Issue 41 March 01, 2008

 Pg. 2
Ray Gun Revival
Table of Contents
Overlords (Founders / Editors):
Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn 2 Table of Contents
Venerable Staff:
3 Overlords’ Lair
A.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor 5 Alien Cafe
Shannon McNear - Lord High Advisor, grammar consultant, listening
ear/sanity saver for Overlord Lee by Russell J. Fellows
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, sounding board, strong right hand 8 Calamity’s Child
L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse,
webmistress
Chapter Two: Potlatch
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle by M. Keaton
washer 18 Featured Artist: Paul Davey
21 JASPER SQUAD
Slushmasters (Submissions Editors):
Scott M. Sandridge Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
John M. Whalen
David Wilhelms by Paul Christian Glenn
Shari L. Armstrong
Jack Willard
30 Deuces Wild, Season Two
Chapter 3: Fractured Facets, Part Two
Serial Authors:
Sean T. M. Stiennon by L. S. King
John M. Whalen
Ben Schumacher 36 The RGR Time Capsule
Lee S. King
Paul Christian Glenn
February 15 - February 29, 2008
Johne Cook

Cover Art: “We Can’t Win” by Paul Davey

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Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008
 Pg. 3

Overlords’ Lair

Itheabout
debated writing something pithy this month new gig are variable and unique compared to back like water off a duck, and I became quickly
March coming in like a lion, but with all what I was used to.
snow and frigid temperatures we’ve gotten
impressed with her can-do attitude and good
humor.
in these parts, I just didn’t have the heart to Along the way, I’ve discovered blessings I didn’t
see the metaphor through. expect. My contacts at the new job are beyond It is one thing to talk about changing paradigms,
excellent, the new co-workers are colorful corporately, but when it comes to switching
Instead, I’ll write a tad about uncertainty, and professional and come from all over the up everything in my career routine, well, new
dynamic change, and conflict. place. Many are from India, but apart from decisions come at you pretty fast. I learned
the regional flavors that color their English, this week that a change to my routine affects
To me, that’s what March is all about. Will the they are uniformly interesting and fun to be those around me, as well. In my own life, with
month start off full of fierce weather events around. They are knowledgeable and giving in everything up in the air, and my ability to
and then calm down to gentle rain showers their work, and they, the ‘aliens’ from another keep in touch with friends suddenly altered, I
as spring thaws Winter’s icy grip? No one country, uniformly bent over backward to make discovered quickly how much I value my own
knows, but the dynamic weather patterns that me, a ‘local’ feel welcome. support structure. My spouse stepped up to
typify the month hold my attention as I wait the plate and changed her work schedule to
out winter’s death throes and hope that I can There was a working potluck luncheon on help make sure my teenage son gets to school,
bask again in sunshine and temperate breezes Wednesday and I got to sample various dishes my friends put up with more limited access than
before the onset of cabin fever. I’d never heard of. There was this dish with a they are perhaps used to, and yet they remain
dirty rice and chicken that was out of this world, willing to take my calls and e-mails when I can
Uncertainty, dynamic change, and conflict have and a cold salad of corn and colored beans communicate.
been the theme in my own life this month. As and an amazing sauce . I don’t know what the
a contract technical writer for my day job, I seasonings were for any of it, but they were I feel a little guilty for how uncertainty, dynamic
finished one long-term writing gig on February entirely new tastes to my jaded palate, and I change, and conflict affect those around me.
29th, and moved immediately into a new one enjoyed the variety. At the same time, I appreciate how true my
on March 3rd. My commute nearly tripled in family and friends are despite the upheaval
the process. I was amused at how much that My contact at the new company was a wonder. of the routine in my life. I realized anew this
changed some things, and how little it changed She juggled getting me up and running while week that I simply am not worthy. The dirty
others. Before agreeing to take the position, I maintaining her own full slate of meetings, little secret is that they’ve always known that,
determined in my head and heart to maintain all the while knowing that she has a vacation and they love me anyway. Bringing this back to
a positive mental attitude about the drive. So coming up overseas for two weeks. But despite the matter at hand, Issue 41 is for all of you. I
far, so good. a bursting schedule and equipment that didn’t think you’ll like it.
want to cooperate, she handled all the conflict
All of my weekly habit patterns changed literally with dry humor and effortless determination.
overnight. I go to bed a little earlier, get up Some would complain. The stress rolled off her
much earlier, and my daytime routines at the

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

 Pg. 4
First up is a fast, fun story, Alien Cafe, by
Russell J. Fellows. Russell is editor-in-chief
of Perpetual Magazine, but he’s also a writer,
and we’re delighted to show off what he can
do with his first story in RGR.
My name’s Ralph, and I run the Alien Café
off station Beta Nine. I know, not very
creative, but when you’re the only place
to grab a bite between Earth and Alpha
Centauri, people don’t care about creative.
Running a diner that caters mainly to
freight runners, you get used to seeing
a lot of different things, and not much
surprises me any more. Having a dozen or
so atomizing rifles pointed at me is getting
annoying, though. Especially when these
things always seem to happen during the
lunch rush.
Sometimes, the best things take the longest
to germinate. This issue of Ray Gun Revival
magazine continues a serial novel whose first
part appeared as a classic RGR short story all the
way back in RGR Issue 08. You may remember
author M Keaton and his story Subject Real.
We are proud to publish the continuation of
his serial novel Calamity’s Child with the first
part of Chapter Two, Potlatch.
“Track east along the horizon from where
you are now,” Ivan replied.
“Ahh, there…the dinosaurs. Yes, I see them
both.”
“Both?” Ivan started to ask as the thunder
of Groten’s rifle slapped his eardrums. In
the distance, one of the waving necks
jerked, collapsing like a snipped string.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“Got it! One shot!”
Pharaoh yanked the tourist to his feet, gun
and all. Spinning him, the guide pushed
him down the hillside. “Jeep! Now!” he
commanded.
I’ve thought for years now that Paul Christian
Glenn would give us the next great novel in the
tradition of Joss Whedon’s Firefly. The next
installment of his serial novel, JASPER SQUAD,
Strange Horizons!, confirms Paul’s eye and
ear for great space opera. This is his breakout Ah, that’s really good stuff.
chapter.
She stood frozen for a moment, then
relaxed and slowly holstered her weapon.
“Don’t play games with me, Stamp.”
He grinned in the darkness. “I wouldn’t
dare.”
Captain Spill’s voice rang out from the edge
of the garden. “You two,” he called, “what’s and your faith and continued belief in Ray
going on?”
Stamp turned to see the captain’s shape
in the moonlight, his shooter drawn and
aimed at Stamp’s head.
L. S. King’s Deuces Wild continues with
Fractured Facets, Part Two. She’s got another
strong chapter, here. I know how hard she
worked to whip this chapter into shape, but
you won’t be able to tell from the prose. It’s
smooth, and flows, from an apparent effortless
hand. I guess that’s how these things go.
Carter eyed him warily. “What do you have
in mind, Captain?”
He continued slowly. “Things have gone
from facile to probably fatal as far as Addie
goes. If the Confeds want us, they won’t
release her in any event. So we have to
strike boldly. We will all be in danger either
way.” He bored into Carter’s eyes. “Unless
we just cut our losses and leave.”
Slap’s mouth dropped open. “Cut losses?
Cut losses? How can you mean that? You’re
talking about just leaving her here to be
murdered?”
If these last couple of weeks have taught
me anything, it is that uncertainty, dynamic
change, and conflict don’t have to be bad.
They can bring about growth in your own life
if you believe in yourself, if you have devoted
friends, if you determine to make the best of it
with your will.
I appreciate your forbearance, gentle reader,
Gun Revival magazine as we continue to press
forward. Hang in there—spring is coming.
Johne Cook
Overlord, RGR
Breezeway, Wisconsin
March, 2008
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Alien Cafe by Russell J. Fellows
Alien Cafe
by Russell J. Fellows
M y name’s Ralph, and I run the Alien Café
off station Beta Nine. I know, not very
creative, but when you’re the only place to
grab a bite between Earth and Alpha Centauri,
people don’t care about creative.
Running a diner that caters mainly to
freight runners, you get used to seeing a lot of
different things, and not much surprises me
any more. Having a dozen or so atomizing rifles
pointed at me is getting annoying, though.
Especially when these things always seem to
happen during the lunch rush.
Pirates barged in about ten minutes ago,
demanding their black box. It’s always someone
demanding something, and they always want
it immediately. No one ever seems to just want
to sit and talk anymore.
Of course, I knew exactly what they were
after, and who had it, but I wasn’t about to tell
them. Not because I felt great joy in keeping
things from murderous pirates bent on ripping
my diner apart, but because I’m quite fond of
the pretty face in possession of said artifact.
May fancies herself an archaeologist of
sorts. Really, she’s a treasure hunter, but
I let her think what she wants. She came in
yesterday, grinning ear to ear, holding tight to
her little knapsack that never parts from her
side.
“Isn’t it something?” she said. “This is
probably the most important piece I’ve found,
ever! I mean, this will tell us so much about
Ray Gun Revival magazine
the Natarri people. I can’t wait to get it to the
museum.”
Really, it just looked like a black cube to
me, but I loved watching her get so excited
over things. It’s hard to find anyone with her
kind of passion and excitement anymore, not
in a place like this. Freighters are usually just
occupied with surviving their runs.
Even other treasure hunters have started
to let the bureaucracy of the Alliance get to
them. Not May, though; she is still as vibrant
as the day I met her. It was infectious, so I let
her bring by whatever new artifact she found
for me to look at.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson
after the fiasco with the Disconti Imperial
guard. And, of course, next it was pirates…with
their minds set on extracting their little black
box from my hide. The fact that it wouldn’t
get them anywhere to destroy my place, or
skin me alive, made little difference to them.
They’d simply chalk it up to practice for the
real perpetrator.
“So tell me, where is it?” the tall one asked
me. I think his name was Domo, or Donna, not
that it mattered. I found it better to let people
have their hissy fits without interrupting them
because it usually makes them happier.
And happy people don’t kill you.
“Look, Drackie, was it?”
“Drakor.” The low guttural growl let me
Pg. 5
know plain enough he didn’t like pot shots at
his name.
“Sure, sure. Look, I know you want your...
whatever it is you’re looking for, but as you
can see, I’m very busy trying to run a business
here.” I tried to point his attention to the dozen
or so pairs of eyes fixed on him and his men.
By the stark look on his face, I think it
worked. For a brief second, it looked like he
was going to change his mind and leave…only
a brief second.
Crack! His fist hit my face so hard that I
bounced off the counter behind me. I stood
back up and wiped the blood off the corner of
my mouth.
“You know, I’ve met some dumb pirates
before, but you are first class,” I gritted my
teeth, and then stopped. My jaw still hurt
too much to do that. “You are on Federation
territory, and you assaulted a Federation
citizen.” I clenched my jaw and winced at the
pain.
“Check the treasure hunter.” At the end
of the bar, with a mouth full of hamburger
and spite, sat Sasha. I call her Sasha for two
reasons: one, because I can’t pronounce her
real name, and two, it really irritates her.
She was still bitter toward May and I about
getting her disavowed, or whatever it is they
do when they kick you off the Disconti Imperial
Guard. Only reason she still comes in the place
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Alien Cafe by Russell J. Fellows Pg. 6

is for the burgers. She can’t get enough of them, “Yes, we will leave, but we’re taking the “You laugh? The Alliance must not impede
so she keeps telling me. She also makes a point treasure hunter with us.” Bobby and the other the justice of any race. Our law calls for her
of telling me it’s the only reason she hasn’t grabbed May by the arms. death!”
killed me yet, since mine’s the only place she
can get them without actually having to set “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not so fast, Tex.” “Your law? You’re a pirate, and as such, you
foot on Earth. are not recognized by the Alliance. So, unless
“My name is Drakor!” you really feel like dying today, put down your
Drakor smiled his toothy grin, reminding weapons and walk away.” My pulse was quick,
“Yeah, I caught that. You’re not going
me of why his people were called the Snaggle- anywhere and I was getting anxious. If there was one
teeth, although not to their faces. He nodded so let’s notwith her. You’ve got what you want, thing a pirate was never afraid of, it was dying
make this complicated.”
toward a couple of his minions, and they for what they believed in.
walked toward May. Drakor roared, and the atomizing rifles “I am not afraid to die!”
went back up, all trained on me.
“Hey, wait a minute! She says ‘treasure
hunter,’ and you automatically assume me? I’m “I already said that.”
The room rustled, and I was pleased to see
an archaeologist, thank you very much!” May that just about every freighter in the room was “What?”
clutched her knapsack tighter, pulling away standing with their blasters pulled and ready
from them. to fry the pirates. “Never mind. Look, you might not be afraid
to die, but how will you get your little black
One growled in response, and she handed “Look, Drakor, as much as I would like to box back to the princess if you’re dead?” That
it over, muttering under her breath. see the tiny one’s frozen body floating in deep made him stop and think. “All right? If she sent
“Bobby,” Drakor held out his hand, and the space, I’m afraid I can’t let you be the one to you all the way out here to find it, she must
do it.” I don’t know who was more shocked, want it really bad—whatever it is.”
pirate tossed him the knapsack. Drakor or me, when Sasha actually spoke up in
I know, it took me by surprise, too—a defense of May, albeit a very morbid defense, “None of your business.”
Natarri pirate named Bobby...but I digress. but that’s big coming from her.
“Okay. Still, she wants it. You need to get
Drakor opened the bag, and I could see “Listen, wench, I thank you for your help it to her, and you can’t do that if you’re fried.
relief wash over his face. I dare say, even a before, and for that I won’t kill you where you Understand.”
smile. “It’s here.” sit. I advise you to stay out of this.” Drakor
sounded tough and intimidating, up until Sasha It took him an uncomfortable amount
“Told you that filthy treasure hunter would decided to stand, and her eight feet of pure- of time to think it over, but it finally sank in.
have it. Can’t keep her hands off of anything muscled Disconti body brought actual fear to He looked to his men and nodded, and they
that doesn’t belong to her.” Sasha muttered, his eyes. lowered their guns. One by one, they backed
and was still blabbing, but it’s hard to under- out of the diner, freighters’ blasters still pointed
stand anyone who insists on talking with half a He stuttered for a moment, before finding at them.
cow hanging out of her mouth. his confidence again.
Drakor didn’t look happy, as he was the
“Okay, so you’ve got what you came for, now “This is against the Alliance!” Drakor last to leave. He kept his eye on me, until he
you’ll be leaving, right?” Not trusting Bobby stomped his foot, and I would have laughed reached the door, then he turned to look at
and his partner, I kept my eyes on May.. . if it were a different situation. Oh, who am I May. “This is not over, treasure hunter! You
kidding, I let out a small chuckle. will answer to our justice, one day!”

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

Alien Cafe by Russell J. Fellows Pg. 7

He left, and everyone relaxed. They Russell J. Fellows

returned to their seats, and I could feel the col-
lective sigh of relief as it swept over the place. Russell J. Fellows is editor-in-chief of Perpet-
ual Magazine, and a writer with stories fea-
And then I heard the laughter. tured in Bohemian-Alien.
I turned to see Sasha laughing so hard she
almost choked on her burger.
“Glad to see you enjoying yourself, Sasha.”
“How could I not? It’s so nice to find
someone else who hates the two of you as
much as I do. Can I have another of your Earth
fizzy syrup drinks?”
“Even so, thank you for defending May; I
know that must have been hard.”
“I did not do it to defend her, but to keep
them from stealing what will be my glory one
day.”
I turned toward the soda fountain, and
quickly glanced at May. She stood, and had her
eyes fixed on Sasha.
I remember thinking, as I went to pour
Sasha her drink, that May wouldn’t be foolish
enough to do anything. I knew she was rash
and all, but not crazy… I’ve come to realize I’m
not that great at judging people.
Crack!
Bam!
“Aaaaa!”
And here I was worried about pirates.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Two: Potlatch
by M. Keaton
Part One
I van resisted the urge to slap at the insect
biting the back of his neck and spoke into his
radio. “I’ve got one spotted. Go ahead and bring
Herr Bwana up.” He shifted the belt anchoring
his micro-howitzer to something resembling a
more comfortable position, leaning his back
against the bole of a nearby tree—assuming
it was still considered a tree if it had red fur
instead of bark on its trunk.
In the shallow valley behind him, the engine
of the lodge owner’s jeep grumbled, then
coughed to a stop. The chance of something as
small as a jeep spooking a langer was remote,
but not worth the risk. Langers were unpre-
dictable at best.
It would take awhile for Pharaoh to lead
the heavy-set German client up the slope on
foot. Ivan let the tree support the bulk of his
weight and pulled his pistol, using its scope to
scan the horizon. Aside from a decidedly russet
hue, the sub-tropical jungle looked the same
as a dozen other worlds Ivan had been on. The
ground sloped away from him, clearing to a
band of brush and vines, then rose again into
a heavily wooded hillock. Above the canopy,
a pair of long necks stretched and dipped,
tearing foliage from the upper branches like
brachiosaurs of Old Earth feeding.
Pharaoh pushed through the light brush
next to him. The man was stripped to the waist
Ray Gun Revival magazine
in the heat and his charcoal skin glistened with
sweat. Ivan passed him the pistol and pointed.
The seven-foot-tall giant’s hand engulfed the
slug thrower and he raised it to his eye. “There,
Herr Groten,” Pharaoh said, his voice a smooth,
deep roll like molasses flowing in a riverbed.
“On the horizon.”
Where Pharaoh was at ease in the planet’s
burgundy jungle, Groten was Earth to the
hilt—old fashioned and old money. Despite
the temperature, he wore the traditional safari
outfit complete with a pith helmet covering his
thinning gray hair. The rifle he clutched against
his chest was taller than he was and weighed
easily over twenty pounds. With a grunt,
Groten lowered himself to the jungle floor,
wrestling the inverted ‘V’ of the muzzle rest
into position, the gun’s considerable length
braced against his prone shoulder. “Where?”
Groten asked, staring through the sight.
“Track east along the horizon from where
you are now,” Ivan replied.
“Ahh, there…the dinosaurs. Yes, I see them
both.”
“Both?” Ivan started to ask as the thunder
of Groten’s rifle slapped his eardrums. In the
distance, one of the waving necks jerked, col-
lapsing like a snipped string.
“Got it! One shot!”
Pharaoh yanked the tourist to his feet,
Pg. 8
gun and all. Spinning him, the guide pushed
him down the hillside. “Jeep! Now!” he
commanded.
“I’ve got suppression,” Ivan called, shifting
his weight around the tree until he had a clear
field of fire into the valley below. Pharaoh was
half-dragging the confused, protesting Groten
through the brush.
Even over the ringing in his ears left by
the rifle shot, Ivan could hear the snapping of
wood ahead of him. At this distance it sounded
like branches, but Ivan knew better; it was
tree trunks. The forest canopy across from his
position began to disappear in bursts—clusters
of destruction that quickly focused into a line
of defoliation headed straight toward him. He
released the safety on the micro-howitzer and
tried to square his hips with the bole of the
tree.
The langer breeched the treeline with a
claw almost twice the size of Pharaoh’s jeep,
shattering tree trunks several feet above the
soil, sending wood fragments spraying across
the valley. The langer’s turquoise claws them-
selves were chitinous and hinged,like a crab’s;
muscular stumps emerging from the front of
the creature’s body functioned as shoulder,
arm, and elbow, organic pistons that drove the
claws in an underhanded, scooping motion.
The claws were not the langer’s only
similarities to a crab—most of its body was
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
sandwiched below a gleaming turquoise shell
almost as tough as steel and above a layer of
chitin only slightly weaker. A wave of flexible
muscle fibers protruded though small gaps in
the lower chitin, then rewove to form a single
rippling foot, moving the langer like a land-
based cuttlefish. The only opening in the upper
shell was jammed with the pulsing myoid rams
that drove the claws. From one edge of the shell
trailed the false neck and head shot by Groten,
its companion decoy invisible somewhere
inside.
Ivan triggered the micro-howitzer, sending
a trio of high-explosive canisters arching
toward the langer’s motion. They detonated
like hammer blows on an anvil with fire and
thunder, stripping away the last of the vegeta-
tion hiding the alien predator.
At the first explosion, the building-sized disc
of the langer’s shell slewed sideways, the near
edge gouging up chunks of soil. A heartbeat
later, it was moving forward again, sideways
this time and slower.
Ivan tripped off another series of canisters,
slower this time. Nothing short of armor-
piercing rounds could penetrate a langer’s
shell, and its curvature would deflect most of
those. He could not hurt it, but he could keep it
down—for a while. The langer pulled its claws
close to the front of the shell and continued its
slow progress, the bright blue-green of its shell
darkened and blistered black.
A pair of gunshots and the sustained blare
of the jeep’s horn penetrated Ivan’s own noise
and the growing ringing in his ears. He clamped
down the trigger and emptied the rest of the
micro-howitzer’s load in a sustained burst. The
Ray Gun Revival magazine
launcher hammered his pelvis against the tree
for agonizing seconds. Ivan clawed at the belt’s
buckle with vibration-numbed hands. It popped
open and he shrugged free of the shoulder
harness, abandoning the launcher, running
toward the squall of the horn, mindless of the
branches tearing at his skin and clothing.
The open-top jeep waited at the base of
the incline and Ivan threw himself into the
back. Pharaoh shouted something he could
not hear and slammed the jeep in gear, the
vehicle lurching into motion even as the langer
crept over the top of the hill. Groten was next
to Pharaoh, pointing behind them and yelling
orders. Ivan ignored him, pushing his arms
away and grabbing the rifle the big German
still held.
Ivan twisted into a sitting position facing
the rear of the jeep, putting his feet against the
back of the jeep and shoving, pushing himself
as far forward as he could. Almost comically,
he fought to brace the weight of the rifle with
the jeep’s frame and his feet. Pharaoh jerked
the wheel and Ivan felt the vehicle rise up on
two wheels, landing with bone jarring force.
He lost his grip on the gun, the muzzle striking
him painfully on the shins, the bouncing of the
jeep trying to pitch it over the side. He clamped
his hands around it and shoved harder with his
feet, until he was lying almost flat on his back
with his knees up, the rifle resting the length
of his body.
“Steady! Hold it steady!” he shouted in a
voice just short of a scream. The jeep bounced
and the rifle butt cracked against Ivan’s jaw.
He forced his cheek against the stock,
squinting into the scope. A moment later he
Pg. 9
gave up; the movement of the jeep made the
magnified view a hopeless blur. He tried to
calm his breathing. Bringing the rifle nearly in
line with the langer, he fired.
The gun bucked, almost dislocating his
shoulder, and Ivan roared in pain. The langer
was gaining, undulating its way straight through
the undergrowth, while the jeep was forced to
follow the crude paths cut through the brush.
He forced his cheek back to the scope, fighting
vertigo.
He fired repeatedly, emptying the rifle
before the pain had time to register, fighting
to keep the muzzle in line. High-velocity slugs
mushroomed into the langer, several splashing
into the muscle mass at the front of the shell.
By the time the last slug fired, Ivan was crying
from the pain in his chest and shoulder.
The jeep slowed to a halt. Ivan struggled to
get free of the vehicle before the langer hit it,
then realized that the predator had stopped.
The blackened blue shell lay on a pool of flaccid
muscle.
“Dead!” Pharaoh shouted, swinging out
of the jeep. The dark giant lifted the rifle off
of Ivan. With slow deliberation, he reloaded
it, sighted, and emptied another clip into the
langer. “Now, definitely dead.”
Ivan rolled out of the jeep and let himself
fall to the ground. “Now kill Groten,” he gasped.
Pharaoh tossed the gun into the back of the
jeep and knelt, helping Ivan to his feet.
“You ruined my trophy!” Groten yelled
indignantly across the hood of the jeep. Ivan
shrugged free of Pharaoh’s grip, wincing, and
bore in angrily on their client.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
“You,” he shouted back, “almost got us
killed! Can’t you read?”
“It’s burned and cracked…worthless! I did
not pay you for this.” Groten gestured wildly
toward the langer carcass, striding toward it.
“Ruined.”
“Langer is short for land angler. You’d know
that if you’d read your tour briefing. Hell, it’s in
the contract that you will not shoot until one
of us tells you it’s safe to shoot.”
Groten kicked the edge of the blasted shell.
“Ruined. I came for a trophy shell and now it’s
ruined. I’ll sue for this.”
Ivan reached for his pistol, realized he’d
lost it, settled for his knife instead. “I ought to
take your head as a trophy! Land anglers wave
those two fake heads around to draw in prey.
And you fell for it like the dumbest cow on the
planet.” Groten flushed bright red and balled
his fists. Ivan spun, jamming his arm deep into
the bloody mass at the shell’s edge. Jerking out
the thick tendril that formed the false head and
neck, he shoved it at the German. “You want a
trophy?” He slashed the muscle free with his
knife and threw the pulpy mass at Groten’s
feet. “There’s your damn trophy! More than
an idiot like you deserves.”
Groten surged toward Ivan, but was
stopped abruptly as Pharaoh’s hand closed on
his shoulder, pulling him back.
“Let us all settle down a bit now,” Pharaoh
said slowly. “Ivan, I think you’ll be needing to
go back to the lodge for the doctor anyhow.
Mister Groten, if you please, return to the
jeep and call the lodge on the radio. Ask them
to send out a flyer to pick up Mister Stepon-
Ray Gun Revival magazine
ovich.” The German glared at the two other
men before sulking away.
Ivan sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“Thanks.”
Pharaoh shrugged. “The man is a fool. I
would not have asked you to help if he were
easy. It is my fault—I should have known better
than to let him talk me into trying a langer.”
“Nobody’s fault.”
“True. Nobody’s fault, except his, and he
pays me enough to make up for it. Go back to
the lodge, and let Martha pamper you. I will
take Herr Bwana around, let him shoot, as you
say, some of the dumb cows of this planet.”
Pharaoh laughed at his own joke. “And do not
worry, my brother, he paid in advance.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that,” Ivan said.
“You going to tell Groten that the burning on
the shell can be stripped and polished away?”
“Why? He did not kill it—so did not earn
it.”
Once the twin engines of fear and anger
had spun down, Ivan was more than willing to
sink into the padded seat of the two-man heli-
copter. The oldest of Pharaoh’s two sons took
care of the driving.
“I know Pop calls you Crazy Ivan,” joked
the younger man in a voice only slightly higher
in pitch than his father’s, “but I never figured
even you would try to wrestle a langer.”
“I won, didn’t I?” he answered, leaning his
seat back. Ivan was asleep before they cleared
the canopy. He awoke when they landed,
thanked the pilot with a nod, and ducked out of
Pg. 10
the helicopter, sprinting away from the packed
dirt that served as a landing pad.
Rather than see the lodge medic, Ivan
headed for his guest room. Probing gingerly
and daubing away blood with a damp rag,
he decided nothing was broken—just a lot
of scratches and bruising. The skin from his
chest up his neck to the side of his face was a
mass of green and black, and swelling quickly.
By tomorrow, he would probably have one
eye swollen shut. His teeth felt loose, but the
damage was cosmetic. After a shower and
a change of clothes, he headed for the main
lodge building and its kitchen.
“You,” ordered Pharaoh’s wife as Ivan
slipped through the rear door, “get ice. Fill bag,
wrap in towel.” The diminutive woman was a
sharp contrast to her husband.
Martha reminded Ivan of a hornet—small,
bright, and loud, buzzing constantly from place
to place, verbal stinger at the ready. Before
Pharaoh had, literally, stolen her away, she had
run the kitchens of a corporate mining enclave
at the edge of Hegemony space. Managing
the staff and facilities of the hunting lodge
was marginally smaller in scope, but she ruled
them with the same militant efficiency.
She moved to block Ivan’s path and
inspected him. “Soup. You go set. I make for
you soup.”
“I’d rather—”
“Soup!” she interrupted. “Ten, maybe
fifteen minutes you be too swelled to chew.
Take ice bag. Wait for soup.”
Ivan knew when he was outgunned and
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
acquiesced, filling a bag with ice, wrapping it
in a towel, and stepped into the dining room.
The lodge never had more than a half-dozen
guests at one time, and the room was designed
accordingly—small and social, a pair of long
wooden tables and an untended bar. The
room’s only other occupant leaned against the
bar, drinking alone and not looking at anything
in particular. Ivan took a seat on the other side
of the room, working the ice pack into place
under his shirt so that the cloth held it in place
against his shoulder.
“Hell of a way to make a living,” the other
man said, loud enough to be heard across the
room but not shouting. Ivan ignored him. He
was a new arrival, after they had taken Groten
into the field. The man finished his drink in
silence, refilled it. One of the kitchen staff
brought Ivan a tray of food—soup, bread, a
second bowl of what appeared to be stew or
very thick soup—and he began to eat, gingerly
spooning the liquid to his mouth with his left
hand.
Once they were alone again, the man lifted
glass and bottle and moved to sit across from
Ivan. “Got to admit,” he said in a casual tone, “I
was a bit surprised to find you here.”
Ivan lifted his gaze and kept eating. His
new companion was tall, most of the length in
his legs. He looked to be in his early thirties,
hair cut short, almost military, facial features
strong and squarish but unremarkable. “Do I
know you?” Ivan asked around a mouthful of
bread.
“No reason you should. Hyland Graves,
Mister Steponovich. I work for Earth Security.”
“For an ErSec agent, you’re outside your
Ray Gun Revival magazine
jurisdiction, Mister Graves. The Hegemony
ended a few billion miles back.”
“True,” Graves said, folding his arms across
his chest, “but we have ways of getting things
done, even on the frontier. It seems to me
that you’ve cashed in your share of ErSec
bounties.”
Ivan grunted noncommittally. “I’m on
vacation, helping out a friend. So why’re you
surprised I’m here?”
“I originally expected to find you with your
partner on the Orion.”
“Don’t have a partner.”
“Really? A rather large red Cillian with a
penchant for murder doesn’t ring a bell?”
Ivan sniffed the stew suspiciously, then
took a spoonful. “Spicy, but not too bad.” He
chased it with a tuft of bread. “Red Dog isn’t
my partner. We just work well together.”
“And often,” added Graves. “Still, have it
your way. But your regular association with
him does make you easy to keep track of.”
“Didn’t realize I was hiding. This is a fas-
cinating conversation but, unless you have a
point, I’d prefer to eat alone.”
Graves smiled indulgently. “Edgar Casey.”
“What about him?”
“Name doesn’t ring a bell?”
Ivan tapped the edge of the stew bowl with
his spoon. “I’m almost done. When I am, so are
you.”
Pg. 11
The ErSec agent’s face hardened. “In the
past two years, you have systematically sought
out, killed or arrested every one of Casey’s
known cut-out men.”
“And two you probably didn’t know about.
So?”
“Looks to me like a pattern.”
“Maybe.” Ivan shrugged. “Maybe Casey
just hangs around with a lot of bad people.
You’re the people put the bounties on their
heads—I just bring ‘em in.” He leaned back
from the table and waved for attention from
the kitchen. “If you’d put a marker on Casey,
I’d bring him in.”
“We’d like to, very much in fact, but there’s
the small matter of evidence.”
Ivan snorted. “You’re trying to tell me you
can’t gin up enough evidence to get a convic-
tion in absentia?”
“Not for a man with Casey’s political clout,
no,” Graves replied seriously. “Even without
the income from his criminal activities, his
mining holdings in the Outer Hedge alone keep
him solidly stocked in lawyers and politicians.”
He paused while a waiter put another basket
of bread on the table and passed a fresh cloth
napkin to Ivan. “No, we need Edgar Casey with
his hand in the cookie jar—and someone to
shoot him before he pulls it out.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out
for you.” Ivan pushed his tray to the center of
the table. “You know what I like about the way
Martha runs her kitchen? You need something,
she’ll make sure it gets to you. Like this sonic
projector with a second helping of bread. This
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
range, it’d probably shatter half the bones in
your legs.” The edge of Ivan’s lips twitched
toward a smile. “Why don’t you tell me exactly
what ErSec wants from me and why?”
Graves placed both palms on the table. “I
think you’re bluffing, but I’m not pushing. We
both want the same thing—Casey. I can’t offer
you that, but I can go the next best thing.”
“Albert Kor.”
Graves nodded. “The big man’s right hand.
And if we play it right, maybe a line on more.”
“How?”
“Potlatch.”
Ivan frowned. “Go on.”
Graves leaned back in his chair and folded
his arms again. “Casey started off in the
rackets, brought his own men up from there.
You know that—it’s how you caught half of
them. His entire organization has a gambling
problem. Kor’s one of the worst, likes to play
for the big stakes. They don’t get much bigger
than potlatch.”
“That’s the game where they blow things
up?” asked Ivan.
“It’s more or less a mix of poker and
baccarat with a heavy dose of voodoo thrown
in. Supposedly, it derived from the religious
rites of the Kwakiutl aboriginals on Earth.
They took conspicuous consumption to a
new level—the richest man was the one who
could give away the most stuff. Except that
more and more often, they just destroyed it to
show that they could. After a few generations
of colonists, gambling got mixed in. After the
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Hegemony outlawed it, the games moved to
the frontier and the stakes have kept getting
higher. If there’s a game, Kor will be there.”
Graves stopped, drained his glass. “You mind?”
he asked, jerking his chin toward the bar.
“Go ahead.” Ivan laid the sonic pistol on the
table and stood as well. Graves poured them
both a drink and Ivan joined him at the bar.
“There’s a Kwakiutl colony about three
thousand miles northwest of here,” Graves
continued. “They shuffle and deal in three
days.”
“I know them—descendants of old Selous’
original bearers when he settled the planet,”
Ivan said. “You want me to bring Kor in?”
Graves shook his head. “Nothing so simple.”
He sipped his drink. “I’m going to play.”
“That sounds stupid. Care to explain?”
Graves laughed. “No wonder Red Dog’s
your partner, you’ve both got the same social
skills. Look at it this way. We’ve got Kor—that’s
a given. ErSec’s tracked him down and pinned
a location on him. Pick up is the easy part. The
next question is, can we get more—follow?”
“Sounds like politics. Just bring him in and
lean on him. If you get too fancy, you’ll lose
your fish.”
“Casey’s people don’t roll over on him—
they’re more afraid of him than us.”
“Maybe. But if nothing else, when you keep
taking down his stand-ins, sooner or later he
has to do his own dirty work, and then you’ve
got him.”
Pg. 12
“The decision was made over my head,”
countered Graves. “ErSec figures we can pick
up Kor when we want to—Casey’s the real
target. That justifies the risks and costs.”
Ivan shrugged the ice pack from his shirt
and laid it on the bar. “All right, we play it your
way for now. So you play. Spell it out for me.
What’re you after?”
“Potlatch takes a lot of command and
control. When you start destroying high value
items, you need oversight, plus some things
don’t even fit inside the building. That means
there’s going to be a lot of communications
traffic between the people running the game
and between the players and their adjuncts.
You can play potlatch on a cash-only basis
but, for most players, it defeats the purpose
of the game—this is about destroying things.”
He paused for breath, drained his drink. “I’ve
already got an ErDef escort cruiser in orbit moni-
toring and recording all that C&C. The informa-
tion dragnet alone ought to get us something.
The Earth Defense ship can intercept Kor when
he leaves the planet.” Graves turned to lean
his back against the bar before continuing, “…
assuming I lose.”
“And if you win?”
“These people play for high stakes—things
beyond money—especially late in the game.
Trading technology and information is common.
If he’s pressed, there’s a chance Kor might put
information about Casey on the table.”
“If you win.”
“If I win.”
“Assuming Kor doesn’t detect the cruiser
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
and skip the game.”
Graves shook his head. “He’s already on
planet. I made sure of that before I contacted
ErDef. Besides, we’re talking about Earth
tech—no way the junk you’ve got out here on
the frontier is going to pick it up.”
“If you say so. How reliable is your source
on all this?” Ivan asked, leaning forward. “You
know a lot about a man who has a vested
interest in not being found.”
“We’ve got a man on the inside—another
player. That’s how I found out about the game
and managed to wrangle an invite.” The ErSec
man flashed a thin-lipped grin. “With two of us
playing, we can whipsaw Kor—both play into
him and set him up.”
“Risky.” Ivan finished his drink and waved
away Graves’ offer of a refill.
“Easy,” countered Graves. “You in?”
“Where do I fit?”
“My security. Each player is allowed one
bodyguard—the Kwakiutl guarantee the safety
of a player at the table but not for whatever
happens outside the game. I want you. You
were on my short list to begin with. That you’re
already here—on the same planet anyway—
cinches the deal.”
One of Martha’s helpers jogged from the
kitchen, carrying a bag of ice. Ivan took it from
him, passing the previous pack in exchange,
and nodded his thanks. “The gun too,” he said.
“Tell Martha thanks.” He worked the ice onto
his shoulder. “What’s in it for me?”
Graves frowned. “I would have thought
Ray Gun Revival magazine
helping get to Casey was enough.”
“Hardly.” Ivan did not try to hide the sneer
in his voice. “First off, I want a copy of every
bit of data you get—if Earth Security gets it, I
get it.”
“Fair enough.”
“Second, since this is your genius plan, not
mine, I want the bounty on Kor—whether we
get him or not.”
“We’ll get him.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Fine, you get the bounty.”
“Third, if I do this, I want Earth citizen-
ship.”
Graves face twitched in surprise. “Didn’t
think that was something you’d care about,”
he said finally.
“Not for me. I know a colony kid—I want
her to have Earth citizenship.”
Graves lips twisted up at the edges. “So you
can send her to all the best schools?”
“Yes,” Ivan replied flatly, turning to stare the
other man in the eyes. “That and all the extra
legal protections you horde for your own.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Graves looked away,
staring across the room.
“Yes or no, right now, or you’re on your
own.”
“Anything else?”
Pg. 13
“Yes or no.”
The muscles in Graves’ jaw clenched.
“Done,” he said bitterly.
“When do we leave?” Ivan asked.
Graves snorted in disgust, and strode from
the room ignoring Ivan’s sarcastic smile behind
him. “Dawn,” he snapped over his shoulder.
Ivan watched him leave, then headed back
for the kitchen. “Martha, mind if I use your
vid?”
She bustled across the room and stopped in
front of him with her hands on her hips. “You
leaving with new friend? Always work, work,
work with you. Okay go, I tell Pharaoh. Where
you go now?”
“I’m just running up to the Kwakiutl enclave
for a few days.”
“Kwakiutl. What? One langer not enough
for you?”
“What do you mean?”
Martha made a noise like an overlooked
tea kettle. “Langer everywhere around that
enclave. All the time you see five or six.”
Ivan frowned. The langer was a major ter-
ritorial predator; one usually roamed around a
ten mile area and did not brook any competi-
tors. “Any idea why?”
“Trash,” the woman snapped. “Throw all
their garbage into sea, sea wash it back up.
Scavengers everywhere.”
Ivan nodded in understanding. “And with
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Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
that much prey in one spot, in come the
langers.”
“Right. You go, you be Careful Ivan, not
Crazy Ivan.”
He laughed. “You got it. The vid?”
“You know where is.” She waved him off,
already turning to give more orders to her
helpers.
Ivan ducked through a side door into
Martha’s office. He activated the screen,
punching in an access code, and sat. A moment
later the screen filled with the image of a well-
endowed brunette standing seductively against
a background of stars.
“Welcome to the Orion communica-
tions—”
“Dell, forward me down to medical.”
The brunette vanished, replaced by a blank
screen. “Transferring now,” intoned a decidedly
male voice.
“Med lab.” A white lab coat filled the screen
as the doctor who answered spoke over his
shoulder. “Hey, Bug! It’s for you!”
“Red Dog is not bug,” came a series of
hums and clicks, strategically augmented by a
translation implant in the chitin of the speaker.
“Who calls Red Dog?”
The doctor walked beyond the vid’s edge,
grumbling. “Get over here and find out. I swear,
House doesn’t pay me enough—”
“Ivan,” the screen was suddenly a red blur
as its camera struggled to focus. Red Dog liked
Ray Gun Revival magazine
to stand as close to the screen as possible.
“Red Dog is less unhappy to see you than any
other human.”
“Good to see you too, you murderous psy-
chopath. How’s the kid?”
The image resolved into a gigantic triangle
of rough chitin topped by a pair of multi-
faceted eyes and razor-sharp mandibles that
snapped closed millimeters from the camera.
“Tough grub. Goes through many tests. Hates
fool human doctor.”
“Who doesn’t?” replied Ivan. “She’s holding
up?”
“Yes. No thanks to Ivan who leaves.”
Steponovich let the barb pass without
comment. He figured he deserved it. When
Pharaoh had asked for help, Ivan was already
looking for an excuse to get away from the
luxury starliner Orion. The frustration of
standing idly by as Kylee struggled to recover
from her ordeal was causing his stomach to eat
its own lining. “I’ll be back soon,” he assured
the Cillian. “Any idea how long ‘til she’s up and
around?”
“Fool human doctor says two weeks most.
Ivan be here then.” It was not a request.
“I’ll be there. Listen, if anything comes up,
I won’t be here. I’ll be at the enclave north of
here. I’ll leave instructions with Pharaoh about
how to get in touch with me. Let House know
too.”
“Bounty?” asked the Cillian.
“Albert Kor. He’s supposed to be at some
card game—”
Pg. 14
“Potlatch?” Red Dog interrupted, his entire
carapace suddenly clattering with excite-
ment. “Ivan go to Kwakiutl enclave to play
potlatch? Potlatch is Red Dog’s favorite game
in universe!”
For a moment, Ivan considered letting Red
Dog take his place, then decided against it.
“It’s bodyguard work, Red. I’m guarding one of
the players, just going to bring in Kor while I’m
there.”
The two-ton alien calmed marginally,
managing to sound almost disappointed. “True,
Red Dog very bad at keeping humans alive. Not
Red Dog’s expert area.”
Ivan suppressed a laugh at the Cillian’s
understatement. “Is Max still on station?”
“Is game Hamatsa sanctioned?”
“I think your translator is messing up.”
“All Hamatsa sanctioned events are
recorded. Red Dog owns copy of every game.
Ivan will bring Red Dog recording.”
“What the hell is a Hamatsa?”
Red Dog swung his head side to side in irri-
tation. “Hamatsa is secret society of priests.
Oversee all major potlatch. Does Ivan even
know how potlatch is played?”
“I’ve got it, all right? It’s like poker and
then they destroy stuff. I need to get in touch
with Max and—” An explosion of sound inter-
rupted him as Red Dog ground his chitin panels
together. Ivan stopped and stared at the screen
until the alien fell silent. “You got something to
say, Red, say it.”
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Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
“Ivan need to understand. Potlatch
important. Potlatch religion. Ivan mess with
Potlatch, all Hamatsa mess with Ivan. Ivan need
to understand game or Ivan get killed. Red Dog
does not care if Ivan killed, but grub care if Ivan
killed, so Red Dog make sure Ivan not killed.”
“Your concern is touching.”
“Every round, one bid set for U’melth.
For Raven is black chip. Black chip is potlatch.
Other chips just money. Anything player has
can be black chip. Hamatsa sets value. Raven
bid is forced like poker blind. Only bidder
knows what black chip is. Other players only
know after hand. Half of raven bid is potlatch.
Ivan understand?”
“Black chips can be anything.”
The Cillian snapped his mandibles in frus-
tration. “Anything player has can be black chip.
Hamatsa sets value. Player can bet self. Player
can bet you.”
“What do you mean, bet me?”
“Potlatch is religion. Potlatch of raven chip
is sacrifice to Kakwas—King of Ghosts. Winner
keep half—half destroyed as sacrifice. Player
can bet anything player has. If player has Ivan
bodyguard, player can bet Ivan bodyguard.”
Ivan thought for a moment. “If a player
bets an employee, is that betting the person or
the service?”
“That Red Dog’s point.”
“Well, which is it?”
“Ask rules committee. Hamatsa set value.
Understand?”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Ivan cursed softly. “I got it, Red. Thanks.”
“Red Dog not care.” The alien’s upper cillia
waved in what might have been a shrug. “Is
important to grub.”
“Tell her I’ll be there when she gets out of
medical,” Ivan said distractedly, “and have Beta
Max call me.”
“Yes,” Red Dog replied. “Cease now?”
“Goodbye Red.” The screen went blank.
Ivan took his breakfast through a straw and
slept most of the ten-hour trip while cortical
steroids worked on his injuries.
“Guess which building we land at,” joked
Graves, banking the flier in a slow turn.
The commune’s buildings clustered on
a short peninsula sticking out into the lime
green sea like an inflamed thumb. The finger-
nail was a packed cluster of irregular block
buildings that, from the air, looked more like
bombed out rubble than residences. A strip of
more modern appearing brick-and-steel con-
structions resembling warehouses marched
up the rise to the peninsula’s knuckle. It was
there, on the highest point on the isthmus,
that the enclave’s architecture almost literally
turned its back on the rest of the settlement.
Like a twenty-story golden horseshoe, facing
inland, a superstructure of glass and steel
towered over the nearby jungle, a curtain wall
of opulence between subsistence squalor and
savage nature.
Graves feathered them smoothly onto
the hotel’s roof. “At least they cut the jungle
Pg. 15
back,” he noted, stepping away from the flyer.
A good two hundred yards of bare white stone
separated the front of the hotel from the
nearest growth.
“A clear field of fire, as it were,” volunteered
a plump gray haired man, strolling toward
them. “Hoffield,” he said, extending a hand.
“Graves,” the ErSec agent replied, shaking
the man’s hand. “You here for the game?”
The older man shrugged expansively. “In a
manner of speaking. I play at the edges—stay
around betting in the side pots until I have to
put up a black chip, then cashing out. There’s
a wonderful little eatery on the second floor
where I’ll watch most of the match on the
hotel’s internal broadcast. I’m a tourist real-
ly—dabble at the cards during the day and
watch the langer from my hotel room in the
evening.”
“Langer are the dinosaur-looking things?”
Graves asked. A quick scan of the jungle below
revealed a half-dozen of the bobbing ‘heads’.
“Oh goodness, the lures are just the tip of
the proverbial iceberg. Fascinating creatures,
the langers—I’m a bit of an amateur biologist,
you know,” Hoffield gushed, warming rapidly
to his subject. “The langer are a real rarity,
a predator that preys exclusively on other
predators. Those dinosaurs, as you call them,
are actually lures. The langer moves them
around to mimic a large harmless herbivore to
attract other predators that it, in turn, eats for
its own sustenance.” He tried to press a pair
of field binoculars into Graves’ hands as he
spoke. “The beauty of the system is that they
eat their competition but, of course, one would
think that the scale of ecosystem necessary to
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
support this kind of two-tiered system would
be quite impossible. And let’s not forget that
the langer appears to be a land-based relative
of both cephalopods and crustaceans.”
“How do they keep them from coming up
the hill?” Ivan asked.
“Sonics. The langer do just about every-
thing by feel and aggression—something
attacks their lures, they charge toward it.
Something gets in their way, they attack it
until either it gives or they get tired and go
around. They even get their sensations of heat
and taste through feeling the ground with
their pseudopod. Rather than build a wall to
keep them out like most places, the Kwakiutl
put in low frequency sonic projectors aimed
down the hill. Look, you can see them just
there, the short white towers.” Hoffield tried
to aim Graves in the right direction by pulling
on his arm, bobbing his head excitedly as he
talked. “It mimics the vibrations of the water
crashing on the shore and the langer think
the continent ends down there instead of out
here. They hate the water—which is really
surprising given their similarities to other
aquatic lifeforms—because the weight of their
shells and high muscle density precludes any
chance of flotation. Even silt and loose sand
are a threat to them. The hotel probably could
have saved a fortune in sound equipment just
by putting in a sand moat across the base of
the slope there. I’ve always wondered why the
langer didn’t develop some form of breathing
apparatus through its lures so that it could hunt
underwater, but…I am so sorry. I tend to get a
bit carried away,” Hoffield interrupted himself,
clapping his hands over his mouth.
“No problem,” Graves said, smiling. “We
Ray Gun Revival magazine
have to check in, but I look forward to seeing
you at the table.”
“Of course. And a drink afterwards,
perhaps.”
Graves nodded and Hoffield bustled away,
back to the roof’s edge and his binoculars.
Given the nature of the place, Ivan was
not surprised to find the building’s main desk
located on its highest level rather than the
lowest. The dour-faced woman working the
reception area took a single glance at Graves’
false ID and slid them a pair of key cards without
speaking. Beneath Ivan’s was a folded piece of
hotel stationary.
Graves watched suspiciously as Ivan opened
it.
“From Pharaoh,” Ivan explained. “Found my
custom .45 where I dropped it. He’ll have one
of his boys run it up tomorrow.” Ivan stuffed
the note in his pocket and patted the sonic on
his hip and smaller slug thrower in his shoulder
holster. “I think I’ve got enough firepower to
get by until then.”
Safely settled in his adjoining room, Ivan
examined the actual text of the message. “Sky
eyes. Cowboy drives. Call codes on page 145.”
Most of the message, including the simplistic
rhyme scheme, was to confuse anyone who
might see the message and convince the hotel
staff there was a complex code system in use.
In actuality, the message meant what it said.
Beta Max was in place with Cowboy as his
pilot. Idly, Ivan wondered if this was one of the
Cowboys he knew; it seemed like every pilot on
the frontier called himself Cowboy, and their
life spans usually weren’t long enough for that
Pg. 16
to cause confusion.
After a carefully worded call to Pharaoh
and a stop at the reception desk for directions,
he rode the elevator down to the first floor to
inspect the playing area.
The room was closed for the evening but
not locked. Ivan let himself in, sliding the door
closed behind him, and surveyed the layout in
the twilight sifting in from the window forming
the entire eastern wall. The black metal grid
supporting the glass framed the jungle into
a series of puzzle pieces, the downhill slope
of the hillside making the bare rock invisible
through the window. Though high-ceilinged—
close to twenty feet—the chamber was not
overly large, certainly no bigger than the
average hotel ballroom, and no provisions
were made to accommodate spectators. Ivan
suspected there would not be any, not within
the room itself at least. A rolling tripod mount
and dozens of wall-mounted cameras would
record the event for broadcast. An oversized
oval table commandeered the bulk of the space,
its top covered in cobalt blue felt, a notch in
its wider side allowing the dealer the reach of
the surface. Partially concealed in depressions
along the table’s edges, electronic plugs and
jacks waited for the players’ convenience. Ivan
counted a total of twelve low-backed chairs in
the gloom.
The players arrayed across from the dealer
would have a clear view of the sunrise over
the jungle, and the camera crews would have
the glare at their back. Judging by the number
of light fixtures adorning the ceiling, lighting
would not be a problem no matter how long
the game went on.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Calamity’s Child,
Chapter Two: Potlatch by M. Keaton
To his right, against the wall, was a small
wooden bar, its front molded into a stylized
cubist thunderbird in gold against dark wood;
to the left, a langer shell had been cut and
fashioned into a short turquoise wall about
three feet high, hiding the mass of cables and
spare broadcast equipment that would be
used.
The walls were draped in the same
unadorned cobalt as the table. Checking
behind the hanging cloth, he found two other
exits from the room, one opening into a control
room bursting with electronics, the other into
the hotel’s kitchens.
He paced slowly around the table, inspect-
ing the room again. Three entrances plus a
full-wall window, no substantial cover beyond
the poor concealment of the draperies, and a
small area of play—assuming their hosts’ own
security did their jobs, it was a simple enough
area to guard, a killing field if they did not:
twelve players, twelve possible hired guns.
With a final glance at the jungle below, Ivan works and writers of the “ancient”
let himself out.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 17
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 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
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.)
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Featured Artist: Paul Davey Pg. 18

Featured Artist
Paul Davey
Name:
Paul Davey, Mattahan
Age:
18
Country of residence: 
United States
Hobbies:
Drawing, Painting, Being outraged by political news, sitting
Favorite Book / Author: 
Watchmen/Alan Moore (I don’t read a lot)
Favorite Artist:
James Jean, Most people on my watchlist
at Deviantart
When did you start creating art?
I can’t say for sure, I’ve been doing some
thing artish for as long as I can remember.
What media do you work in?
Mostly digital, I dabble in acrylics every
now and then but I just don’t have the
patience for it anymore. 
Where your work has been featured?
-The Gimp 2.4 Splash Screen
-The MOCA’zine, a teen magazine
published by the Museum of
Contemporary Art in North Miami. I did
illustration and page layout for the past
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Featured Artist: Paul Davey Pg. 19

two issues (they come out annually). My work was featured on

last years cover. I’m also working on the forthcoming issue.
-I did a mural for The Mall at 163rd Street in North Miami Beach
during my senior year in high school. It was displayed from 2005-
2007
-My icons have been featured on countless tech savvy desktops,
twice on Deviantart’s daily deviation page, and on various other
customization sites forums and blogs.
-I’m definitely forgetting something...
Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of
your works? 
mattahan.deviantart.com
How did you become an artist?
Practice. There’s a lot to be learned from art classes/school, but
I’ve never really benefitted from that kind of environment. I’m
mostly self taught, I believe that diligent practice combined with
research and a willingness to learn from mistakes is the best way
to progress artistically.
What were your early influences?
Sonic the Hedgehog and Dragon Ball Z. I have countless binders
filled with furry characters with super saijin hairstyles. 
What inspired the art for the cover?
It was to be a dp-spread in an abandoned comic i was working
on. The story revolves around two runaways, their helper robot,
and a mercenary they hired for protection. In ‘We Can’t Win’, The
trio have run out of food and are without a place to sleep for the
night. A dwindling fire and a few slices of bread are all they have
left... 

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

Featured Artist: Paul Davey Pg. 20

How would you describe your work?

Pseudorealisticlyafrocentric? 
Where do you get your inspiration / what inspires you? 
People around me, Jamaican women ;)
What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your
art? 
Corel Painter X, Oil pastel tool. Photoshop. My Graphire3
What tool / equipment do you wish you had?
A Wacom Cintiq 12WX(I’d like any Cintiq, this one is reasonably
priced)
A MacBook Pro
What do you hope to accomplish with your art?
I don’t have any lofty goals in mind when I create something, I
make art that I like. I always try to buck the prevailing stylistic
trend, though.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
T annen Stamp lay awkwardly on his side in
a pseudo-fetal position, his face turned to
the dull metal wall. The bunks on this ship had
never been big enough to comfortably accom-
modate his hulking frame, and the throbbing
pain in his leg now accentuated the issue.
Inadequate bunk design wasn’t Captain
Spill’s fault, of course, but Stamp resented
him for it anyway. If he wasn’t confined to this
holding cell, he could at least have stretched out
on the floor of the deck to relax his wound.
Lying there, staring down at the tiny
rivets that held the shell of the deck in place,
Stamp focused on his predicament. He always
dissected a problem by first identifying what
he wanted to get out of the situation. Trouble
was, for the last ten years, the answer had
always been the same: freedom. Whether
it was under the thumb of a brutal gangster
boss, locked in a sterile jail cell, or indebted to
a string of unprincipled shock dealers, he had
always only wanted to escape, to walk away
unfettered, to be free.
This time, however, freedom was the one
thing he couldn’t risk. Not only was he running
from the usual GPF types, but his last boss—a
powerful man—had made it clear that any
further failures on his part would make him
persona non grata in the underworld. Thanks
to the sting operation that landed him in this
holding cell, he was left with nowhere to hide.
So if the answer wasn’t freedom, what was
it? He certainly didn’t want an alliance with
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 21
these renegade jeepers. They were in trouble—
deeper trouble than they knew, from what he
could piece together—and aligning himself with
their cause wasn’t a good bet. Still, as long as
he was on board the Jasper, he was relatively
safe. It wasn’t freedom he wanted, exactly, nor
a new alliance. What he wanted was someone
on this ship to trust him—a long shot.
“Stamp.”
At the sound of his name, he grumbled and
twisted around to see Captain Spill standing
just beyond the invisible cell field surrounding
the bunk.
“Yeah?”
“We need to talk,” said the captain, “in
private.”
Stamp rolled over and pulled himself up as
the captain punched a code into the panel on
the wall. A track of green light lit up the floor
around the bunk, indicating that the cell field
was deactivated.
“Lower deck,” said the captain, nodding
toward the ladder in the center of the room.
“You first.”
Stamp tried to read Spill’s face, but the
captain gave nothing away. He simply stood
with his hand on his shooter, as if waiting for
Stamp to do something stupid. Unwilling to
oblige the unspoken dare, Stamp limped over
to the ladder and lowered himself down to the
receiving deck. Spill followed directly, sliding
the portal cover over the top of the ladder as
he came.
The “receiving deck” was nothing more
than a small prep area, with one door leading
into the engine room and one door leading
out to the boarding lift. A locked cabinet next
to the lift held an assortment of surface suits,
mobile air supplies, and other sundries.
Spill glanced up at the closed portal, then
spoke quietly. “We have a problem,” he said.
“Your old buddy Ixter’s planted an explosive
somewhere on this ship, and he means to
detonate it if we don’t show up on Tarpius II
as expected.”
“You running?” asked Stamp.
“Not exactly, but I need to make a pit stop,
and Ixter’s friends aren’t of the ‘patience is a
virtue’ persuasion.”
Stamp nodded. He had expected Ixter to
plant an insurance device on the ship, but
hadn’t expected the captain to change course.
This was an interesting development.
“Now, I know you’ve got some experience
with this ship,” continued the captain. “You
knew enough about the workings to disrupt
my navcoord back on Wroume. You don’t want
to talk about it—okay—but I need to know if
you can dig into the engines and disarm the
explosive without mucking up our systems.”
Stamp shrugged. “Depends on where it’s
mounted, and whether it’s wired into the
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
prime directory.”
“I figured as much,” acknowledged Spill.
“There’s a tracking device on board as well. I’m
hoping it’s attached to the bomb.”
Stamp shook his head. “Not likely. It’s
probably mounted to the exterior hull to avoid
interference from the nav signal.”
Spill considered this with gritted teeth and
a long sigh, then waved it away. “In that case,
there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve got a
good lead on Ixter’s men if he decides to come
after us.”
“He will.” said Stamp. “If he’s promised
your bodies to Kremm Stathora, he’ll get ‘em
there, one way or another.”
“Let me worry about that,” said Spill. “I’m
going to lock you down here while you search.
Tools are in the engine room. If you find what
you’re looking for, I’ll be in the cockpit. Use the
com.”
The captain grabbed the ladder and started
to climb.
“Why bother going out of your way?” asked
Stamp. “You want to find out what this is all
about, why not just fly straight to Tarpius II?”
“You keep your secrets, Stamp,” called Spill,
over his shoulder, “and let me keep mine.”
With that, the captain disappeared up into
the main deck, and the portal cover slid shut
with a dull thunk.
Fair enough.
# favor as some kind of leverage. After all, he
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 22
Once inside the engine room, it didn’t take
Stamp long to locate the explosive. It had been
cobbled together in a makeshift fashion, and
soldered to the interior shell of the primary
drive. A man much smaller than he must have
shimmied up under the frame to get it mounted,
and Stamp had to lie on the floor and contort
his body to get a good angle on it.
After squinting at the detonator, he deter-
mined two things. First, whoever installed it
hadn’t bothered to commit the wiring into the
ship’s prime directory, so disarming it wouldn’t
affect life support or the navcoord. Second,
and far less comforting, was that the receiver
was tuned to an open starnet frequency for
remote detonation—a chance encounter with
any stray signal containing the correct trigger
sequence could activate the damned thing. It
was sloppy work.
Stamp was no expert on these matters, but
he had planted a bomb or two in his time, and
figured he could disarm this slapdash piece of
work without killing everyone on board. And
if he was wrong, well, everybody’s problems
were solved.
#
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from
the roaring engine room, sweat dripping from
his lumpy brow, the detonator wires dangling
from his fingers. The door slid shut behind
him, and he leaned against the cool wall of the
receiving deck, working out in his mind how he
was going to play this.
While scrunched up under the drive frame,
he had thought about how he might use this
had just saved the lives of everyone on board,
which should buy him a little leeway while he
was in their custody.
Thinking about it now, however, he rec-
ognized the hole in his plan. He had, indeed,
saved the lives of everyone on board—includ-
ing his own. No doubt the captain would see
this as an act of self-preservation as much as a
gesture of goodwill.
His best angle was to play cool about the
whole thing and hope the captain took his
indifference as a death wish. It would at least
give the impression that he had disarmed the
bomb for everyone else’s sake. Maybe, if Spill
was feeling generous, he would reward the
favor with a little less snarling and incarcera-
tion.
He tapped the com panel on the wall and
waited for the captain to answer.
“What have you got?” asked Spill, sounding
distracted.
“Fixed your blowin’ up problem,” said
Stamp. “Couldn’t find the tracker, though.
Must be outside.”
“Good,” replied Spill. “We’re coming in for
a landing. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Stamp leaned back against the wall to ease
his leg. He looked around the room, and his
eyes rested on the storage cabinet beside the
lift. Immediately, a new plan took shape in his
mind, and he glanced up toward the top of the
ladder. If this was going to work, he would have
to act quickly.
Without a second’s hesitation, he opened
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
the door to the engine room and scurried back
inside. He grabbed the toolbox and sprang
back out to the receiving deck. The Jasper
swayed lightly as it approached the surface of
the planet, and he realized he had less time
than he thought.
With another glance up at the ladder, he
pulled a crowbar out of the box and jammed
it up into the top hinge of the storage cabinet.
After a swift yank, the bolt popped loose and
he was able to pull the top half of the door
away from the frame. He reached inside and
fumbled through a mess of hanging surface
suits, feeling his way to the back shelf. He ran
his fingers along the shelf, tossing aside first aid
kits and pieces of climbing gear, until he found
what he was looking for: a shooter.
The weapon was secured to the shelf with
a leather strap, and as he felt the ship land
softly on the ground below, he worked his
fingers frantically to free it. He heard voices
above, and footsteps, as the crew prepared to
disembark.
Finally, the buckle sprang free, and he
pulled the shooter out of the cabinet. It was a
DL-10, a light weapon, but powerful enough to
get the job done. He shoved it into the back of
his trousers and thrust the cabinet door back
into place. The voices were directly over him
now, and he slammed the hinge bolt back into
place just as the portal above slid open.
Stamp spun around and leaned against the
cabinet as if nursing his wounded leg, while
Captain Spill descended the ladder, followed
by Melendez and the two cadets. “Show me
what you got,” said Spill.
Stamp handed him the detonator, which
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Spill examined briefly, then tossed into the
open toolbox.
“Good,” said Spill. “That’s one problem
solved. You want to get these tools back into
the engine room where they belong?”
Stamp glared at the captain to mask his
relief, then picked up the toolbox and stepped
back into the engine room. He placed the tools
back on the supply shelf, then adjusted the
small bulge below the small of his back. Despite
the close call, he was feeling good about this
new plan. He wanted out from under Spill’s
thumb, and there was no sense waiting for the
captain to give him what he wanted, when he
could just as easily take it for himself.
# might be her lover. As the two of them pulled
Cassion was just as desolate as advertised.
The Jasper rested in the middle of a recently
harvested bean field, the roughly-hewn stalks
of which stretched out in parallel lines before
them. The dull brown sky blended seamlessly
into a flat horizon, broken only by the dark
silhouettes of the Rey family farm, just ahead.
From what Stamp could see, it looked like
nothing more than a house, an old barn, and a
few low lying storage sheds.
Captain Spill had allowed Stamp to
accompany the squad, likely out of fear that he
would break his prison cell and abscond with
the ship. It felt good to be out in the air again,
stretching his legs and breathing something
other than city smog. In the fading light, he
noticed a few small birds flitting across the sky,
and reflected on how long it had been since
he’d last woken to the sound of birdsong.
Pg. 23
As they approached the house, Cadet Rey
took the lead, her steps quickening to the
familiar sight of home, and Stamp watched
her practically skip toward the dusty plot that
served as a front yard. She was a lithe young
thing, and it wasn’t the first time he had surrep-
titiously admired the way her form-fitting GPF
getup clung to her body. She had a tomboy’s
figure, tight and compact with subtle but
decidedly feminine curves. She looked good
in action, too—something that always got
Stamp’s pulse pounding a few degrees hotter.
As she reached the door, a young man with
dark hair, flashing eyes, and a broad smile
emerged from the darkened doorway of the
house. She ran to him and he took her in a deep
embrace, and for a moment Stamp thought he
apart, however, she gave him a playful shove
and tousled his hair with a familiarity that
bespoke siblinghood. As Stamp drew nearer
with the rest of the crew, he knew his second
guess was correct. The resemblance between
Cadet Rey and the young man was unmistak-
able.
“Captain,” said Rey, “I’d like you to meet my
brother, Kedran.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said the young
man, his eyes brimming with curiosity. Stamp
wondered if Jasper Squad’s renegade status
had made news yet on this forsaken world.
The captain put out his hand and greeted
Kedran with a polite nod. That formality seen
to, Rey turned back to her brother and said, “I
have so much to tell you…things you wouldn’t
believe.”
“Things I’ve tried not to believe,” said a
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
deep voice from the doorway. A tall, heavy
man with deep-set eyes and a formidable
beard stepped out of the house and stood with
his arms crossed, sizing up the visitors with an
apprehensive eye.
“Father!” cried Rey. She ran to him with
open arms, and he embraced her so crushingly
that Melendez gasped with apparent concern
for the girl’s wellbeing. The large man released
her, then looked her up and down before
turning his attention to Captain Spill.
“It’s a relief to see my daughter here
and whole,” said the large man, “but we’ve
been hearing news from town that’s terrible
confusing.” He squinted at the stripes on Spill’s
jacket. “I expect you can clear things up.”
Spill stepped forward and saluted casually.
“Captain Muriel Spill, Galactic Patrol Force.
We’ll do our best to fill in the blanks for you,
Mr. Rey, but I’m afraid I can’t do much to ease
your mind about these matters. At the moment,
we’re about as confused as you are.”
Mr. Rey glanced down at his daughter, the
proud cadet, then back up at Spill. “Sounds like
a story that oughta be told over supper,” he
said. “And call me Del.”
# “You were moaning in your sleep,” said
Stamp warmed himself by a small, open
fire in the center of the room. Smoke drifted
up through a circular hole in the farmhouse
roof, and the distant sparks of starlight were
just visible beyond.
Captain Spill brought Del up to speed, with
many interjections from Cadet Rey peppering
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 24
the story. Meanwhile, Kedran served a supper
of hot, spicy stew and warm bread. The meal
was spare, as they hadn’t been expecting
visitors, but the stew was chock full of meat
chunks and fresh vegetables from the garden. It
had been a long time since Stamp had a home-
cooked meal, and he savored every bite.
Between the fire, his full belly, and the
insipid drone of Spill’s voice, he couldn’t help
but doze. When he came to, he found the
fire reduced to heap of glowing coals, and
Jackaby and Melendez fast asleep on the floor.
The occupants of the house had presumably
retired to their bedrooms; Spill was absent,
but Jenna Rey was awake, seated in a wooden
chair beside the coals.
“You up too late, or too early?” asked
Stamp, pulling himself up on his elbow.
“It’s about midnight,” she replied. “Captain’s
out scouring the Jasper for a tracking device.
I’m on watch.”
“This place is barren as an old lady,” said
Spill. “What’s to watch?”
“You.”
Stamp let a smile escape. “Right.”
Rey.
“My leg. Fact is, it could use a stretch. Mind
if I take a walk?”
She reached over and took her shooter
from the table beside her. “I’ll go with you.”
They stepped out of the farmhouse into a
vast night. The sky was cloudless from horizon to
horizon, the stars blazing like a million candles
on vigil. As they walked toward the shadowy
garden beside the house, Stamp wondered
what it would have been like to grow up in a
place like this, far away from the workings of
the galaxy. He couldn’t imagine someone as
impetuous as Rey trapped on a rock like this,
and considered it no wonder she ran away to
the Academy.
They stepped into the garden and waded
through the low-lying foliage. Stamp paused
to stretch, and watched Rey instinctively reach
down to pull a few weeds from among the veg-
etables.
“Don’t know how you can see what you’re
doin’,” remarked Stamp.
“I pulled weeds in this garden for fifteen
years,” she shrugged. “I could do it in my
sleep.”
“That why you went to the Academy? Give
your fingers a rest?”
“I went to Academy so I could make
something better of myself. My mother lived
her entire life in these fields, never saw so
much as a spaceport. I didn’t want her kind of
life, but to do something important.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Stamp. “Still, a
person could get used to this kind of quiet.”
“Sure,” she said. “A person could get used
to being hungry, too. Or living in a drafty,
run-down house. Or not having enough money
to see a doctor when they should. A person
could get used to a lot things, but that doesn’t
make them acceptable.”
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
Stamp kicked the dirt a bit. “What about
your brother?” he asked. “He got ambitions?”
“He’s smart. He’ll leave one day, too, but
not until Father’s gone. Kedran knows what
this place means to him.”
“Now, that’s something,” mused Stamp.
“Imagine a kid giving up the best years of his
life for the sake of somebody’s feelings.”
Rey tossed aside a handful of weeds and
stared up at the sky. “I don’t think you’re as
cold as you make yourself out to be,” she said.
“I think you like the idea of doing something
nice for somebody.”
He looked at her as she stood in silhouette,
hands on her hips, her head cocked to one
side. The moonlight reflected the soft red of
her hair, and even in the darkness he could see
her eyes piercing into him.
“I don’t make myself out to be anything,
‘cept what I am.”
“And what’s that?”
“A fellow whose resume happens to contain
a few disreputable organizations.”
“A thief?”
“Sometimes.”
“A killer?”
He let her question hang in the air for
a moment while he considered it. “A man’s
actions don’t necessarily define who he is,” he
said, finally.
“I disagree.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“Yeah? Well, you’ve got a deadly weapon
in your hand. What if I came at you right now?
What if you shot me in the leg like a good
soldier, and I just kept comin’, my big ugly
hands reaching for your throat? Would you kill
me?”
“If I had to,” she answered, and he saw
her hand tighten around the handle of her
shooter.
“So, what would that make you?”
She stood frozen for a moment, then relaxed
and slowly holstered her weapon. “Don’t play
games with me, Stamp.”
He grinned in the darkness. “I wouldn’t
dare.”
Captain Spill’s voice rang out from the edge
of the garden. “You two,” he called, “what’s
going on?”
Stamp turned to see the captain’s shape in
the moonlight, his shooter drawn and aimed at
Stamp’s head.
“Your cadet’s trying to make me feel like a
bad person,” said Stamp.
“Glad she isn’t straining herself,” said Spill.
“Back inside, now. We’ve got trouble coming.”
Inside the house, Spill roused Melendez
and Jackaby. The crew gathered around as the
captain held out his hand to show them the
tracking device he had pried from the roof of
the Jasper.
“I plugged it into our reader and looked
at the response record,” he said. “The return
signal’s been getting stronger, and they locked
Pg. 25
onto our exact location about three hours ago.
I’m guessing we’ve got an hour before they’re
here, which means we need to get ready for a
fight.”
“Why don’t we just leave now?” asked
Stamp. “Tracker’s dead, so they won’t be able
to follow us.”
“They know where we parked, and I don’t
trust your buddies to politely knock twice and
leave,” said Spill. “We need to ensure that this
farm goes unmolested.”
“We wait for the ship, then draw them
away?” asked Melendez.
“Exactly,” nodded Spill. “We make them
chase us, then take them on once we break
atmo.”
“My daughter’s not going with you.”
They all turned to see Del standing in the
doorway of his bedroom. He looked haggard,
like a man who hadn’t slept in days. His dark
bushy hair was sticking out in all directions,
and his evening robe was rumpled, but he
stood with an air of authority nonetheless.
“With all due respect,” said Spill, “That’s not
your decision to make. The cadet is a member
of this squad, and we’re going to need her.”
“As I understand it, your squad ain’t official
no more,” said Del. “She ain’t goin’.”
Rey stepped toward him. “Father,” she said.
“I know you don’t like it, but this is my job. I’m
not deserting my squad.”
Del crossed his arms, and took a step
forward. His dark eyes glinted suddenly with
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
water, and he pulled his lips back against his
teeth, sucking in a deep breath of air. “Baby,”
he said, “you don’t have to do this. We can
hide you here until everything blows over.
We can…” He choked back another gasp, then
looked at the floor.
Kedran appeared in the bedroom door
beside Del, and put his hand on his hand on
his father’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay, Dad,” he
said. “You know Jenna never found a scrape
she couldn’t get out of.”
Del sighed deeply, then dropped his hands
to his sides. He looked over at his daughter
with hard eyes. “I told you not to go,” he said
quietly. “I told you, and now look…”
Stamp felt uncomfortable with the level of
emotion on display. “Maybe we ought to let
these folks work it out,” he muttered.
“Despite you sayin’ it, that’s a good idea,”
agreed Spill. He looked at Rey. “We’ll be on
board, prepping for takeoff,” he said. “Don’t be
long.”
Stamp stepped outside and readjusted
his hidden weapon. He looked up at the sky
once again, and saw the gentle light of dawn
peeking over the edge of the flat horizon. The
others followed, and had only taken a few steps
toward the Jasper when Rey emerged from the
house and caught up with them.
“Everything squared?” asked Spill.
“It’s fine,” said Rey, not elaborating. They
walked in silence toward the ship, and Stamp
found himself trailing at the back of the party
next to Rey. He had been mulling something
over.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 26
“We could take them with us,” he muttered,
almost inaudibly. “Set them up on another
world, someplace busy. Ixter wouldn’t bother
to keep looking.”
“If only it were that easy,” she sighed.
“I’ve got some money,” continued Stamp,
looking at his feet. “It’s not a lot, but it’d be
enough to keep ‘em goin’ until it’s safe to come
back.”
She looked up at him, eyebrows raised, a
surprised half-smile crossing her lips. He caught
the look, and scowled back.
“I just feel somewhat responsible, is all.
Ixter was my contact.”
She looked ahead at the rest of the part
as she continued walking. “Father won’t leave
the farm,” she said. “But it’s...kind...of you to
offer.”
Stamp’s face grew warm, and he looked
back at his feet. He hated it when anybody
talked down to him—even pretty girls.
# Jasper banked hard, then shot straight up, the
Forty-five minutes later, Stamp was back
in his holding cell, sitting on his thumbs while
Jasper Squad prepared to engage to the enemy.
Spill was in the cockpit with Rey. Melendez had
climbed the ladder up into the tiny rooftop gun
port, and Jackaby sat at the conference table
with his workpad, tracking the incoming signal
from Ixter’s ship.
“Two minutes to visual,” called Jackaby.
Stamp noticed that the kid looked agitated.
He sweated and fidgeted with his pad, tapping
the screen impatiently as he rocked back and
forth in his chair. Stamp had already figured
out that Jackaby wasn’t built for combat, but
this looked like something other than jitters.
He made a mental note to keep an eye on the
twitchy cadet.
“Good,” replied Spill through the cockpit
portal. “Keep an eye on their frequency and let
me know if you pick up any useful chatter.”
With that, the cockpit portal slid shut, and
the Jasper’s engines fired up. The captain’s
voice echoed out over the com.
“Here they come,” he said. “Melendez,
hold your fire ‘til we draw them away.”
A moment later, the ship rocked with an
abrupt takeoff, and Stamp grabbed the edge of
his bunk.
“Now!” called the captain, and the crackling
report of Melendez’ laser cannon rang through-
out the ship.
Ixter’s ship returned fire, and Stamp heard
the deadly laser bolts sizzling past the hull. The
g-forces pinning Stamp against the wall as the
captain steered them toward the stars.
Jackaby flew sideways from his chair and
crashed into the floor. His workpad skidded
across the deck and collided with the invisible
field surrounding Stamp’s bunk, sending a
spray of sparks up into the air.
“Dammit, kid, buckle yourself down!”
shouted Stamp.
Jackaby flailed across the floor of the deck
toward his workpad, shaking harder than he
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
should have from the fall. He grabbed the pad
and pulled himself back toward the table at
the middle of the room.
Above them, Melendez fired again, more
rapidly this time, which meant Ixter’s men were
closing the gap. The Jasper shuddered with
the residual impact of a near miss. “Well, that
one was closer than I like,” mumbled Stamp,
to no one in particular. He closed his eyes and
tried to distance himself from the peril. Didn’t
usually work, but—
“Oh...” Jackaby had pulled himself back into
his chair and was staring hard at the workpad,
screwing up his eyes as if he had trouble seeing
the screen. “Oh,” he repeated. “Oh, no...”
He slammed his trembling hand down
on the com panel. “Captain,” he said, clearly
trying to keep his voice steady, “there’s, um...a
second signal on their frequency. It’s another
ship...looks like it’s landing near the farm.”
If Spill was anywhere near as furious as
Stamp would have been about the oversight,
his voice didn’t betray it. “Lieutenant,” he
responded, “you catch that?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Melendez. “Give me one
more pass, with crossfire from your end.”
The Jasper banked hard again, and the
sound of fire from above meshed with the
sound of the Spill’s light cannons as the cockpit
swung around the perimeter of the ship.
Stamp heard, coming from beyond the hull,
the muffled explosion of their pursuers being
blown into a thousand pieces of debris.
“Hang tight,” called the captain. “We’re
Ray Gun Revival magazine
going down fast.”
The shift in gravity was nauseating as
they swung back down toward the surface of
Cassion, and Stamp gritted his teeth against the
bile. Jackaby wasn’t as resilient, and the gooey
pieces of his half-digested stew flew up out of
his mouth and splattered against the ceiling.
Seconds later, a small portal opened above
them and a ladder descended through the
vomit. Melendez slid down the ladder and held
tight to the rungs when she hit the floor.
“How’d you miss it, Cadet?” she
demanded.
“I don’t know,” moaned Jackaby. “I just
didn’t…see it.”
The Jasper landed with an ungraceful
thump, and they heard the cockpit slide back
into it’s locked position. A second later, the
portal flew open and the captain bounded
onto the deck, his shooter drawn. Rey followed
close on his heels, a look of steely fear on her
face.
“Men on the ground, near the house,”
said Spill. “We come out blazing and take the
perimeter before we try to talk.” He pointed his
finger at Jackaby. “Grab your shooter, Cadet.
We’ll talk later.”
Rey was the first to the ladder as the squad
headed down to the lift.
“What about me?” called Stamp.
“I don’t need you down there mucking
things up,” said Spill. “I like you where you
are.”
Pg. 27
Then, they were gone. Stamp sat for a
moment and listened to the sounds of the
firefight outside, until, unable to sit any longer,
he stood and began pacing in his cell. He had
never felt so much like a caged animal.
At last, he heard the hiss of the lift hydrau-
lics, and the sound of footsteps on the deck
below. He was about to call down, when he
realized he could still hear the sound of firing
outside. Something wasn’t right.
A moment later, he heard boots on the
ladder, and saw the last face he expected
poking up onto the bridge:
Ixter.
“Well, naw,” sneered the greasy weasel,
“ain’t it just like old times?”
“Let me out of here, Ixter.”
“Sure enough, sure enough.” The skinny
little creep leapt up onto the deck and walked
toward Stamp’s bunk. “They got you all locked
up a skurnet, naw, don’t they, just? Why’s that,
I wonder?”
“I’m a prisoner,” said Stamp. “But I’d rather
be a workin’ man, and it sounds to me like
you’re suddenly a few hands short.”
Ixter broke into a wide, multicolored grin
and hissed with laughter. “That much sure is
true,” he said. “But if I was to take you on, the
percentages might be a bit thin, seein’ how
your rep is all mangy these days.”
“Beats rottin’ in here,” replied Stamp. “Let
me work my way up, and we’ll see about my
rep later.” He tilted his head toward the control
panel on the wall. “The code’s 88168,” he
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
said.
Ixter raised his eyebrows and tilted the
corners of his mouth downward in mock admi-
ration.
“The captain of this vessel ain’t as slick as
he thinks,” grinned Stamp.
Ixter stepped to the control pad and tapped
the keys. The red track lighting on the floor
flickered, then went green, and Stamp stepped
out of the cell.
“You got a shooter tucked?” asked Ixter.
“Yeah, but I don’t reckon I’ll need it just
yet.”
In a flash, Stamp grabbed Ixter by the neck
and lifted his thrashing body off the deck. The
little man clawed at Stamp’s massive forearms
as the air was choked out of his throat. When
Stamp slammed him against the wall and
blood spurted out from behind his head, Ixter’s
movements slowed appreciably.
“Yer messin’ with the wrong people this
time,” croaked Ixter, his eyes bulging.
“I was about to say the same thing,”
growled Stamp. He jerked his hands to the left,
and heard the crack of Ixter’s scrawny neck
beneath his fingers. A familiar fire burning in
his belly now, he spat in the dead man’s face
and tossed the body across the deck.
Wasting no time, he raced down to the
receiving deck and stepped into the lift. A
moment later he was outside, where the scene
greeting him was chaotic. The air was thick
with black, billowing smoke. Ixter’s ship was
burning—Spill must have gotten a shot off from
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 28
the Jasper’s cockpit as they landed. He heard
the sound of firing from around the house,
and bodies littered the field, but he couldn’t
figure out what had happened. Half the dead
were wearing GPF uniforms, and the other half
were unmistakably Ixter’s thugs. Had they both
arrived in the same ship?
He reached into the rear of his trousers
and drew the shooter he had tucked there. The
small storage shed he spotted to the left of the
house seemed like an ideal place from which
to plug a few nasties while he tried to get a
better perspective on the scene.
He put his head down and scrambled toward
the shed. Once there, he threw the door open
and huddled inside, peering out through the
loose wooden slats of the wall.
The squad must have made it inside. Five
or six men—three in GPF uniforms—had taken
position in the front yard and were taking fire
from inside the house. Stamp pounded one of
the slats out with his fist and aimed his shooter
at the nearest jeeper. Before he could get a
shot off, however, some movement at the rear
of the house caught his eye.
He drew back into the shadows and watched
as Captain Spill slunk stealthily toward the
shed. Stamp’s adrenaline began to rush. This
was the moment he had been hoping for since
he took this weapon from the supply cabinet.
Spill disappeared from his line of sight for a
moment, then suddenly dashed into the shed.
Unaware of Stamp’s presence, he knelt down
and checked the power supply on his shooter,
then crept back to the open door and peered
out.
The others must have had the firefight well
in hand, because the captain relaxed his stance
and lowered his weapon, taking a deep breath.
Seeing his opportunity, Stamp leapt forward and
kicked the shooter from Spill’s hand, knocking
him backward onto the ground. When Stamp
put his heavy boot on Spill’s chest and shoved
the point of his shooter into the captain’s face,
Spill grimaced, but said nothing.
“You tried to kill me back on Candlevar,”
breathed Stamp, “but somebody was there to
stop you. Now the situation’s reversed, and
there ain’t nobody here but the two of us.”
“How’d you get out?” asked Spill.
“Ixter came snoopin’ around the ship,” said
Stamp. “I used my particular skills to break him
in half. You see, Captain? That’s what I am—a
killer. I got no qualms about dealin’ death to
those who deserve it.”
“You don’t want to pull that trigger,” said
the captain. “Tell me what you do want, and
let’s both walk out of this shed.”
“What I want,” said Stamp, “is a little mutual
trust between the two of us. See, I could kill
you here, and nobody would be the wiser, but
I’m not going to do it, ‘cause I want to show
you I’m the bigger man. I didn’t ask to be part
of this crazy-ass conspiracy you’re mixed up in,
but I believe I’m pullin’ my weight, and it’s time
you recognized the fact.”
Spill sighed and closed his eyes. “All right,
Stamp, if you put that thing away, I’ll get off
your back. You keep your nose clean and we’ll
put our issues aside.”
Stamp grinned and lowered his weapon.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
JASPER SQUAD
Episode 09: Strange Horizon!
by Paul Christian Glenn
“See there?” he asked. “That’s all I needed to
hear.”
He stepped back off Spill’s chest, and the
captain stood up. “Sounds like the fight’s over,”
he said. “Keep the shooter, but fix the firing cell
before you hurt yourself.”
The captain walked out of the shed, and
Stamp looked down at his weapon. He pulled
back the loading panel and looked at the
mechanism. It was backwired. Had he pulled
the trigger, he would have blown his own head
off.
# long dark hair in wet strings across her face.
Jackaby was listlessly dragging bodies
into a pile out in the field as Stamp and Spill
approached the house. Smoke hung over the
scene, and the stench of blood filled the air.
“So what is this?” asked Stamp.
“Ixter brought the GPF with him,” replied
Spill. “Or it was the other way around? Either
way, they were working together. I can’t for the
life of me…”
The captain’s voice trailed off, and Stamp
followed his gaze to see Rey slumped over a
hulking body in the doorway of the house.
Kedran stood above her, his face in his hands.
Stamp couldn’t hear the sobs, but the shake of
her shoulders told him everything he needed
to know. Del was gone.
“Damn it all,” muttered Spill.
A loud clang shook Stamp from behind, and
he spun around to see Lieutenant Melendez
standing before the Jasper. She had a large,
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 29
jagged stone in her fists, and she banged it
against the Galactic Patrol Force insignia on the
front of the ship. Her body was shaking with
rage as she smashed the rock against the hull,
again and again, until the metal insignia finally
broke loose and clattered to the ground.
With a final shriek, she spun and hurled the
stone toward the smoldering wreck of Ixter’s
ship.
“Lieutenant!” called Spill.
“They did this, Captain.” She stalked toward
Spill, the early morning breeze blowing her
She stopped beside him, then looked over at
Rey and spat in the dirt. “They did this. I don’t
know what we are now, but we’re not them…
not anymore.”
# Stamp wondered if she knew whose hand
The afternoon was spent burning bodies
in a heaping pyre. Stamp and Melendez dug
a grave for Del at the edge of the bean field,
while Jackaby slept and Spill did his awkward
best to comfort the bereaved.
At supper, Spill offered Kedran a bunk on
board the Jasper. “It’s not much,” said the
captain, “and the ride gets bumpy from time
to time, but you’re welcome to fly with us ‘til
you find someplace to settle.”
“Thank you kindly, Sir,” replied the boy,
“but I ain’t leavin’ here. This place needs to
be rebuilt. Harvest ain’t but half done, and
Father…” He didn’t finish the thought, and Spill
didn’t bring it up again.
Rey remained silent throughout the day,
but busied herself by making the burial site as
pretty as possible. She tied planks together in
a makeshift marker, and collected flowers from
the garden to adorn the grave. At dusk they
gathered around the mound of lumpy dirt, and
Spill gave Mr. Rey an official memorial service.
Stamp stood behind Jenna Rey, looking
down at the wispy hair on the back of her neck.
She had let it down for the ceremony, and
with her head bowed earthward, all but a few
strands dangled down in front of her face.
As the captain gave the final rites, Stamp
watched Rey’s shoulders stiffen, then begin
to shake. Without thinking he reached up and
put his big, dirty hand on her shoulder. With a
weak cry, she reached up and grabbed two of
his fingers with her tiny fist, squeezing so hard
he thought her knuckles would break.
she was holding.
Paul Christian Glenn
Paul Christian Glenn is an Overlord (Co-
founder and Editor) of Ray Gun Revival
magazine, and has been writing for as long
as he can remember.
It should be noted, however, that he has a
notoriously short memory.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King
Deuces Wild, Season Two
Chapter 3: Fractured Facets, Part Two
by L. S. King
T he news that Addie had been kidnapped
stopped Slap in his tracks halfway up the
ramp to the ship, but Tristan kept moving, his
mind kicking into hyper-drive. “Polk?”
“Well, I’m not sure. It’s not his style, but
who knows about his employer.”
Tristan snorted. “Which one?”
Carter paused, frowning. “Oh?”
“Later.” Tristan stood at the hatch and after
all three men were inside, he hit the panel to
close it. “What do you know about the kidnap-
pers?”
“They sent a note with her jacket. They
want her father to pay the ransom in diamonds
and refined rare metals: gold and platinum.”
Tristan stopped and stared, his mind
braking and switching directions. Ransom—
not a hostage? “Wait. What?”
Slap waved a hand. “But aren’t there
synthgems? Is there that much money to be
made with jewels and metals when we can
make what we want?”
“Oh yes,” Tristan said.
“Well, synthgems, but we don’t have that
many synthetic metals.” Carter’s eyes lit up.
“But see, Slap, even with synth, there’s a huge
market out there. As a matter of fact, there are
so many uses for synthgems, such as thermal
conductivity, data storage—we rely on them for
Ray Gun Revival magazine
so much. Diamond is the most widely used, for
it’s crystal purity, inherent strength, and clarity.
Synthetic sapphires, rubies and emeralds exist,
mainly for use in tuning industrial cutting lasers
and for medium-sized, megawatt-range laser
weapons.”
Tristan listened in awe as Carter rambled
without taking a breath. How long could he go
on?
The engineer continued, “For synthetic
metals, we have SynTi, tri-titanium, synthetic
aluminum, polysteel, and plasteel—which is
doped with other metals, yttrium for example,
to prevent crystallization and yield a glassy
metal, and can be turned into a foam and used
for lightweight and extremely durable, well,
anything. A potential downside is they’re still
metal, and thus very conductive of electricity.
Polysteel and plasteel are used for everything
from starship hulls to structural building parts to
public and private transportation to handheld
tools and weapons to decorative pieces.
“And as for natural metals, platinum
and gold are used to form circuitry, not to
mention—”
Tristan waved a hand to stop Carter’s
babbling as he began walking to the bridge.
He’d have to wait for another time to see how
long the man could talk. “I need to do some
research. Give me the details.”
Carter and Slap both ran to keep up.
Pg. 30
“She’d taken a cab to the city. He returned
with her jacket and this note.” Carter handed
it to Tristan.
Simple e-paper. Tristan read it: a mere
message for her father to bring an inordi-
nate amount of E8 synthetic diamonds, gold,
and platinum to the planet in one week. The
minimum it would take for LeJeune to arrive.
He handed it absently to Slap and entered
the bridge, dropping into the pilot’s chair and
rubbing his head. No instructions for him; no
word from Polk, the Confeds...or Dray. Could
this be unrelated to him or to Carter? An actual
mere kidnapping by some cheap goons? He
twisted to look up at the engineer. “You might
have hit on what they want the ransom items
for, which could give us a few clues as to who
they are. These materials—with the war, they’d
sell big on the black market right now...”
With a look of disbelief, Carter opened
his mouth as if to contradict Tristan, then
slowly shut it. “Yeah. They would. And the
Confeds don’t care who they buy from for their
gadgets.” He scratched his head. “You think it
wasn’t Polk?”
“I think it’s possible it’s unrelated. However,
there are other possibilities...” Tristan leaned
back. “LeJeune was somehow involved in the
Mordas. It could be he also had off-world con-
nections. This could be a way to get to him.”
Carter sank into the other seat. “Yeah.
Could be...but how do we find out who really
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King
is behind it?”
Tristan stared at the wall, going over possi-
bilities. “I think...the best thing I can do is force
their hand.”
Slap, leaning against the door, crossed
his arms. “Now, wait. I ain’t sure what you’re
planning, but regardless of what you feel
about Addie, I won’t have you putting her in
danger.”
Tristan’s mouth twitched in a smile, the
ancient story “The Ransom of Red Chief” going
through his mind. “Considering everything,
I wonder who’s in danger.” He took a deep
breath. “But no, I think this is the best way to
get her back in one piece.”
“What is the best way?” Carter asked.
“I’m going to turn over some rocks, and see
what crawls out.” Tristan accessed the comm
network and the code for a local fence who
knew him. When the man’s slender, lined face
appeared in front of him, Tristan lifted his chin
slightly.
The fence’s brow ridged, then he smiled.
“Mr. DeVry.”
“Glad to know you remember me,
Antreas.”
“Always good to see you. I take it you just
arrived with some merchandise?”
“Arrived, yes, but it’s not merchandise
I’m interested in. It’s information. Is your
network as extensive as your entrepreneurial
expertise?”
Antreas grinned. “I pride myself in my
Ray Gun Revival magazine
abilities to pass on news or find out what my
clients might want to know, yes.”
“Good. It’s come to my attention that a
young lady named LeJeune has been detained
by some very boorish types hoping to benefit
by extorting her father. Now,” Tristan paused
for effect, “I would appreciate it if you could
put feelers out and find out who these unen-
lightened individuals are.”
“I take it you have a personal interest in
this situation?”
“Perceptive, as usual.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Tristan broke the connection and turned to
face the two worried men—Carter most likely
because of the chance of Polk’s involvement,
and Slap, undoubtedly, for that girl. “Now, we
wait.”
# sucked like a black hole.
Slap stared at Tristan with his mouth open
in astonishment as the wiry man whipped
around the bar. “How can you do that with
Addie in danger?” He turned to Carter, who
was fiddling with something inside a panel on
the wall. “Can you believe him?”
Tristan stopped in a handstand on top of
the bar, whipped around it again, let go of the
bar, spun through the air, then landed feet-first
on the mat. He straightened and grabbed a
towel off the nearby rack. “Would it do her any
good for me to pace and worry and wring my
hands?”
“You don’t care if she’s hurt or killed, do
Pg. 31
you?”
Tristan finished wiping the sweat off his
face. “You’re wrong. I do care. It’s bad for
business to allow a client’s daughter to get
killed.” He tossed the towel at Slap. “You either
trust me, or you don’t.”
As Tristan crossed to a long, rolled-out mat,
Slap threw the towel down. “He makes me so
mad!”
“But he’s right. There’s nothing we can do
until we hear something.”
Slap started to retort, then stopped and
sighed. “I feel so helpless.”
“We all do. But trusting him is our best bet.
Her best bet.”
“Yeah.” Slap scratched his head, scowling.
“Yeah...” He watched his friend flip end-over-
end down the length of the mat. Waiting
#
Carter stuck his head around the doorway.
“Got something coming in for you, Captain.”
Tristan rose from the table, Slap following
on his heels.
The two men stood out of line of sight as
Tristan sat in the pilot’s chair and hit the comm
panel. When Antreas’ image appeared in front
of Tristan, the man’s grave, lined face gave
away something was very wrong. “Give me
good news, Antreas.”
“As far as anyone knows, she’s still alive.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King
The people who took her...um, well, word has
gotten around that you’re the one who single-
handedly thwarted the Confederation invasion
of Eridani Prime.”
Tristan leaned back, keeping a straight face.
“No, that was my partner.”
Antreas blinked. “Partner? Ahh.”
A grunt, snort, and several soft shushes
were all Tristan heard as Carter attempted to
keep Slap quiet.
“And he’s more upset than I am over the
missing young lady.”
“Uh, well, the people responsible got cold
feet and were preparing to return her, but...”
The fence squirmed and swallowed. “The
Confeds kidnapped her from them. Since I’m
already go-between, I was dragged in. They
want me to tell you they want to meet with
you.”
Tristan felt a throbbing begin behind his
eyes. Not the Confeds...not again. “Where and
when?”
“They said to come to the spaceport’s
west gate market at midnight and bring your
friend.”
“Friend? Is that all they said?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” Antreas licked his lips and
shook his head. “Good luck.”
The image faded.
Tristan sat back, staring into space. Friend?
Which one? Slap—or Carter?
Ray Gun Revival magazine
# Carter hesitated, his eyes on the table.
Slap and Carter sat across from Tristan at
a table in the lounge watching him silently.
He twirled his cup slowly, thinking. “This is a
dilemma. I don’t know which one of you they
want.” He took a sip and frowned; the tisane
was cold now. He set the cup down with a sigh.
“And, in either event, having you come with
me is risking your lives.”
“We can’t do nothing,” Slap said.
Tristan shook his head with a slight chuckle.
“Yes we can. But the thought of that pleases
me about as little as it probably pleases either
of you.” He paused. “However, I have an idea.”
Carter eyed him warily. “What do you have
in mind, Captain?”
He continued slowly. “Things have gone
from facile to probably fatal as far as Addie
goes. If the Confeds want us, they won’t
release her in any event. So we have to strike
boldly. We will all be in danger either way.” He
bored into Carter’s eyes. “Unless we just cut
our losses and leave.”
Slap’s mouth dropped open. “Cut losses?
Cut losses? How can you mean that? You’re
talking about just leaving her here to be
murdered?”
“It is an option. I won’t proceed without
knowing it’s what you both want to do.”
“You don’t have to ask, Captain,” Carter
murmured.
“Even though you know the outcome if they
get you back in their custody?” Tristan asked.
Pg. 32
After two false starts, he finally said, “I can’t let
someone else suffer and perhaps die because
of me.” He looked up, his expression fearful
but committed. “What is your plan?”
“I think a preemptive strike is our best
bet—for us and her. Polk is our card in the hole.
He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Who’s Polk?” Slap asked.
“A man with many secrets,” Tristan replied.
“And a person with secrets is a person manipu-
lated.”
“Before we go any further,” Carter said, “I
want some answers about Polk. You said he
has more than one employer?”
Tristan nodded. “His ‘legitimate’ job is with
the Cirque. But as a young man he became a
gambler, which inevitably led to debt and put
him at the mercy of a...very unscrupulous and
dangerous man. Polk had little choice but to
begin to do dirty little assignments for this
man.” Tristan rubbed his neck. “How and when
he also began working for the Confeds I don’t
know.”
“That’s very interesting...” Carter
murmured. “I don’t know much about him, but
always got the idea the Confeds had some dirt
on him.”
“Dirt sticks to him like iron filings to a
magnet, so it wouldn’t surprise me.” Tristan
rose. “Let me see what I can do about getting
this card to play in our hand.”
#
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King
Antreas shook his head. “I’ve put out word
about this Polk twice and gotten no answer. He
must be deep in hiding.” He pursed his lips, a
smile in his eyes. “Perhaps he knows you are
looking for him.”
“A possibility. Let me know if you hear
anything.”
“I will.”
Tristan cut the communication and sat
back. He had to get to Polk, and he had to do
it now. And he knew where the weasel was.
A desperate situation was sinking him into a
desperate past. Not that he was concerned
with the local authorities, even though murder
had no statute of limitations. He sighed deeply,
calculating the odds of getting out of this
without confrontations. It didn’t look good.
He looked up at Carter and Slap. “I have to
go out. Keep the comm manned, and be ready
to leave if I give the word.”
# one carried the main troupe, and the other, the
The crowds roiled and shoved, kids shouted,
barkers called, music blared, and again, the
smells above all—damp sawdust, fried foods—
combined to bring back memories. Tristan
pushed through the mob of people and chose
a young, blonde, game jointee whom he did
not recognize. “I’m looking for Jacek Polk,” he
called to her over the clamor.
“He’s not here.”
“Where can I find him?”
Her eyes flicked quickly over him. “Poker?
No, a debt.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Ha, things indeed hadn’t changed. He didn’t
reply, which she perceived as an answer and
smiled wryly. “No wonder he’s ‘sick’ tonight.”
She sighed. “You can try talking to the midway
boss, Evžen Walczyk.”
Tristan’s spine stiffened, and through
clenched teeth, he growled, “No.”
She stared at him after the outburst of that
one word. Swallowing bile, he started to leave,
but did a double-take of her wheel. He couldn’t
resist. He leaned close, and she did the same.
“Does Rabinovich know Walczyk has gaffed
games?”
The woman blinked, going pale.
Knowing she’d pass on that tidbit to Evžen,
which would make him squirm, Tristan smugly
left her and wandered the midway. As he
noticed the come-in start, he headed for the
“backyard,” where no outsiders were allowed.
He stared up at the ships beyond the dome;
midway ship, where his prey was most likely
skulking. The fence-field now barred him from
getting closer to the backyard. He had always
been called groundie behind his back, and
sometimes to his face. He had worked his first
seventeen years to prove he wasn’t. All in vain,
for now, he was; he could go no further.
At least, not officially.
But he would wager he could still get in. He
stared at the gate, the idea of this challenge
making his heart race with anticipation. Surely
that was the reason, not the fact he’d be on
the other side of this fence for the first time
since he’d...been forced to leave.
Pg. 33
He started to reach into his vest, but
stopped and slowly withdrew his hand. No,
not yet. He stared at the palm plate, his pulse
pounding. Knowing it was foolish, he pressed
his hand against it. No surprise when nothing
happened.
With a sharp inhale, he shook his head.
Foolishness. He had no time for the past; he
had to save Addie’s neck, all their necks. He
pulled out one of his tools, and in seconds, he
was inside the back yard. He strode quickly to
the midway ship.
The smells as he entered brought another
cascade of memories. He accessed the directory
and found Polk’s room. As he wound through
the ship, a small, fair-haired boy came around
the curve of a corridor and started. “What are
you doing on my ship, groundie?” the child
exclaimed in Polish.
“Go back to your mama, boy,” Tristan
replied in the same language.
The child’s eyes widened, whether at
Tristan’s ability to speak what was considered
a Cirque language, the authority in his voice,
or something else, Tristan didn’t know. But the
boy did turn and run back the way he came.
The ship would soon be alerted to an
intruder. With almost everyone involved with
the show or midway, few were here, but still
his time was limited. He sprinted toward his
destination, one floor up. He overrode the
door code and slipped into Polk’s room. One
person occupied the cabin. The sandy-haired,
heavyset man jumped to his feet as the door
slid shut, his pudgy face turning white. He
wore his suit pants, but his shirt was askew and
sweat-stained.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King Pg. 34

“Wh-what are you doing here?”
“You’re going to help us get that girl back.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Does Dray know you work for the
Confeds?”
Polk’s mouth opened and closed without a
sound, his hands shaking.
“And does Zvi? Interesting what might
happen if all your employers found out about
each other.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Have you ever known me to bluff?”
“But I don’t know how to get her away from
the Confeds.”
Polish.
“More debts, Polk?” asked the gangly one
on the left.
The one on the right lowered his pistol
slightly, his blue eyes showing hesitation.
“Should we stop him, Andrzej?”
“Polk is Cirque. We can’t let a groundie take
him.”
They talked as if Tristan couldn’t under-
stand their language—the first one he had ever
learned. “I’m no groundie,” Tristan replied.
“And this debt goes back to before either of
you were born.”
They exchanged glances, and the one on
the right asked, “Who are you? How do you
know Cirque?”
to say, about me or anyone. As a gambler, he is
invalidated as a witness by the Talmud.”
Two mouths dropped open simultaneously.
“That is what Zvi would say.”
A new voice came from the open hatch,
a deep voice that had haunted his dreams
and sounded like home. “Yes, that is what Zvi
would say.” An old man, leaning on a cane,
came through the door. His black hair was now
almost all white, and his solid frame seemed
much smaller than Tristan remembered. But
his dark eyes were as vital as ever. In Russian
he said, “Hello, boy.”
Tristan’s throat closed and his chest felt
squeezed. He couldn’t breathe, and never,
never had he felt so close to tears.

“You can tell me what you know. Where are
they holding her, what do they—no, who do
they want, and what do they have planned for
their midnight tryst with me?”
Polk licked his lips and began to talk. When
he finished, Tristan grabbed him by the neck.
“Now, let’s go.”
“What? Where? No! Let go of me.”
Tristan tightened his grip. “We’re in this
together now. Do you understand?” he hissed.
Polk gibbered for a moment but had no
choice as Tristan escorted him out. They had
almost gotten to the door of the ship when
two blond young men, boys really, stepped out
to block his path, holding PBGs. Tristan quickly
locked Polk’s arm up behind his back and set
him in front as a shield.
“He’s kidnapping me,” Polk shrieked in
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Polk twisted in Tristan’s grip. “He’s a
murderer. He was banned from the Cirque. You
have to help me!”
Tristan shoved Polk’s arm up high, making
the gambler grunt. “You can kill him to get me,
or let us go.”
“No!” Polk yelled.
Both boys hesitated. Good. Tristan pressed
his advantage. “Is he worth it? The headaches
he’s caused everyone all these years? And if
things go well, he’ll be released in any event.”
Andrzej smiled. “Mister, we might be more
likely to let you go if you keep him.”
To catch up on previous episodes of
“But what will Zvi say? To let a groundie the adventures of Slap and Tristan, visit:
take one of us?” http://loriendil.com/DW.php
“Zvi will likely say ‘good riddance’ if he Deuces Wild is dedicated to the memory of
doesn’t come back,” Tristan said. “Zvi would my best friend; my inspiration for an enduring
also say you should not listen to what Polk has friendship...http://loriendil.com/Starsky/
Issue 41, March 01, 2008
Deuces Wild, Fractured Facets, Part Two by L. S. King Pg. 35

L. S. King
L.S. began martial arts training over thirty
years ago, and owned a karate school for
a decade. When on the planet, she lives
in Delaware with her husband, Steve, and
their youngest child. She enjoys garden­
ing, soap making, reading, and all things
Myst. She also likes Looney Tunes, the
color purple, and is a Zorro aficionado,
which might explain her love for swords
and cloaks.

Like Londo Mollari, she wants to know

if the Hokey Pokey is really what it’s all
about.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 41, March 01, 2008

  Pg. 36
The RGR Time Capsule
February 15 - February 29, 2008
Sci-Fi news from the Ray Gun Revival forums
RGR Date: February 16, 2007 these quality series and will allow the respec-
Chuck, Heroes, and Life reupped for 2008
http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1762
Now that the writer’s strike is over, we’re
due to see more from three of
my favorite shows of last year.
http://www.aintitcool.com/
node/35610
BURBANK - February 13, 2008
- NBC has picked up its fresh-
man drama series “Chuck”
and “Life” -- as well as its hit
“Heroes” -- for the 2008-09
season, it was announced
today by Ben Silverman, Co-
Chairman, NBC Entertainment
and Universal Media Studios,
and Marc Graboff, Co-Chair-
man, NBC Entertainment and
Universal Media Studios.
All three series will have major
re-launch campaigns next year.
“We are thrilled to be bringing
back the high-energy dra-
mas ‘Chuck’ and Life’ for next
season,” said Silverman. “Ad-
ditionally, we will be saving and re-launching
our #1 drama and most successful franchise,
‘Heroes,’ so that it will run in all original epi-
sodes in the fourth quarter.”
“These pickups are a sign of our confidence in
Ray Gun Revival magazine
tive producers to get a head start on their
creative arc for next season,” said Graboff.
“As a result, they give us a lot to build on as
we point to next year’s schedule.”
RGR Date: February 25, 2007
Joss Whedon / Summer Glau Planning An Opera?
http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1779
There’s a lot here about Summer Glau as the
terminatrix in the Sarah Connor Chronicles,
but I, of course, was most interested in the
tidbit about a possible Whedon / Glau col-
laboration side project.
Several people asked Glau why she always
plays somewhat robotic killing machines,
and she didn’t really have
much of an answer. She said
her Terminator was similar to
River, her character on Firefly,
because both are “isolated
in the way they relate to the
world.” But a key difference
is that River uses martial arts,
whereas her Terminator just
uses brute force. So she’s hav-
ing to un-learn some stuff.
Glau is still hoping to create
a ballet with composer/writer
Joss Whedon, but she’s not
sure when it’ll happen. “It
was going to work out better
when we were on strike. We
wanted to do the ballet for
years because Joss writes his
own music and I do my own
dancing, so i thought it was
an amazing idea. But now he’s
been thrown into an amaz-
ing project [the Dollhouse TV
show] and i have to go back to
work. But we’re hoping to do it this season.
We’re nailing down concepts,” Glau said.
Issue 41, March 01, 2008