brat.” He grinned back at her. “Go
clean up. I’ll finish cleaning your gun
then we’ll go find old stone face.”
She hesitated, then shook her
head. “My gun, my responsibility.
You go ahead.”
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 23
“Nah,” Ivan lowered himself to the
ground. “I’ll keep you company.”
“So tell,” she demanded. “You
went looking for the Hecate. Then
what? And not the abbreviated ver-
sion you’ve already told me, I want
the whole story.”
“I’ll just have to go through it all
again for Pharaoh. Might as well tell
everyone at the same time.”
“Nope. I’m special,” Kylee insist-
ed. “Spill it.”
He did, glossing over the full hor-
ror of the Eaters. When he tried to
do the same with the events of the
Salle des Armes, she stopped him,
barraging him with so many ques-
tions that he relented and gave her
a full accounting of the events.
“Did you tell Rose about the snip-
er?” she asked when he finished.
“No. I reckon she’s figured it out
on her own, and I don’t want to
bring it up until she’s ready. If she
wants to talk about it, she’ll ask.”
“And you figure Fagan hired
him?”
“Makes sense. Nobody else knew
about her contract, and he’d already
bet a fortune. If you’d met him—he’s
not the kind of guy that would’ve
taken chances with his own skin. I
think he believed Rose would back
down but, just in case, he had his
man in place to drop her if she went
for his gun.”
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
“Hmmm.” Kylee checked the bolt.
Satisfied, she rolled her tools into
the oilcloth. “Fagan would’ve been
drawing too. I’m assuming the idea
was that everyone would figure he
just beat her on the draw.”
“That’s my guess. The angles
wouldn’t have matched up, but
most of the spectators wouldn’t
have known the difference or cared,
and the organizers of the tourna-
ment would have been quick to go
along with a cover-up.”
Kylee stood, nodding. “You talk to
Red Dog?”
Ivan rose, slapping dust from his
legs. “Not yet. House has him out on
another errand.”
“You are going to apologize, aren’t
you?”
Ivan shrugged. “That’s not how
Red and I work. Don’t worry about
it. We’re fine.”
“Men,” Kylee snorted in disgust.
“I’m going to go rinse off. Don’t van-
ish, okay?”
He smiled. “I promise, I’m not
going anywhere without you again.
Not unless you want me to.” He
walked toward the middle of camp,
waving to John as he passed. John
jerked a thumb toward the trucks
and Ivan nodded.
Pharaoh and James were crawl-
ing under the trailer holding the he-
licopter.
ISSUE 54
“Hey, Tumbo,” Ivan said, crouch-
ing down, one hand on a trailer tire.
“Need help?”
“Yes,” Pharaoh called. “You see
anyone useful around?”
“Kylee’s busy. That leaves John
and me so, I’m going to have to say
no.”
“Just a minute.” Pharaoh said
something to James that Ivan could
not make out. There was a pounding
on the underside of the trailer and
an inarticulate growl from James as
he strained. Chains fell loose with a
clatter, and father and son crawled
from opposite sides of the trailer.
“Chain was stuck,” Pharaoh gasped
as Ivan pulled him to his feet.
“Told you I got him here in one
piece,” James panted.
“Had to talk to the kid first,” Ivan
said, pulling Pharaoh toward him,
clapping him on the back with a puff
of dust. “Good to see you.”
“And you, little brother.” He
hugged Ivan close with one arm
around his shoulders. “You should
have come sooner.”
“Work to do.”
“For making me wait, I forgive
you. For all the trouble the girl put
me through because you made her
wait, this I still have to think on.” He
chuckled, shaking his head. “She
killed a langer—alone. Because she
was mad at you.”

“It was awesome!” James added,
coiling the chain which had held the
chopper fastened.
Ivan frowned. “What do you
mean, alone?”
“Alone. No backup, no overshot,
no ‘Oh by the way Pharaoh I am off
to shoot the langer.’ Alone! Your
child is stubborn.” Pharaoh leaned
forward until he was nose-to-nose
with Ivan, widened his eyes comical-
ly. “She makes me old!” Both men
dissolved into laughter.
Ivan caught his breath and sighed.
“It is good to be home.”
“You will stay then?”
“No, not long.” Ivan turned, star-
ing out at the waving grass. “The
storm is coming. Casey’s up to
something. House and I have found
bits and pieces but no answers. I still
can’t walk away, not yet. I’ve wasted
too much time already.” Pharaoh
gripped his shoulder but said noth-
ing. The crash of chain hitting the
bed of the trailer echoes like thun-
der across the veldt.
“If you guys’ll move,” James said,
“I’ll see if I can get this bird start-
ed and off onto solid ground.” He
swung into the doorless cockpit as
they backed away. “Hey, Pop, did
he tell you he brought a girl along?”
James shouted, starting the engine.
The rotors began to turn in lazily,
gaining speed.
ROP: King in the Corner,
by M. Keaton Page 24
“I’m guessing he does not mean
Kylee?” Pharaoh yelled over the
noise.
Ivan ducked his head against the
wind. “Rose came with me. It’s been
a rough time for her.” The chopper
lifted gradually off the trailer and
James guided it away from them. “I
left her at the lodge with Martha.”
“You are collecting strays,” Pha-
raoh warned. “Come. John took an
eland yesterday. We will eat well to-
night.”
“Has Kylee seen them yet?”
Pharaoh sobered. “She has not
seen...that portion of the veldt. I
have kept her busy here, close to
the camp. The other, I have left for
you.”
“Tomorrow then,” Ivan said tight-
ly. They stood in silence, watching as
James landed the ‘copter.
They stayed awake well into the
night, two old lions telling tales of
their youth around the campfire
as the next generation listened. Of
why there were no hyenas on Sel-
ous and how Nimrod and Old Pete
once accidentally tried to shoot
each other and missed. Of the time
Ivan and Pharaoh went off-world
to hunt cape buffalo and barely es-
caped with their lives, and the time
they thought to ride a kudu. James
intruded to tell Ivan of how Kylee
killed the langer, and Pharaoh re-
Calamity's Child, Chapter 8 -
taliated with a carefully redacted
but thoroughly humorous account
of how he and Ivan had ‘liberated’
Martha from the corporate mines.
They went to bed late, woke even
later, wistful but satisfied, reassured
in the continuity of family.
# has-beens like me weren’t worth
The place was a dive. Its kith and
kin lived on almost every world and
station on the Frontier; a bar on
one wall, stairs up to a brothel on
the other. Tables and chairs littered
the center, ordered only near the
wall where the usuals gambled, one
table for faro, one for poker. The
lighting was comfortably dim and
cigarette smoke blurred the harsh
edges. Sometimes it seemed that
Kingfisher had spent half his life in
the same room.
“I said, the Senator is willing to
pay your fee.” The man who stood
whining beside the table was turn-
ing a distinct shade of green from
the smoke. Kingfisher ignored him.
“You playing?” the dealer asked.
The whiner shook his head. “Then
shut up. Five draw, nothing fancy.”
Kingfisher lifted the edges of his
cards with a thumb. “Seems to me,
last time we talked, your Senator
only wanted the best.” He flicked a
chip toward the center of the table.
ISSUE 54
“Raise.”
“That’s why he’s willing to pay
your fee.”
Kingfisher let him stew. “Call.
Take two.” He waited as the dealer
skipped cards across the table. “In-
teresting,” he muttered, glancing at
the cards. “I thought washed-up old
that kind of money. Maybe that was
a different fellow said that. Raise
again.”
“As I have said, the Senator is will-
ing to pay.”
“Washed-up will cost you double.
Has-been’ll put you at triple.” King-
fisher stroked the edge of his cards
with his thumb, listening to the rif-
fle. Two other players folded. “Old
I’ll give you for free.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Kingfisher sighed. “Hold on a sec.
Wal, you ain’t got nothing in that
hand. Hurry up and fold. Re-raise.”
Walrus folded and pushed the chips
toward Kingfisher.
Kingfisher raised his left hand,
placing it absent-mindedly on the
whiner’s shirt. “Now then,” he
balled his hand into a fistful of shirt
and yanked. The whiner pitched
forward to his knees, his face meet-
ing the table with a meaty slap.
“Listen good, puppy. I’m old, not
stupid. First off, ain’t a man-jack on
the Frontier what don’t know your

Senator is just a lapdog for Edgar
Casey. Second, you’re back here lap-
ping at my feet because your ‘best’
couldn’t do the job. So if you really
want the best, you’re going to show
some respect and you’re going to
pay for it. Triple what I asked for last
time.” Kingfisher bounced him off
the table again. “Understand?”
“Yeth, thir.” Condescending dis-
taste was replaced by fear thickened
by pain.
“Fine.” Kingfisher pushed him
backward, away from the table.
“Give the details to Rounder, at the
bar. Let the limey make himself use-
ful.” The whiner either left or died;
either way he did not bother King-
fisher during the next two hands.
Chair legs scraped across the floor
and a new player joined the game.
“Deal me in.” Rounder waited as the
cards were dealt. “You squeezed ‘im
for a few quid.” When Kingfisher did
not answer, he added, “We got the
job.”
“Didn’t really want it.”
“Want me to call up some o’ the
boys?”
“Just the usual.” He thumbed his
cards, letting the edges snap against
the table. “Smith, Winchester, Colt,
maybe a couple of Dutchmen.”
“You’re a funny one, King.” Round-
er tossed a pair of Kingfisher’s chips
into the pot. “Call. I’ll owe you.”
“I’ll collect.”
Rounder looked from his cards
to Kingfisher’s face, saying, “They
put down thirty-six men, mostly ex-
special ops mercenary types. They
figure half survived the landing. The
bug ambushed ‘em.”
Kingfisher snapped a bitter laugh.
“Of course he did. Any decent hand
would’ve.”
“Them that survive’ll work for us
when we get to ‘em.”
“Walking trap detectors, about all
they’ll be good for.”
Rounder studied his cards
thoughtfully, folded. “Stet’s with
‘em.”
“Raise.” Kingfisher raised a hand
to his mustache, twisting it between
his fingers. “That’s the cyborg?”
“The enhanced bloke, yeah.”
“Interesting.”
Rounder snorted. “That’s all? ‘In-
teresting’?” When no answer was
forthcoming, he left.
Which suited Kingfisher just fine.
There was still money on the table.
© 2009 by M. Keaton
C.MOIRA’S CHOICE
by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
“T his is the EDF Zenith to long-
range shuttle. Power down
your engines. This is not a request.
Power down or I will open fi—”
A rainbow exploded outside the
Zenith. Marshal C.Moira cursed and
covered her eyes too late. She would
be seeing stars for days. She shook
back her striped grey and black hair,
the only mark of the homunculus’s
feline heritage. She placed filtered
goggles down over her eyes and ac-
tivated her own slip-drive.
Okay, sisanba, now it’s personal.
Sub-colors swirled past her, cor-
uscating galaxies joining the stars
on her retinas. She could feel the
controls of the Zenith vibrate in her
hands, feel the nausea build in the
pit of her stomach as slip-space bat-
tled to push C.Moira and her ship
back into normal space.
Slip-sickness, some of the old
timers still called it. The nausea and
hallucinations caused by the impres-
sion of non-Euclidean slip-space on
the brain. Most pilots these days
chose to plot their courses into the
navicomp and take the tranqs with
any passengers. Not her. She liked
being sharp, especially when hunt-
ing down fugitives. She had trained
herself to detect minor changes in
the flux of slip-space, prided her-
C.Moira's Choice, by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
ISSUE 54
self on being able to track down the
craftiest of pilots.
And she had never been both-
ered by the hallucinations. Besides
the swirls of colors her eyes could
not quite process, she saw nothing.
Then again, she had been bred to be
a space pilot. Feline genes shaped
into the form of a woman, hunting
instincts transferred to her profes-
sion as Marshal. C.Moira was good
at her job; her biology demanded
it.
The pilot of the shuttle flew er-
ratically, like a novice. Flew by hand,
not by navicomp, though that would
have been an advantage if C.Moira
hadn’t been flying by hand as well.
Standard chase algorithms assumed
navicomp efficiency subroutines on
the part of a fleeing ship. An inex-
perienced pilot making a number of
short slips could easily zigzag away
while the navicomp overshot. Made
it more likely to overload the ship’s
slip-drive or get drawn into the grav-
ity well of a star. But you avoided
capture.
C.Moira had known criminals
that preferred death by explo-
sion or stellar heat to capture. She
hadn’t expected this to be one of
them. “Theft of genetic material,”
the warrant read. Re-education was
Page 25

generally the standard punishment.
So why was this criminal running as
if her life depended on it?
A female, she knew from the
warrant. To be brought back alive,
if possible. C.Moira had a reputa-
tion for always following the letter
of the warrant. She had been bred
with a strong sense of justice. It
wasn’t easy at times, but that was
what the regen chamber in the back
of the Zenith was for. Plus the Jus-
tice Ministry didn’t like scarred Mar-
shals, physically or mentally. Bad for
recruitment. Best just for everything
to be repaired from the cellular level
up. Shame that it wiped short-term
memory, but one couldn’t have ev-
erything.
There. C.Moira could feel the
small change in the eddies around
her. Another object had passed this
way in slip-space. She took her hand
off the controls for a fraction of a
second. The Zenith began to roll and
yaw to the right. An inexperienced
pilot was more susceptible to gravity
currents. And she had been running
her engines hard. Unless she want-
ed to blow herself up, the fugitive
would have to shift back to normal
space soon. Likely in orbit around
the star causing these currents.
C.Moira would beat her to it.
She could feel the adrenaline in her
system fighting with the slip-space
nausea. The thrill of the hunt. That
was the only complaint her superi-
ors ever had against her. She toyed
with her prey.
Three. Two. A collapsing rainbow
and the Zenith was back in normal
space. A reflexive check of the scan-
ners. Old mainline star. One of the
gas giants had a habitable moon.
Barely habitable. She needed to
know where her mouse might bolt.
A soundless explosion and the
shuttle was there. Before C.Moira
could even open her comm chan-
nel, it had spotted her, started mak-
ing evasive maneuvers. The Zenith’s
third laser shot transfixed the en-
gine. A nice clean shot. The warrant
hadn’t specified return of the shut-
tle, but a quick repair job would get
it back to Ecumene Prime and net
her a nice bonus.
As expected, the shuttle broke off
for the habitable moon. C.Moira fol-
lowed leisurely. She could feel her
canines against her bottom lip as
she smiled. She took a few calming
breaths. Took the Zenith into the at-
mosphere.
The shuttle had settled to rest on
rocky terrain. The fact that it was
more of a landing than a crash was
a credit to the amateur pilot’s in-
telligence. The marshal landed the
Zenith on the nearest smooth patch
of rock, perhaps half a kay from the
shuttle. A little walk would help her
come down from her adrenaline
high and make sure she kept to the
ideal terms of the warrant.
A check of the atmosphere. Well
within her personal tolerances. She
fitted a breather into her nostrils
anyway, to filter out possible patho-
gens. A quick check of the charge on
her laser pistol. Full. She replaced
it in its hip holster and stepped
through the airlock.
A cold wind pushed against
C.Moira’s uniform. The only atmo-
sphere the moon had. Her striped
hair streamed behind her as she
picked her way carefully over the
rocks. She was thoroughly chilled by
the time she reached the downed
shuttle. But she had known for a
long time that a marshal’s life was
nowhere near like what they showed
on the 3V programs.
Her datawand made short work
of the outer door; only a Lord of the
Ecumene could keep a duly appoint-
ed marshal locked out. She paused
inside the airlock to warm up for a
moment and then pressed the inter-
com button.
“This is EDF Marshal C.Moira.
You are under arrest for the theft of
genetic material which is the intel-
lectual property of Lord Sayid 314
of Ecumene Prime. Surrender, and I
promise not to harm you.”
C.Moira's Choice, by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
ISSUE 54
The inner door to the airlock
slid open with a hiss, and Marshal
C.Moira realized two things about
the woman standing before her. The
graceful figure, the orange hair, the
glowing green eyes with their verti-
cal slit pupils. This was not a homo
sapiens before him, but a C-series
homunculus, like herself.
And the second thing was that
the woman was very pregnant.
“A most interesting charge, don’t
you think, sister? Seeing the ‘genetic
material’ is as much mine as his.”
Her voice was a sultry purr. She
wore the blue costume of a girlygirl;
cut and gusseted in such a way to re-
veal nothing but suggest everything.
Her pregnancy had only enhanced
the woman’s beauty. Non-woman.
Cat in the shape of a woman.
“How...”
She trailed off at the musical
laugh. “Certainly Marshal C.Moira
of the EDF, the great hunter who
always catches her prey, knows the
hows of biology.”
Beneath the laughter, the sweet
stink of fear. The other homunculus
did not know what C.Moira was go-
ing to do.
That makes two of us, she
thought.
The marshal’s mind raced. There
were rumors of Sayid 314’s...pro-
clivities, even in the lesser circles
Page 26

of power C.Moira traveled in. It was
not a crime, not exactly. More like
a lapse in good taste. Though she
herself had had as many human as
homunculus lovers.
She forced all this from her mind.
“All the homunculus series. We’re
sterile.”
The silver laugh again, poisoned
with bitterness. “Amazing what the
luxury of distilled water and hot-
house-grown food reveals about
the nutritive value of mealpacks,
isn’t it?”
An ache in the pit of C.Moira’s
stomach, an emptiness, a need she
had never knew existed before.
She felt her legs grow weak, fought
to keep her knees from locking in
place. The other’s smile gentled.
She rested a hand on the marshal’s
arm.
“What a poor hostess I am. Come.
I’ll make tea...”
And as C.Adeen made tea—for
that was the girlygirl’s name—she
told C.Moira her story. How she had
worked the spaceports like many in
her trade. How she had caught the
eye of Lord Sayid 314. How she had
become his personal courtesan, and
then fallen in love with him. How
after two years of life together, she
had seen him with another girlygirl,
and realized in an instant both that
she loved him, and that he would
never love her in turn.
C.Adeen told of the terrible lone-
liness that opened up deep inside
her. And then how, into that empti-
ness, light and life and hope came.
She could not stay with a man who
did not love her. She would not let
him or anyone take her child from
her.
“So for the first time in my life I
stole. I bet everything on a single
chance. And lost. I should have
known they would send you after
me.”
The girlygirl smiled at C.Moira.
The marshal knew that they trained
girlygirls to use words and tone of
voice and body language to entice,
to persuade. C.Adeen was good. She
was very good at her job. She had to
have been to attract someone like
Lord Sayid 314.
“Where were you planning on
running? Anywhere in the Ecumene,
one of us would have found you.”
C.Adeen rested her hands on her
abdomen. Smiled down at the life
within her. “There are places other
than the Ecumene. I’ve even heard it
said the Covenant treats homunculi
as equals. At least my child would
have had a chance.”
C.Moira let out a slow breath.
“Enough talk. The Covenant is a
handful of backwater worlds fight-
ing for daily survival. You wouldn’t
make it there. Let me take you
home.”
The girlygirl looked up and into
the marshal’s eyes. “I would rather
die. Tell me, C.Moira, can you shoot
a pregnant woman simply because
she wants her child to be free?”
C.Moira felt her fingers twitch
over her pistol’s holster. No. There
was the law, and there was what
was right. She sighed, sank back
against her seat.
The other woman rested her
hands on the marshal’s shoulders.
“So. What do we do now? You can
come with us, you know.”
C.Moira shook her head. “If I
don’t return, they’ll only send an-
other marshal after you. First we’ll
repair your shuttle...”
She trailed off and looked at
C.Adeen’s manicured hands. Green
eyes sparkled. “Don’t worry. We are
more talented than many people
believe. I’ve trained in many arts:
music, painting, sculpture. I’m quite
good with my hands.”
“Good.” C.Moira unholstered her
weapon and handed it to C.Adeen.
“Then listen carefully and do exactly
as I say...”
# for. But it also made her happy. Very
Lord Sayid 314’s handsome face
was red. His long limbs were shak-
ing in rage. It took every ounce of
control to keep from throttling the
Justice Minister. “I want to be abso-
lutely certain that the thief is dead if
not captured. Use the mind probe.”
The Minister smiled as one might
C.Moira's Choice, by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
ISSUE 54
at a spoiled, slow-witted child. “It
would make no difference. The re-
gen cycle has wiped her memories
cleaned. But this is C.Moira we’re
talking about. Her ship’s record
show that she fired on the stolen
shuttle and brought it down. There
was a struggle. The thief was killed,
the marshal badly injured. She just
barely made it to the regen cham-
ber in time.”
Sayid 314 pounded on the wall.
“Not enough.”
“My lord, it will be as much as you
will get. Now, the marshal needs her
rest. A few educational tapes and
she will be protecting the Ecumene
again.”
C.Moira heard the conversation
with sleepy ears. She had been cold
before, now she was warm. It was
good. Everything was good. She
should sleep. Sleep was good.
Before she fell asleep, she looked
again at the netsuke in her hand. A
delicate jade carving of a cat nursing
a kitten. It filled her with an emo-
tion that she did not have a name
happy. Marshal C.Moira of the EDF
fell asleep with a smile on her face.
© 2009 by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
Page 27
 ISSUE 54

ARTIST INTERVIEW:
Christian Nauck

Name: Christian Nauck Where should someone go if they How did you become an artist? I Have you had any notable failures,
wanted to view / buy some of your started drawing, stayed with it, and and how has failure affected your
Age: 31

 works? I have a homepage: eventually made a job of it. 

 work? Of course. There is so much
www.nauckundschuetze.de, and to learn and to know, it’s hard to
Country of residence: Germany you can take a look at my works What were your early influences? get it all right. It really differs on
in my more frequently updated Definitely comics. I loved comics my what I want to achieve, what style I
Hobbies: drawing, games, comics... DeviantART gallery http:// whole life, and ten years ago, they work in and so on.


manarama.deviantart.com/ or my were almost the only influences
Favorite Book / Author: I know, it’s blog http://sketchfu.blogspot.com/

 I had. Luckily that changed What do you hope to accomplish
not a book but a manga, but I have over time. Comics are still a big with your art? My main goal is
to go with One Piece. It’s just a big, inspiration for me, though, but only simply to become a better artist
fun, adventure ride!

 one of many others.

 while still having fun with my work.

Favorite Artist: Oh, too many to What are your current influences?
name one in particular. I’m inspired All the art I can find—on the
by artists from a lot of different internet, in movies, books, and
areas and periods.

 of different styles and fields such
as concept art, character design,
When did you start creating art? animation, comics... 


I guess it’s the answer everyone
gives—as a kid I loved drawing What inspired the art for the
already. But working professionally cover? I wanted to express the
and really working on improving my feeling of the start of a great
skills, I started around twenty-two, adventure. I guess I was inspired by
I guess.
 concept art and the sunny feeling
some of the anime have.


What media do you work in? I
did a lot of my comic works “old How would you describe your
school”—pencil on paper. But I work? I don’t know—though I
mostly work digital now. Preferably work in Photoshop, my working
with Photoshop.
 techniques and results change very
often. I like to use different styles.


Artwork © 2009 by Christian Nauck

ARTIST INTERVIEW: Christian Nauck Page 28

 ISSUE 54

TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN of rotation was causing the fiber to
The Ties That Bind, Part Three bunch up and twist in the reel mech-
by Justin R. Macumber anism, which, if left unchecked,
could cause it to seize up. He hit a
button, and the winch stopped.
speakers. “Sorry.”
The comm channel squelched
closed, and all Jessica could do was
watch in horrified amazement as
her crewman drifted down the fi-

H auling cargo wasn’t normally a

difficult job, but then again, the
payload wasn’t usually free-floating
in the middle of an asteroid belt.
All in a day’s work, Ferron
thought. As the cargo chief of the
star-freighter Breaking Dawn, he
approached every task with the
same steadfast determinism.
Clad in a white environmental suit
that didn’t quite fit his large body,
the Dunadon stood before a com-
puter terminal next to the forward-
facing cargo doors. Magnetic boots
kept him locked in place, which was
good since the doors were open to
the depths of space and the artificial
gravity had been turned off. Every-
thing in the cargo bay was strapped
down to keep from bouncing around
in the icy emptiness, including his
loader droids, which were useless in
a zero-gee environment.
“Skipper,” he said into his helmet
mike, “if we can’t get that pod to
stop spinning, we’re going to have a
hell of a time getting her aboard.”
“I realize that, Chief,” Jessica re-
plied from the bridge. “If I could,
I would, but its motion is just too
crazy. Otherwise I would have just
scooped it up myself.”
“Just do what you can, Skipper,”
Ferron said.
“I always do, Chief.”
Beneath him, Ferron could feel
the ship start spinning along its lat-
eral axis. Less than a minute later,
the captain had gotten as close as
she could to matching the spin of
the freight pod. With that done,
Ferron pressed a button on his con-
sole, and from the ceiling descend-
ed a grappling cannon. It only took
him a moment to get the grappler’s
crosshairs centered on its target.
“I’m ready to fire, Skipper.”
“Fire away, Chief.”
“Affirmative. Firing grappler
now.” A second later, a small metal
rod shot from the cannon and flew
toward the cargo pod, unspooling a
length of carbon nanofiber behind
it. Moments later, the magnetic tip
at the front of the rod hit the metal
container with a thump and latched
on.
“We have a lock,” Ferron said.
“I’m bringing her in now.”
“Understood.”
A button press began the retrac-
tion process. Above him, the winch
started reeling the nanofiber in. Af-
ter a few moments, a warning light
began blinking. Scanning his display,
Ferron saw that the differing rates
“Skipper, we’ve got a bit of a
problem, so I’m going to go take a
walk. I’ll be right back.”
ber line toward the slowly spinning
cargo pod like a rotund spider. Tiny
white puffs from his suit’s air thrust-
With a half-hearted chuckle, he ers pushed him along.
reached down to grab one of his “I don’t believe his enviro-suit
suit’s dangling carabineers, gave it a was designed for that sort of activ-
test yank, and then looked up. ity,” Cam said.
This should be fun, he mused to Slumping into her chair, she re-
himself, only half joking. plied, “Tell him that.” From where
she sat, his large body seemed so
# small and insignificant in the vast-
ness around him.
“Just what do you think he meant
Several minutes ticked past as
by that?” Jessica asked her android
he traversed the line, but once he
crewmate from the pilot’s chair.
reached his destination he let out
“Knowing Ferron, it could have
some of his safety line and clam-
meant anything.”
bered toward one of the pod’s out-
The captain stewed in her seat.
side walls so that he faced against
Her first instinct was to call the cargo
the spin. A sustained burst of air
chief back to get a better explana-
from his suit’s jets shot out in harsh
tion of the problem he’d discovered,
white streams, crystals of com-
but she trusted his judgment and let
pressed moisture flying out from
him handle it as he saw fit. She re-
him like bits of snow. Gradually she
gretted her decision seconds later
could see the pod’s spin slowing.
when she saw, at the bottom of her
Outrageous as it was, Ferron’s solu-
field of view, a small figure moving
tion was working.
away from her ship down the length
“At that rate, he won’t have much
of nanofiber line.
air left in reserve for the return jour-
“Ferron Cth, what do you think
ney,” Cam said, as his cybernetic
you’re doing?” she shouted into the
mind processed the data the ship’s
comm.
sensors gave him.
“I’m kinda busy right now, Skip-
Nodding, Jessica opened her
per,” he replied, his breathing
comm. “Ferron, that’s good enough.
sounding harried through the bridge

TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN
, The Ties That Bind, Part Three,
by Justin R. Macumber Page 29

Head back in now.”
“Just...another...couple...of sec-
onds,” the Dunadon replied stub-
bornly.
She was having none of it. “That
wasn’t a suggestion, Chief. It was an
order. Move it. Now.”
After a few seconds, Ferron said,
“Okay, Skipper. Coming back in.”
He then drifted from the pod and
started pulling himself back down
the line.
“Cam, access the cargo bay grap-
pler controls and start reeling it back
in.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Smoothly, the nanofiber began
winding in again, and the freight
pod retracted at its former pace. As
soon as it and her cargo chief made
it back inside the bay and the doors
were closed, the captain opened
her comm.
“Chief,” she said, her voice silky
smooth and even, “as soon as you’ve
got our package stored, please meet
me on the bridge. Thank you.”
The temperature outside the ship
was absolute zero, and inside the
bridge it wasn’t much warmer, with
the center of the chill sitting square-
ly in the pilot’s seat.
# wasn’t any real danger.”
“I would like to offer you the
, The Ties That Bind, Part Three,
by Justin R. Macumber Page 30
chance to explain,” Jessica said,
“why I shouldn’t haul you down to
the cargo hold, lock you in the small-
est container I can find, and then
leave you on the nearest available
docking platform with nothing but a
can opener to get yourself out.”
Ferron’s eyes looked straight
ahead, and his hands were held be-
hind his back. “One of the reasons
you hired me is because I can think
quickly on my feet. I see a problem,
and I work to resolve it as efficiently
as I can. That’s what I did here.”
Tapping her chin with her right
index finger, Jessica nodded a bit
too harshly for it to be a genuine
expression of agreement. “Okay,
and exactly what in your experience
led you to believe that you could
perform an impromptu spacewalk,
and not only that, but one done in a
suit that wasn’t designed for it, and,
to make it even better, do it in the
middle of an asteroid field?”
Unsure of how to respond, he
said, “Skipper, I don’t know what it
is you want me to say. I saw a prob-
lem, I saw a way to fix it, and I act-
ed. If I’d thought for a moment that
I couldn’t get the job done or that
there was another immediate fix,
then I wouldn’t have done it. There
“But there was!” Jessica yelled,
slamming her hand on a con-
TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN
sole next to her. “The instant you
clamped yourself to that line and
exited the ship you put yourself in
danger. Should I count the ways?”
Ferron shook his head, but it
didn’t matter. The question had
been rhetorical.
“One,” she said, raising an index
finger, “you could have run out of
oxygen. Two,” another finger went
up, “your clamp could have come
loose. Three, an asteroid too small
or too fast to be detected could
have slipped past Cam and blown
you into another dimension. Four,
a radiation storm from the Proxius
star could have cooked your juices.
Five, your suit could have gotten
torn on the cargo pod.”
Before she could get started on
her other hand, the Dunadon raised
both of his and stopped her. “Skip-
per, you’re right, okay? I guess if I’d
thought about it a few more sec-
onds, all those things might have
occurred to me. But they didn’t. I
acted, and everything came out all
right. Can’t that be enough?”
She lowered her head and gave
it a slow shake. “No, it can’t, and I
guess that’s what’s bothering me.
This is so unlike you. You’ve always
been smart in the cargo bays. I could
depend on you to respect the dan-
ger.”
“You still can. The cargo bays re-
ISSUE 54
ally aren’t as dangerous as you’re
making...” Ferron stopped speaking
as a thought occurred to him. After
several long seconds he said, “Is this
about me, or about your father?”
Jessica locked eyes with her cargo
chief for a moment, and then she
dropped her head. “I’ve lost one
person I care about in that hold. I
won’t lose another.”
“I’m sorry, skipper. You’re right. It
won’t happen again.”
Nodding, she said, “It’d better
not.”
Ferron sensed that the storm had
passed. “If there’s nothing else then,
I better get back and see if anything
shook loose.”
“Go ahead,” she told him with a
sigh. “I might join you later and see
if I can’t take a peek inside that pod.
After all this trouble I think we de-
serve a look.”
The cargo chief chuckled. “Good
luck. The locking mechanism on
that thing is a monster. Give me a
week and a plasma torch, and may-
be I could open it. Otherwise, don’t
even think about it.”
She shrugged her shoulders and
turned back to her piloting chair.
“Probably for the best. No use stick-
ing our noses in where they don’t
belong.”
Ferron nodded, gave his captain a
salute, and walked toward the exit.

“Tell Cam it’s safe to come back
in,” she said as she settled into the
lowered chair.
“Will do.”
As the rear doors parted, bodies
scattered away from the opening in
as nonchalant a fashion as rushing
bodies could, and all of them were
pointedly not looking at Ferron or in
the direction of the bridge. The Du-
nadon couldn’t help but smirk.
# ity in the galactic community, in that
Jessica had been having a good
dream, one of white sandy beach-
es, clear waters, endless Zoodien
Twists, and the company of a hand-
some man. But, like all good dreams,
it had to end.
“Captain, we have a problem,”
Boo said, his urgent voice coming
from a speaker in the ceiling of her
cabin.
Grunting, she stood from her bed,
pulled on a vest, and left her room.
Boo was seated in the pilot’s chair
when she entered the bridge, Cam
was plugged in at his usual post in
the tactical station, and Duka was
standing at the command console.
“Okay,” she intoned, “what’s the
bad news?”
Pressing a button on the console
before him, Duka shook his head
and replied, “This is,” before step-
, The Ties That Bind, Part Three,
by Justin R. Macumber Page 31
ping aside to allow her a clear view
of what it displayed. It only took two
seconds of reading to understand
just how complicated their life had
become.
“Oh no,” she muttered.
On the console was a news feed
from the Intergalactic Trade and
Transportation Network. The head-
line read, “Tol-Yinush Worlds At
War.”
The Tol-Yinush System was a rar-
it was a solar system that had devel-
oped sentient life on two different
planets at approximately the same
time. Their orbits had kept them at
opposite ends of the solar system
for centuries, but radio transmis-
sions had brought them together
decades ago, and despite the hun-
dreds of millions of kilometers that
separated them, they’d developed a
friendship.
That friendship died when, a year
prior, a Yinushan governmental offi-
cial was assassinated by a Tolesian
dissident. Intermediaries from half
a dozen worlds had been working to
resolve the matter peacefully, but
the news brief said that the peace
talks had just ended.
Unfortunately for the crew of the
Breaking Dawn, the fourth moon of
Tol was their destination.
“Crap,” she said.
TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN
The E’Loean engineer nodded in
sympathy. “What do you think we
should do?”
Jessica pondered the question
for a moment, and then replied, “I
think we should turn around, head
home, tell Jack sorry, and hope the
Gorawnies don’t decide to take out
a hit on all of us.”
Duka didn’t give her sarcastic
words the dignity of a verbal re-
sponse, and instead let his scowl do
all the talking for him.
“Dammit, Duka, what do you
think? We complete the mission. It’s
not like we have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Jessie,”
the old E’Loean told her.
Jessica smirked. “Thanks, but this
time I don’t think so. If the cargo
belonged to anyone else, I’d agree
with you and hold off until things
simmered down, but we can’t. If
our cargo doesn’t get delivered,
it’ll be our heads on the chopping
block right alongside Jack. I’d rather
risk a war zone than angering the
Gorawnies.”
“I agree with the captain,” Boo
said.
“You would,” Duka replied. The
engineer’s downy face sagged for a
moment, and then he asked, “What
do you think our chances are, Jes-
sie?”
“Honestly, Duka, I don’t know.
ISSUE 54
The negotiations just ended, so I
doubt the Yinushan have had time
to get a decent number of ships
blockading Tol and her moons yet.
If that’s so, then I think our odds are
good. Luckily, the Coven gate we’re
heading to exits on Tol’s end of the
system, so that’ll be a big help. But,
I can’t make any real guesses until
we get there and see what we’re
dealing with.”
Duka nodded wearily. “Okay.
Looks like you’re going to need ev-
erything this ship has, so I better get
down to engineering and stoke the
fires. You keep us from getting shot
out of the sky, and I’ll keep the en-
gines together. Deal?”
“Deal,” she replied, shaking his
long hand.
As the E’Loean left the bridge,
Boo looked up and said, “As soon as
we get near the Coven gate I’ll hand
her over to you.”
“You’re a great pilot, Boo. I trust
you to handle whatever we run
into.”
The Kleeetan looked at her with
a horror-struck expression. “Are you
kidding me? Captain, when it comes
to the crazy stuff, I leave that entire-
ly up to you. They say that the gods
smile upon infants and lunatics, and
I think we’ll need all the blessings
we can get.”
Despite the troubles that were
 ISSUE 54

brewing, she couldn’t help but tripled in her mind like an endless Gate 7M9.” passed beyond the nauseating
laugh. echo. Closing the comm with a hasty boundary of the Coven gate, the
Since that first communication, button press, she shook her head to blue-green world of Tol loomed
# her messages had been answered clear it, and then took hold of the en- large in the sky. Between them and
solely by automated response sys- gine throttle and pushed it forward. their destination were five large
As Jessica and the crew of the
tem that let her know if transit was With engines surging, the Breaking starships.
Breaking Dawn approached Coven
possible and what fees would be Dawn flew forward, pointed straight Only five ships, eh? she thought. I
Gate 7M9 - Unending Undying Un-
charged. So, after transmitting her for the swirling blue and black vor- think we just caught a break.
knowing, she tapped a button on
hail to gate 7M9, it wasn’t an un- tex that was the gateway. Bile rose “All right, folks,” she said into her
the arm of her chair that opened
derstatement to say that she was higher in her throat the closer they headset. “It’s do-or-die time. After
a comm channel and said, “Gate
shocked when the small viewscreen got to it. Her skin prickled. this is done, we’re all in for a long
7M9, this is Captain Jessica Quimbly
by her right knee lit up to display a “Everyone ready?” she asked of vacation.”
of the private cargo vessel Break-
figure shrouded in a heavy cloak and those on the bridge behind her. Cheers could be heard through-
ing Dawn requesting permission to
surrounded by shifting darkness. “Certainly, Captain,” Cam replied out the ship, and despite the danger
transit. Please respond.”
“It is a dark and heavy burden you without hesitation. that sat before them, Jessica smiled.
The only time she’d ever spoken
carry, Jessica Quimbly,” the figure Boo was slower to respond, but
with a Coven gatekeeper person-
said, his words rebounding in her his voice was solid when he said,
ally was soon after she’d taken com-
skull as though she were hearing “The sooner we’re away from this
mand of the Dawn. Her father hadn’t
two voices at once. “We fear that damn thing, the happier I’ll be.”
trusted the Coven, so under him the
the price you will pay for it is more With a nod, she tightened her grip
ship had never gone through one of
than you know. But do not let the on the throttle and pushed it hard
their gates. Jessica hadn’t cared for
darkness of others diminish your in- to the stops. Energy flared from the
them either, but a problem with a
ner light. Do you understand?” rear of the ship as the main engines
conduit license on her first delivery
Her head ached from hearing him drove the vessel forward in a rush of
run as captain forced her to seek out
speak, but she grimaced through it power.
the Coven and ask for permission to
and replied, “Yes, I do.” The swirling field grew larger
use a gate.
“You do not,” the gatekeeper told before them like a bruise upon the
The voice that had answered her
her, “but you will, in time. Now go. skin of the universe, and her head
those many years ago had been un-
Do not send us tribute. You will not became light and unfocused while
like anything she’d ever heard be-
profit from this enterprise, so nor her stomach flopped inside her. The
fore, and the memory of it wasn’t
shall we.” feelings of sickness threatened to
something she enjoyed recalling.
Mentally recalling the credit overwhelm her, but within seconds
“The Coven welcomes you,” was all
transfer Jack had sent, she could they were through the vortex and
the voice had said, but those few
have disputed the gatekeeper had over ten-thousand light years away
words had set her teeth on edge
she wanted to. Instead she said, “All from the other side.
with the way they doubled and
right. Thanks for the free trip, then, As soon as the Breaking Dawn © 2009 by Justin R. Macumber

TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN
, The Ties That Bind, Part Three,
by Justin R. Macumber Page 32

Deuces Wild, Season Two
Space-pale
by L. S. King
Previously, on Deuces Wild:
A shudder ran through the ship.
Tristan sat up straight. The klaxon
blatted, and a voice over the comm
announced, “We’re under attack!”
A shudder ran through the ship.
Tristan sat up straight. The
klaxon blatted, and a voice over the
comm announced, “We’re under at-
tack!”
Reggie jumped up, ticking the
comm on his ear. “Who is it?” His
face darkened. “Again?” He ran for
the door, muttering, “Third time this
month!”
Knowing it was futile, Tristan fol-
lowed—until the guards stepped in
his way at the door.
Reggie spun and ordered, “Let
him come.”
Why would Reggie want him
along? Was this a planned maneu-
ver? No matter, Tristan would play it
anyway, until he had an idea of the
cards Reggie truly held.
As they both ran out the door,
Reggie called over his shoulder, “Pi-
rates.”
Tristan almost snorted as the ship
shuddered again. Why hadn’t the
pirates used an EMP torpedo yet?
“A ship this pretty, and you wonder
why you have repeated trouble with
pirates?”
Reggie half turned, astonishment
on his face. “Is that why you had
that old derelict?”
Tristan merely glared, and Reggie
grinned.
“Good show. You always knew
how to pull the best cons.”
Revelation showered over Tristan
like an icy rain: Reggie still admired
him, looked up to him, even though
he had been one of Tristan’s “teach-
ers.” Was Dray aware of Reggie’s
weakness? Was this a test for Reg-
gie? Circles within circles, wheels
within wheels; how many games
were being played, and who was
playing whom?
“Your mind should be on jumping
before they disable us,” Tristan said.
“Run from a fight?” Reggie’s lip
curled. “You’ve gotten soft.”
“Just practical.”
“Cowardly, you mean.”
The lights blinked out, and Tristan
found himself adrift. The expected
EMP.
Reggie sighed. “Bugger.”
Indeed. Especially without know-
ing if the yacht did, in fact, incapaci-
tate the pirates.
With the dim, blue emergency
lights along the corridor, Tristan
could see both guards still training
their rifles on him—did they think
he wouldn’t know their PBRs were
now useless from the EMP?
It would only be a few seconds
until the microfusion batteries in
their PBRs began to overheat to
the point they’d have to drop their
weapons, and he would have to
decide whether to fight. Even with
two guards and Reggie down, he’d
still have at least six people to dis-
able before they retaliated against
his friends.
He waited.
# metal, and began to strain. The
The lights flicked out, leaving
Slap in almost total darkness and
floating. He gulped as his stomach
complained about the weightless-
ness. What innaworld happened?
The only other time he’d seen a ship
go dead like this was when Bertha
got hit by a EMP from a pirate. Uh
oh. Well, Slap wasn’t going to sit
and wait for pirates to come and get
him. Carter had told him once that
even coded, locked doors could be
manhandled open with the power
out.
He tried to swim to the door—not
an easy task. Arms and legs flailing,
he bounced off a bulkhead and then
the ceiling, wishing he had some
“down” for his stomach’s sake even
more than for his frustration at try-
Deuces Wild, Season Two: Space-pale, by L. S. King
ISSUE 54
ing to maneuver. After pinging off
the ceiling, his body moved down-
ward—toward a chair. As with most
furniture on ships, it was clamped
down; he snagged it and settled
himself so he was aimed at the
door, then pushed off with his feet
against the chair legs.
Too fast! He hit the door with an
oof, but scrambled to wedge his
arms and legs in the narrow frame.
Once anchored, he came to the
hard part, trying to get the door
open with so little leverage. Feet to
knees braced against the jamb—the
sharp edges biting into his legs, he
placed both hands solidly on the
door moved a bit, and he wedged
his fingers into the crack and pulled,
growling with the effort, the open-
ing growing wider and wider.
Slap “swam” into the corridor,
gazing up and down for any hand-
holds he might use. The closest he
found were the fancy wood mold-
ings, which were no help at all.
Perhaps if he gently pushed off and
ricocheted off the bulkheads...
“Hey!”
Slap twisted to see a guard—his
rifle floating nearby—bouncing off
a bulkhead toward him, much as
Slap had been planning to try. His
partner was, apparently, trying to
un-jam something in his own rifle.
Slap gulped again, wishing his stom-
ach would settle.
Page 33

“How did you get out of your cab-
in?”
“I opened the door,” Slap retort-
ed, eyeing the diminishing distance
between himself and the guard.
“Impossible! It’s too heavy.”
Slap shrugged. “If you say so.” Get
a little closer... c’mon...
The guard grabbed him by the
arm, and Slap tried to pull away, set-
ting them both into a whirling mo-
tion. They hit the wall, the guard
slamming into Slap’s torso. That
was too much; Slap’s stomach re-
belled violently. The guard let go,
gagging. His stomach subsided, and
Slap managed to snag the back of
the man’s neck and punch him full
force in the throat. He let the body
go and turned as the second guard
cursed him.
He must not have gotten his rifle
working because he dove at Slap
with both hands free, teeth bared.
Globules spattered the guard’s
face—some right in his mouth. He
almost convulsed, retching; Slap
wanted to laugh—but his stomach
lurched yet again, and he spewed
right into the guard’s face.
The air was thick and stank, which
didn’t help Slap’s sour belly, but he
swiped at the guard, and caught his
shirt. The guard wrestled for a few
vomit-slick moments, but Slap’s
brute strength won out, and—with
only a moment’s hesitation—he
broke the man’s neck.
He closed his eyes for a moment,
shaking off what he had just done
and willing himself to do what
would need doing. These men all
worked for Tristan’s old boss, Dray.
They were all trained, likely killers.
He dismissed Granger’s fancy talk
and game playing; this was life or
death.
Now floating near the ceiling,
Slap tried to think. What should he
do now? Free his friends? He didn’t
even know which cabins they were
in, or much about how this ship was
laid out. He was on the port side,
facing the bridge. Ha—if he could
take out the bridge crew... Not like-
ly! But still—he wasn’t going to go
down without a fight, not against
Granger’s men and not against pi-
rates! So, the bridge it was.
A rifle drifted near, and he caught
it—hot! He let it go with a cry. Did
the EMP cause that? If so, would
all the weapons be useless? Slap
smiled.
He pushed off the ceiling and
slowly maneuvered his way for-
ward, pinging off bulkheads, still
gulping occasionally, not only be-
cause of the zero-g, but from the
smell of his own vomit clinging to
him.
# From his half-kneel position, Slap
Reggie turned to the guards
and ordered, “Get those batteries
changed before they heat, expand,
and wedge.”
Tristan contained his amusement
as, before the two guards could
even lower their rifles, the heat
grew to beyond discomfort levels
and they had to let go. Both quick-
ly snatched the straps of the PBRs,
looking sheepish.
Reggie groaned. “Did you think he
wouldn’t know?” He eyed Tristan.
“Idiots. Should I require your pa-
role, since your companions are still
safely tucked away?”
“Need you ask?”
Reggie glared at him for a mo-
ment, then sniffed. “Let’s go to the
bridge.” Over his shoulder, he called,
“You two fix those rifles then join
us.” He nodded fore as he pushed
off a bulkhead with both feet. “The
nearest ladder is just ahead.”
# “Six to go, as an estimate.”
Slap grunted and was rewarded
by the bridge door opening by inch-
es. The lights began to come up, the
door shut, and gravity began to pull
on him. Slap realized he had been
propped upside down in opening
the door—he fell with a loud whuff.
He rolled, but before he got to his
feet, he heard Granger say: “Aston-
ishing!”
set his shoulder and aimed for the
direction of the voice.
“How did your friend manage
to—ooof!”
Deuces Wild, Season Two: Space-pale, by L. S. King
ISSUE 54
Slap grinned with satisfaction
as the body hit the wall. Granger’s
eyes were closed, but from pain,
not unconsciousness. Slap drew
back a fist, but Tristan snapped his
out first, connecting with Granger’s
chin. The lizard slumped to the floor
like a puddle of jelly.
Slap’s eyebrows went up, but
Tristan only said, “Glass jaw.”
“Know your enemy?”
“It pays.” Tristan stopped, his
nose wrinkled, and he stared at Slap
in disgust.
“Yeah, I know, but the guards
didn’t like it either.” Slap nodded
down the corridor.
“Dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’re in it now. How
many?”
“Two.”
“Do we tie him up and hide him?”
Slap asked.
Tristan pursed his lips. “No, Take
the bridge first—and fast. And,
we don’t know if they have work-
ing weapons, so be careful.” He
squatted down and rifled through
Granger’s clothes. He quickly pock-
eted several items. Then he took
off Granger’s shoes and held one in
each hand. “I’ll go first.”
Before Slap could ask how they
were going to get into the bridge,
Tristan hit the key switch and the
door opened. The captain and
Page 34

both crew members jumped up. He
threw both shoes—each hit a crew-
man in the face. He dove at the cap-
tain, and Slap rushed in to take the
two shoe-attacked ones.
Hitting a woman didn’t sit well
with Slap, but he had no chance
or choice to be gentle. He grabbed
both by the neck and lifted them,
and cracked their heads together as
hard as he could. They fell like sacks.
He turned to see the captain was
down too.
Tristan dove into the pilot’s chair
and began checking for.... “Pirates?”
Slap asked.
“Disabled but not destroyed. Our
capacitor won’t be ready to jump
for fifteen minutes, ten for a short
hop.”
Slap felt everything bulge and
contort—which his stomach didn’t
like, but he was more used to that
than the weightlessness—then ev-
erything returned to normal.
“I’ve distanced us from them and
am setting the ship to auto-jump
when ready, weapons on defen-
sive just in case. We have to get the
rest of this ship under our control
and fast. I’ve locked out commu-
nications, using our old code from
Giselle for access.”
Slap nodded.
“There’s two guards on the deck
above with working weapons, prob-
ably on their way here by now. And
least two more elsewhere, probably
engineering. I need to take them
out now.” Tristan swiveled and rose
from the chair in a smooth motion.
“How?”
“Only way is for me to do it my-
self, before they realize their own
people aren’t in charge up here.”
Tristan ran to a panel near the
door and slid it open. Three PBRs
hung inside. Tristan snatched one,
grabbed a power pack, thwacked it
in place, and tossed it to Slap.
Slap double-checked the multi-
function display, then adjusted the
power setting. He looked up to see
Tristan hefting a rifle and nodding
at him. “You open the door, I’ll line
of sight them from behind the cap-
tain’s chair.”
“Isn’t there a hatch or something
so you can sneak out?”
“Yes, but that leaves the two
from above. Frontal assault. Now
get over here and get ready.”
Slap leapt over to stand by Tristan,
but before his friend could move,
the door opened, and both guards
jumped in. Slap seized the one’s rifle
and yanked—the man flew forward
and crashed into the pilot’s station.
Heat rushed over Slap—Tristan cut
it fine in aiming at the other guard.
“I think you gave me a sunburn,”
Slap retorted.
“Need it, you’re space-pale.”
Tristan swung the rifle butt at the
head of the man crumpled on the
console. Slap winced at the crunch.
“Engineering?”
“Let’s go,” was Tristan’s answer.
Granger was still out cold. Slap
stepped over him and followed his
friend, checking behind them, fin-
ger on the trigger of the PBR. Carter
and Addie should still be locked in
their cabins, so he should be safe
in shooting anything that moved.
Should.
“How big is the crew on a ship this
size, do you think?” Slap whispered.
“Minimum of eight. Not counting
Reggie or the captain.”
“Two to go.”
“At least, probably more.”
As they approached the stern,
Tristan murmured, “Engineering
spans two decks. We have no idea
where they’ll be, or even how many.
Be careful.”
Slap nodded.
“And try not to miss and make a
mess of engineering either.”
That would definitely not be
good. “I’ll try.”
Tristan snorted. “You open the
door, I’ll go first.”
Slap nodded and took the right
side, by the key switch. Tristan
glanced at the MFD on his rifle and
nodded. Slap hit the entry switch
and the door swooshed open. As
Tristan entered, a voice behind Slap
yelled, “Don’t move!”
Disobeying, Slap whirled and
found himself in an aiming standoff
with a guard.
Deuces Wild, Season Two: Space-pale, by L. S. King
ISSUE 54
“Drop it,” the man snarled.
“You drop it.”
“I said, drop it!”
From inside engineering, Slap
heard the sounds of particle beams
zapping. Dammit, he was supposed
to be covering Tristan’s back! “You
drop it!”
“I’m not playing games, you igno-
rant dirtsider! Orders or not, I’ll take
you out if I have to!”
“You do, and Tristan’ll take you
out. We’ve cleared about the whole
ship. Even your boss. Play nice, and
he might let you live.”
The guard laughed. “You think
I’m afraid of that cocky popinjay?
Monsieur Lefèvre is the one to fear,
not that traitor!”
“Then go ahead and shoot.”
The guard hesitated. “I’d—”
Zzzzzt! The man’s charred body fell,
and Slap spun to see Tristan in the
door of engineering.
His friend hit the key switch. “En-
gineering is cleared—and sealed
for the moment. Let’s go back to
the bridge.” Tristan began walking.
“With only two of us, any remaining
crew could evade a sweep, but if I
lock down all three decks...”
As they approached the bridge,
Slap stopped to look down at Grang-
er, still slumped over. “Tristan?
Think he’s really out or faking it?”
“Keep an eye on him if you wish.
I’ll be through here in a minute.”
Tristan ducked into the bridge.
Page 35

Slap raised the rifle, just in case.
That dandy wasn’t going to catch
him napping.
True to his word, Tristan wasn’t
long. “The decks and cabins are all
coded now. We can sweep each
deck, and if any of Dray’s men are
hiding, they’ll not easily evade us.”
He gazed down at Granger. “Let’s
gather all the refuse and space it.”
Slap’s jaw dropped, he pointed at
Granger with the muzzle. “He ain’t
dead!”
“Neither are a few others. Let’s
just finish the job.”
“I ain’t murdering anyone who
ain’t dead already!”
“What do you want to do, set
them up in cabins and serve them
aperitifs?”
Slap didn’t know what “apara-
teefs” were, but Tristan’s sarcas-
tic attitude stuck in his craw, and
he took a step forward, gritting his
teeth. “I ain’t killin’ ‘em!”
“They’d murder you if they got
the chance!”
“I don’t care! If they’re alive,
they’re staying that way!”
“What do you suggest then?
They’re a danger to us while they’re
on this ship.”
Slap thought a moment. “A life-
boat.”
# I doubt there’s more bad guys hid-
The door opened, and Slap
grinned to see Carter sitting in a
ISSUE 54
chair, head in his hands. He looked Carter hesitated and then took it,
up and jumped to his feet, eyes nodding. “I...agree.”
wide. “You really did it!” He ran The two continued down the port
toward them. “How did you do it, side to the next cabin. Slap readied
Sir?” his weapon while Carter stood by
“I had no choice,” Tristan replied the key switch on the side. They ex-
laconically. “Slap muscled his way changed nods, and Carter opened
out when the EMP hit.” the door.
Carter chuckled. “I’m not sur- A gasp followed by a shrill squeal
prised. What did you do with all of told Slap before seeing the mass of
them?” curly hair that they’d found Addie.
“The dead we consigned to She rushed forward to hug Slap, but
space. The living”—Tristan glared at pushed back, her nose scrunched
Slap, who glared back—”we put in a up. “Ew. You stink.”
lifeboat. We’re going to set them on Slap laughed. “Wait till you see
course for Cassiopeia Station with the forward corridor.” Then he
the distress beacon activated right sighed; cleaning that up wasn’t go-
before our next jump.” ing to be fun.
Carter’s eyebrows lifted as he
looked from one to the other. “Ah.”
Carter frowned. “Where’s Addie?”
“We haven’t let her out yet,” Slap
said.
“Saved the best for last, did you?”
Carter asked with a smile.
Tristan didn’t look amused. He
nodded at Slap. “You can let her
out. I’m going to the bridge.”
As Tristan strode down the cor-
ridor, Slap asked, “Any idea which
cabin she’s in? We actually found
you first by accident. We just start-
ed at the one end...”
“No, sorry.”
Slap handed Carter a PBR. “Here.
ing in cabins, but just in case, Tristan
© 2009 by L. S. King
says to keep a rifle handy.”
Deuces Wild, Season Two: Space-pale, by L. S. King Page 36

RGR REVIEWS
The Company Series
by Kage Baker
Tor Books, 1997-2007
T ime travel is a great thing for sci-
ence fiction writers to play with,
but it poses a problem for the writ-
er. One way to write time travel is to
totally ignore the fact that the “sci-
ence” behind it is slim to nonexis-
tent, and just have a jolly good romp
through time. The other approach is
to explore all of the philosophical
and scientific problems that muck-
ing up the timeline creates. Kage
Baker, in her mammoth Company
series of novels, gives us both. In
the process, she has created one of
the most enjoyable science-fiction
series to come about in years.
In the twenty-fourth century, a
cabal of scientists discovers time
travel and forms a company named
Dr. Zeus, whose mission is to plun-
der the past for profit in the pres-
ent. They have limitations, however,
in that it is impossible to modify the
known past, so the Company must
operate in the shadow of the known
timeline and acquire its products
(such as rare plants and works of
art, etc.) behind the scenes. If a
manuscript or painting is known to
have been destroyed in a fire (such
as the Library of Alexandria) then
the Company’s operatives will be
found plundering like mad just be-
fore total destruction.
But time travel is expensive, so
the Company develops a process to
make its operatives immortal, creat-
ing super-powered cyborgs. These
cyborgs do all the retrieval that the
Company needs.
In order to know what happens in
history, the operatives have a Tem-
poral Concordance that details all
of known history. There’s only one
little catch: the Concordance ends in
2355 and no one knows what hap-
pens after that date.
The series opens in the dungeons
of the Inquisition where a young
girl who has been sold by her par-
ents to a group of witches now finds
herself. One of the Company’s cy-
borgs notices that young Mendoza
has the potential to be an operative,
and so he removes her from known
history. She receives the enhance-
ments, is assigned as a botanist, and
then is sent on her first mission to
16th-century England in the reign
of Bloody Mary to save some rare
plants. Along the way, she falls in
love with a mysterious and enig-
matic anabaptistic protestant who
eventually has England’s own ver-
sion of the Inquisition catch up with
him.
At the end of In the Garden of
Iden, Mendoza is distraught at hav-
ing lost her mortal lover, thus estab-
lishing one of the major plot lines
of the series: the discovery of why
seeming clones of Nicholas Harpole
of 16th-century England keep on re-
curring throughout history and caus-
ing trouble for Mendoza. And what
do Nicholas and Mendoza have to
do with the mysterious events of
2355?
The entire Company series runs
for a total of seven novels and three
short-story collections, as well as
a few short stories in other Kage
Baker collections and one novel that
takes place in the Company uni-
verse, but is not part of the series
(also reviewed this issue). The story,
to say the least, is complex. The cast
of characters is enormous, with doz-
ens upon dozens of cyborg opera-
tives (although the main cast is only
about two dozen in size). Each novel
is a self-contained story, although
not self-standing: you need to read
the series in publication order to un-
derstand what is going on.
ISSUE 54
But each novel is also strong in its
own right. Kage Baker is a very ac-
complished writer who can create
very distinct characters, even doz-
ens of them, and keep them consis-
tent. Her sense of comedic timing is
nearly flawless and there are plenty
of comedic moments throughout
the series, especially in the second
novel, Sky Coyote.
The earlier novels in the series—
the ones that take place in our own
past—are by far the stronger sto-
ries. As the series progresses and
gets more complex, more time is
spent trying to keep all the balls in
the air and the forward momentum
suffers, but it is still an enjoyable
series. My one major complaint,
however, is that the ending doesn’t
deliver all that is promised. Even
though the final novel, The Sons of
Heaven, is the longest novel in the
series, it still rushes over too many
of the dangling plot lines, tying most
all of them up, but in an unsatisfying
way for many of them. The novel
needed to be twice its length to give
everything the time it needed.
But don’t let that distract you
from reading the entire series: In
the Garden of Iden, Sky Coyote,
Mendoza in Hollywood, The Grave-
RGR Reviews Page 37

yard Game, The Life of the World to
Come, The Machine’s Child, and The
Sons of Heaven, as well as the short
story collections, Black Projects,
White Knights; The Children of the
Company; and Gods and Pawns. My
wife and I are into our third reading
of some of the early novels and love
the whole world that Kage Baker
has created.
Reviewed by Matthew Scott
Winslow
© 2009 by Matthew Scott Winslow
Empress of Mars
by Kage Baker
Tor Books, 2009, 303pp
I n the late twenty-third centu-
ry, the British Arean Company
set about colonizing Mars. At the
time, Earth has succumbed to po-
litical correctness and anyone even
slightly outside the norm is put into
hospitals to make them “normal.”
When looking for colonists who are
more independent of spirit, the Brit-
ish Arean Company naturally plun-
ders these asylums. Also, the Celtic
peoples have recently realigned
themselves, creating a haven of po-
litical incorrectness for those who
may be omnivores or a bit more
aggressive than the norm. So, who
better to settle Mars than they?
It doesn’t take long, however, for
the BAC to realize that Mars is a los-
ing prospect, and so they pull out
their support, firing most of their
employees. Without pay, this effec-
tively strands most of the popula-
tion of Mars on Mars with no hope
of returning home.
One such fired employee, though,
is Mary Griffith, who has three
young daughters she has to sup-
port, so she sets up Mars’ first tav-
ern, the eponymous Empress. She
is, of course, frowned upon by the
neo-Puritanical BAC and so exists in
a delicate balance, providing a ser-
vice many of Mars’ denizens want
while being unappreciated by the
ruling corporation.
The Empress of Mars tells the
story of how Mother Griffith and
her ragtag band of employees and
acquaintances set about creating a
life for themselves on a harsh and
forbidding planet.
Originally a Hugo-nominated
novella, The Empress of Mars is an
associational novel, or as the cover
describes it, “set in the world of
the Company.” But that’s about all
you need to know about the Com-
pany series to enjoy this novel. (See
previous review for more about the
Company.)
Because it is expanded from a
novella, this book is more episodic
than most of Kage Baker’s novels
and focuses more on the develop-
ment of the various characters than
on any forward-moving plot. It is,
rather, an idea -- colonization and
independence -- that moves the
book on than any conflict as in a
more traditionally plotted story. But
that’s not a flaw -- not at all! What
the reader gets in exchange is a
wonderful character-based story.
In the 15 or so years she’s been
professionally published, Kage Bak-
er has made a name for herself as
an author who can write fun, fast-
paced novels full of well-rounded
characters. With The Empress of
Mars, Baker proves once again that
she is more than just a one-story or
one-series author.
Reviewed by Matthew Scott
Winslow
© 2009 by Matthew Scott Winslow
ISSUE 54
Three Unbroken
by Chris Roberson
Solaris, 2009
O n the red planet, Fire Star, the
Middle Kingdom has engaged
in a long and cruel war with the
Mexic Dominion. For twelve years
the battles have raged, both on the
surface and in the heavens around,
but at last the forces of Imperial
China are able to engage in a major
offensive. This offensive will involve
all branches of the Imperial military:
the Armies of the Green Standard,
infantry; four corps of the elite Ban-
nermen forces; and the Interplan-
etary Fleet Air Corps.
Three Unbroken tells the story of
this offensive push through the eyes
of three individuals, each a member
of one of the military branches. Nio-
huru Tie is a member of the Manchu
elite who joined the Bannermen
because he was tired of the spoiled
apathy of his youthful friends and is
ashamed that his relatives are more
concerned about bureaucratic titles
than truly serving the Empire. Arati
Amonkar joined the Air Corps to
escape from the strictures of her
Hindu culture so that she could fly.
And Micha Carter, from Duncan, Te-
jas, sees joining the army as a way
to escape his past.
Readers of other stories set in
RGR Reviews Page 38

Chris Roberson’s “Celestial Empire”
will also enjoy Three Unbroken.
The events in the novel take place
roughly simultaneously with those
in The Dragon’s Nine Sons. One finds
again Roberson’s likable characters
and his energetic, page-turning
style. Knowledge of the rest of the
sequence of stories enhances one’s
pleasure in reading Three Unbroken,
but is by no means necessary. Three
Unbroken would serve as a fine in-
troduction to Roberson’s series.
There are many ways in which
I like Three Unbroken even more
than The Dragon’s Nine Sons. One
of the criticisms I had of the earlier
work was that Roberson could have
done so much more in the telling of
the story by drawing from the vast
wealth of Chinese literature. Three
Unbroken moves in that direction.
Each of the novel’s sixty-four chap-
ters is paired with a chapter of the
I Ching (complete with hexagram).
The coupling of the epigrammatic
I Ching chapters with the events
of the story works in a subtle way,
but I, at least, felt it added flavor
to the story. It is similar to reading
Japanese haibun or the interaction
between verse and prose in certain
Chinese novels. (The large number
of shortish chapters also increased
the readability of the book.)
I like the three main characters
of the novel quite a lot, even more
than the two principals of The
Dragon’s Nine Sons. Their personal
motivations for military service are
convincing, and it is enjoyable see-
ing the three act with courage and
honor in often difficult situations.
Two of the storylines intersect in
interesting ways, though I do won-
der if the novel as a whole could
have been even stronger if all three
storylines had connected. There is
plenty of room to follow the sub-
sequent careers of any of the three
characters, should Roberson feel so
inclined.
One criticism that carries over
from my reading of The Dragon’s
Nine Sons is the depiction of the
Mexica. Yes, these are very bad men.
But they are men. One of the most
fascinating subjects an author can
explore is why men do bad things.
I wish that there was more depth to
the Mexica. But the enemy in Three
Unbroken is more alien than any
bug-eyed monster. I by no means
insist on a postmodern antihero in
every story. But frankly, any story
that paints the villain so black scares
me a little. (Though, as with my re-
view of The Dragon’s Nine Sons, this
criticism borders on reviewing the
book I wish the author had written
instead of reviewing the work he ac-
tually wrote.)
ISSUE 54
I like the mass market paperback
format for both The Dragon’s Nine
Sons and Three Unbroken, and I ap-
plaud Solaris for publishing the nov-
els. Indeed, I hope Roberson may
find a publisher like Solaris to print
future Celestial Empire stories in a
similarly format. However, I found
the number of typos in this print-
ing of Three Unbroken distracting
at points. The substitution of “far”
where “Fire” is meant (p. 308) I
found especially painful. Hopefully
these issues will be addressed in a
future printing.
But these criticisms are relatively
minor. Three Unbroken is rollicking
good fun in the best tradition of
military SF. I enjoy each installment
of Roberson’s sequence more. I will
definitely be looking for the next in-
stallment.
Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
© 2009 by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
RGR Reviews Page 39
 ISSUE 54

The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda
by Johne Cook
The crew of Alacrity stole the threw a towel over one shoulder,
Haddirron navy airship Royal Steed grabbed a mug that had started its
out from under Lieutenant Gillings’ life as a coconut, and splashed some
brother and made straight for help run in it. The man glared at the bar-
from The Friar of Briar Island. For tender until the coconut mug was
his part, The Friar was caught on reasonably full.
the horns of a dilemma—turn in the “Nice day,” offered the bartender.
crew and keep the favor of the Had- “Leave the bottle,” said the man,
dirron Navy, or protect his friends and that concluded the pleasant-
and draw the ire of the entire Navy. ries.
Unwilling to consent to that Devil’s The bartender backed away from
bargain, he drugged the crew and the bottle and returned to his stool
staged them so they looked dead behind the bar, where he produced
and showed them off to the Haddir- a knife and a piece of driftwood and
ron Navy. He was proud of his solu- resumed whittling. The man took a
tion right up until Cooper Flynn ap- healthy slug of the rum, coughed a
peared back from the dead, looking couple of times, and sipped it with a
for the rest of his crew. little more care after that.
Twenty minutes later, a spry old
coot with a permanent squint and a
Two days ago limp tied up to the dock and crab-
walked up to the others. He bellied
his head. “You can skip the pass-
phrase—there’s nobody here but
you and me and the barkeep.” The
man placed a gold coin on the coun-
ter. “And he hasn’t seen anything.”
The bartender put down his whit-
tling, walked over and made the
coin disappear, picked up another
mug, blew into it, wiped it out with
his towel, and placed it in front of
the old salt. He splashed some run
into the mug. He wandered back to
his stool and started whittling again.
The old-timer said, “Ah, it’s been
too long since I wet my whistle.”
He cackled in laughter and tossed
back the rum with one practiced
movement. He smacked his lips and
wiped his lips with his bony wrist.
“Passable rum! So what leads you
to request the humble services of
Blind Bart?”
The man looked over at him for a
moment. He held out his index fin-
ger and dragged it between them
from left to right. Blind Bart’s gaze
followed it the entire way. “But
ter. “And what do they call you?”
The man looked at him from cold,
unblinking eyes. “You can call me
Red,” he said with a tone that sug-
gested that would all he would vol-
unteer.
Blind Bart squinted and gestured
at the man’s dark brown hair. “But
you, ah...”
“I hear you know where I can find
a man.”
Bart nodded and caressed his
empty mug with his hand. “I know
where lots of men are; Navy men,
island men, farmer men, aristocrat-
ic men, men of the cloth, fat men,
skinny men, kept men, shepherds,
beggars, warriors, assassins, bounty
hunters...”
“I hear you know where I can find
a specific man,” interrupted Red.
“I hear you know where I can find
Cooper Flynn.”
Blind Bart’s eyebrows went up.
“Aaaah, you want to find the Man
Who Fell!” He nudged his mug
again, and his host grudgingly filled

T he man walked into the bar,
which wasn’t hard considering
that it had no walls to speak of, just
a thatched frond roof and some
bamboo poles to hold it all up. But
what the sandy bar lacked in walls, it
made up for in three things; temper-
ate breezes, a remote location, and
many variations of rum. The man
looked at the bartender, a local, and
held up one finger. The bartender
up to the bar and hung his walking
stick on the edge. He looked right
at the bartender, placed his hands
on the bar, and cleared his throat.
“Ackem, ahem. Cack.’” He spat and
took a deep breath. “’Beware the
whimsical parrot,’” he intoned in a
high, raspy voice.
The bartender never stopped
whittling. The man at the bar to
the left of the aged sailor shook
you’re not...”
Bart broke out in a wheezy breezy
laugh and slapped the bar, causing
his empty mug to rock. “Ahaahaha!
That’s what they all say.” He pushed
his mug forward hopefully. “There
was this mishap when I was ship’s
navigator for a ship.”
“Or two,” quipped the bartender.
Bart shot him a black look and
turned to face the man at the coun-
it for him. Bart took another healthy
slug. He wiped his mouth on a grimy
sleeve. “I can find anyone, howev-
er, I cannot guarantee that they’ll
be among the living. I hate to take
your money on a fool’s errand. But
as long as we’re speaking of money,
what is it worth to you?” Red told
him. Bart nodded. He confided, “In
all candor, I should tell you that Fly-
nn is my friend, or was.” Red shot

The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook Page 40

him a venomous look but named
another, higher figure. Bart whis-
tled. “Meet me here in one week. If
Cooper Flynn is still among the liv-
ing, I’ll tell you where to find him.
If he’s not, I’ll tell you that, as well.”
“Whether he lives or not matters
not. I must see him with my own
eyes.” He waved his hand for em-
phasis. “You know—for sentimental
purposes.”
Bart nodded and raised his mug to
drink again. Red’s arm shot out and
he grabbed Bart’s wrist. “There’s
one more thing. If you don’t want to
earn your own moniker, you won’t
tell anyone I’m looking for him.”
Bart blinked but held his mug.
With a subdued voice, he said, “I
haven’t gotten this old by accident.
Meet me here in a week, and bring
the gold. The passphrase will be...”
Red slammed the bottle on the
bar, making Bart jump. “I can be
your friend, or I can be your enemy.
Meet me here in one week, and I
will be your friend.” He stood and
patted the side of Bart’s face just a
little too hard and quit the place,
the coconut mug still rocking on the
bar.
Bart stroked his face as if to clean
it and then reached over and helped
himself to the bottle. He looked at
the bartender. “That man will never
be my friend, Ben,” he said quietly.
Ben pointed the knife at him.
“The Barracuda is no man’s friend.”
“True, true.” Bart pulled up a
stool and lit a pipe. When he had it
going, he said, “He’s well out of his
normal territory. When did a leg-
endary cold-blooded freelance as-
sassin sail into these waters?”
“He showed up a day ago. What
are the chances Cooper Flynn really
does live?”
Bart puffed on his pipe. “Slim-
to-none. There’s something else.
Somebody who can afford The Bar-
racuda has a price on Flynn’s head,
be he quick or dead.”
“How can a dead man have a
contract on his life? And who would
want a dead man to die that badly?”
“Well, if anyone can pull that off,
it is Cooper Flynn, so I’m not too
surprised. It’s not the Qantiin—the
word from the palace is they’re vic-
tims of their own secrecy and para-
noia.”
“Who did them in?”
“One of their own, a member of
Flynn’s crew.”
“Oh, good. So it’s some other
well-heeled shadow organization.”
Ben nodded toward Bart. “What
will do you first?”
“What else can I do? The Bar-
racuda obviously knows I work for
The Friar. He likely knows what his
fate will be if he goes to Parrot Bay
by himself, so he’s contracting with
a known information rat who has
fewer scruples than the old pirate
himself.”
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
“So your cover remains intact, at
any rate.”
“So far,” said Blind Bart. “So far.”
He rapped his pipe against the sole
of his worn leather sandals and put
it away.
“Be careful. He’s ruthless and
careful. Don’t underestimate this
one.”
“I haven’t gotten this old by ac-
cident,” repeated Bart. He sadly re-
turned the bottle to Ben and picked
up his cane from the counter. He
waved the cane in farewell as he
walked away to his ship and sailed
off to find a man who either wasn’t
among the living or wouldn’t remain
that way for long.
One day ago
Bart’s first stop was Briar Island.
He sailed around the point of Parrot
Bay and across the straights separat-
ing Parrot Bay and Briar Island. He
sighted the jagged tooth-like rocks
of the Dragon’s Maw and steered
straight into the shadowed depths.
He made out the barely-visible dock
and sidled up nice and gentle-like.
Blind Bart nimbly jumped over to
the dock and tied off the little sail-
boat. He lit his aromatic pipe and
walked past the docks, through the
caverns, and into the heart of the el-
evated briar palace. He greeted ev-
eryone by name, and all the guards
ISSUE 54
let him through without stopping.
He came to the next-to-the-last
sentry, a mountain of a man with
a barrel chest, bulging biceps, and
the tan of one who spent his time
outdoors shirtless because he liked
to show off his prowess. He kept
eyes-front like it was important, and
without looking, slowly held out a
wicked staff and a massive forearm
to stop Bart’s progress.
Bart took a step to the side but
was rapped in the chest with the
staff for his trouble.
“Back, grandda. Nobody passes
me.”
Blind Bart smiled when he was
scheming, a scary thing because of
all his missing teeth. “Your mother
passed you. She told me as much on
the same bed not an hour ago.”
That arrested big-and-fearsome’s
attention. “You leave my mother
out of...”
Bart darted under the ape’s out-
stretched arm and loped, cackling,
into the fern foyer that served as the
outer office in the great tree palace.
The sentry’s protests faded behind
him. Bart smiled, knowing the oth-
er was confined to his arched post
as surely as if he had been bound
there by chains.
Bart pushed through the veil of
fronds and stopped, aghast despite
himself. Grimion was gone from
his traditional post. Instead of the
muscle-bound paragon of power
Page 41

who served as The Friar’s personal
bodyguard when he was at the Briar
Throne, this final sentry was slim,
of normal height, and was seated
off to the side of the room behind
a small teak table playing Unitaire.
He looked so utterly normal that
one might be forgiven for missing
the distinctive curved, slender, sin-
gle-edged blade with a long grip in
the sheathe strapped to his back for
easy access. Bart shivered, knowing
what it took to earn and skillfully
handle a weapon like that. It was
Mok Moire himself, the Friar’s com-
pact but utterly lethal Champion.
Mok’s gaze flicked up just long
enough to size Bart up and find
him wanting before he returned
to his game. “Blind Bart, as I live-
and-breathe. What brings you out
of Parrot Bay?” If anything, Mok’s
faculties were even sharper than
his blade, which was saying some-
thing. Bart realized Mok played at
Unitaire because no-one would
play him at Feudal Battlefields. Bart
hadn’t known that Mok even knew
his name, much less anything about
him. But it stood to reason that
there was more to being Champion
than simple prowess with...well,
any weapon. It was a lifestyle. It was
something that spilled over from
simple weapons mastery into every
area of one’s life. Mok was formida-
ble at anything he put his hand to.
Today, he put his hand to cards.
Bart hooked his cane on a dan-
gling root and walked carefully into
the room, both his hands in clear
view. Mok’s gaze locked on Bart
with what appeared to be benign
interest, an illusion Bart didn’t pur-
chase for a single moment. He licked
his lips and chose his question care-
fully. “I’ve been hired to find Cooper
Flynn.”
Mok hesitated the barest mo-
ment before playing his next card.
“By whom?”
He didn’t point out that Flynn was
dead, he didn’t question the quest,
he went straight for the salient an-
swer. Bart normally had no shortage
of self confidence—a man of his age
and reputation needed to believe
he could do anything to survive for
long out on the edge of things—but
being around Mok intimidated the
perdition out of him.
Bart considered his oath, his audi-
ence, his eyesight. He noticed Mok’s
index finger was pressed lightly on
the top of draw pile; he was waiting.
“A... predaceous fish told me.”
Mok bounced the idea in his
head. “Ahum. Well. Aren’t these wa-
ters a little distant for a devil-fish?”
Bart forced himself to breathe.
This one was fast!
Mok drew his card, the quiet
sound loud in the acoustics of the
room. “Then by all means, be about
your quest.”
Bart very much wanted to smoke.
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
“I wouldn’t want to antagonize
something that cranky with that
many teeth.”
Mok waved it off. “For a fish like
that, his teeth are sharper than his
snap. I wouldn’t worry about it. Do
your thing, find your guy.”
“You think it’s, uh, safe to fish? I
wouldn’t want to lose anything dear
to me, like my fingertips.” Or my
eyes.
Mok laid down a full stateroom
with a flourish and smiled. “Leave
the fishing to the fishermen. Find
your guy. You’ll be fine.”
Bart looked ahead into the throne
room. “I really should see the Friar.”
Mok re-dealt. “He’s not in there.
Find Pikir and The Friar won’t be far
afield.”
“Where do I find Pikir?”
Mok smiled lazily and started
drawing cards. “Go home and get a
good night’s sleep, Bart. Then you’ll
know where to look. You can exit
through the throne room.” He start-
ed thumbing through his cards and
putting them in order in his hand.
The interview was clearly over.
That went pretty fast for Bart, so
he thought it through. Bart’s home
wasn’t on Briar Island, and the
throne room was traditionally off-
limits to anybody when The Friar
was about. “Through the throne
room? But aren’t you...”
Mok seemed amused. “I’m here
to protect His Grace from assassina-
ISSUE 54
tion.”
That’s when the rope grew taut in
Bart’s head; the Friar was with Pikir,
Pikir wasn’t in the throne room,
therefore the throne room was
empty. Bart might run into Pikir—
and by extension The Friar—if he
returned to Parrot Bay. But if the
Friar was across the water over at
Parrot Bay, who was Mok guarding
over here?
And then Bart got it and smiled.
Mok wasn’t here to keep someone
away, he was here to lure someone
in, acting as a chum-pot to lure in
any assassins sniffing about for
blood in the water.
Bart nodded and thanked Mok
and left the natural palace with a re-
newed sense of purpose. He pitied
the assassin who made it as far as
the Fern Foyer looking for trouble.
~
Bart didn’t navigate straight back
to his boat. He ate quietly around
at the end of one of the food halls
scattered around the island and
spent the night in a guest cottage.
He more he wanted to do before he
returned to Parrot Bay.
Today
As long as he was on Briar Is-
land, he knew one more person
who might know where to find Fly-
nn should he actually be alive. He
charted a course deep into the hid-
Page 42

den caves on the other side of the
Briar Palace. If anyone knew where
a not-so-dead Flynn might go next,
it would be Chain, Flynn’s ace me-
chanical prodigy.
It took Bart a couple of hours
to track down the trail to Chain’s
rooms. Bart borrowed a torch and
wandered a number of meandering
dark stone corridors before com-
ing to a heavy wood door. He tried
opening it, but it was latched. He
pounded on the door with his cane.
It took some time before the door
opened and Chain stuck his bespec-
tacled head out. “Yes?”
“I’m Blind Bart. I’m looking for
Cooper Flynn and would like to talk
with you if you have a moment.”
Chain scowled. “You don’t look
blind.”
“I was a navigator for my career.
It’s a long story.”
“...which I don’t have time for.
Pity. Good day.” He started to close
the door.
Bart quickly said, “The Friar told
me you might be able to help me.”
Chain shot him a look through his
small round lenses as if to divine the
truth through sheer force of exami-
nation. “Flynn was still alive the last
time I saw him. I really can’t help
you. Good day.” He started to shut
the door.
Bart’s cane shot out and prevent-
ed the door from closing. “There’s
something you should know before
you shut me out...”
Chain’s voice changed from disin-
terested to brusque. “There’s some-
thing you should know — there is
nothing you can say that will change
my mind. Remove your stick or I will
remove it for you!”
Bart searched for any leverage
at all, and then his impish intuition
prompted a mental image of the
game devoted to leverage, Feudal
Battlefields, which in turn prompted
a name, one name most associated
in his head with using leverage to his
advantage in combat. “What was I
thinking,” Bart cackled smoothly.
“Of course, you’re right. Even Mok
agrees there’s little chance you’ll
be able to help me. I should just
gracefully concede.” He withdrew
his cane. “So Mok said I shouldn’t
expect you to offer me much time,
maybe a few minutes, and thank
you for your time when I leave.”
Chain glared at Bart through the
one eye visible through the crack in
the door.
“Of course, Mok conceded that if
I found even one clue, it would be
well worth it.” Bart waited, scarcely
breathing.
Finally, the door creaked and
opened. Chain stood aside and ges-
tured for Bart to enter. “Don’t touch
anything,” he said through gritted
teeth. “I will hold you and Mok re-
sponsible while you are my ‘guest.’”
Blind Bart quickly stepped in
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
while Chain bolted the door behind
them. Bart looked around. Chain
had set up a large, natural cave as a
kind of drydock / sailing ship work-
shop. Natural light spilled into the
cavern through gaps in the ceiling
and torches lined the walls. A dim
light at the end of a long, covered
tunnel channel appeared to open
out to the seas on the opposite
side of the island. There were work-
benches and tools galore. If there
was an order of sorts among all the
strewn tools and parts of things, it
only made sense to Chain, because
Bart couldn’t make it out.
Chain waved a large wrench un-
der Bart’s nose. “When I say I will
hold you and Mok responsible, you
understand I mean just you. I don’t
bother Mok, and... Just don’t touch
anything.”
Bart bobbed his head.
Chain leaned against a work-
bench and crossed his arms. “Very
well. Ask away.”
Bart pulled out his pipe. “Mind if
I...”
Chain glared at him. “I have flam-
mable materials all over the place.
Yes! I mind!”
Bart regretfully put away his to-
bacco and put the cold pipe in his
mouth. He started pacing. A small,
skiff-looking boat rested in the wa-
ter tethered to the dock. The design
was a little odd—­Bart didn’t see any
sail or masts. There was, however,
ISSUE 54
two small angled pipes, one on each
side of the deck facing backward at
a 45 degree angle. And there was
what appeared to be wisps of white
emitting from each. “You said the
last time you saw Cooper Flynn was
on your way to Haddirron City?”
“While preparing an offensive
on Sylvan holdings on Yempher, we
were ambushed by our own Navy
and clapped in irons onboard a na-
val airship. I had recently come into
possession of design information
too important to allow mere na-
tions to frustrate us. Captain Flynn
and I hatched a plan and we imple-
mented it. We passed over the port
at Roarke’s Island. I secured a sky-
pack and dove overboard before
anyone knew I was gone. I drifted
down to the port where I secured
passage to Parrot Bay and then here
to Briar Island.”
Bart nodded. “I’ve seen the float-
ing airship and heard about those
wonderful skypacks. Intriguing.”
Chain’s eyes lit up. “If you think
that’s exciting, you will be very inter-
ested in my latest work.” He walked
over to the small strange craft. “You
said you were a navigator? Hm. As
long as you’re here, you may as well
help me with an experiment. I need
you to scramble up here. Step up on
the skiff and go aft and take the til-
ler.”
Bart laughed and stayed put,
and Chain stopped puttering long
Page 43

enough to fix his attention on the
little navigator. Bart said, “You, ah,
said not to touch anything.” He
chortled and slapped his knee.
Chain shrugged. “The hallmark of
any great inventor is the capacity to
change his mind in the face of fresh
insight. Also, I’ll need to watch the
power gauges. Hm. Did you tighten
that last valve?”
Bart started walking up the ramp.
“The what? Did I who?”
Chain frowned in concentration.
He looked up, distracted, and broke
into a grin. “Nothing, I was talking
to myself, there. I am used to being
alone in my workshops. It is a habit
completely natural to me here by
myself. I feel less natural in the com-
pany of others. Now, take that tiller.
When I engage the power, steer us
toward the light.” Chain stopped.
“What I’m about to show you is se-
cret. You cannot tell anyone about
it unless I say the word. I have given
my own word to some powerful and
dangerous men.”
Bart assumed his place at the til-
ler. “This is an odd tiller. It protrudes
up and back in the air instead of in
the water? It’s huge! How will I steer
her? I don’t see any way to get the
wind, no obvious way to propel her
along.”
Chain broke into a rare smile.
“Leave that to me.” He put on a pair
of goggles and tossed a second set
to Bart. “You’ll want to don those.”
Bart looked at them skeptically.
“Whatever for?”
Chain cast off the rope tether and
hopped aboard. “With the speed
we’ll be going, these will keep the
wind and bugs out of your eyes.”
“Speed?”
“You’ll want to hang on tight.
Here we go!”
Bart donned his goggles, set his
cane down, grabbed the tiller with
one hand, and wondered if he re-
ally knew what he was getting into.
There was a lurch as the ship rose
ten feet into the air. Bart chanced
a look down and back and saw a
huge, gleaming propeller, twenty
feet or so by his eye, and then he
heard a steam whistle sound and
the propeller started turning. Bart
rethought his cavalier hold on the
tiller and grabbed on tight with both
hands. The propeller quickly picked
up speed and the sky skiff quickly
picked up speed.
Bart had been on various racing
sailing craft before, but in short or-
der, he was going faster than he’d
ever gone before. The damp air of
the tunnel plastered his face and
he was glad for the strange goggles.
The shaded tunnel made it hard to
see, so he steered straight at the
small but growing bright spot at the
end of the tunnel.
“Hold her steady,” roared Chain
happily and they soared quickly to-
ward the opening.
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
They broke out into the daylight
and Chain cranked up the thrust
even more. “To starboard!” Chain
yelled.
Bart pushed the tiller to port to
turn the skiff to starboard. It wasn’t
easy—the tail assembly was huge
and the air was fighting against him.
Chain canted the ship to starboard
as well, and they skiff leaned into
the turn, nimble as bird.
“Hang on,” said Chain. “Let’s see
what she can really do!” The skiff
lurched and the loud whirr of the
propeller became a roar.
And then the skiff really took off.
~ power at all altitudes.”
They learned to communicate
by hand gestures, turning this way
and that, climbing and falling, dart-
ing this way and that like any nimble
bird. It was terrifying. It was ex-
hilarating. I’m actually navigating,
thought Bart, and the years of hid-
den shame at his earliest failures
blew away with the screaming wind.
He felt younger than he’d felt in de-
cades. He didn’t even know where
his cane was.
After a timeless shakedown,
Chain brought the skiff to a halt one
thousand feet above the surface of
the ocean. They met mid-ships and
slowly walked to the front of the
skiff.
“That was incredible, and this
view is incredible, unlike anything
ISSUE 54
I’ve ever seen,” said Bart. “How did
you innovate that?”
Chain looked at the deck and
had a private laugh. “You seriously
wouldn’t believe me if I told you,”
he said, finally. “Let’s just say that
when I was in a creative dry spell,
I received some help from On High
that gave me a dramatic break-
through in my designs. Everything
I’ve done since then has built on
that leap.”
“What manner of energy did you
harness to drive the propeller?”
“Steam! I drive a turbine with a
mixture of powdered coal and pe-
troleum. This gives me consistent
“Amazing! I like what you’ve done
with the big propeller,” said Bart. “It
seems a bit heavy, but maybe you
can make one as big out of lighter
and stronger materials. The invert-
ed tiller is interesting. Have you
considered wings like a bird to assist
with turning?”
“I’ve considered many things,”
said Chain. “All I lack are funds,
time, a trained manufacturing crew
of inspired designers who can think
for themselves but take orders from
me, and a much bigger workshop.
Lacking all that, I get by with inge-
nuity and short sleep-cycles.”
“Well, it has been the thrill of
my long life to take this shakedown
voyage with you,” said Bart. Chain
stuck his hand out, and Bart took it
Page 44

warmly.
“I was wrong to be so brusque,”
said Chain. “You can fly with me any-
time. I guess we should talk about
what you’d like to know and where
you’d like me to drop you off in your
pursuit of someone who probably
isn’t alive.” He actually sighed.
Bart’s eyes twinkled. “If you’d
told me this morning what I’d do
today, I wouldn’t have believed you.
Perhaps today is a day for miracles.”
Chain shrugged. “Well, where
would you like to be dropped off?”
Bart looked down at the water,
thinking, and then cocked his head.
He pointed down. “Chain, do you
see what I see?”
Chain joined him at the rail,
squinted, and ran to a box secured
by the steam stacks. He unlocked
the box and returned with a tele-
scoping magnifying glass. “It’s two
Haddirron airships,” he said. “One
appears to be following the other.
The one below us appears to be run-
ning for Parrot Bay.”
Bart said, “Do you recognize any
of the crew?”
Chain adjusted the glass. “The
one below is isn’t a standard Had-
dirron naval crew. They’re wearing
all manner of colorful garb, much
like... No. It couldn’t be.”
“What? Couldn’t be what?”
Chain started laughing. “Unless I
miss my guess, that down there are
my former crew, and they’re up to
their old tricks.” He swung the glass
out to look at the ship chasing them
out at the horizon. “I gather they’ve
stolen another airship, and that’s
the Navy behind them in hot pur-
suit.” He closed the glass carefully
and strode back to the box. “We’ve
got a change of plans. We’d better
get back to Parrot Bay and alert the
Friar.” He stowed the glass and re-
locked the box. “And unless I miss
my guess, that lot there will have
any answers there are to be found
about the fate of your late friend,
Cooper Flynn!”
Four hours ago
They made their arrangements
and said their goodbyes before Bart
resumed his post at the tiller and
Chain engaged the steam turbine.
They made it back to Parrot Bay
ahead of the fleeing stolen airship
and Bart helped guide the skiff in
toward the dock as Chain dropped
altitude and eventually settled
down into the water, the skiff glid-
ing forward and gently nudging the
dock. Chain quickly tied off and hur-
ried off to find The Friar.
Bart regretfully retrieved his cane
went the other direction. Hiding in
the underbrush, he saw Chain ap-
proach The Friar. He waited for ten
minutes as they spoke, and then
Chain turned and walked back to-
ward the skiff. The Friar and Pikir
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
spoke for some time, and then they
split up. Who to follow, The Friar or
Pikir? He thought he caught move-
ment out of the corner of his eye
following Pikir, and his intuition told
him to stick with Pikir, so he did.
Pikir spent the next half an hour
meeting with various locals. Bart
couldn’t hear what they were say-
ing, but it had the air of planning
something that required coordina-
tion, and Pikir was the coordinator.
What were they doing? Bart idly
brushed at insects and kept his eyes
open. Something niggled at the back
of his mind. Maybe a younger man
would have figured it out by now. Or
maybe it was up to a the shrewd to
decipher the problem. Perhaps age
wasn’t always the thing.
Pikir came out, but he was wear-
ing a different shirt and seemed to
have more energy. Bart eyebrows
narrowed, and then he smiled. It
wasn’t Pikir, it was the son, Mikir.
It must have been a moment for
epiphany. He looked up into the
trees. There were birds there, he
could see them, but they weren’t
talking to each other. Bart smiled.
He wasn’t alone. He didn’t see any-
one moving, but knew someone
was out there, also watching. Bart
wondered if the other watcher
knew it was Mikir who was now on
the move, not his father.
Mikir walked off down the trail.
Bart waited. A shadowed figure rose
ISSUE 54
up not twenty feet away and silent-
ly followed. But who was it? Sure
enough, somebody big and quiet
was tracking the one who he appar-
ently thought was The Friar’s right
hand man. Was it The Barracuda? It
was too dark to tell for sure but Bart
wouldn’t be surprised. Bart waited
a few moments and then went the
other direction. Pikir was still in the
building, and Bart had an idea.
The Present
Cooper Flynn stood, sword drawn
and held lightly at the throat of The
Friar of Briar Island. “You owe me
a story,” said Flynn, standing off to
his right, dashing with the amber
glow of the setting sun lighting up
his face.
The Friar swallowed, the apple of
this throat grazing the edge of the
sword. “Put down your sword, my
friend, and we’ll talk.”
Flynn said, “Ever since I’ve known
you, you’ve been ahead of me, us-
ing me as one would use a pawn.”
He leaned close, the edge of the
sword touching the Friar’s exposed
throat. When he spoke, his voice
was soft, and slow, as intimate as
a kiss on a cheek. Or the slice of a
blade. “I...am not...a pawn...now.”
The Friar’s eyes widened slightly
and he tried to draw even further
back. “Please,” said the Friar. “I am
done with intrigue. I have exhaust-
Page 45

ed my gambits. I am back on my
heels. You are armed—I am not. You
are young—I am not. I swear to you,
I am no threat to you tonight, with
or without a sword.”
Flynn’s eyes glinted. “I am not
a fool. You are always as much a
threat with or without a sword.” He
started walking around the Friar,
keeping the sword’s aspect consis-
tent as he strolled. “All the time I’ve
known you, you’ve expected people
to follow you, and when they don’t
know what you expect, you make
them follow you anyway whether
they know it or not.” He stalked
slowly around behind the Friar and
started around the other side, the
edge of the blade more promised
than felt. “Here’s the thing—I’m not
the man you remember. I’ve been
places I can’t explain and have seen
things I can’t yet convey.” He started
around the other side and started
to come back into The Friar’s view.
“But I’m back now, I’m not exactly
sure how. And I know some things
without knowing how I know them.”
He stopped in front of The Friar
again. “And when the time comes,
and the situation warrants, I may
be called upon to lead, and you may
be called upon to follow. I need to
know that I can depend on you as
you have depended on me. Do you
have it in you to be as courageous a
follower as you were a leader?”
The Friar did not answer at once.
Finally, he said, “What are the
stakes? Briar Island?” Flynn ges-
tured up with his thumb. The Friar
nodded. “Haddirron?” Flynn ges-
tured again. “The ocean nations?”
Flynn gestured again. “The world?”
Flynn bellowed and whirled the
sword over his head, driving it deep
into the sand between The Friar’s
feet. He left it quivering there and
stepped back holding both his
hands out to his sides in the final
gesture of what appeared to be ev-
erything. “Would you be willing to
follow if the stakes were so high?”
The Friar took a deep breath,
stroked his throat in thought, and
then placed his hands on his knees.
“Yes, I believe I would. But I would
want to have the help of good
friends.” He smiled. “And I know just
where to find them.”
The Friar stood and stretched.
The Friar was closer to the sword.
He looked at the sword in front of
him and then at Flynn. “He would
be proud of who you’ve become,”
he said quietly.
“Who?”
“Your father.”
~ “Please give my regards to The Friar
Mikir was watching the clearing
as the sun set. He had his hand on
the hilt of the sword at his waist.
A man cleared his throat behind
Mikir’s back, and he turned.
The Barracuda stood behind him
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook
with his thumbs in the sash at his
waist. He towered over Mikir. “Pikir,
I presume,” he said. “The Friar’s
right-hand man.” Mikir started to
protest but The Barracuda waved
him to quiet. “No-no, don’t protest
your identity. Your reputation pre-
cedes you. I know that wherever
The Friar goes, you’re not far be-
hind. I also have reason to believe
Cooper Flynn is talking to your Mas-
ter, and I have need of his presence.
Be so kind as to let him know I’m
here. You go first.”
The Barracuda heard something
in the clump to his left.
“’Beware the whimsical parrot,’”
and Pikir stepped out where the
light from the clearing revealed
his features. “I believe I’m the one
you’re looking for. I see you’ve al-
ready met my son, Mikir.”
The Barracuda said, “What...”
before the business end of a heavy
wooden cane whistled out of the
darkness to his right and felled him .
He made a rather large sound as he
collapsed unconscious to the jungle
floor.
Blind Bart stepped forward and
stood over the fallen bounty hunter.
and his guests,” he said grinning.
~ rate baskets. “The Friar says she’s
Flynn blinked once, slowly.
“What?”
The Friar gestured toward the
sword. “I swear on your father’s
ISSUE 54
sword that I speak the truth—your
crew is not dead, and I am not your
enemy.” He sighed. “Indeed, I am
one of the few friends you have
left.”
The Friar’s statement was re-
warded when the tip of Flynn’s
sword wavered and then dropped.
“You knew my father?”
“Knew him? He made me who I
am! And now it appears I may be in
a position to repay the gift. Rum?”
Flynn snorted.
The Friar nodded. “I am a man of
my word.” He snapped his fingers.
“Pikir! Rum for our friend!”
Pikir stepped out of shadow.
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The Friar took a step toward the
bench where two tankards were be-
ing filled. “Shall we?”
Flynn stayed put. “You’re going to
need another mug.”
The Friar stopped and looked
back. “Oh?”
Flynn yelled over his shoulder.
“Gravin, come dip your oar.”
The Menorran Merc stepped out
of shadow and sheathed his sword.
The Friar’s smile vanished.
Gravin said, “Where is Bola, and
when can I talk to her?”
Flynn gestured to the hanging pi-
over there taking a nap. The Friar
says she’ll awaken shortly.”
Gravin frowned. “She doesn’t
look like she’s taking a nap. She
Page 46
 ISSUE 54

looks dead. If she’s dead, somebody are, my friend. You’ve earned it!”
is going to join her in the Beyond.”
Flynn stood and clapped him on
the shoulder. “Tell you what—re-
lax and take a break for a bit. If she
doesn’t wake in a reasonable span,
you can kill these two. Deal?”
Gravin grunted and stood at what
looked like a parade rest, his hand
resting on the haft of his sword. He
didn’t look relaxed.
Flynn turned back to the Friar.
“You said something about rum?
We may as well have that nip while
Gravin here waits for the resurrec-
tion of the dead.” He accepted a
mug of rum. He gestured toward
the merc. “It is a mighty good thing
you are, as you say, a man of your
word.”
Mikir and Blind Bart stepped out
of the woods into the clearing. Mikir
said, “Your Grace, this man has news
you will want to hear.”
Bart stepped forward. “Cooper
Flynn, as I live and breathe. You are
alive!”
Flynn said, “Bart, is that you? You
old coot! What brings you here?”
Bart rested on his cane. “I bring
news of a bounty hunter they call
The Barracuda. But first, I find I am
somewhat parched.”
Flynn motioned for a mug. “Bart,
would you like some rum?”
Bart smacked his lips. “Don’t
mind if I do!”
Flynn handed it over. “Here you
© 2009 by Johne Cook

The Adventures of the Sky Pirate, Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda, by Johne Cook Page 47

THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
Endgame, Part Two
by Keanan Brand
Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:
The crew of the occasional pirate
freighter, Martina Vega, continues
to run into obstacles in their efforts
to find and rescue Finney, the pilot,
who has been taken by bounty hunt-
ers employed by a former port gov-
ernor, Tarquin, as revenge for killing
the governor’s grandson.
The latest problem concerns the
purchase of fuel from a fence named
Skippy whose cooperation has been
less than willing.
Meantime, Finney is still hearing
her dead grandfather’s voice, but
she gains a little hope when one of
the governor’s servants, a rebel spy,
promises to help her escape. How-
ever, Tarquin decides the only way
to keep Finney in line is by depriving
her of her knees.
And now, on Thieves’ Honor:
S tep two. Step three hundred. It
didn’t matter. No way she’d sur-
vive the Western Desert, a bland,
pragmatic name for stony expanse
of sand extending to the dust-hazed
horizon.
Guns or sand. Guns or sand. Guns
or—
“Ready, aim—”
“Must I put you in constant re-
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 48
membrance that I, not Gregor, am
your employer, and this is my re-
venge?” Tarquin’s querulous voice
shrilled like a rusty intake fan. “Turn
her around. She must see the weap-
ons that will cripple her last few
hours of existence.”
Finney planted her feet. Sand.
The two guards approached once
more, and reached for her arms. She
grabbed the barrels of their guns,
pushed down then yanked them
toward one another. Startled, the
men did not release the weapons,
but fired. Light burst from one bar-
rel, burning a hole through the op-
posite man’s shin. He screamed and
fell, dropping his weapon which,
from the way the other man danced
and squirmed, was loaded with bur-
rower rounds, bullets whose heads
released on impact and clawed un-
der the skins of their targets before
chewing deeper until the victims
died, their insides a blended pulp.
Latent vibrations shuddering
through her limbs, palms sting-
ing from the hot barrels, Finney
grabbed the guns, tucked the stocks
under her arms, and ran.
# tol into the back of his waistband
Flanked by his remaining con-
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
scious bodyguard on the left and
Wyatt on the right, Skippy’s broad
form yawed from side to side as he
waddled through the alleys, lead-
ing the way to the fuel depot. When
the hot breeze caught his sizeable
garments, he looked like an ancient
schooner in full sail.
Ezra walked with the captain, who
hadn’t spoken since this strange lit-
tle procession left the warehouse.
He wore that expression again—his
mouth a straight line, his face an
empty horizon—as if anger, frus-
tration, or fear did not exist. How’d
he do that? And why didn’t he talk
about Finney? Everyone else did.
She was the reason he’d literally
looked down the barrel of a gun.
So why did Kristoff have nothing to
say?
Almost two days since Finney
was taken—hard to believe—and
not quite three since the captain al-
most died, yet here he was, walking
around with a only a sling to prove
it, as if it supported a sprained wrist
rather than protected torn chest
muscles.
They rounded a corner and en-
tered the town’s shabby plaza just
as the breeze kicked up again, tug-
ging Ezra’s shirt. The tranq gun
snagged on the loose hem, and he
realized he was the only one with a
weapon in hand. He tucked the pis-
before any townfolk hollered for the
ISSUE 54
constable. “Captain?”
“Mm?”
“Why do we keep tranquilizer
darts in the first aid kit?”
“First aid kit’s for emergencies.”
“Medical emergencies, yeah.”
“Stayin’ alive ain’t a medical
emergency?”
“That would explain the boxes of
ammunition and the assortment of
whiskeys.”
Kristoff chuckled.
Now, that’s the captain Ezra
knew.
In the center of the plaza crouched
a broken-down fountain, a trickle of
muddy water cutting a dark track
down the center post. Children and
dogs played in the empty basin. Old
men in broad-brimmed hats lounged
under awnings. Skippy listed toward
a shack with bars on the windows
and a sign swinging from the porch
roof—”Shariff an Jale”—but Wy-
att jingled the bag of colonial coin,
Skippy corrected course, and Ezra
smiled. Nothing like a good leash.
Disguised as a big pile of junk
surrounded by bigger piles of junk
in the scrapyard, barrels and crates
rose in uneven stacks: Skippy’s fuel
depot. The bodyguard tossed back
the corner of a tarp, revealing a pyr-
amid of metal boxes branded with
an eye, the iris a stylized Q.
“Is there anything Quantum In-
dustries doesn’t do?” Ezra mut-
tered.

“Peel potatoes and wash dishes.”
Wyatt ran a hand over the top crate.
It was narrow but deep, and resem-
bled a cartridge case. “Reckon we
oughta crack one open, captain, and
check the grade?”
Skippy glanced at his guard. The
back of Ezra’s neck prickled.
Kristoff stepped forward, and nod-
ded to Wyatt. The steward stuffed
the bag of coin into his pocket then
flipped the latches, one at each end
of the container, and lifted the lid.
Skippy shoved Wyatt, and sent
him staggering into a row of dented
hull panels that toppled against the
rusted wreck of a kayak-class runner.
Wyatt slid down a sheet of metal
until he landed in the dirt, his head
hanging forward. He didn’t move.
The bodyguard rammed the butt
of his gun into Kristoff’s chest. The
captain hunched forward, a sick
pale, but he grabbed the stock with
his right hand and shoved back, the
mouth of the barrel catching the
other man in the throat. Eyes bulg-
ing, the guard gurgled and choked,
but he didn’t go down.
Ezra picked up the lid and swung.
The guard’s head snapped side-
ways, and he dropped, blood run-
ning down his face and muddying
the ground. He wasn’t dead, but he
wasn’t moving. Not for a while.
Skippy grabbed the handles to
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 49
heave the case. Ezra lifted the lid
and raised his eyebrows at Skippy,
who set down his load and backed
away from the stack.
Kristoff kicked the bodyguard’s
gun under a heap of discarded rib-
bing. “When you gonna learn, Skip?”
He winced, adjusted the sling, then
stepped up to the fence, whose sun-
reddened face dripped with sweat.
“You change security, you change
storage locations, but you never
change your ways.” Kristoff hooked
a thumb in his gunbelt. “I could ask
you why, but I’m not much inter-
ested. I’m gonna wake up Wyatt and
your guy, and you’re gonna help us
haul these cases back to Martina.”
“My pay?”
“Your goon broke Corrigan’s
hand.”
“An accident.”
“You ordered your men to shoot
me.”
“The light was in my eyes.”
“That how you greet every-
body?”
Skippy shrugged. “Just the ones I
try to cheat.”
“Right. What’s a little dishonesty
among friends?”
“Indeed.” Skippy lifted his hand,
and fire glowed deep in the barrel
of the “cheater” in his fist.
Since Ezra had joined the crew,
he’d learned almost everything
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
about card games, except how to
play, and a cheater was so called
because it could be concealed just
about anywhere, and could blast a
hole through the table and into an
opponent.
“If you walk away with the fin-
est grade of fuel in my stores,” said
Skippy, “I will be paid.”
Kristoff smiled. “And what will
you tell the rebels when they come
to collect?”
“My men aren’t looking too well.
Seems they were set on by a pirate
crew. Looked like the gang flying a
dilapidated old girl called, let me
see, the Martina Vega.” Again, Skip-
py shrugged. “What’s a poor fence
to do?” He pointed the cheater at
Ezra. “I do so dislike firearms.”
# tle from my bag.” The same voice.
Projectiles whined past her head.
Small sand explosions kicked stones
against her legs. Finney stumbled,
righted herself, altered course to-
ward a rocky ridge.
“Idiots!” shrieked Governor Tar-
quin. “Inept, overpaid buffoons!”
Just as Finney gained the ridge,
something slammed into the back
of her thigh. She staggered, fell for-
ward, lost her grip on the guns. They
slid down a slope, and she rolled af-
ter them, landing face-up at the bot-
ISSUE 54
tom, snatching short breaths, feel-
ing every stone she’d encountered
on the way.
Hands clamped around her boots
and dragged her under a low rock
overhang. A man’s voice—”Don’t
move”—and a shadow blocked the
light then disappeared. Running
feet, many of them. Gunfire.
The world fogged. Finney blinked
it clear again. She propped herself
up on her elbows and looked down.
Blood soaked her left leg and pooled
in the sand. She fumbled with her
belt. Pain stabbed. Sight blurred.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Grandfather?
If ye die, Gracie, who will tell the
truth about Andronicus?
The belt whipped from her slack
grasp and wrapped tight around her
upper thigh. “Grab the black bot-
“Blast! Why couldn’t they use hot
rounds instead of slugs? If they in-
sist on poking holes in us, at least
they can cauterize the wounds.”
“Don’t reckon they aim for us to
stay alive.” Another man, a little
younger by the sound of his voice.
“Besides, fire’s tricky to shoot.”
“Give me your knife.”
“It’s not dark yet. Are you sure
she’s the one?”
“Look at her face and arms. Look
at those wrists. Willa said she’d
been shackled and beaten.”

Something burned Finney’s leg,
but she couldn’t flinch away from it.
Couldn’t move at all.
“Any casualties?”
“Only theirs, but the garrison is
mustering.”
“Tell everyone to fall back. I’ll
bring the woman.”
“Go now, while we can cover your
retreat.”
Dragged once more into the sun-
light that blazed beyond her closed
eyelids, Finney was lifted, not slung
over one shoulder or stretched
across both, but cradled as she had
not been since childhood, when
parents or grandparents carried her
to bed.
Aye, until ye became a wee giant
of a lass, and near broke our backs.
“Grandfather.”
“No,” said her bearer between
breaths, heartbeat pounding against
her ear as he ran. “An ally.”
“Kristoff?”
“Not that, either.”
Light dimmed. Air cooled. Gunfire
muffled. She tried to open her eyes.
Other hands took her.
“You four come with me.” His
voice echoed. “As soon as the others
pass through, we close the gate.”
Gracie. Gracie, keep yer wits. I
think yer rescuers are rebels.
# the homemade cart through a pot-
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 50
The kid ducked, raising the lid like
a shield. The cheater’s fire, foiled by
distance and thick metal, slid across
it and disintegrated in a shower of
sparks.
Skippy cursed, pulled the trigger
again, but only a trickle of smoke
curled from the barrel.
“Takes a minute to recharge.”
Kristoff grabbed the gun and threw
it over the rubble behind Skippy.
“Now pick up the crate.”
A radio call to the crew brought
them running: Corrigan with an ar-
senal draped over his shoulders and
across his chest, Mercedes with her
medical bag, Alerio with a motorized
contraption on wheels that allowed
them to haul all the crates back to
the Martina Vega in one load. Krist-
off still ordered Skippy to carry one.
“Why?”
“General purposes.”
“What?”
“Old Earth expression.” Kristoff
applied a length of rusted air duct to
Skippy’s ribs, prodding him forward.
“Means I’m making you carry it. Just
because I can.”
Mercedes examined the uncon-
scious bodyguard, bandaged his
wound, but left him asleep.
Slumped on the stack of fuel
crates, Wyatt rubbed the back of his
head, grumbling as Alerio directed
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
hole rather than around it. Then Wy-
att shot a scowl at Skippy and mut-
tered something uncomplimentary.
“Why’d I ever agree to do busi-
ness with ruffians?” Skippy com-
plained.
Wyatt pulled the bag of money
from his pocket and gave it a good
jingle.
Beside Kristoff, Ezra didn’t speak,
just looked straight ahead and
walked with a long, relaxed stride
far different from the short-long-
short stutter of a gait when he’d left
the ship, and Kristoff felt a sinking
in his stomach. I’ve just lost a cabin
boy.
“How’s your conscience?” he
asked quietly.
“Not sure yet.”
Kristoff nodded. Fair enough.
At the ship, the crew stored the
fuel, securing some in the hold,
some in the engine room. Skippy
helped, Corrigan encouraging his
participation by occasional casual
gestures with a monster of a hand-
gun.
“So,” Skippy said, his round ruddy
face streaming, and his loose gar-
ments no longer blousy but clinging
and dark with sweat. “My pay?”
“Caused us an almighty heap of
trouble, captain.” Corrigan cradled
the long barrel in the crook of his
arm, the one with the bandaged
ISSUE 54
hand. “Don’t reckon he deserves
pay, what with the shooting and
cheating and such.”
“But Captain Kristoff!” Outrage
swelled Skippy’s voice. “What
about the condition of my men?
What about the rebels who’ll be
wanting that fuel?” He drew him-
self up as tall as a stubby spine al-
lowed. “What about honor among
thieves?”
“Honor, my big toe!” Corrigan
hauled back a foot to boot Skippy
down the gangway, but Kristoff
shook his head, and the mechanic
planted both feet on the deck.
Kristoff held out his hand. “Wy-
att.”
The steward frowned, but gave
him the moneybag.
He stepped up to Skippy, looked
him in the eyes, and saw a flicker,
a flinch. “Here. Take your pay. It’s
more than your labor is worth, and
it’s the last you’ll get from us.” He
dropped it into the man’s plump,
blistered palm. “We’re pirates, re-
member? Next time, we’ll just take
what we need.”
Kristoff nodded toward the open
hatch, and Skippy turned. In the dis-
tance, black smoke rose, and flames
stabbed the underbelly.
“My fuel!” Skippy wailed, running
down the ramp and up the dusty
street.

Shouts passed from building to
building like a bucket brigade, and
streets clogged as people ran to-
ward the fire—water pails, can-
teens, even cups, in their hands.
“Now we’re adding cruelty to
our list of acceptable activities, cap-
tain?” Mercedes gestured so forc-
ibly that the sleeve of her lab coat
rode almost to her elbow.
“It’s in the scrapyard.”
“What about sparks? A whole
town! Homeless!”
Sahir will be fine, Kristoff wanted
to say, but resorted to the facts. “Sa-
hir modified a few of Alerio’s home-
made bombs to set the blaze. He’s
a master gunner. Lots of experience
with anything that catches fire or
goes boom.”
“Don’t patronize me, captain.”
“Don’t second-guess me, doctor.”
Mercedes folded her arms and
stood at the hatch.
Sahir would have created an inert
barrier to contain the flames, mold-
ing fire the way a sculptor molded
clay. Kristoff could remind her of
that, but she was in no mind to lis-
ten, and he was in no mood to ar-
gue. Sometimes silence was the in-
ert barrier.
Kristoff stood with her, watch-
ing for the ship’s rotund cook. A
minute later, a sooty, dusty, sweaty
Sahir slogged around the corner of
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 51
the now-empty street, waved, then the lamps. Voices tangled in soft
bent at the waist, digging a fist into echoes along the corridor, but the
his side. rooms she passed were empty.
“Fool’s gonna give himself a heart Rescued by rebels and alive—
attack,” muttered Mercedes, grab- thank God—but with no sense of
bing her bag, and Alerio fired up the place, no way to mark time, hobbling
contraption. It rattled a little, prob- along a tunnel leading nowhere,
ably because it was constructed of haunted by disembodied voices.
salvaged parts and there were only Even Grandfather’s had abandoned
rudimentary tools aboard the Vega, her.
but it worked just fine for fetching She clapped the crutches togeth-
exhausted crewmembers. er, stretched the wounded leg be-
As soon as they were aboard, fore her, and sat. Thin, loose, white
Kristoff closed the hatch. “Let’s go hospital shorts didn’t shield her
get Finney.” from the cold stone, but she wel-
comed it. Leaning back her head,
# she looked along the luminescent
arrow of light. For millennia back
Hanging from the rough, arched
on Earth, wars were fought with ar-
ceiling, a single row of lamps ex-
rows, and bows were weapons of
tended deep into the tunnel, an
choice for heroes in many of the old
arrow of light piercing the dark.
paperback adventure books Kristoff
Finney followed it, the soft ferrules
collected. He’d loaned her a few;
of her crutches skritching along
she’d returned most of them.
the grit-covered floor. Her wrists
“We have weapons that shoot
and ribs bandaged, her left thigh
fire, that send out energy pulses,
wrapped in a dressing, she was stiff
that launch all sorts of projectiles,
with gauze and belonged in a cot,
but we still have old-fashioned bul-
but after so many years of falling
lets. Wonder what colonial troops
asleep to the hums and rattles of a
would do if the rebels went Robin
ship, she couldn’t rest in the total
Hood?” She laughed a grim little
silence of a stark white room. A leg
laugh. “Would you join them then,
wound throbbing in time with her
Kristoff? Would I?” She shrugged.
heartbeat didn’t help.
“Yeah, I know you want to run away
Day and night did not exist here,
some day to the unexplored reach-
only the constant diffused glow of
es of the universe, but why not do
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
ISSUE 54
some good with all that military
training? You can’t leave without
me, anyway. Alerio and Corrigan
can keep Martina running, but I
know how she likes to fly.”
Then a dread thought crossed her
mind. “You haven’t found another
pilot, have you, Kristoff?”
“Who’s Kristoff?” The medic—
what was his name?—jogged along
the tunnel. He grinned.
Good-looking guy. A little weath-
ered, but good-looking.
He squatted beside her. “We
don’t have much anesthetic, so you
talked during surgery, and you gave
this Kristoff an earful. Something
about Rebeka and stupidity and a
guy named Bosko who, as I recall,
‘didn’t deserve it,’ but you never did
say if he deserved better or worse.”
“Better.” Finney pointed a crutch
in the direction of her room. “How
far?”
“A lot farther than I would have
thought possible for someone in
your condition.”
In your condition? He made
her sound delicate. Now that she
thought about it, he wasn’t all that
attractive.
He examined the stained dress-
ing, laid the back of his hand to her
forehead —”Gonna have to put you
back in the hole”—then lifted her
and the crutches in one scoop.

“Put me down.”
“I don’t know how you even got
out of bed.”
“Put me down.”
“I get it, you’re tough, but don’t
be stu—”
Finney slugged him in the shoul-
der.
He grunted, and his grip loosened.
“All right, all right.”
She settled the crutches under
her arms, and swung down the cor-
ridor with more energy than she
felt, arms shaking, right leg aching
from taking the extra weight. “What
is this place?”
“Abandoned bunker.” The medic
trotted to catch up. “Colonial gov-
ernment used to keep a full regi-
ment here. Well, not here, but in
Fort Horatio. This was a fallback po-
sition. Then, sometime after the war
ended, they blocked the entrances
with concrete.” His chuckle was a
little breathless. “We love salvage.”
“Who saved me?”
“Other than me?”
“You have my undying gratitude.”
“Good one.”
“After I was shot, who dragged
me to safety? How did anyone know
who or where I was? And why both-
er?”
When he didn’t reply, she
stopped, looked at him, and raised
her brows.
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 52
“Daniel brought you here. You’ll Ezra had been useful back in that
have to ask him.” hovel of a town, but he knew little
“All right then. Take me to him.” about Tarquin, and less about strat-
“Not until we redress that wound, egy. He’d been shot at, he was tired,
and you get some rest.” he needed food and a shower, and
Fussy, fussy. He reminded her of he missed Finney.
Mercedes or Alerio, needing to take “Horatio’s an old garrison town”—
care of something: she, people; Kristoff tapped a solid green circle
he, engines. Or maybe the medic indicating an oasis on the map pro-
was like Wyatt, fiddling with num- jected from a telescreen onto the
bers and paperwork, counting and galley table—”but old doesn’t mean
recounting money as if reassuring unoccupied. If Tarquin’s there, she’ll
himself it was there. “Anybody ever have her own guards, but she’ll make
call you mother?” sure colonial troops take point.”
“Mostly they call me a pain in the “She will tell story.” Sahir leaned
posterior.” his thick forearms on the table. “She
Something tickled her skin. She will be innocent. Victim of crime, ac-
looked down. Blood no longer cident, betrayal.”
stained the bandage but seeped out Alerio pushed his glasses into
from under it. place with a forefinger then folded
He spread his arms. “Now will you his hands. “You mean she’ll kill folks,
let me carry you?” but she’ll have a good excuse.”
She nodded. Sahir nodded. “Always.”
As he reached for her, she thrust “We know her surface reason
a crutch at his chest. “Don’t get any for taking Finney is revenge for a
ideas.” relative’s death, but now we think
“Yes, ma’am.” Finney’s just bait for us. Why us?”
“The name’s Finney.” Sahir shrugged.
Kristoff grabbed the back of his
# neck, as if the muscles were too
tight.
Ezra sat with his back to the wall
“If this is a game,” said Mercedes,
and both feet on the bench, his arms
“I’d like to know the point.”
crossed on his drawn-up knees. The
“The point of any game is to win.
captain had set the ship down in the
By capturing Finn, Tarquin made
desert so the crew could strategize.
the opening move.” Kristoff stood.
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
ISSUE 54
“Until now, we haven’t been able to
make a countermove.”
“You stopped the extraction team
from taking us,” Ezra said. “I’d call
that a countermove.”
Alerio unlaced his fingers and
rolled a rapid beat on the tabletop.
“And we could make better plays if
we knew her endgame.”
“We’re small time. Maybe she’s
not after us.” Mercedes rested her
chin in her hand. “Who else might
want to save Finney?”
The captain didn’t answer, just
paced the galley, everyone watch-
ing even if they didn’t look at him.
They all seemed to know something
Ezra didn’t—not about Finney, per-
haps, but about the captain.
“No family living,” Kristoff said
at last, still gripping the back of his
neck. “No friends but us.”
“Now, I call that a sad state of
affairs.” Wyatt flipped a pencil end
over end, tapping each end on the
table. “Do we know where Finney
is—exactly?” Flip, tap. Flip, tap. Flip,
tap.
Corrigan grabbed the pen-
cil, snapped it in half, and threw
the pieces across the galley. They
bounced off the stove and rolled
across the floor. Wyatt plucked an-
other pencil from his shirt pocket,
but a low growl from Corrigan
sent the pencil sliding back among

the others. Alerio pressed a finger
against his mouth as if in thought,
suppressing a smile.
“Sergeant Frank said she was in a
house just outside Horatio.” Kristoff
returned to the map. “We dress like
the natives, do a little reconnoiter,
then form a plan.”
He turned off the telescreen.
“Load your guns, get some food, do
whatever you need to do. We hit
Horatio in fifteen minutes.”
The crew scattered; Ezra followed
the captain.
“What is it, Ez?”
“I want to return this.”
Kristoff halted, and looked down
at the antique pistol and the belt
wound around Ezra’s arm. “It’s a
good gun.”
“Figured it must be a family heir-
loom.”
Kristoff pulled the gun from its
holster, and held it up. Light curved
along the barrel. “My father taught
me how to shoot with this. Belonged
to my great-great-grandfather.” He
slid it into the holster, and strode
once more toward the wheelhouse,
speaking over his shoulder, “Keep it
oiled and in a dry place. Should last
a couple more generations.”
“But?”
The captain rounded a corner and
out of sight, footsteps echoing along
the passage.
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 53
“But,” Ezra said quietly, “what
about your family?”
Tap-pause. Tap-pause. Tap-pause.
Ezra turned.
Wyatt approached, flipping and
tapping a pencil on a clipboard.
“Way he figures it, you are family.”
Something squeezed Ezra’s chest
and pulled, like a fist around a rip-
cord. “I have a family.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Wh-what about my parents?”
“No guarantee you’ll ever find
them.” Wyatt tucked the pencil be-
hind his ear, and crossed his arms,
the clipboard flat to his chest. “Gov-
ernment hasn’t.”
No. They kept an almighty hush
over the fact that the passengers and
crew of the Elsinore disappeared,
along with most of the research.
Ezra suspected the government
wasn’t even looking; maybe they
didn’t want the scientists found.
The Vega’s engines woke from
their idle, and the ship shuddered to
life. Ezra and Wyatt braced their feet
on the floor and their backs to the
wall as the Vega rose. She wasn’t
going far, and the topography wasn’t
steep, so her incline was shallow,
and a solid stance kept them upright
until she leveled.
“You know”—Wyatt pushed away
from the wall—”you don’t have to
fire that gun.” He ran a hand up the
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
ISSUE 54
back of his grizzled hair until it bris- his nostrils flared, as if he breathed
tled out in black-and-white spikes. noxious air. “We lost them.”
“But, if I were you, I’d wear it.” “How many of theirs did we
“I’m willing to fight, but killing?” take?”
Ezra shook his head. “Four dead, no prisoners.”
Wyatt looked at him. “Killing’s got She smiled.
nothing to do with it.” Claudius tilted his head.
Her smile widened. “You did not
# expect I would be pleased by such
numbers.”
The garrison commander stood
“No, Governor Tarquin, I did not,
at attention when she arrived,
nor that you would not require a
borne on a litter to the fort, and
squad to track your fugitive.”
she allowed him to approach. One
“When one stirs up a nest of que-
did not wish to appear weak in the
nya bugs, they do not scatter. They
presence of one’s inferiors, so she
dig in, under the skin.”
was propped against a sumptu-
“Unpleasant, but true. What has
ous mountain of cushions as if she
that to do with the rebels?”
merely reclined for the pleasure of
“We’ve stirred the nest, com-
it rather than the necessity, and a
mander. Now we know where they
skillful servant had applied a layer
are.”
of rouge to her cheeks, mimicking
ruddy health. Sometimes, appear-
ance carried one’s weight—though
she would rather possess true youth
and strength than this mere mask of
vitality.
“Greetings, Governor Tarquin.”
The commander saluted, his face
and uniform still bearing streaks of
dirt and blood.
She inclined her head in a single
regal nod. “What news, Command-
er Claudius?” His chin dipped—just
a hair’s breadth, but it dipped—a
V formed between his brows, and

RGR Author Bios
2 Overlords’ Lair: RGR’s Third Anniversary
by Johne Cook
3 Sky Voices
by Alice Roelke
Alice M. Roelke could count as a starving artist, if she were a bit
hungrier and wrote more artful stories. She lives in the United
States, and hates Wonderland jokes.
6 Just A Room, Out in Space
by Matthew Wimmer
Matthew Wimmer left the world of science two years ago to pursue
his writing career. He has a Master’s degree in astrophysics. He
now teaches community college physics. He lives in Kentucky and
is an avid outdoorsman and tomato gardener. He likes to think he
has a skewed take on science fiction, as well as an inside view to
the world of science. He specializes in the tale of the downtrodden
graduate student(having been one for five years). He can be
reached at wimmer_matthew@yahoo.com, or his temporary
website http://www.geocities.com/wimmer_matthew
12 What World is Made Of
by Casey Chan
Kenny Ching is a writer and lawyer. He lives in Reno, Nevada. His
website is kennyching.wordpress.com
17 CALAMITY’S CHILD — CHAPTER 8
ROP: King in the Corner
by M. Keaton
Growing up in a family with a history of military service, M.
Keaton cut his lin­guistic and philosophical teeth on the bones
of his elders through games of strategy and debates at the
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 54
ISSUE 54
dinner table. He began his writing career over 20 years ago as a
newspaper rat in Springdale, Arkansas, U.S.A. before pursuing
formal studies in chemistry, mathematics, and medieval literature
at John Brown Uni­versity. A student of politics, military history,
forteana, and game design, his renaissance education inspired
the short television series: These Teeth Are Real (TTAR).
His literary “mentors” are as diverse as his experiences. Most
powerfully, the author has been affected by the works and writers
of the “ancient” world, including the Bible, Socrates, and (more
modern) Machiavelli, Tsun Tsu, Tacitus, and Von Clauswitz. (This
horribly long list only scratches the surface; M. Keaton reads at a
rate of over two books per week in addition to his writing.)
25 C.MOIRA’S CHOICE
by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
Donald Jacob Uitvlugt was born in western Michigan and currently
lives in central Arkansas with his wife and dog. His speculative
fiction has appeared in various print and on-line formats, including
The Sword Review, Science Fiction Trails and SpaceWesterns.
com. He also regularly contributes reviews to Ray Gun Revival.
28 ARTIST INTERVIEW: Christian Nauck
29 TALES OF THE BREAKING DAWN
The Ties That Bind, Part Three
by Justin R. Macumber
A victim of the economy, Justin is now a full-time writer of space–
faringopera and daring-do, working to earn his big break. He’s written
stories in almost every genre, but science fiction is where his heart
belongs, and it always will. He also created and co-hosts a writing

podcast called The Dead Robots’ Society, which you can find at
www.deadrobotssociety.com.
And, if you want to learn more about him and read some of his
other work, you can go to www.justinmacumber.com.
33 Deuces Wild, Season Two
Space-pale
by L. S. King
L. S. King is a science fiction and fantasy writer with
one book, several published short stories, a column on
writing, and an ongoing monthly serial story to her cred­it.
When on the planet, this mother and grandmother lives in Delaware
with her husband Steve, homeschools their young­est child, and
also works as a gymnastics coach. In her non-existent spare time
she enjoys gardening, soap making, reading, and online gaming.
She also likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a Zorro afi­
cionado, which might explain her love of swords and cloaks.
37 RGR REVIEWS
by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt and
Matthew Scott Winslow
40 The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
Chapter 27, Enter the Barracuda
by Johne Cook
Johne Cook is a technical writer by day and creative writer / editor at
night. Married 24 years to Linda, they share two kids, two dogs, and
partial ownership of a cat, Razor. They live in the rolling hills of South-
central Wisconsin, and are ardent fans of the Green Bay Packers. His
interests include prog rock, film noir, space opera, and racquetball.
His friends call him Captain ADD. And also his enemies. Squirrel!
THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
Endgame, Part Two
, by Keanan Brand Page 55
ISSUE 54
48 THIEVES’ HONOR: EPISODE 9
Endgame, Part Two
by Keanan Brand
Writing since age nine, when an English assignment required a
short story, Keanan Brand dreamed of writing Westerns or books
about history, or recording the crazy stuff of dreams. Late teens
and early twenties witnessed the imposition of real life and the
putting away of dreams. For a time, he dabbled in nonfiction and
freelance journalism, then a supervisor suggested a free writing
seminar at the local college, and Keanan returned to a greater love:
fiction, specifically fantasy and science fiction. He started entering
contests, winning awards for poetry, essays, and short stories.
These successes led to freelance editing for other writers, and for
a science fiction small press.
His first story to be accepted by a Double-Edge Publishing, Inc.,
publication was At the End of Time, When the World Was New, a
short piece of speculative fiction that appeared in the final issue
of Dragon, Knights, & Angels. History, mythology, folktales, C.S.
Lewis, Howard Pyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Shakespeare, Robert
Louis Stevenson, and the Bible remain great influences, as do the
family tall tales, pioneer stories, and Southern gothic with which
Keanan grew up.
54 RGR Author Bios