HyphenPunk Magazine, Issue 3: HyphenPunk Magazine, #3

Issue 3

March 2022

Patrick W. Benjamin  Helen De Cruz  Brad Kelechava

Antony Paschos  JL Peridot  J.A. Prentice  J. Rohr

Jennifer Lee Rossman  Alex Souza  Arwen Spicer

Michael Stevens  Alex Vuocolo

Edited by Jasen Bacon

To all the -punks out there

HyphenPunk is copyright © 2022 Jasen Bacon

All stories are copyright © 2022 by their respective authors

Cover art copyright © 2022 by toeken

Internal art is all copyright free images from freesvg.org

All rights reserved.

ISSN: 2769-7452

Contents

Editor’s Note

HopePunk

Music at the End of the World

Biopunk

When Love Goes Down the Drain

Steampunk

The Flowers of the Devil’s Ring

Keys to the Murder Castle

Clockpunk

Dancing for the Tsar

Dieselpunk

Neo-Kshatriya

Ruralpunk

Lonnie’s Rat

Cyberpunk

Metallosis

Typhoon

Iteration Eleven

The Isolated Mind

The 13% Rule

Reviews

Tropical Punch (Bubbles in Space Book 1) by S.C. Jensen

Neon Goldfish (HoloCity Case Files #3) by S.C. Jensen.

Behind Blue Eyes by Anna Mocikat

Webcomic Reviews by Absintherian

Petrichor

Thank you

Editor’s Note

BEING -PUNK IS ABOUT fighting those that would control you or put you down. It is about understanding the methods of the oppressors to fight them at their own game. Sometimes it is just about spitting in their faces and thriving in a situation that is beyond your control.

Taking control back is a major theme for this issue. As each genre of -punk deals with control differently, this issue is divided by genres.

Hopepunk shows how people deal with horrible situations with as much grace and optimism as possible. Helen De Cruz takes us on a philosophical journey as people come to grips with living in a failing space station while they listen to the Music at the End of the World.

Next Michael Stevens shows us that Biopunk can have love can come from the most unlikely places, and sometimes love itself is an act of rebellion. Sometimes we must strike against those in control When Love Goes Down the Drain.

Steampunk is famously set in a Victorian era setting. The two Steampunk pieces in this issue both use the preconceived notions of the era to question gender norms by using more modern gender sensibilities. This issue’s authors examine what gender truly means while dancing with The Flowers of the Devil’s Ring and turn toxic masculinity on itself when given the Keys to the Murder Castle. Both pieces challenge the men who think they are in control and show that, quite often, systems of control do not control all that they think they do.

Dancing with the Tsar shows that when an artist tries to control their own creation, they are only able to do so with the permission of the ruling class. People who crave and flaunt control will do anything, and use even the smallest of slights, to take what they want. Sometimes the most punk thing you can do is die fighting to control what you create. 

Neo-Kshatriya uses the familiar dieselpunk setting of World War 2, but switches the tropes by having the story set in Brittish controlled India. Dieselpunk walkers and tech are made new by through Asian influences but still tell a story of how the oppressed can rise up against the oppressors. 

We end this issue with cyberpunk, where the -punks began. Alex Souza brings us a nano-punk infused cyber story of people trying to survive once the machines have taken over. In this world, people who have tech get infected with Metallosis and could possibly lose the last remnants of their humanity. The story follows a small group of people fighting against the infection to try to help other people regain their lost humanity. 

Sometimes we just want to read a good high-tech/low-life cyberpunk story, and Patrick W. Benjamin delivers that this issue with Typhoon. It sucks to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but at least Handy is able to keep control over his deadly self-modded pistol.

When the brain becomes hackable, we run the risk of losing what it means to be ourselves. In Iteration Eleven we see a cruel game played with a person who does not even realize that they are in a loop until they find evidence of themselves being in the same place before. The rest of the story is a great examination of how we will fight to maintain control of who we are, even if there is no hope.

We have all come to accept the massive influx of advertisement in every corner of our digital lives, but Brad Kelechava takes it a step further by having the ads being generated by a brain implant. The Isolated Mind is a chilling look at a very real future that will come nearly instantly after the mass deployment of cyber implants. Anybody who does not think this is our future just needs to look at the news articles about major tech companies creating software that pauses ads when you look away so you have to give your full attention to any advertisement displayed to you.

The last work of original fiction this issue comes with yet another vision of a very real future. The 13% Rule is a chilling epistolary tale told through messages sent through a cybernetic brain implant network. Each installment is a message from an AI, or the people trying to stop it, and how the AI takes control of everything. Thus we are ending the issue that is themed on control with a scenerio of total control. 

Starting our reviews this month are a look at three great indie cyberpunk novels. I asked in a fan group if any of the writers there could get their fans to review thier latest pieces, and they delivered. We have to support our indie publisher (after all HyphenPunk is one) because we are the cyberpunks of the publishing world. We are taking the tech produced by the megacorps and use it for our own purposes. We are the edgerunners skirting around the rules of traditional publishing houses to produce what we want to read. Indie is punk.

Our cover this month is a work of the great art of toeken. toeken has done covers for many magazines, most of which can be found on his portfolio at https://atoekeneffort.weebly.com/. He was a blast to work with, and the biopunk monstrosity he designed for this issue is terrifying. I feel sorry for the poor punk running from it. With others coming up from behind, I don't think they are going to make it.  

HopePunk

Music at the End of the World

BY HELEN DE CRUZ

The First Evening (Tune: Robert De Visée - Tombeau pour les Mesdemoiselles De Visée, dedicated to the composer’s two daughters who both died of pneumonia)

Even while her world was ending, the Marquise of E. desired to hear music.

Filters had already ceased to purify the air she breathed. The power systems that cleaned the water she drank and that sustained the gravitational field that grounded her feet were now also faltering, one by one.

On those final evenings, three musicians had gathered to play a farewell to the world that would be no more. Scattered throughout the Formal Gardens, the one hundred or so remaining citizens of Erignac sat on blankets and folding chairs, as they listened in quiet rapture to the skillful weaving together of theorbo, viola da gamba, and violin.

The Marquise looked up at the wrought iron and glass dome that spanned the entirety of her world, laced with vines, creepers, and delicate pink orchids that pointed their calyxes toward the expanse of the galaxy that could be seen beyond the glass. Who could guess this beautiful glasshouse world was dying?

The Marquise’s philosopher-in-residence, Alain de Sermisy, entered the Formal Gardens. He strolled up to her and said, Madame, what a wonderful idea these concerts are! The people look so serene.

That evening, the people had indeed lapsed into a kind of tranquil acceptance, their panic and frenzy of the past few months seemingly forgotten.

Concerts at the end of the world are not my original idea, the Marquise answered, I got it from the report of a sinking ship on her maiden voyage in the Ancient World ... The music consoles the listeners, reconciles them to their fate.

Alain surveyed the audience. I wonder, are you like a sea captain, wanting to go down with her ship? You could have left. You had the resources. Why did you stay?

I know, the Marquise sighed. Don’t make me second-guess myself.

I am not criticizing you, dear Marquise, Alain said, I admire how you gave up your final chance at a seat and gave it to that Elder — how were you able to surmount the instinct for survival that unites all creatures in the universe?

Ah well, as for the Darwinian instinct ... at least Aurélie could leave; she is in good hands with her father, the Marquise began.

Before her eyes flashed that scene of the girl in the blue satin dress, clutching her doll, as she boarded the ship and turned around. When will I see you again, Maman? Aurélie had asked her. The Marquise had lied, soon, chérie. We will be reunited soon.

Let us talk no more of this, the Marquise said, why not take a walk in the grounds, and talk about Astronomy and Philosophy? I see no reason to change our custom now.

They left the Formal Gardens and entered that part of the grounds that was called the Wilderness. It was not wild — nothing on Erignac inside the dome was truly wild — but the plants were placed with studied nonchalance to give the impression of untamed nature.

The delicious artificial breeze that blew that evening felt the way she had imagined Erignac before its decommissioning: safe, familiar, comfortable. What a contrast with what Erignac had become: dangerous, alien, sick. Erignac’s dome was a fragile soap bubble with a tenuous atmospheric balance and aging solar panels, set on a toxic moon. The bubble was about to burst.

Look out over the galaxy, Alain pointed beyond the iron honeycomb structure of the dome, at the vast array of stars. So many worlds to discover! Multiplicities of living forms from the Ancient World and beyond.

The vastness of those infinite spaces terrifies me. I am glad I don’t have to see them by day, the Marquise said with a shudder. During daytime, blinds fixed on the dome emulated the Ancient World’s small yellow sun and blue sky.

They ventured deeper into the Wilderness, along the narrow gravel path, small mangrove trees at either side, and took a seat on one of the benches in the center, enclosed by large bushes of bamboo. Alain looked quite tired — it was regrettable, the Marquise thought, that a man who had not yet reached middle age should suffer from such severe rheumatism. Ever since they had run out of steroids, he could not walk for very long.

The stars as seen from within the dome by Helen De Cruz

Alain leaned back, and gazed up again at the sky, As for me, the sight of stars at night puts me at ease. It makes me feel freer, part of a bigger world, of a connected whole. There is much goodness in those worlds beyond, and a dazzling array of forms, most wondrous and beautiful.

I sent out a distress signal to those dazzling worlds of yours, but it was all to no avail. No-one has come to our rescue, and now the lights on Erignac are fading.

The Marquise noticed that the faraway music had stopped, and she hurried back to the Formal Gardens to pay the trio, though the money would be of no use to them. There was comfort in the familiar transaction of service and payment.

The Second Evening (Tune: François Couperin, Les Baricades Mystérieuses, a piece consisting of a range of arpeggios, expressing a variety of moods.)

Long tables stood decked with clean, white starched tablecloth. The Marquise of E. had taken out the silver cups, and filled the serving dishes with copious amounts of lychees, cut dragon fruit, and diced mango. She had chosen the best remaining wines from her cellar. The alcohol was a fine distraction from the fact that their drinking water had all but run out. Everyone present was thirsty from weeks of rationing to stretch their supplies. The effects of serving this wine were predictable. Maybe she could make the people of Erignac happy for a little while, or, if not happy, at least help them forget.

How the Marquis of E. would have complained about this, had he still been around! Not about making people drunk, or wasting expensive vins de table — no, about the fact that his wife was serving them! He had often told her, Always be the one to be served, you should never serve anyone, not even a cup of coffee, lest people get any ideas.

The Marquis of E. had already left two years ago. He took off on one of the few near-lightspeed ships as soon as he heard that the Alliance of Outer Worlds would withdraw its technical support (as it was euphemistically put) from their little moon. Erignac had become unsustainable. They weren’t worth the expense.

The Marquise of E. poured Alain’s silver glass about halfway full with red wine — an exquisite and rich Pommard from a very fine year on some distant planet. Alain took a sip, then gingerly picked up a few lychees and pieces of mango with the tongs and placed them on a little dish.

Madame, the fruits of the Ancient World are the most delicious I have tasted! he said, taking a piece of dripping ripe mango from the dish and eating it inelegantly. I will miss that, among many things.

How is it that you have never before eaten mango, or even durian before your arrival here? the Marquise remarked, You can find them on so many planets and moons.

Durian! Tasting that for the first time was quite the experience. Transformative. The taste is a marvel! Alain said, smiling.

The Marquise drank and considered, not for the first time, on what remote world Alain de Sermisy had lived before his arrival on Erignac about eighteen months ago. She had often wondered about it, but on this topic, Alain was an impenetrable fortress.

I wonder, Alain went on, do you know what fruits grow beyond the dome? Did people ever try to eat them?

The Marquise finished her glass, and did not refill