Ray Gun Revival Magazine, Issue 02

THRILLING TALES FROM BEYOND THE ETHER July 15, 2006
Galaxy Store
by Scott M. Sandridge

Rest Area
by Tim Baer

The Adventures of the Sky Pirate
The Assassin of Patience Bay, Part One
by Johne Cook

Memory Wipe
Chapter One: The Silver Sun
by Sean T. M. Stiennon

HTTP://RAYGUNREVIVAL.COM Issue 02
Page 2
Table of Contents
Overlord’s Lair.............................................................................................................................................................................................3
Short Fiction: Galaxy Store....................................................................................................................................................................4
Short Fiction: “Rest Area”....................................................................................................................................................................10
Serial: “The Adventures of the Sky Pirate”....................................................................................................................................12
Featured Artist – Erika Green............................................................................................................................................................25
Serial: “Memory Wipe”.......................................................................................................................................................................27
The Jolly RGR............................................................................................................................................................................................43
Overlords (Founders)
Paul Christian Glenn ‐ PR, Sounding Board, Our Strong Right Hand
Lee S. King ‐ Copyeditor, Proofreader, Beloved Nag, Muse
Johne Cook ‐ Art Wrangler, Desktop Publishing, other sundries
Venerable Staff
A.M. Stickel: Senior Proofreader
Mike Loos: Proofreader, Technical Lead – PocketRGR
Taylor Kent: Producer ‐ RGR Podcasts, all things audio, Slushmaster
Scott M. Sandridge: Slushmaster
David Wilhelms: Slushmaster
Walter Rosenfeld: Proofreader
Matthew McConley: Proofreader

Serial Authors
Lee S. King
Paul Christian Glenn
Johne Cook
Sean T. M. Stiennon

Confidante, Mentor, and Site Host
Bill Snodgrass ‐ Double‐edged Publishing, Web‐Net Solutions
Special Thanks:
Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative:, http://www.hatchbox.com
Website: http://raygunrevival.com
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Contact Ray Gun Revival: http://raygunrevival.com/contact
Submissions Guidelines: http://raygunrevival.com/guidelines.html

Cover: “Burning Empires” by archaenon
Original Art, “Takeda’s Strike,” by E. J. Mickels, II http://www.hisart.us/

All content copyright 2006 by Double‐edged Publishing,
a Memphis, Tennessee‐based non‐profit publisher
Ray Gun Revival – Thrilling Tales From Beyond the Ether Issue 02, July 2006
Page 3
Overlord’s Lair
The Death and Resurrection of Space Opera
by Johne (Phy) Cook

With a nod to Mark Twain, the rumors of the death of Space Opera are exaggerated. I've got a 938
page book on my desk right now that explains how and why. It's an impressive work. This thing is a
tome, a boat anchor, a treasure trove of short fiction the likes of which I have not seen in many years.
I've got smaller phone books.

The Space Opera Renaissance (Harwell & Cramer, Tor, 2006) is an anthology unlike any that I've seen.
The anthology starts off by defining what space opera is and what it isn't. For example, 'space opera'
used to be a disparaging term that described 'hacking, grinding, stinking pulp', the worst kind of
formulaic drivel. There was one group that tried to stamp out space opera, and another that tried to
recast it and bring it back. The struggle is fascinating.

After kicking things off, the anthology divides space opera history up into six periods, and provides
representative stories from each. It starts at the beginning, spanning the period between the 1920s,
and features Edmond Hamilton and Leigh Brackett and Jack Williamson. The following sections are the
Draftees (1960s), Transitions / Redefiners (late 70s to late 80s), Volunteers / Revisionaries (early 90s),
Mixed Signals / Categories (late 90s), and Next Wave (21st Century).

The bottom line is that today's space opera isn't what it used to be, and that's probably a good thing. It
is what we used to think of as science fantasy, and that's fine by me. I've written here that today's
space opera comfortably straddles the space between high fantasy and hard sci‐fi.

But I have one problem. When we founded this magazine, we each had the idea that space opera was
in decline and needed to be restored. Imagine my surprise to read that nearly every Hugo award since
the early 80s has gone to a space opera novel. If space opera is enjoying a renaissance as the editors
suggest, why didn't any of us know about it?

A possible answer occurred to me later in the day. Perhaps there are a small percentage of high‐quality
space opera novels that win awards but the majority of sci‐fi novels are something else again. That
might account for longer works, but what about the things that I knew more about. As an editor for a
number of fantasy and sci‐fi e‐zines, I've seen the nature of our slushpile submissions, and they have
been anything but space opera. Maybe what we're looking at is a small but prolific group of novelists,
and the larger majority of authors and stories sail more typical sci‐fi / fantasy waters.

If so, where does that leave us?

It leaves us back where we came in, looking at the fiction landscape around us, seeing a need that isn't
being met, and confident that we can bring something to the table. We aim to hook people on shorter
fiction and provide a publication to see what good, short space opera looks like, and a paying venue at
which to submit that fiction. Instead of just declining stories that don't make our publication, we
actively mentor the authors with anonymous comments from our seasoned staff to help them with the
process of growing as journeymen writers on their way toward becoming successful authors.
Page 4
Short Fiction: Galaxy Store

By Scott M. Sandridge

Gorguth pulled the loader down the main corridor of Wik’s Galaxy Store, his little
furry hands clenched around the plastic cords like they were a lifeline. On the loader’s
platform was a reactor engine twice his size and three times his weight. He gritted his
flat teeth, his floppy ears eclipsing his vision, as he strained his tiny muscles almost to
their limits. The engine’s weight was taking its toll on the platform’s cushion force field
projectors, which were designed only to alleviate friction.
Why couldn’t Wik just buy anti‐grav platforms like everyone else?
“Gor!” His ears trembled at the whiny voice of his boss. The pudgy Amphroid
waved his Aktorian cigar in the direction of Docking Bay Nine. His green eyes bored into
Gorguth. “Move your lazy, furry butt! We can’t keep the customer waiting. He’s been
here three whole minutes for crying out loud!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Gorguth groaned through clenched teeth. Couldn’t
that hairless, bug‐eyed, insect‐eater see how much he was struggling? “I’m not pulling a
feather, you know!”
“If you can’t hack it...” Wik’s tone made clear his intended threat. Gorguth started
pulling harder.
As he passed Wik along the corridor, he heard his boss shout, “We got another
one docking at Five, so be there and ready to get what they need in five minutes!”
Gor looked down the long shaft that led to Nine. There were at least another fifty
paces to the docking bay. “But there’s no way I can get there in—”
“Do it!” Wik shouted. “Or I’ll sell you to a Carnar!” With a wicked grin, he added,
“They consider your kind delicacies, you know.”
Gor’s body started trembling. He lowered his head and ears and said, “Yes, sir.”
“That’s better,” Wik muttered past his cigar as he took a puff from it. “Don’t be
late.”
Gor reached Docking Bay Five ten minutes later, his fur all soaked with sweat. At
least it was an empty loader he had to pull all the way from Nine. As the transparent
door to Five slid open, he braced himself for the shout he knew was forthcoming. “Gor!
You’re late!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Gor replied, ears trembling. “I—”
“No excuses!” Wik’s squeal was higher pitched than the last one, and Gor could
see that the two new customers were holding their hands against their ears. “How many
times have I told you not to keep the customers waiting?”
Page 5
Gor quickly sized the two customers up. They were about twice his height and
were of a species he hadn’t seen before. There wasn’t much fur on them except on top
of their heads. They wore flight suits made from some kind of silver fabric, possibly
worn to protect their vulnerable skin; Gor had heard of some species who wore clothing
primarily for status, but he figured most of them were obviously extinct. The laser guns
magnetically attached to their hip pads suggested predatory and/or territorial
instincts—that observation made Gor’s eyes turn yellow and dilate. “G‐g‐good day to
you. You’re not hungry, are you? Ah, I mean...”
Wik sneered at Gor, and then he turned back around to greet the two new
customers with a smile, saying, “How may we be of service?”
The taller and stronger of the two—Gor assumed it was the female—had small
stubble of neatly trimmed fur around her mouth and on her chin. Her skin looked
slightly cooked to a reddish‐brown tint (too much heat exposure, Gor thought, a sure
sign of suicidal tendencies). She adjusted the galactic translator in her right ear, and
then spoke in a voice lower in pitch than most females. “We need a replacement for a
nuclear drive.”
“What a cheap drive!” Gor blurted out. His ears flopped forward due to Wik’s
rebuking glare. “Uh, I mean, ah...”
Wik cut in, “What he means to say is why settle for such an outdated drive? We
can install a brand new M/A ramjet drive for only 57,000 IPCs.”
The female scratched her head. “We don’t really need that kind. We jump from
place to place with a H.A.M.”
“A what?” Wik asked.
The female smiled. “The type of drive that requires throwing swine through a
ramjet.”
Gore and Wik both gave the female a blank stare followed by two eye‐blinks.
They both found themselves asking simultaneously, “Swine? What type of fuel is that?”
“I’m just messing with you. It means Hyperdrive Activation Mechanism.”
“Which is in need of a check‐up,” the blue‐eyed male added in. His pale
complexion showed that he was a proper nocturnal creature. But there were some
things about the male that disturbed Gor: his voice was a little high‐pitched for a male,
and it looked like he was wearing some form of ritual paint around his eyes and on his
lips. What a strange species these creatures were! A warning glance from Wik kept Gor
silent about it.
“We can probably help you with that,” said Wik. “A H.A.M checkup will cost you
around 5,000 IPCs.”
The female whistled and said, “Damn!”
Page 6
Gor noticed that Wik interpreted the exclamation as a sign of excitement, “A real
bargain, I know, but we here at Galaxy Store are all about bargain prices. Nowhere else
in the Galaxy will you find a cheaper price for an M/A Ramjet.”
“Do you have cheaper drives?” The male asked.
Wik hid his disappointment well; Gor knew that employees like him would be
feeling it for the rest of the stellar day. But for the moment Wik’s fake smile remained.
“Well, you can always go for Plasma Propulsion Drive. They’re cleaner than nuclear, but
you still run the risk of a bad reaction if hit in the right spot.”
“As opposed to an M/A reaction?” The male asked with a sniff.
Wik chose to ignore him. “A Plasma Drive will cost you around 30,000 IPCs.”
“Would you settle for 15,000?” the female asked while scratching her chin
stubble.
The hairy feelers on Wik’s head bobbed forward, then straightened back up.
“20,000 is the lowest I can go.”
“Deal.”
“Done. Now, if the two of you will come with me, we can begin the IPC
transaction in my office.”
A sideways glance from Wik told Gor that it was time to go get the drive. He
brushed his ears away from his eyes and hurried off. On his way out he heard a brief
conversation between the two customers.
“You coming, Darling?”
“I’ll wait here...dear.”
On the way to Merchandise Storage, Gor muttered under his breath, “Gor, do
this. Gor, do that. Gor, you’re late. Gor, kiss my green shiny—”
He reached the elevator platform that led down into the storage deck. He swept
his hand over the recognition console, and the elevator descended down a tube flooded
with crimson light.
If only he had enough money to buy his own ship, he could get out of this place.
All he had for savings was 5,000 IPCs, and it had taken him three years to save up even
that much. He thought about stowing away on one of the ships, but remembering the
penalty for getting caught made his fur frizz out. If only buying passage on a ship wasn’t
illegal for employees.
The descent ended, and he stepped off the platform. He loaded the plasma
reactor, then returned to Bay Five and went straight to work. As he worked, he noticed
a couple armaments on the ship. Ah well, none of his business.
The male customer began to ask him questions about his family, his job, where he
lived, what species he was—the usual chitchat questions (he had no family, he lived
Page 7
where he worked, and he was Tedalyon). He asked one of his own, “Do all the males on
your planet have pale skin?”
“What?” The customer asked. The corners of his lips turned upwards, and the
sight made Gor quiver.
“I‐I apologize if I offended you,” Gor said.
The customer let out a strange series of short, repetitive gasping sounds from his
mouth that sounded like an Amphroid in heat, then said, “No offense taken. I’m female.
My partner, Will, he’s definitely male.”
“Then,” Gor asked, “You’re not angry?”
“No, of course not,” she answered.
Gor purred with relief, and said, “My name’s Gorguth, but you can call me Gor.”
“Janell,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you, Gor.”
She held out her hand. Gor asked, “What’s that for?”
“Where I come from,” she answered, “this is how we greet new friends.”
“Oh,” Gor held out a furry paw. She clasped her hand around his and shook his
arm up and down. “You know what that means on my world?”
“What?”
“Consent to mate.”
Janell was left speechless.
Gor went back to work.
A short time passed before Will returned with Wik. The Amphroid was grumbling
under his breath—not a good sign as far as Gor was concerned. As the two reached the
ship, Will shrugged his shoulders and said to Janell, “Would you believe it? No financing
plan.”
Wik added, “The deal’s off! Gor, take our reactor back to Merchandise Storage!”
“B‐but I,” Gor stammered. His ears flopped over his eyes. “I already installed it.”
Wik’s bluish‐green cheeks turned purple, and his voice rose in pitch. “Then take it
back out and put the old one back in!”
The Amphroid balled his fists and stomped away, muttering and cursing. Gor
threw down his plasma welder and groaned. “So much for taking a lunch break.”
Janell folded her arms and tapped one foot as she regarded her partner. “Now
look at the mess you got us into. Any chance we can get a nuclear drive instead?”
Will shook his head. “He wants 15,000 for the drive, and he’s adding installment
payments now: 2,000 per.”
Gor’s ears perked up. He climbed down the ship’s landing gear and asked, “How
much were you short before the installment payments?”
Will scratched his head and answered, “5,000. Why?”
Page 8
Gor’s fur quivered. “Any room for a third crew member? I have fifty years’
experience as a mechanical engineer, and my race is immune to most forms of
radiation.”
“We could use a good mechanic,” said Janell as she gave Will a cold stare. “Who
knows what else might break down on our ‘brand new DDC‐7 Cargo Vessel’ again?”
Gor clapped his hands and leaped in the air. “I can have 5,000 sent to your
account in a few minutes.”
Gor took off running. Janell watched him depart, then looked at Will. “I’ll
negotiate with Wik this time.”
Will shrugged and smiled, “Whatever you say, Dar—”
Janell’s fist got him right in the gut, knocking his wind out. “Call me Darling one
more time, and I’ll aim lower.”
When Will could breathe again, he started to say, “But your name is French
for—”
But he was already curled up on the floor before he could finish saying, “Darling.”

#

“No deal!” Wik yelled, shaking his fists. “That useless ball of fur has no right to
transfer his funds to your account! It goes against company regulations!”
Gor’s fur quivered as he watched the exchange. I’ll get sent to a Carnar for sure,
he thought.
Janell crossed her arms, frowning. “And what regulations would those be?”
“W‐why, it’s in the employee contract he signed,” said Wik. He jammed a stubby
finger down onto his desk to drive home his point. “No employee can transfer pay funds
granted by the company without written approval by his station supervisor.”
Janell rolled her eyes. “Why pay them at all, then?”
“Look, I don’t care what kind of slave operation you have going here.” She leaned
forward, placing her hands on Wik’s desk, and looked him in the eyes. “All we want is to
get off this station and back into space. Now, you have two options: you can grant the
little fuzz‐bucket permission to transfer his funds into our account, or...” She patted her
holstered laser gun and smiled. “We can do this the unpleasant way. Your choice.”

#

Page 9
The DDC‐7 exited the docking station of Wik’s Galaxy Store that orbited Planet Y
with one passenger more than it had when it arrived. Janell punched in the navigation
coordinates that would take them to their next destination.
Their new partner sat at the communication console, sending his letter of
resignation after‐the‐fact.
As the ship prepared for the jump, Gor asked, “So, what do you two do for a
living?”
“Well, uh, we,” Will stumbled over his words. “We’re independent archeologists.
We kind of hunt other people’s—”
“What he’s trying to say is,” Janell cut in, “we’re pirates. We search out dead
planets that once had life on them and take whatever valuables we can find. Then we
sell them to the highest bidder. If we’re lucky, we find a contracted excavation team, let
them do all the work for us, then rob them blind.”
“Oh,” said Gor. He finished his letter, then punched SEND. “Beats working at
Galaxy Store.”

THE END

Scott M. Sandridge
Scott M. Sandridge was born in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and grew up in Corbin, Kentucky. He now resides
in Holland, Ohio, where everybody talks funny.
He has loved writing since early childhood, but didn’t get serious with it until 2000. He enrolled in Long
Ridge Writers’ Group in February 2001. His first short story, “Treecutter,” was published in Issue 4 of
The Sword Review in July 2005. He has since gone on to publish more short stories and write reviews for
Tangent Online. He is also a member of the Critters Writers’ Workshop, a columnist for The Sword
Review, and is a Slushmaster (Submissions Editor) for Ray Gun Revival.
Page 10
Short Fiction: “Rest Area”
by Tim Baer
Fiawól throttled back the engines as the rig settled to the ground at his selected
rest area. “Oh, my ancient kidneys,” he said. “That was a long and tiring drive.” He
flipped a few switches and listened in satisfaction as the rig made its various hydraulic
hissing noises while deploying its stabilizing gear. Groaning and stretching as his muscles
complained, he got up out of his gel‐ride seat and started aft to the exit hatch.
Letting seven of his eyes skim the tattletale lights on the air‐quality board inside
the airlock, he slapped one tentacle on the open‐hatch switch. Taking a cautious sniff of
the air for obnoxious odors, he stepped off the rig and onto the green foliage beneath.
Squinting in the bright light of this planet’s young star, he cast his gaze about
looking for the local life forms. He knew they were technologically advanced—he’d had
a tough time using his guidance system on the way in due to all the radio interference. It
was bad enough with all the x‐rays and other random junk this young star was throwing
out, but this planet fairly bristled with stray radio waves! He made a mental note to tell
his dispatcher to label this section of space as a yellow caution zone because of it.
“Ah! A Terran!” he said as he spotted a creature standing behind a white picket
fence. He could tell it was blatantly a female mammalian. He also noticed her jaws were
working non‐stop, grinding away at something in her mouth.
“Boker tov,” he called out to her, waving the polite number of tentacles for a
greeting (three!) as he strode across the foliage. The Terran made no vocal response.
She simply stood there gazing blankly at him as she chewed. “Yes, yes—very polite. I
should not have bothered you while you were eating. I understand totally.” He cast his
eyes about trying to locate another Terran who was not quite so busy. Finding none, he
returned his attention to this female. “That’s fine—don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s
not important. I was just craving a little conversation while I stretched my weary body. I
just drove in from Skisoderkin and needed a little rest break.”
The Terran continued chewing, her wide‐eyed gaze never leaving Fiawól.
“Yes, a long drive.” He looked around again, but he was alone with this Terran. It
started to cross his mind that there might be a language barrier between himself and—
what was this race called? Homely Gradients? He shrugged. It didn’t matter.
He noticed a few small flying things up in the sky that flitted one way, then the
other, all the while making sharp chirping noises. Then he noticed some other flying
creatures, small and black, that took delight in swarming around a pile of something
mushy lying on the grass. Surely those could not be the race that caused the radio
interference? No, it had to be this large creature. The large ones were usually the smart
Page 11
ones. It took a large head to hold an adequate brain to attain the level of technology
needed for that much radio interference.
His eyes were drawn back to his beloved rig—a Pakkar “Super Hauler.” This trip
would make possible the last payment on it and then it would be his, free and clear.
Then he could start to earn some serious manna! But right now he’d wasted enough
time talking to this polite Terran. It was time to get back to work. He only got paid while
the rig was moving.
“Well, I don’t mean to keep you from your meal. Like I said, it’s been a long ride
and I just wanted to get out and stretch.” He wiggled the polite number of tentacles for
a farewell (nine!) along with the proper grimace to his oral sphincter and strode back to
the rig.
The Terran never said a word. She just stood in her pasture calmly chewing her
cud, waiting to be brought in to the barn for her morning milking.

Tim Baer
Tim is a freelance author with several stories published in various electronic magazines on the internet.
When he is not busy pounding out more stories on his laptop, he is kept occupied taking care of his cats,
the dogs, his wife and kids, and serving the Lord—not quite in that order, but don’t tell the cats!
This story first appeared in the October 2005 issue of The Sword Review.

Page 12
Serial: “The Adventures of the Sky Pirate”

Episode One: “The Assassin of Patience Bay,” Part One
by Johne Cook

A shadow passed overhead as the two young men carrying baskets faced off
against each other on the top of the hill high above a pristine South Seas island bay.
“I must pass,” said a tanned young man, his wavy black hair loosely tied with a
cord at the nape of his neck. “You may as well step aside.”
“Hold on, Vennah! I do not yield the path,” said the other, whose formal mode of
speech was somewhat diminished by his bare feet and untucked shirt.
The first copped as dramatic a pose as one can while carrying a basket. “I am
older. Age goes before vitality.”
The second remained resolute. “Your creaking joints and snapping hips are no
excuse to act the lout. Step aside yourself or face the wrath of my blade for your
impudence!”
“You will rue the day...something something!”
“And likewise!”
As one, they threw their baskets to the ground, drew their weapons from rope
tied at their waists, and saluted. They circled each other for a moment, and then the
first leapt forward. They started slashing at each other, fighting back and forth over the
little hilltop, showing more competence than you might expect for young men of their
age.
The fight was proceeding vigorously when the second combatant drew up
suddenly and stared past the shoulder of the other at the bay laid out before them. He
started to point. “Hey, Flynn—look, we’ve OW!”
Halting his attack and joining his friend, Flynn said, “Sorry, Sandle,” and turned to
look for himself where he was pointing. “The soaring bird?” he asked.
Sandle fixed Flynn with a droll look. “In the bay. Someone’s sailing in, and it looks
like they’re alone! A stranger has come to Patience Bay!”
“Other than the packet ship that comes every six weeks, they’re all strangers who
wind up here,” Flynn said, giving Sandle a good‐natured elbow to the ribcage. He spied
the greying man in a greying craft sail into the Abbey’s remote bay down below and
watched the ragged little craft approach the dock.
“Doesn’t look like much of a boat,” commented Sandle, resting the stick he used
as a sword lightly on one shoulder.
Page 13
“What do you mean?” asked Flynn.
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean’? The dingy sail, the weathered paint—I’ve
seen better rowboats.”
Flynn took it all in, cupping his hands over his forehead to shield his eyes. “You
just have to know what you’re looking for, my young friend,” he said.
“It looks pretty humble from here,” Sandle muttered, idly twirling his stick.
“It looks like freedom to me,” Flynn said, softly.
After tying up, the stranger climbed up on the dock, stretched, threw a rucksack
over his shoulder, and started hiking up the gravel path toward the white stone
buildings that comprised the Abbey proper.
“Come on,” said Flynn, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “The vintner will have
our heads if we return empty‐handed.”
They ‘sheathed’ their sticks, retrieved their baskets, and started walking toward
the vines planted along the side of the hill, Flynn striding straight ahead and Sandle
strolling behind.
Some time later, as they were picking grapes in the mid‐afternoon sun, the
visitor’s head poked above the horizon as he hiked up the rocky trail.
Sandle began to nod, but the moment passed and he pretended he’d dropped
something in the soil. Flynn noticed the stranger’s piercing blue eyes flit over, sizing up
the two as he strode toward them. Flynn frankly returned the stranger’s scrutiny
without malice, without flinching.
“Welcome, stranger,” Flynn called. The stranger smiled, but Flynn pressed on.
“Ven, what is your ship?”
“The Lone Wolf,” said the stranger, his voice clear, cultured, and firm, sounding
more like he belonged in palace halls than on a backwater island. Then, sketching a
quick salute, the stranger continued toward the buildings.
“You notice anything about the visitor?” Flynn asked Sandle, watching the man
enter the Abbey’s courtyard.
“Other than he’s got a beggar’s boat?” said Sandle.
Flynn said “Something about that man’s bearing goes before him. His stature is
different somehow. Almost...”
“Destitute?” suggested Sandle.
Flynn turned to his friend. “Regal,” he said. He then turned and looked at the
courtyard. The Abbot trotted out of the building to receive the stranger, bowed deeply
before the man, and then quickly ushered him into the cool of the shaded interior.
The eyes of a distant observer watched the watchers.
#
Page 14
As they carried the fruits of their labor to the vintner’s hut, Sandle said, “You’ve
been awful quiet this afternoon. You can’t be up to any good.”
“Hm? Oh.” Flynn smiled self‐consciously. “Just thinking.”
“That’s never good,” observed Sandle. “Let me guess—it’s about the boat.”
Flynn just grinned.
Sandle’s eyebrows arched as an idea hit him. “Tell me that you’re not concocting
schemes to ‘acquire’ that boat and sail away somewhere.”
Flynn resisted but broke out in a full‐on smile.
Sandle’s eyes narrowed. “But you know how much trouble you’d get in with the
Abbot if you did, so you’re already past the phase where you’re considering that with
any seriousness.”
Flynn’s smile became softer, an effect that seemed like an admission, if not a
confession.
Sandle hitched his basket up. “Uh huh. And how many schemes did you consider
before you thought better of it?”
“Just the three,” he said, his eyes dancing.
Sandle placed a grape between his front teeth and popped it, squirting Flynn with
the errant juice, prompting a good‐natured shove from Flynn. “So you’re sticking around
for awhile, but that won’t last forever. It’s only a matter of time before you make your
break and sail away from this rock at the ripe old age of, what, fifteen?”
Flynn chuckled but didn’t confirm the statement. “Would you miss me if I left?”
Sandle snorted. “Hark, no! I’ll get your bed and first shot at any girls who come
here!”
Flynn laughed merrily, perhaps at the idea of girls visiting Patience Bay. Then,
sobering slightly, Flynn said, “I bet he wouldn’t miss me.”
“The Abbot?” Sandle snickered. “That all depends on how difficult you are at
evening meals!”
Flynn idly brushed at the grape seeds sticking to his chest. “I don’t try to be
difficult. I just can’t explain how I’ll be completely calm one moment and then he’ll say
something that will feel like a skewer sharpened and waiting just for me.”
They were passing by the stone buildings. Instead of answering, Sandle just
motioned with his stubby chin toward the topic of the conversation who was standing
high on a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Seeing them look his way, the Abbot
turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled back through shadowed arches
and into the Abbey.
The two young men exchanged a significant glance and kept walking toward the
vintner’s hut.
Page 15
#
A second ship made port later the same day. The wiry little man with no
personality accepted help tying up, and then stepped off his boat onto the dock, tipping
the dockhand generously.
“Two in one day,” said the dockhand. The little man smiled a smile that never
reached his dead little eyes and was walking away from the dockhand when he heard,
“Can’t remember the last time we had two in one day.”
The little man stopped, turned, and returned back to the dockhand. He said, “Is
that right? Hey, look over here for a moment,” and dropped a silvery cord in his right
hand.
The dockhand drew close. “What is it?”
Moving faster than the eye could see, he wrapped the cord around the
dockhand’s neck and that was the last anyone heard from the dockhand.
It was twilight when the little man walked through the deserted huts toward the
path up to the Abbey. He turned a corner and a young man with bare feet and a partially
untucked shirt cruised past, bearing a fishing rod.
Sandle greeted him with a friendly wave. “Welcome, stranger!” He cruised past
and spoke to himself, “Wow, two in one day.” Then he turned the darkened corner.
The little man stopped and looked over his shoulder, a silvery cord dropping into
his hand. He crept silently back to the corner to look around, but couldn’t see where the
young man went.
The little man waited for some time for some sign of where the other had gone,
but there were any number of little huts around there. Finally, he started trotting
quietly toward the Abbey, vanishing into the shadows of the jungle like a wraith. He
moved like he thought he was unseen, unobserved by human eyes.
Half of that was true.
#
Flynn stopped by Sandle’s room before dinner but he was nowhere to be found.
His brows furrowed, and then he made his way to the great hall with its open curving
arches at the front and three sides. The tables were set in the center with the master on
an elevated dais that backed up to the kitchen on the other side of the West wall.
Flynn took his normal seat at one of the outlier tables. Sandle wasn’t there,
either. He was deep in thought when he noticed the Abbot wave for him to approach
the master table.
He waited an insolent moment before pushing himself up from the table and
presenting himself to the men seated at the master table up on the dais.
“This is the young man himself,” the Abbot said, a man of medium build and a
deep, resonant voice.
Page 16
“We’ve met,” said the stranger.
The Abbot continued. “Cooper Flynn, I’d like to introduce Tuy Meklanek, an old
friend of mine just in from Borney Bay. He’ll be staying with us for a little while, a few
weeks. I need to leave for a short trip and have asked Ven Meklanek if he would oversee
your lessons in my absence.”
Flynn stood and crossed his arms. “Which is it,” he said, looking fiercely at the
Abbot, “‘a little while,’ or ‘a few weeks’?”
A brittle silence settled over the table, but the newcomer’s quiet laugh broke the
mood. “My dear Abbot, I see what you mean. This one has some spirit.”
Giving the Abbot a black look, Flynn strode forward, holding out his palm to the
newcomer in greeting.
“Ven Meklanek, I am Cooper Flynn, at your service,” he said.
“Call me ‘Tuy’,” said the stranger as he rose to return the salutation. “It is a
pleasure to meet any student of the Abbot’s.”
Meklanek kept the contact a moment longer than was usual, bringing Flynn’s
attention back to him. “We start tomorrow afternoon,” noted Meklanek, and Flynn
grudgingly nodded.
Flynn turned to go back to his seat. He missed seeing the Abbot mask a thoughtful
grin behind his cup.
#
Flynn was awakened in the night by an urgent tug on his arm. He blinked in the
light of a candle thrust far too close to his face. The flame stuttered eerily in the breeze
from the open window.
“What is it,” rasped Flynn.
“Two in one day!” Sandle whispered loudly in his ear. “There is another ship come
to harbor, and this one carried a great black bird of death!”
Flynn rolled over sleepily. “What are you saying? That the appearance of the...
what was it again?”
“A great crow, or maybe a raven. It was really big, a Fowl Fatale!”
Flynn groaned. “You’ve been reading too many pulp tales from the mail ship.”
Flynn sighed and tried rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “How big is ‘big’?” he said blearily.
Sandle paced around as he chattered, gesturing wildly with the candle, casting the
craziest whirling shadows around the room. “When it hopped down from the cabin to
the rail, it looked like its wingspan was better than six feet if it was an inch.”
Flynn looked impressed. “An albatross, then.”
Sandle stopped and whirled to face his friend. “A black albatross?”
Page 17
Flynn yawned and lay his head back down. “It could be a big, black hummingbird
for all I care. So tell me, what meaning do you read into the arrival of this winged
harbinger?”
Sandle sighed dramatically and spoke in a sing‐songy voice. “The great black bird
is the manifestation of doom. That ship brings death of some sort.”
Flynn cocked his head. “Like bad meatloaf?”
Sandle reached over and gripped Flynn’s shoulder in his excitement. “Like an
assassin perhaps, or even women!”
Flynn shot him a look, and then snorted. “Go back to bed, Sandle.” With that, he
rolled back over and pulled his thin pillow over his head.
“You’ll see,” said Sandle, pointing at Flynn. “Somebody’s hours are marked, and I
aim to be ready. I’m carrying a real sword until that bird leaves.”
With his head buried under the pillow, Flynn waved his hand in dismissal. Sandle
rolled his eyes, took his lamp, and his theories, and left.
Flynn lay in the dark for a few moments, and then pulled his head out from under
the pillow. Looking carefully (and perhaps sheepishly) around the darkened room, he
quietly got up and closed the window.
#
After a dawn breakfast, Flynn sparred with Sandle until he was taken aside by
Thannon, the Weapons Master. They bantered while dueling, as was Thannon’s custom.
Starting a classic Harki attack, Thannon said, “Did you get in some practice
working out that inside corkscrew yesterday afternoon?”
Beating aside each attack, Flynn managed to say, “I was theoretically picking
grapes...but we got in a couple of hours of sparring while waiting...for the visitor to
make port and get up to the Abbey. Hah!”
“En garde!” yelled Thannon, and stamped his way towards Flynn, who parried and
stepped out of the way. “Who was the stranger?”
“Weren’t you at dinner?”
“I was looking for Feldt. He went missing yesterday late afternoon just before
dinner.”
Flynn ducked one swing and hopped over another before launching a counter,
their practice sticks going click‐click‐click in the quiet of the early morning. “Some
functionary from the distant mainland...” he said. “He’s going to be conducting my
afternoon lessons in the Abbot’s absence.”
Thannon darted in and tried to slap Flynn’s stick out of his hands but Flynn’s grip
was unyielding. Flynn pushed him back and launched a fiery counterattack. “The Abbot’s
going away?” said Thannon. “Did he say where?”
Page 18
“I was too relieved that I would be given a reprieve from the old wind‐bag that I
didn’t...OW!” Flynn held his arm where Thannon had rapped it.
“There is a reason that form is ‘proper’,” observed Thannon sternly. “You are free
to do whatever you can accomplish in this world, but I tell you that you ignore propriety
at your peril.” Thannon fixed Flynn with a significant look. “And by that, I mean respect
for your elders as well as how you present a blade. The principle is the same in both
cases.”
Flynn’s eyes flashed but he composed himself. “I apologize, Master Thannon.
Sandle woke me during the night trying to tell me something about the arrival of
another ship.”
Thannon’s eyes narrowed briefly, and then he gestured with his hand. “Proper
form prevails in the face of carelessness or fatigue. That’s why I ingrain it so early.
Again!”
After a fiery exchange, Flynn managed to flick his stick inside and rap the Master’s
‘sword’ out of his hand. Thannon smiled a humorless smile and came back in the next
few exchanges to expose no fewer than four weaknesses in Flynn’s form. Flynn held up
his hand in surrender and half‐bowed to the Weapons Master. After that, the remainder
of the session proceeded along a more typical track.
They went back and forth for another half hour and then stopped for a mug of
water in the mid‐morning sun.
“You are progressing quickly,” acknowledged Thannon. “Despite the Abbot’s
misgivings concerning you, you clearly have potential with a blade if you so desire. Have
you given any further thought with regard to a trade?”
Flynn had a faraway look in his eyes. Then he blinked and looked at Thannon, who
waited patiently. “Hm? No, I have no desires other than leaving this island.”
“You don’t like it here?”
“It’s a pleasant enough prison, I guess,” said Flynn as he gestured around at the
island around them, “but I want to get out into the world and follow in the wake of my
father. I have a feeling there is something unfinished about his death. Who knows? After
that... Perhaps Ven Meklanek can suggest something when he instructs me this
afternoon.”
On hearing that name, Thannon’s head snapped around, and his indolent focus
suddenly came to bear entirely on Flynn.
“Is that who arrived on the sailboat yesterday?”
“The first one, yes,” Flynn said, carefully.
Thannon looked at him for a long moment. “Time for lunch,” the Weapons Master
said abruptly, dismissing Flynn, who left Thannon deep in thought.
#
Page 19
After a light lunch in the coolness of the great hall, Flynn made his way outside
and up the stone stairs to the balcony and then down to the intimate library where the
Abbot typically attempted training, one of many little havens of knowledge scattered
around the Abbey. Flynn found Meklanek there, paging through dusty tomes.
Flynn rapped lightly on the doorjamb. “Ven Meklanek, I am here.”
Meklanek turned around holding a leather‐bound volume with parchment pages;
light from the open window spilled across the page as he stroked his salt‐and‐pepper
bearded chin.
“Tuy,” he said, introducing himself again and gesturing toward a chair. “May I call
you Cooper?”
Flynn stood his ground. “‘Cooper’ is a barrel‐maker. Most people just call me
‘Flynn.’ Some here call me...other things.”
Tuy laughed to himself. “Flynn it is, then.” He replaced the book and then walked
around the desk. “You know, I like books as well as any man and better than most, but
what do you say we take this outside for now. Maybe you can show me a little of the
island.”
Flynn raised his eyebrows in boredom but sketched a courtesy bow and gestured
toward the door.
#
They passed the vintner’s hut and Flynn stopped long enough to grab a broad
vegetation blade which he holstered at his waist. “Where do you want to go?”
Tuy walked to the rocky outcropping overlooking the jungle below, then turned
and waved his hand negligently. “Around,” he said.
Flynn snickered dryly. “That won’t take long,” he said.
Flynn led the way along the rocky, windswept hilltop, through orchards and small
garden plots, finally clearing a path and leading the way down through lush hillsides.
Tuy asked, “So how did you come to live on this island?”
Flynn didn’t answer, but Tuy waited patiently. They came to a shallow, fast‐
running stream. Flynn spoke over his shoulder, “The water here is clear and drinkable,”
proceeding to demonstrate the point. Tuy followed suit. “I’ve read it’s because the
volcanic substrata acts as a filter. Or, it could be because Cyl loves his people and cares
for them. I’ve heard that, too.” Flynn looked at Tuy to see his reaction, but the older
man’s expression was patient and neutral. “All I know is that this water is good,” said
Flynn, defensively.
Tuy said, “I noticed that the Abbey has an unusually extensive library of rare and
esoteric books.”
Flynn grunted and nodded, then hopped across the stream and started hacking at
greenery again.
Page 20
Keeping up, Tuy tried again. “Do you read any of them?”
Flynn stopped and wiped his brow with his arm. “I do,” he said. “It is one of the
only things that keeps me here. I learned about them almost by accident. When I was a
boy, I received frequent light whippings for what they called my ‘lack of faith’ and what I
called ‘being a boy’—I hadn’t actually done anything wrong, just asked questions. Of
course, those were the days when they whipped themselves for their own thoughts, and
I just thought they liked to hit things. It didn’t do much for my opinion of almighty Cyl
but it toughened me up. Then one day I deliberately stole something—mostly because I
could—and wound up in the Abbot’s library. Half a dozen of them chased me into the
room, but when the door finally opened, it was the Abbot who came in, and by himself.
I’d picked the Jodkins out at random and was sitting reading it at his desk and in his
chair when he came in. He walked slowly to the table and saw what I was doing and
whom I was reading.
“‘Do you understand that?’, he’d asked. ‘I just started it,’ I replied, ‘but, yes, I
understand it so far.’ He nodded once to himself. He looked at the desk where the item
I’d stolen was resting. He gestured toward it. “Are you done with that?” I thought a
moment, and then grunted. He picked it up, turned, and returned to the door. On the
way out, he stopped and said, ‘If you ever have any questions about the Jodkins, feel
free to ask me.’ I nodded, and he left again, closing the door behind him. The libraries
became my sanctuary after that, and they never struck me again.”
Tuy smiled. “And do you understand the Jodkins now?”
Flynn turned and looked at him. “He’s very wise but is too impressed with his own
wisdom. He would have been more impressive if he’d had it dictated instead of writing
it in his own ornate hand, but I suppose that’s why the volume is so precious.”
Tuy said, “It was my great honor to spend time in the libraries in New Briton. I
know of a Jodkins there where he did just that, and it is, by all accounts, a more
accessible work, but I think you may have the more scholarly volume here, if my sources
are accurate.”
Flynn looked at him. “If I’m ever there, I’ll be sure to look it up, not that I think it
would answer my ultimate questions.”
“And those are?”
Flynn just smiled.
Flynn resumed his trek and hacked his way clear until they came to an established
path heading gradually down the slope. They followed it in silence until they suddenly
came out of the shadows of the trees and found themselves on a spectacular expanse of
white sand and crystal blue water. The shoreline meandered sedately back to the left
and right, revealing a broad, curving beach.
Page 21
“Behold, the pristine beaches of Patience Bay!” he exclaimed, and then added,
“not that the monks ever make it down here to enjoy them.”
They walked out onto the sand where Tuy removed his shoes and stockings, and
they waded along in the shallows of the ocean. Flynn pointed out various fish in the
shallow water, then removed his loose cotton shirt and ran toward the waves, diving
headlong into the surf. He started swimming with ease out toward a tiny island a couple
of hundred yards off shore.
Flynn was over halfway there when Tuy powered by him, startling him. Flynn put
on a burst of speed, catching up, and kept a ferocious pace until they reached the island.
They staggered ashore at the same time, dripping wet, and both started laughing. Tuy
was a little winded, but recovered his breath quickly enough.
“You are full of surprises, aren’t you,” said Flynn, breathing heavily, and then he
broke out into a grin.
Tuy said, “That’s to my advantage in my line of work,” and then mock‐bowed.
“You’ll have to tell me what you do sometime,” said Flynn, thoughtfully.
Tuy just smiled.
#
On their way back, Flynn and Tuy walked through a courtyard through a flock of
chickens. Flynn started running around, wielding his wood switch, and chasing the
chickens hither and yon with great glee. Tuy leaned against a stone wall and watched
Flynn running and ducking, dueling with the chickens.
Flynn rapped one solidly on the back, causing it to stumble and squawk. “Aha!
You’re dead!” he said, face flushed and grinning.
Tuy coaxed the nervous bird over with feed and picked it up, stroking it to calm it.
“You think that killing is exciting business, eh?” said Tuy, casually.
Flynn struck a pose. “Only when necessary, of course, but a man must do what a
man must do.”
Stroking the chicken in his lap and looking Flynn in the eye, Tuy twisted its neck,
the thick, rubbery snap echoing in the courtyard. The chicken flopped over and
shuddered. Flynn’s eyes went wide.
Tuy stood and gave it to Flynn, who dropped his switch in the transfer and held
the twitching chicken in stiff, trembling hands.
“Killing is never glamorous,” said Tuy, softly, “even when it is necessary.” He
picked up the switch and gave it to Flynn, who held it in one hand like it was alive.
“Now, if you’ll take that bird to Cook, we can have chicken for dinner.” He clapped Flynn
on the shoulder and left him there with a switch held awkwardly in one hand and a dead
chicken still twitching in the other.
#
Page 22
The following day, it was late afternoon when they made their way around the far
east side of the little island and approached the docks.
“You must be a decent sailor to make it all the way here in that little boat,”
commented Flynn as they walked.
“The Lone Wolf? It’s small, but very sea‐worthy. It’s been in my family for the
longest time. I’ve been on much grander ships of course, but never on any better.”
“My friend thought that it looked weathered. How did he put it? ‘I’ve seen better
rowboats’.”
Tuy laughed. “There’s more to that little boat than meets the eye. It’s weathered
because it’s ridden out many a swell, many a storm. And while it is, indeed, somewhat
modest, it has one primary advantage over a rowboat.”
“What’s that?”
“No need for oars,” said Tuy, winking, and Flynn laughed.
As they approached the docks, Flynn started squinting at something there. “Well,
I’ll be,” he muttered.
“What’s that?”
Flynn pointed. “My friend thought that another ship docked during the night the
day after you arrived. He’s under the impression that it brought ‘blackest Death’ to the
island as its passenger.”
Tuy took a moment before he answered. “Death is so busy that he doesn’t have
time to wait on mere ships, but I’ve seen some that seemed to have closer relations
with Death than others, that much is sure.”
Tuy grew quiet as they came up to it. It was another smallish ship capable of
being piloted by one or two. It was much more ornate than Tuy’s, with polished wood,
gleaming brass fixtures, and studiously furled sails.
Tuy turned to Flynn and casually said, “You’ve mentioned that you practice your
swordsmanship in the mornings. Perhaps we can spar sometime.”
Flynn bowed, puzzled. “I’d be honored?” he said.
Tuy slapped his leg suddenly. “In that case, I’ll stop by my boat and retrieve my
sword.”
Flynn furrowed for the barest moment, and then he nodded.
It was fully twilight by the time they climbed the long hill back up to the Abbey.
Flynn had sheathed his ever‐present machete and picked up his sword from the armorer
to show to Tuy. Tuy was carrying his sword in his left hand as they entered the modest
front courtyard and skirted along the east side of the building towards the back of the
buildings.
That’s when they heard Sandle yell and heard the clatter of a swordfight around
the corner.
Page 23
#
Tuy and Flynn looked at each other, drew their weapons, and ran to the battle.
Sandle was backed up against the far wall, barely parrying his opponent’s fierce
attack. Tuy roared something wordless and a wiry little man with dead eyes spun
around. Something about him caused Tuy to take an involuntary step backward, and
then he gritted his teeth and joined the attack. The swordsman backed up to assess the
new threat.
The swordsman engaged the three of them. He seemed to ignore Flynn and Tuy
and concentrated specifically on Sandle. Tuy stepped in front of Sandle and Flynn
stepped nimbly to his side.
The swordsman tried two frontal attacks that were beaten back, and then took
two running steps straight at them and Flynn fell back a step. The swordsman bounced
and flipped right over their heads, landing gracefully behind them.
Sandle shrieked and wildly parried a wicked chest cut. The assailant rolled to his
side as Tuy and Flynn whirled and assisted with Sandle’s defense. Tuy roared again and
together, the three of them advanced on the swordsman, pushing him back toward the
corner.
The swordsman surprised them all, moving so fast that they could barely see,
engaging all three in a virtuoso display of swordsmanship and sheer determination,
pushing the three of them back by himself. While he was crossing swords with all three,
his style was very unorthodox, using only defensive moves with Tuy and Flynn, but only
offensive moves with Sandle. Between the three of them, they managed to parry the
quick thrusts at Sandle, but the single‐minded attacks toward him in particular were
clearly unsettling Sandle, as evidenced by how he continued to inch backward.
The attacker lunged at Sandle, and Flynn and Tuy converged to beat him back, but
Sandle retreated too fast and tripped over a flagstone, falling roughly on his seat. Seeing
this opportunity, the swordsman tensed as if in preparation to pounce.
At that moment, another shadow appeared in the courtyard off to their right.
“It’s him!” yelled Sandle from his seat on the ground. “It’s the assassin, Master
Thannon!”
At that, Thannon drew his sheathed sword out of his waistband and flicked the
sheathe straight at the little killer. As fast as the projectile was, the killer was faster still,
blocking it and sending it toward the three. Tuy and Flynn split to avoid it and then
reformed in front of Sandle.
Thannon entered the courtyard without his normal banter, quietly engaging the
killer with blistering speed. Thannon’s sword danced in and out with three probing
attacks and then he bounced right at the little man and ran him clean through, pinning
him to the wall.
Page 24
The killer’s sword fell from his hand and he said one obscene, guttural word, the
only word he ever spoke during the battle.
Thannon pressed him right back up to the wall and bent towards him, speaking to
him in low tones. Then he suddenly stepped back and, with a flourish, plucked his sword
free of the assassin’s chest. Then the man with dead little eyes simply became a dead
little man.
Weapons Master Thannon turned to the three and took in the scene. He wasn’t
slightly winded, in stark contrast to Tuy and Flynn, who were both gasping for breath.
They turned to see to the welfare of Sandle, and saw that Sandle wasn’t breathing at all,
the sharp sword sheathe buried halfway through his throat.
Thannon finally spoke. “Perhaps somebody can tell me what’s going on here,” he
said.
The Adventures of the Sky Pirate continues next month.
Stay tuned for the conclusion of
“The Assassin of Patience Bay”

Johne Cook

Johne Cook is a founder of Ray Gun Revival, and is a veteran author of online articles, reviews, and
short stories. He was a 2004 winner of NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month.

Johne has tried his hand at any number of icky jobs but found his career in 2000 when he wasn’t pretty
enough to work as a Desk Clerk (true story). He is a Technical Writer and Help Author by day and
creative writer / magazine editor by night.

Johne got his start reading space opera in his dad’s extensive collection of classic paperbacks. He traces
his writing roots to Miss Kinane’s fourth grade English class, where he learned he could capture
people’s imagination with the written word.

His penchant for writing about himself in the third person came much later.

In addition to reading, he also has a fascination for quirky movies, progressive rock, PC‐based video
games, and racquetball.

Johne lives in south‐central Wisconsin with his (longsuffering) wife of 20 years and the rest of his quirky
family. Johne blames Paul Christian Glenn for spurring his renewed interest in creative writing four
summers ago, but that’s another story.
Page 25
Featured Artist – Erika Green

Name: Erika Greene, aka “archaenon”
Age: 24
Hobbies: Art, music, politics, fighting games, reading
Favorite Book / Author: Harry Potter series and
Sherlock Holmes. My favorite author is Conan Doyle
Favorite Artist: Norman Rockwell, Dali, M.C. Escher,
Yoshitaka Amano
When did you start creating art? When I was young, I
just sorta picked it up in the second grade
What media do you work in? I usually use Painter IX,
and Photoshop. Sometimes Opencanvas and an intuos 2
Wacom.
Where your work has been featured? I have had work
printed for many local magazines, and I have a bustling
freelance business. Working on a series of comics at the
moment.
Where should someone go if they wanted to view /
buy some of your works?
http://archaenon.deviantart.com /
http://www.archaenon.net
How did you become an artist? Watching my cousin; he's very good at real life
portraits, and I wanted to be like him.
What were your early influences? My cousin Larry DuBose, Disney cartoons, old Osamu
Tezuka and Miyazaki movies.
What were your current influences? Dada artists (Dali, Escher, etc.) and music. Music
plays a huge part in my art, and almost all my pieces are named after a song. For
example, the feature image is named after an ebm band I really love.
What inspired the art for the cover? The song , “Burning Empires” by vnv ‐ it's such an
amazing song , and all their music makes me want to paint.
How would you describe your work? Dark, different, many people tell me it's super
different from what they normally see and unique. I normally call it scribbly mess
though, heh.
Page 26
Where do you get your inspiration / what inspires you?
I guess I try to be different. I'm not impressed by a lot of
current art, and how everything is done in Flash, and all that
jazz. So I try to stay more traditional, not losing sight of the
great artists when I work. I work a lot from music. I can listen to
a song and envision what I want to do. Much of it is wasted on
the cutting room floor, but the ones I do keep, I try to finish,
and have them represent what I see in my favorite artist’s
music.
What have been your greatest successes? Finally making the
transition from traditional hand painted art to digital art with
media tools. For the longest time I was anti‐digital, then I
realized times are changing and I had to get with them. Being
able to meet other great artists and such, and finally getting out
there and doing art for a living.
Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work?
Yeah, I had a comic book once go down in flames; it was poorly thought out, and the
showmanship was ick. Then again I was still inexperienced and in college. So it taught
me better design and showmanship skills. I think I benefited from that setback.
What are your favorite tools / equipment?
Mostly Painter IX, and an Intuos 2 Wacom. When I
draw on paper, I use prismacolor markers, gouche,
watercolor, and oil paints on regular painting paper,
with everything from paint brushes to tooth brushes to
get the effect I want.
What tool / equipment do you wish you had?
A Cintuiqe Wacom; it's like a desktop screen, but you
can draw right on the screen, as opposed to eyeing it
while looking up with a standard Wacom. I would love
to also have a roll of lamb’s canvas, and a really nice
set of Grumbacher oil paints. It would be nice one day.
What do you hope to accomplish with your art?
To make a small name for myself, and be able to get
better as I get older.

Page 27
Serial: “Memory Wipe”

Chapter One: “The Silver Sun”
By Sean T. M. Stiennon
It was a relatively quiet night in the Silver Sun Casino. The Palm Room was only
half full of men and women pumping their wages into the slots, while on a good
business night it would be full with more customers waiting upstairs, sipping drinks and
playing cards until enough space opened up for the guards to let them in. Lesser rooms
were practically empty. Sunday night was always slow.
Takeda Croster patrolled his usual circuit through the casino. The Silver Sun’s
owner and manager, Jack Blaydra, was careful about security. He knew as well as any
man that the local police force looked after its own interests more than those of any
citizen, and that if anyone tried to rob him, he’d have to rely on whatever guards were
on the premises at the time.
Takeda was a young man, but he didn’t know his exact age–somewhere in his
mid‐twenties. He kept his black hair shaved close to his head for utility, and his face was
long and angular beneath slightly brown skin. He wore the Silver Sun’s uniform–
unobtrusive, with a circular badge made from real silver. He carried a shock‐stick in a
holster on his right leg and a pistol on his left hip.
Takeda’s badge had his name etched into it–he was one of the casino’s most loyal
guards, having worked there for almost three years. Since two months after he had first
woken up in a squalid hotel wearing nothing but a pair of cheap pants, with no money,
no possessions, and no memories. The memories were the part that had troubled him
most. Everything before that little room simply didn’t exist–it was as if he had appeared
from the air at that moment, with an adult body and capabilities.
He had plenty of time to think as he strode through the casino’s Palm Room.
Plasma signs flashed at him from all sides, and his ears were filled with the click ka‐
chunk of slot machines. The carpets were deep blue, and the room was lit by recessed
lamps with shades to diffuse their varicolored light.
The settlers in Greendome were a relatively wealthy crowd, which was one of the
reasons the city could support a casino of the Silver Sun’s scale. The customers ranged in
age from children–the colony had no minimum age for gambling–to octogenarians
whose last pleasure in life was the hope of a jackpot. Most wore well‐made clothes,
even some designer brands ordered from off‐world and shipped to Greendome from
the space port. A handful were shabby beggars who had probably decided that gambling
was just a bit more fun and a lot more promising than drinking themselves into a stupor
between graveyard shifts at the sawmills. None of them greeted Takeda. He kept his
eyes ahead of him, although he recognized most of them from other visits. Other guards
Page 28
chatted with the customers–not Takeda. He had three people in all of Greendome who
cared about anything he had to say.
He continued on, passing the speakers pumping soothing music into the room,
and took a flight of stairs down to the next level, continuing his patrol circuit down into
one of the casino’s bars–this one was small and dimly lit, specializing in imported liquors
for those who could afford them. The bar was made from polished red granite, and the
bottles on their racks were backlit with pale violet light. Light flashed on the polished
steel of chairs and tabletops.
At first, the place looked quiet–just one drinker over in the corner, hunched over
a bottle of brandy. Then, with a jolt, Takeda realized that the usual barkeep–a man
named Thrist–wasn’t at his place. He also noticed that he could hear angry voices in the
back room. Takeda’s hand dropped to the stun rod on his right leg and grasped the
rubber grip. Probably nothing, but Takeda had learned not to take chances. His
footsteps were silent as he loped across the room and vaulted over the bar. The man in
the corner didn’t even look up.
Takeda put his ear to the gilded door behind the bar. A voice was raised, cursing,
and Takeda heard another voice for a moment before an angry shout cut it off. He drew
his stun rod and clicked the door open.
The back room was small, containing a few racks of spare bottles, a mixing
machine for special orders, and a chair for the barkeep during his breaks. Thrist was in
that chair now, but not by choice–he was flanked by a two tall men in dark clothing. One
of them had his hand on Thrist’s chest, forcing him back in the soft cushions, and the
other was speaking in a low growl. “One more try, Thrist. You give us that money you
owe, or we’ll see how you like eating glass.”
“Please,” the bartender moaned. “Just take the money in the register. I’ll pay it
back later.”
The man shook his head. “No. We don’t want any fuss with your boss. We just
want our cash, and we’ll get it out of your life insurance if we have to.”
The man started to reach for a bottle as Thrist screamed and thrashed. No good.
Takeda saw that both men were built like wrestlers, and Thrist was built like a
bartender.
Takeda activated his stun rod, and the steel shaft hissed to life. “That’s enough,”
he said, in his usual dispassionate voice.
Both men whirled around. The man who had spoken had a sharply pointed black
beard and deep brown eyes. Takeda recognized him as one of the local police squad–off
duty, since he didn’t have his badge. That explained his size and strength. His partner
was also a cop, with thick blond hair and a prominent scar on his chin.
Page 29
“None of your business, Croster,” the man growled back. “Just back out that door
and I’ll forget I saw you.”
Takeda took a step forward, aiming his stun rod. He’d use the weapon if he had
to, but usually he could diffuse such situations without violence. Thrist looked relieved.
He noticed too late that the black‐bearded cop had a sleeve holster. A small black
gun snapped into the man’s palm, and Takeda found himself staring down its barrel.
“Last chance,” the cop growled.
Takeda knew that if this man shot him, it would probably mean some paperwork,
a few bribes, and maybe even a little blackmail from the cops to the Silver Sun’s owner.
But both men would get nothing more than a stern lecture from their captain–if even
that.
But Jack Blaydra paid him for a reason,
and Takeda had always acknowledged the
possibility that his job might prove fatal. He
hesitated. The cop facing him could shoot fast
and accurately, and Takeda could see his
partner ready to draw his own pistol. Takeda
was strong, and had good speed and reactions,
but he knew he couldn’t outrun a bullet.
Then, as he stared down the pistol’s
barrel, something clicked in Takeda’s mind,
and suddenly he knew how to take down this
cop–and, somehow, he knew he could do it.
He could hear the breathing of the old man at
his table, see tiny flecks of stubble on the cop’s “But there was no time to think. He
chin, smell liquor of a hundred varieties. could only act.”
Everything was perfectly clear. Never in the
three years he remembered had anything like Original art by E. J. Mickels, II
this happened to him. But there was no time http://www.hisart.us/pageseven1.html
to think. He could only act.
Takeda dropped and whipped back the hand holding his baton. A bullet sliced the
air where his head had been, but he was already down on the carpet. His arm snapped
forward. The stun baton whirled through the air and smashed into the cop’s face with a
loud clang and a crack of electricity. The man gurgled and fell, firing another bullet into
the floor. His partner drew his own weapon, releasing Thrist, and put his finger through
the trigger ring.
Takeda saw everything as if it were being played back in slow motion. He rolled,
and the blond cop fired, but his bullets went into the floor, cracking as they punched
through the carpet and crumpled against the concrete below. Takeda’s left hand went
Page 30
for his own pistol while his right shoved him off the floor and into another roll that
carried him behind Thrist’s chair. The little barkeep was already across the room, eyes
wide as he watched the fight.
Takeda came up into a crouch as a bullet punched through the chair just beyond
his shoulder. He had seen the blond cop’s firing angle and made sure he wasn’t in the
bullet’s path. Without thinking, Takeda fired his own gun through the chair’s fabric. He
heard the blond cop scream as the bullet slammed into him. Takeda blinked. He had
never been able to shoot with his left hand, but suddenly he had placed a bullet with
perfect accuracy and with only memories to guide his aim. He looked down at the gun in
his hand, feeling sweat on his palm. What had happened to him?
The blond cop groaned, and Takeda brought his thoughts back to the present. His
senses had dimmed once again, and he felt lightheaded as he stood from behind the
chair. The blond cop had taken the bullet through his stomach. Blood poured from the
wound. The man needed a bandage, and if Takeda didn’t give it him, the cop’s death
would make Captain Vass of the Greendome Police Force even angrier than his injury.
Takeda pulled a strip of sealant bandage from a pouch on his belt and stepped over to
the cop. Better to just leave the bullet in until a skilled surgeon could examine the
wound.
As Takeda bent down, the cop shot out his fist, going for the guard’s throat.
Without thinking, Takeda grabbed the man’s wrist out of the air and twisted. He heard
bone snap, and the cop screamed. Takeda stared at the blood covering his hand. He had
never been that strong before.
He glanced up to see Thrist huddled against a rack of bottles, eyes wide and limbs
quivering. One emotion showed in his expression: fear. He wasn’t looking at the downed
cops.
#

Five p.m. found Takeda in the Silver Sun’s staff lounge, sitting at a polished wood
bar with three fingers of amber whiskey in front of him. The speakers played generic
pulse music broadcast from the spaceport, and a few other security guards, dealers,
servers, and maintenance men were lined along the bar or scattered around the tables.
The carpet here was a utilitarian gray, and the luxuriant dimness of the casino rooms
was exchanged for bright florescent bulbs.
Takeda stared at the grain pattern of the bar. He hadn’t slept since fighting the
cops, and he had just gotten back from a conversation with Jack Blaydra. The casino
owner had told him that both cops would live, but black‐beard would need expensive
therapy to recover from a full strength shock to the face. The blond‐haired man
wouldn’t be healthy for months, his gun wrist permanently crippled.
Page 31
And Captain Vass wasn’t happy. Blaydra had showed Takeda the message he had
sent an hour after both cops had been taken away to the hospital, demanding
recompense for medical costs, loss of duty time, pain and suffering, and a few hundred
Silvers on top for the Captain’s pockets. Surprisingly, the Captain hadn’t ordered Takeda
to be turned over. His name hadn’t even been mentioned. Still, Blaydra had told him
that if Vass came after him, he’d be on his own. Takeda would keep his job for now–the
incident had only proven his value–but if there was any risk of police reprisals, he’d find
himself on the streets.
And what then? Takeda didn’t know anyone. Families were important in colony
cities like this one, and Takeda had none. No connections. No old friends. His life
consisted of three years–three years in which he had started as an utter alien and slowly
become somewhat accepted in his role as a casino guard. If he lost the job, he’d also
lose the identity he had built for himself. The only identity he remembered.
Someone sat down on the stool next to him, and Takeda glanced up. Sheri–the
second of the three people who cared anything about him, just after Blaydra. She was a
girl from a family of dome farmers who had decided to supplement her income by
serving drinks on the gambling floors. She was about twenty years old, with shoulder‐
length blond hair that usually had blue highlights dyed into it. Her eyes always seemed
to be half‐closed, as if light blinded her.
“You okay, Tak?” she asked.
“What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’ve had enough whiskey. Give me that.”
Before Takeda could stop her, she took his glass and knocked it back in one gulp.
Then she passed it back to the barkeep and said, “You should get some sleep, Tak. It’ll
be better when you wake up.”
“Sure. Wake up with Captain Vass ramming his pulser down my throat.”
“Vass doesn’t want you, Tak. His thugs are powerful, but he knows he couldn’t
press a case against you before the city council.”
“He won’t need to. A hit on the street will do the job better.”
She smiled warmly. “I think you can take care of yourself, Tak.”
“That’s the problem,” he snarled. “I almost killed two men.”
Sheri signaled the bartender and put her hand on Takeda’s shoulder. He didn’t
shake her off. “Tak, we both know they deserved it. There aren’t many men in
Greendome who don’t sometimes want to beat up the cops.”
“No,” he said, quietly. “It’s more than that.”
Takeda looked up and made eye contact with her–something he rarely did.
“Something happened to me. When I saw them threatening Thrist. I was...I changed. I
got stronger and faster. I felt like I could see and hear everything in the casino. I could
Page 32
move faster than either of them could shoot, and I knew where they were going to
shoot before they pulled the trigger.”
Takeda glanced down at his left hand, usually so clumsy he could barely hold a
fork in it. He had put a bullet straight through the blond cop’s gut with it.
Sheri shrugged. “I’ve heard funny things happen to people when they fight,
sometimes. They do things they couldn’t do before. You heard about that marine who
rolled a half‐ton rock to save his sergeant?”
“This was different.”
“Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. But I’m glad someone can stand up to those
cops, Tak.”
She squeezed his shoulder and, when he glanced up, she was smiling warmly. He
felt a tingle in his heart, but although he had spent two years in close contact with Sheri,
he had never really been interested in her, nor any other girls, although plenty of lovely
young women frequented the casino. She was kind to him—he liked her for that–but he
had never seriously considered pursuing her.
“I don’t know who I am,” he growled.
“You’re Takeda Croster,” Sheri said. “What else is there?”
“You don’t understand. I’ve looked up my citizenship profile–there’s nothing. No
profile, I mean, although I think there was one once. My citizenship is still valid, but the
info is blank. And there’s no birth record–I’ve gone down to the Population Office more
than once, but they can’t find any record of my parents or my birth.”
“Not everyone reports births, Tak.”
“More than that. I even did some hacking in the records at the space port, when I
went there last break. No record of how I got on‐planet, any hotel I stayed at, anything.
The first person who saw me was the hotel manager who checked me in the night
before I woke up. He said I seemed drunk, but nothing unusual.”
“I know, Tak. I’ve talked to him myself.”
He looked up, surprised. “You have?”
She laughed. “Sure. You’re not the only one interested in yourself.”
“Can you explain what happened to me when I fought those cops?”
“I guess not,” she sighed. “But I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I think
you just got sick so badly you lost your memories. Maybe it has something to do with
that.”
His eyes went back to the counter. “Maybe.”
After a few awkward moments of silence, Sheri stood up. “Well, I’d better be
going. I’ve got some cleaning up to do. Take care of yourself, Tak, and don’t drink any
more. Get some sleep.”
Page 33
She squeezed his shoulder again, and he looked back at her as she walked away
from him. Her hair shone in the bright lights and her movements were graceful. Takeda
considered another drink–it would help him get to sleep–but, in the end, he decided to
listen to Sheri. He stood up, paid his tab, and left the bar.

#

Takeda was one of the few guards who actually lived at the Silver Sun. He had one
small room with a stall lavatory, adjoining another guard’s room on one side and an
accountant’s office on the other. The hall was spare, with a poor quality carpet and a
single sculpture made from local jungle wood at the end. Takeda wearily put his thumb
against the lockpad. The door hissed open.
One cot, just large enough for him, one pillow, two small chairs and one small
table/desk, both made from cheap wood cut out of the jungle surrounding Greendome.
A single chest of drawers and a few shelves contained everything Takeda owned: spare
uniforms, two changes of casual clothing, a handful of printed books, and a small hand
computer. He took the computer, powered it up, and loaded his reader program.
Reading was one of his few pleasures. With only three years of conscious
memory, Takeda didn’t possess the experiences others took for granted. He had never
been farther than the spaceport, seventy kilometers from Greendome. He had never
met a non‐human–Belar Colony rules didn’t allow their immigration. Takeda had never
even been to school–he didn’t remember what it was like to be any age except his
current one. He had awoken with basic knowledge–how to walk, how to eat, how to
speak Imperish–but everything else had been gone.
Takeda loaded his current book: a treatise on the desert life of a distant planet
called Nihil. The current chapter discussed a species of sand snake that could go for
months without eating, lying just beneath the sand until a wandering herbivore came
within its reach. Then, the snake burst out and swallowed its prey whole. The beast also
had a tail spine and armored head for protection against others of its kind and the only
predators on Nihil more feared than it, known to settlers as Walking Evils.
Takeda read until his eyes began to itch from exhaustion, finishing most of what
remained of the book. He went to sleep just as the sun was coming over Belar’s horizon.

#

When he awoke, warm orange light slanted into the room. He glanced at his
chronometer. 6 p.m. He had slept almost eleven hours where he usually didn’t need
more than eight, if that.
Page 34
But he hadn’t slept soundly. There had been dreams...dreams he could barely
remember now that he was awake. Two things remained clear in his mind as he rubbed
his neck and stared down at the carpet: fear and a single image. The image was that of a
woman, and the only details he could remember clearly were her penetrating blue eyes
and a sweep of long black hair. He couldn’t remember anything about her from his
dream, and he didn’t even recall what expression she had worn. There had been other
sensations...darkness, pursuit, strange feelings, and bizarre dream logic. All of them
were too vague to make sense of.
Takeda shook his head. He had dreams sometimes, just like any other man. This
woman had probably been one of the casino patrons whose face had stuck in his
subconscious. He couldn’t remember every man and woman who drifted through the
Silver Sun’s gaming floors and bars.
He ate a breakfast of thick porridge, then changed into a fresh uniform and
strapped on his shock stick and gun, dropping his badge into his pocket rather than
wearing it. He didn’t go on duty until seven this evening, but he might as well go down
and read somewhere. Sheri would be somewhere in the Palm Room cleaning up in
advance of that night’s opening. Takeda knew that if she saw him, she’d ask about how
he was feeling. He wouldn’t admit it to her–to anybody–but he enjoyed the attention
she gave him. Sometimes.
With his computer holstered on his belt, Takeda left his room and made his way
down a flight of stairs to the guard post just outside the Palm Room. The post was
empty. Garth should be on duty there from 3 p.m. to midnight, so where was he now?
Not out for a piss. His usual coffee mug was conspicuously absent from the desk where
he usually sat, watching Net shows until something interesting showed up on his
security monitors.
After a moment, Takeda shrugged it off and kept walking. Garth was known to
oversleep sometimes, particularly if he had been drinking. There were other guard
posts.
Takeda entered the Palm Room. The room had no windows to the outside–now, it
was lit only by a handful of white maintenance lights, and the games were off. Most
parts of the Silver Sun didn’t open for business until 7 pm. The population of
Greendome wasn’t rich enough to support a casino around the clock. Still, there should
have been cleaners vacuuming the carpets and polishing the machines while
maintenance men made sure they were empty and in working order. It was only an hour
until opening time.
Takeda walked out into the room, passing deactivated slot machines, holo‐
wheels, cash grids, and other games. He wondered what he should do, if anything. Was
there some vacation day he hadn’t been told about? No, Sheri would have mentioned it.
A strike that she wasn’t part of? No one would have told Takeda about that–his
Page 35
relationship with most of his co‐workers didn’t go beyond business. Maybe, but there
wasn’t any reason for a strike. Blaydra paid his employees well.
“Good evening, Croster,” said a voice from the shadows.
Takeda whirled to see Captain Brian Vass step out from where he had been
leaning against a large slot machine. Vass was a young man–not much older than
Takeda–and he had only lived in Greendome for five years. In that time, he had become
the most feared man in the city, with a large, well‐equipped police force to back him up.
He did keep crime down, but only because he knew the people would eventually revolt
if he didn’t, and it was well known that he was involved in loan‐sharking and black‐
mailing. Some people said that the mayor of Greendome was at his command.
Vass’ skin was a pale, milky white, but his hair was so black that Takeda
sometimes thought he dyed it. He looked like an ideal soldier–broad shoulders, straight
legs, hard chin. His dark blue uniform was perfectly cut, shining with gold trim. He was
the third person besides Sheri and Blaydra who cared anything for Takeda, but in his
case it was because he had always been on the lookout for excuses to arrest him.
“Vass,” Takeda said. “We’re closed.”
A cold smile crept across Vass’ face. “I’m not here as a customer.”
“So you’re getting into burglary now?” Takeda asked, sliding his hand towards his
gun.
“I could show you a warrant, but that would be redundant,” Vass said. “And don’t
go for that gun. You’ll get more than just a citation for resisting arrest.”
Takeda heard the click of a gun being cocked behind him. He didn’t need to look
to know that at least one of Vass’ officers covered his back.
“How many men have you got?” he growled. “One of the men I took down
yesterday had a gun on me.”
“Gillman has never been my best marksman,” Vass answered. “And I’ve got
enough. Now, Croster, the way I see it, you have three options: either you stick your
wrists out for cuffs, you get beaten into pulp and then cuffed, or you get shot right here.
Which would you prefer?”
Vass’ hand dropped down to caress the weapon slung against his own hip: a
Damascus pulser, imported from the best munitions factory in the Empire.
There was no choice. Takeda undid the clasp on his arms belt, letting his weapons
drop to the floor. Then he offered his wrists. This was it–no fight, no real confrontation,
just a quiet arrest, completely at Vass’ mercy, without any friends to speak for him. He
doubted even Sheri would risk a petition for his release.
A cop stepped out of the shadows and snapped a pair of manacles onto his wrists.
Vass’ smile broadened. “Smart, Croster. I always like to keep these affairs as honest as
possible.”
Page 36
The cop who had handcuffed him picked up his arms belt and pushed him forward
as Vass turned and led him away. Other officers emerged from the shadows, flanking
both Vass and Takeda. He bowed his head and walked. His computer had been on his
belt, all the books he had loaded on it gone. Things had happened fast–last night, he had
gone about his job as normal, and now he was under arrest with imprisonment, torture,
and quite possibly death ahead of him. At least no one would miss him.
As they approached the main entrance to the Palm Room, Takeda noticed that he
could see better–the shadows weren’t nearly as dark as they had been only seconds
before. The he noticed that he could hear the footsteps of the cops around him clearly–
not just as group, but as individuals. He could count how many by the sound of their
boots striking the carpet and the gentle rasp of their breath. Nine, plus Vass, whose
heels struck the carpet slightly harder than his officers. Takeda could even tell that one
of them was chewing gum.
He looked down at his wrists. The chain connecting the manacles was a
centimeter thick, made from a standard steel‐titanium alloy. He pulled on it a little,
hearing it clink. It was strong, and the manacles were tight enough to weaken his hands
by cutting off blood flow.
But Takeda kept pulling, putting his shoulders into it. The chain stretched as the
links clicked together. Suddenly, Takeda felt strong, stronger than he ever had before.
He inhaled a deep breath of air, tasting its slight staleness, and pulled his wrists farther
apart. The links hissed faintly as they strained against each other, and the cuffs dug into
Takeda’s muscles. He pulled harder, hoping none of the cops looked at him just then.
A weak weld in the chain broke with a crack, and then Takeda’s hands were
encumbered only by the manacles themselves. Before any of the cops could react,
Takeda started moving–the appropriate actions seemed to spring into his head.
His own weapons were held by a man a few feet behind–too far. Instead, Takeda
slammed his knuckles into the jaw of a cop next to him, dropping him to the floor.
Another cop grabbed for him, but a solid kick to his knees sent him reeling. Takeda
broke away and dove behind a cheap slot machine near the door just as a pistol cracked
and a bullet struck the carpet several feet away.
The darkness was transparent to Takeda. He ran along an aisle of machines,
seeing the faint glow of maintenance lights, his shoes hammering the carpet. More
shots rang out, and he heard Vass’ voice raised, snapping orders: “Cut him off from the
door. Keep him in this room and kill on sight. Travis, I want men on every exit to the
building.”
A bullet sliced the air just in front him–he could almost see it pass by. Takeda
changed course, running deeper into the room, towards the guard post he had walked
past on his way in. With any luck he could get to the back exit—just a small door by the
garbage bins–and evade whoever was guarding that door.
Page 37
No time to think. Takeda ran.
A blue‐uniformed cop ran out from behind a large holo‐wheel and would have
crashed into Takeda if he hadn’t jumped aside at the last moment. The cop hesitated for
a moment, recovering from surprise, and then went for his pistol. Takeda reached for
the only thing available–a small slot machine–and heaved it up. Just as the cop got his
pistol out of its holster, Takeda pitched the machine at him with a surge of muscle
power. The sound it made as it crushed the man into the floor nauseated Takeda. He
could every sound of cracking bones and squished flesh.
He hesitated for a moment, and that moment nearly cost him his life. A fierce red
bolt sliced the darkness in front of him, and for an instant Takeda felt his sight dim once
again. The pulser bolt didn’t blind him. Before Vass could adjust his aim, Takeda ran. He
dodged between game machines and pillars, hearing pounding boots all around him.
The cops had stopped shooting, probably realizing that they were more likely to hit each
other than their quarry.
Takeda paused for a moment to evaluate the situation. Judging from the noise,
most of Vass’ squad stood between him and the nearest door. Another few men were
coming from the direction of the door he had entered by, and the two groups were
forming a ring around him. If he wanted to get out of the room he would have to charge
one group–and the side with fewer men made more sense.
So Takeda ran back towards Vass and the main door. If they didn’t expect him, he
might have a chance of avoiding their bullets.
Another bolt of crimson went through one of the slot machines, blasting a hole of
molten red and orange in the machine’s center and sending sparks and flaming parts
flying before it drilled through the carpet and into the concrete. The stink of burnt metal
was almost overpowering to Takeda’s heightened senses. He adjusted his course to one
side. Vass was the best marksman in his own force. If he got a good look at his target,
odds were that he could nail it.
Takeda charged out of the darkness at a cop standing between himself and the
exit. The man fired a single shot, missing in the darkness, and then Takeda slapped the
gun away before locking his hands around the man’s throat. Acting on the instincts that
filled his mind, Takeda twisted, and the man’s spine snapped.
Takeda didn’t let himself think–if he thought too much about what was
happening, it would paralyze him. He reached down, grabbed the cop’s pistol, and ran
for the door, zig‐zagging his path to give the cops a moving target.
The door was made from two massive sheets of glass, etched with patterns
depicting the tropics of Imperia. The lintel and posts were leafed with gold, and they
were shut from the inside with a mechanical padlock. Takeda tried to break the lock, but
it squealed and held. The glass was bullet‐proof–he wouldn’t be able to crack through
Page 38
that. Instead, he put his pistol up to the lock and fired a bullet into it. The doors came
open.
He ran down the grand hallway, filled with expensive porcelain vases and
chandeliers. The cops’ pounding footsteps ran behind him–still a good distance–and he
heard Vass’ voice shouting orders in a police code he couldn’t decipher. He pushed
through another set of doors and out into the anteroom. The guard post here was
empty as well. Takeda kept running, vaulting over a sofa that blocked his path.
Late afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows ahead of him, colored
deep cinnabar in Belar’s humid climate. The casino was fronted by a paved street with
warehouses on the other side. No pedestrians and no cars, except for a sleek black truck
with the Greendome Police Force icon splashed across the door and a uniformed man
standing outside it with a carbine held at his hip. The cop couldn’t see Takeda through
the glare of sunlight on glass. Takeda didn’t have the same problem. Some part of his
brain he hadn’t known existed brought his pistol up, and just as he pushed the outside
door open, his finger pulled the trigger. The cop only had time to shout in surprise
before Takeda’s shots hit him.
Takeda shuddered as he ran down onto the sidewalk, his shoes slick with blood.
Once again, horror rose in his mind. He had gotten into plenty of fights–the Silver Sun’s
patrons sometimes got drunk and unruly–but he had never killed a man. Today, he had
snapped one officer’s neck and put three bullets through a second man’s chest. He bent
down and took the truck’s activation key from the man’s pocket, trying not to touch the
blood.
He pulled open the car’s door–it was unlocked–and scrambled into the driver’s
seat. Hovercrafts and flyers were more common on urbanized Imperial worlds, but only
colony planets like Belar, motor vehicles were simpler, easier to repair, and better in
rough terrain. This particular truck was meant for police use. The passenger seat had
been modified to give it controls for a gun that could be extended from the roof, and
the back seats couches faced each other. A gun rack took up the trunk space. Takeda sat
down, hit the button to extend the belt over his chest, and slipped the key into its slot
on the car’s steering wheel. The truck hummed into life, diagnostic lights blinking green
and blue on the control panel.
Takeda didn’t know how to drive well, and he didn’t have a legal license, but he
had already gone a far past the border of legality. He slammed the thrust pedal down
with his shoe, still wet from the cop’s blood, and pulled out into the road just as bullets
from Vass’ squad came at him from the Silver Sun’s doorway. The car’s exterior pinged
as the shots slammed into it, and the wheels shrieked from his too‐hasty acceleration.
Takeda took the first turn he came to, swinging wide into the middle of the road.
Greendome didn’t have much traffic. Many of the streets were unpaved, and
clouds of dust flew up from the wheels of the stolen police truck. The buildings of the
Page 39
colony blurred as he roared past them at a hundred kilometers per hour: blocks of
cheap flats, shops, factories for processing jungle goods into products that could be
shipped off‐world, the massive hydroponics domes which gave the city its name. A few
pedestrians walked the streets, mostly women who hastily pulled their children away
from the road when they saw Takeda’s car rocketing towards them.
As Takeda drove, making for the town’s north gate, he began to feel his senses
dim once again. The light suddenly seemed less bright, the hums and growls of the car
somewhat muted, and the steering wheel not as finely textured. He also began to feel
exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept for days. He blinked. Suddenly, just keeping his eyes
open was a struggle.
Vass’ police force was inexperienced with car chases–so few colonists owned
cars–and they must have had some delay getting to their vehicles. By the time Takeda
finally saw a black truck swing out into the street, more than a hundred meters behind
him, the colony’s north gate was within sight. It still yawned open at this time of day, to
allow the outside workers to get back to their homes within the city. Takeda saw a
group of colonists returning from a day cutting down exotic woods with belt‐saws. He
slammed the thrust pedal down into the floor, making his car surge forward, and
glanced at the rear‐view screen. The truck behind him was extending its roof‐mounted
gun. The cops were going for the kill. Takeda swerved to the left, driving right up against
the doorways of a row of housing blocks, just as the road erupted in a spray of dirt from
a low‐spread shell. Takeda heard the impact, saw individual grains of dirt fly into the air,
and knew that his abilities had returned. He glanced in his rear screen and knew where
the next shell would hit an instant before it was fired. He swerved again and dodged it.
Then the gates were before him, and the returning workers scrambled out of his
way, shouting and cursing. Takeda’s stolen truck raced through as another shell
exploded just behind him. Dust flew around him. The sun was setting in a blaze of fire
on the western horizon, turning the sky orange and the ground shades of blue and
purple. There were several hundred meters of exposed ground all around the city, with
buildings and sawmills constructed on open stretches of dark soil. The dark jungle
stretched ahead, covering the entire northern horizon, with only a few hills to provide
faint undulation.
The truck pursuing him changed tactics. Takeda saw something swivel on the roof
mounted gun. When it fired again, bullets sprayed at his truck. These rounds were more
effective than small‐arms bullets–they quickly chewed through the truck’s rear armor
and tore into the floor of the passenger compartment, tracking up towards the driver’s
seat. There were ditches on both side of the path. No room to swerve.
Takeda threw his door open and jumped out with the car still moving, taking his
pistol with him. For a moment, he hung in the air, cold breeze rushing around him. His
arms went up, shielding his head, and his legs coiled up against his torso–all without
Page 40
conscious thought. Pain like an electric shock raced through all his bones as he hit the
dirt. He felt himself tumbling, and even with heightened sight, he could see nothing
more than a whirling blur of dark soil and blazing orange sky.
At last, he splashed into the cold water at the bottom of the ditch–stagnant run‐
off from Belar’s frequent rainstorms–and sat up, shaking water out of his eyes. He
probed his wet clothes with his fingers, but although he ached all over, he didn’t seem
to have any broken bones. He had successfully protected his head from the worst
impacts, although the cuffs on his wrists had struck his skull more than once. He saw the
gun lying on a patch of mud and examined it. Dirty, but the barrel wasn’t clogged, and
most modern guns were made to be waterproof.
The pursuing truck’s engine roared–they had seen him jump, and would shoot
him down in a few seconds if he didn’t get moving. He wondered if that truck carried
Vass himself, if he’d feel the searing heat of a pulser bolt blast through his guts before
he died. He jumped up onto the bank, to avoid the sound of his shoes splashing in
stagnant water, and ran in the shadow of the elevated path, gun clenched in one hand.
He heard the police truck skid to a stop but didn’t look back, running desperately for the
dark jungle ahead.

#

Captain Brian Vass rendezvoused with his men outside the colony wall–a police
order had been sufficient to keep the north gate open for his use. Belar’s starscape
showed overhead, flecks of metal studding a black dome. He often enjoyed gazing at the
stars from the roof of his house, especially when he had a glass of rum in one hand and
his other arm around a young woman’s shoulders. His power and military build were
irresistible to many of the colony girls.
But now, Vass felt nothing but rage that consumed every other feeling. He should
have shot Croster in the back and claimed later that he had died while resisting arrest.
But no–he had wanted Croster’s punishment to last more than a fraction of a second,
and the casino guard had proven more formidable than Vass could ever have guessed.
Now three of his officers were dead. One more was badly incapacitated, on top of the
two wounded earlier.
“Report,” he growled to his second in command, Sergeant Mitch Bretner.
Bretner–a big man who wore his mustache bushy and his hair long–glanced
nervously at his fellow officers before answering. “We caught up with Croster just inside
the north gate and opened fire with the cannon. He...he seemed to know where our
shells would go before we fired them. He went out the gate, going at least a hundred
Page 41
kilometers, and then when we went to the chain gun he jumped out of his car and into
the ditch–right down there.”
Bretner gestured down into the ditch below this patch of road. The water was
dark and silent now, but Vass could see marks of disturbance in the moonlight, where
men had descended the embankment both on their feet and off. He nodded. “Keep
going.”
“We got out of the car and went down to look for him, but...he moved fast, Brian.
By the time any of us spotted him, he was a hundred meters away, and when Chon
spotted him, Croster turned around and put a bullet right through his head–one shot, in
the darkness. Then he ran across the field, and we shot at him, but...he was like a rat on
an oil slick, Brian. Once he got into the jungle, there was no way we could stay after
him.”
Vass clamped his jaw and stared off towards the trees, hands clenched behind his
back. “I see,” he said. “From now on, Sergeant, every man in the force practices
marksmanship every day, at three hundred meters’ range.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Bretner, smoothly picking up Vass’ transition to formalities.
“What do you want us to do tonight?”
Vass swept his gaze across his men and saw the fear in their eyes–fear of him or
of Croster, he couldn’t guess. “Officers on duty back to the station,” he said. “Sergeant, I
want a report on my desk by six a.m. tomorrow. The rest of you get home.”
“Captain...what are we going to do about Croster?”
Vass glared off at the jungle. “We don’t have the equipment to find one man in
that jungle,” he said. “But if he comes back, we’ll arrest him.”
“And what about the spaceport?”
“You’re thinking, Sergeant. I’ll take a small squad there myself, tomorrow, in case
Croster manages to get that far.”
Vass smiled slightly. “Otherwise, he’ll die out there in the jungle. Croster’s never
had to spend a night there, and if the predators don’t catch him, he’ll probably starve to
death.”
As his men piled into the trucks, Vass wondered what was different about Croster.
He knew that his men weren’t equal to Imperial marines, but Croster had taken down
six and escaped the rest without much trouble. Who was he, anyway? An average man
who had come from nowhere, claiming he had no memories. Now, Vass began to
suspect that he was much more than he claimed. Average men didn’t snap spines with
their bare hands.

Next month...Chapter 2: Zartsi
Page 42
Sean T. M. Stiennon
Sean is an author of fantasy and science fiction novels and short stories with many publications 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,” respectively. “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.
Sean’s work tends to contain lots of action and adventure, but he often includes elements of tragedy
and loss alongside roaring battles. A lot of his work centers around continuing characters, the most
prominent of whom is Jalazar Flinteye (Six with Flinteye). He also writes tales of Shabak of Talon Point
(“Death Marks,” in issue #9 of Amazing Journeys Magazine), Blademaster (“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 fiction alongside some history, mysteries, and historical novels.
His favorites include 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 reviews books
currently at SFReader.com.
To contact the author, send an e‐mail to flinteye@gmail.com . The author is always glad to receive
reader feedback.
Page 43
The Jolly RGR

This is the back page, the stern end of the magazine. We will use this space to feature
teasers for next Issue’s works.

A vocal Ray Gun Revival announcement!
Ray Gun Revival currently has a print schedule that occurs on the 1st and the 15th of
every month. We are pleased to announce that starting next week, July 22nd, we will
also produce and deliver a lively audio podcast version of Ray Gun Revival for you to
listen to online or download to your favorite mp3 player!

Spearheaded by Taylor Kent, aka The Snarky Avenger, the podcast will feature all kinds
of cool stuff, from space opera / sci‐fi news, to exclusive interviews with authors and
artists, to readings of exclusive stories not published in the pages of Ray Gun Revival.
You can't get these bonus features anywhere else! And best of all, the Ray Gun Revival
podcast is free! Visit the forums at Ray Gun Revival for more information.

Up next for Ray Gun Revival, August 1 2006, Issue 03:
• Overlord’s Lair editorial
• Fiction short by Selena Thomason, “Young Ones”
A legendary shape‐shifter helps her newfound
human friends as they try to reclaim an abducted
crewmember before he is forced to fight in an alien
arena.
• Serial – Deuces Wild: “Reluctant Allies, Part Two”
Finding a ship to take them off the backwater
planet ‐ good. Getting off the planet before the
local mob finds them ‐ better.
• Featured Artist
• Serial – Jasper Squad 2, Episode 2

Ray Gun Revival Magazine, Issue 02

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THRILLING TALES FROM BEYOND THE ETHER July 15, 2006

Short Fiction: Galaxy Store

Serial: “The Adventures of the Sky Pirate”

Featured Artist – Erika Green

Serial: “Memory Wipe”

The Jolly RGR

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