Issue 48 November 2008

 Pg. 2
Ray Gun Revival Ray Gun Revival magazine, November, 2008
2 Table of Contents
Table of Contents 3 Overlords’ Lair
Full of Sound and Fury, Shibbolething Nothing
Overlords (Founders / Editors) 5 The Third Shadoc War
Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn
by Scott Davis
Venerable Staff 9 Father Fayad’s Curious Compatability Projector
A.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor 9 by Mike Duran
Shannon McNear - Lord High Advisor, grammar consultant, listening
ear/sanity saver for Overlord Lee 12 Standard Deviation
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, sounding board, strong right hand 12 by D. Thomas Mooers
L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, 16 Beasts of Burden
webmistress 16 by R. J. Walker Miller
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle 23 RGR Reviews - Books
washer
Matthew Winslow, Reviews Editor
Slushmasters (Submissions Editors) 27 RGR Reviews - Balcony Fool Movie Reviews
John M. Whalen Paul Christian Glenn, Reviews Editor
Alice M. Roelke
David Wilhelms 33 Featured Artist - Dan LuVisi
38 Calamity’s Child, Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
Serial Authors
Sean T. M. Stiennon by M. Keaton
M Keaton 47 Thieves’ Honor, Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans
Keanan Brand
Lee S. King 47 by Keanan Brand
Paul Christian Glenn 56 Memory Wipe, Chapter 24, Memory Reborn, Part One
Johne Cook 56 by Sean T. M. Stiennon
Cover Art 74 This Raygun For Hire:The Alexander Cochran Affair
“Leader of the Pack” by Dan LuVisi 74 by John M. Whalen
Without Whom... 81 The RGR Time Capsule
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Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008
 Pg. 3
Overlords’ Lair
Full of Sound and Fury, Shibbolething
Nothing

Iabbreviation
n the beginning, there was Science Fiction. At worst, it’s merely “Sci-Fi,” which holds that definitions they arrive at are ridiculous.
Then Robert Heinlein played with the the world is full of monsters and conspiracies SciFi is always filmable but Science Fiction is
of HiFi (short for High Fidelity) and that logic is beyond us. That’s what leads not? Why does the medium of film get to
and gave us SciFi. But because he wrote that people to kill themselves to get on board a determine anything about literature?
playful term in private correspondence, the mythical flying saucer. Twisted and corrupted,
man who was generally credited with coining it can turn life into a nightmare from which J. Michael Straczynski says that Science
the term six years later was science fiction one escapes by eating applesauce and Fiction is an interior kind of form, interior
superfan Forrest J Ackerman, and there’s the phenobarbital, or downing a slug of grape dialogue, interior monologue, while SciFi is
rub. (That’s Shakespearean for ‘look it up.’ Kool-Aid laced with cyanide. just monsters and blowing stuff up.
Also see ‘shibboleth.’) And then we come to Harlan Ellison who
“Sci-Fi” is what the Rancho Santa Fe sleepers
Science Fiction versus SciFi. It is an argument bought. It’s a simplistic, pulp-fiction view is never short on opinions. He says that
as nearly old as the overall genre, and this of the world exemplified by the movie shortening the term from science fiction to
debate has reared its hoary head again “Independence Day,” which warps our SciFi diminishes the term and makes it easy
today. curiosity about the possibility of other life in for people to dismiss it.
the universe into an apocalyptic Saturday- Harlan has engaged in phrasing words to his
The argument is that Science Fiction is morning cartoon. For the cultists, like so
genuine and important and literary while many Americans, standard religions and advantage, here, but that doesn’t mean he
SciFi is a debasement, a willful internal belief systems no longer cut it. We live in is correct. Does it diminish something when
diminishing of something of value, the low- a time when science and technology have we abbreviate it, or does it streamline it?
brow sort of thing you might see in the film out-raced our capacity to understand them- Let’s test that. I have read both 2001, the
Independence Day. -cloning, computers and genetic engineering novel, and viewed 2001, the film. Does
complicate lives that are increasingly given to
Harlan Ellison wrote an essay about all this: loneliness. anybody think the former is Science Fiction
If the answer isn’t here. . .maybe because it was a novel and the latter is SciFi
Traditionally, we have sought answers in it’s out there, in the infinite darkness. Most because it is a film?
philosophy, religion or mysticism, even in the people who watch “The X-Files” or “Star
concepts that you find in fantastic literature. Trek” or saw the rerelease of “Star Wars” are This is pure snobbery, an artificial distinction
These images have the magical capacity to simply looking for escapism. But in a mansion among genre elitists. People will dismiss
inspire dreams, to enrich reality. At best, the in Rancho Santa Fe, it went dramatically things that they don’t like regardless of what
literary genre called science fiction tells us we farther. They turned away from the wonders you call it. In a bookstore, whether you call
must be responsible for one another and for of the real world and embraced recastings of it Science Fiction or SciFi, the terminology is
the common good. That’s the work of writers Jesus as a deep-space navigator. useful in separating the genre from Romance
like J. G. Ballard or Thomas Disch. literature or Mysteries or what-have-you. It
This being an opinion piece, I think the

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Overlords’ Lair - Full of Sound and Fury, Shibbolething Nothing Pg. 4

is a term of some basic descriptive value. measured look at the whole thing in his to read anything at all. They don’t care what
Language evolves, and this abbreviation is a Rough Guide to Sci-Fi Movies: we call these works among ourselves. They
short-hand way to say the same thing. also don’t know what they are missing, and
Just as the citizens of San Francisco cringe that’s as much our fault as anything.
Harlan says that SciFi is only concerned when an out-of-towner calls the city “Frisco,”
with plot, while science fiction is about how so do many long-time fans of the science Instead of fighting among ourselves with
technology impacts the human condition. fiction genre become annoyed when fruitless, pointless squabbles, our real fight
This is another artificial distinction. I’ve someone outside their circle refers to science should be to write or film better quality
read and viewed bad Science Fiction. I’ve fiction as “sci-fi.” To many longtime fans, stories instead of arguing over semantics
read and viewed great SciFi. I think quality “sci-fi” has the taint of being a “lite” version that only insiders care about. We need to
is something that moderates a specific title, of the genre they know and love; therefore, win them back to reading as a valued activity
not a specific medium. many longtime fans use “SF” as their before reading itself is replaced.
preferred shorter version. This antipathy is
Personally, I prefer Speculative Fiction (or not universal -- many science fiction genre So that’s the editorial. One programming
SF) as the larger genre title, and if you want professionals don’t care about it one way or note­­—the Deuces Wild and Adventures
to break up sub-genres underneath, such as another, and indeed, the US cable network of the Sky Pirate serial installments are on
literary sci-fi or hard sci-fi or pulp sci-fi, knock devoted to science fiction and fantasy is the hiatus until January to bring you the special
yourself out. But as a distinction, referring “Sci-Fi Channel” -- but inasmuch as the bias is two-part conclusion of Sean T. M. Stiennon’s
to SciFi as a mechanism to distinguish hack- there, we’d be remiss not to acknowledge it. impressive serial novel debut, Memory Wipe.
work films from serious literary fiction is an Clocking in at 24k words, we’re breaking the
artificial distinction you find only within our For the purposes of this book, we make no chapter up in two and will present them in
relatively small community. value judgments about the desirability of the November and December issues. Next
“SF,” “sci-fi” or “science fiction” as labels -- to the Overlords, Sean was the first writer
JMS remarks that you can have a very violent we use them more or less interchangeably to come onboard with RGR, and has been
action-oriented Mystery over here and a very for the sake of variety. This book’s author, working on Memory Wipe for longer than
thoughtful Mystery over there. He says that a published science fiction novelist, does the magazine has been in print. He’s an up-
SciFi is all the same thing and doesn’t break suggest that if you fall in with a group of and-coming star, and I look forward to seeing
apart in that fashion. I disagree. I think you longtime SF fans, that you use the term “SF” many of his works on store shelves as his
have very violent action-oriented SciFi over rather than “sci-fi” as an abbreviation simply career blossoms. Please give the conclusion
there and very thoughtful literature SciFi to avoid the potential of being humorously of his novel your attention, and please let
over here. ribbed by them about it (most long-time SF him know what you think. Thanks from all
What it comes down to is quality. You can showing fans are actually pretty tolerant if you’re of us at RGR.
have quality literature or crap literature, and genuine interest in the genre).
Johne Cook
you can have quality films or crap films. But The real issue here is a matter of perspective Overlord
calling something the longer name Science and preference. Right now, roughly twelve Breezeway, WI USA
Fiction doesn’t automatically make it any people in our genre are arguing over this
more serious or give it any more redeeming while the of the world looks on, bemused, as November, 2008
quality than if you call it SciFi. we make mountains out of mole-hills while
I’ll note that John Scalzi took a rather they go about their business of deciding not

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

The Third Shadoc War
by Scott Davis 
The Third Shadoc War
by Scott Davis
C rimson hooves clopped through the slushy
snow as Qwistar urged the troika on. His
sled, reduced for speed to little more than
rails and harness, gave no protection against
the freezing spray that whitened his beard
and eyebrows. The moons of Shadoc IV hung
low over the canyon, a propitious sign. They lit
the leafless trees bone white to the right. The
path’s ruts caused his sled and team to lurch
precariously to the left. The outside kelse
scrabbled for purchase over the precipice,
fairly asking for a taste of the whip that Qwistar
cracked with relish across the balky beast’s
flank. It was rumored that candidates were
observed on their way to the arena. He hoped
his entrance, commanding not one but three
of the most headstrong, vicious predators in
all the Shadoc worlds, would garner favor with
the judge.
Arriving at the arena, he approached
on foot. The floor beneath him was highly
polished, black-tinted crystal, covering a bot-
tomless pit. It gave the impression that he was
skating on thin ice, an apt metaphor. Before
him was a cage, four meters high, and two in
diameter, made of the thinnest carbon fiber
with embedded silver wire, curved into an
ornate dome at the top not unlike a large bird
cage. The judge sat inside the cage. She was a
woman. No, the glowing outline of the surface
of a woman, three dimensional, empty within,
and almost transparent. He bowed deeply.
She gestured for him to sit opposing her in the
cage.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“This is not instruction. This is not a test.
This is transformation, or annihilation. Ten
thousand try. Three go on. Do you accept the
challenge?”
“Yes.”
“Let it be stated for the record that one
Qwistar Torvur, twenty six years in training for
the honor to be transformed into an Instru-
ment of Death, accepts the challenge and in
so doing agrees not to live as a failure. May
you be transformed!” At this the witnesses
present seated in the grandstand around the
arena echoed, “May he be transformed!”
And finally, Qwistar declared, in hope:
“May I be transformed!”
The judge continued. “Let us begin. Repeat
after me.”
“My blood is the blood of the fallen.”
At once all lights in the arena were extin-
guished, and a thin wail sent chills down
Qwistar’s spine. “My blood is the blood of the
fallen.”
“I am their vengeance.”
Then, a rumble of thunder, a shudder of
the floor, and the smell of ozone filled the air.
“I am their vengeance.”
“My enemies will see only their own terror
reflected in my eyes.”
Pg. 5
Lightning coursed through the reddened
sky and crashed. The floor dropped out from
under the cage, now suspended at the top by
clear monofilament and silver wire over the
abyss. “My enemies will see only their own
terror reflected in my eyes.”
“I am death.”
The cage suddenly lit up like the brilliance
of the sun, millions of volts coursing along its
wires, crackling, arcing, and buzzing. “I am...”
Stress sensors registered a millisecond
of hesitation in Qwistar’s voice. The Faraday
cage switched the conductors outside to
conduits into the cage, electrifying the air of
the enclosure and leaving smoking ash where
Qwistar once sat.
Back at Shadoc Prime, Yakor Bloug recalled
her cage avatar and growled with contempt.
With only thirteen Instruments of Death, they
should wait. But the armada was spoiling for
battle, and would brook no delay.
Central Control consisted of these thirteen,
their bodies removed through a noisy
operation, since they refused anaesthetic. The
brains were enclosed in a ship disguised as an
irregular asteroid three meters in its longest
axis. Since not even one full-bodied Shadoc
could live in such a small space, it was bound to
be overlooked by the enemy. Controlling their
fleet directly, without the mediation of a slow
physical body, would allow rapid-fire orders,
boosting the advantage of their stringent
Issue 48, November 2008
The Third Shadoc War
by Scott Davis  Pg. 6

training and selection. The control center was time in the known universe. They lived two race would rain down rocks on themselves? No,
set seemingly adrift at an observable, but safe thousand times faster than carbon life. Their they cloaked it, hoping we would overlook it
distance from the action. fate unfolded in slow motion before them. and leave a remnant of humans alive on their
lunar bases. Extrapolate the moon’s current
The armada flashed out of hyperspace, The Instruments of Death laughed at their position and attack!” “What is attacking our
precisely between the Sun and Earth’s predicted cowardice. “What? These stupid lizards are ships?” “Find the source of their firepower,
position, a million miles from its surface. At afraid of a little grey dust?” and neutralize it!”
ninety-nine percent of lightspeed, they were
just over five seconds to Earth intercept. Their superior skills when engaging enemy The explosions subsided as microwave
fighters made no difference once within the popcorn does after the third minute. Any
“Our surprise is complete!” chortled Instru- antimatter cloud. A million Lilliputians working remaining ship was shot through by the intense
ment of Death One. “Earth sleeps like a rosy- a hundred years could not have made a better gamma radiation that matter-antimatter colli-
cheeked child at his mother’s breast!” minefield. The shards weaved chaotically, sions emit, killing its occupants and disabling
moved by gravity, magnetism, and collisions its equipment. Most were also broken in colli-
“First wave, attack!” ordered Instrument of with each other. Every motion tightened the sions with all the debris scattered from disin-
Death Zero to the eager Corsairs and Destroy- noose. And, if a pilot kept perfectly still, the tegrated ships, or in orbital decay, burning up
ers, who fired all weapons immediately. The shards would slide slowly toward him, attracted in the thick Venusian atmosphere. Unmanned
Corsairs hurled rocks at dams and faultlines. by the hull. Though so small that forty five could rockets with magnetic antimatter contain-
The Destroyers targeted missiles with hydrogen fit in a cubic centimeter, they each packed the ment vacs in their cargo holds blasted off from
bomb warheads at cities and military installa- punch of five tons of TNT at point blank range. hardened silos at Venus’s poles, to begin the
tions. The first wave of the attack streamed The first explosive contact shoved each fighter laborious task of cleaning up the shards.
through the atmosphere, easily exceeding into many more shards. Checkmate, in the
damage predictions. Within moments, there form of a blinding white pulse.
was nothing but bouncing rubble. The entire #
Brobdingnagian armada decelerated via gravity Sickening green streamers came from the
lens and took up stations in orbit, awaiting corpses of nightmarish space-faring insectoids, Forty million kilometers away, the Earth-in-
further orders. whose capabilities and purpose were unknown Venus guise courtesy—again, of holographic
to anyone, especially themselves. projectors—had seen it all. The real moon was
The holographic projectors on the planet provided with a holographic star cloak, in case
had also been destroyed, revealing not a One by one, the troop Carriers flashed any Shadoc looked that way. In the auditorium
wrecked Earth, but a sorely abused Venus. angry red, like so many moths against a bug a cheer became a roar as the giant screen
What had at first appeared to be the moon zapper. The millions of 50-meter-high robot onstage displayed the message: human casu-
also vanished. Triggered by the attack, the infantry within them that would have scoured alties: zero. Candy Voluptoon, a pixie-coifed
simulated moon splintered into a quintillion for survivors on Earth’s surface using vaporizer starlet in gold lamé sauntered past the views-
antimatter shards repelled from each other at beams, exploded in their pens. creen toward the podium.
high speed, but attracted to the armada’s hulls,
enveloping the planet’s attackers. Debate raged in the Control Center. “I think it is now safe to tell the secret kept
“Attack!” “No, that is not Earth, but a decoy!” “It all these months. First prize in Earth’s defense
The fighters called Central Control, pleading IS Earth! They have deceived our sensors in the goes to...drum roll please...Avignon Middle
frantically for the freedom to fly away from the vain hope we will hesitate with doubt!” “What School!”
approaching shards. The pilots were slaved happened to their moon?” “The explosion is an
neutron star lizards, who had the best reaction illusion. We haven’t attacked it, and what crazy The gawky teens took to the stage beside

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

The Third Shadoc War
by Scott Davis 
Candy, waving to their moms and jealous
siblings. They looked to a pale boy, whose
shaking hand held a speech. “I want to thank
the Lord for supplying an expendable sister
planet, and so many asteroids so we could
flip the charges in their atoms and make that
moon...” The music started playing as he
droned on.
Bert, in the balcony’s media booth spoke
in a smooth, professional tone: “The winning
design was selected for the elegance of the
math involved. The management of the gravity
lenses that transferred Venus to Earth’s orbit
and vice versa was done masterfully. Not one
cup of tea slopped over. Also to the students’
credit was the sophisticated physics of the
moon weapon and the artistry of the hologra-
phy. The design had its drawbacks...”
“Speak for yourself, Bert. I, for one, love
the big sun and beach scene at Prudhoe Bay,”
called Candy from down on stage, on cue for
their rehearsed repartee.
“Ah, but Candy, we’re going to have to make
it back before the oceans boil.” Bert played
stern daddy.
“Boohoo! I like an ocean that cooks its own
lobsters.” She pouted theatrically.
Bert wanted to get back on subject. “I under-
stand a follow-up contest will be announced for
the best use of the metal and other slag Venus
has inherited.”
“I vote for Disneyland Venus!” said Candy.
Bert looked at the time and did the wrap-up.
“This year’s Defense of Earth Awards Extrava-
ganza brought to you by Wayfarer. Remember,
the same molecule-thick SPF fifteen protection
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 7
out there keeping us from the worst of the sun the Sierra Club for giving other Earth creatures
is available in the latest eyewear fashions!” the chance to defend their home.
A breaking news flash at the bottom of the The second exhibit was of a much enlarged
screen said: control ship captured intact and enhanced ship. The holo was live, from
distant cams. The ship commander’s face
# was frozen in an expression of jubilation, still
convinced of his inevitable victory. The digital
“Don’t you think we should just wipe out display showed picoseconds crawling by like
these berserk Shadocs, before they get a clue?” hours beside an explanation of how time slows
asked Josiah Clinton, past US President, as he within a black hole’s event horizon. The special
strolled through the Smithsonian Air and Space education class of Hoboken High took the prize
Museum with current UN Secretary General that year.
Madeline de Gaulle.
The third one was new: the actual faux
“Oh, but the children enjoy the competi- asteroid.
tions so. And remember, the attacker is always “The brains are healthy. The blood renewal
the one off balance. Better they use up their process was never interrupted, and is now
resources than us.” working at peak efficiency, keeping the tissues
The pair of politicians strolled past the well fed and oxygenated. Their cranial fluid
exhibit from the first Shadoc war. The ship was is continuously refreshed as well.” said the
punctured by the hardened tendrils of a bioen- curator proudly. “The Instruments of Death
gineered jumbo Portuguese man-of-war. have had their memories downloaded, for
use in future contestant training. The external
The museum placard explained: sensory input and communications links have
all been disabled for safety. With proper care
The creatures were altered to have they should stay alive indefinitely.”
white puffy bags of helium in place of their
mantle, to float disguised as clouds. As the “Shall we?” said de Gaulle to Clinton.
ships approached, they became entangled
and injected with neurotoxin gasses proven He took the top handle, she the bottom
effective by the infiltration team on Shadoc of the oversized ceremonial scissors, and
Prime. This exhibit only has a fiberglass mockup together they cut the ribbon to the applause
of the creature, but the ship is real, as are the of all present. The visitors streamed past them
monsters in the cockpit, kiln dried to prevent to see the brains through Plexiglas viewports
odor. The castings from their faces were used to cut for the exhibit.
make very popular Halloween masks, available
Clinton asked, “Won’t they go mad from
in the gift shop. Earth owes its thanks to Mrs. sensory
deprivation?”
Crabtree’s kindergarten of Perth for the idea.
The kids also received a commendation from De Gaulle scoffed, “As if they weren’t
Issue 48, November 2008
The Third Shadoc War
by Scott Davis  Pg. 8

already.”
The curator answered, “They can always
talk to each other.”

Scott Davis
Scott was in the town library stack last October,
2007, looking at the Science Fiction section for
a book he hadn’t read. He considered going
back to his favorite authors, like St. Exupery,
but thought, why can’t there be more well-
written SciFi? A book like...

And the more he thought about it, the

thought popped in to write it himself. He got
published within a year, at Nova SciFi, and
received an Honorable Mention from Writers
of the Future.

It’s all been grand fun ever since.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Father Fayad’s Curious Compatability Projector by Mike Duran
Father Fayad’s Curious Compatability Projector
by Mike Duran
S tanding on the gemmy-veined steps,
watching the couple storm off, did not
dishearten Father Fayad in the least. In fact,
he relished the revelation. That was one
advantage of being stationed on the outer
rim with the quadrant sludge. While the other
grads got chapel assignments in Emerald City
cranking out nuptials without discretion, he
got to experiment. Unsupervised.
Not that Father Fayad enjoyed tossing
monkey wrenches into the blissful machina-
tions of matrimony. Fanning old flames and
snipping rosy futures had its downside, as
the embattled pair before him testified. Yet
he did extract a peculiar satisfaction knowing
he’d rid the galaxy of one more dysfunctional
family. Ridding himself of one more counseling
appointment—or suicide intervention—was
an added bonus.
The couple clambered down the steps,
reached the platform and turned to each other.
“I’m taking a pod,” snarled the young lady.
Her name was Saige and she’d agreed to
Projection without hesitation. Most did. After
all, who wouldn’t want to know their potential
future? Of course, Father Fayad always had to
stress the word potential because Compat-
ibility Projection was not an exact science.
Yet if they wanted the marriage documented
by GlobalZone, they had to comply with the
father’s modest stipulation.
Besides, what was a little DNA and a flip of
the coin?
Ray Gun Revival magazine
With her fingertips, she massaged the
imprint left by her engagement ring. The naïve
exuberance of their arrival evaporated in her
judgmental glare. She flicked her U-visor down
and the church’s marquee became tiny fractal
droplets on the specs.
Orbiter’s Chapel performed weddings. Any
species. Stationed on Platform 3, gateway to
the outer rim, guaranteed a steady clientele.
The Diocese rarely came this far, and when it
did, it was only so some bishop could make
sure the confessional was free of space silt
and the stained glass sparkled in the celes-
tialight. Then it was off to the Venom Bar or
Respite Lounge for his so-called special-inter-
est swing.
Which left Father Fayad free to tinker.
“C’mon, Saige.” Bio was lanky, fully human,
and three shades paler than when he arrived.
“How could you?” Her hands balled into
sledge heads. “You promised you’d be faithful,
you vapo-brain.”
“It didn’t happen, Saige.” Bio held the
disk aloft and waved it in appeal. His lobes
fluttered as he whirled toward Father Fayad,
eyes asquint. “Tell ‘er, Father. It’s hypothetical.
It didn’t really happen.”
Saige strummed her nails on her hip and
peered at Father Fayad. “But it could. Right?”
This was the part he enjoyed most.
Pg. 9
Father Fayad shrugged off Bio’s bleating
complaint. “DNA doesn’t lie, ma’am. Genetic
Projection is ninety-five point seven percent
effective. Coupled with your family history, your
predispositions, emotive records, religious
aesthetics—or lack thereof—and habitat, the
findings are almost...indisputable.”
She flung one last scowl at her partner,
spun around and gazed into the spacescape,
lips clamped in frigid resolve.
Without some sort of metaphysical persua-
sion, it was hard to argue with science. And
when it came to intangibles, the kid was land-
locked. Bio shook his head in uncomprehend-
ing, robotic ticks and deflated. He slumped
forward and stood silhouetted against the
spiral arm, shipwrecked in the wake of her
malice.
Hell hath no fury—was that how it went?—
like a woman scorned. Not that Bio had done
anything to scorn his fiancée. At least, not
yet.
They called it the piggyback principle,
part of the burgeoning Predictive Science
movement. Under certain conditions, people
respond certain ways. Call it fate or predestina-
tion, in either case, homo sapiens just couldn’t
seem to lose the genetic baggage. Their grubby
footprints defiled the stellar spread.
Enter Genetic Projection.
GlobalZone implemented it to weed out
Issue 48, November 2008
Father Fayad’s Curious Compatability Projector by Mike Duran
criminals and societal malcontents. By age nine,
everyone within the quadrants was Siphoned.
The Rightists fought hard against institution-
alization—especially at that young an age—
citing numerous cases of personal metamor-
phosis and emotional modulation. Yet with the
signing of the Declaration of Interdependence,
the growing risk of interspecies contamination,
and the proven effectiveness of the procedure,
Projection was there to stay.
Of course, using the method as a means of
determining relational congruity was all Father
Fayad’s doing.
A pod shimmered in the distance, rocketing
toward the Platform, and the woman tilted
impatiently over the portal’s edge. Bio’s jaw
opened and closed in mute argument with her
backside.
All this because of a curious Compatibility
Projector.
The science was simple. Given the necessary
data—family history, emotional algorithms,
environmental stimuli and cellular encoding—
one could mathematically predict the arc of a
person’s life. But in the case of marriage, the
convergence of those arcs could be volatile.
Upon arrival, the smiling couple had sat
holding hands, clearly mummified by terminal
infatuation. Saige deferred to Bio’s soft-spoken
courtesy, which belied a nervous twitch. He
placed his clammy palm on the C-Pad and the
Projector whirred to life, gathering, distilling,
pigeonholing. She followed suit, then settled
back and folded her arms, as if she knew what
was coming.
The drive ticked like a boiling witch’s
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 10
cauldron. As the data spun out on a disk, He plucked the disk from the tray with an
Father Fayad massaged his chin—a canned overblown, dutiful sigh.
gesture he’d incorporated to appear academic
or humanitarian—and studied the results. “I’m afraid the findings are not in your
favor.”
In most cases, the priest feigned shock.
And scanning the dope on these two wouldn’t Saige’s foot-wagging shifted to hyper-drive.
change the ritual. He hunched forward, She sat in a merciless knot, arms woven, jaw
squinting with artificial incredulity at the com- cantilevered in cool overdrawn indifference.
putations. The kid went from pale to pasty, and his
Bio cleared his throat and glanced at Saige. Adam’s apple appeared to buoy atop a rising
She clamped her crossed arms and agitated the acidic geyser. “I don’t—how do you know?
toe of her boot. She was way ahead of him in We could change. Things...things can happen.”
the instincts department. Varieties of vexation Again, the obligatory sigh. By the end of his spiel,
appeared to undulate through her body like they’d be drawn and quartered. “According to
weather systems over a Martian seascape. He my calculations, your marriage has a twenty-
turned to Father Fayad, a sweaty sheen now two point one percent chance of lasting seven
christening his forehead. “Well? What does it solar cycles.”
say? I mean, we’ve been together for over an “What?” Bio didn’t bother to look at Saige.
Earth Orbit. That matters, don’t it?”
“That can’t—no. We love each other. D’ya
But Father Fayad just clucked his tongue hear me? And...and nothing you can say or...
and kept squinting at the Projector’s data predict—”
stream.
“What happens?” Her tone was glacial.
The kid was lean, even gangly, with no Bio did not turn to look at her. His angular
predilection toward corpulence. His father shoulders became a rigid skyline with his eyes
died with a remarkable Body Mass Index hovering overtop like two empty orbs, awaiting
of nineteen. However, Saige’s fat cells were Armageddon.
a ticking time bomb. Of course, at this age,
everything was unborn, gestating in juvenility. Father Fayad cleared his throat with a
Youthful metabolism covered a multitude of sort of heartless nonchalance. “Current sex
sins. Body sculpting had trampled the myth of research—brain structures, particularly nuclei
inner beauty many moons ago. And given time in the limbic system and hypothalamic mea-
and children, inner beauty was all the poor girl surements—places you two at opposite poles.
could hope for. Given Bio’s testosterone levels and his history
of infidelity—”
Which wouldn’t sit well with Casanova.
“History?!” Bio vaulted from the chair in
Bio perched on the edge of his seat as near cardiac arrest. “We hardly knew each
Father Fayad settled back, shaking his head.
Issue 48, November 2008
Father Fayad’s Curious Compatability Projector by Mike Duran Pg. 11

other back then! And it was only once.” Father Fayad shook his head. As long as Mike Duran
he wasn’t shot, he didn’t mind being the
“Twice.” Saige looked past her fiancée and messenger. Still, the partings were always bit- Mike’s stories have appeared in Relief
issued a curt nod toward the priest. tersweet. He looked up, past the sky rises and Journal, Coach’s Midnight Diner,
the distant veneer of the Shield, to the shim- Forgotten Worlds, Alienskin, Infuze
“In fact,” Father Fayad drawled, “the record mering tendrils of the nebula receding into Magazine, and Dragons, Knights, and
shows a third, undisclosed event.” cerulean space. Angels, with articles in The Matthew’s
Bio’s jaw trembled shut and he collapsed It used to be ‘for better or worse.’ But it was House Project, Relevant Magazine, and
speechless into the seat. funny how, when people glimpsed ‘the worse,’ 316 Journal. Mike is currently part of the
“As I was saying,” the clergyman continued. they couldn’t bear the better. editorial team for the Midnight Diner’s
“Given your families’ mating habits, Saige’s pro- second edition and contributes monthly
The priest shrugged and started back up commentary at Novel Journey. He and
pensity toward rotundity, her low self-esteem the steps. The couple’s disintegration had his wife Lisa live in Southern California,
coupled with unaddressed bingeing, Bio’s non- inspired him to tighten tomorrow’s sermon.
monogamous tendencies, cavalier socio-sexual The working title of the piece was Science as where they have raised four children. You
behavior, general intolerance for and inability Religion—a message that resonated with the can visit him at www.mikeduran.com.
to empathize with hormonal fluctuations in quadrant clones and one he felt unusually
the female human—and barring some unan- destined to deliver.
ticipated inter-personal transmogrification—
your marriage is unlikely to last.”
Saige wheedled off her ring and tossed it
onto Father Fayad’s desk, where it rattled to a
standstill.
Now, with the pod whisking her away,
leaving the two of them alone on the platform
sluiced in its vapors, the clergyman’s compas-
sionate side could emerge.
“You know Bio, if it’s any consolation, there’s
about an eighty-four percent chance that by
next solar cycle, you’ll be married.”
The kid’s eyes became apertures of
unbelief. He clamped his jaw, tossed the disk
to the ground and pulverized it under the heel
of his boot. Then he huffed across Platform
3, through the pyramidal gateway, toward a
stack of Tonic outposts where he disappeared
amongst a cosmopolitan crowd.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Standard Deviation by D. Thomas Mooers
Standard Deviation
by D. Thomas Mooers
S ubject 809 was failing to cooperate, again.
He had declined to react to the subtle
conditioning cues that should have indicated
to him that the atmospheric temperature was
on the decline. A cool breeze in the midst of
what had been a relatively warm solar cycle,
an approaching line of clouds, even the slow
emergence of frozen precipitation; none of
these evoked the desired response.
Instead of retrieving additional coverings
from his den, as the others in his community
group had done, 809 removed what skins and
pelts he had been wearing and proceeded to
lay himself down upon a large rock, fully open
to the worst elements the climatic projection
equipment could produce.
The behavior would likely result in illness
and yet another trip to the infirmary, under
full sedation of course, and it would not be
the first of such incidents. Because of similar
behaviors, 809 was becoming somewhat
of a celebrity among the research staff. In
response to raised temperature anomalies, he
would don as much covering as he possessed,
and so elevate his own internal temperature
to dangerous levels. When food supplies were
decreased, 809 would gorge himself to the
point of illness. If there was an abundance,
he would decline to eat what was plentiful for
several cycles, sustaining himself on water and
whatever else he could scrounge up.
Though habitually contrary, 809 was still
one of the heartier males. However, when
Ray Gun Revival magazine
presented with the opportunity to mate, his
famously confounding nature would be on
full display. 809 would reject the most physi-
cally compatible females in favor of others
that would not produce nearly as competitive
offspring.
At one point, in a fit of pique over his
subject’s recalcitrant ways, one of the
mid-level researchers spiked the pheromone
levels inside the control facility. The estrous
females became so incensed with 809 that
they chased him for the better part of a solar
cycle trying to force themselves upon him,
despite his clear disinterest and in the face of
often multiple rivals who were simultaneously
attempting coitus.
The same young scientist, in a further
showing of inexcusable and completely
unprofessional behavior, afterward reversed
the pheromone mix so that all of the subjects,
including the female that 809 found appealing,
were driven to revulsion by his very presence.
Appropriately, 809 failed to demonstrate any
reaction that would have indicated he was
the least bit fazed. He persisted on associating
with whomever struck his fancy, even when
they attempted to flee. Worse, and to the
chagrin of the reproductive specialists on the
team, 809 actually forced himself upon two
of the females whom had been presented as
ideal mates only weeks earlier, but whom he
had shunned for his own favorite.
Study Group Eight seemed to be at a stand-
still, and Starden Cosric, the study’s leader,
Pg. 12
was becoming frustrated. It was supposed
to have been a run-of-the-mill condition and
response experiment for junior researchers.
Instead, 809 and his insufferable personality
had effectively hijacked the project, ruining
three years of research, and tainting the
educational development milestones of his
protégés Cosric had so painstakingly tried to
mold.
“What would you like for night feast?”
Malsha, his occasional, cohabitating partner,
inquired.
Cosric had been silent for several moments.
He had been weighing other issues, mostly
those pertaining to 809 in his mind, and none
of them had been what he wanted to eat.
“I’ll just have Psini larvae with plankton and
algae,” he replied off-handedly.
“You’ve had that three cycles in a row,”
Malsha snapped. “You know it’s not good for
you. The cholesterol is too low, and you need
more simple sugars.
“But I like Psini,” Cosric answered petu-
lantly. He was swirling a clear polymer vessel
in one of his long, mottled green append-
ages. The container held an exact, one-to-
one mixture of corumn sap and acetone, but
the soothing effects of the concoction were
lost to Cosric’s continuing obsession with his
wayward research subject.
“The shektar palms have produced
Issue 48, November 2008
Standard Deviation by D. Thomas Mooers Pg. 13

wonderful fruit this sequence,” Malsha offered. “You clearly have a lot of subjects to think the main portal signaled a visitor. He shifted
“Why don’t we have some with the avila ova about,” she said, moving to leave. “They must his chromatophores to show a series of blues
that I picked up at the exchange?” be taxing your perceptions.” and lighter greens, and the lock to the osmotic
seal released to admit a small, multi-legged
In truth, he hated palm fruit, and liked avila He saw her form rise in the middle of the creature with a large, oval container balanced
only slightly more, but Malsha was taking her chamber, resting upon one of the new dais-levs. on its back. Cosric broadcast a few, impatient
intractable posture. The normally vibrant tones The device was all the rage in the advanced flashes of orange and gestured to a low table
of her chromatophores were checked in stolid commercial stratum in which Malsha labored. in the center of the chamber. The conveyance
grays and tans, and Cosric detected the sour It operated on a magnetic field that was cere- minion scurried over and, inverting several
ester of determination. brogenically tailored to its rider, but Cosric of its appendages, deposited the package
thought the thing made her look ridiculous. upon the table. It then chittered obsequiously,
The easy response would have been to And the image, just before she hovered to the but Cosric scintillated with additional russet
acquiesce, simply have the less desirable meal portal and disappeared through its osmotic agitation, which sent the little food courier
and salvage what could be had for the rest seal, slightly lessened his disappointment at quickly on its way.
of the evening. Malsha was only a few cycles her departure.
from reproductive apex, her lower thoraces As soon as the seal was closed, he glided
had begun to distend, and despite her earlier Gazing up into the high, polished ceiling, over to inspect his delivery. The package was a
show of displeasure, the telltale scent of pher- Cosric rested for a moment. He tried to dark shade of brown, most likely to resemble
omones drifted in the air of the lodgings. All savor the remaining quantity of his drink, but natural soil. With anticipation Cosric opened
that was necessary was to accept one small annoyance, masquerading as hunger, led him the lid. Inside, he was pleased to see a small
loss for the chance of erogenous stimulation. It to move. He slid across the chamber to the pile of cream-colored larvae wriggling in a
was the reasonable course to take, but Cosric augur console. A filament, yellow and trans- thick, fungal liquor. He ingested a small amount
felt that he had already suffered enough disap- parent, extended from his mantle and inserted of corumn-tinged acetone, before sticking the
pointment for ten sequences, let alone one. into the crystalline display. He thought of food tip of one his limbs into the soupy mass. Psini
and the options came into view on the largest and fetid jelly clung to the pads, which he slid
If he was not going to have Psini, and he of the three flat panels. between the sharp edges of his mandible. The
had not entirely given up on them, he certainly taste was sweet and light with just a delicate
was not going to have any greasy, saccharin Arthropods and small mammals, flat and hint of visceral resistance.
produce, nor sulfur-reeking eggs, even if it segmented worms, and even the dreaded
meant losing the opportunity for propagation. palm fruit floated in the holographics. Nothing Cosric quickly ingested the meal, chasing
that he wanted presented itself in the darting it down with two more containers filled with
“I find the olfactory sensation of that com- images that were supposed to entice him. progressively higher levels of acetone. He
bination most unpleasant,” he replied dryly, declined several forms of sensory entertain-
before ingesting a large amount of corumn- Frustrated, he sighed and thought of Psini ment, including keeping himself up to date on
tainted acetone. worms. The augur console flickered once, and the mass sentience channels, and decided to
the image of the plump, creamy larvae drifted
Malsha was obviously not pleased with in front of Cosric’s large eyes. He thought call it a cycle. He retired to his private chamber,
Cosric’s response. Her pigmentation had gone agreement, and the display flickered again. sliding into the warm pool of silt and hydro-
dark and metallic, near onyx, and the odors of carbons, and in no time he was dreaming of
hostility and conflict diffused into the space Cosric fashioned himself another drink, his youth back in the Lavina wetlands. The
between them. this time modifying the ratio to favor acetone, Psini there were always plentiful, and it was
and in a few minutes a variegated sparkle at back then, living with the rest of his hatch, that

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Standard Deviation by D. Thomas Mooers
he developed the taste for the salty, sweet
worms.
Somewhere, in between basking in brilliant
solar light and ingesting copious amounts of
Psini, he lost track of self-awareness and dozed
into the night.
At the start of the next cycle, Cosric was
supposed to be at the research facility halfway
to the meridian, but he instead lingered in his
resting pool, sleeping late into the morning.
The additional repose seemed to have elevated
his spirits. By the time he finally got to the
study group site, Cosric had made up his mind
on the proper course of action for the whole
809 affair.
Unfortunately, on his arrival he was imme-
diately accosted by one of the younger asso-
ciates. The male was clearly junior to Cosric.
Much smaller in stature, the youth’s underde-
veloped mantle gave away the inexperience
of his years from a considerable distance. His
name was Occiden Jonant, and though he
showed more talent and promise than most of
the other research students, for some reason
Cosric could not stand him.
“Doctor Cosric!” Jonant exclaimed, forgoing
the proper pleasantries and gushing with violets
and yellows. “I have great news. I performed a
cognitive battery on 809, and the results are
startling.”
“Cognitive battery?” Cosric demanded.
“Who authorized such a procedure?”
“Uh, no one,” Jonant replied, his chromato- in orange.
phores reducing to dull greys and tans. “The
study seemed bogged down, so I took the
lib...” of shock and fear. “You will instruct the other
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 14
“You took?! You took?” staff on the project to terminate the experiment
immediately. See to it, or you shall never find
“Yes, I know, Sir. It was irregular, and I another grant or fellowship in your lifetime.”
may have been out of line. I apologize—but
the results! 809 shows advanced intellectual Cosric left the youth, now seething in
function! His mental faculties are beyond the charcoal tones, to his tasks and headed for his
charts for homoeothermic life forms!” director’s chamber. There, his sizable work-
station was blinking and flashing with dozens
Damned 809! Cosric fumed. It was his of uncompleted tasks. Grant proposals were
behavior that spawned this impertinence. Bad unread, the budget which was now a moot
enough that the conditioning research was point had not been completed, and the staff
completely flawed, now the discipline of his reviews which had been due to the Academy
interns was close to being lost. half a sequence ago were mostly blank files.
“It must be the cause of his anomalous Well, at least I no longer need to worry
behavior,” Jonant continued almost to himself, about the budget, he thought almost cheer-
and Cosric could see the boy’s color turning a fully.
pensive shade of blue.
For the moment, Cosric ignored all of his
“We surmise that 809 must somehow be responsibilities, quite possibly risking sanction
aware of his captivity, possibly even the study by his seniors at the Academy, and instead
itself. We will have to change the parameters poured himself a small vessel of acetone. It
to investigate for reflection and even deductive was early, but Cosric consumed it straight. He
reasoning...” then reflected on his options for his meridian
“No, we shall not,” Cosric pronounced gravely. repast. Perhaps he would have Psini worms,
maybe with that new female attendant he had
“Group Eight is done, Jonant. The research has recruited from
Chemical Research.
been pointless. Have the specimens eutha-
nized, and personally see to 809.” Yes, he decided, imagining the incineration
of the specimens in Group Eight and pouring
“But Doctor, 809 can think—you can’t!!”
another drink.
“I most certainly can, Occiden,” Cosric
The worms and the new company kept
answered, using his forename to show sounding
better and better.
dominance. “Need I remind you that I am
a complete fellow of the Academy with full
research privileges?”
Jonant was silent but his coloring burned
“Now,” Cosric continued, sensing the odors
Issue 48, November 2008
Standard Deviation by D. Thomas Mooers Pg. 15

D. Thomas Mooers

D. Thomas Mooers did all he could

to avoid writing. After graduating from
orthwestern University with an honors
degree in Art History, he spent years in
traditional employment, accomplishing
everything from pouring perfect martinis
to driving less than perfect forklifts. It was
only after he graduated from law school
and passed the bar that he finally gave
into his baser artistic instincts, and he has
written ever since.
Mr. Mooers lives outside of Boston with
his wife and two children. He is still a recov-
ering attorney and continues to write for
therapeutic reasons, but he is pleased to
report that it has been several years since
he has sued anyone.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller
Beasts of Burden
by R. J. Walker Miller
U nderestimation can be a deadly mistake...
“Brilliant, my boy. Simply Brilliant. This
is your moment. It’s an unbelievable achieve-
ment. Six of them! However did you manage?”
The elderly face shown above the halo-
display nodded approvingly at the young man
seated before it wearing a stiffly starched
uniform of green and gray, the Corporation
colors. The young man, Sergeant Kelly Graham,
grinned sheepishly and turned his tri-peaked
cap nervously in his hands.
“I don’t exactly know, Sir,” he said. “I just
sort of waved my gun about, and they looked
at me and marched up into the cargo and sat
down. Then I shut them in.”
“Nonsense,” the face exclaimed. “’Just sort
of waved my gun about!’ As if that would
work! Hah! My dear boy, you have acquired
a fortune! Each will sell for millions! And you
survived when the others were brutally killed
by the ghastly conditions. It’s amazing. Utterly
astounding!”
“Beg your pardon, Sir, but they weren’t
really brutally killed. We don’t actually know
what happened to them. They just disappeared
into the jungle and never came back. And
Mathew survived, too,” he added humbly.
“Eh? Mathew? I don’t know of any Mathew.
But never mind that. The rest disappeared?
That’s what I said. They vanished and were
brutally killed. But you survived! I shall have a
Ray Gun Revival magazine
medal for you when you return home.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“And a promotion for now. From now on
you’ll be captain of the Bestiary.”
“Thank you very much, Sir. I’m very
obliged.”
The face above the display beamed.
“Obliged? No. I’m obliged. It’s a wonderful
achievement. A landmark in human history.
Do hurry back now—we’re all waiting to
congratulate you on your success.” The face
looked about and frowned.
“What is that? Oh.” It turned back to Kelly.
“I must be getting along now. Goodbye and
good luck on your voyage home.”
“Thank you, Sir. Goodbye.”
There was a loud blip, and the head disap-
peared into a sparkling haze over the display.
Still grinning despite his misgivings, Kelly
switched off the console. He was trying not to
bask too much in the old chairman’s praise. He
felt quite strongly that it was mostly unwar-
ranted. It was true that he had obtained a
fortune for the Corporation, but still...it had
been much too easy. He really had just waved
his raygun in the air while the gorts had
shuffled into the Bestiary (or the Beast as it
was affectionately called) to be locked away.
The promotion, of course, meant next to noth-
ing—after all, someone had to run the ship,
and he was the only one with any experience.
Pg. 16
But the medal...
He shrugged guiltily to himself. He had
tried to explain. There was simply nothing
more he could do. And, too, recognition and
appreciation would be nice changes to the
usual indifference he received within the Cor-
poration’s ranks.
A loud knock sounded on the door to his
cabin. It would be Mathew, of course. Who
else was left? Kelly shouted for him to come
in.
Mathew was even younger than Kelly. He
was a short man with crew-cut blond hair and
a baby face. He looked ill and hassled—Kelly
had put him in charge of caring for the gorts
during the voyage.
“Damn it, Kelly,” he said once he was inside.
“They still won’t eat. I swear I’ve tried every-
thing. I keep tossing stuff in, but they won’t
touch any of it. They don’t even look up.”
Kelly heaved a sigh and stood. He was
forced to crouch slightly because of the low
ceiling. Spacecraft were made to fit average
human dimensions and he was several inches
taller then average. Sometimes he found
himself envying Mathew’s shorter stature.
“Let’s go take a look at them.”
#
The gorts were kept in the cargo hold of the
ship, separated from the crates of goods and
Issue 48, November 2008
Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller Pg. 17

food by a wall of sturdy, closely set bars. The the supplies. of noticing. Kelly went to the nearest gort and
Intergalactic Corporation Ship (ICS) Bestiary knelt by its prone form. Mathew followed
was a Herculean Class zoological barge. While After he had disappeared, Kelly turned closely with the tranquilizer.
most of the barges owned by the ZooTech Inter- back to admire the gorts. Few humans had
galactic Corporation worked in scientific fields been rewarded with an opportunity to see one, “Mighty sized brutes, aren’t they?” Mathew
(cataloguing and collecting species for zoologi- and none before had actually been able to take whispered reverently.
cal study), the Beast searched out creatures to a living specimen. Though the gorts were slow-
moving, they were extremely elusive and hard Kelly nodded. They were stunningly large:
be used for a different purpose—exotic work-
to locate in their overgrown natural habitat. easily twice his height and probably nine times
horses for wealthy citizens across the galaxy.
They were toothless, and the ZooTech xenobi- his weight. They had made the Beast’s takeoff
There were six of them. They were hulking ologists who had studied them briefly before considerably slower.
beasts with large, sloth-like claws, beady eyes, disappearing guessed that they ate only soft Still kneeling, Kelly reached out with the
and thickly matted bluish-black fur. All six fruits and possibly leaves. Their small black syringe and carefully brushed aside some of
were slouched across the floor of the cargo, eyes reflected little intelligence, and it had not the fur on the gort’s arm. As his fingers touched
completely motionless. Kelly groaned. They yet been determined whether they had any the thick hide of the beast a cold shiver ran
had never seemed to be particularly active real type of communication. Still, they were through his body, and for a moment, his mind
creatures, but now they were obviously lan- strong enough to completely uproot a full- went completely, disturbingly blank. Blinking
guishing. He couldn’t let them starve. They grown Hàngop tree and Kelly was quite glad frantically, he shook his head and his thoughts
were his fortune, and he could only image the that he had replaced the standard-issue steel returned, although something felt as though it
reaction at Corporate Headquarters if he came bars of the barge with hydro-titanium polymer were missing—stolen, even. He shook his head
back with a cargo hold filled with dead gorts. before the voyage. again and went back to work, carefully aiming
Kelly began to interrogate Mathew as to “Got the stuff.” Mathew was back. the syringe, leaning forward, and―
what he had tried to feed them through the
Kelly accepted the syringe from him and With lightning speed, the huge arm shot
bars. It turned out to be just about everything
loaded it with the thick green chemical that had forward and knocked needle from his hand,
imaginable: fruits, leaves, grains, insects, bark,
proven so valuable in healing human illnesses. sending it smashing against a wall twelve feet
even meat. away.
“Could they be ill?” Kelly mused. “We have “I’ll try it with only one to begin with,” he
decided aloud, “and if there’s any improve- Kelly gave a strangled cry and hastily
medications in the medipod. We could try
ment to its health we’ll treat the rest. You can withdrew his hand. His fingers had been struck
something gentle...Green Fyxall, maybe?”
cover me with the raygun while I go in.” by the gort and were twisted at an unnatural
Mathew shrugged. “I’m not sure. Your call, angle and beginning to swell.
Sarge.” The gorts seemed quite docile, and Kelly
wasn’t really worried about them reacting Behind him Mathew screamed. The raygun
Kelly didn’t bother to mention the violently to the shots, but they were large and flew over Kelly’s head and hit the floor several
promotion he had just received. “Fine then,” he powerful, so it couldn’t hurt to be careful. feet in front of him. It shattered, sending pieces
said. “Let’s give it a try. Go and get the Fyxall, of plastic and metal skittering across the cell.
a syringe, and a raygun set to Sedate, just in He went to the wall nearest the bars and Turning, Kelly saw the five other gorts standing
case.” pressed his palm to the center of a glowing before the cell’s exit, blocking the way out.
green tile. The bars slid into the ceiling with Mathew lay on the floor. It seemed that one of
Mathew saluted and trudged off to fetch a deafening clank. The gorts showed no sign the gorts had knocked the gun from his grasp.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller
The gort that Kelly had been kneeling beside
stood and keenly studied him out of eyes that
no longer seemed quite so unintelligent.
“Nice ship,” it commented in nearly perfect
English, the words marred only by an accent
slightly reminiscent of the Verges V dialect.
“You speak Galactic Common?” asked Kelly,
astounded.
“Obviously,” said a larger one by the door,
its tone snide. The others grunted. The sound
seemed rather malicious. “You humans have
no respect for your own thoughts. You should
hold onto them tighter—they’re easier to get
at then a Fori in a Hàngop tree. Just a touch
and they fly right to you.” The gorts grunted
again.
Kelly remembered the shiver that had
worked its way up his spine when he had
touched the gort, as well as the feeling that
something had been stolen. He shivered again,
compulsively.
Mathew had crept to Kelly’s side and was
quivering with either fear or pain, clutching a
mangled and bleeding arm.
“Kelly...” he hissed. “ Kelly, look. Look at
their damn teeth.”
Kelly looked and broke into a cold sweat.
Where toothless gums had been only moments
before, now hung multiple, eight inch, serrated
teeth, dripping with black saliva.
“Retractable,” Kelly breathed. “Like some
snakes. That explains it all.”
“Explains what?” asked Mathew desper-
ately.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 18
“Explains why we weren’t eating the garbage Then Kelly was alone.
you tossed through the bars,” one of the gorts
offered. He cursed softly. What could Mathew be
thinking? There was no place to hide on a ship
“They’re going to hijack the ship,” Kelly the size of the Beast. The cabins and living
explained calmly. “That’s why they just walked quarters had doors that were purely for privacy
aboard.” He nodded thoughtfully to himself, and would offer him no protection against the
his eyes slightly glazed and unfocused. Shock strength of even a human enemy. The medipod
had set in. “They didn’t want to fight us when had heavy, locking doors, but the entrance was
we were prepared, but they wanted the Beast. equipped with a Seal and Sterilize command—
I think they’ve just been waiting for us to open something which no human could hope to
the bars.” survive. After that there was the cargo—where
Kelly was—the bridge, and the command room,
“Yeah,” a gort said. “Something like that.” all of which were completely open.
“And I don’t think the rest of the crew dis- Kelly shrugged. If nothing else, Mathew’s
appeared,” Kelly said dispassionately. “I get the diversion allowed him to arm himself. He
feeling that the gorts like fresh meat.” slipped out of the cargo and onto the bridge.
Mathew seized his arm in a vice-like grip. A small collection of rayguns and shock
“Thanks for clarifying.” pistols hung by the airlock. Kelly selected
the second largest the ship was equipped
The gorts began to close in. with—the largest had, presumably, been taken
Mathew’s grip tightened further, his nails by Mathew as he ran by—then stood still and
biting painfully into the flesh of Kelly’s arm. listened.
Kelly was jolted slightly from his state of shock “The first of you to move is dead,” Mathew’s
by the sting. “Kelly,” he whispered, “one of voice
them is examining the door mechanism. It’s cabins.yelled hollowly from the region of the
left a gap. We have about two seconds.” Then
he released Kelly’s arm and ran. Kelly winced. It was a poor line, even if
it was probably true. But the trouble with
It was the slowest two seconds that Kelly being badly outnumbered was the fact that
had ever experienced. He saw Mathew plunge the enemy could spare some lives. Mathew
through the gap as slowly as a ghost might could, possibly, hold the gorts at bay for a few
drift. He saw the two gorts on either side of minutes, but eventually
Mathew lunge at him—and miss, by millime- and strike. Thumbing his they’d take the risk
ters. He heard the gorts roar angrily—a sound ran in direction of Mathew’s voice.to Full, Kelly
raygun
much like a raygun being fired on Full in a
sealed compartment—and saw them leap after Mathew was standing in the passage that
Mathew and out of sight. ran between the cabins, raygun held at chest
height, roaring threats and warnings with every
Issue 48, November 2008
Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller Pg. 19

breath. The gorts stood before him, cavernous the sharp odor of burning flesh and hair filled the moment.
maws gaping and dripping with saliva. They were the ship.
also threatening, and punctuating those threats Mathew ignored him. “Immediately,” he
with some of Kelly’s favorite curses, phrases “Now!” Mathew shouted. He kicked open told the computer, still entering the velocity
which they had, undoubtedly, snagged from the hatch and dove into the exposed hole in the and directional settings by keypad. He was only
his consciousness with the common language. floor. A gort took a swipe at Kelly’s head and using one hand. His other hand and arm were
Many of the curses were, rather embarrassing- Kelly flung his useless raygun—rayguns could cradled to his chest and blood was beginning
ly, from Kelly’s youth, and he reddened slightly only fire one shot on Full without charging— to soak the shirt of his uniform.
as a gort bellowed, “Surrender, you bug-bitten in the alien’s face, dropped to the floor, rolled
beneath the outstretched arm of a gort, and “Launch sequence commencing. Please
posterior of a Femming!”
fell through the open evacupod hatch. secure you harnesses while I—”
The gorts didn’t see Kelly as he came up
Mathew hardly looked up as Kelly plunged “No time for that,” Mathew interrupted.
behind them and silently flicked off the safety
through the ceiling. He was already seated, “Launch now.”
of his weapon, but Mathew did, and gave him
a look which clearly said, “What the bloody breathing heavily, at the pod’s computer He tapped out another command while the
hell took you so long?” console. hatch creaked ominously above them. The little
“Shut the hatch!” he yelled. vessel gave a rasping shudder, followed by an
Then his eyes flicked downward and Kelly, earsplitting boom, and then Kelly—unsecured,
following his gaze, saw the hatch of the Beast’s Kelly scrambled from the floor of the pod despite the computer’s last minute instruc-
evacupod beneath Mathew’s feet. Kelly bit back and slammed the hatch shut over his head. A tions—was hurled heavily against something
a curse. Why hadn’t he realized it before? It was gort tried to reach its hand into the opening, hard and stuck his head. Stars—different than
the obvious solution. There wasn’t anywhere and as Kelly tightened down the hatch its fingers those outside the evacupod’s small viewport—
to hide on the Beast but simply leaving would became caught. There was a sickening crunch leapt up, swirling and flashing before his eyes,
be quite sufficient. And now Kelly had wasted followed by a pained bellow from above, and and Kelly lost consciousness.
good time by not immediately comprehending.
His face tightened with anger, most of it self- three fingers, oozing thick, mustard-colored
blood, dropped onto the floor of the pod. #
reproachful, and his finger tightened on the
trigger of his gun. Mathew saw the look and Almost instantly, heavy pounding began on
opened his mouth to protest, but it was too the opposite side of the hatch. Kelly saw with He awoke, moments later, to Mathew
late. The trigger was pulled, and the gun jerked horror that the metal around the entrance spraying water in his face from a small drink-
in Kelly’s hand, its surface heating until it was was beginning to buckle slightly. He cast a hose. “No time for that, either,” he said as Kelly
almost impossible to hold. sat up groggily, rubbing the back of his head.
panicked glance at Mathew, who looked up at “We have decisions to make immediately and
A withering explosion of pure energy the hatch, winced, and began typing rapidly at already not enough time.”
vaporized a gaping hole through the torso of the computer console.
the gort standing nearest to him. A second Mathew came to his feet and, ducking so
“Activate launch sequence?” the computer as not
later Mathew’s gun fired, sending a sizzling bolt asked in an infuriatingly calm female voice. to bang his head on the extraordinarily
slicing through a gort and past Kelly’s left ear. low ceiling of the pod, went to the computer
Kelly felt the skin of his face and neck prickle “Didn’t we change that voice track?” Kelly console.
and burn and was almost knocked from his feet. asked, realizing almost instantly that it was an “Display the Beast,” he told the computer.
The gorts howled with earsplitting volume and incredibly stupid thing to be worried about at

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller Pg. 20

The pod’s slow AI hesitated momentarily abandon the pod, try to survive in the forests, program and the chairman would never forgive
as it translated the ship’s nickname, then said, and elude the gorts.” me for losing her—he just made me captain.”
“ICS Bestiary displayed.”
Kelly snorted shortly. “That’s a good one. Mathew looked at him sharply. “I’m sorry, I
The console crackled and halo-particles I’m sure we’ll be better at hiding on the gorts’ didn’t know. But Beast is no use to the corpora-
swirled above it into an image of the Beast. The own planet than they will be at hunting us tion while being held by the gorts, and you’re
barge was bucking and twisting spastically like down.” no use to anyone if you’re dead.”
a marionette under the control of a drunken
puppeteer. “It’s better then nothing,” Mathew said On the display, the barge’s motions had
stubbornly, ignoring the sarcasm. “But I have begun to smooth out. Kelly nodded slowly.
“They’re trying to learn how to use the ship an even better idea. I can still access the files Mathew was right, of course. There really
to pursue us,” Kelly said softly. and programs on the Beast’s main computer at wasn’t another option. But the decision was
this range. With a little basic hacking, I should still very hard to make. It meant that the
Mathew nodded. “They are. And it looks be able to execute commands as though I were fortune that Kelly had just acquired would be
like they’ll learn it soon, even though it doesn’t in the ship. I don’t think that the gorts are destroyed, along with his reputation with the
seem like that was a skill they managed to skilled enough with computers yet to stop me.” corporation. But my fortune was never real,
swipe from you brain.” anyway, Kelly thought. It was trick right from
“And what good will that do? Maybe we can the beginning. But if I hadn’t entered the cage...
“The ICS Bestiary’s local coordinates,” the slow their progress for a little while, but there’s what would have happened then?
computer said evenly, “are point-zero-five- no way that we can get away.”
six lights seconds south, with north being the “So you agree with me? We only have a
current trajectory of this vehicle.” Mathew peered at Kelly with an expression minute or so to decide: if we wait too long,
of genuine, if slightly exasperated, concern. they’ll be too close to destroy without destroy-
Kelly glanced at Mathew. “If they can get “How hard did you hit your head?” ing the pod, too.”
the ship under control, they’ll be able to catch
up with us in under a quarter of an hour. This Kelly, who wasn’t in the mood for either “Go ahead,” Kelly said, and Mathew instantly
craft is slow.” joking or sympathy, merely glared. began typing at the keypad.
“I’m just glad that the Beast isn’t installed “Okay,” Mathew said. “I’ll explain then. Do Watching him, Kelly was impressed. He
with any weapons,” Mathew said. “If it were, you remember a certain application called had never thought that Mathew possessed the
we’d probably be dead now.” Huebner’s Bomb?” intelligence to be an expert at anything, much
“Yeah...” Kelly said, then blanched as he quitecomputing,
less but Mathew obviously knew
“As if it would make a difference.” Kelly’s well what he was doing. And, even with
voice was bitter. “The pod has no maneuvering realized what Mathew was thinking. Admiral his arm injury, Mathew had responded much
abilities. All they have to do is catch us, attach, Alfred Huebner had been famous for his tactic better under pressure then Kelly himself had.
and board. It’s only a matter of time.” of detonating normal-looking, unmanned ships If it weren’t for him, Kelly would have probably
near enemy spacecraft. The program humor-
“Sure. But that’s only if we just sit here and ously dubbed Huebner’s Bomb served a rather been eaten. As it was, he might starve waiting
do nothing. That’s only one option, and I think grim purpose: it began a ship’s self-destruction for someone to recover the pod, but Mathew’s
it’s a poor one. We have two others. The first sequence. “No,” he said, his voice barely more effort was still remarkable.
is that we tell the pod to use what’s left of its then a whisper. “The Beast is worth millions. “The software application Huebner’s Bomb
fuel to land on the gort’s home planet. We then She’s a major asset to the Corporation’s needs verification from the captain of the ship

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller Pg. 21

in question in order to begin,” the computer not equipped to handle—” “How could we have known? We thought
said. they were going to die.”
Mathew released a whoop. “Yes! It’s only a
“Lucky thing we have him here,” Mathew rendering error. The console can’t handle the “We should have taken the risk. It was an
said. explosion. It’s too graphically challenging!” idiotic mistake.”
Kelly took a deep breath. “Begin the “Hoorah,” Kelly said, bleakly staring at the “Remember what Commander Ray always
sequence,” he ordered. frozen particles of the display. “We’ve delayed told us in training: ‘never be afraid to make
our death a few days longer.” mistakes.’ We made a mistake, but its ridicu-
The computer processed his voice and lous to pine about it now. We have to accept
verified the command with a short chirp. The “Don’t be such a kill-joy. At least there’s a it.”
image on the display showed that the Beast chance now.”
had managed to completely stabilize and was Kelly began to nod, recollecting the tough
moving swiftly towards them. He was right, Kelly knew, but he had a hard old trainer’s words, but then he frowned deeply
time admitting it. Just hours before he had been and shook his head. “That’s not what he said.
“Ten seconds until the finalization of the trying to explain to the Chair of ZooTech why Ray said, ‘Never be afraid to make mistakes.
destruction sequence. Would you like to upload what he’d done didn’t deserve the accolades But once you have made them, learn, try again,
priority files?” he was receiving. But after the destruction of and never repeat them.’”
the Beast he saw how paper-thin and meaning-
“Go ahead,” Kelly said. “But don’t delay the less his protests had been. He had really been “Yeah, okay.”
destruction.” looking forward to the riches, honor, and fame,
“That’s a good lesson, I think,” Kelly said
Both Kelly and Mathew waited silently, activelyhe
though hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of
thinking of them. And then everything slowly, squinting in thought.
breath held, as the seconds ticked by on the had been torn away from him by an underes-
display, slightly above the smoothly gliding timation and a blossom “Sure it is. So don’t get depressed.”
image of the Beast. Four. Three. Two. One. day, everything he couldof flame. For barely a
Then the words Sequence Finalized flashed been in his hands. And now hehad ever wanted had Kelly pounded his fist on the wall of the
had nothing. pod. “You’re not getting it this time. It’s a
above the image.
good lessen. We made a mistake. What did
“I’m deploying emergency beacons and have
And nothing happened. we learn from it?” Mathew waited silently, so
the computer relaying a ‘stranded’ message,” Kelly continued, “We learned that the gorts
Then the halo-particles of the image formed Mathew said. are highly intelligent and cunning. We learned
into a error symbol. that they’ll kill us and take our ships, if they get
“No one will ever come out here. We were
some of the first, besides the few xenobiolo- the chance. We learned not to trust them. But
“Impossible,” Mathew breathed. “It had to
gists who disappeared.” what’s the next part of Ray’s lesson?”
have worked.”
“Who were eaten, you mean,” Mathew Mathew blinked. Then he understood
Suddenly the particles swirled together in
corrected. what Kelly was saying and shook his head. “Try
a confusing and abstract web of flashing color again? How? We just blew up—”
and partial images. Then they froze again. “If only we hadn’t gone into the cage,” Kelly
abruptly fumed. “If only we hadn’t fallen for “Our ship. I know. But the gort’s home planet
“There is an error in the rendering of the
their ploy.” is right beneath us, and there are leftover ships
requested sequence. The graphic interface is their from our science colonies. Remember the

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Beasts of Burden by R. J. Walker Miller Pg. 22

guys who vanished before we came? Those initiate the planetary landing sequence. “Fame
ships are old and rotten, probably unsafe and and fortune,” he murmured, almost too low to
definitely not meant for carrying captives, but hear. “We’re not finished yet.”
like you said earlier, it’s better than nothing.”
Mathew shook his head as the tiny vessel
“Talk about twisting my own words and began to rotate itself to face the great, deep
hitting me over the head with them,” Mathew green sphere which was the gorts’ home planet.
grumbled. But there was a glint even in his eyes.
Kelly ignored him, his enthusiasm growing
rapidly. “We’ll live in the old colonies and work
on some of the ships, install them with any
reinforcements we can, network them together,
and slave them to a main ship. That’s the one
we’ll be piloting. Then we let the gorts think
they’re hijacking the ships, and we’ll take them
back to civilization.”
Shaking his head, Mathew looked at Kelly R. J. Walker Miller
in complete disbelief. “That’s the worst idea
I’ve ever heard from you. You want us to go
down to an uncharted planet with intelligent R. J. Walker Miller is a writer of science
beings known to be hostile, trick them into fiction, fantasy, horror, and poetry. In
boarding several starships, then leave them addition to writing and his day job, he enjoys
alone and attach their ships to ours only by an reading SF, the outdoors, and listening to
ancient AI on a rotting ship. There’s more holes
in that plan than in the freeze-packed cheese music. He currently resides in the American
they over-pack our rations with.” Midwest where he is working on his novel
and several short stories. His work has
“And what’s the alternative? Sitting here appeared in the magazines AlienSkin,
and doing nothing until, by some incredible
luck, a ship ventures out here? This pod can Haruah: A Breath of Heaven, Fear and
only support two people for fourteen or fifteen Trembling, and Mindflights.
days. We have a chance down there to recover
the opportunity we lost. We have a chance
to do something nobody has ever managed
before. We have a chance to bring a new
sentient species to the attention of the Trans-
Galactic congress. What are we waiting for?”
When Mathew said nothing, Kelly crossed
to the pod’s control console and began to

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
RGR Reviews
Book Reviews
Matthew Winslow, Reviews Editor
November 2008
Infoquake by David Louis Edelman
Pyr, 2006, 380 pages, plus appendices
I chose to read Edelman’s debut novel
Infoquake for review for two self-serving
purposes; first, and basest of all, was my desire
to obtain free books, a motivation that any bib-
liophile can identify with. The second is, I have
noticed a distinct hole in my SF reading. I’ve
not been keeping up with the ‘modernist, post
singularity-revelation, wants to be literary’ SF-
writing crowd.
My go-to fare is classic science fiction—
Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov and all their friends.
I’m often bitterly critical of those who do not
pay due homage to science fiction’s roots. I
particularly enjoy castigating those who try to
pretend that no SF was written prior to about
1996; when they crow about how new and
real some literary piece of dreck masquerad-
ing as SF is, I gleefully machine gun them with
pre-1980s citations, knowing they are utterly
defenseless because they’ve never read any of
that ‘old’ stuff.
I eventually realized, of course, that
without reading new works, I’ve got nothing
to criticize.
Which brings us to David Edelman’s
Infoquake.
This highly touted debut novel (are
Ray Gun Revival magazine
all would-be authors as jealous as I am of
someone who sells a trilogy his first time out?)
promises to reveal an entirely new future
through the excitement of corporate SF. I’ll
dismiss this ballyhoo right now. One need look
no further than Pohl and Kornbluth’s classic
The Space Merchants and the machinations
of one Fowler Shocken to realize that science
fiction that focuses on business is nothing
new. To read another example of corporate
intrigue, try Sam Lundwall’s 2018 AD or The
King Kong Blues, or follow what is going on in
the background in any one of John Brunner’s
Stand on Zanzibar, The Sheep Look Up, or The
Jagged Orbit.
There is more to Infoquake than corporate
boardrooms, hostile takeovers, and company
secrets however. Edelman introduces a post-
singularity world (artificial intelligences were
defeated in a devastating war that forms part
of the story’s backdrop) in which humans
have allowed themselves to be filled with
nanobots that communicate with a wireless
network. These bots, in addition to keeping
people healthy and expanding their mental
capabilities, also allow them to communicate
with each other over the ‘data sea’ and to
‘travel’ to remote locations for conferences or
sightseeing.
A whole host of other supporting technol-
ogies is also in evidence, and Edelman paints
what, at first, appears to be a rather convinc-
ing far-future in which human beings have
‘hacked their bodies so that their minds can
Pg. 23
follow.’
Unfortunately, there are a whole host
of disconnects in Edelman’s presentation of
these new technologies that cause questions
to arise, either because they come across as
logically inconsistent or because I am just not
buying into Edelman’s presentation.
My first issue is: what semi-intelligent ape
would ever allow themselves to be injected
with microminiaturized machines that could
stop their heart or entirely alter their percep-
tions in a post-apocalyptic, the singularity-
nearly-killed-us-all world? Yes, it has been
300 years since the revolt of the machines
but—no.
Putting that one aside as a gimme to the
author (maybe people will entirely eliminate
paranoia in the future), I found myself con-
tinuously running into my own infoquakes on
the data sea of reading: why did this character
have to walk somewhere when they could
have just appeared? How does someone dis-
connected from the network still manage to
manipulate holographic images? Why does
anyone go anywhere in person? Why do pro-
grammers have to have 3D holographic images
of their programs projected into the air when
it could all take place inside their heads?
These and similar questions left me con-
stantly trying to decide whether the story was
flawed or if I, the reader, was incapable of
understanding it (a most distressing position
for an SF aficionado to find themselves in).
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
A third possibility allows me to get both
Edelman and myself off the hook: this novel
is not science fiction. Rather, it represents a
new, post-Clarkeian type of science fiction in
which the science is so enormously advanced
that it appears to be magic. Instead of playing
the SF game of presenting a logical, reasonable
extrapolation from the science of today, the
author has chosen to take the path of fantasy, of
presenting this future as a given that does not
have to draw on the now for its justifications.
A complete disconnect (the almost-singularity
event) and then a new scientific background, a
new culture, a new psychology, a new world in
which the rules are similar, but not exactly the
same as they are for us.
The Jump 225 trilogy may in fact represent
the vanguard of a new kind of speculative fiction
hybrid, a hard-SF/fantasy, one in which scien-
tific things are flung around like magic spells,
similar in many ways to the SF of the 1930s,
where attaching ‘atomo’ to a word substituted
for the scientific explanation. Perhaps the SF
of the ‘30s was what Edelman was thinking of
when he chose to use made-up names. At least
he stayed away from Asimovian convention
and didn’t use numbers.
As a debut novel, Edelman has done some
good work here. His characters grow over the
course of the story, the mark of a good writer. I
am particularly fond of Jara, a junior partner or
‘apprentice’ working for the primary company
in the story. She resonates with me and
provides a solid base from which to venture
forth onto the sometimes confusing Data Sea.
The historical backdrop is certainly detailed
and the business world Edelman has created is
interesting in concept.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 24
For someone as mired in classical SF as I Editors David G. Hartwell and Kathryn
am, Infoquake can at times be a daunting read. Cramer have masterfully pointed the way in
On the other hand, for someone as mired in their massive effort, The Space Opera Renais-
classical SF as I am, it does provide an interest-
sance. But where is the interested reader to go
ing take on where the SF of the ‘30s is going. whose interest has been piqued by the short
stories in that volume? We are very fortunate
I had occasion to email David Edelman with in the case of Cordwainer Smith to have his
some questions regarding my understanding fiction re-issued in two volumes by Baen Books:
of this novel. I was pleased to receive almost We the Underpeople and When the People Fell,
immediate answers directly from the author the latter volume being the subject of this
and found him to be engaging, interesting, and present review.
concerned with his readers. We can definitely
expect to see more from Mr. Edelman. Cordwainer Smith was the pen-name for
Dr. Paul Linebarger, polyglot professor of inter-
Reviewed by Steve Davidson national studies and author of the textbook
Steve Davidson has been an SF fan since Psychological Warfare. His stories demon-
strate his interest not only in war, but in the
watching his first episode of Fireball XL5. workings
of the human mind and soul. Smith’s
He is currently the ‘crotchety’ behind the knowledge of oriental literature (not only was
Crotchety Old Fan blog and is the curator he was fluent in Chinese, but was the godson
of The Classic Science Fiction Channel, a of the founder of the Chinese Republic, Sun
website devoted to classic science fiction film, Yat-sen) gives his stories a fascinating narrative
television, radio and print. color. The influence of non-Western narra-
tives and the intertextuality of the stories, the
majority of which refer either to each other or
to a more-or-less coherent vision of the future,
When the People Fell by Cordwainer Smith give Smith’s stories a surprisingly contempo-
Baen Books, 2007, 599pp rary, even postmodern feel. Someone writing
Space Opera can learn a lot from Cordwainer
Smith.
The readers of Ray Gun Revival do not need
to be told that there’s a renaissance of Space Plus the stories are darn good fun.
Opera going on; we’re busy being a part of it.
A true renaissance has two aspects: a burst of Smith’s science fiction (with the exception
creativity, yes, but one inspired by the best of of a handful of stories, included in When the
the past. The amazing blossoming of culture People Fell) takes place in an interconnected
in the sixteenth century was due to the redis- future history ranging from the present day
covery of the classical world. If our own Space to roughly A.D. 16,000. The stories are all
Opera renaissance is to achieve an analogous connected through the ruling body of humanity
depth and influence, we need to re-examine known as the Instrumentality. Two of the main
and re-appropriate the classics of the genre. starting places of Smith’s stories are the psy-
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews Pg. 25

chological effects of the immensity of space on
the human person, and the effects of genetic
engineering on human history and on what
it means to be human—themes that again
highlight Smith’s contemporary relevance. We
the Underpeople contains the stories focusing
on Smith’s more anthropological themes,
including the short novel Norstrillia, and the
important “The Dead Lady of Clown Town,”
and “The Ballad of Lost C’Mell.”
When the People Fell contains the stories
that focus on space exploration and war in space.
In addition to the six “Miscellaneous Stories”
that lie outside the Instrumentality series, the
volume contains twenty-two stories set in
Smith’s future history. The stories are arranged
in roughly chronological order, according to
John J. Pierce’s ordering of the stories in the
Instrumentality series. Every piece in When
the People Fell is worth reading, though some
of the stories will have the greatest interest
to people already familiar with Smith’s work.
(“Mark Elf” and “The Queen of the Afternoon,”
for example, explain the origin of the Vomact
name.)
Some of the stories are true science fiction Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
classics. Of the stories not to be missed in Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in western tions
When the People Fell are “Scanners Live in Michigan and now lives in Arkansas with “Sons with
Vain,” “The Lady Who Sailed The Soul,” “The his wife and dog. He can be contacted via the human race)
Game of Rat and Dragon,” “The Crime and
the Glory of Commander Suzdal,” “Golden the
Ship Was—Oh! Oh! Oh!” and “A Planet Named
Shayol.” Readers of Jack Vance will not want
to miss the Casher O’Neill “novella-in-stories”:
“On the Gem Planet,” “On the Storm Planet,”
“On the Sand Planet,” and “Three to a Given
Star.” The other stories in When the People Fell
are not mere filler, but I want to highlight these
stories for their emotional impact and unique
narrative style. Son of Man by Robert Silverberg
I am still astounded by Smith’s narrative Pyr, 2008, 225pp
ability. Few people would dare start a story
with the sentence, “Do not read this story; Robert Silverberg is a master of science
turn the page quickly.” Yet such is the first line fiction. If there were any doubts on the matter,
of “The Crime and the Glory of Commander they were put to rest by his 2004 reception
Suzdal.” I do not think I give anything away by of the Science Fiction Writers of America’s
giving the last two sentences: “That’s the story. Grand Master Nebula. He has been writing SF
Furthermore, it isn’t true.” It’s everything for more than fifty years, with experiments in
in the middle that’s important—but what a social SF like The World Inside, on overpopula-
framework for that middle! tion in 2381, and science fantasy, such as the
Majipoor series. He has written more than fifty
People already familiar with Smith will find novels and innumerable short stories.
When the People Fell to contain stories that
will complete their collection. And people new Son of Man was originally published in
to Smith are in for a treat; I envy them their 1971. It recounts the adventures of the twenti-
first time reading this unique voice in science eth-century man, Clay (and here I am strongly
fiction. When the People Fell does unfortunately tempted to add the words “Get it?” accompa-
contain a few signs of hasty proofreading, but nied with a knowing wink), in the far distant
what book doesn’t these days? The people at future. In this far future, the descendents of
Baen are to be highly commended for making homo sapiens have evolved into a number of
the stories of Cordwainer Smith available to a distinct species: Skimmers, Awaiters, Eaters,
new generation. Breathers, Interceders, and Destroyers. Also
present are other post-homo sapiens humans,
On to the Rediscovery of Man! caught, as Clay was, in a “time flux” and brought
to the same far-future.
Most of the story centers on Clay’s interac-
a particular tribe of Skimmers. These
of Man” (i.e., evolutionary descendents of
have nearly unlimited powers,
www.myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt. including the abilities to change genders at will,
to soar the cosmos in their intellect, and to die
and return to life. As Clay is introduced to their
life, he is invited to share in their sequence of
rituals, which often involve sexual intercourse
of one sort or another.
It is difficult to describe the novel’s plot,
as the story is non-linear. Silverberg is much
more concerned with bringing the reader into

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

RGR Reviews - Book Reviews Pg. 26

contact with the various regions and species The Pyr re-issue of Son of Man weighs in at
of his future Earth than in telling a story in 225 pages, though given every chapter starts
the traditional arc. His (by and large) effective on the right-hand page, fully twenty of those
use of repetition and long streams of juxta- pages are blank. Fans of Robert Silverberg or
posed images gives the work a very dream-like those interested in non-linear storytelling may
quality. In a lot of ways, Son of Man reads like find Son of Man worth investigating.
the bastard literary offspring of Wells’ The Time
Machine and Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland.
I sense that Son of Man is the sort of work
that one either loves or hates. I do not fall into Reviewed by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt
the former category (although I cannot say that
the book elicited enough emotional reaction
from me to put me firmly in the latter camp Donald Jacob Uitvlugt grew up in western
either). What philosophy there is in the story Michigan and now lives in Arkansas with
is confused by the manner in which the story is his wife and dog. He can be contacted via
told. I also found the story ruined by the manner
in which it is told. To cite the most obvious www.myspace.com/DonaldJacobUitvlugt.
instance—the entire novel is written in the
present tense. This was a great obstacle to me
in entering the world of the story, making me
focus much more on Silverberg’s prose. Some
of the most effective individual passages—and
there is no denying that at points Silverberg’s
prose is nothing short of brilliant—had for me a
similar effect. It is not a good thing for a reader
to find himself focusing on the writing instead
of the story.
I have yet to decide whether Silverberg’s
quotation of Byron as one of Son of Man’s
four epigrams is ironic or not: “Shrink not
from blasphemy—’twill pass for wit.” I did not Matthew Winslow
find the novel blasphemous. Son of Man is a
prolonged dream-sequence, not an attack on RGR Reviews editor Matthew Scott Winslow
religion. Perhaps the readers in 1971 would has been a science fiction and fantasy addict
have found the transgendered sexuality of the
story shocking. In our own post-Jerry-Springer since he first discovered Isaac Asimov’s
era, it struck me as tame. Though I will admit Foundation series on his dad’s shelves at a
that I could have done with far less of the play- young age. He can be reached at reviews@
by-play on the condition of Clay’s genitals. raygrunrevival.com.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
RGR Reviews
Balcony Fool Movie Reviews
Paul Christian Glenn, Reviews Editor
Quantum of Solace
by Paul Christian Glenn
James Bond is about to get an apology
from me.
You see, over the years, I’ve been awfully
hard on 007. The legacy films were not a part
of my formative cinematic experiences (my
parents objected to the sexual overtones of the
films), so I evolved without a knowledgeable
appreciation of the world’s favorite super-spy.
What I did have, however, were vivid
imaginations of what the James Bond movies
might be, suggested to me by cultural osmosis
and embellished by my own adolescent
fetishes. These were sultry fantasies indeed.
In my young mind, James Bond existed in a
kind of cosmopolitan noir, darting through the
shadows of exotic locales, trading barbs with
diabolical villains and long, loaded gazes with
treacherous sirens. There were mysterious
codes, secret passageways, and underground
hideouts. There were rogue operatives, false
identities and double-double-crosses, all
simmering just beneath a glossy façade of
tailored tuxedos and expensive drinks. The
Bond of my imagination lived in a smoke-filled
world of furtive glances, surreptitious signals
and clandestine rendezvous. It was rich.
Here is a list of things that did not exist
in my imagined Bond milieu: invisible cars,
Ray Gun Revival magazine
space-lasers, robots, jet packs, hovercrafts,
and flamethrowing bagpipes. As you may
suppose, it was quite a cruel surprise when I
reached the age of independence and started
sampling the actual 007 films for myself. I
freely admit that the crushing disappoint-
ment was the result of my own misguided
preconceptions, but there it was. After a
brief sampling, I washed my hands of 007 and
his big, loud, vaguely sci-fi, cartoon world.
Ah, but then came Casino Royale. I had
no interest in the film, of course, but several
friends badgered me into renting it, and when
I finally relented, a small part of me was born
again. Many praises have been rendered in
honor of the film, so suffice it to say this was the
James Bond film for which I had always pined.
It was smart, tense, sexy, and believable. It
was populated with dangerous characters who
knew they were playing with the highest stakes,
and acted accordingly. They didn’t seem to
realize they were in a spy movie. Daniel Craig
imbued Bond with personality instead of a
persona, and he made 007 someone we could
root for, rather than marvel (or worse, laugh)
at. In less than three hours, I became a convert.
My love for this new incarnation of Bond
only gave me further incentive to jeer at the
rest of the canon. The perfection of Casino
Royale drew the absurdities of the old films
into sharper relief, making them that much
easier to dismiss. For me, Casino Royale
Pg. 27
was more than just a good film, it was vin-
dication. This, at last, was what James
Bond movies were supposed to look like.
And so it was, with the fanaticism of
any new convert, I found myself purchas-
ing advance tickets for “Quantum of Solace.”
I was there on opening night, ready to
experience what was sure to be a riveting
new chapter in the saga of Bond reborn.
I’ll bet it was pretty good, too. Unfortunate-
ly, I couldn’t see about 70% of what happened
in the film, because director Marc Forster and
his editors were so busy trying to punch me in
the retinas that they forgot to actually show
what was going on. There are no reserves
left in my well of forgiveness for directors
who insist on shooting action scenes as if
the whole point is to disorient the audience.
It doesn’t create tension or momentum,
it’s disassociative, and it’s lazy, sloppy
filmmaking. This was a loud, mindless,
action movie, so poorly shot and cut that
I was resenting it before the end of act
one. It’s every bit as raucous and dumb
as Casino Royale was subtle and smart.
I’m pretty sure there were a few lines of
dialogue in this movie, but they served mostly
as respite between beats of the Chase Scene,
which started in a car, then continued on
foot, over rooftops, on motorcycles, in boats,
and finally (why not?) with airplanes. Ask
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
yourself this: when you stage that many action
sequences, plus the obligatory seduction
scene and explosive finale, in a 100-minute
film, how much time is left for drawing char-
acters, constructing plot, creating ambience,
and building tension? I’ll answer for you: not
much. It’s a simple matter of mathematics.
In a Herculean feat, Daniel Craig single-
handedly elevates the film above, well, being
completely worthless. Despite the headache-in-
ducing illogicality that surrounds him, his Bond
remains both believable and engaging. Mathieu
Amalric shows promise as the snaky villain, but
he is ultimately defeated by the weak material.
I will give Quantum of Solace two terrific
moments. First is the virtuoso opera house
sequence, in which Forster goes a bit over
the top, but succeeds in creating an echo of
the tension and bad-assery that character-
ized “Casino Royale.” Second is the climactic
throw-down between Bond and Greene,
which was as visceral and brutal as they come.
So, if this was such a rotten movie, why do
I owe James Bond an apology? Over the last
couple nights, the cable channel Spike has
been showing some of the older movies. Since
I had Bond on the brain, I sat through a couple
of them, and you know what I noticed? I was
able to follow every moment of Pierce Brosnan
crashing his invisible car through a palace
made of ice while a laser melted it from outer
space. I always knew who was getting speared
as Sean Connery did battle with his underwater
assailants. Those old Bond flicks, yeah, okay,
maybe they were silly, and maybe they weren’t
Ray Gun Revival magazine
what I wanted them to be, but they were shot
by people who knew how to tell a story in a
visual medium, and they had distinct person-
alities. Quantum of Solace made me realize,
hey, maybe I wasn’t giving those legacy films
enough credit.
What most people are missing about Quantum
of Solace
by Johne Cook
4 stars out of 5
I was wowed by Casino Royale (2006), a story
that gave us a bonus fourth act to finish
fleshing out the genesis of a new secret agent
who was refreshingly old school. My dad had
the Ian Fleming novels on his bookshelf, and
this Bond reminded me very much of the Bond
I grew up with in my imagination. This Bond
wasn’t afflicted by quip-itis, didn’t have the
gadgets written in just for the finale, or the
preposterous encyclopedic memory. Instead,
he was good at precisely one thing, getting his
hands dirty in the service of his country.
However, as I read the reviews for
Quantum of Solace (2008), the second film in
the rebooted James Bond franchise, it quickly
became clear to me that people by and large
didn’t know what to do with this film. After all,
it had a weird title and action sequences by the ished
people that did the Bourne movies, so it must But it doesn’t
be dreck, right?
In fact, I can confirm that this new Bond film the great surprise. I’ll get back to that in a bit.
is not better than Casino Royale, but it’s not
Pg. 28
trying to be Casino Royale II, and taken on its
own merits, I found I liked Quantum of Solace
far better than I expected, and nearly as well in
many ways. For starters, they are different films
which are two halves of one longer storyline.
And for another, having now seen both pieces
of this larger story, I find I want to see it again.
Tomorrow, perhaps.
Despite the trailers and the advertising and
the word-of-mouth and the expectations—this
is a James bond film, after all—I am delighted
to reveal that Quantum of Solace is not at all
about what you probably think it is about.
After all, after watching the trailers and putting
together what I knew from Casino Royale, I
certainly thought I knew what to expect from
this film going in.
But wonder of wonders, I was wrong. Fur-
thermore, every review save one has missed
the point as well.
There is a lot of talk about revenge as the
motivating factor in this film, but it’s inaccu-
rate. I’d heard it was one long action sequence.
Also wrong. There’s some real character devel-
opment here, and even some gritty situational
humor. In fact, I noticed a number of parallels
between these first two rebooted James Bond
films and the two latest Batman films, but I’ll
comment on that in an addendum after this
review. They’re interesting to me, but not
entirely germane to the point at hand.
No, this is very much a film about unfin-
business, about psychological closure.
stop there. This film is also about
something more, something deeper, and that’s
This film is about a number of really inter-
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews Pg. 29

esting things hiding behind all the frenetic appear to be familiar elements, and assume Bond’s transformation at the end of Casino
camera work and Jason Bourne action they are on familiar ground: Royale, and when he no longer needs the
sequences. It is interesting enough that in this leash, he severs it in Quantum of Solace; she is
day and age, a film has the audacity to posit a • Aston Martin? Check. left to decide what that means. Has Bond gone
highly trained, highly intelligent, highly capable, • M as unflappable holder of Bond’s leash? off the reservation, or once he became what
highly reasoning person choosing to embrace M was creating him to be, was he simply ful-
Check.
something as throwback as ‘duty.’ Furthermore, filling the purpose for which she had created
throwaway action films aren’t meant to be • Entirely beddable main-squeeze? Check. him? It is not hard to see a little of Dr. Fran-
the vehicle for any kind of deep thinking, but kenstein in her, and Frankenstein’s monster in
there is a genuine spiritual principle at work in • Breezy, emotionally empty coitus? Check. James Bond. When he throws off his physical
Quantum of Solace, and if James Bond of all and societal shackles, will he be benign or a
people can find and employ it, anybody can. • Sinister shadow organization? Check. menace to the society he was meant to help?
But before I talk about what worked, let’s be • Megalomaniacal villain? Check. M is a quick study in this film as evidenced by
clear about what didn’t work. There is a trend her shrewd and correct summation of a phone
in modern action pictures to frame things in hereBut I’m going to give the writers some credit
for undoing everything they appeared to call with her American counterparts in the CIA.
such a way that there are clearly things going set up, and But even M is left grasping at straws in this film,
on, but they aren’t clearly shot. We see it them. That Marc Forster some credit for letting
continues what they started with and it is a delicious thing to watch. Her rela-
everywhere from Batman to Bourne to Bond. tionship with Bond has changed without her
the character of Mathis from Casino Royale, my
permission, and it is up to her to decide what
Furthermore, I think so many are ambiva- favorite secondary character from that film. she will do with that.
lent about this film because they are that they Of the list of familiar elements, only the
are looking at the apparent plot and observing venerable The beddable main squeeze is Camille, a
exotic sports car was left alone,
that it doesn’t go according to the usual plan. capable, if fragile femme fatale who can nearly
perhaps because you can gently mock the
take care of herself. The first time she and Bond
But as it happens, I believe that’s by former Bond franchise, but no one in their right
mind would diminish an Aston Martin. are thrown together, she tries to shoot Bond
design. when it is apparent that he was supposed to
The more I thought about it, the more I Let’s look at how the writers undermined try to kill her. But the script takes a turn when
realized something quite humorous; there is expectations point-by-point. they join forces without joining forces (if you
a gigantic McGuffin in this film, and it is THE know what I mean) and Bond is cautioned to
ENTIRE APPARENT PLOT. The real work in this andMI has an expanded role in this film, be careful when around her. “Careful with this
story occurs in the first and last ten minutes Judi Dench, liked
really it. As played by Dame one, Mr. Bond. She won’t go to bed with you
she came across as more unless you give her something she really wants.”
of the film. Nearly everything that happens ruthless and yet more human than ever. And then, perversely, as the film goes along,
in-between is there to keep you from seeing
what’s right in front of your eyes—that this In Casino Royale, M knew Bond very well, that’s precisely what Bond does do—he gives
frenetic, shallow action movie is actually about correctly identifying him as ‘a blunt instrument.’ her something she really wants. However, the
something of vital importance straight out of However, she saw some promise in him, and writers pop this balloon when he doesn’t go to
scripture. But more on that at the end of the gave him some leash to work out his growth. bed with her. This Bond is not a slave to his
review. loins, and he continues to do the unexpected,
with one glaring exception.
Here is my reasoning. People see what But M’s superiority is suddenly upended after

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
That brings us to the actual empty coitus.
Yes, he takes pleasure with the company of a
woman, but it is a fleeting thing, a meaning-
less thing, a way to kill a couple of hours. This
sequence is so perfunctory that one suspects
it was included merely as a nod to tradition,
and when her story arc ends, it is, itself, a red
herring, or perhaps a black one.
When Bond interrogates Mr. White at the
beginning of the picture, he knows he has to
get more information about them to find what
really happened with Vesper. The shadow
organization White works for, QUANTUM, is a
means to an end for Bond, so he sets about
uncovering the truth about the organization,
but it is almost an afterthought, a means to an
end. The scene at the opera house in Venice
is worth the price of admission by itself, and
Bond’s gambit there must shake the organiza-
tion as thoroughly as they have shaken M. It
is a neat tit-for-tat, exposing their arrogance
and showing them just how formidable a fully-
enabled super spy can be. One delight is still
the slimy and sinister Mr. White. I’ve always
enjoyed scenes where the apparent captive is
really in control, and his scene is over too fast.
We have not seen the last of Mr. White.
The megalomaniacal villain, Dominic
Greene, is, well, French. I really dug Greene—
he’s capable, smart, and pleasingly different.
He’s corporate greed and Illuminati-like power
and faux environmental consciousness all
rolled into one; equal parts Gordon Gecko,
Roman Polanski, and Al Gore. But he’s not the
usual posturing fop, and his run-ins with Bond
were so fun that I found myself looking forward
to more interaction between the two. For one,
Bond immediately dismissed Greene, and
whenever they met, Bond had a habit of cutting
Ray Gun Revival magazine
the metaphorical legs out from under Greene
when everyone else around him were bowing
and fawning and scraping. Bond immediately
saw through Greene and found him wanting.
Bond merely used Greene to get closer to his
own private agenda, and Greene sensed that
this was one man utterly unimpressed with all
his power, connections, and wealth.
Does all this talk of setting and counter-
ing expectation mean the great McGuffin isn’t
fun or worthwhile? Not at all. There is some
great stuff here. The scene at the opera house
is masterful. Bond’s decision to re-enter the
hotel in Bolivia was pure bravura confidence in
his abilities. My heart was in my throat as Bond
knowingly walks into something, and despite
being outnumbered and outgunned, he was
completely in control of that situation with
effortless economy. I was amazed and highly
entertained.
His relationship with Camille was very
interesting. She struck me as a female version
of himself, very wounded, very driven, very
capable. Perhaps that is why he didn’t try to
bed her, because he saw something in her he
respected, something wounded that he would
not wound further, and would, in fact, help to
heal as much as he could.
Which brings us to Bond himself. He’s
grown since Casino Royale. In fact, he trans-
formed between the death of Vesper and the
now-famous final statement of who he was.
The dialogue between M and Bond serve as the
film’s heart. He knows exactly what he’s doing,
and she suddenly has no clue. She thinks she
understands what has happened to him, and
she thinks she knows what he has to do to
transform his heart the way he has transformed
Pg. 30
his mind, but you can tell in their dialogue that
she no longer has the upper hand with Bond
the way she did in Casino Royale.
M: “I thought I could trust you. You said you
weren’t motivated by revenge.”
Bond: “I’m motivated by my duty.”
M: “I think you’re so blinded by inconsolable
rage that you don’t care who you hurt. When
you can’t tell your friends from your enemies,
it’s time to go.”
Bond: “You don’t have to worry about me.”
She should have listened to him. Later:
M: “It would be a pretty cold bastard who
didn’t want revenge for the death of someone
he loved.”
Bond: “I don’t think the dead care about
vengeance.”
That brings up something else. In Casino
Royale, Daniel Craig’s Bond does something
early on that shows us that the Bond / M
relationship in this franchise is substantively
different than it was in the other franchise. In
an early scene it becomes apparent that he’s
broken into M’s private rooms. This reveals a
number of interesting things.
For one, he sees M more as an advisor than
a boss, more equal than superior, and while he
clearly cares for her, he expects to take care of
herself, and assumes she expects the same of
him. That expectation shapes this film in large
measure.
The second is that this Bond may be the
least sentimental figure in cinema since Javier
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews
Bardem’s portrayal of Anton Chigurh in No
Country for Old Men. Bond simply doesn’t have
the time or bandwidth for sentimentality or
social nicety. That also features into this film in
a big when someone Bond was close to meets
with tragedy. His companion and the time and
my own movie audience were stunned at his
lack of emotion, but this is consistent with this
Bond. He is not so much inhuman as so com-
pletely pragmatic that he gives social conven-
tions no more attention than they require in
order for him to do his job.
Furthermore, this Bond now knows his
role in the service so thoroughly that when
he and M have an apparent falling out and he
is increasingly stripped of the perks and tools
of MI6, M is understandably more and more
concerned that she is losing Bond.
In Casino Royale, that Bond was still a rookie,
gifted in some things, and clumsy in others.
He seemed perpetually behind the curve. It
was like watching a Heisman award-winning
college quarterback getting hammered once
he ascends to the professional league. All of
a sudden he’s no longer the brightest, or the
toughest, or the best, and he has to give every-
thing he has just to barely stay in the game.
All that changed at the end of Casino
Royale. When Bond stood over Mr. White with
his rifle and delivered his signature line, it was
his coming out party.
In Quantum of Solace, the climax to this
two-picture story arc comes late in the film
when M said, “Bond, I need you to come back.”
He turned to her with supreme confidence and
maybe a glint of humor and delivered a new
line that is as classic and stirring for me. I won’t
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 31
spoil it for you here, but you’ll know it when is on their own recognizance, each doesn’t
you hear it. fully trust the other, but each sees something
there that they recognize in the other. They
Bond’s confidence in this new film is honed don’t need to spend an entire picture together
and displayed in stark contrast to his younger, to establish their mutual respect. In fact, they
more naïve self. This Bond knows exactly what need less than 30 seconds.
he’s doing, and why, and his confidence is
sometimes staggering. It would be arrogant if It is more than enough.
he wasn’t, in fact, just that good.
In Casino Royale, Bond was surprised by love,
Physically, this Bond is suddenly at the top and then further surprised by betrayal. This
of his game. Something has clicked, and if you Bond isn’t surprised by anything, and I found
want to mentally imagine a shell loaded into that interesting. He wasn’t surprised when a
the chamber of a gun, I won’t stop you. There man he shot disappeared into thin air, he wasn’t
is a mechanical, metallic certainty to Bond now, surprised when the clues he was following to
and it is ferocious. achieve personal closure revealed a vast orga-
nization that MI6 and the CIA didn’t even know
If you’ve ever had a credit card transaction about, and he wasn’t surprised when his own
not go through for whatever reason, you’ll people sought to restrict his movements and
sympathize with one dilemma that Bond faces. bring him in on false pretenses. It’s like once
But where the Casino Royale Bond might have your heart has been burned, nothing much
displayed pain or doubt, this Bond is fast on surprises you anymore, and nothing can burn
the uptake. He nods and starts to leave, but you like that again.
has the awareness to return to the counter
and leave a message for the phone call that he What is interesting here is that despite
predicts will be forthcoming before disappear- all the obvious foils, everybody has plans for
ing into the night. That was a delicious scene. Bond, up to including this super secret orga-
This Bond is fast, he’s formidable, and he’s not nization that nobody knew about, and Bond
going to be stopped that easily, even by his couldn’t care less. Bond is after for something
own people. very specific, and he won’t stop until he gets it,
and he won’t let anyone, not even M, not even
In fact, this Bond was endlessly mysterious, Duty, keep him from it.
and was forever doing things I didn’t expect.
Watch who he kills, and who he doesn’t, who At one point Camille says, “I wish I could set
he sleeps with, and who he doesn’t, which you free, but your prison is in there.” This film
orders he follows, and which he doesn’t. It is is about Bond’s redemption, but his release is
all for a purpose, and it all works. not hers to grant. At some level, I think as the
film progresses, Bond finally understands the
Bond shares very little screen time with truth; he is his own jailer, and the one most
Felix Leiter, but when he does, it is delicious. responsible for his enslavement is himself.
These are two canny patriots operating way
out on the frontier of modern civilization. Each And that’s where people get it wrong, when
Issue 48, November 2008
RGR Reviews
- Book Reviews Pg. 32

they think Bond is doing this out of revenge. doggedly digging out the truth about his one matters later on.
He’s not. As I said up front, this is a film about great love. And uncovering that truth, at the
more than just closure. Moriarty from Ain’t It end, is what frees Bond. The primary thematic difference that I can
Cool News put his finger on it and observed that see is that Batman battled against the Joker,
Bond is working out something more meaning- After leaving the theater this afternoon, but Bond’s battles are more of a mystery. Is he
ful than just unfinished business: http://www. as I thought about all this, I realized that in a battling a ghost? His own demons? Authority?
aintitcool.com/node/39096: sense, we are all damaged goods. The message Is he fighting himself? Or are his battles really,
of this film seems to be that none of us have to as he claims, something more throwback,
He’s ready now to finally be the James remain that way. And that’s some heady stuff something more basic. To whit, a person
Bond we are used to. He needs to know that for a mere ‘revenge action flick.’ operating outside of anyone’s oversight but
something he trusted was, in fact, real, and his own really be expected to be beholden to
until he knows it, he won’t stop killing and something as archaic as love of country and
wounding and beating his way through as ‘duty?’
many people as he has to. Watching him piece
together his penance, watching him work The primary practical difference is that
through it... that’s the movie. And that’s what Christopher Nolan directed both of the Batman
makes this such a radical departure from any Addendum films with great cohesion and results, while
other Bond film before. two different directors handled the Bond films.
There were a number of times where the And that’s too bad. QoS, directed by Marc
As I read that quote, a gong went off in my parallels between Batman Begins / The Dark Forster, is really the second half of a larger
head. Penance? Bond’s closure is not merely Knight and Casino Royale / Quantum of Solace story begun dramatically in the as directed
psychological. And that corresponds with seemed very apparent. Both series feature a by Martin Campbell. Peter Chattaway notes
something he is told early on, that Bond needs lone vigilante loosely affiliated with a more that while Campbell was the oldest director to
to forgive himself. Sin and remorse, forgive- official force of social protection; Batman with helm a Bond film, Forster is the youngest, and
ness and redemption—these are big concepts the Gotham police department, and Bond with it shows. Casino Royale was a reboot to the
straight out of scripture. What are they doing MI6, the British Secret Service. Both Batman genre that set aside the Playboy-era Bond of
in a Bond film? and Bond are doing what they think is right gadgets and girls and returned to the grittier
regardless of what their respective organi- Bond of the Ian Fleming novels. The new Bond
Saving it. (Forgive the pun.) zations think, and both don’t give a second was as different as could be, with his blond hair
There is so much action and blood and thought to striking out on their own if they and piercing blue eyes; his appearance was
think circumstances dictate without regard just the first of many signals that this Bond was
sound and fury in this film, and the McGuffin for mere social niceties. Both franchises get different. He was his own man and should be
is so huge, that Bond’s character arc is almost the origin story out of the way in the first taken on his own merits.
subtle. At the beginning of the film, Bond film and start the second almost
thinks Vesper betrayed him. By the middle of Both have women on their mind. immediately. Having read the Ian Fleming novels from
Despite that,
the film, he’s begun to doubt that, and by the neither will find personal love in their my dad’s bookshelf as I was growing up, I much
two-film
end of the film, his driving motivation isn’t just story arcs. Both second films are darker prefer this new Bond franchise to the former
the truth, it is his need for penance, a repa- the first, and both will do battle with greatthan one, and I hope we see many more install-
ration of wrong, an act performed voluntarily Both films don’t have a single wasted lineevil. ments about this character. So far, after these
of
to show sorrow for wrongdoing. It is the thing dialogue—each statement means something, two films, this is a stunning start to the new
that restores just a hint of humanity to Bond, everything drips with resonance, everything franchise.

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Featured Artist: Dan LuVisi Pg. 33

Featured Artist
Dan LuVisi
Name: Dan LuVisi
Age: 23
Country of residence:
Santa Monica, Ca
Hobbies: Art! Film!
Reading.....and my
cat and hanging with
my girlfriend.
Favorite Book /
Author: Gangster by
Lorenzo Carcaterra.
One of the best
books I’ve ever read.
Favorite Artist: Ryan Church
When did you start creating art? At the age of 3.
What media do you work in? Traditional (pencils mostly) and digital (Photoshop/Wacom tablet).
Where your work has been featured? DeviantART, Imagine FX, 2D Artist, It’s Art!, SIGGRAPH, Comic-Con.
Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your works? I sell some of my prints on
DeviantART, but not all. I usually don’t sell too many prints, I’m weird like that. Though, you’re the first to know
(hey, it’s big news that I’m even doing this, ha!) I will be creating an art book soon to sell.
How did you become an artist? I have to say Kevin Eastman, creator of Ninja Turtles and owner of Heavy Metal
was my inspiration of this all. A Ninja Turtles book was the first I ever read, and when I saw one of the characters I
just knew I had to draw it. Ever since then, been hooked.
Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008
Featured Artist: Dan LuVisi Pg. 34

What were your early influences? Batman, Street Fighter,

Judge Dredd, X-Men, Star Wars!
What are your current influences? My father, even though
he hits his walls and struggles, he has never, once given up.
And that’s what I’m all about, never giving up and pushing
until you get to the point where you want to be. That’s what
inspires me; what’s at that point.
What inspired the art for the cover? It’s actually a concept
for one of the stories I want to make into a graphic novel. I
ended up dropping the design, since it felt a little too close
to Robotech (even though their ships are a lot different) I
wanted something totally unique. So I still liked the picture,
and added it to the gallery.
How would you describe your work? Still needs a lot of
improvement, every day I’m not drawing...someone else is.
But hopefully I can be like one of the artists that inspired me
to become who I am.
Where do you get your inspiration / what inspires you?
Seriously, music. Music, music, music. Rock. Alternative. Rap.
Hip Hop. Classical. Soundtracks. Just music...and films :)
Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure
affected your work? I’ve had tons of failures. My friends
always ask, “Why don’t you finish this drawing?” “What about
this concept? This would be cool.”
But if I cannot connect with the picture, I can’t finish it. I’ve
deleted hundreds of thumb nail designs, just to get one right.
But when I do connect with it, I become stubborn and cannot

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Featured Artist: Dan LuVisi Pg. 35

change it (I mean for personal work.)

As for when I work for clients, it’s an inner struggle. I’ve had clients tell me that I nailed it at take #2...but to me it
won’t be right until #15.
What have been your
greatest successes? How has
success impacted you / your
work? I consider myself very
fortunate for the success
that’s come my way. I don’t
exactly think I’m “there” yet
at the position of my dreams,
but for my age I could not
ask for more.
My greatest success was
working for 20th Century
Fox, on a film at 21. This was
so great for me because I
always told myself, “Danny,
you need to nail a film gig
before you turn 25.” Also
working for DC Comics
and coloring Batman was a
dream.
What are your favorite tools
/ equipment for producing
your art? Photoshop CS3,
Wacom Cintiq 12WX, .3mm and .5mm mechanical pencils.

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Featured Artist: Dan LuVisi Pg. 36

What tool / equipment do you wish you had? Well, if Wacom is

reading this: Wacom Cintiq 21 Inch. ; )
What do you hope to accomplish with your art? I just want to be able
to take care of a family (when I’m ready) and be able to inspire kids
to never stop trying to achieve your goals. If I can inspire one kid to
become successful and continue to inspire, then I left some type of
mark.
Money and all that jazz only gets you so far. It pays for the bills, makes
you feel comfortable, and affords you a few goodies. But having a
little kid come up to you and ask for you to sign a piece of your work
for him...that’s a whole different feeling.

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Featured Artist: Dan LuVisi Pg. 37

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
Part One
The scream ripped through the lodge,
dragging across Pharaoh’s bones like shards
of glass, shattering the night’s tranquil spell.
The sound was a mixture of fear and rage,
almost too feral to be borne of human throat,
reminding him of a jaguarundi.
His skin prickled instinctively as he started
to lever himself from one of the pair of over-
stuffed armchairs that bracketed the fireplace.
“Sit!” Martha commanded. There was no
fire; the heat of the jungle precluded it most
nights, but the hearth doubled as a convenient
footrest and the habit was well established.
“You no go to bother little girl yet. Give time
for her to settle. Do not embarrass.” Content
that her husband would obey, she returned
her attention to the pile of ruddy cloth filling
her lap.
Pharaoh sighed. “I do not like it, Ma. She
is getting worse, and the nightmares are more
frequent.”
“Pfft! Husband hears but does not see.”
Martha did not bother to look up as she spoke.
“More often is good. Confronting. Listen to yell
when Kylee wakes. Each time more angry, less
scared. Getting better.”
“If you say so.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 38
“I say so.” She paused, seemed to take pity.
“You try, but you only know boys.” She lifted
her hands, inspecting her work. “Here, take
this to child.”
Pharaoh accepted the bundle awkwardly,
holding it at arm’s length. It looked as if Martha
had sewn a series of red beanbags together
and trimmed the entire assembly with purple
fringe. “A scarf?”
“A Red Dog,” came her exasperated reply,
complete with rolling eyes and hands thrown
heavenward. “Devil is nightmare. In Kylee’s
mind, Red Dog kills devil.”
Pharaoh chuckled. “You made her a doll?
She is a little old for that.”
“I married idiot,” his wife snapped. “I made
her fetish. Now go, put girl back to bed.”
Ducking his head in mock submission, he
slipped from the sitting room into the darkened
main room of the lodge. He mounted the stairs
at a lope and followed the loft balcony around
to Kylee’s bedroom. The door was open. Unless
there were guests at the lodge, she did not
close it, something Pharaoh took as a good
sign. He tapped a knuckle on the door jamb as
he stepped into the room.
“Come on in,” Kylee said in a whisper. “I’m
up.” The room was decorated in the same
Spartan style as the rest of the lodge—simple
wooden furniture, dark paneling, an old map
framed and mounted on one wall—unchanged
from the time she had moved in, no indication
that its occupant was a teenage girl. It bothered
him, though he could not say why.
“Rough night?” he asked. She stood on
the opposite side of the room in front of the
window, scanning the jungle outside through
a scope. The simple white cotton shift she
wore made her look ghostly in the blue glow of
Selous’ smaller moon.
She lowered the scope and nodded. “Night-
mares again. Sorry if I woke you.”
“We were still up. What do you look for?”
he asked, moving to stand behind her, looking
out over her head.
“I’m not sure. I thought I saw something
flying in the canopy but, if I did, it was awfully
big and fast.” She offered the scope to him
over her head. He accepted, raising it to his
eye, and scanned the jungle slowly through its
crosshairs.
“Nimrod used to tell me that there were
harpy eagles in the jungle, but I have never
seen one,” he told her. “Could be, though. The
old man brought a lot of species from Earth to
Selous.”
“Langer?” Kylee asked.
“No. The langer are locals. Most of the
imported species are on the southern veldt
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
where the langer cannot eat them.” He put his
hand on the girl’s shoulder, squeezed gently.
“You okay?”
“Perfect,” was her sarcastic reply. “Any
word from Ivan?”
“Nothing yet. He and Red are probably
busy making explosions.” Anxious to change
the subject, Pharaoh draped the stuffed Red
Dog around her neck. “Martha made this for
you.”
She lifted the trailing ends in her hands then
laughed. “Red Dog as a scarf. That’s seriously
cool!” She turned and gave him a fierce hug.
“Thank you!”
“Thank her. I can’t even darn socks.”
Kylee looked up at him and pursed her lips.
“Martha hates Red Dog.”
He shrugged. “She loves you.”
“Just because she finally has a girl to dote
over in this house full of men,” she teased,
releasing him and dropping onto her bed. “Do
you hate Red?”
Pharaoh laid the scope on her nightstand,
moved to sit on the opposite edge of the bed
before he answered. “No, I do not hate Red
Dog. Neither does Martha really. She just—”
He stopped, began again. “How much did they
teach you of the war?”
“That there was one. What schooling I
got, if you couldn’t eat it or sell it—well, you
know.”
He nodded. Given the bare minimum of
attention she had received growing up, Kylee’s
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 39
curiosity and quick learning were nothing short
of miraculous, let alone her ravenous hunger
for books. “You do know that the Cillians were
some of the bad guys?”
She rolled her eyes and flopped backward
on the mattress. “A slave race, placed under
quarantine after the war. Yeah, I know. So
what? We won, they lost, war’s over.”
“If only life were always so simple.” Pharaoh
smiled thinly. “The war was almost a century
ago. My grandfather fought in it. Ivan’s too.
Our parents grew up with it. My generation,
we knew about it but we did not feel it. For
us it was history, more so for you. That is why,
for you, it is over. For others, not so much.
Martha’s entire family died in the final years
of the war. It will forever be fresh for her.” He
paused, rubbed a hand across the top of his
head. “I only know two people still alive that
fought in the war—Rainmaker and Red Dog.”
“Red Dog?”
“You forget, Cillians are not like humans.
Who knows how long they live? I suspect there
may not be a simple answer. Maybe they live
until something kills them. We do not know.”
He frowned, holding up a finger to delay Kylee’s
questions. “You need to understand, the war
is still fresh for Red Dog, too. In his mind,
still going on, I suspect. He is a self-professed
enemy of all mankind. He does not deny it.”
“But he’s also good,” she protested. “He
saved me, and Ivan too, lots of times. He’s
been Ivan’s friend for years.”
He frowned. “Friend may be too strong a
word but, yes, he has done well by my brother.
For that, I forgive him much. And, despite my
concerns, he has done well by you. Based on
this, I respect him, maybe even trust him,
but it is as I respect and trust the great cats.
They are what they are. If you forget that,
you get hurt.” He pressed on before she could
interrupt again. “Do not begrudge Martha her
caution. And do not begrudge Red Dog his due
either. We do not understand how the Cillians
think. Even if we did, maybe that would not
apply to Red Dog. He has been with humans a
long time. It has changed him, I think. I am not
attacking Red Dog, Kylee, just explaining why
not everyone sees him as you do.”
“I get it,” she said, heaving a melodramatic
sigh. “But I can’t go around afraid of him all the
time either. I like the Red Dog I know.”
“Fair enough. But be aware of the risks.”
“He’s no bigger risk than most humans.”
“Agreed. Better the monster you know
than the devil you do not.” He stood, returned
to the window. A light breeze blew through the
screens, cloying with the scent of blooming
flowers. “You are not alone in your opinions.
Rainmaker has made the same arguments,
that the past is done and present actions are
what truly matters. His opinion carries much
weight with me. If he can forgive, who am I to
judge?”
“Is Rainmaker the pilot Ivan was with last
time he called?”
Pharaoh nodded. “He came out of retire-
ment to captain the Hecate. I do not think you
have ever met him.”
“He fought them in the war?”
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
“They ate his homeworld,” Pharaoh said
softly, turning away from the window to face
her, leaning on the sill. “The Cillians would
be dropped on a world as shock troops,
without support or supplies. They are incred-
ible omnivores, able to eat and digest almost
anything. Even other Cillians.”
“They were cannibals?” She sat upright and
wriggled her way back to lean against a mound
of pillows.
“And if they would eat each other... The
Cillians stripped the surface of the world bare.
The only survivors were the Acadians fighting
off-world. By the end, rather than fight a bloody
ground war, the survivors chose to nuke the
planet bare, to sterilize it. There was no home
or family to return to anyway.” He rubbed the
back of his neck and flashed Kylee a sad smile.
“If he can forgive that, I can put up with Red
Dog.” He stepped to the side of the bed and
squeezed the girl’s hand. “I am sorry, Child. You
have enough on your mind, I did not mean to
add to it.”
She shook her head and squeezed back.
“I’m glad you told me. It’s something I needed
to know. And I’d really like to meet Rainmaker
someday. He sounds like a really neat guy.”
Pharaoh laughed in surprise. “Neat is not
a word I would have used to describe him.”
She grinned at him, and he felt his expression
soften in response. “Will you be able to get
back to sleep?”
“Oh, yeah.” She held up the doll wrapped
around her neck. “I’ve got my evil man-eating
cannibal monster to protect me. Anything that
can eat Cillian exoskeleton can eat bad dreams
right up.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 40
He chuckled and tousled her hair. “You’re
with Martha tomorrow. The boys and I have to
get our supplies ready to hunt the veldt.”
“Take me with you when you go!”
“I will consider it. Now, go to sleep.” He
stood to leave, paused at the door to hear
Kylee’s muffled “g’night,” and returned slowly
down the stairs to the sitting room. “She loved
it,” he said, dropping into his chair. “You are a
genius.”
“I know.”
He swung his feet up onto the hearth. “Did
you ever wish we had more children, Ma?”
Martha sputtered out a staccato cackle.
“With you and Ivan around? More children?
No. Two boys are enough.”
“Not even a girl?” he asked in a teasing
tone.
“Lovely girl upstairs right now.” She glanced
at him, cocked her head to one side. “You take
her to veldt?”
“She asked again tonight. I said I’d think
about it.”
His wife slapped her thighs with her palms.
“What is problem? Girl smart and tough. Older
than boys first time you take them south.”
“It is not a girl thing,” he protested, painfully
aware that he bordered on whining. “It is not
ladylike.”
Martha cackled again. “Husband needs to
get over himself. Big hunt. Male-bonding. No
girls allowed. Pee on trees, mark territory.”
She paused, considering, added a final, “Idiot.”
Seeing Pharaoh’s frown, she repeated, more
gently, “Take girl.” When he still did not answer,
she shook her head in amusement. “Not
ladylike,” she repeated with a snort. “Three
months you teach girl to hunt. Is hunting langer
ladylike? You teach her that. Shoot guns, crawl
in mud, eat bugs. How that ladylike?”
“Completely different,” he grumbled. “It
is a matter of tradition. Selous took Nimrod.
Nimrod took Ivan and me. I take the boys.”
“Oh,” Martha said, raising her tone as
though she suddenly understood. “I wrong.
Husband not idiot. Husband coward.”
“What?!”
“You afraid of girl. Afraid girl too good
hunter, make boys look bad.”
He gave a dismissive grunt. “She already
makes the boys look bad. Kylee has learned
more in a few months than the boys learned
in years. It is probably good for them, makes
them work harder.”
“Then you afraid maybe you get too fond of
girl.” She curled her feet under her and pressed
against the arm of her chair, leaning toward her
husband. “Is hard to love many people. Maybe
she get hurt. You and Ivan, you two not want
to lose again.”
Pharaoh sat quietly, looking at the empty
fireplace. “Maybe,” he said at last. After another
long pause, he added, “You do not go.”
“ I not ladylike either. I too smart to want
sleep on ground and eat burned meat. Take
girl, pig-head husband.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
“I suppose. I will think about it.”
Satisfied, Martha relaxed in her chair. As
her husband began to settle into a comfortable
rest, she said softly, “I think James likes her.”
“Oh for goodness sakes, woman! He’s
almost ten years older than she is!”
“Like you to me?” She shrugged expansive-
ly. “I say as I see.”
“I said I would think about it. Let me be,”
Pharaoh growled. His irritation did nothing to
change her satisfied grin. After a moment, he
relented and sighed. “She asked about Ivan,
too.”
“Ivan better get himself home. Now!”
she snapped. “Kylee needs Ivan here, not off
playing!”
“I know,” he said wearily. “I know.”
“Mark my words,” Martha continued. “Ivan
not get home soon, there be trouble. And I not
happy either.”
Pharaoh pushed deeper into his chair and
released a long sigh. “He must be who is he
and do as he must,” he said. “Ivan is Ivan.”
# him to overlook the crew at their consoles.
House pretended not to notice as Beta Max
started to spin his chair only to be jerked up
short by his headphones. Instead he studied
the grid littered with blinking lights projected
onto the wall.
“Tight beam squeal from the Hecate,” Max
shouted, whipping off the headphones in frus-
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 41
tration. “Two more squads of four coming in
behind this one. They read them all as small
fighters.”
“In the tank,” House ordered, hooking his
thumbs behind his back. More lights sparked
to life on the display. It was the first time the
Orion had been harassed since her upgrades
were completed but he had no desire to tip
his hand anytime soon, not for the likes of
these. Still, the bridge crew was handling the
new systems smoothly and live fire was good
for training. “Shift the tank to the new 3D,
please.”
There was a painfully long hesitation, then
the display expanded into a high-resolution
hologram of the Orion and her attackers. The
overhead lights dimmed in response to the
change and House permitted himself a thin
smile. Equally satisfactory, the Hecate did
not show up. The cloaking technology of the
light cruiser surpassed even the upgraded
sensor suite. “Max,” he said, projecting his
voice without shouting above the background
murmur of the combat bridge, “Tell the Hecate
to stay put. We can handle this lot with the old
systems.”
He stepped forward to lean against the thin
rail fronting the raised platform that allowed
They were comparatively calm, excited and
tense but not panicked, busy at their work. He
still envied the silent precision of Rainmaker’s
crew aboard the Hecate, but he was satisfied
with what he saw and the knowledge they
would get better with time and practice. “All
the cowboys out?” he asked.
“No, Sir. I couldn’t raise two when we
scrambled. I’m still trying to find them. The
other fourteen are launched and ready.”
House recognized the sandy-haired youth that
answered him but could not remember the
man’s name.
“Don’t worry about the last two—they’re
fired. How’ve you got them split up?”
“Three sets of four. Designation Outrider
One, Two, and Three. I paired up the two
oddballs and sent them wide to extend our
sensor range.”
House raised his eyebrows, impressed.
“Good. Put Outrider Three between the Orion
and their first squad. Have One and Two split
the first bunch away from the others and drive
them toward us. And remind our boys this is
not a free engagement—stay in formation.”
“Aye, Sir. What about—”
“Missiles away!” interrupted the weapons
tech. She stopped, embarrassed by her
outburst, then added, “You said to launch
when I got a lock at 67% probability. I didn’t
think to ask for confirmation.”
House dismissed her explanations with a
shake of his head. “You’re fine. I expect all of
you to follow SOP and think for yourselves. This
tub is too big for you to wait for me to make up
your minds for you. Carry on.”
“Designating enemy squads Red One, Two,
and Three. Engaging Red One now.”
The pirates had made a mistake in sending
their first group in ahead of the others, too far
ahead. Cut off from their support and facing an
onrushing missile salvo, they were easy meat
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
and realized it almost immediately. Two split
off trying to flee, only to be cut down by the
Outriders. The other two fell to the missiles.
“Tight beam from the Hecate,” Max called.
“Your ears only.”
House nodded, stepped back to lift his
own set of headphones from the arm of the
command chair he refused to use. “All right,
Max. Put ‘em through.”
“Hecate actual here. Orion, do you read?”
Rainmaker’s voice crackled through the
headset.
“What’s up, Rain?” House asked.
Rainmaker gave an exasperated groan. “I
swear, y’all have no comm discipline at all.”
“Just tell me what you’ve got.”
“House, I think we’ve got another ship out
here. Big ‘un. Can’t be sure though. We’re only
picking up electronic disturbances, kinda like
looking at something by seeing its shadow.
Whatever it is, its cloaking’s almost as good as
ours.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Hard to say, but it’s staying pretty still. I
reckon it’s just watching at this point.”
House gave a nod that Rainmaker could not
see. “If it’s just watching, let it watch. Get what
info you can and we’ll sort through it later. Let
me know if the situation changes.”
“Roger that,” Rainmaker said formally.
“Hecate out.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 42
House dropped the headset back onto the
chair and returned to the railing. Max shot him
a questioning look, and he shook his head.
“Red Two and Three are breaking off. Never
even came close to being in range,” someone
reported. “Looks like they’re running.”
“Let them go,” he instructed, straightening
to clasp his hands behind his back. “Solid job,
people. Prepare to stand down and open the
blast shields on the mezzanine.”
“That was simple enough,” Max noted
above the renewed chatter of the crew.
“Not really,” House replied softly. “Costs me
about two mill every time I raise shields and
shut down the casino. They can bleed me out
if they have to.” He thought about the mystery
observer the Hecate had detected and the will-
ingness to sacrifice four lives just to probe the
edges of the Orion’s defenses. The game was
afoot.
“Have Dell get me if anything changes,” he
said at last. “I have to speak to a visitor.”
# reading an engineering text for all the emotion
Don Rosten awoke to the sound of a steel
door opening, closing. The room, or wherever
he was, was completely dark and unheated.
Cold, and the hard metal chair he was tied to,
cramped his muscles, insuring that even when
he fell into a fitful sleep he did not rest.
“How long?” he croaked. At first he had tried
to keep track of time, counting the number of
times he had been fed tasteless muck from a
squeeze tube, allowed to suck at the straw of a
squeeze bottle of water, the few occasions his
legs had been freed so he could relieve himself.
Always in the dark, fumbling. Always in silence.
His jailors might have been machines for all he
could discern.
“About a week.” The voice was masculine,
vaguely familiar.
Instinctively, Rosten turned his head toward
the sound. He had not expected an answer.
“Why?”
A water bottle landed in his lap. A moment
later came a jerk at his arms and his hands were
free. “Really, Carl. That’s a foolish question.
You’ve done some bad things over the years.”
“Carlos,” he corrected, slurped greedily at
the water.
“Afraid not. Carlos don Rosten died a few
days ago. He shipped off the Orion bound for
an ErSec holding facility on Nevrio. Convicts
aren’t worth wasting manpower on, so when
his preprogrammed drone went off course—
well, there wasn’t anyone to fix it until the
ship had already tumbled into an asteroid.
Tough break, that.” The voice might have been
it showed.
Rosten suppressed a surge of fear. There
were rumors, things that other smugglers did,
people disappearing, sold into slavery, slipped
past quarantine to become servants of alien
rulers, or food. But none of that would explain
why talk to him, why explain, unless... “I have
information you want.”
“True enough. And I’d rather not have to
play rough to get it.” The voice started beside
him, moved behind. The speaker was circling,
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
making him dizzy, disoriented.
“I’m a dead man,” Rosten sighed and
finished the water anyway.
“Not necessarily. For slime, you’ve kept your
hands pretty clean. You climbed to the top with
more business sense than violence. You ran
contraband but no people, no hard drugs. Even
when you breeched quarantine—and most of
your business was with aliens—you were still
picky about what you took in. No weapons,
no tech, and again, no people. Mostly, Carlos
don Rosten was a thug and petty thief who
happened to be a good marketer and made his
money selling trinkets across the quarantine.”
“It paid the bills,” Rosten replied, wondering
why he felt insulted at having his criminal
exploits presented so minimally.
“Point is, before I go to the stick, I’m offering
a carrot. Carlos don Rosten is dead. Carl Ross
doesn’t have to be. I’m willing to gamble that,
with a clean start and a good dose of fear, you
might turn out to be a halfway decent citizen.”
“You got a place for me in your organiza-
tion?”
“I might. Question is, have you got what it
takes to put yourself there. Answering a few
questions would go a long way toward easing
my mind on that score.”
Rosten licked his lips and tried not to sound
too relieved. “Yeah, all right, I’m in. Who’m I in
with?”
“Call me House.”
Carl Ross cursed softly, hung his head. “I’m
dead anyway. Casey’s gonna mess you up. I’ve
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 43
seen the signs. He’s getting ready for war.”
“His call, not mine. You want out already?”
“No. No, right now, you’re the best offer in
town.”
House chuckled grimly. “Something you
ought to know, in case you get any ideas later.
I played a hunch when I sent out that prisoner
drone empty. I guessed right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my people didn’t sabotage
your drone, someone on the other side did.
Somebody out there wants Carlos don Rosten
dead. And that somebody’s got contacts in
ErSec.” House laughed as Carl cursed again. “You
sound surprised. I’m almost disappointed.” He
made a clucking noise deep in his throat. “I’ll
send someone down to help you get cleaned
up before we get to work. I’ve got to go make a
few more calls. Shoring up my army.”
# full-fledged weapon.
Two in the chest, one in the head—classic
triangle. Three spikes of silver from a weapon
with miniscule recoil. Today they shredded
paper targets, tomorrow maybe human flesh.
Rose paused, replaced the gun she held on the
waist-high shelf in front of her and lifted the
next gun in line. Another triplet of fletchettes
spat down the range. The darts were heavier
than in the previous gun and dropped off even
at the relatively short distance. She set it aside
and moved on to the next gun, this one with
finned darts.
It was a matter of design, she knew. In
exchange for the lighter weight and faster
fire rate, fletchette firing weapons sacrificed
penetration and stopping power. Heavier
ammo decreased the handicap but at the
cost of reduced range. For a duelist, accuracy
and speed were at a premium and the lighter
weight made it easier for her to find a grip
that fit her hand. Besides, conventional slug-
throwers were loud and sloppy. Sonics were
never meant for anything more ambitious than
short-range crowd control and were equally
sloppy, as bad as using a shotgun.
Lasers did not kick at all but, as a personal
weapon, they were a disappointment. Short
of being anchored to a fixed, external power
source, they could not muster lethal power past
a half-dozen yards. Some military models used
high-density batteries carried in a backpack
mount but, if you had to carry a thirty-pound
backpack, it defeated most of the laser’s
advantages. At longer range, the handheld
models could blind and generate considerable
pain, but in Rose’s estimation a brutal sunburn
was not sufficient damage to be considered a
That left her with fletchettes. She sent
another clip of darts down the range.
A buzzer cut the air and a warning light
flashed above the range. Rose lowered the gun
and stepped back, pulling off her protective
ear and eye guards.
A stout man strolled toward her on bandy
legs. “I thought you’d already settled on a new
gun, Rose,” the rangemaster teased.
“For me, yes. I’m looking for one for
someone else now. I think her hands are
about the same size as mine, but her wrists
are weaker. Plus, she’ll need something more
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
utilitarian. Mine’s too specialized to what I do.”
She passed her guards into his waiting hands.
“Try looking for a gun that takes a wide
range of needles. That way she has more
options without having to change the gun
itself.” He rolled her safety gear in one hand,
motioned toward her rack of guns with the
other. “Listen, Fagan just called down. Wants
to see you up in his office. I’ll put up your stuff
for you.”
Rose nodded. “Thanks, Mike.” She paused
to strap on her own weapon and left the range
shaking the tingle of a long practice session
from her hands.
Fagan’s office was decorated in the smooth
textures of wood and stone. Rose had never
seen it in color, but in her mind it was the same
warm brown of pipe smoke and leather that
always seemed to surround her mentor. He
smiled merrily and stood to greet her as she
entered. “Why am I not surprised you were
at the range?” he asked as they sat. “You’re
becoming predictable, my dear.”
“I’ve always been predictable, at least
in that regard.” She sank deeper than was
comfortable in the cushions, fought with the
armrests until she was more at ease.
“Indeed you have,” Fagan replied with a
paternal chuckle. “Drink?”
“Thank you, no. You go ahead though.”
He grinned at her. “I believe I will.” Ice
clinked against glass. “Rose, I am sorry that
you’re miserable here.”
She felt her mouth drop open in surprise,
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 44
forced it closed. “Fagan, I never said—I would
never—I mean, after everything you’ve done
for me—”
He waved her to silence with his free hand
while he poured his drink with the other. “I
know, dear. Trust me, old Fagan knows. There’s
no malice in it. But I understand too. This kind
of work is not for such as you. I see it—it eats
at you, wears you down, makes you sick.” He
paused, placing the crystal decanter back on
his desk. “Why do you think I hire you out for
bodyguard work and the like, away from the
dueling, whenever I can? Quicksilver, dear, I
understand.” He leaned back in his chair and
sipped noisily over the lip of his glass. “If I didn’t
have all you children to look after, I don’t know
if I could do it myself, you know.”
“I’m not miserable,” Rose protested softly.
“I’m just...not happy.”
He smiled at her. “You’re a poor liar, and
I forgive you for it. It’s only natural for you to
want more, a lovely young thing like yourself.
You should want something other than death
and killing. I just wish I had a different set of
skills to teach, I really do.”
Rose resisted the urge to curl into a ball.
She despised herself for letting the man turn
her into a child. “I think I’ll take that drink
now.”
“You know you’ll always have a home
here anytime you want, don’t you?” he asked,
preparing a second glass. “I think of you as my
own flesh and blood.”
It took her a moment to realize what he
had said. “You’re putting me out?”
He chuckled deep in his throat, slid her
drink across his desk toward her. “Goodness
no. I suppose I forgot that you wouldn’t know.
I’ve had an offer to buy your marker.”
“You’re not going to, are you?”
“Sell your marker? Normally, no. You’re not
a slave to be bought and sold like chattel. In this
case, though, I thought it might be something
you’d approve of. You spend most of your free
time on the Orion anyway these days.”
“House?” she asked, her voice squeaking
like a girl half her age. “That’s—” she stopped
herself, suddenly aware of how much seeing
her leave must hurt the older man, not wanting
to make it worse with her excitement.
“Wonderful, you were about to say? Yes,
I thought it was.” The skin around his eyes
crinkled in amusement, giving lie to his dry
tone.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve...you’ve been
very good to me.” Her throat constricted. If she
had tear ducts, she might have cried.
“Don’t be.” Fagan leaned forward, sincere
and concerned. “You know that you’ll still have
to kill. That part doesn’t change. Your gun is
still your value. And you’ll be mostly on your
own. I don’t imagine House will give you the
free hand with his purse strings like I have.”
Rose nodded. “I’ll get by. Money I can work
around, somehow. And it’s never been about
the killing, Fagan. It’s the killing for no purpose.
I need,” she paused, searching for the word,
“meaning.”
“I understand. If you ever want to come
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
home, I’m just a call away. I’ll buy back your
marker, no questions asked.”
“Thank you.” She hid her face by staring
into her drink.
He shrugged and drained his glass. “I
do need you to do one thing for me before I
transfer over your contract. I don’t want people
thinking I’ve gone soft or that I’m having some
kind of trouble that I have to sell my best
talent. Bad for business. You understand how
important public perception is.”
“What is it?” she asked around the sudden
knot of tension in her chest.
“Nothing horrid. I need you to go out on
top, that’s all. Next month is the Salle des
Armes.” He gave her an exaggerated wink. “Do
you think you could win me another cup?”
Rose laughed, relieved. “You mean five
aren’t enough?” The Salle des Armes was a
dueling tournament—the dueling tourna-
ment—but only a contest. No one else needed
to die. “I suppose I could.”
“Good. It’s settled, then. You win me
another cup, and I’ll sell your marker to House.”
He refilled his glass from the crystal decanter
at his elbow, raised it like a toast. “You’ll need
to find a second. I’ll be too busy training your
replacement. Anyone come to mind?”
Rose returned the toast with her own glass.
“I can think of someone.”
# the only ship that’s been hassled on the Nev-Far
“What am I looking at here?” House asked.
The display showed a star map marred by a
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 45
twisting cone originating from a single spot
and expanding to end in a nebulous spread.
“Kylee’s path on the destroyed slo-po,”
Dell replied. While the girl lay comatose, the
medical computers had recorded the neural
memories of her inner ear. Dell had been
working for months on translating the subtle
shifts of balance into a possible drift path.
“The fixed point at the end is where she was
recovered. The rest shows her possible travel
path taking into account survey error, gravi-
metric perturbations that would have gone
unnoticed, and similar factors. I’m afraid it’s
not overly specific. Even factoring in her recol-
lections of the attack itself doesn’t cut it down
significantly.”
House gnawed his lower lip and nodded to
himself. “It’s a start. Start cross-referencing it
with known information of other attacks on
the Third Earth to Farnham line. Keep an ear
on the reports from Earth Defense. There’ll be
more attacks coming.”
“And more information,” Dell added. “Each
attack is more blatant and more aggressive.
It’s counterintuitive. The more force the Navy
moves into the area, the more visible the
pirates become.”
“It’s a clear-out. I don’t know why yet,
but it sure looks like someone wants ErDef’s
strength committed there, away from Fargone
and Nevrio, and they’re willing to spend a lot
of effort and manpower to insure it.”
“In the last six months,” Dell noted, “we’re
run. You haven’t reported those attacks to
ErDef, either.”
“They’re negligible.” House dismissed Dell’s
implied rebuke.
“We’re also the only heavily armed ship left
on this side of the Frontier with Earth Defense
pulling out.”
The ex-smuggler gave a noncommittal
grunt. “Who’s the acting naval commander at
Farnham?”
“Blackmore.”
House grunted. “I know him.” One did not
run a ship on the Frontier without getting to
know the local defense forces in a hurry. “Make
sure he’s on the VIP list—perks, invitations to
major entertainment events, all that. Send him
a fruit basket or something too.”
“Any kind of message attached?”
House shook his head. “Just make sure he
remembers my name.”
#
A mountain of beige folders hit the desk
with a whomp, and only Graves’ startled grab
prevented an avalanche onto the floor. “Scare
me to death,” he growled at the man who had
dumped the pile. “What’s this?”
“This, Hyland, is your new job. At least for
a while.” Graves’ supervisor gave him a watery
smile. “I’ve also authorized your access to all
this data electronically, but I know how much
you love the hard copies.”
“You’re a prince,” he replied, breaking the
folders into shorter stacks less likely to cascade
to the ground. “Like I said, what is it? I’m still
Issue 48, November 2008
Calamity’s Child
Chapter Five: ROP: Skip a Rope
by M. Keaton
working on Casey.”
“Not anymore.”
“Hell, Lumley, you’re killing me,” Graves
barked. “This potlatch mess is the first real
break we’ve had in years, and now you’re
pulling me off?”
“Easy boy. I didn’t make the call.” Lumley
hesitated, continued in a more placatory tone.
“This is just a distraction. Couple of weeks,
tops, to settle the feathers of some bureaucrat
and then you’re back to work on your real case.
You’ll gain more by getting over it and getting
to work than moaning.”
Graves huffed a sigh. “All right. So for the
last time, what is it?”
Lumley perched on the edge of the desk,
smoothed the flat black of his suit pants.
“Salvage claim. And before you start yelling
again, yes, I’m wasting your time with just a
salvage claim.”
“I’ll bite. What’s the rest of the story?”
The ErSec department head grinned.
“Smart boy,” he said approvingly. “Mostly it’s
hot politics. Some punter out on the Frontier
filed a salvage claim on an abandoned ErDef
ship. The claim checks out, the ship had been
written off as lost about a year back, and they
had to let him have it. So far so good. Here’s
where the feathers got ruffled.” Lumley paused
dramatically. “It’s one of the stealth cruisers,
and it’s fully functional.”
Graves swore, then laughed. “Somebody’s
tail is in the sling.”
“Fortunately, that’s not our problem. What
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 46
we have to find out is how. The senate’s more
than a little concerned. Frankly, I can’t say that
I blame ‘em. That kind of a screw-up in an area
with quarantine worlds is darn close to a major
security issue.”
“So, why us? Why not wait for an ErDef
internal investigation?” Graves laced his hands
behind his head and leaned back, thinking.
“Politics again. Too many ErDef names in
the list of people possibly involved.” Lumley
stood and straightened his suit. “Walk gently on
this one, Hyland. Odds are it’s a simple mistake
but, politically, it could be a hot potato. One of
us will probably have to go back to Earth and
talk to a Senate investigatory committee.”
“Well thank you for the favor.” Graves said
acridly. “Who made the claim?”
“Some guy goes by the name of House. It’s
all there in the files. What’s that look for?”
Graves’ face twisted into a tight grin, eyes
narrowed. “Oh this just got a lot more inter-
esting.” Once Lumley left, he began paging
through the files. He was midway through the
third when he stopped to poke a button on his
desk. “I’m going to be needing an encrypted
channel,” he said distractedly. “Ship name is
the Orion. Let me know when a line opens up.”
Closing the file, he swung his feet onto his desk
and settled in to wait.
M Keaton
Growing up in a family with a history of
military service, M. Keaton cut his lin-
guistic 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 Uni-
versity. A student of politics, military
history, forteana, and game design, his
renaissance education inspired the short
television series: These Teeth Are Real
(TTAR).
His literary “mentors” are as diverse as
his experiences. Most powerfully, the
author has been affected by the works
and writers of the “ancient” world,
including the Bible, Socrates, and (more
modern) Machiavelli, Tsun Tsu, Tacitus,
and Von Clauswitz. (This horribly long
list only scratches the surface; M. Keaton
reads at a rate of over two books per
week in addition to his writing.)
Issue 48, November 2008
 Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
Thieves’ Honor
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans
by Keanan Brand
Previously, on Thieves’ Honor:
Our intrepid Captain Kristoff has ventured from
his old freighter—the Martina Vega—with a
fastidious crewman, ship’s engineer Alerio, to
visit the Katy Joy, a private yacht sailing the
space before the Vega’s bow.
All they are going to do is a little bartering—an
excuse for Alerio to take a gander at the shiny
new technology and perhaps lift a little of it
when no one is looking.
He is, after all, a pirate.
As is common with the Vega crew, plans
change.
The airlock door hisses open.
Alerio yelps. Kristoff draws his pistol.
A large man holding a large gun grins down at
them with large teeth. “H’lo, boys.”
“Hello, Marty.”
Kristoff backed toward the hatch, and
Alerio pounded the fist-sized button, but the
airlock door did not close nor did the hatch
behind them open.
“Come on in, boys”—Marty gestured with
the Ginchon-make shotgun—”and meet my
crew.”
Kristoff did not lower his weapon. “What
happened to Quinn’s crew?”
“They’re around. Never saw such a group
of men bound to their work.”
Alerio pummeled the release button again.
“Got that on override.” Marty stepped
aside, and gestured at Kristoff. “Toss that
piece to William.” Again the large-toothed grin
behind the shaggy beard. “He’s the weapons
expert.”
Kristoff tossed the gun.
William—almost as tall as Marty, but half
his bulk—caught the weapon made of a cheap
alloy and cheaper manufacture, clamped his
big hands over it, opened them. The gun fell.
In pieces.
“That’s my favorite!” Kristoff looked down
at the pieces. “Was my favorite.”
“Rule number whatever: never bring a
weapon you can’t afford to lose.” Marty rested
his shotgun in the crook of his arm. “Guns
are like women, captain. There’s always one
more.”
Alerio muttered, “Finney’d show him one
more.”
“Finney.” Marty planted his feet wide. “She
still flying that tub?”
“It’s a good job,” said Kristoff. “Decent
pay, food whenever we can get it, excellent
Pg. 47
medical—”
“But the retirement plan—” Alerio
shrugged.
“I’m workin’ on it.” Kristoff stepped out of
the airlock, looked around. “Nice boat.”
#
“Nice—ship.” Maybe fifteen, a little on the
thin side, the kid was well dressed. “It actually
flies?”
“Sweetest goer in the galaxy.” Kristoff hefted
a crate; Wyatt checked it on the manifest.
Finney strode down the gangway. The kid
looked at her and whistled.
Finney drew her gun, checked the chamber,
glanced at Kristoff. “Hiring more help?”
He smiled. “Couldn’t hire anyone said bad
things about my ship.”
She looked sharp at the kid. He backed up
a step.
“Making fun of Martina?”
“Uh, no. No, ma’am.”
“Careful, kid”—Kristoff stepped up the
gangway—”she’s the pilot.”
“Who are you?”
“He’s the captain.” Finney holstered the

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
gun. “You need something? Other than a strong
lesson in manners?”
At the hatchway, Corrigan took the crate
from Kristoff, who rested a minute and watched
Finney cross her arms and wait for an answer.
The kid said, “Before he went into the
trading business, my father captained a ship,
and he never loaded his own cargo.”
“Bully for him.”
“You might know him. Sam Quinn?”
“Nope.” Finney lifted a crate, Wyatt
marked it on his clipboard, and she headed
up the gangway. Kristoff met her halfway. She
muttered, “Snotty rich brat.”
“You can do better than that, Finn.” Kristoff
chuckled. “You have some real hair-curlers in
your verbal repertoire.”
She snorted—”Verbal repertoire”—and
kept walking up the plank. “Somebody’s been
reading the dictionary.”
# than most and not particularly bound by the
Down two shallow steps, white upholstered
sofas and chairs formed a U in the center of a
common room, the better to capture the view
of space out the forward port. Across the back,
in an alcove tucked beside the narrow passage
leading aft, stretched a wet bar stocked with
liquor and wine with expensive labels. Hard
to believe the snotty rich brat was old enough
to own all this, let alone know his intoxicants.
Kristoff whistled. “Hey, Al, you thirsty?”
He stepped toward the bar but was blocked
Ray Gun Revival magazine
by a muscular woman with short, spiky hair
and a suspicious five-o’clock shadow.
“Polly. You’re looking”—scary—”lovely, as
always.”
She scowled.
“Uh, heard you got married last year. Con-
gratulations. Who’s the lucky man?”
She jerked her head in William’s direction.
Kristoff stuck out his hand. “You caught
yourself a right fine woman.”
William ignored the hand, but said in
cultured tones, “I am well aware of my wife’s
attributes, sir, but I thank you.”
As long as you know. Kristoff lowered his
hand and turned toward Marty. “We didn’t
come over to interfere with your thievin’. We
were just hoping to buy some fuel capsules
from Carson Quinn.”
Assuming, of course, that the son was less
tightfisted than the father. Sam Quinn, cannier
ancient suggestion of honor among thieves,
had made his riches by stealing them from
other pirates. He retired from crime and estab-
lished an overland trading business based in
Port Henry, thus perpetrating a legal form of
theft by charging exorbitant rates for goods
sold to the far-flung inhabitants of the back
country, covering his costs many times over,
and nary a constable chasing him. The Quinn
fortune was legend.
“You’re never short on necessities, Kris.”
“Burned a little more than expected. Had a
Pg. 48
runner on our tail, and the Orpheus is behind
us.”
“Fact is,” Marty crossed the sunken room,
“you were hoping to do a little thievin’ of your
own.”
“Well,” Kristoff lifted one shoulder, “it is
what we do.”
Polly prodded him in the back with her
gun, kicked Alerio in the leg, and they moved
down the two steps, around plump-cushioned
furniture, and across thick carpet toward
a bank of telescreens above a wide row of
starboard portholes. On one screen, a group of
men huddled, blindfolded and bound, around
the ship’s engine. Guarding them were two
men with rifles.
Other screens showed various areas inside
the ship, two were dedicated to the expanse of
space astern, and two more—one starboard,
one port—skimmed the sides of the hull. In
the wheelhouse, the pilot sat with elbows
and knees bound to his chair, his hands free
to work the controls. A nasty-barreled Pike’s
pistol rested across his shoulder.
Kristoff rested his weight on one leg and
crossed his arms. “What’re you planning on
doing with the crew, Marty?”
“Soon’s we get what we need, we’re gonna
cut ‘em loose on a life boat. Couple bottles of
water, a few crackers, maybe a knife and some
matches. They’ll last long enough to turn on
each other. Whoever survives gets to keep the
raft.”
“Ah, Marty, you’re all heart.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
“Must be Polly’s influence.”
He nodded at her, Polly’s thick fingers
tapped on a keyboard, and the Vega’s two-man
shuttle floated free of the Katy Joy.
Marty said, “This security system’s a little
too new for Polly here to hack. Can’t get
through to the hailing codes”—not only mayday
calls and general communication signals from
ship to ship, but also the call signs, the ship’s
identification—”and we need this sweet little
vessel to have a new name.” Marty kicked a
chair toward the engineer. “You do that, we’ll
let you buy a fistful of fuel pellets and get back
to your boat.”
Onscreen, a bolt of white shot from the side
of the Katy Joy. The exterior starboard camera
shuddered as the Vega’s kayak ripped apart in
a soundless, flameless explosion.
Marty grinned again. “A’course, can’t
promise how you’ll get back.”
# Sahir smiled, his eyes almost disappear-
Rebeka clutched her mug of tea and tried
not to look at Jink Turner, still nursing his cracked
ribs, or at Gleason Holmes, who winced as the
ship’s doctor wrapped his bleeding palms with
gauze.
“Shoulda asked for gloves,” the doctor
murmured, tying off one bandage, a red blotch
already staining the center. “These can get
infected pretty easy.”
“He was just swabbing the floor. Maid’s
work.” Jink sneered. “Doesn’t hurt to get a
little blood on those soft white hands.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“Don’t hurt to shut the mouth.” The fat
cook, Sahir, slapped a plate of sandwiches on
the table then wiped his meaty hands on the
folded white towel tucked into his apron. “Eat.
I bring tea.”
“What kind is it?” Rebeka took another sip.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”
“Chandi—” started Ezra the cabin boy, but
the cook shook the battered copper pot at him.
“Uh, what kind is it again, Sahir?” Ezra grabbed
a sandwich and took a large bite.
Sahir threw up a hand, shrugged a shoulder,
and poured more tea into Jink Turner’s mug.
“Get it cheap at last port.”
“Hey, Turner,” said Gleason, “maybe that
was one of the crates you loaded.”
Jink pointed. “Listen, Holmes—”
“Whatever it is,” Rebeka lifted her mug,
“it’s good.”
ing behind his cheeks. “For so beautiful Miss
Bat’Alon, I make more.”
She glanced around at the others gathered
at the table in the wide corner of the galley
that served as a dining room. Six. “Where’s
everyone else? Aren’t they hungry?”
“For someone who wanted to turn us over
to the law for hanging, you’re awful concerned
about our eating habits.” Ezra didn’t look at
her.
He was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, a couple
of years younger than Rebeka, with dark skin
and curly black hair. Nice looking, for a pirate.
Pg. 49
He spoke again, forming mushed vowels
around a mouthful of food. “Finney’s in her
bunk, Corrigan should be coming any time
now”—and even before Ezra finished that
phrase, the big mechanic ducked through the
hatch and grabbed a fistful of sandwiches—
”Alerio’s probably absorbed in some new
function he’s invented for the engine, and
Wyatt’s usually counting stuff. Who knows
where the captain is.”
“The wheelhouse, I imagine,” said Mercedes,
closing her medical bag and standing.
“Nope.” Ezra downed a swig of milk. “I
checked.”
“Then his quarters, reading Huckleberry
Finn for the seventeenth time.” The doctor
nudged the bag against the boy’s shoulder, and
he moved over on the bench. She sat beside
him. “He gets hungry enough, he’ll join us.”
Corrigan sucked food remnants from his
teeth and shook his head. “Didn’t nobody look
out the window? The Katy Joy’s out there, and
the kayak’s gone. I reckon the captain and Al
went callin’.”
The doctor’s brows drew together, and her
mouth thinned to a hard line. She unclipped
her radio and hailed Alerio. No reply.
“Won’t work,” said Corrigan. “Too far. Ships’
hulls, and all that.”
“They could have told us first.”
“Probably knew you’d try to stop ‘em.”
Corrigan reached for more sandwiches; the
stack dwindled to five. “It’s just Quinn’s boat.
He’s livin’ almighty high now that his daddy
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
died and left him all that money. His crew’s
probably shiverin’ in their boots to see Kristoff
aboard.”
Mercedes looked at him, and the mechanic
grinned.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Captain’s not
that scary.”
Perhaps not, but Corrigan’s smile was.
Rebeka turned away—right toward Jink Turner.
His look was a mix of bitterness and longing.
He’d just have to get over it. She wasn’t
marrying him nor any man, no matter how
much Captain Kristoff might scheme or Papa
might rave when she returned home. Men
were liars all.
She stood, and crossed the galley to where
Sahir cut rough-skinned Skorm apples. The cook
moved over as far as his girth would allow, and
she leaned a hip against the counter. “How did
you come to be aboard the Martina Vega?”
“Was Kristoff’s gunner in war. Now I cook.”
He scooted the apple slices off the cutting
board with the flat of his knife, tumbling them
onto a chipped pottery plate.
“Which side? In the war?”
“War is over.”
“Do you like being a pirate?”
The teapot whistled. Sahir slopped some of
the steaming amber liquid into her mug then
stomped over to the table.
Well—she sipped the fragrant tea—the
losing side, then.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
# Laughing, Kristoff hopped down from a
“Al,” Kristoff pushed down the curses
gurgling in the back of his throat, “help these
nice pirates with their thievin’ while I go over
here and have a chat with Marty.”
Alerio adjusted his spectacles. “That an
order, captain?”
“It is.”
The engineer sat before the keyboard.
Polly stood a little behind him, gun ready.
Alerio leaned forward; the jacket tightened
across his shoulders, and a web of straps—the
shoulder holster for an elegant little Tattersall’s
Special, an aristocratic “lady’s best friend” for
which he suffered much mockery among the
Vega crew—raised a thin profile just under the
fabric.
# Kristoff forced himself to relax, to look away
The kid returned to the docks every one
of the five days the Martina Vega remained
in port. The third day, he almost walked into
Alerio’s bullet.
“Hey! No discharge of firearms at the
dock!”
Alerio didn’t lower his arm, just waited for
Carson Quinn to move out of the way, then
fired again at the target, uneven black circles
drawn on an old red grease rag stretched over
the mouth of an overturned barrel. “You sound
like a badge.”
“My father says—”
Alerio fired another round.
Pg. 50
stack of empty crates and slapped Carson’s
shoulder. “Most star mariners don’t care much
for small talk. Ever fire one of these?”
An array of handguns lined a discarded bar-
relhead. The kid looked them over, but didn’t
touch them.
“Mother carries one like he’s shooting.”
Carson nodded toward Alerio. “What did you
do? Rob an old lady?”
This time, it was no friendly slap but a
vise-like grip Kristoff clamped on the kid’s bony
shoulder. “Before you make fun of a man’s
weapon, better make sure you can wield it better
than he can. Hey, Al, reload that Tattersall’s.
Let’s see if sonny boy can shoot straight.”
#
from that betraying bit of lumped white cloth
on Alerio’s shoulder, to smile and pay attention
to Marty’s verbal swagger.
“…in Port Henry, and knew I was lookin’ at
my last ship. Somebody let it be known around
Port Henry that me and the boys were hired as
bodyguards to a fella with more money than
he knew what to do with, then we signed on to
a mining vessel, waited for the yacht to come
in range, jumped ship on a couple of lifeboats,
and vy-ola, here we are.” Marty ran a big-
knuckled paw along the woodwork. “A little
paint, a new set of codes, some guns, and I’ll
have me the best vessel in known space. She’s
yar. The guns’ll have to be light cannon so she’ll
stay that way. Government runners have the
best light cannon. Hey”—he draped an arm
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
over Kristoff’s shoulders, and the fist holding
the shotgun bumped against Kristoff’s chest—
”that runner that was followin’ you. ‘Bout how
long, you think, before it gets to this sky?”
“We lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“Dang. If only we’d known. We coulda
slowed down, lassoed it, and led it right to you.
Anything to aid a fellow pirate.”
“Is that, what’s the word?
Sarcasm? That what that is?”
“Marty, you’ve been reading the dictionary.
Good for you.”
The gun tipped; the butt tapped Kristoff’s
chin. “I try to be friends, you try to start a fight.
Why you always doin’ that?”
“Old habits.”
“Yeah.” Marty thumbed a switch; both
barrels twisted a quarter turn to the right, tele-
scoped in a third of the length, and locked. He
pressed the ends against Kristoff’s gut. “They
take a while to die.”
Yeah. Sarcasm is my friend. “Ya know, Marty,
you shoot me, my crew won’t play nice.”
“’S all right. The uptight crew of this
boat—all they did was yell about their rich,
fancy captain not inviting us aboard. Didn’t
even give us a fight. Got the boys’ blood up.
They’re spoilin’ for a donnybrook.”
“Even Polly?”
“Especially Polly.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“Well, wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”
Kristoff pushed the barrel away with his left
hand, grabbed the stock with his right, and
twisted, Marty’s finger still hooked around
a trigger. A roar reverberated; Marty backed
away, holding his right hand, the forefinger
pointing east nor-east.
Hunched over, protecting that broken bone,
the big man cursed.
Behind him, William aimed a Pike’s. Not
much of a threat; if he fired, he’d hit his
captain.
On the other hand, meaty as Marty might
be, the bullet could still pass right through him
and hit Kristoff. Unwelcome thought.
Polly shifted her stance, covering Kristoff
but still guarding Alerio, whose quick typing
was a nervous clatter in the sudden silence.
Marty, teeth gritted, “The boys’ll be coming
upstairs any second now.”
“Donnybrook, remember?”
“What you want, Kris?”
“Where’s Carson Quinn?”
“Who?”
“Captain of this boat.”
“Skinny fella, no beard? Gave me some
trouble. He’s nice and snug in the hold.”
“Alive?”
Marty half-laughed. “He’s got a sword, can
you believe it? Some old navy cutlass he said
belonged to an important ancestor on Earth.”
Pg. 51
“Always was interested in antiques. Let’s go
see it.”
Marty shrugged. “Why not?”
He glanced at William, stepped aside, and
half-turned.
Uh-oh. Kristoff ducked behind the white
sofa that looked like it belonged in a parlor.
Not anymore.
The first shot exploded a cushion into white
confetti. The second pinged off something
metal and thudded into something solid.
Kristoff pushed the end of the barrel against
the back of the sofa, angling for the space above
William’s head, fired, then scooted along the
floor toward the bar.
A shot blasted through the furniture again;
another gouged a groove in the polished wood
bar.
“Hold your fire!” Marty bellowed. “No
messin’ up my ship!”
Kristoff took advantage of the ceasefire.
“How you doin’ over there, Al?”
“This security system is, uh, pretty darn
secure.” The engineer’s voice, though tense,
was steady. “Finesse isn’t working. We need
the binary version of a sledgehammer to bash
down all the layers of code protecting the ID
files. This is stuff I’ve never seen before.”
Then, casual-like, Alerio added, “Anybody
shoots him, they might as well shoot me, too.
If he dies, I’m not going to crack this code and
help the pirates who murdered my captain.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
That could almost make a man choke up
and get teary-eyed.
Standing, Kristoff again pointed the gun at
Marty. “William, toss me that hand cannon.”
The man hesitated.
Marty turned his head. “’S all right, William.
The rest of the crew’ll take him down.”
The Pike’s skittered across the floor. Kristoff
stopped it with his boot.
Footsteps thudded aft, approaching.
# wanna lead this crew? A little pressure on this
Grrrp. Grrrp. Grrrp. Grrrp.
Eyes still closed, Finney grabbed her radio.
“Not funny, captain.”
Grrrp. Grrrp. Grrrp.
“Trying to sleep here.”
Grrrp. Grrrp.
“Kristoff?”
She sat up, eyes open. The telescreen—
tech salvaged from a ghost ship—showed an
empty wheelhouse. She switched the visual;
lines of white digits and letters interspersed
with the odd green numeral.
Grrrp. Grrrp. Grrrp. Grrrp.
She clamped down the red all-channels
button—”Okay, who’s mucking about with
the hailing frequencies? And where’s the
captain?”—and switched the visual again, this
Ray Gun Revival magazine
time to a view off the bow.
Pieces of shuttle floated like flotsam in a
languid sea.
“Dear God and gearshifts,” she breathed.
“They blew up the kayak.”
# appeared at his side.
Kristoff tucked the pistol into the back of his
belt. From the corner of his eye, he saw Polly
take a step forward and tuck the stock of her
gun into the hollow of her shoulder. He kept
the Ginchon trained on Marty’s middle. “You
trigger, Polly, and you’re in charge.”
Silence.
“Of course,” Kristoff added, “You might
have to fight the boys for the privilege.”
Down the passage came the rest of the
gang, single file in the narrow space and not
much help to their captain, who had backed
toward them, still nursing his broken finger by
holding the hand close to his chest.
Gotta love a bottleneck.
“The kid who owns this boat, you do know
his daddy stole more than one cargo from me,
back when I had the prettiest ship in these
skies?” Marty asked.
Kristoff nodded.
“I reckon Ol’ Sam Quinn probably stole his
share of loot from you, too.”
“He retired before my time.”
Pg. 52
“His kid some sorta kin to you?”
#
On the fifth day, a few hours before liftoff,
Kristoff made a tour of the ship’s hull, looking
for breaches and weak joints. Carson Quinn
“Hey, kid.”
“Hey.”
Kristoff ran a hand along Martina’s metal
skin. Pressure-cleaned and gleaming, she was
smooth as silk.
“Captain?”
“Hm?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Letting me hang around.”
“Alerio’s impressed with your target skills.”
“He wanted to give me one of the guns, but
I wouldn’t be able to explain it to my father.”
Yeah. Ol’ Sam Quinn wasn’t known for his
understanding.
“So,” the kid ventured after several steps,
“when will you be back in these skies?”
“Not sure.” With a stub of chalk, Kristoff
circled a dodgy-looking rivet as broad as his
two hands side by side. He’d send Corrigan to
weld it. “We’re freighters. We go where our
customers need us to go.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
“I was sort of hoping I could, you know—”
Carson shrugged.
“Sign on with us?” Kristoff shook his head.
“But—”
“No.”
“I’m a quick learner—you saw that for
yourself with the guns—and I want to sail.”
Kristoff stopped walking. “First rule of
a sailor: obey the captain. Even the worst
criminal of a captain will do what’s best for
his ship. I take you aboard, your daddy comes
after me—and he has the resources and the
contacts to kill not only me but my crew, and
destroy the Vega, too.”
They continued along the side of the ship.
Carson moved ahead, running a hand along
the hull as he walked. When they reached the
forward hatch, the boy turned. “He’s going to
make me a businessman like him.”
“Go to school. Don’t waste your mind.”
“Did you go to university?”
“Military academy.”
“And now you’re a freighter?”
“Life happens.”
# achieved that pretty well, too.
“I met Carson when he was a boy, down at
the docks. He likes ships.”
“You met him once.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“Yup.”
Marty frowned. “And you’re willing to die
for this kid?”
“Dying isn’t part of the plan.”
# Finney shook her head. “But there did
Finney met the rest of the Vega crew at the
airlock in the hold. “What are the passengers
doing here? Thought the captain said to lock
‘em in their cabins until we reach port.”
“He let ‘em roam a bit.” Corrigan had
exchanged his coveralls for a pair of blue-and-
gray patterned camouflage pants, a belt and
holster of black webbing, and—most shock-
ing—a clean t-shirt. He pulled a bandolier
over his head and settled it across his chest.
“Everybody bring the same caliber?”
Wyatt and Sahir nodded. Each holstered
a standard glide-action Cavanaugh Cutlass—
”the Mariner’s Choice”—and Corrigan carried
the same gage in a rifle.
Finney preferred one of the heaviest Tat-
tersall’s, and she loaded her own ammunition
clips ranged in small sheaths lined up at her
back, along her belt—not the old-fashioned
jacketed bullets she learned to shoot as a
child, but custom breakaways, designed more
for incapacitation than death, though they
“Ez, watch’em,” she nodded toward the
passengers, “though I reckon they won’t be
inclined to do much.”
Sahir must have served tea again. All three
had a drowsy look, their eyelids at half-mast
Pg. 53
and their movements lethargic. Mercedes
propped up Jink Turner, whose usual sullen
expression had become almost blissful.
“Could you contact the Katy Joy?” asked
the doctor, her forehead lined.
appear to be an attempt to signal us. I don’t
know if it was a distress call, or just a fumble-
fingered pilot. Either way, our kayak is blown,
and there’s no word from the captain or Alerio.
That’s enough for me.”
Mercedes shuffled past with a slack-limbed
Turner. “Bring Alerio back alive so I can kill him
myself.”
Finney smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“So,” Wyatt crossed his arms, “what’s the
plan?”
“Get our crew back.”
“No, I mean details.”
“Get ‘em back alive.”
“You sure you and the captain don’t share
genetic material? Siblings separated at birth?”
“Doubt it.” Finney stepped into the airlock.
“My frontal lobe is prettier.”
“What is frontalobe?” Sahir looked at
Wyatt.
“Whatever it is, it’s probably not standard
equipment.”
She held down the button, keeping the
hatch open. “C’mon, guys. We’ve got people
to rescue.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand
# “Hold your fire!” shouted Marty, waving
“Looks like we have ourselves a little
standoff, gents.” Kristoff smiled his best
ah-shucks-why-can’t-we-be-reasonable.
“Whaddya say we—”
Something slammed into his chest, stag-
gering him. The shotgun banged against the
bartop, fell from his loosened grasp, bounced
on the hardwood, and blew a hole in the
ceiling. A fist of pain squeezed the breath from
Kristoff’s lungs. He looked down. Red spread
across his shirt like spilled paint. He sprawled
against the wine rack, struggled to draw air,
slithered to the floor.
A quiet sound, almost a pop. Polly’s eyes
widened. She fell, the surprised look never
leaving her face.
With a howl, William launched himself
across the room. He, too, fell, blood blossom-
ing on his chest.
Alerio—God bless his stupidity—aimed
the little Tattersall’s Special at the angry group
of men who pushed Marty aside and brought
weapons to bear.
His chest crushing as if under the weight of
an invisible elephant, Kristoff scrabbled for the
shotgun. He propped it on his upraised knee,
hooked a shaky finger over one trigger, and
squeezed. Empty chamber. The second trigger
fired the other barrel, and the slug took down
a pirate.
Unfortunately, it was someone in the rear,
not one of the men shooting at Alerio—who,
calm as you please, fired off another round.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
his good hand. “Hold your fire! Somebody grab
the peashooter and sit on that little man. He’s
becomin’ a downright nuisance. But don’t kill
‘im,” he added. “He’s the only brain here that
can help us, unless one of you got the codes
from the pilot.”
“Pilot’s dead.” Finney appeared behind the
men, and with her stood Wyatt and Corrigan.
Wha-Hoo. Bring on the cavalry. Kristoff
tried to cheer, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t
lift his arm.
Startled pirates looked over their shoulders,
and some grinned at the sight of a woman.
Finney stared at them down the barrel of
her gun. “Drop your weapons.”
Of course, they did not.
#
“Captain. Captain.”
The light stabbed. He groaned and lay back
again, closing his eyes.
Finney’s voice, dry as a knife scraping over
toast: “A couple days ago, you’re knocked out
by a skinny kid about two-thirds your size,
and today you’re shot by Polly, rest her soul.
Not exactly making a name for yourself as the
Terror of the Galactic Main.”
“Nice to know you care.”
“It’s a tough job, but—” Her words held a
smile.
“In the future, whenever I feel compelled
Pg. 54
to do a good deed, remind me I’m a pirate.”
“Freighter, sir.”
“Whatever.”
“Did Alerio make it? What about the kid?”
She didn’t answer.
There was the rustle of clothing, a brief
exchange of murmurs, and then the decisive
sound of boots hitting the floor as someone
strode from the room.
“Finn? Finn?” Kristoff struggled to sit up,
but thick bandages and sharp pain pinned him
to the bed.
“Captain, it’s me. Carson.”
It was a deeper voice than he expected.
Well, it had been what? Five, six years?
“Hey, kid.”
“Got those fuel capsules you needed.”
“Thanks.” Kristoff took a few short, shallow
breaths. “Sorry about your pilot.”
“He was a good man.”
“The rest of your crew?”
“Alive.” There was a click and a faint hum.
“Thought you’d like to see this.”
Kristoff squinted open his eyes. A telescreen
floated in front of him, and showed Marty and
crew gagged, hands and feet bound. Kristoff
choked out a laugh.
“Poetic, don’t you think?” The telescreen
Issue 48, November 2008
Thieves’ Honor,
Episode Three: Best-Laid Plans by Keanan Brand Pg. 55

moved, and a young man came into view, a Keanan Brand

wide bandage around his head, and one side
of his face bruised and cut, as if it had been
A sailor who couldn’t (and still can’t) swim,
smashed with a gloved fist or the butt of a gun.
He wore a shoulder holster—Alerio’s—with
Keanan Brand’s father is a veteran of the
the Tattersall’s tucked under his arm. “How are
you feeling?” US Navy during Viet Nam, and his stories
“Like a trading caravan parked on my fueled Keanan’s interest in all things nau-
chest.” tical and military.
Mercedes appeared, her face hovering
upside down. She did not look happy. Keanan can barely swim, has only been
“Hey, Doc,” said Kristoff. canoeing on a small river in Oregon, and
She and Carson Quinn helped him sit
has never been in the military. Oh, well. In
upright, adjusted the bed to keep him at an fiction, one can be anything.
incline and breathing better, and then the
doctor left the room, her shoulders rigid.
Keep up with Keanan on his website at
“What’s eating her?” http://adventuresinfiction.blogspot.com/
“I think the only reason she patched you
up is the fact that Alerio wasn’t hurt. If he had
been, you’d probably still be bleeding all over
my bar.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that, kid.” Then Kristoff
smiled. “Nice ship.”

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 48, November 2008

 Pg. 56
Memory Wipe
Chapter 24, Memory Reborn
by Sean T. M. Stiennon
Part One
Lashiir always found it was wise to keep
one talon ready on Tsiika’s grip when he came
into Tong’s presence. The Count’s face was
nearly always expressionless, his body and
features impossible to read even for a warrior
of Lashiir’s experience. It was as if his bones
were steel, his muscles artificial fiber, his skin
plastic. Lashiir admired that poise. He strove to
cultivate it in himself. But it made Tong difficult
to deal with, placed him in a class far above
such weak beings as Nathan Clane.
Even so, as Tong strode into his cavernous
throne room, Lashiir could discern an unchar-
acteristic vitality in the sweep of his armored
legs and the carriage of his head. Perhaps a
lighter expression floated around the edges of
his thin lips.
“You are satisfied?” Lashiir asked, speaking
through the translation device embedded in
his throat.
“Exceptionally,” Tong replied. “Two is a
masterpiece. He endures my deepest probings
with impressive strength, and I had forgotten
the pure elegance of his design...”
Tong ascended his throne in silence and
perched on it like a vulture. His yellow eyes
hardened as they turned on Lashiir. “You have
something to say to me?”
Inwardly, Lashiir felt a kind of cold joy as he
delivered his news. It was the next best thing
Ray Gun Revival magazine
to driving his claws into Tong’s eye sockets. “I
was visiting the monitoring station inside the
crater. Caulthor’s high-altitude satellite have
detected ships moving several thousands of
kilometers outside your permitted shipping
routes.”
“Smugglers. I’ll send a few ships to...waylay
them.”
Lashiir hissed through the airholes in his
beak. Tong wouldn’t recognize the noise as a
laugh. “A force of more than a dozen capital-
class smugglers? That is a formidable syndicate
indeed.”
Faint anger flickered in Tong’s eyes. “Capi-
tal-class?”
“The correct size for warships.”
Tong’s lips lifted just slightly to reveal
yellowed teeth clenched like a closed gate.
“You’re certain?”
“Your men were certain. I didn’t think to
second guess them.”
Tong stood and descended the steps of his
throne in predatory strides, his cape whirling
around his shoulders. Another aspect of
Tong’s personality that Lashiir admired: he
rarely hesitated to act once his course was
decided. But Lashiir had never seen him this
enraged. Not even when Lashiir had acciden-
tally beheaded one of his better Hands during
a training exercise.
He had known, of course, that it was no
accident. Tsiika could only go so long with her
thirst unquenched.
#
The Rover tongue had seventeen variously
crude words for sexual intercourse, and Esheera
used several of them as a spray of hot white
sparks washed over her shoulder. She knew
from torturous experience that the burn was
superficial, but that didn’t keep it from hurting
like jagged needles driven through her flesh.
She switched off her plasma arc and clutched
her shoulder, gasping for breath and fighting
down the pain, her back pressed against the
cold metal floor of the docking bay.
The pain faded slowly, and Esheera opened
her eyes, assessing the work she had done
thus far. The Vulture’s Prize was suspended
above her, supported by enormous steel jacks,
and she had just finished bolting two small
pulser cannons onto the ship’s belly. It had
taken plenty of sweet-talking—and a little help
from Zartsi—to wheedle them away from the
weapons commissar of the Canghi Blood Falcon
Shinotsubasa. If she managed to hook up a set
of energy cables thicker than her neck without
electrocuting herself, the cannons would join
improved maneuvering jets, a stellar wave-com
system that could process hundreds of signals
at a time, and redundant life support among
the improvements she had been able to pillage
from the ship’s stores. Borrowed military-issue
Issue 48, November 2008
Deuces Wild, Season Two, Chapter 6: Suicide Run, by L. S. King
repair gear and, occasionally, workers sent at
Zartsi’s request had expedited the process, but
Esheera had gone largely without sleep during
the voyage. She felt uncomfortably light-head-
ed and had trouble remembering how many
days had passed since their departure from
Sirena.
But she had no duties aboard the ship, and
spending every possible moment busting her
ass on the ship kept her from thinking. Thinking
about Takeda, about the battle ahead, about
whether she would be incinerated and her
ashes frozen in vacuum.
She made a few finishing touches that
would keep the welds from breaking under
combat acceleration, then put the welder aside
and pulled on elbow length rubber gloves. She
had already installed the cables with the help
of two muscular but sadly idiotic marines.
Now all that remained was to wrestle them
into position and send through a test surge of
energy from the ship’s central generator.
Esheera had just gotten her arms around
one when Zartsi’s voice came softly from
directly behind her. “You want help, Rover?”
She tilted her head back over one shoulder
to look at him. Esheera could still barely
recognize the Lithrallian in this new incarna-
tion. A shining cloak woven with shards of
red glass engulfed his shoulders, which also
supported a breastplate of strome iodized to
a deep bronze color. Braided gold made up his
belt and a red tunic hung to his knees. At least
his head was uncovered and still recognizable
as belonging to the Zartsi she had come to
know. He had refused the gold-and-ruby circlet
normally worn by the Prince-Heir.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
“How did you escape your bodyguards with
all that weighing you down?” Esheera asked,
smiling.
Zartsi winced. “With difficulty. They should
listen to order—any order—I give, but are
reluctant when order is dismissal. They also do
not trust Rover.”
“Wouldn’t expect them to,” she grunted,
turning back to the Prize. “Most of my people
in Kingdom space operate as pirates or drug
runners.”
Suddenly Zartsi crouched at her side, his
wiry arms helping support the cable’s dull
weight. Together they heaved it up. Zartsi
crouched beneath it, holding it up with both
arms, while Esheera dragged each connector
into place and bolted it onto the cannons’
shared power cell. Zartsi relaxed, letting the
cable sag. Smears of black grease came off
onto his cloak and breastplate.
“I don’t mind leaving it exposed,” Esheera
said, patting it. “Makes the ship look...
ferocious.”
Zartsi nodded, pointed teeth showing in
a smile.. “As if something could break off and
electrocute bystander.”
She cuffed him on one arm—practically
the only exposed portion of his body within
her reach. “You build a functional ship from
scratch someday and we’ll see how long she
stays aloft.”
He laughed softly. “I concede. Is ship
complete?”
“Well...yes, unless you count the thousand
Pg. 57
things I’d add, replace, or tune up with another
six months to work in.”
“Good. Commander Sergi tells me we will
enter Caulthor system within two hours.”
Esheera shut her eyes and sucked in a deep
breath of the docking bay’s cool, metallic-tast-
ing air. “Almost zero-hour, then.”
Zartsi glanced back up at the Prize. “I
could arrange for you to pilot better ship,” he
hissed.
Esheera snorted. “No Imperial Swallow can
replace a Rover ship. I built this hulk. I’ll die in
it if I have to.”
“There may not be so much fighting.
Vodrune Province lacks shipyards, and
Commander Sergi tells me only patrol craft
have been purchased in last decade.”
Esheera smiled coldly. “Zartsi, how did you
get to be a prince without knowing about the
black market?”
“I know,” he said. “There is drug trade in
Kingdom.”
“In the Empire, too. The Blacksnouts have
their noses deep into it. There’s also a healthy
business in illegal warships for pirates, gangs,
outlaws, or Imperial authorities who want to
have some extra punch without the trouble of
getting official approval.”
“Large ships?”
“Well...Jaggo once described a Suto deal
involving a twenty year-old Green Scarab with
ninety-six pulser batteries and docking space
for twenty attack craft.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Deuces Wild, Season Two, Chapter 6: Suicide Run, by L. S. King
“Who purchased it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember the
details. A front organization for someone
larger.”
“This makes me wonder...I have heard
reports of pirates in Caulthor system. No
man has ever claimed to capture except Tong
himself. Perhaps pirates receive orders from
him.”
Esheera’s response was cut off as one of the
pedestrian doors on the shipward side of the
docking bay hissed open, and six armored Lith-
rallians came charging through the opening,
weapons pressed against their chests. One
Imperial ensign in a neatly laundered, white
uniform trailed behind them, jogging to match
their stride.
One of the Lithrallian guards bowed low,
his tail sketching out its own set of movements
in the air behind him. He hissed out something
in Lithrallic which Esheera couldn’t tell from an
obscene joke. Zartsi nodded, somewhat sadly,
and responded with a few words.
Then the human stepped up. His mouth
opened, and he got through a handful of
syllables in broken Lithrallic before Zartsi turned
to him and said, “I speak fluent Imperish.”
The ensign’s cheeks flushed a light red.
Esheera gave him what she hoped was an
encouraging smile, but her presence seemed to
make the young man even more flustered. He
abruptly snapped into formal posture, snapped
off an Imperial salute, and launched into what
was obviously a carefully prepared statement:
“Your Highness, Count Xhang politely requests
that you meet him at the bridge at your earliest
Ray Gun Revival magazine
convenience for a council of war, to finalize
plans for entry of the Caulthor system.”
“At ease,” Zartsi hissed, not quite managing
to hide his annoyance. “Tell Admiral that I will
come.”
The ensign hurled his whole body into a
bow that came alarmingly close to smashing
his nose on the polished floor. He straightened,
glanced nervously at the armored Lithrallian
warriors now clustered around Zartsi, and
hurriedly jogged out of the room.
Esheera pulled her braids back with one
hand, checking that they were firmly hooked
behind her ears. She turned back to her ship,
scooping up a wrench and a small welding iron
from the floor.
“Aren’t you coming, Rover?” Zartsi asked.
She shrugged. “I’d just wrinkle noses and
give the cleaning staff more work. I should
probably sleep for a few minutes, too.”
“Invited as my guest? I would give honorary
rank.”
“You’re a prince, aren’t you? Most princes
wouldn’t be seen hanging around my kind.”
From their expressions and wary postures,
Esheera suspected that his bodyguards felt the
same way. They gripped their weapons with
just a bit more purpose whenever she came
within thirty feet of Zartsi.
Zartsi raked one hand through the air in
front of him, as if clawing away any objections.
“You are friend. That is enough.”
She smiled. The expression felt more
Pg. 58
genuine than it had for weeks. “Actually, I need
to talk to Winnowski, my flight commander.
Ask her where in the wing she wants me to fly
the Prize. So I’ll have to pass, with thanks.”
Zartsi smiled back. “Very well, friend.”
He bowed quickly, then turned and strode
towards the exit without giving his guards
time to react. They jogged to catch up before
enfolding him once again in a shell of blades and
rifles. Zartsi would spend the battle aboard one
of the Lithrallian Burning Light frigates—the
Ressiset, Esheera thought. She realized, as she
watched the doors close over his armored and
bedecked figure, that it might be the last time
she saw him alive. Bridge crews were hardly
immune to the storm of hyper-accelerated
energy, torpedoes, and white-hot shrapnel
that constituted a vacuum engagement.
And fighter pilots...they tended to die like
gnats in an oven.
Esheera spent perhaps a half-hour going
over her work, checking every bolt, screw, and
weld seam for combat-readiness. Then she set
off for Winnowski’s office. If she did die in the
battle to come, she could think of several things
to console her: she would see Jaggo beyond
the kind stars, her death would be quick—even
vacuum suffocation didn’t tend to drag on,
and she would die knowing that she had been
friend to two remarkable beings: a murderer
and a weapon, a prince and a security guard.
#
Esheera had taken some time to study the
Caulthor system from the handful of observa-
tion holos available. Four planets traced out
Issue 48, November 2008
Deuces Wild, Season Two, Chapter 6: Suicide Run, by L. S. King
orbits around the white sun that formed the
burning heart of the Vodrune province. The
first and farthest out, Brintris, was dark rock
with thick scars of gray ice, laying claim to three
misshapen moons of nearly identical topogra-
phy. Beyond that came a gas giant, cinnabar
with crimson streaks like open wounds, and
millions of kilometers further on a nondescript
orb of dusty yellow clouds with its own collec-
tion of rocky moons.
Caulthor was the fourth and last, its
surface endlessly scorched by the furious
light of the Vodrune sun. Esheera had seen a
dozen temperate worlds from orbit, all similar
in their luxuriant blues, vivacious greens, and
pale browns overshadowed by ivory clouds.
Caulthor was like a reverse image of such
planets. Its surface was burnt orange and rust
red, its clouds ranged in color from black to
ash-gray to sulfurous yellow, its poles were
tinged with sinister streaks of pale red and
cinnabar. Its single moon looked as if it some
beast had chewed it up and spit it out.
Esheera could see none of that from
behind the Prize’s canopy. The stark, gray
steel bulkheads of a cavernous docking bay
obscured the stars from her view as she waited
in an empty launch stall for flight orders to
filter down from the bridge. She sat with her
back pressed against the torn leather cradle
seat she had scavenged from the Suto, her feet
hovering over dozens of maneuvering pedals,
her hands spread over banks of thrust, navi-
gation, gravity compensation, and weapons
controls. More levers, buttons, switches, and
simple displays hung like stalactites above her
head and clustered in her peripheral vision.
Their placement was chaotic, and some of
them weren’t actually connected to anything.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Her feed from the Shinotsubasa’s exterior
sensors, displayed on three screens and one
slightly broken hologram projector, told her
that the fleet had passed the third planet and
were driving towards Caulthor, slowly decel-
erating to orbital speeds as they did. Picket
ships on the outskirts of the system had simply
refused to answer hails and had fled after
dispatching messages towards Caulthor. No
fighter squadrons had yet been scrambled.
Esheera’s legs were starting to ache—this seat
was designed for a Vitai slightly smaller than
she was, perhaps even a youth.
“I’m sick of this waiting. I need to piss,” one
of her squadmates said through the comm.
The speaker hovered right by Esheera’s ear,
and she dialed down the volume.
“Piss in your suit. Or aren’t you hooked
up?” Captain Winnowski’s voice came back.
“This is the easy part. Say your prayers while
you can.”
The Vitai worshiped no gods. Esheera
believed only in astral forces, energies greater
than any mortal life that were present in the
nuclear hearts of stars, the endless reaches of
blackness between those pinpoints of light and
life, the nearly-infinite oceans of emptiness
between galaxies. Life would not be possible
without worlds. Worlds would be nothing more
than boulders of rock and ice without the heat
of stars. The stars would be impossible without
the void.
At the same time, Esheera believed firmly
that souls were immortal, that some peace
among the stars awaited those with good
hearts. She would see Jaggo again, in whatever
dimension lay beyond her current life. She
Pg. 59
whispered to him, wondering if he could hear
her. Let me fly like no other, my love.
Esheera thought of Jaggo and waited for
the launch order to come.
#
A burst of static exploded from the speakers
on the command nexus of the Burning Light
frigate Ressiset, chasing any thoughts of
prayer away from Zartsi’s mind. He stood up
from where he had been slouched against the
bulkhead and returned his attention to his ship.
Kingdom astrogators in black uniforms clustered
around diagnostic displays, sensor readouts,
communication banks, thrust controls, and
a dozen other functions Zartsi could barely
grasp. Projection screens on the curved walls,
the domed ceiling, and a recessed pit in the
floor showed the gleaming stars, black space,
and other ships surrounding the Ressiset.
Lithrallian designers were rarely content
with the stark bulkheads and monochrome
carpets of Imperial ships. Molded statues
enameled in bronze and even gold reared
between piloting and sensor stations: mountain
turtles, firesnakes, deepfins, and other beasts
both real and mythical. The floor was paneled
in rough wood inlaid with streaks of thinly-
beaten gold in complex geometric patterns.
The static in Zartsi’s subsided for a moment,
then burst out even louder. “What is that?”
Zartsi said, loud enough for his voice to carry.
One of the comm officers turned towards
him, bowed, and said, “A massive signal is being
projected from Caulthor. It’s strong enough to
override our normal communications.”
Issue 48, November 2008
Deuces Wild, Season Two, Chapter 6: Suicide Run, by L. S. King
Zartsi had little experience with the finer
points of stellar-range communication, but at
this distance from Caulthor...the signal would
have to be immensely powerful to force itself
onto military networks.
The bridge’s holoprojector flickered
suddenly, and the previous image vanished
to be replaced by a human figure built of pale
green laserlight. Zartsi had never seen the man
before. He was lean, like a man left in the desert
to starve, the sharp planes of his face easily
visible beneath dry skin. Hands like talons hung
ready at his sides, and he was armored, with a
sweeping cloak that nearly reached the floor.
The hologram, although imprecise, conveyed
the cold hardness of his eyes.
A sharp voice split through the static. “I am
Jezai Tong.”
Zartsi snarled, one hand going to his
sword, and stepped out to stand in front of the
towering figure. He bared his fangs. “Can you
open a response channel?”
“I can try, my prince,” the tech said. “But
the primary link is with Shinotsubasa, not with
us.”
Tong’s image spoke again. “Canghi ships,”
he growled, “explain why you’ve violated the
borders of the Vodrune province.”
“Shinotsubasa is broadcasting response to
all ships,” Zartsi’s tech said.
Zartsi nodded as the fleet commander,
Count Xhang, answered Tong’s question: “We
carry the Emperor’s Dragon Lance, authoriz-
ing us to depose you as ruler of the Vodrune
province. Surrender yourself and his Imperial
Highness may show you lenience.”
Tong’s image smiled thinly. “And the reasons
Ray Gun Revival magazine
for this are?”
“Stockpiling arms for use against the
Imperial Throne. Illegal bio-engineering. Failure
to admit Imperial agents for inspection of your
holdings. Treason. Attempted assassination of
an Imperial ally, the Lithrallian Prince-Heir.”
“Since when is Shingen a scale-kisser?”
Zartsi growled just as his tech called out that
he had established a communication channel.
“Tong!” Zartsi hissed, in his best Imperish.
“This is Zartsi Hsik Hsonra, oldest living son of
Serpent King.”
Tong’s head shifted slightly, and Zartsi
felt as if the hologram’s attention had shifted
to him. “Lithrallian,” he said. “Dare I ask why
you’ve joined this traveling carnival?”
“To avenge friend.”
“I see.”
Tong’s attention shifted again. He must
have the two of them on different screens.
“Count Xhang, I won’t waste your time with
civilities. I will say this only once. Break that
lance over your knee and get out of my space,
or die.”
His image vanished as quickly as it had
come. “Normal communications restored,”
Zartsi’s tech said.
Zartsi turned away to find his bridge
commander apparently staring at him with
thinly veiled anger. “With all respect, my prince,
you should not have announced yourself.”
“Because Tong will now target Ressiset?”
“Yes.”
Zartsi smiled. “You think that was not my
Pg. 60
intention?”
The bridge commander studied his face for
a moment, as if search for a cue on how Zartsi
expected him to react. “Was it, my prince?”
“I do not fear Tong or his warriors. Let
them shake, for the warriors of the Ascended
Kingdom are here to challenge them!”
His voice rose into a booming roar the
resounded from the curved screens sur-
rounding the bridge. Warriors and crewmen
answered back with shouts of “Glory to the
Serpent King!”
It had been many, many years since Zartsi
had last acted as Prince-Heir. It had only begun
to feel particularly odd when his normal
company of Esheera had been supplemented
by Chaqi and a company of bodyguards. Now
he had been thrust into a position of command
greater than anything from his youth: three of
the best warships his father owned and nearly
three thousand trained crew, marines, and
pilots, all with their lives depending on him.
The ships had their own commanders.
Count Xhang commanded the fleet as a whole.
But Zartsi would bear the guilt if any of his
people died in this battle.
Zartsi molded his expression carefully. The
bridge crew’s eyes were on him. They knew
what he had done, and many were inwardly
suspicious of his leadership and nobility.
For their sake he must appear as the perfect
warrior, like the great champions of the Sun
Saga. Chaqi had taken to drawing him aside for
a half-hour or more to polish his armor and put
every scrap of cloth in some ideal place.
To create an image was one thing. To fulfill its
promise was another. If he did...then, perhaps,
his atonement would finally be made.
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
# and best-conditioned—stepped out of the
Tong stepped out of the projection ring with
a soft hiss. Lashiir watched from the shadows.
“The response you were expecting?”
“Yes, roughly. But the Lithrallian...that is
unforeseen. A friend, he said. He may mean
Two.”
“Will you kill him?”
Tong shook his head, making his braid sway
back and forth. “No. I will not allow Canghi to
dictate my actions. My war begins now.”
Lashiir hissed through the air vents on his
beak. “You think you can bring down the entire
Empire?”
“I have many Hands in place. Too many for
Shingen to find half of them. Three of them are
employed in his baths. When I give the order,
Shingen and half his Lords will die. I will walk
over their graves. But first...there is a fleet to
destroy.”
Lashiir inclined his head slightly. “What
place do I take in this battle?”
“Your ship is of Dark Sphere manufac-
ture?”
“Despair is the best our shipwrights can
craft.”
“Then take it and fly freely. I’ll have a trans-
mitter attached that will prevent our weapons
from targeting you.”
“My thanks.”
Six Hands—all among his most powerful
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shadows as Tong turned to leave the projec-
tion room. Lashiir spoke as he was on the
threshold. “One question. What ship carries
the Lithrallian?”
Tong tilted his head towards the Hand
serving as comm-tech. “One of the Burning
Light frigates,” the man said. “Currently the
one to galactic east of the fleet group.”
Lashiir left the room in Tong’s wake, then
began to make his way through dark corridors
to the docking bay where Despair waited. It
would be pure joy to commune with the black
ship once again, and to kill together.
#
Somewhere, alone in the dark, Takeda
Croster knew only three sensations: the icy-
coldness of steel pressing against his naked
flesh, the metal bands screwed tight around
his arms, legs, and neck, and the infinite pain
that flowed through him like his own blood.
His mind floated in and out of consciousness,
moving between darkness and dark dreams.
He bled, but Tong was too cruel to let him
die. A tube pumped fresh blood into him to
replace that he had lost. Wounds like windows
on his organs were stitched and molded shut
until the next operation. Takeda had lost his
ability to distinguish one session from the next,
to measure the endless stretches of silence,
darkness, and agony between.
Still, it seemed as if a longer than normal
span of time had passed since Tong had last
come with his blades and needles and monitors.
Could he be distracted? For a moment, Takeda
Pg. 61
hoped that Tong would leave him to starve
or shrivel from dehydration. Then, at last, he
could die.
Sherri. Liun. Were they still alive, or had
a century passed and ground them to dust?
Either way, Tong still had them. Tong, the
torturer, the devil. Takeda flexed his muscles
within their straps. The pain intensified, but
not much—Takeda felt that he had truly began
to plumb the depths of suffering.
He threw his unwilling body against the
restraints and realized he was wrong. The pain
before had been darkness, and now light burst
into his mind, a searing light of white excrucia-
tion. He screamed silently—the pain stole his
breath. He slumped down and wavered on the
edge of unconsciousness.
This pain would never end.
#
The hologram projector in the center of
the Ressiset’s bridge showed space for several
thousand kilometers around the Canghi fleet.
Zartsi’s three frigates were marked in bright
yellow, the Imperial ships in green. The second
planet was an orb of brown light several
thousand passing off to Galactic East.
One of the front screens showed their des-
tination, still millions of kilometers ahead: the
smoldering, sun-baked world of Caulthor, its
night-side turned towards them. The location
of Tong’s headquarters was known. Count
Xhang’s plan called for all orbital defenses
and space craft to be destroyed. Then landers
carrying brigades of highly-trained Imperial
marines would land at key locations across the
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
planet, most notably Tong’s fortress near the
south pole, and would seize those locations
with the aid of orbital bombardment and air
support from fighter wings.
“It is strange, my prince,” his bridge
commander hissed. Commander Nalza was an
old warrior—older than Zartsi’s father—who
had seen a dozen battles. The scales on the
right side of his face were torn and uneven
because of a shrapnel wound he had taken
during a boarding action against a Drava ship.
“That Tong has flown no ships?”
Nalza nodded. “It would be customary to
deploy light bombers as soon as he picked us
up, to inflict damage before we’ve scrambled
fighters. But we have seen none of his ships.
Perhaps he has none...but I think not.”
Imperial records stated that Tong possessed
no more than a pair of light cruisers and
several wings of patrolcraft—enough to stave
off pirates, but not to wage war. But Zartsi’s
conversation with Esheera stuck in his mind.
How many ships could a rich man comb out of
the black market?
“My prince,” a sensor tech called, “our
sensors register engine signals from the third
planet. The gas giant.”
Zartsi turned. Activity at last. “How far?”
“Signals take time to reach us. I estimate...
ships launched fifteen minutes ago. Will arrive
within half-hour.”
Zartsi tilted his head towards Nalza “Light
bombers?”
“Perhaps, my prince. But it seems strange
Ray Gun Revival magazine
to give us so much warning. Maybe...”
The tech broke him off again. “Massive
energy register from Caulthor. Launches all
across planet...sub-station! Calculate ship
size.”
Nalza bounded over, craning his neck to
study the sensor readouts. Zartsi watched as
crimson pinpoints of light flared into existence
within the central holofield, entering the map
from both Galactic north and south, like a flight
of burning arrows aimed at the Canghi fleet.
The bridge exploded into life around him.
Holographic displays sprang up, technicians
called requests back and forth, comm banks
crackled with intership communications. The
bridge commander stepped in front of him
and bowed. “My prince, permission to deploy
fighter claws?”
“Given.”
While the commander issued the necessary
orders, Zartsi returned his attention to the
holofield. The red dots multiplied, and tags
sprang up next to some, marking them as ships
of destroyer-class or larger. Those marked as
fighters were shrunk to pinpricks while larger
ships were expanded in size. Zartsi saw two
marked as full battlecruisers, with small entou-
rages of cruisers and destroyers, all in the group
advancing from Caulthor. As the commander
had guessed, the ones coming from behind
were smaller, mostly fighters with a couple
larger picket craft, spreading out to circle the
Canghi fleet.
It was too simple, too orthodox for a man
who had concealed so much for so long. For
a man who had devised the idea of turning
Pg. 62
men into living arsenals. Zartsi’s eyes moved
to the second planet of the system, a small
world wreathed in thick clouds that repelled
light and radio waves. Would they also conceal
the energy readings of a ship clearing atmo-
sphere?
“Scan the second world!” Zartsi roared.
His voice was loud enough to break through
the chaotic mess of noise that had begun to
overtake the bridge. Nalza’s head snapped up
and turned towards the holofield. He thought
for a moment. Then his eyes widened with
realization. “You’ve heard your prince. Turn
all active sensors towards that planet. Tag any
marks.”
Long seconds passed in tension as the techs
waited for sensors pings to bounce back. Other
techs continued to update information on the
forces approaching behind and ahead of the
invading fleet. Two more cruisers were identi-
fied among the ships coming from Caulthor,
and three of the ships from the outer planet
were revealed as light destroyers.
Zartsi could see the second planet as
a small orb of dusky yellow on the display
screens wrapped around the bridge’s curved
bulkhead. Already he hated the distances of
space combat, that made seeing an enemy
with one’s own eyes nearly impossible until he
was close enough to strike with a well-thrown
wrench. Zartsi liked to see the eyes of his
opponent—whether they be the yellow orbs
of a Belari skitter or the white-and-brown of
most humans.
Or the inscrutable black of a Clordite.
Flecks of pale red flared up within the
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
holofield. “Missiles,” a tech barked. “Hundreds
of missiles.”
The words were like a flare tossed into a
razorgnat hive. Techs shouted and hissed back
and forth while the bridge commander and his
aids ran from screen to screen, gathering infor-
mation and issuing hasty orders. The crimson
lights marking enemy craft crept closer.
Zartsi stepped up to the launch officer and
gripped his shoulder. “How many fighters are
deployed?”
“Six claws, my prince.”
Each claw contained three assault craft,
piloted by Lithrallians who had trained and
lived together since their maturity. The frigate
carried twelve such groups—low compared
with the fighter counts of Imperial ships, but
not insignificant.
“Commander!” Zartsi called. “What word
from Count Xhang?”
The older warrior looked up, his scarred
face harried. “We’ve just transmitted those
missile tags. He asks us to deploy our fighters
towards Caulthor and let Imperials handle the
missiles.”
Zartsi caught the displeasure in his tone.
“You don’t like this?”
“I don’t like being ordered into red space
by a human.”
Zartsi met his gaze levelly. “I do not like
fighting for Empire. But this is an evil which
would touch the Kingdom eventually if allowed
to spread. I have offered them our blood, and
we will pay if we must.”
Ray Gun Revival magazine
The commander smiled tightly. “I would
not be a solider if I did only things I liked, my
prince.” He ducked his head in an abbreviated
bow. “You wish to give the order?”
Zartsi nodded back—a gesture of respect
between two warriors, both confident in their
strength. “Launch officer, order all fighter claws
to the front.”
“Yes, my prince.”
A moment later, Zartsi heard his bridge
commander speaking to weapons crews
scattered throughout the frigate, ordering
them to arm pulser batteries, torpedo tubes,
and kinetic railguns the Lithrallians called
sokshimat. Burning Light ships took the shape
of Lithrallian dagger-rays: long, broad, and flat
on its vertical axis. Weapon batteries were
concentrated along its edges while docking
bays opened above and below. They were
among the most powerful ships available to
the Kingdom, nearly matching Imperial battle-
ships in firepower and troop capacity. Zartsi
commanded three.
He seated himself, gripping the gold-plated
dragon heads that formed grips on his chair’s
arms. He was trained in sword, the twin daggers,
bare claws and teeth, rifle, pistol, flamecaster,
palm blades, and a dozen other weapons. He
had hunted beasts from horned rushmesti to
Belar skitters to dust worms and Walking Evils,
all with success.
He prayed that he wouldn’t fail his warriors
in this new command.
# vessels showed similar polish: painted, illumi-
Pg. 63
Seven Imperial Swallow-class strike fighters
and one cobbled together Rover craft formed
a slanted Y shape in space: Commander
Winnowski in the center, with two ships
forming arms above and below. Esheera posi-
tioned the Vulture’s Prize between the two
prongs of the Y. She could see four wingmates
above her, Winnowski and the two others just
visible below through the lower edge of her
canopy. Imperial Swallows were sleek craft,
their hulls painted dark blue, with smooth,
sweeping wings on both sides and elegantly
rounded cockpits.
Esheera had succeeded in installing only
a single holofield that flickered slightly as she
watched it. Still, it gave her the basic layout of
the Canghi fleet...with red gnats beginning to
enter the view on two sides. Other information
was splashed across over a dozen screens of
varying size, resolution, and states of repair.
A jungle of thrust levels, switches, and other
controls—many improvised from scraps of
metal and plastic—was laid out under both her
hands and her feet.
The Caulthor system’s white sun was a tiny
orb of light in her canopy. The planet itself was
hidden among the surrounding stars. Other
ships from the allied fleet surrounded her: wing
after wing of Swallow craft, jagged Lithrallian
rasshi and zakneen bombers in claws of three.
The Shinotsubasa lay just behind, its curved
bulkheads painted with feathered dragons in
the red and silver of Canghi province, as well
as the ship’s name in the angular pictograms
of Gold Chinese, all illuminated by glow stripes
criss-crossing the ship’s hull. The fleet’s other
nated, studded with weapons in orderly rows
and clusters. They made the Prize look like a
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
vulture among falcons.
Esheera nudged her controls slightly, firing
jets to bring her more in alignment with the
other ships. Commander Winnowski’s voice
came in from the comm, “Caulthori ships are
sending out swarms. I know you’ll all enjoy
being outnumbered, but stay sharp and
watch your wings. Esh, you know what you’re
doing?”
“Stay with you and Three, blast tagged
enemy ships, and try not to die,” Esheera said
back, smiling despite herself.
“Right. Our job is to keep bombers and their
escorts away from the hulks. Don’t worry about
runs on the enemy hulks unless we somehow
manage to nail every strike fighter out of the
black. Not likely.”
Esheera flipped a series of switches to
route power to the pulsers freshly wired and
bolted onto Prize’s belly. She prayed she hadn’t
botched the connections—the tangle of cables,
air and waste pipes, heating coils, and coolant
valves had become such a labyrinth that the Nii
clan’s Elder Metalwinder would have trouble
navigating it.
She gripped the fire controls with her left
hand. Her right was on a pair of levers tied to
thrusts on her wings that controlled lateral
movement—turns, pitches, and rolls. Other
thrust levers beneath her feet affected vertical
movement and axis orientation. A few other
thrusters came into play for more complex
maneuvers.
Commander Winnowski barked a maneu-
vering order, and Esheera had a moment to
respond as the entire wing lurched upwards,
Ray Gun Revival magazine
filling a gap in the wall of fighters filling space
ahead of the capital ships. Her eyes caught a
gleam of reflected light from a strome hull: a
fleck of light, dimmer than a star, that marked
the position of a warship.
Minutes passed and other flecks flashed
up against the blackness of space. Esheera had
a peep line patched into the Shinotsubasa’s
sensors, and she pulled up information on the
motley cluster of screens around her head.
One cruiser looked as if it had been assembled
from five or six smaller ships, all with clashing
designs. Another looked as if it had begun life
as an ore hauler before having banks of tight-
maneuvering engines and pulser cannons
welded onto its hull. A third seemed to be a
retrofitted construction ship, with grasping
and welding arms still attached.
The rest seemed similar. Small patrolcraft
built by private contractors for security and
police work flew escort for angular hulks of raw
steel with weapons and engines grafted on wil-
ly-nilly. Only two or three light cruisers looked
as if they had come from any legal shipyard.
Whatever engines Tong had welded onto those
hulks, though, they were powerful enough to
match the speed of Canghi warships.
A little closer, and fresh data poured into
Esheera’s computer from Shinotsubasa. The
vacuum ahead of the enemy fleet swarmed with
a vanguard of fighters. Hundreds of them, as
many as a thousand, scattered like steel petals
in a hot breeze. Esheera’s data was limited, but
they didn’t seem to be flying in any regimented
squadrons. Tong had probably filled space with
as many half-functional ships and green pilots
as he could scrounge up.
Pg. 64
Esheera’s finger tensed on her pulser
trigger and her toes curled as she held them
poised above the thruster controls.
Commander Winnowski’s voice growl over
the comm. “Flight Three-Seven, slash, wheel,
and hamstring, polar axis slant thirty east.”
Esheera had a handful of moments to
interpret that from hazy memories of the
jargon briefing Winnowski had given her. Then
the enemy fighters were no longer pixels on a
display. They were flecks of metal and engine
flare in her canopy, approaching at attack
speeds. Esheera flicked a thruster lever with
one toe and edged away just as red pulser fire
slashed through her squadron. She corrected
almost instantly, bringing the Prize back into
place.
Winnowski’s voice was a snarl in her ear.
“Acquire targets and fire.”
Esheera activated the box she had installed
to pass for a proper targeting computer. It
patched into her peep data from the Shinot-
subasa to acquire hostile tags, then used the
Prize’s sensors to transmit aiming orders to
the actual cannon. It was a slapdash job, and
she would have almost no chance of hitting
anything at ranges beyond one kilometer or
so.
She jerked one hand up to pull a targeting
screen close to her left eye. The computer had
acquired a ship that looked as if it had been
built from old truck parts. Her thumb pressed
the trigger down.
Only one of her twin cannons fired. She
was surprised it worked even that well. Bolts of
red pulser energy slashed the blackness, faster
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
than her eyes could track. At nearly the same
instant other lances of crimson light exploded
from the squadron around her, blasting towards
targets that were still many kilometers away.
The gap closed rapidly.
Slash. Commander Winnowski barked the
order. Esheera activated her thrusters with a
sharp kick and managed to stay with her squad-
mates as they yawed left, joining a dozen other
squadrons in angling to rake along the front of
the enemy fighter advance. Crimson energy
traced lines of fire across Esheera’s vision.
A pair of enemy ships blossomed in silent
bursts of white fire and red metal as lances
of pulser energy ripped through their engine
blocks. Esheera’s thumb pressed down on
her trigger as her computer acquired a fresh
target. Her pulser fire blended with that from
her squadmates.
As the Caulthori ships advanced in a
sweeping wall across space, nearly two hundred
Canghi and Lithrallian fighters formed into
a blade to cut across their front. Pulsers and
Lithrallian railguns hammered at the fighters’
broadsides. Engine exhaust flares, pulser
light, sunlight gleaming on polished metal,
and eruptions of flame from destroyed ships
combined in a silent orchestra of light. For a
moment Esheera almost forgot that this was a
battle, that men and women were dying.
Then a burst of white fire flared up in her
peripheral vision, perhaps fifty meters away,
and she had an instant to kick her thrusters
and propel herself out of the way as one of her
squadmates exploded, sending accelerated
shrapnel into space all around. Somewhere
behind her the Prize’s hull rang and screamed
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as bits of metal and fuselage raked across it.
The white light blinded her for a heartbeat.
“Re-form and wheel!” Winnowski barked.
Esheera glanced at her hologram as she
worked thrusters with her feet, turning the Prize
around and beginning to arc it back towards
the Canghi fleet. They had passed through the
bulk of the Caulthori vanguard—a maneuver
that exposed them to the capital ships behind.
The Canghi capital ships were distant
shapes of color-striped strome in her vision.
The Caulthori ones behind were only slightly
larger. Esheera’s entire canopy flashed crimson
as alarm light switched on near her head,
indicating that the Prize’s entire hull had just
gone red hot. She had just lost a wingmate to a
cruiser’s primary cannon. She yawed down and
began to accelerate in pursuit of the enemy
fighters.
“Rover, get your ass back here! Winnowski
barked. Esheera glanced at her screens and
realized she was over a kilometer away from
her four surviving wingmates. She also realized,
as she kicked a thruster control to correct, that
her entire body was shaking and her chest was
throbbing.
She should never have agreed to fight with
a squadron. Squadron combat relied on fighting
in unison for mutual protection in a melee.
Rover fighting relied on chaos, unpredictability,
confusing an enemy’s computers while slowly
jinking into a position to smoke them—what
her people called the “Whip Dance.” It was
how she had avoided Lashiir’s X-ray lasers in
orbit above Nihil.
She would break off if she had to. For now,
Pg. 65
though, she continued flying in formation,
hands and feet poised over dozens of distinct
controls, eyes flicking between the canopy and
her many displays. Torpedoes weren’t effective
against fighters—they couldn’t match a small
ship’s capacity for complex maneuvers—but
the Caulthori ships continued to fire long-
range pulser blasts, hoping to pick off a few
Canghi fighters. Winnowski led her squadron
in quick, awkward loops and occasional sharp
jerks to throw off their computers. Esheera
broke formation just slightly to wheel around
the other four remaining ships. She pitched
and rolled, focusing on her displays rather than
the stars and planets and pulser bursts filling
her canopy with light.
The first wave of fighters struck the Canghi
fleet. Others came from the opposite side,
catching the fleet between two swarms. Small,
easily aimed pulser batteries lashed out at
the buzzing ships, which began to hammer
three-foot thick strome bulkheads with short-
range bombs. Several Imperial fighter wings
had stayed back for defense, including at least
three flights of Lithrallian claw-ships, and they
engaged the swarms of Caulthori fighters at
seven-to-one odds. Explosions spattered the
blackness like newly formed stars.
Then a long chain of small explosions
seemed to spring up in the center of the
Canghi fleet, as if a hundred fighters had burst
in unison.
Commander Winnowski began to give
an order. Static interrupted her after three
syllables. Esheera detached one hand to fiddle
with the settings. The static got worse, then
her comm system went suddenly silent.
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
At the same moment more than half her
screens went black—every display that used
peek information from Canghi sensors. For a
moment she froze, stunned. Then her eyes went
to her diagnostics. None of her comm systems
had been damaged. Granted, her diagnostic
system was crude and hastily thrown together,
with wiring improvised in under four hours,
but this time she thought she could trust it.
She tried hailing her squadron, the Shi-
notsubasa, Zartsi’s flagship Ressiset. Nothing.
The signal seemed to die as soon as it left
her broadcaster. Nothing was reaching, her
either—no data except what her own sensors
could trawl.
Esheera had never seen jamming on this
scale. Whatever Tong had deployed, it didn’t
just interfere with communications and data
exchanges—it severed them entirely.
As the two fleets came together like storm
fronts clashing, a cold knot in Esheera’s gut
told her that Tong had seized the advantage.
# are on full alert, manning planetary defenses.
Takeda screamed as he awoke. The pain
was too much, as if his bones had been heated
like coals, as if the muscles beneath his skin
were tearing apart strand by strand. His voice
echoed in the darkness, reflecting back to his
ears from unseen walls. He screamed until
his voice went raw, and he lay sobbing in the
darkness.
Then he felt a cool touch on his shoulder—
so unlike the heat and agony that, for a moment,
he thought he was hallucinating. A soft voice
fell on his ears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and
Ray Gun Revival magazine
it was the most beautiful sound he had ever
heard.
Hair rustled in the darkness, and Takeda felt
her bending over him, her breath on his face.
He cringed. Would she vanish? Would she blow
away like sand in the wind? Soft lips pressed
against his forehead, bringing a fresh stab of
pain from the healing incision there.
“Don’t...leave,” he croaked, his throat raw
from screams and dry air.
She didn’t seem to have understood. She
didn’t speak. Her hands touched his shoulders,
chest, belly, feeling the wounds and carefully
closed incisions marring his flesh. Pain followed
her touch, but also an odd comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and her hands
came up to touch his face, his lips, his eyes.
“How?”
A long moment passed before she
responded. “Caulthor is under attack. My
father is distracted by the battle, and the Hands
There was only one guard on my room.”
Her hands remained on his cheeks, their
cool touch seeming to radiate through his
bones. “I’ve learned to move silently. I was
able to smash a bottle over his head. Then I
cut his throat with the shards.”
Liun’s hands moved a way. For the space
of a heartbeat, he feared nothing more than
that she might leave him alone again. He felt
her hands on the bands of strome pinning his
arms. One came free. The cloth of her dress
rustled as she circled to the other, undoing the
Pg. 66
binding with a gentle touch. The bands on his
neck and legs followed. He was free. Naked,
wounded, delirious...but free.
“Water,” he croaked.
The jagged rim of a plastic bottle pressed
against his lips and titled, pouring lukewarm
water down his throat. He gripped the bottle in
both hands and drank in long, slow drags until
the last drop had flowed over his tongue. He
licked his lips and tried to speak once again.
“Who is attacking?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Did you bring food?”
She held something out towards him, and
he took it. A loaf of faintly spongy bread, wet
and heavy in his hands, that felt as if it was
soaked in oil. “That’s what my father feeds
his Hands. It contains nutrients to fuel your...
abilities, and that should have at least four
thousand calories. I brought more...”
Takeda tore into it like a skitter attacking
a day-old carcass. It tasted greasy and bland
at once, but went down easily and filled him
quickly. “Where’s Sherri?” he said in between
mouthfuls. “We’ll find her, take a ship, join the
fleet. I don’t care who they are.”
Liun exhaled slowly. Her voice was low and
soft, and she used his name with a slight hesi-
tation. “Takeda...I’ve never killed before. Never
really hurt any living thing before. Until today.
I didn’t do that so you could leave.”
Her face was no more than an outline in
the darkness as he looked towards her. “What
do you mean?”
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The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
“My father. Whoever is attacking him, I
don’t think they’ll be able to defeat him. I’ve
seen everything he’s built here. But...if he died,
it would all collapse.”
She paused for a moment before continu-
ing. “I want you to kill him, Takeda. You’re one
of the strongest Hands he ever created, and
you should be able to reach him.”
Takeda stretched his arms out, flexing
muscles and joints. His wounds burned with
a steady, insistent fire—not just the incisions
themselves, but other injuries buried beneath
his skin and muscles. He didn’t think Tong had
actually removed anything...but it was hard to
remember. The nightmare remained hazy in his
memory, a confused stew of agonies beyond
description.
“Is Sherri alive?”
“Yes.”
Takeda exhaled deeply. “Will he kill you?”
“Only if you fail.”
Takeda shifted his weight forward, sliding
off the bloodstained table. His bare feet made
contact with warm stone and, miraculously, his
legs supported his weight. He could already
feel the food in his stomach as a reserve of
energy, a pool of strength to be drawn upon.
Liun pressed another loaf into his hands.
He devoured it in seconds, then drained the
water flask she pressed to his lips.
“Lead me to him,” Takeda said, softly. Cool
fingers wrapped around his arm as she led him
out of his torture chamber.
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# one way or another.
Zartsi’s claws scraped on the arms of his
throne aboard the Ressiset, leaving nearly
invisible scratches in the bronze-plated serpent
heads. The cold gems of colored light in the
central holofield didn’t begin to convey that
carnage occurring in surrounding space. Tong’s
ships were mismatched hulks, but they out-
numbered and possibly outgunned the Canghi
fleet, with two ships near battleship class and
nearly a dozen cruisers and frigates. Fighters
and bombers filled space like clouds of gnats
over a marsh in a summer heat. The main
Caulthori formation was passing to galactic
east, decelerating to pour fire into the Canghi
ships.
Damn the Imperials. They had sent
perhaps eight fighter wings to intercept the
missile launch—perhaps enough to destroy
the explosive warships, but not enough for
the jamming pods that had been hidden in
their wake. Dozens of them had burst within
a kilometer of the fleet, filling space with
millions of tiny static transmitters which had
all but cut-off communications between ships.
The Ressiset was isolated, not only from the
two other Lithrallian ships, but from her fighter
claws and the Imperial forces with them. Lith-
rallian and Imperial squadrons were being out-
flanked by better coordinated Caulthori ships.
Several voices barked out in clipped Lith-
rallic. Commander Nalza seemed to be every-
where at once, snapping orders to a dozen
techs and monitoring every display on the
bridge. Those Lithrallians—warriors in black
uniforms and gleaming headsets—were the
lifeblood of the ship. Most of them had spent
their entire lives working with spacecraft in
Pg. 67
Zartsi stood and began to move among
them, his path intersecting with Nalza’s fre-
quently. He sucked in information and used
it to build a coherent map of the battle inside
his head, picturing the ships attacking him,
their firepower, Ressiset’s defenses, her own
batteries.
He stopped and stared at the holofield,
studying the slowly shifting arrangement of
ships. The Caulthori fleet was beginning to
divide, splitting into two arms to wrap around
the Canghi ships, which had begun to curl
inwards in a defensive formation. The whole
fighting, struggling mass continued to move
towards Caulthor with residual velocity, but
their attention was on fighting each other.
A formation of three cruisers and several
smaller ships currently occupied the space
between the Ressiset and Caulthor itself. They
were moving towards galactic west, however,
broad sides spewing destructive energy at
one of the Imperial Blood Falcons, and Zartsi
guessed that in twenty minutes—less—the
corridor to Caulthor would be open. He stood
suddenly.
“Commander!” he barked.
Nalza looked up from the other side of the
bridge. “My prince?”
“Our landers are ready?”
“They’ve been ready since an hour before
engagement, my prince. As is customary.”
The Ressiset carried four hundred Lithral-
lian warriors of the Red Greave—among the
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
best strike marines in known civilization. Zartsi
smiled to himself, one hand falling to the leath-
er-wrapped grip of his ivory sword. His mind
seized an idea and would not release it.
“Order them to be prepped for launch,”
Zartsi hissed. “Prep our remaining fighter claws
as an escort.”
His bodyguards stirred, shocked, as Nalza
bounded over to stand in front of him. “My
prince,” he hissed, “I speak with all honor to
your glory when I remind you that you will be
considerably safer here than aboard an assault
lander in the middle of a battle. To attempt a
boarding action now would be suicide.”
Zartsi’s response was cut off by a hollow roar
from within the ship. The deck quivered under
Zartsi’s claws as if someone were pounding
the ship with a giant mallet. A breath passed,
and then felt himself wrenched forward by a
second shock. He came to his feet and clutched
a handrail bordering the holofield.
“We’re under fire on our portside,” a pilot
roared. “Short-range warheads. Our armor’s
taking a beating.”
Zartsi scanned the holofield, picking out
the ominous blotch of red that had drifted
alongside the Ressiset. An enormous battle
cruiser—the largest ship in the Caulthori
fleet—was hammering the Ressiset with its
full broadside. “Concentrate firepower on the
engines,” he hissed. “Order engines to full
speed. Take us straight into Caulthor, using
forward batteries to clear the path.”
“They’re targeting weapons,” the pilot
hissed back. “Caulthori bomber squads
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approaching.”
Without the communications black-out,
the Ressiset would have been able to summon
fighters to defend it. As matters stood, however,
the frigate flew only with whatever claws took
enough initiative to defend it.
Zartsi shouted across to the bridge
commander. “Tong’s headquarters are open to
us. When we are close enough, I will deploy
landers lead a ground assault against them.”
Nalza’s eyes widened. “Your father would
have me gutted if I let you off this ship.”
Zartsi shook his head. “The ground cannot
be more dangerous.”
The old warrior opened his mouth again.
Zartsi cut him off with a sharp flick of his tail.
“You forget something. There’s blood beneath
my claws.”
The ship boomed again, tolling like an
enormous strome bell, its bulkheads and
decks rattling before a burst of explosive force.
Zartsi held up one hand as he steadied himself,
fingers splayed to expose his talons. “You can’t
see it, but it remains nonetheless. I will wash
away my brother’s innocent blood with guilty
blood.”
The battle-scarred commander looked
slightly shocked at how frankly Zartsi spoke
about his crime. Zartsi knew the warriors and
crewmen around him preferred not to think
about it, preferred to imagine that their prince
had been away on a pleasure trip. He had
nothing to hide. The murder itself had stripped
away whatever honor he might preserve
through secrecy.
Pg. 68
“You are a commander of great skill,
Nalza,” Zartsi hissed. “You will command this
ship well in my place. I must fight with sword
and rifle, and if I succeed in penetrating Tong’s
fortress...I may end this battle before all our
ships are destroyed.”
He reached up to undo the clasps holding his
cloak to his shoulders. The heavy cloth mantle
slithered to the deck at his feet. He gave the
bridge commander a shallow bow. “Thank you
for your service. Fight hard, and tell my father
if I don’t return.”
Then he turned and strode through the
doors, his bodyguards jogging in pursuit,
running their hands along the bulkheads to stay
standing despite the intermittent hammer of
enemy warheads pounding their ship’s armor.
#
Esheera’s mind and body united in a blur
of synchronized action as her hands and feet
skittered across the controls like spiders, as
her eyes flicked between a half-dozen displays
and the chaotic mess of fire and speed painted
across her canopy. She had fallen into the Whip
Dance, firing thrusters in a randomized pattern
to throw off enemy attacks while attempting
to line up her own. Commander Winnowski
and her squadmates were lost somewhere in
the melee. Esheera flew alone.
Her only thought was how proud Jaggo
would be if he saw how his mate soared.
The capital ships of both fleets had joined
battle, pouring waves of pulser fire and short-
range torpedoes into each other as they passed
a mere handful of kilometers apart. Fighters
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
swirled around and between the two capital
formations, sleek Imperial Swallows forming
a sharp contrast with the patchwork swarms
of fighters of a hundred different classes and
styles. White explosions formed constellations
of destruction against a backdrop of unmoving
stars.
Ships on both sides had taken wounds, like
beasts clawing at each other, bleeding fire and
air. One of the Canghi cruisers was venting
atmosphere from several points, and half its
engines had been blasted out by a torpedo
barrage. A large black frigate in the Caulthori
fleet had suffered a similar fate. Fuel fires raged
across its aft portions, threatening to ignite the
entire ship.
Esheera could spare only a splinter of her
mind to the macroscopic picture of the battle.
Tong’s ships outnumbered the Canghi forces,
and they worked in coordination, focusing
their firepower to attack from several angles
at one. The Blood Falcon battleship Endless
Dawn, twin to the Shinotsubasa, was taking
heavy fire from four cruisers. The uppermost
Burning Light frigate had engaged an enormous
Caulthori ship, built with all the grace of a
demolition vehicle, its hull mottled with gaping
torpedo-tube clusters. That was the Ressiset,
she realized—Zartsi’s ship—responding with
streams of blood-red pulser fire and invisible
sokshimat rounds.
Esheera threw the Vulture’s Prize into a
sharp roll, then kicked an opposite cluster of
jets into life during the maneuver, throwing
herself into a corkscrew for which geometry
had no term. Her stomach lurched and her
shoulders pressed against the straps of her
flight harness as conflicting accelerations threw
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her in opposite directions. Lances of pulse
energy roasted vacuum around her, but none
came closer than a hundred meters. Esheera
detached one hand from her flight sticks long
enough to tug a lever above her head. A small
thruster on her ship’s flank flared up for a
second or two, just long enough to turn her
ship to one side.
Her crude targeting system acquired the
quad-winged craft swooping towards her. Her
fingers clenched on the trigger. A burst of red
energy exploded from the Prize’s belly. Her
bolts sliced through two of the enemy ship’s
wings, breaking them off in flashes of white
fire. The ship yawed crazily as its thrusters
lost balance. Esheera fired again. This time
she neatly destroyed the cockpit and burnt
through the main fuel lines. The ship exploded,
and Esheera accelerated away to avoid the hail
of shrapnel generated by its death.
She scanned her screens and found
reference points on the canopy to orient
herself. It wasn’t hard. The dark underbelly
of a medium-sized cruiser filled half her view,
its blocky lines illuminated by explosions and
pulser blasts. Fear rushed through her in an
electric wave before she realized that it wasn’t
targeting her. A sudden move might attract
some gunner’s attention. She gently eased the
Prize into a long arc that would carry her past
the ship. It would be close, and she braced
her hands over the controls to take evasive
maneuvers if she was targeted.
Esheera thus had a perfect position from
which to watch six fragments of dark metal
detach from the cruiser’s hull. Engines flared,
spitting blue light into the vacuum, and Esheera
realized that they were ships—oblong, heavily
Pg. 69
armored, perhaps thirty meters from nose
to tail. No visible weapons, but the folds of
strome wrapped and re-wrapped around the
hull looked capable of stopping a class-4 pulser
burst.
It took her a second longer to notice the
strome pincers folded back against the ship’s
prow. Her suspicions were confirmed. Boarding
transports.
Esheera noticed a flash of movement on
one of her screens and kicked an entire row of
thrusters. Acceleration crushed her chest and
flashes of pulse energy tore through the patch
of vacuum she had occupied a moment before.
Other fighter wings began to form up around
the transport convoy, flying defensive trajec-
tories, and Esheera ignited her main engines,
corkscrewing erratically as she made her way
back towards friendly space. A burst clipped
her lower starboard wing, sending globules of
molten steel into space. Three or four thrusters
gone. It added an extra element of chaos to
her flight.
The Caulthori fighters let her go. As
minutes ticked past, she maneuvered into
the space controlled by the Shinotsubasa, its
pulser cannons shielding her. Its accompanying
cruisers also launched waves of firepower into
space. Thank the kind stars their active sensors
could still tag her as “friendly.”
The Shinotsubasa was targeting the cruiser
behind Esheera, however—not the transports
it had deployed. The Swallows seemed more
interested in picking off fighters than destroy-
ing the oblong ships under their protection.
At first glance, boarding craft weren’t much
of a threat—they rarely had enough focused
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
firepower to crack a warship’s armor, and their
incursions were generally easy to predict and
counter.
But Esheera knew how much damage a
successful boarding raid could do. It was a
preferred tactic among her people, giving
warriors a chance to kill their enemies while
sparing ships that could be repaired, sold, or
cannibalized. And she also knew how dangerous
Tong’s men could be in a close engagement.
Even a handful of men with Takeda’s power,
his speed, his endurance, his superhuman
reactions, and aim...a couple squads of such
men could buzzsaw through Imperial Marines.
One by one, the transports fired external
rockets—quickly exhausted, but capable
of providing intense acceleration for a few
seconds. They shot forward, zeroing in one
the Shinotsubasa. Segmented claws extended
from their prows and laser torches ignited on
their prows. The Swallows continued to engage
the Caulthori fighters, seemingly ignoring the
transports themselves—perhaps thinking they
could be easily mopped up once their escorts
were downed.
Esheera glanced over her screens. Her data
for other areas of the battle was hazy at best, but
it seemed other Caulthori ships had deployed
identical assault craft, targeting capital ships
throughout the fleet—primarily the two Blood
Falcons and the Lithrallian frigates. Esheera
made her decision in an instant. She had to find
a way to impress on them how deadly those
transports could be. Zartsi would know—the
Ressiset might be safe—but Tong’s jamming
isolated him.
Esheera deactivated all but one of her
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remaining portside thrusters and switched
on all the starboard ones, locking them on.
The Prize twisted hard to one side as its main
engines drove it forward. Esheera pulled her
legs up, curling them against her chest, and
awkwardly squeezed out of her tiny cockpit. She
scrambled back along the narrow passageway
penetrating the ship’s main axis, gripping the
bulges of hasty welds in the uneven bulkheads
to keep herself on her feet despite the strain of
acceleration.
Her communications package was stuffed
between an auxiliary branch of the atmosphere
cycler and a thick rope of cables routing power
to the starboard thrusters. Only a thin pad
of insulation protected the comm box from
the electrics. Just one of the things Esheera
had been intending to touch up. As it was,
she could only access the comm’s controls by
unlatching a panel at knee height and reaching
her arms into a narrow slot. She pulled the box
forward.
The ship rolled suddenly to one side, its
new vector of acceleration throwing Esheera
against the bulkhead and bending her arms
at a painful angle before the gravity generator
compensated. She groaned, but managed to
pull the comm box out where she could see it.
The decorative brass casing—long tarnished
to a dull green—marked it as old and of Rover
manufacture.
The standard paradigm for inter-ship com-
munication was a general broadcast in all
directions, scrambled by a code anywhere from
light to heavy to byzantine depending on the
message’s delicacy. It was fast, efficient, and
could reach receptors anywhere on a ship’s
hull. But it was relatively easily jammed, and
Pg. 70
most codes could be broken within minutes by
an experienced audiohack.
Rovers were looked down on in most of the
Empire, and they often had to conceal their
activities from System Police, Imperial Rangers,
Scorpions, and other arms of the Emperor’s
authority. Esheera had known of Rover ships
caught, raided, and impounded for offenses as
small as being unlicensed in their province. It
all meant that broadcasting indiscriminately
into surrounding space was unwise. So Rover
comm packages were built with point-to-
point capability, allowing them to send a tight
beam precisely targeted at the receiver. Some
Imperial shadow organizations used similar
systems for similar reasons.
Esheera finished her adjustments despite
being thrown against the opposite wall twice.
She stuffed the box back into its nest and
slammed the coverplate back into place. Then
she stumbled back to the cockpit and slithered
back into her seat.
A staccato burst of pulser energy cut across
her bow. The Prize avoided immolation by a
meter, no more—Esheera thought she could
feel her seat grow warm. Her hands and feet
worked levers frantically, pulling the ship
back into the Whip Dance. She shook off her
attacker, losing him in the whirl of fighters and
bombers and light patrol boats.
Then she stretched one hand down
underneath the control panel on her right
side, fingers groping among loose cables and
exposed circuitry. She found a tiny lever that
she had installed almost as an afterthought,
about the size of her thumbs. It would send a
signal to the communications dish mounted
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
above the cockpit, reconfiguring it to send a
point-to-point signal.
She pulled. The lever made a reassuring
click. But nothing happened. Her comm display
showed no change in the dish. She bent her
head, straining her neck to see under the
control board and into the jungle of wiring
she had created over a dozen sleepless nights.
There was virtually no chance of finding the
problem while also avoiding sudden, fiery
death.
Of course, it might be a moot point by
now. The first of the boarding transports had
already latched onto the Shinotsubasa’s hull,
and its entire prow seemed to have become
a mouth that was engaged chewing a red-hot
opening in the warship’s armor. The others,
slightly behind, were drawing some fire, but
not enough to destroy them or force them
away.
Esheera set her ship on another evasive
course, aiming for a patch of space where she
wasn’t likely to be noticed among a dozen
Swallows, half that many Caulthori ships
fighting for their lives, and an expanding cloud
of rapidly-cooling wreckage.
Then she opened a compartment above
her head and started squirming into the vacsuit
stored within. It had been borrowed from the
Suto and was slightly too big for her, but that
facilitated things in the cramped space of her
cockpit. Arms. Legs, head, air and heat connec-
tions. She didn’t bother with the plumbing.
She stopped to alter her course slightly,
nudging the Prize away from a piece of slag the
size of a Rover hydroponic vat. Then out of her
cradle-seat, up a few crudely welded ladder
Ray Gun Revival magazine
rungs, and into an airlock not much bigger than
her mother’s womb. Her breath fogged the
inside of her facemask for a moment before
her cycler whirred into life. Then vacuum sur-
rounded her, and she slapped her magnetic
boots onto the Prize’s patchwork hull.
She had been in vacuum hundreds of
times—hullwalks were a familiar part of life as a
Rover. But the silence had never seemed more
wrong than it did now. Destructive energy great
enough to level a city swirled in the darkness
above, around, and below her, fire blossomed
and was choked by the nothingness of space,
thousands of living beings struggled and died
in their metal shells. But the only sound was
her own breathing and the rasp of her wing-
flaps against heavy fabric as she moved her
arms.
She walked forward as quickly as she dared,
making sure one foot remained planted every
instant. An Imperial Swallow soared by barely
fifty meters away, every detail of its night-blue
hull visible through the clarity of vacuum. The
capital ships loomed above her like primitive
gods waging war with thunderbolts. The Shi-
notsubasa’s wings blocked out a wide swath of
stars, while elsewhere, closer to Caulthor, she
could see the manta profile of the Ressiset,
Zartsi’s ship, its white hull gleaming like ivory
in the light of the system’s sun.
Esheera reached the communications array
and found the controls on the dish. It was a
simple operation—a latch undone, a frequency
changed, a compression of the metal flanges
making up the dish. She turned and began to
crawl back towards the hatch immediately.
She didn’t want to tell Jaggo that she had been
immolated while stargazing during a battle.
Pg. 71
There was no sound, but a flash of light
forced her facemask to polarize for a second.
She looked up towards the source and saw
a starburst of white flame, boulders of half-
molten strome, and shards of smaller debris
expanding from the space occupied by the
Ressiset only moments before. Realization
came over her in a fevered wave. The Caulthori
ships had managed to penetrate the core
engine block. Every Lithrallian on that ship had
gone to their Light in an instant.
If not for the magnetic force keeping her
rooted on the hull, Esheera knew she would
have drifted free in space. Kind stars, no, she
thought. Not him.
#
Takeda’s strome armor made a seamless
shell over his flesh, pooling in the shallow
troughs made by Tong’s incisions. Blades
sprouted like bamboo shoots from elbows and
knees, his fingertips had hardened into talons,
a mask of cold metal sheathed his face. Sparks
and small arcs of energy hissed across his bare
chest or crackled between his legs. He moved
through dark tunnels at a lope, bounding
around corners and smashing through doors.
Super-human endurance and bones like steel
had allowed him to survive Tong’s tortures
with his strength intact.
The base echoed with the clang of his
footsteps, the corridors oddly empty of Hands.
They would be manning turrets, issuing orders,
deploying for defense. The hallways were
empty. Tong was as unguarded as he would
ever be. Naked except for his bionic armor,
unarmed except for the weapons Tong had
given him, Takeda ran to kill his creator.
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
Memories flashed through his mind in a
jumbled torrent. The rattle of Silver coins and
the flash of holograms in the casino on Belar.
The surgical lamps of Tong’s labs. Zartsi’s
brilliant blue eyes and feral snarl. The taste of
Esheera’s cooking and the sound of her voice in
song. The blasted wastelands of Nihil, hot wind
scraping sweat from his face. Rain dripping
from the edge of Lashiir’s sword on the streets
of Freesail. Tong’s spectral face.
Most of all, he remembered two women,
two faces: Sherri, always ready with a smile,
his only true friend on Belar. And Liun, the
daughter of a monster, the woman who had
saved him twice.
Tong’s throne room was located in the
center of his fortress, almost directly beneath
the crater of the sleeping volcano above.
Takeda had no trouble finding it. Liun’s direc-
tions and half-recovered memories of his living
death here guided him. Up a staircase winding
around a shaft drilled through black rock,
through an echoing hall lined with closed steel
doors, towards an enormous pair of strome
gates opened wide to a room lit with crimson
lamps, their light gleaming like fire in a floor of
basalt polished to a mirror-sheen.
Hands stood guard with pulser rifles on
each side of the door. They fired as soon as
Takeda burst into the hall. Scarlet energy
blasted chips from the stone, but Takeda was
already ahead of them, claws stretched and
blue energy welling up in his palms. He dodged
among lances of burning light and tore into the
first Hand, ripping him apart with metal and
crackling energy. His armored skin insulated
him from the heat of fresh blood. The other
Hand fired point-blank, his aim fast, but Takeda
Ray Gun Revival magazine
was faster. He crushed the gun in one talon and
removed the man’s head with the other.
Another Hand was already in the air as
Takeda bounded into the doorway, his armored
body a shadow against the red lights behind
him. Takeda leapt to meet him. Metal claws
met seamless armor. Takeda was stronger.
He clawed a strip of metal away from the left
side of the Hand’s ribcage and poured electric
energy into the opening. The scent of cooked
flesh nearly overwhelmed him, mingled with
the smell of blood drawn from narrow scrapes
across his stomach.
Takeda hit the ground and slid a few inches
on the smooth rock. The Hand’s corpse—little
more than a smoldering strome husk—crashed
down a few meters behind him.
Takeda’s eyes turned upward. Tong sat atop
a pinnacle of stone in the room’s exact center.
His bony hands rested on blocks of sheer-cut
basalt, and a small whirlwind of holograms and
projected displays floated around his head,
apparently projected by machinery mounted
inside the apparently seamless rock of his
throne. Tiny silver jacks were inserted into his
ears.
Tong lifted three fingers as Takeda stepped
forward. The holograms vanished, and with a
languid movement of one hand he plucked the
jacks out of his ears. “I had hoped to keep you
alive a few more weeks,” he said, in the dry
hiss Takeda had hated from the first moment
he heard it. “My daughter?”
“Yes,” Takeda said. “She sent me to kill
you.”
“I see. I had also hoped that I would be
Pg. 72
able to see her natural death. You’ve been a
great pain to me. You resisted my conditioning.
Corrupted my daughter. Escaped. Survived the
delayed-trigger poisons in your brain with only
some memory loss. And it would not surprise
me if this Imperial fleet has something to do
with you. Their presence forces me to acceler-
ate my plans.”
His yellow eyes fixed Takeda. “But first...
you said you would kill me.”
Takeda bounded forward, claws scraping
against smooth basalt, and sprang at Tong, his
claws extended to shred. This was the end of
it all. His vengeance, his justice, his salvation.
Tong’s vermillion eyes were steady as the
distance between them narrowed to nothing.
The impact jarred every bone and muscle
in Takeda’s charged body, and suddenly he
was hurled back against the floor with a skull-
rattling impact. A booming sound reverberated
from the domed ceiling of the throne room.
Pain tore through Takeda’s body as if his flesh
had broken into shards.
He opened his eyes to see a monster
standing over him. Red armor blended
smoothly into red-tinted strome. A spectral
mask of thick metal had taken shape over the
sharp bones and sallow skin of Tong’s face. His
queue had become a lash of blood-red cords.
His hands were razored talons twice the length
of Takeda’s. Gash-like slits revealed the smol-
dering fire of his eyes.
“I called you Two,” he hissed, “because I
am the first. Everything I gave you I gave myself
twofold. Because I knew, someday, I might have
to kill you with my own hands.”
Issue 48, November 2008
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
, Chapter 26, The Friar's Paradox, by Johne Cook
Before, when Takeda had called on his
powers, his enemies had seemed to move as
if struggling through water. Even Tong’s rank-
and-file Hands had been slower than he was.
But Tong...even with all Takeda’s enhanced
senses and consciousness, Tong’s arms moved
like automatic reapers, blinding fast. Takeda
barely rolled aside before Tong’s armored fist
crushed his skull against the basalt floor. Stone
cracked as Tong’s knuckles hammered it.
Takeda had only an instant to stand before
Tong’s shoulder hit him like a drill in stomach.
The blow was forceful enough to press the air
out of Takeda’s lungs, sending him off balance
as spent air blasted between his own strome-
capped jaws. Takeda turned his backward
lurch into a defensive leap, putting himself out
of Tong’s reach for an instant. His shoulders
clanged against one of the narrow stone pillars
arranged in a halo around Tong’s throne.
Tong’s eyes were like vents in a forge. His
armored face was a mirror for Takeda’s, but
harsher, sharper, his mouth seeming to curve
upward slightly in an expression of demonic
glee. Takeda saw death. Tong stretched his
hands, and Takeda could almost see waves
of power pouring down his arms like molten
metal to collect in his needle-sharp talons.
Energy danced in tiny arcs of gold and violet
across his entire body.
Then he lunged, hands aimed like lances to
destroy his first creation.
next month— part two of Chapter 24: Memory
Reborn, the conclusion of Memory Wipe.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 73
Sean T. M. Stiennon
Sean is an author of fantasy and science fic-
tion novels and short stories, with many pub-
lications under his belt. His first short story
collection, Six with Flinteye, was recently
released from Silver Lake Publishing, and he
won 2nd place in both the 2004 SFReader.
com Short Story Contest and the Storn Cook
Razor-Edged Fiction Contest with his stories
“Asp” and “The Sultan’s Well,” respective-
ly. “The Sultan’s Well” has been published
in the anthology Sages and Swords. Sean’s
short story “Flinteye’s Duel” was published
in Ray Gun Revival, Issue 01, and “Flinteye’s
Sabotage” was published in Issue 35.
Sean’s work tends to contain lots of action and
adventure, but he often includes elements of
tragedy and loss alongside roaring bat-
tles. A lot of his work centers around con-
tinuing characters, the most prominent
of whom is Jalazar Flinteye (Six with Flin-
teye). He also writes tales of Shabak of
Talon Point (“Death Marks,” in issue #9 of
Amazing Journeys Magazine), Blademas-
ter (“Asp,” 2nd place winner in the 2004
SFReader.com Contest), and others who
have yet to see publication.
Sean loves to read fantasy and science fic-
tion alongside some history, mysteries, and
historical novels. His favorites in-
clude Declare by Tim Powers,
the Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn
trilogy by Tad Williams, Stephen Lawhead’s
Song of Albion trilogy, and King Solomon’s
Mines by H. Rider Haggard. He has reviewed
books for Deep Magic: The E-zine of High
Fantasy and Science Fiction, and currently
reviews books at SFReader.com.
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
“F ive million Universal Credits,” Alexander
Cochran said, pointing at the steel
suitcase with the black plastic handle that sat
on his desk. “That’s what they’re demanding.
Five million. I pay it in five hours, or they kill
my son.”
Frank Carson sat in a chair facing the desk.
They were on the 150th floor of the Techtron
Building in the center of Sentira-1, one of
Jun-Tar’s model cities, a marvel of science and
technology. The gleaming glass and steel towers
of the city rose high into the clear atmosphere
of the planet outside the window of Cochran’s
office. The heavy air traffic that wove its way
around the city created twisting lanes of steel
that resembled silver snakes floating in the
air.
A thin, well-groomed woman in her early
fifties with dark grey-tinged hair and wearing
a black jumpsuit sat in a chair facing the other
corner of Cochran’s desk. She’d been intro-
duced as Vivian Cochran, Alexander Cochran’s
mother.
“They want me to deliver the ransom,”
Cochran said. “They’re clever. They won’t
reveal the drop-off point. I’m to take a Strato-
Sled and the coordinates for the landing place
will be beamed at the ship. The Sled will take
itself to wherever they’re waiting.”
Cochran was a short, thin man in his early
thirties who seemed brimming with nervous
energy. He spoke quickly, and his whole body
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 74
seemed as though it were coiled up inside
itself, as if he’d suddenly spring animal-like
out of his maroon jumpsuit at you. He was
the head of one of the largest corporations on
Jun-Tar, and served on the boards of at least
five others. Carson knew Cochran was con-
sidered a scientific genius. His DNA-targeted
weapons had saved the planet from the attack
by Silo Jarth, the Kazulian mastermind who
had brought his army as close as the planet’s
fifth moon before being repulsed. In addition,
Cochran Inc. was the leading developer of
human and animal cloning technology. The
company’s breakthrough in animal cloning had
rescued the overpopulated planet of Jun-Tar
from impending starvation ten years ago.
“And they’ll have your son there for the
exchange?” Carson asked.
“That’s what they said.”
“Sounds pretty simple.”
“I agree,” Vivian Cochran said quietly.
“Almost too simple.”
Carson looked over at the woman. He
could see no outer sign of emotion in her face.
Whatever she was feeling, if anything, she
kept inside. But Carson could sense a strength,
almost some sort of force, emanating from
her.
“There’s something about all this that
doesn’t feel right,” she said. “At any rate,
obviously Alexander can’t meet with the kid-
nappers. It could be a plot to lure him to a place
where they could kill him. My son is number
one on Silo Jarth’s hit list, since he became
aware he was defeated by the technology my
son developed. He’s put a price on Alex’s head.
If he went to meet with these kidnappers,
he’d be putting himself into a very vulnerable
position. My son is too valuable a person, too
important to the future of Jun-Tar, to risk his
life that way.”
Carson looked at her with a puzzled expres-
sion on his face, but he didn’t say anything.
“I know what you must be thinking, Carson,”
Cochran said. “Why is my mother in on this?
Why does a grown man need the advice and
counsel of his mother in a situation like this?
It must seem unusual. Unnatural perhaps. But
mother and I have always been close. Whatever
success I’ve had in life, whatever triumphs, are
mainly due to her support and guidance. She
believed in my talents, such as they are, and
it’s because of her I’ve been able to make the
most of them. She’s seen me through many a
crisis.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Cochran,
where is your wife?” Carson asked.
“We divorced last year. Irreconcilable dif-
ferences.”
Carson glanced out of the corner of his
eye at Vivian Cochran. Her face remained an
impassive mask.
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
“I know I should be the one to meet with
the kidnappers,” Cochran continued. “But there
are too many reasons against it. For one thing,
I’m a scientist, not a gunslinger. I know how
to design weapons but I don’t know anything
about using them. It’s no use calling the author-
ities. I know if the police become involved,
I’ll never get my son back. If the kidnappers
were caught, the court system being what it is,
they’ll probably get off on some technicality.
That’s why I sent for you. You have a reputation
as a capable man. A man good with a gun and
not afraid of too many things. I appreciate your
coming here on such short notice. I want you
to take the ransom and bring Jory back.”
“And we want the kidnappers, whoever they
are, killed,” Vivian Cochran said. “No one, Mr.
Carson—no one—has ever wronged a Cochran
and lived to tell about it. I don’t intend this to
be the first time.”
Carson could feel the cold steel behind
the woman’s words. He looked at Cochran,
who now fidgeted with a nano-pod that had
been lying on his desk. Cochran was the kind
of man Carson hated. Weak, ineffectual. An
intellectual giant, no doubt. But no good in the
practical world. Yet, seeing the domineering,
implacable woman sitting across from him, he
couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. He
recalled another Alexander he’d learned about
in history class when he was a kid back on Earth.
Alexander the Great had a similar dominating-
mother problem, but at least he still managed
to conquer most of the known world.
“The exchange will take place in broad
daylight,” Carson said. “Won’t the kidnappers
be upset if they see me holding the money
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 75
instead of you?”
“They won’t know it’s you.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve developed something,” Cochran said.
“I’ve been working on it for years. I was never
sure it had a practical use until now.”
He stood up and pressed one of the twenty
red buttons imbedded in the glass top of his
desk. A panel in the wall behind his desk slid
back, and Carson saw a long fluorescent-lit
tunnel that stretched some distance back.
“Come with me,” he said.
Carson stood up and the woman got up out
of her chair. “I’ll leave you two now,” she said
extending a pale, slender hand. “I hope you’ll
accept this job, Mr. Carson. Get my grandson
back. And make these men pay for what they’ve
done.”
# stand back and watch.”
Cochran entered the tunnel behind his
desk, and Carson followed him. The panel slid
shut silently behind them as their heels clacked
on the hard concrete of the floor. They came to
a thick steel door. Cochran put his eye up to an
Opto-Reader and pressed six numbers into a
digital keypad on the wall. The vault-like iron
door drifted open slowly.
“You’re the only person without security
clearance I’ve ever let in here,” Cochran said.
“Needless to say what you are about to see is
all top secret.”
Carson nodded. They stepped through the
doorway and entered a laboratory of stainless
steel and glass. The center of the room was
dominated by large bubble-shaped chamber
made of glass. There were two stainless steel
chairs standing side by side about four feet
apart in the middle of the bubble. On the right
and left were banks of electronic equipment
that lined the walls on either side of the
chamber all the way to the ceiling.
“What you are about to see will blow your
mind,” Cochran said, as they went further into
the laboratory. A door opened on the left, and
a young man in a white smock came into the
room. Cochran nodded to him, and the youth
opened the glass door to the bubble and
entered it.
“It’s the first Huma-Form Chamber,”
Cochran said. “I’m going to enter the chamber
and take the other seat. With a control device
located in a console in the chair I’ll start the
device. The machinery will do the rest. Just
Carson watched as Cochran walked into the
glass chamber and shut the door behind him.
He sat down in the empty chair and pressed
some buttons in a console built into the chair’s
stainless steel arm. He looked over at the
young man in the other chair and gave him a
reassuring smile. The young assistant smiled
back confidently. Cochran tapped one final
button, and the electronic equipment came
to life with a low, deep whining sound. Lights
flashed, digital clocks began a countdown, and
the whine became more high-pitched. Carson
saw lightning fork above the heads of the two
men. The lightning bolt jumped back and forth
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
from one side of the chamber to the other,
then the bodies of the two occupants suddenly
became transfused with light. Their faces and
hands began to glow preternaturally, like some
strange creatures from a phosphorescent bog.
The glow became so bright Carson could no
longer make out their features. The whine of
the machinery reached a peak and then began
to quickly subside. As it did, the glowing halo
around the faces and hands of the two men
dimmed and soon Carson was again able to
distinguish their features.
He rocked back, his eyes darting fiercely
back and forth between Cochran and his lab
assistant. It was impossible! On the right sat
Alexander Cochran. But now on the left, instead
of the laboratory assistant sat—Alexander
Cochran!
Cochran got out of his chair, opened the
door of the glass chamber, and came out,
shutting the door behind him.
“I see by the look on your face you are suf-
ficiently impressed,” he said. “The Huma-Form
Chamber, as you have just seen, emits energy
at a frequency that stimulates the molecules
of human cellular tissue in such a way that it
can duplicate any human in exact detail. Even
my own mother would not be able to tell us
apart.”
“What’s your idea, Cochran?” Carson
asked.
“I’ll transform you into me. And the kidnap-
pers will be none the wiser. You’ll have all the
advantage. They’ll never suspect they’re facing
one of the most formidable men in the galaxy.
They’ll be completely off guard. Once you’re
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 76
at the drop point, and you have my son back,
I’ll leave the matter entirely at your discretion
how you handle it. Bring them back. Prefer-
ably dead. Under no circumstances are they to
be allowed to get away. And don’t worry. The
Huma-Form process is completely reversible.
When your mission is over you’ll be returned
to your former self. I’ll demonstrate.”
Cochran walked over to the computers
mounted on the wall to the right of the machine
and tapped his fingers over the keyboard. The
machinery cranked up once more and Carson
watched as the laboratory assistant, alone
in the glass chamber, sat amidst a shower of
electric sparks and began to revert back to his
former self.
Carson stood there marveling at it all. He
wondered what Alexander the Great would
have accomplished, if he’d had this machine.
# said it would give him a definite advantage in
Carson looked out the window of the
Strato-Sled at the twisted beams and crumbling
towers of Par-Kapa, the bombed out capital
city of Tracor. It was here on the fifth moon of
Jun-Tar that the Jun-Tarian forces, armed with
superior weapons, had defeated Silo Jarth, the
Imperial Ruler of Kazuli, and forced him and his
army of lizard men to retreat.
“Landing zone in sight,” the Sled’s female
computer voice said. The ship was on autopilot.
As Cochran had said, the coordinates of the
landing site were fed into the computer once
the Sled had taken off. “Landing will occur in
sixty seconds.”
Carson saw a flat, wide-open area below
that had once been a plaza or a park in the
center of Par-Kapa. It was a square about two
blocks across, covered by broken and cracked
asphalt. The area was rimmed by the black,
obscenely twisted and distorted remains of
what once were high-rise buildings.
Carson felt weird. Everything he saw, he
was seeing through another man’s eyes. Every-
thing he heard, he heard through another
man’s ears. His entire physical body belonged
to another man. Only his mind was his own. He
shifted his weight in the pilot’s chair and was
reassured by the familiar bulk of the Colt Laser
Pistol he wore in the shoulder holster under
the maroon jumpsuit Cochran had given him.
He wondered now why he’d agreed to be
Huma-Formed; why he’d let Cochran, the sci-
entific genius of Jun-Tar, transform his body
into an exact duplicate of his own. The man
dealing with the kidnappers. He could see that,
but he knew he could have handled it just as
well without the transformation. Maybe he’d
done it out of curiosity. Just to see what it
would feel like.
Carson looked through the Strato-Sled
window again as the Sled circled once around
the perimeter of the square in the middle of
Par-Kapa. He’d gone through the transforma-
tion after seeing Cochran’s assistant restored
to his original appearance with no apparent
side effects. The process had been painless but
he could feel the physical differences caused by
the transformation. He was four inches shorter
in height and weighed thirty pounds less now.
When he walked his stride was shorter and his
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
movements seemed much quicker than before.
He could feel some of the nervous energy so
apparent in Cochran struggling with the calm
control that was so characteristic of his usual
behavior pattern.
The Sled floated in softly for a landing in
the center of the plaza. He grabbed the plastic
handle of the suitcase resting on the floor by
his feet and stood up as the Strato-Sled hatch
opened. A wind blew across the open courtyard
as he walked, stirring up small whirlwinds of
dust, and making bits of paper and tumble-
weed from the desert wasteland outside the
city dance across the cracked and broken
macadam. When he got several yards away
from the Sled, Carson stopped walking. He
peered ahead at the grotesquely charred and
melted frames of what were once magnificent
buildings. Nothing moved and the only sound
was the wind whistling through the skeletal
remains of the high-rises.
“Turn around, Mr. Cochran.”
Carson turned and saw three Kazuli lizard
men standing in front of what was left of an old
movie house. The white marquee behind them
was pocked with holes and only a few twisted
letters clung to what was left of the glass facing.
The lizard men wore black leather pants and
boots and body-tight sleeveless shirts. Their
long green arms extended out angularly from
their bodies and their scaly hands clutched
Sony plasma rifles. Cold, lidless eyes stared at
him, revealing no trace of emotion.
“Is that the money?” the biggest of the
three lizard men asked.
“That’s right,” Carson answered. “Where’s
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 77
the boy?”
“Show it to me.”
“The boy first.”
The Kazulian’s lips twisted into something
resembling a grin, and he stood there a moment
looking at Carson.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Cochran,” he said.
“I’m nobody to mess with. Let me introduce
myself. My name’s Glor-Kann.”
“You’re one of Silo Jarth’s men.”
“Was,” the Kazulian said. “I was one of
his lieutenants. I commanded a unit in the
southern sector. We were wiped out early in
the game. Your DNA-targeted cannons made
quick work of us. Me and these two were the
only survivors out of a thousand men. Our
survival was considered a disgrace. Jarth had
us arrested and ordered our execution for such
poor performance of our duties.”
“That’s interesting,” Carson said. “But I
didn’t come here to listen to your life story.
Where’s the boy?”
“We managed to get away from Jarth, the
three of us,” the Kazulian said. “We hid here
in these ruins, living off our rations and what
scraps we could find. The war didn’t last that
long. Things turned bad for Jarth quick, and he
had to retreat. He forgot about us and left us
behind.”
The Kazulian came toward Carson. “But we
haven’t forgotten about you, Mr. Cochran. You
were the one responsible for what happened
to us. You and your weapons designs. Cannons
that target specific DNA categories. In this
case, Kazulian DNA. I saw bodies disintegrate.
Sometime a whole body at a time. Sometimes
just an arm or a leg, depending on how direct
a hit it was. I saw things I’ll never be able to
forget.”
“The money’s here,” Carson said, putting
the steel case down on the ground. He’d had
enough chit chat. “But you don’t get a cent of
it until I see the boy.”
The Kazulian turned to his left. “Seems like
Mr. Cochran isn’t interested in hearing about
what happened to us,” he said to Kazulian
standing next on his right. “Go get the kid.”
The Second Lizard man ran back under the
marquee and went inside the movie theater
lobby. A minute later he came out leading a
nine-year old boy by a rope tied around his
wrists and waist. The boy was obviously scared
to death but trying not to show it. He had
blonde hair that the wind riffled as he walked.
“Daddy!” Jory Cochran yelled when he saw
Carson. The boy started to run toward him but
the Second Lizard Man yanked him back by the
rope. The boy and his captor stopped a short
distance behind Glor-Kann.
“All right,” Glor-Kann said. “There’s the boy.
Now open the case.”
“You open it,” Carson said.
The Kazulian squinted at him. “Didn’t know
you were such a hard ass, Cochran,” he said. He
slung his plasma rifle over his shoulder. “Keep
him covered,” he ordered his companions. He
stooped down and grabbed the steel suitcase.
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
He tried to open it by pressing the lock tabs
with the fingers of his free hand. It wouldn’t
open. The Kazulian looked up at Carson with
a snarl.
“You’ll need this,” Carson said, holding out
a key.
“Give it to me,” the lizard man said.
“The boy.”
The Kazulian turned and nodded to the
second lizard man, who cut the rope around
the boy’s wrists. The boy ran to Carson, and
Carson felt his small arms hugging his legs.
“Daddy,” the boy said, letting out a long
pent-up sob.
Carson picked the boy up off the ground.
He’d never had a child of his own. He’d never
felt the grasp of two skinny arms around his
neck before. Never felt a small boy’s head
nestle against his chest the way Jory Cochran’s
did now. He’d forgotten how scared you can be
when you’re a kid.
“The key,” the Kazulian said.
Carson tossed him the key. The lizard man
caught it, started to insert it in the lock, and
then stopped.
“How do I know this ain’t booby-trapped?”
he asked. “You unlock it.”
Carson stood silent for a moment. He
knew the moment was coming. The lizard man
was reaching the end of his short supply of
patience. Then a red laser beam blast tore off
the lizard man’s hand and the key went flying.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 78
The Kazulian jumped up staring in disbelief at
the bloody stump.
“I wouldn’t worry about booby traps,”
a cold female voice said. Carson saw Vivian
Cochran standing a short distance away, a Colt
Laser rifle in her hands. She was dressed in the
same black jumpsuit she’d worn earlier that
day, but now her hair was tied back in a tight
bun and she wore goggles. Carson figured they
were probably to sharpen the vision of her
middle-aged eyes.
“I wouldn’t worry about the money either,”
she said. “There’s nothing in that suitcase but
worthless piles of paper.” She fired a blast at
the case and the lid flew off amidst a swirling
cloud of white paper. She swung the Laser
Carbine back, but before she could fire again
the third lizard man crouched and got off a
plasma blast. The purple ray exploded against
her upper body, and she was knocked back off
her feet.
Glor-Kann reached for an Electro Pistol
strapped to his left leg. Carson already had his
Colt automatic out of his shoulder holster and,
still holding the boy, he fired. The red laser
hit the Kazulian in the chest and he staggered
back. The second and third lizard men crouched
down and started firing at him. Carson put
the boy down behind him. A plasma charge
glanced off his shoulder. The impact spun him
and the pain was sharp. He went down on one
knee and managed to squeeze off a round. The
second lizard man fell.
“Daddy! Daddy!” the boy threw his arms
around Carson’s neck. He heard a laser blast.
The third lizard man yelled. Carson saw Vivian
Cochran back on her feet, the Laser rifle in
her hands. The third lizard man, wounded,
turned to fire at her, and Carson dropped him.
Vivian Cochran staggered and then fall to the
asphalt.
Carson grabbed the boy up and got back on
his feet. His shoulder throbbed, but he knew
the wound was not serious. He carried the boy
over and knelt down beside the woman. Blood
poured from her left upper chest.
“Grandma!” Jory cried.
“Don’t let him see me like this,” she said.
Carson turned the boy’s face into his chest and
held him so he couldn’t see.
“I had you figured wrong,” Carson said.
“I told you. Nobody does a Cochran wrong
and lives to get away with it.” Her face twisted
in pain. “I thought you might need some help. I
followed you. You couldn’t see me, because of
a cloaking device on my ship. Another Cochran
invention.”
Carson wanted to say something to her
about her son, but knew he couldn’t with the
boy there. “I know what you’re thinking,” she
said. “Don’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. It
was mine. I never gave him a chance to—” She
grimaced in pain again. “Take Jory home now.”
She reached out with one hand. “Jory.” The boy
turned and looked down at her. “When you get
home, you do what your father says. And love
your father. He’ll need somebody to love him
now.”
Vivian Cochran let out a sigh, and her arm
dropped to her side.
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
Jory stared down at her with tears running
down his cheeks. Then he turned, and Carson
felt deep sobs throbbing against his chest.
Carson picked him up and let him cry as he
carried him back to the Strato-Sled.
# everything I did. I can’t go on by myself. I just
Carson stepped into Alexander Cochran’s
office. He’d just come from the Huma-Form
Chamber where he’d been changed back to his
own body. It felt good to stretch his long legs
out as he crossed the thick carpet and stood
in front of Cochran’s desk. They’d patched up
the wound he’d received on Tracor, and after
the retransformation, all he felt was a little
stiffness in the shoulder.
Alexander Cochran was, however, was not
in such good shape. The scientific genius of
Jun-Tar sat slouched in his high-back leather
executive chair. His yellow hair hung down in
front of his eyes, and his eyes were red. The
front of his jumpsuit was unbuttoned, revealing
a bare, hairless chest. A bottle of Synth-Gin
and an empty glass sat on the desk in front
of him. Alexander the Great, Carson snorted
to himself. He reached for the bottle. Carson
swatted it away with the back of his hand and
glass crashed against the wood-paneled wall.
“Hey, what’s the idea?” Cochran bellowed.
“What’s wrong with you, Cochran?” Carson
asked.
The man looked up at him through bleary
eyes. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? How can
you ask that? She’s dead. Don’t you under-
stand? My mother is dead. Why did you let her
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 79
die, Carson? Why?”
Tears rolled down his face. “I never knew
just how hard it would be when it happened,”
he said. “I realize now that without her, I’m
nothing. My mother was the force behind
don’t know how.”
He reached down and opened a desk
drawer. Carson saw another bottle appear in
his hand. Carson went around the desk and
slammed the drawer shut on Cochran’s hand.
He grabbed him and pulled him to his feet.
Cochran tried to push him back, but Carson
slammed him against the wall and slapped him
back and forth across the face several times.
He grabbed the front of the man’s jumpsuit
and slammed him against the wall again, this
time harder.
“I’ll tell you how, Cochran,” he said. “You’ve
got a seven-year old boy out there who needs
a father. A father he can look up to. Right now
that boy thinks you’re some kind of hero. He
thinks you shot it out with the kidnappers and
rescued him. You’re going to see to it that he
keeps on believing that.”
Cochran’s eyes swam in fear and doubt.
“But it wasn’t me,” he said. “It was you.
I’ve never done anything brave in my life. My
mother was the one with all the guts.”
Carson felt a hot wave of anger surging up
from his stomach.
“Looks like with her owning all the guts in
the family, she didn’t leave you enough room
to grow your own,” he said. “She may have
thought she did you a big favor standing up
for you all your life. Could be she did what
she thought she had to do. But living under
her shadow twisted you, Cochran. You never
learned how to be your own person. You’ve got
no confidence. Maybe you can blame her. It’s
easy to blame somebody else. Or maybe you
have only yourself to blame. But now it’s your
time to stand up. Stand up for yourself. It’s your
time to be a man, if for no other reason than
that son of yours.”
He let go of Cochran and the man staggered
back against the wall, pushing the hair away
from his eyes. He stood for a moment staring
at Carson.
“What do you care?” he asked. “You got
paid. This was just a job to you. What do you
care about me and Jory?”
Carson didn’t say anything.
Cochran peered at him through a haze.
“He got to you, didn’t he?” he asked.
Carson felt like hitting him. “Let’s just say
I’d hate to see all the trouble I went to go to
waste.”
Cochran smoothed his hair back and took
a deep breath. He sat down and buttoned up
his jumpsuit.
“All right, Carson,” he said. “For Jory’s sake,
I’ll try. Will that satisfy you?”
“You’ll do more than try,” Carson said. “I’ll
be leaving here soon. But I’ll keep tabs on you
and the boy. I hear you let him down, I’ll be
back.”
Issue 48, November 2008
This Raygun For Hire:
The Alexander Cochran Affair
by John M. Whalen
Cochran eyes were suddenly clearer. He
didn’t say anything, just gave Carson a look that
meant he understood. He reached out a shaky
hand and pressed one of the buttons on his
desk top. “Miss Brenner, is Jory out there?”
“Yes, Mr. Cochran,” the secretary’s voice
said from a speaker built into the desk.
“Send him in,” Carson said. “You should be proud of him.”
The secretary opened the massive oak door
and Jory Cochran came running in.
“Daddy!” he cried out as he ran. Cochran
came around the desk and swept the boy up
in his arms.
Carson saw the boy’s arms tighten around
Cochran’s neck. Cochran embraced the boy
tightly, and there were tears on his cheeks.
Carson remembered how it had felt when the
boy had hugged him the same way in the plaza
on Par-Kapa. Cochran was right. The boy had
gotten to him.
When Jory was done hugging his father, he
turned around and looked at Carson curiously.
Carson felt suddenly alone and lonely as the
boy’s eyes moved over him with suspicion and
perhaps a touch of fear.
“Who’s this man?” he asked. “What’s he
doing here?”
Cochran put the boy down. “He’s a–a friend,
Jory,” he said. “I’d like you to go over and shake
hands with Mr. Carson.”
Carson bent down. The boy’s hand was so
small it seemed to disappear as he shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carson,” Jory
Ray Gun Revival magazine
Pg. 80
said. As close as they had been for a moment
on Tracor, they were strangers now.
John M. Whalen
“Nice to meet you too, Jory,” Carson said.
“Did you know my daddy’s a hero?” Jory
John M. Whalen’s stories have appeared
asked.
in the Flashing Swords E-zine, pulpand-
“That’s what I hear,” Carson answered. dagger.com, and Universe Pathways
magazine. His Jack Brand stories are a
“I am.”
staple here at Ray Gun Revival maga-
Carson looked down into the boy’s pure zine.
blue eyes and smiled at him. He looked up
at Cochran and hoped he’d meant what he’d
said. Contact the author here.
“Well, I’ve got to run,” Carson said. “I’ve
got business to attend to. Just stopped by to
say hello to your father.”
“Sorry you can’t stay longer,” Cochran said.
“Maybe next time.”
Carson strode across the office and opened
the big oak door. He looked back and saw
Cochran sitting behind the desk with Jory in his
lap. He thought of that other Alexander who’d
lived thousands of years ago. That Alexander
conquered a fair portion of the people on his
planet. Alexander Cochran had gained power
and position in his world, but was only now,
perhaps, about to make the most important
conquest of his life. He was about to conquer
himself.
Outside the big glass window of Cochran’s
office the skyscrapers of Jun-Tar gleamed in
the sun and air traffic wove snake-like ribbons
of steel in the air. Carson stepped through the
doorway and closed the door behind him.
Issue 48, November 2008
  Pg. 81
RGR Date: October 21, 2008 RGR Date: October 15, 2008
Stealth Sci-Fi
http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.
php?t=2324
If geek stuff is so hip, then why are
two of the season’s biggest scifi hits,
CBS show Eleventh Hour and best-
selling Neal Stephenson novel Anath-
em, adamantly classified as Not
Scifi? Because nerd culture will never
be pop culture. That’s why Borders
slashed its scifi section. And it’s why
JJ Abrams, director of the new Star
Trek movie, denied that it’s for fans
of the scifi franchise, instead telling
Entertainment Weekly that “it’s for
fans of movies.” Successful science
fiction, in other words, is still stealth.
To get your spaceships and freaky
science into the mainstream, you
have to hate yourself just enough
to shove your inner dork into a gym
locker and keep her there.
Stealth science fiction is nothing
new. Creators have been churning
out scifi for decades and calling it
“adventure” or “suspense” or “slip-
stream” or “speculative” or “magic
realism” — anything to get their
stuff shelved in “fiction” or “drama” rather
than “nerdville.” I shouldn’t really pin this
on creators, entirely: Michael Chabon’s The
Yiddish Policemen’s Union was classified
as literature, despite the author’s repeated
protestation that it was science fiction. But
Chabon’s position is a rare one.
Ray Gun Revival magazine
The RGR Time Capsule
October 2008
Sci-Fi news from the Ray Gun Revival forums
Frank Frazetta’s Battlestar Galactica painting
http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2304
A Frank Franzetta conceptual painting for the
original Battlestar Galatica, that’s the Campy
70’s version, not the very good-but-slightly-
long-winded remake. Frank worked on concept
visuals along with chief Star Wars designer
Ralph Mcquarrie.
RGR Date: October 23, 2008
Scalzi Wonders If Mad Scientists Are Maligned
http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=2329
A: Hollow Man is another example:
Scientist starts off as nothing more
than arrogant, and eventually turns
into a murdering psychotic molester.
Just because he becomes invisible?
As if.
Q: Perhaps they were trying to
make a larger statement. You know,
like invisibility is a metaphor for lack
of responsibility, and that lack cor-
rupts judgment.
A: Oh, please. Have you seen Hollow
Man? Suggesting it has metaphor
is a little much, don’t you think?
And again, it just doesn’t track
with reality. I know scientists who
have worked with invisibility. They
haven’t gone nuts.
Q: So you know real invisible men?
A: Of course. There’s one in this
room right now.
Q: That explains all that mysterious
poking.
A: Dieter! Stop that!
(Disembodied Voice): Sorry.
Issue 48, November 2008