Ray Gun Revival Magazine, Issue 31

Issue 31

October 01, 2007



Ray Gun Revival

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Overlords (Founders / Editors): Johne Cook, L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn

2 Table of Contents 3 Overlords’ Lair 6 The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling 12 The Golem, Part Two by Robert Mancebo 20 Featured Artist: Jeff Michelmann 24 The Pasadena Rule, Part Two of Six by Ben Schumacher 30 There Interview by L. S. King 34 Deuces Wild Chapter 16 Strange Bedfellows, Part Three by L. S. King 41 The RGR Time Capsule September 15 - September 30, 2007

Table of Contents

Venerable Staff: A.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor Shannon McNear - Lord High Advisor, grammar consultant, listening ear/sanity saver for Overlord Lee Paul Christian Glenn - PR, sounding board, strong right hand L. S. King - Lord High Editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer Slushmasters (Submissions Editors): Scott M. Sandridge John M. Whalen David Wilhelms Shari L. Armstrong Jack Willard Serial Authors: Sean T. M. Stiennon John M. Whalen Ben Schumacher Lee S. King Paul Christian Glenn Johne Cook Cover Art: “Starlit Night” by Jeff Michelmann Without Whom... Bill Snodgrass, site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor, confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing

Visit us online at http://raygunrevival.com All content copyright 2007 by Double-edged Publishing,  a Memphis, Tennessee-based non-profit publisher.

Special Thanks: Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative

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Overlords’ Lair R

ay Gun Revival magazine wasn’t created in a vacuum. Each of the founding members came to the endeavor with different expectations, different hopes. I knew Paul from his work as an indie film director and member of various music lists that we both frequented. I met Lee at the legendary Deep Magic e-zine. And, of course, there was the common fascination with Firefly.

Our target audience skews a little older. However, we try not to flaunt our freedom, and for the most part, our publication is also something that can be enjoyed by an entire family. In this issue, we ran into something that I frankly expected to encounter into far earlier in our run, when language strays over the line, and how to juggle author’s works as-written versus editorial preference. Keeping our target audience in mind is a tricky balancing act, but we’ve had a pretty good run thus far, and I trust you’ll agree that we’ve arrived at our decision this issue as a result of appropriate discussion and consensus.

Deep Magic was published monthly for four years, and was the publication that introduced many of us to each other. DM’s tagline was ‘Safe Places For Minds To Wander’. We respected the quality of their product while making a deliberate decision to consistently publish works that an entire The ongoing serial work, “The Pasasdena family could enjoy. Rule” by Ben Schumacher, is a frank and As we set the foundation for what RGR would thrilling look at life out in the wildly exciting look like, and how we would operate, we and starkly unforgiving vacuum of space. The very much went to school on the DM model, author, a physics professor, does an artful especially with an eye toward the overall and compelling job painting the realities of quality of the publication. We have adopted life in an unforgiving environment, and he the same model of producing a regular .pdf also gives us a wide spectrum of characters, zine with stellar cover art, going so far as to including those who speak in the colorful build on their actual cover artist boilerplate. fashion that one might experience in such an However, we diverge a little in areas that environment. play to our strengths: we publish biweekly instead of monthly, we focus on space opera At Ray Gun Revival magazine, we take salty instead of fantasy, and we’re a little more language on a case-by-case basis. It appears sometimes in our own works out of a sense daring than DM. of being true to the various characters we Ray Gun Revival magazine

employ. It doesn’t mean that the author endorses the speech or behavior of a character when it occurs, simply that the character in question uses that mode of speech. By the same token, it does not mean that RGR endorses such things, either. We do, however, endorse good writing, and Ben Schumacher’s work is good writing of a sort we don’t often see at RGR. His is the closest thing we’ve gotten to harder scifi, but the characters are so accessible and the situation so taut that we jumped at the chance to feature his work. In this issue, a couple of the characters use language that may be offensive to people of the JudeoChristian faith. As language, it is nothing that many of us don’t hear commonly or frequently, and yet perhaps we wish that we never did have to hear or read it, and we respect that as Editors. In fact, one of our number raised an immediate concern, the sort of concern that was at least latent in the other two. That sort of language crossed a line for them, and that left the collective Overlords with a challenge. We assembled the three of us and addressed the issue between us. Two of us were of an opinion that the language of a character doesn’t necessarily reflect on the author, and certainly doesn’t represent us



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

Overlords' Lair as a publication. We were inclined to allow the original language of the author under advisement, and the remaining Overlord went with the consensus of the group. Without making a big theological discussion out of this, I want to convey two things: we aren’t passing judgment on the material in question (other than to observe that it is a really good piece of sci-fi writing overall), and we are trying to be cognizant that such language may be off-putting to some. In my reading and thinking, I’ve split the hairs in this way: I’m defining profanity here as “a secular indifference to religion or religious figures.” However, there is a stronger, darker use of language—“Blasphemy is a more offensive attack on religion and religious figures.” For the purpose of general policy, we’re going to attack the issue this way—we’ll allow a little profanity at RGR on a case-bybase basis if it strengthens the characters or the story, but draw the line at full-on blasphemy. If that’s the kind of story you’ve got, there are plenty of other places where it will receive more traction. At RGR, we believe there are enough other fish in the sea, and that’s where our focus is. As a result, we’re going ahead with our plan to publish the story as-written, with the caveat to warn people sensitive to religiously-charged language that there are three or so instances of speech that may be offensive in one particular story. We don’t want to cause our readers distress by not giving them visibility to something Ray Gun Revival magazine

Pg. 4 that they may not have bargained for. At the same time, we don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to publish what is a genuinely fine story of scientific discovery, wonder, tragedy, the fellowship of a tightly knit group, problem-solving under duress, sacrifice, and love. So what does it mean, exactly, to take God’s name in vain? RGR co-founder Paul Glenn forwarded a website that was very illuminating on the issue of what it does— and doesn’t—mean to “take God’s name in vain.” I believe that ‘taking God’s name in vain’ doesn’t mean what most people probably thinks it does, ‘to use the name of God in an irreverent manner’. However, I do believe ‘bearing the name of God’ means that everything a person of God does or says reflects back on Him. What does that mean for RGR? Two things, one personal, and one corporate. Personally, as a result of researching this question, I’m going to take this opportunity to make something very clear: Hi. I’m Johne. (Hi, Johne.) I am a believer in Jesus Christ, and believe my purpose in life is to glorify the God of the Bible through the holy Spirit of God. I’m not shy about that, it is who I am. But I’ve been that guy from the beginning, and if you didn’t know that, it is because the purpose of this magazine to proselytize one thing—space opera. I love God, and I love science fiction. I do not see these as

mutually exclusive passions. If there is any quality at all to RGR, it is because I believe in aiming for the highest quality publication that we can. I won’t discuss my personal faith any more in this editorial space, but if you’re interested in catching up with me in the forums or offline, my virtual door is open. Corporately, it means that RGR remains committed to our target audience. Our target audience skews a little older and more mature / world-wise than DM, our mentor ‘zine, we are willing to accept language that is a little more mature than they were comfortable with in the desire to tell good, smart stories without censoring our authors. So far, we’ve handled this on a case-by-case basis, and allowed the story ratings system to stand in where families reading to kids might want that visibility. We believe publishing “The Pasadena Rule” is a triumph of reason and consensus, and I very much hope that you’ll give it a shot. It’s a smart, compelling story, and we’re excited to publish chapters three and four in this issue. You’re not going to believe the improbable but scientifically plausible idea that Jack comes up with to try to rescue Katya. The very idea is so desperate, so bold, that I was cheering—when my heart wasn’t in my throat. You won’t want to miss it.



Johne Cook Breezeway, WI October 1st, 2007

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Overlords' Lair

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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling

“You want us to hold it? Hold it against the whole army of them?” Kyle demanded.

Deuces Wild: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King

In all our feverish nightmares about how the coming singularity will bring down our civilization, we never figured that a simple kitchen appliance would be the first domino to fall. But in the age of internet appliances and ubiquitous connectivity, it’s not as outlandish as you might think.

“How can we—” The figure pushed the group of them roughly through the door and closed it behind him.

As if infiltrating an enemy mob, avoiding a shadowy assassin, and being ordered to kill his best friend aren’t enough, Tristan now attracts the attention of a dangerously beautiful woman.

NSA wanted to find needles, subversive messages from terrorists, in a haystack of the message traffic on the net. Campus housing provided a lot of realistic data for us to use for modeling that haystack. Nobody asked, and we didn’t tell. We weren’t supposed to be able to associate anybody’s name with the data for privacy reasons, but I knew Jack’s IP address. I ran a filter to get Jack’s data and saw a ton of traffic flooding his network and saw something that bothered me a lot. I called my boss. “Maurice, I’d like you to look at a spike of network traffic that’s hammering several major corporate DRM servers.” The Golem, Part Two by Robert Mancebo In the midst of a brutal alien infestation, a mysterious defender silently teaches a group of survivors what it is to be a hero. The armored figure made a pushing motion and pointed a finger at them all.

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Then the armored figure drew its sword and turned to face the oncoming horde alone. “He can’t!” Lyra whispered in horror. “He’ll be killed!” “He’s not alive,” Kyle told her. “He’s not—what do you mean?” The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher Chapters 1 and 2 introduced us to Jack and Katya, the couple in space separated by an accident and the unforgiving realities of an apparently impossible situation. Chapters 3 and 4 ratchets up the tension and the story really takes off. As I mentioned in the Editorial, there is a little profane language, but just a little, and given the circumstances, well, I can understand where some go there in the heat of the moment. Oh, I still think this is the best golden age sci-fi story you’ve read in ages!

Tristan let go and paced, not only to give the impression he was talking out his plan of attack, but to distance himself from her. “Killing my former passenger isn’t enough. Ewan Campbell must die too, and a few other key players. McCarty learned a few tricks in his time with me, and I have no doubt he’ll be teaching them to the rest.” “So, what are you planning?” “I’m trying to plot where this...resistance might be attacking next. With a good strike force, we might be able to take out all the leaders in one fell swoop.” “I already have a team working on that.” Betts’ calculating gaze told Tristan she wasn’t totally buying his story. “Perhaps you could join them.” He lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “Perfect.”

There is an unwritten, almost unspoken code among those who travel in space, a code about catastrophe and how to face it. The code does not have a name, but if it did, it might be called the Pasadena Rule.





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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling

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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling



“T

ell me about the end of the world, Grampa.”

The old man chuckled. “The world didn’t end. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” “Come on. You know what I mean.” “Are you sure you want to hear it again?” The old man poked the fire with a stick. “Yeah.” “OK, long ago when I was a young man and dinosaurs ruled the earth...” ”You’re not that old, Grampa.” “Well, these dinosaurs weren’t lizards. They were monopolies.” “What’s a monopoly?” “Something big, slow, and predatory.” The old man’s eyes were drawn to the palisade wall where the child’s older brother walked guard duty. “Tell me how the world ended.” “Quit interrupting me. I had survived the dot-bomb…” “Was there an atomic war?” “No. But there was a virus.” “A global epidemic, like AIDS, SARS, or

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SDA?” “No, it wasn’t a virus like SDA, more like NSA. Hush, or I won’t tell you how the world ended.” “OK, Grampa.”

“I know, but after my toaster quit, my cable modem started flashing funny. I couldn’t check my email until I unplugged the toaster. It worked, but it was really slow.” While he spoke, I checked my email. Nothing but a few dozen spam messages had arrived overnight. “You’re saying your toaster took down your home network?” I asked.

# The Network Lab at ESU was a pretty good gig. After my dot-com went belly-up, I had gone back to college. I figured I’d get a Masters’ or something while waiting for the economy to pick up, but I never got around to leaving. I worked in a ten story glass-and-steel box full of computer labs and faculty offices. Lowly grad students like me worked in Dilbert cubes. Happily, mine was close enough to a window that I could see outside. When the weather was nice, the tank tops came out. It was that kind of morning. Walking across campus on my way to work, I had to duck the Frisbees. I had just settled down at my desk and taken a sip of Starbucks when it all started with a phone call. “Hey, Kevin, my toaster quit working.” It was Jack, one of the younger faculty members in the English department. “Why are you telling me?” I logged onto my computer. It took a bit longer than usual. “I’m a network engineer, not an electrician.”

“Yeah, it all started when my kid’s toast got stuck.” Jack paused. I expected him to say he’d done something stupid. “I tried fishing it out with a butter knife. It sparked some, but I got the toast out without electrocuting myself. I used a dry dishrag to hold the knife.” I almost choked on my coffee when he mentioned the butter knife. “Then the next slice of toast came out funny.” It took me a few seconds to stop laughing. “How is toast funny?” I said in a deadpan voice. “The bread goes in white and comes out brown. It was bread you were toasting, wasn’t it?” “Well, this toaster doesn’t just toast the bread.” Jack sounded sheepish. I figured he didn’t like the idea of admitting he’d bought something frivolous. “It prints the outlines of cartoon characters in darker brown. Then my kids use jelly from squeeze tubes to color them in.”



I rolled my eyes. “What was acting funny?”

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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling “The next piece of toast came out with big block letters ‘FBI’ on it. Then the network activity light went on solid.” “And you noticed your network was down?” “Yeah. Why would my toaster take down my network?” “Your toaster downloads the images it prints on the toast. Then it pays a licensing fee to the copyright holder,” I said. “So that’s why my credit card bills have been so high. But what’s wrong with my network?” “I don’t know. Maybe you fried the toaster’s Plutonium chip. We’d have to put the toaster on a test bench to know for sure.” That was a hassle I didn’t want. “There’s plutonium in my toaster? Does the CIA know? Isn’t the radiation dangerous?” “It’s not that kind of plutonium. The Plutonium chip is a cluster of circuitry that is incorporated into every CPU.” I paused, realizing that Jack didn’t know that all his appliances had built-in processors and they talked to each other on the Internet or even knew what a CPU was. The task of explaining it all seemed daunting. “Hey, I’d like to help you out some more, but I got to get back to work.” “Well, thanks, Kevin. Let me know if you find out anything.” “If I can.” I liked working in the Network Lab because it had fun toys and it provided an opportunity to earn favors from faculty members answering

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their questions. Jack’s problem puzzled me. His apartment was on campus and I could call up a log of his network traffic. We didn’t tell anybody about this. The Network Lab had a big contract with NSA through a think-tank in Princeton. All of it was hush-hush. NSA wanted to find needles, subversive messages from terrorists, in a haystack of the message traffic on the net. Campus housing provided a lot of realistic data for us to use for modeling that haystack. Nobody asked, and we didn’t tell. We weren’t supposed to be able to associate anybody’s name with the data for privacy reasons, but I knew Jack’s IP address.

that up into smaller parts and put each part inside a packet.” The child nodded without a trace of understanding “A packet is like an envelope holds a letter.” “But…” “Just write down the words you don’t understand, and I’ll explain them to you one at a time later. Now quit interrupting me or I’ll give you a Math lesson now. Would you like to know what a binary number is?” “No, I’ll write down ‘binary number.’”

I ran a filter to get Jack’s data, saw a ton of traffic flooding his network, and saw something that bothered me a lot. I called my boss. “Maurice, I’d like you to look at a spike of network traffic that’s hammering several major corporate DRM servers.” # “Grampa, what’s a DRM server?” “DRM stands for Digital Rule by Monopolies. It was part of the Honorable Computing Law. It reflected the honor of politicians who passed the laws.” “I don’t understand the words like packets and stuff.” The old man poked the fire, taking his time to think of the simplest explanation. “When computers talked to one another, they used long strings of binary numbers, then they split

“Good.” # Maurice showed up wearing a Hawaiian shirt, munching on a glazed cruller and slurping his trademark caramel-hazelnut double-latte. As he leaned over my computer to see what was wrong, he dropped bits of glaze onto my keyboard, but he was careful to hold his coffee mug out of the way. I wished he would be as careful about the sugar as the coffee. He figured a sticky keyboard wasn’t a problem, but a shorted-out one was. His coffee mug showed a stylized face of Che Guevara with two large black circles behind the head where, in a corporate logo, circular mouse ears might go. One of Maurice’s affectations was to rail against what he called communist and corporatist tyrannies. I tuned out when he talked politics.





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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling He whistled when he saw the packet traffic. “Will you look at that? Mickey is totally slashdotted. This looks like the Mother of All Distributed Denial Of Service attacks.” “No, it’s a toaster.” “I’ve never heard of a toaster attack. What’s that? A new Microsoft worm?” “No. A toaster toaster. A post-doc in the English department stuck a knife in his toaster and started all this.” I pointed to a log of network traffic on my screen. “It stopped when he unplugged his toaster.” “No it didn’t. Let me drive.” I slid over and let Maurice use my computer. He scooted his chair into my spot and started mousing around. “Holy Guacamole. The chain-reaction is really propagating. Look, here.” Maurice poked a fat finger at a line of output near the bottom. “This is the same packet, but its IP address is different. This came from another appliance in the same townhouse. I’ll bet everybody’s fridge is on the fritz, too.” Maurice was a keyboard Paganini. It clattered under the impact of his fingers. He had designed the packet-filtering software and knew how to make it do almost anything. After five minutes he leaned back. “Dig this.” His finger hovered over another line of output. “Those outgoing packets?” “Yeah, the Plutonium chip notifies the FBI when someone subverts its DRM circuitry, for-

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warding evidence for subsequent prosecution. That’s all stuffed into this little packet here.”

Maurice spoke into the darkness. “When did your friend call?”

“But that IP address isn’t Jack’s toaster.” “Follow me. This is important. The toaster thought someone was stealing copyrighted material so it started broadcasting to everywhere on the net. But...” Maurice paused for emphasis. “…the rebroadcast packets say the forwarding machine is in violation, too.” I scratched my head. “The Plutonium chip is wired to prevent IP spoofing. It eventually shuts down any machine that it thinks is compromised.” “Exactly, and how long does it generally take a Plutonium chip to come to this conclusion?” “About two hours.” Then the lights went out. “Looks like the power grid computers are infected.” Maurice thrummed his fingers on the desk. “Your computer’s down. It looks like the chip regulating your UPS is infected, too.” “What now?” I asked. “There’s a generator in the basement. The University bought it ten years ago—just before Congress passed the Honorable Computing Act.” We fumbled our way down five flights of stairs in the dim light of Maurice’s keychain flashlight. The basement wasn’t musty damp like my parents’ basement. The air was dry and stale like a computer museum. A thin patina of dust covered everything.

“About ninety minutes ago.” Maurice nodded. After a half-hour’s search, we found the generator and started manhandling it back to the lab. We got as far as the stairwell when an intense white beam of light blinded me. “Who’s there?” Maurice asked. “Special Agent J. Gordon Kirby, Homeland Security Division, FBI. Are you Maurice LeFleur and Kevin Michaels?” “Guilty as charged, Special Agent Kirby.” Maurice said. I thought he was altogether too casual. It wasn’t as if we ran into government agents every day. “I’m from the government and I’m here to help. I was told you’d be down here. We have what looks like a national emergency. Haul that generator back up to the Network Lab.” Inspector Kirby was a tall blonde man with a flattop haircut. His six-foot, three-inch frame didn’t carry an ounce of fat. He looked like he lifted weights and ran three miles each morning before breakfast. Later, I found out that he did. Kirby turned on his heel and marched up the stairway ahead of us. I muttered something about his lending us his MagLite, but he didn’t hear. The five flights back up to the Network Lab were a lot harder carrying a generator with another geek sharing the load. Maurice was ten years older and further out of shape than I was. After three flights, we sat down on the





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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling stairs to catch our breath. “FBI has gotten involved in less than two hours. The fit must have hit the shan. I wonder if there’s any news?” I asked, being the first to catch my breath. “This is too big. We won’t be able to get any news off the web with all the Plutonium chips imploding.” Maurice rubbed the bald spot on the top of his head. His attitude had changed as we climbed the stairs. He’d gotten quieter and quieter. I figured he was just out of breath. “I don’t understand how the power grid could be taken down by a DRM issue. They don’t have any copyrighted material on their switching computers.” Maurice shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. They’re interconnected and they’ve all got a Plutonium chip in the center of their little silicon brains. That deadly packet your friend’s toaster sent has gotten to them and they’re shutting down so they won’t violate any copyright laws. The effect will spread exponentially.” I noticed a flickering light above me. I paused, watching it define itself into a toobright white flashlight beam. “Why are you guys sitting around?” Agent Kirby asked. “A national emergency is developing.”

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one with the beer gut can take my flashlight and I’ll carry half the load.” We both reached for it. “Not you.” Agent Kirby handed the flashlight to Maurice. Kirby hefted his end of the generator and started marching up the stairs. I struggled to keep up with my half of the load. It was a little easier with Maurice holding the beam steady on the steps as we climbed. At the fifth floor we went into the Network Lab. Maurice stopped. “I’ve got to get something. I’ll be back real soon now.” I grew irritated wondering what Maurice might think more important than the problem at hand. Kirby and I set up the generator next to a window that didn’t open more than six inches. “That window doesn’t open,” Kirby said. “And generator fumes won’t be good.” I wondered how long it would take him to notice we were both stating the obvious. “I’ll get some kind of exhaust hose.” “We’ll need gasoline, too.” I confirmed the generator’s gas tank was empty. “And a quart of oil. Check the groundskeeper for lawnmower stuff.”

“Our sitting around might have something to do with the weight of this generator and the fact that we’re catching our breath,” Maurice said.

“You don’t know where to look.” I chased after him, puffing hard and trying to keep up.

Kirby paused for a second. “All right, the

Classes had dismissed after the power

Ray Gun Revival magazine

“I’ll get everything.” Kirby marched off.

died, and students milled about. A party-like atmosphere had settled on campus. I had seen a white-painted maintenance shed three buildings away, but I had never stopped in there before. It was one of those semi-circular roofed Quonset huts left over from World War Two. We found an old guy sitting in a sun-washed doorway of the shed. He started to hassle us about university property. Kirby flashed his badge, blustered, pointed out the billions that Homeland Security paid the university, and generally browbeat the old guy into silence. As we walked back with a gas can, some oil and a thick exhaust hose Agent Kirby said, “The FBI computer experts are trapped in Washington. The last I heard they told me to get over here and find out what I can. You’re a geek. What’s going on?” I shrugged. “All the computers have quit working, particularly the ones you don’t notice—like Jack’s toaster.” Agent Kirby raised an eyebrow. I told him about the toaster and how computers talk to each other. He nodded. And I reminded him how each computer has a Plutonium chip at its heart. “The Honorable Computing Act was designed to keep terrorists from spreading computer viruses.” Agent Kirby fidgeted with his holster. “Yeah, that’s what we were all told. The Plutonium chip determines which programs can run or not. It stops any program that’s not cryptographically signed so that some guy in a cave in Afghanistan won’t corrupt our computers’





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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling

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precious bodily fluids. But 90% of the circuitry is designed to enforce copyrights.”

Things Work, you’ll be welcome to stay. Guns and ammo will be useful, too.”

senses a copyright violation?” He posed the question as if administering an Oral Exam.

“So, something in this toaster spread to other computers, who in turn think they’re violating copyrights, and are shutting down. How can that be?” Agent Kirby asked.

It took a moment for what he said to sink in. I was afraid he’d completely lost it. Maurice had always seemed to be wound a little too tight about some things like the NRA—a contradiction in a contradiction-filled guy. He carried around his Che Guevara coffee mug, but I expected gun nuts to dislike communist revolutionaries.

“When the Plutonium chip senses a copyright violation, it sends two sorts of information: First, it sends the copyrighted material with the computer’s serial number. Second, it sends an accusation that the violation has occurred. After that it waits for a go-ahead from a certified DRM server.”

“I don’t know. Ask Maurice.” We walked the rest of the way to the Network Lab in silence. We looked around but couldn’t find any sign of Maurice. “I’ll go look for him,” I said. “Can you set up the generator?” “Sure. Tell him I want my flashlight back.” I went up the two floors to Maurice’s office. It was even messier than the last time I’d seen it. I found him pulling batteries out of all his gear and stuffing them into a bulging backpack. He looked wild-eyed. This was not a good time for my boss to wig out. “What are you doing?” I yelled at him. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. This outage was growing more and more serious by the millisecond. He shook his head and looked down. Closing his eyes he took deep breaths and bobbed his head a couple times. I’d seen him perform this little ritual whenever he was stressed. “My uncle’s got a country place, that no one knows about. It’s up in the mountains. Things are going to be hairy for a while. Maybe forever.” He paused, grabbed a listing and turned a page over and started drawing on it. “These are the directions. If you bring books, like The Way

Ray Gun Revival magazine

“I don’t get it with you, Maurice. You should be trying to fix this. But you’re bailing?” He gathered himself before answering. “Kevin, my dissertation was in emergent phenomena. This is definitely an emergent phenomenon. I understand now what we saw in the lab. That toaster sent out just one packet.” “No, it sent out thousands.” “I mean that it sent thousands of duplicate copies of just one packet—one unique pattern of bits. It broadcast this packet to every computer within reach. Each of those computers proceeded to forward copies to every computer it could. After 90 minutes, all the computers in the entire network were wedged and the network was flooded with nothing but copies of this one poison packet.”

“Correct. That’s the spec.” Maurice closed his eyes and nodded before asking his next question. “How is this data serialized?” I sighed. “The evidence and accusation are partitioned into packets and trans—” “Stop right there.” Maurice spoke quickly. “How many packets?” I scratched my head at the question. It didn’t make much sense. “I don’t know. Dozens. Hundreds. It depends upon how much data is being pirated.” “What if only one packet was sent?” “The copyrighted material wouldn’t be deleted. But that can’t happen.”

“That’s what we saw. Maurice, we have to figure out why.”

“That did happen. Everybody assumed the evidence and accusation are sent in separate packets. All the testing was predicated upon the assumption of multiple packets. But we saw only one packet coming from that toaster.”

“I can tell you why.” Talking steadied Maurice a little. He was used to giving technical presentations. Explanations were a big part of his job—something familiar that he could handle. “OK. What happens when the Plutonium chip

“How can both evidence and accusation fit in just one packet? Evidence consumes megabytes or gigabytes. No way would it fit in a single packet.” I shook my head. “The packets are too small.”





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The Mouse That Ate Civilization by Steve Poling “Everyone in the DRM Task Force thought the same. Suppose the evidence represents just three black circles.” Maurice grabbed his coffee cup and obscured Che Guevara’s face with four fingers held together. “Imagine a black circle where my hand is with two smaller black circles like this. That is a corporate logo. Three circles. The data is hardly more than a few bytes.” “That shouldn’t matter.” Maurice nodded. “It shouldn’t but it does. The Plutonium chip doesn’t flush packet data until after processing it. But the accusation data in the back half of the packet retains the data in the front half.” “Because the evidence and the accusation fit in a single packet, it sticks around?” “Right. The Plutonium chip in the receiving machine forwards the original killer packet. Then it sees undeleted copyrighted material and concludes that the machine has been compromised and broadcasts its own packet to DRM servers with the receiving machine’s serial number. Every machine along the way gets infected and makes the problem worse.”

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Steve Poling

hours of infection.” Maurice hefted his pack over his shoulder, scanned the office one last time and said, “Don’t lose that map. If I’m right you’ll need it.” He paused for emphasis. “And guns—lots of guns.” # “What happened next, Grampa?” The old man shrugged. “There were riots and looting. I stuck close to Special Agent Kirby. He had a Glock. At the first gun store we found he flashed his badge and talked the clerk into selling us guns and ammo on government credit. He taught me how to shoot.”

Steve Poling was born, raised, and lives in West Michigan with his wife and two kids. He is a C/C++/C# poet by day, with degrees in Mathematics and Computer Science, who writes Subversive Fiction by night. Steve has an abiding interest in philosophy and potato cannons. See http://steve.poling.info/ longer bio.

for

a

“I know. Then you and Elder Kirby joined Elder Maurice here. Tell me how you rescued grandma.” The old man shook his head. “Nope. You’re young enough to have nightmares. When you’re older you can read Elder Kirby’s report.” “Grampa, will the computers ever start working again?”

“That explains why the DRM servers were hammered.” Then it occurred to me. “With the serial numbers changing, none of the routers will filter out the poison packets.”

The old man sighed. “After the copyright expires.”

“Right. The DRM servers were swamped by the rampant lawlessness and they melted down. This invalidated their cryptographic keys. Now they can’t unlock anything.”

“A hundred years. Congress isn’t around to extend the time limits.” The old man tossed some more licensed merchandise into the fire.

“When’s that?”

“If you’re right, every device with a Plutonium chip will lock up after about two

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Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Golem, Part Two, by Robert Mancebo

Pg. 12

The Golem Part Two

Mild language * see the Overlords’ Lair editorial

by Robert Mancebo

“J

ust kidding—I was only—” Don stuttered as he felt the edge of razor sharp steel touching his throat.

But the sword only rose above his head and dropped to tap him sharply upon the shoulders, left-right-left. Then the armored figure pulled him back to his feet and slipped its own long dagger into Don’s belt. It put Jen’s hand into Don’s again and turned to lead them all further down the corridor. “Don’t look now, but I think you were just knighted.” Somehow Lyra found the strength to laugh as she passed by him. The thought of Don having to take care of Jen was so ridiculous she couldn’t help it. “Naw, you have to be a king to do that,” Don argued at her retreating back. “He’s not a king.” “We might be the last ones left alive on this rock,” Kyle said as he followed. “He can call himself Emperor if he wants to. Hell, at this point he’s got my vote.” Jen stood wide-eyed looking from Don to the others, not quite knowing what to do. “Oh, come on,” Don finally said. He took her hand as though she were a child and led her after them. As they passed through the corridor they found that more and more of the illuminators

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were broken or burned out. The light became dim, and they all grew tense. The gray figure moved ahead of them with a determined tread and would frequently stop when they reached areas that might have been danger points. When it actually became dangerously dark, he turned on an illuminator on the side of his helmet. They followed his shadowy figure through the echoing corridor. Then he stopped. He pushed out with an armored hand to point to, but not touch the slim, silver strands of webbing that had been run across the corridor. “Well, just cut them,” Kyle gave a slash at them with his spear. The armored figure shoulder-butted him away, but it was too late. The spear touched the fibers and stuck. “Whoa, take it easy!” Kyle backed away and left his spear to dangle. “Well how do we cut through it if everything sticks to it?” Don asked. The armored figure moved with sudden speed. He ripped Kyle’s spear loose and threw his full weight against the webbing. “Hey be careful there—” Kyle warned but there was no need. The massive figure ripped loose the strands of tangling fiber as though they were kite string.

“Oh, of course.” Kyle slapped a hand against his head. “That’s what the Teflon coating is for. So the webbing won’t stick.” He banged his knuckles against the figure’s armored chest and said loudly, “Good idea!” “He’s not deaf,” Lyra scolded Kyle. But their savior ignored what they had to say and waved an animated hand for them to follow. “Do you guys hear something?” Don asked. The armored figure waved his hand again. “Maybe,” Kyle turned to look back the way they’d come. “It’s hard to make out with all the—” Giving up on gestures, the armored figure pushed Kyle’s spear into his hands, and shoved him down the corridor. He pushed Lyra along behind him. “I got it, go!” Don said before he was pushed or pulled. “I’m right behind you.” They ran down the corridor. Their speed increased as they heard the noise of clicking grow closer behind them. “Even their small webs must be set up with some sort of alarm so they know when they’ve caught something,” Lyra said between breaths.



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Golem, Part Two, by Robert Mancebo “Spiders set up an alarm?” Don scoffed. “Sure,” Lyra insisted. “That’s why they all came out when Jen ran the car into the web in the street.” “And that’s why he didn’t want me cutting the web in here!” Kyle agreed. “Of course. Sorry about that,” he added in embarrassment. “I think they’re catching up,” Don called from the rear. Jen let out a terrified sob. Her knees were buckling in terror, and she kept almost falling, but he took a tighter hold on her hand and dragged her along. Their protector suddenly stopped and looked back. They were at a cross corridor. He stood there, unmoving then flipped open a plate on his armored arm and pushed in a sequence on some buttons. He stood still again. “What’s he doing?” Jen demanded in a trembling voice. “How would we know,” Kyle snapped back. “I think they’re almost here!” Don pushed Jen behind him and raised his spear. The armored figure was suddenly moving again. He turned to the left and began to trot. “You know that this leads away from the port!” Kyle called out to him, but the silent gray guardian didn’t answer. “Isn’t he going to answer?” Jen demanded. “Isn’t he going to say anything?” Even the scattered illuminators all disappeared around them. This was an unused area

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Pg. 13 evidently, and no one maintained their func“But, it won’t close now,” Jen whined. “We tioning. The silent suit of moving armor lit their can’t keep them out!” way, and they could only follow closely or be The armored figure made a pushing motion left in the darkness. and pointed a finger at them all. “I don’t like this,” Kyle called at the armored “You want us to hold it? Hold it against the figure’s back. “This is exactly the sort of place whole army of them?” Kyle demanded. “How those spiders like. We could be heading into can we—” The figure pushed the group of their main nest.” them roughly through the door and closed it “He’s not going to answer you,” Lyra told behind him. him between panting breaths. “I think we’re at Then the armored figure drew its sword the ‘just run or get left behind’ point here.” and turned to face the oncoming horde alone. They suddenly came to a door. It was a “He can’t!” Lyra whispered in horror. “He’ll security door, sheet metal with a wire-core be killed!” glass window set in the middle. It was also locked. “He’s not alive,” Kyle told her. “We’re trapped,” Kyle barked and instinc“He’s not—what do you mean?” tively turned at bay and raised his spear. Jen said nothing, but was clearly hyperventilating “I mean he’s a golem!” he told her. “You as she hung desperately onto Don’s big arm. see how he never breathes hard or gets tired? “Can you get through?” Lyra asked the There’s no one inside that suit!” armored figure quietly. “A golem?” Don demanded as he pushed forward to look through the reinforced glass. It nodded and began trying passcodes on In the light of the figure’s helmet they could the keypad next to the door. Once, twice, three see a black wave flowing through the corridor. times he tried different sequences. Each one was refused by the access system. “Not really a golem, I mean, he’s got to be some sort of a defensive robot. Or maybe it’s “Umm, guys I don’t think we’re going to operating control.” Kyle told them. have time for that,” Don called back to them. “A golem isona remote fantasy creature. Centuries ago “I think I see shadows—” people used to believe that powerful wizards The armored figure didn’t wait to hear what could create a figure of stone, mud, or metal he might’ve seen. He pushed Lyra back out of and magically give it life. They called them the way, raised his right hand and there was a ‘golems.’” sharp echo of a blast. The door latch was ripped “No!” Jen insisted with a shudder. “After the apart and the door swung open. The armored cybernetic rebellion in the twenty-first century, figure pushed them through the open door. all defensive robots were outlawed. They could





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Pg. 14

turn on us at any time! Everyone knows it’s as way out from under the smoking pile and rose good as the death penalty to give computer- indomitably to its feet. It sheathed its sword ized machines weapon capability.” without any show of emotion and tromped through the crunching mess to the door where “Well, somebody did,” Kyle asserted, and they waited. nodded at the window. “I told you,” Kyle said. “It’s not human!” The wave of spiders smashed against the form outside the door. There was a momentary They opened the door cautiously and roaring of weapon fire and an oozing channel allowed the metallic figure to enter. It walked was riven through the horde of hurtling arachnid through the door, took Jen’s spear, and jammed bodies. Then the weapon went silent, and the it against the damaged portal to keep any but black wave pushed forward once again. the most determined group of arachnids from following. The armored figure began to swing his sword. On and on he battled, and the entire “Are you all right?” Lyra began but it waved area was choked with twitching spider bodies her off when she got too close. and the oozing green ichor of their blood. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “He’s down!” Lyra shouted as they watched In answer the figure wiped a gauntlet morbidly through the window. The scuttling wave of crawling black bodies piled onto the across the mess that covered it and held it up armored figure, burying him alive in a writhing for them to see. mass eight or ten layers deep. “He’s down!” “He is kind of gooey.” Kyle said. “We don’t want to get too close until he’s hosed off.” “Damnit!” Don threw down his spear in frustrated rage. The figure pointed at him and nodded. It began to walk down the corridor again, not “Can’t we do anything?” Kyle asked in an looking back to see if they followed. empty voice. “Pretty concerned for our welfare, this “Not unless you have about ten thousand soulless golem of yours.” Lyra said to Kyle as gallons of bug spray in your pocket!” they followed. Suddenly, the crawling pile of frantically “It’s just programmed to do that,” Kyle attacking arachnids was ripped apart by a halo of synthetic lightning. Electricity arched assured her. in lashing bolts, and the entire gruesome “Let’s keep up,” Don suggested. He was pile smoked and shriveled. Scorched spiders pulling Jen by the hand, but she didn’t need scrabbled and ran shrieking off into the long, much encouragement to follow along. She was dark corridor. like a frightened child. A green-splattered, gray form pushed its

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They walked for what seemed to be a long time before Kyle became frustrated enough to demand out loud, “Does he have any idea where we’re going?” The figure stopped and turned back. It opened the protective hatch on its gauntlet and pressed in a series of buttons. Instantly a projected image of a complete map of the area shone upon the wall. The figure pointed to a spot in the many twisting corridors and then followed along an indicated rout to what was clearly the space dock. “You mean you’ve had a map all this time?” Kyle snapped. “All this time and you didn’t tell us?” The figure simply turned away and began to proceed forward. “Looks like we just have to have faith,” Lyra said and followed him. Kyle swore, but there was nothing else to do. He followed, grumbling obscenities to himself. Their guide became cautious when they reached a stairwell that went up. He drew his sticky sword and walked warily up the concrete steps. Lyra began to follow but Don stopped her, saying, “Not too close. Give him some room to work.” At the top of the stairs the figure waved to them to follow. They climbed in a hurry. When they passed through the door, they left the protected world of the corridors and





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Pg. 15

broke out into the wider living spaces of Tannan Station once again. But they were right across the street from the space dock.

Kyle picked up one of the heavy canisters The figure pointed for them to look out an and his eyes followed after their rescuer. “Four observation window. out of six,” He said to the others as he tossed “A transport ship!” Don exclaimed. “Oh, yeah, the power canister back down with the other Their silent guide led them across the street empties. “He’s dropping them to reduce weight. baby! Now we know where we’re headed.” at a jog and up the rows of decorative steps He’s running out of power.” The figure pointed at him and made the that ringed the entrance. Once there, he did gesture of working a steering wheel of a ground something they could not see to the lock, and “What then?” Don asked. transport. the door opened. “If he is a machine, he just stops function“Can I fly it?” Don translated the pantomime. The group pushed inside behind him as ing,” he replied. “If he’s a man, I expect he has “No way, guy, I only load ‘em.” fast as they could. It was a fearful thing being to get out of that suit before he asphyxiates.” out upon the open street where the army of “I can fly a transport,” Lyra cut in. “And I Jen pulled at Don’s hand to encourage him arachnids could attack them from any direction can program the nav-com to get us to Brighton to follow. Her eyes were pleading but she didn’t and in numbers too massive to count. Station or somewhere nearby.” say anything. There was no attack though. They were in The armored figure nodded its head and “Yeah, we’re going.” Don jerked his head and the door clicked shut behind them with a waved for them to follow again. The group after the armored figure and began to walk. loud ker-chink. All of a sudden, it seemed as moved through the port quickly. The corridors though they could breathe again. “It was the plasma field it created. That had were long and empty, except for maintenance They’d come in through a locked side to be what used up all its power,” Kyle said as doors that led off into unknown areas of the entrance. It was more of an overflow access they walked. “It takes a tremendous amount of complex. area for times when there were multiple juice to create that much synthetic lightning.” They followed a clear route to the waiting ships in port. The figure led them through the “Well, those are just standard C-11 power ship. Jen was actually ready to run, but Don wide empty hallway with confidence. It even cells it’s using. They’ll have more in any of the held her back to let their protector go first. brought them through a maintenance area ships,” Don told them. “We use them on all the where it stopped for a few moments to use a power-lifts.” When they arrived at the boarding area, service shower to wash off the spider blood the figure stopped and turned to face back the and venom that hadn’t naturally dripped off “That’s right,” Lyra said. “You work here, way they’d come. its coated armor. don’t you?” “What’s the golem looking at now?” Kyle “So, this is it then?” Don asked when the “Well, not here, but over at Dock Three. asked lightheartedly. figure came out of the shower. “We just get on They’re set up just a little differently, but a ship and go, right?” “I don’t know,” Don answered. “I don’t they’re close.” think he really ‘looks’ at anything. I think The figure didn’t nod it simply pulled two “Well, unless you know wherever he’s taking he’s got some sort of radar or x-ray vision or power canisters from their sockets at its hips us,” Kyle snapped at them. “I suggest that you something. Watch him for a while. Half the and dropped them to the ground with an hurry up!” time he doesn’t even turn his head when he unnaturally loud thunk. It dropped a second reaches for something. He just knows where pair and then waved a hand for them to follow They trotted to catch up to their guide, but everything is around him.” and began to walk once again. by the time they’d managed it he’d stopped.

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Issue 31, October 01, 2007



Pg. 16

“Well then—” Kyle stopped as the figure raised its hand for silence. It turned toward them and pointed at the ship, then held up its hand with the fingers spread.

Don spun the manual override and pulled the hatch open.

“What?” Kyle demanded. “Do you want us to go in or not?”

A man appeared in the hatchway with wide eyes and a threatening pry bar in his hand.

The figure nodded, pointed at Lyra, held up five fingers, and then motioned away with its thumb.

“What are you yelling for, you idiot?” Don sagged back against the ship’s hull for a moment to catch his breath. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Get back!” a voice screamed from inside.

“You’re going somewhere.” Lyra translated. “Gave you—? I thought that they’d figured “You want us to leave in five minutes if you’re out how to open the door for a moment there!” not back?” The man inside the ship replied with wide, The figure nodded and motioned for them haunted eyes. He was a thin, well-dressed to go. man with trimmed hair and a maintenance badge displayed on his chest. The badge said “Here,” Lyra took off the yellow headband ‘Supervisor’ across the top and ‘John’ across she’d been wearing and tied it around the the bottom. figure’s right arm. “A knight shouldn’t go into battle without a lady’s favor.” “Is he with you?” he asked in a half whisper as he looked past them. The figure hesitated and looked as though it would’ve spoken if it was able. “No it went back for something,” Kyle told him. “What’s that for?” Don asked. “Back for something?” The man gave a short “For luck,” Lyra replied with a smile. “He bark of scoffing laughter. “Back for someone, understands.” you mean. When they hesitated and tried to pursue “This is the third ship he’s begun filling. I the conversation it pushed Don roughly toward saw him send off a charter ship and some old the door. trading scow he managed to get off the ground. I’m glad I wasn’t on that one. I don’t know if it “Okay, okay, I’m going!” he griped. The will make it.” figure left at a trot, back the way they had come. “What do you think’s irking him?” “You mean he’s collecting people to save?” Lyra asked. “People to send off-planet?” “Gone for more power cells somewhere, maybe,” Kyle said with a shrug. “Let’s get inside “Well yeah,” the man assured her. “I think and get ready to go.” he’s a robot someone programmed to get

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us out of here. He never speaks. He hears things halfway across the terminal. He can see through walls. He’s collected forty or sixty people already. “He’s the only reason I’m here. I was knocked out by the crowd when the news first hit. People were wild to get off-planet. I tried to help organizing the lines but some stupid Yard Ape grabbed a lady’s ticket and almost split my skull with a suitcase when I tried to stop him. “It was survival of the fittest in here, I’ll tell you. I’ve never seen anything like it. “Anyway, I woke up a couple of hours later and everyone who could get away was gone. I think maybe the arachnids got inside and cleared out the rest. Anyway, he dragged me in here to wait while he got more people. He loaded the other ships and sent them off. I’ve just been watching and waiting my turn.” “I guess that would be along with us,” Lyra said. “Well get in—get in,” the man encouraged nervously. “I’m not using my head here. I don’t even know if the port is still safe.” “Oh, I think it’s okay,” Don said. “It’s a sealed building—” he was interrupted by the sound of a human scream and a flash of yellowish light from a long way back down the corridor. “I really—really don’t like the look of that,” Kyle said. “Lyra—” Don began but she had already pushed past the maintenance supervisor and was headed for the cockpit. The rest of them hesitated just inside the





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Pg. 17

hatchway and looked back to see what was coming. “It’s good,” Lyra’s voice called over the PA system. “She’s a heap, but she’ll travel. Fuel, air, water— everything’s loaded and ready. Engines are already prepped and I’ve got them set to fire upon command.” “How long has it been since he left?” Don demanded. “Maybe two minutes,” Kyle replied. “Then in three minutes we go.” “You’re not going to leave him?” the maintenance man said with a touch of horror in his voice. “He said for us to go in five, if he wasn’t back.” Don replied coldly. “But this is the last ship. There aren’t any more in port,” the man argued. “Those were his orders.” “Look!” Kyle pointed down the corridor. There was a group of running people. One man fell with a cry of pain and was nearly trampled by several others as they ran past him. There were six of them, and they were all wide-eyed in complete terror. The group of people already in the ship moved aside so that the newcomers could run through the hatchway without slowing. The man they’d left behind was rolling on the ground holding his ankle. An armored hand grabbed him by his collar and dragged him along.

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The movements of the armored figure were Don ran up behind the armored figure. slowed. He seemed to swing his sword with “I’ve got him!” He shouted as he approached to great effort. Even then though, he would not make sure the rescuer knew that he was coming leave the man he was dragging. up behind him. He didn’t know what the golem could or could not see, and he didn’t want to He dropped the man for a moment, stepped surprise him while he was being attacked. back, and loosed a blast of flame across the floor. As the arm swept out the flames stuttered Don grabbed the fallen man’s collar and and died. It had slowed the oncoming rush but dragged him across the wet floor toward the it hadn’t stopped it and obviously his weapon hatchway while the armored figure doggedly was empty. swung his sword into the multitude of foes that he barely held at bay. He grabbed the man and began to drag him again. Slowly, step by step, smashing or slicing One time Don had to stab a spider that any spiders that dared to get too close, he got past their defender, but only once, and he moved toward the waiting ship. was more than happy to do it. He was tired of running from creatures he felt that he should’ve “Help him!” Jen pleaded. “Someone help been smashing with his shoe. For some reason, him!” the arachnids seemed to be focusing nearly their ire upon the armored figure that had “It’s not alive!” Kyle snapped at her. “It’s all balked them so many times that evening. just a machine!” Maybe they perceived its violent defense as a “Yeah, well, the guy he’s draggin’ isn’t!” Don more serious threat than the nearly helpless snapped. He looked around at the others and prey that was escaping them. hefted his makeshift spear. “Anyone else going “Get them in!” Jen pleaded with the people with me to bring him in?” gawking through the door. “Get them in!” No one else volunteered. Other hands assisted Don once he was within arm’s reach. They dragged the injured “Yeah, whatever!” Don pushed past them man inside, then helped Don in too. Then they and into the terminal. sealed the door. The heat from the defensive wall of flame “I thought you’d be killed!” Jen sobbed as set off the building’s fire containment system, and the room was suddenly sprayed with water she hugged Don frantically. from the ceiling sprinklers. The arachnids well, I’m a knight now, y’know,” he cringed at environmental change. The shock told“Yeah, her with gave the retreating figure a few moments a few spiders.”a thin laugh. “I can’t be killed by respite, but the arachnid army got over their surprise almost immediately and renewed “He’s down!” John, the maintenance supertheir attack. visor, shouted. He was looking at a wide views-





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creen that was designed to look like a window. to plug those into him?” Kyle asked when Don “He’s down!” showed up hefting a power cell in each hand. They all turned to see the black moving lump of spiders that had already covered the armored form. Even as they watched, the wet pile of arachnids were lit up by a blinding white flash. It was not like the massive lightning storm he’d created before, just a momentary electrical blast that left a scattering of burned spiders twitching all over the corridor. But the armored figure underneath had ceased moving also.

“I am,” Lyra said immediately.

“But—” Lyra began but Don cut her off.

“And I am,” Don added. “Lyra, You can’t go. You have to pilot this ship,” Kyle told her. “Well then you’d better come along and watch my back,” she snarled. “Because I’m going!”

“So am I,” John chimed in. “I’ve watched him people all day. I’m not going to leave “That last burst must’ve drained all of its him.save Not while there may be a chance.” power,” Kyle said as the figure simply lay there. “It’s shut down.” “S-so am I,” Jen whispered. She held onto Don’s pocket as though reluctant to allow him “Or he’s dead,” Don said. to get more than a few steps away from her. “Don!” a voice barked and the group looking Lyra opened the hatch. They stepped out at the screen turned to find Lyra had left the cautiously, their crude weapons held ready. bridge and was standing behind them. “You There were some spiders moving amongst the said that those were the same power cells that slain and wounded but no black wave rushed you use in a cargo lifter, right?” forward to assail them. “Yeah,” the man replied. “Let’s go!” Lyra hurried them. She took one of the heavy power cells from Don and trotted “So won’t this ship have a powered cargo toward the twitching mound. lifter for loading and off-loading?” They used their spears to clear aside the “In the,” he was already moving when he mass of dead and dying spiders. Those that still began speaking, “cargo bay!” moved they stabbed unmercifully. Don had off-loaded hundreds of ships of Lyra seated her power cell into a plug similar configuration and he didn’t need to be first. Don was only a few moments later. They told where to go. As big as a space ship seemed watched and waited. Nothing happened. to be outside, it really wasn’t that big inside. In less than two minutes he was back with a pair “He’s—he’s dead,” Jen whispered. of power cells. “So, who’s going to walk out there and try

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hefted his spear and looked around. “We’d better go. I think the natives may be getting restless.”

“Or he was never alive,” Kyle said as he

“It may take a complete factory re-boot to get him started again. I don’t know, and there’s no time to stand here and find out. We tried, okay? We tried.” The sad group began to walk back toward the ship, but Lyra turned and rushed back. She knelt among the crunching arachnid bodies and slammed a hand hard upon the armored chest. “Don’t you die on us!” she screamed at the silent form. “Don’t you die! Wake up! Wake up! There are still people who need you to be alive! People need you to give them hope!” Her fists beat upon the rigid form without effect. She tried to shake the massive figure, but its weight made her strongest efforts futile. “Damn you,” she gasped between sobs, “I need you to be alive!” “Lyra,” Don called to her but she ignored him. “Lyra!” Jen screamed. She looked up at that. She was in time to see a half a dozen huge black bodies supported by sharp-toed, skeletal legs crawling over the pile of their dead brethren to attack her. Lyra jumped back so quickly that she tripped and fell onto her back. She rolled and staggered to her feet, but stopped her headlong flight at the incongruous sound of a blade ringing upon





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 the floor of the spaceport.

Pg. 19

The figure motioned for them to enter the ship. They all went in except for Lyra. She took When she looked back she saw the “Don’t worry,” Don assured him. “I under- hold of the exposed hand and simply stood arachnids twitching out the last of their lives, stand.” He glanced at the others, slightly embar- there. dismembered by a single mighty swipe of the rassed but continued, “It’s not the sword, it’s slashing sword. in here.” He thumped his chest. “The sword is “What are you doing?” Don asked her. just a tool you pick up when you need it.” “We’re ready to go.” The armored figure rose and walked heavily toward the ship. It slowed long enough to take The figure clapped him on the shoulder “I’ve programmed the ship for take-off and her gently by the arm as it passed, and lead her with a heavy hand and returned the dagger to the course is plotted. Jen can take you out. along. its sheath. She’s a trained pilot too. It’s the advantage of being a Premier Citizen, you know.” No one spoke until they reached the ship’s “Good luck, then.” Don held out a hand to entrance, where the armored figure stopped shake. “What?” Kyle demanded. “Why?” and waved for them to board. The figure stood there for a long moment “Because I’m staying!” she called back. “You’re not going with us, are you?” Lyra then, instead of reaching out with his armored “John’s right, there must be more people asked. “You never planned on going. You were gauntlet, it gave its titanium cuff a quarter turn trapped. They’ll need rescuing too.” just going to lie there and play dead until we and pulled. The gauntlet came off with a sucking The armored figure tried to move her were gone.” hiss and a human hand was uncovered. toward the hatch, but she held onto his hand The armored figure nodded. The hand was dripping with an oozing, with both of hers. The blank faceplate looked gelatinous substance that volatilized into down at her in its silent, stolid way. “There are people in the other cities who steam as it was exposed to the air. need to be saved too,” John said with a nod of “Oh, come on, hero,” she encouraged the understanding. “That’s what he’s here for.” Don took the powerful hand in his without silent form. “You know you can use the help.” hesitation. She banged a hand upon his armored chest. “I told you,” Kyle said. “It’s just in his pro“Someone to charge your batteries, ya know?” gramming. He’s a golem.” “He’s packed in there inside some sort of a liquid?” Kyle stammered. “No wonder he can’t “No he’s not,” Lyra corrected. “He’s a hero.” talk!” “Whatever,” Don said with a shrug. He “I’ve heard about the military using was obviously uncomfortable with such ide- something like it,” Lyra said. “Gelled atmoalistic titles. His own goodbye was simple and sphere. He’s suspended inside the armor like Robert Mancebo pragmatic. a baby in a womb. The gel protects him from “Thanks, big guy. You’d better take this back.” impact injuries. It must be like breathing jello.” I’m a former soldier, locksmith, and He pulled the dagger from his belt and handed “That’s why he never seems to get out of technician. I’ve had dark and historical it to the armored figure. “I expect you’ll need breath,” Don looked at the warm gel steaming it more than I will.” off where he had touched the man’s hand. fantasy published both online and in gel must carry a hundred times the various magazines. The figure took it but didn’t move for a long “That oxygen we’re breathing out here.”

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moment, as though awaiting something.





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Jeff Michelmann

Pg. 20

Featured Artist

Jeff Michelmann

Name: My name is Jeff Michelmann. Not very typical for a German guy with an Indonesian background, is it? Age: I was born in 6-13-1988, which makes me 19 years old at the moment. Hobbies: Many people say that they have too many hobbies to name all of them. But I don’t. My few hobbies are: bicycling, bowling, playing cards (such as poker, blackjack, or even Uno), learning about scientific stuff, watching TV, surfing the internet, drawing and digital painting, and so on... I guess, I have too many after all.... Favorite Book / Author: I loved reading the first three books of Harry Potter. I even read the fourth and the fifth books, too. But I didn’t like them very much. That is why I have stopped reading Rowling’s Harry Potter ever since. Favorite Artist: Oh, there are many artists that I’m a fan of, it would be too difficult to choose just one favourite artist. Some of them are real veterans of the branch of celestial art, but many of them are newcomers, too. And many of them have been featured in Ray Gun Revival magazine. When did you start creating art? That’s a question I’m asking myself, too. I am not really sure, when I started creating art. Well, I’ve always loved to draw since I was a child. The PC, in combination with Photoshop, gave me a whole new world of opportunities. When I was 16 years old, I started using Ray Gun Revival magazine



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Jeff Michelmann

Pg. 21

Photoshop for the very first time. The first several months, I only played around with the variety of features and filters Photoshop had to offer. And after three months, I found the “Gradient Tool.” My very first success! What media do you work in? I work on the PC most of the time. Half a year ago, I started to draw again, trying to get out of the rusty trap of inability. Where your work has been featured? My works have been featured two times on the front page of deviantART, which I am really proud of. Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of your works? I have a full gallery of my works displayed at http://gucken.deviantart.com and my own print shop at http://gucken.theuntappedsource.com

How did you become an artist? To be honest, I don’t know. I think it was at a time, when I’ve started to play videogames online. After surfing and browsing through many forums, I have noticed small little banners, called “signatures,” under everyone’s comment. They’ve inspired me to try to achieve something like that on my own. What were your early influences? The major influence was definitely deviantART in all its glory and variety. I’ve spent the first weeks looking at art and others’ galleries only. What inspired the art for the cover? I think it was Taenaron. A great artist.

Ray Gun Revival magazine



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Jeff Michelmann

Pg. 22

How would you describe your work? Hmm. That’s a tricky question. I don’t know. I have too much to say about my art. I am always trying to capture a specific and especially calm or sometimes even striking mood with my work. But the question that has been on my mind for quite a time is, “How would you describe my work?” I know, I’m the guy they call “curious.” Where do you get your inspiration / what inspires you? Music and videos, especially anime, are the things that inspire me the most. They really motivate me to create some pictures with certain feelings. That is why I always need to listen to some songs or watch some videos while I’m creating new works. Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure affected your work? I had several notable failures, nobody’s perfect. But failures are things that shouldn’t push you back. Failures are things that will push you forward. At least that’s my philosophy, and it has worked so far. What have been your greatest successes? How has success impacted you / your work? Oh, well, haha. I said that failures push me forward. I think you can tell now, how successes are influencing me. I get lazy. And that’s something I really don’t want. But there are times when success motivates you even more. I think one of the works I am most proud of, is the cover art for this release. Ray Gun Revival magazine



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

Featured Artist: Jeff Michelmann

Pg. 23

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art? My favourite tools are: a mouse and keyboard, and pencil and eraser; the invincible duos. What tool / equipment do you wish you had? I wish I had a better PC. That is all. Seriously. Sometimes it’s really frustrating, when you just sit there and wait until the computer has finished calculating your steps. What do you hope to accomplish with your art? I’ll better warn you right away. This will sound very soppy. I want to give something to others. That is why the majority of my works are in wallpaper sizes. A piece of work which you can look at for more than just 10 seconds. Let’s just say, I wish to convey certain feelings and moods with the maximum amount of application.

Ray Gun Revival magazine



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher

Pg. 24

The Pasadena Rule Serial Novel: Part Two of Six

Brief language * * see the Overlords’ Lair editorial

by Ben Schumacher 3.

D

ieter and Bill were back inside, the probe reeled in and stowed in its cradle. There was a pretense of a meal. Max and Madeline were taking turns at the communicator panel, coaxing information in dribbles from the Aphrodite. Eventually, the satellite feed was restored and we could monitor everything ourselves. Virgil was damaged, no one knew how badly. The high-gain antenna had been hurt, so all communications were routing through the low-bandwidth omnidirectional system. This was good enough for telemetry and voice—or would be, when the on-board computer figured out that it should switch the voice circuit over—but the omni channel was too narrow for video. The environment inside the crew space remained nominal. This last was the best news, since even a small breach of the lifesystem would quickly make the ship uninhabitable. The lander airlock was proceeding through its long depressurization. There was one occupant, wearing Katya’s suit, who had linked the suit to the umbilicus inside the airlock and initiated the cycle. The link with the suit was strange, though. She was hooked up to the oxygen system, the electrical power, and the heat exchanger, but the data link with the suit’s biomed system appeared to be disconnected. The chief theories were that the suit connector

Ray Gun Revival magazine

had been damaged, or else Katya had simply forgotten to plug it in properly. Knowing Katya, I could imagine other reasons.

lander was at the edge of this and sustained damage. Aphrodite: Where is J. B.?

Of the second suit, the one worn by Jules Bertillame, there was no sign. Everyone expected some sort of verbal communication almost immediately, but it was twenty-five minutes before anything came. Max put it on the speaker at once. Virgil: Aphrodite, this is Virgil. Please acknowledge.

Virgil: Jules is dead. Aphrodite: Can you confirm, Virgil? Jules is dead? Virgil: I am sure of this. I saw it happen. He was in the path of the slide, and it swept him away. I found a piece of his suit cladding. I think the rest of him was buried. Aphrodite: Understood.

It was her voice, businesslike enough, but a little shaky. Bill gave a hoot of relief until Madeline’s sharp look shut him up. Aphrodite: This is Aphrodite. (The voice from orbit was Arkady Rudin, one of the other lander pilots.) Katya, this is Arkasha speaking. We’re glad to hear from you. Virgil: Yes. I am also glad. (Deep breath.) The situation here is very bad. Aphrodite: What is your situation? Virgil: There was a ground tremor, followed by substantial slides of material down the slope. This area is not as stable as we thought. The slide included about one-third of the LZ. The

We all understood. If the thermal integrity of J. B.’s suit had been damaged, he would be dead in minutes, even if the landslide had not crushed him. Aphrodite: Virgil, Aphrodite. What is your personal condition? Virgil: I was out of the main path of the slide, in the shelter of an outcropping. My suit was damaged, but I was able to make it back. Aphrodite: What is your physical condition? We aren’t getting your biomed telemetry.



Virgil: I’ve disconnected the system.

Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher

Pg. 25

Aphrodite: Say again, Virgil?

I heard someone whisper, “Sweet Jesus.” I had been expecting bad news, but that did not Virgil: Don’t make me say everything twice, make it any easier to take. The two steerable Arkasha. I said I’ve disconnected the biomedi- ducted fans, Virgil’s propulsion system in cal readouts. I am sorry. But don’t worry about the dense lower atmosphere of Venus, were me. I am okay. I can function. wedged tight under however many kilograms of rock. Without the propellers, Virgil could not even leave the ground, much less reach a Madeline’s eyebrows went up. “Does that rendezvous seventy kilometers up. mean what I think it means?” Katya was trapped. Her lifesystem was I nodded. “She’s hurt, maybe badly, but she intact for now, but it would not last forever. doesn’t want us to know the details. So she’s The only question was when, and how, she would die. I knew the lander inside and out, so pulled the data line.” I could make a pretty good guess. Unless there “Why would she do that?” Dieter asked, was more damage than we knew, her electrical bewildered. power could last for weeks. Virgil was too small for a full recycling setup, so oxygen supply and Because she doesn’t think it matters, I carbon dioxide removal would fail earlier than answered silently. that, even with only one occupant. And despite almost perfect shielding, the ferocious heat and pressure would eventually have their way, Aphrodite: Understood, Virgil. How do you squeezing the hull until its seams parted and then crushing, and roasting, its contents. read the condition of your craft? Virgil: I can’t tell everything from here. I’m still in the lock, pumping down. The inner cabin environment reads normal on the panel, so ECS and thermal shielding are holding. I’ve lost the high-bandwidth DCU, so I’ve switched over to the omni. The computers seem to have cycled through a soft crash. I can’t find out about main power or propulsion from here. Aphrodite: Can you take off? Virgil: Nyet. Both of the aerofans are partly buried in loose rock from the slide. Even if I have the power, I cannot start them. Either the fans won’t move or the blades will shatter.

Ray Gun Revival magazine

But long before that, I knew, Katya would be dead from her own waste heat. The foil-thin thermal insulation layer that covered both Virgil and the hotsuits was as efficient at keeping waste heat inside as it was in shielding against the outside conditions. Waste heat from machinery and crew was drained by a heat pump and stored in a special heat sink built into the airframe of the craft. The cabin stayed cool, but the heat sink grew hotter by the hour. As it did, the heat pump required more and more of the ship’s power to keep up, adding its own increasing contribution to the waste heat budget. It was an exponential process. While the ship operated, the heat sink’s absolute temperature would double every twenty-four

hours. In a week, it would in theory be as hot as a star—but sooner than that, its own insulation would burn through and the ship would become a holocaust. If you shut down the heat pump, the heat build-up in the cabin would be no less deadly. By sudden fire or by slow suffocation, death would be inexorable. But Katya, I suspected, would not die that way, either. # There is an unwritten, almost unspoken code among those who travel in space, a code about catastrophe and how to face it. The code does not have a name, but if it did, it might be called the Pasadena Rule. The Pasadena disaster occurred in the “good old days” of liquid-fueled chemical rocket motors, finicky things with high thrust and low specific impulse, so that a spacecraft had to operate pretty close to its fuel margin. The Pasadena was a shuttle that made the rounds between low Earth orbit and the lunar surface, two or three days each way. It was returning to Earth, sliding down the geopotential gradient with a complement of light cargo and four human beings, two crew and two passengers. About twenty hours out, the Pasadena started a fifteen-second engine burn designed to trim up its approach for the aerobraking maneuver; but something went badly wrong and the engine did not shut down on time. It was a triple failure: a control system glitch, a stuck relay, a jammed manual cut-off switch. The engine fired for one hundred and seventy-one seconds, until the fuel tanks were empty.



It did not take the crew long to discover



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher

Pg. 26

their predicament. No matter what they did, they would miss the Earth’s atmosphere entirely, swinging in a hyperbolic arc past the planet and out into deep space. No ship on Earth, in orbit, or on the Moon could possibly catch them and rendezvous for a rescue.

self-pitying messages to his wives and children you like, you can find your own way out, take back in Teheran. Only the second passenger, an a pill or slice your wrists or vent your cabin. engineer named Macallister, seemed to keep Whatever seems easy and quick. his cool. “I guess we know what’s coming,” he said in his soft Texas drawl, as the Earth # dwindled behind them. “Meanwhile, we’re taking this thing one day at a time.” Arkady Rudin was back on the line, talking First part of the Pasadena Rule: Sometimes with about the obstructed lifting fans on you’re screwed. Period. On the fifteenth day after the Pasadena’s Virgil.Katya I’d missed the first part of the conversafly-by of Earth, after ninety minutes of weeping tion. Those aboard the ship were as good as dead. and breast-beating from the Iranian astronoStill, it might take them a long time actually to mer followed by two hours of psychotic ravings die. The Pasadena had power from an auxiliary from the co-pilot, Macallister appeared on array of photovoltaics, and it could scrub CO2 the link. “This has gone on long enough,” he Aphrodite: . . . . wants to know if you can and recycle water as long as there was power. In said. “We’re all real grateful for what you down go back outside and clear the fans manually. its cargo was a tank of liquid oxygen extracted there have done for us, but it’s high time we from lunar rock that could support the crew went off the air. I’m about to disable the comm Virgil: Nyet, Aphrodite. I saw the problems for years. The only constraint was food, and link. God bless you all. Pasadena out.” There with the fans and tried to unblock them, but the ship’s food supply, if rationed, might last as was a shout in the background, and then the I couldn’t stay outside long enough. My suit much a sixty days. Two months to starvation— transmission ended abruptly. The Pasadena suffered some damage in the avalanche. Parts and in all that time, they would remain in full was never heard from again. of the cladding are . . . compromised. I had to communication with Earth. get into the airlock. Ten years later, a microprobe made a fly-by For two solid weeks, the Pasadena was at of the Pasadena as it pursued its orbit around Aphrodite: Could you make another EVA the top of every news package. The biogra- the Sun. A blurry infrared image showed the later on? phies of the crew and passengers. The shocking ship, all systems except the radar transponder Virgil: My suit is damaged. accident. The grim arithmetic that made rescue shut down, the airlock door open wide. impossible. Interviews with the doomed men. Can you make repairs to the Excerpts from supposedly private conversaFrom the fire-storm in the newsies after suitAphrodite: and continue clearing the fans? tions with the ground. Rumors of a bidding war Macallister pulled the plug, you might have for the viddie rights. supposed that he had murdered the other Virgil: (Pause.) No. three for their rations and tossed them naked At first the four men held up well, but after out into space. But real space-faring people Aphrodite: (Captain Bell’s voice.) Please a week their morale began to break down. knew better. To them, Macallister was a hero. detail your suit damage, Virgil. We have some The pilot retreated to his five-cubic-meter They told each other, “It wasn’t doing anybody people up here who may be able to suggest cabin and refused to use the communication any good, the way it was going. He did the right some temporary repairs. link, even to talk to his family. The co-pilot thing.” launched into rambling accounts of paranoid Virgil: It isn’t just the suit. I also am damaged. fantasies, possibly fueled by drugs from the And that became the second part of the I cannot make another EVA. ship’s pharmacy stores. One passenger, a radio Pasadena Rule: When you’re screwed, you do Aphrodite: (Long pause, then Rudin’s voice astronomer returning from Farside, sent endless your job and then you sign off. After that, if again.) Understood, Virgil. Stand by.

Ray Gun Revival magazine





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher Time passed. The airlock in Virgil lowered the pressure toward the one-atmosphere level. It seemed like a slow process, but in truth it was amazingly fast. A century ago, decompression from ninety atmospheres would have taken days, not hours, or else bubbles would form in the bloodstream. They called this “the bends”; it was excruciating and sometimes fatal. But the life support system in Katya’s backpack was linked directly into her bloodstream, so that blood gases were continuously removed by a the gas exchange unit. Other blood chemistry was also monitored and controlled. The suit helped the wearer combat thirst, fatigue, and shock. If needed, a pain killer could be added to the stream. I wondered what dosage Katya was using. Virgil: Is Jack listening? Aphrodite: I’m sure he is. We are passing our signal down to platform Gamma in real time. Would you like to talk with him? Virgil: No, not now. There will be time enough for that.

Pg. 27 4. Once Katya was inside the cockpit of Virgil, she managed to send a few still images of the exterior of the ship over the low-bandwidth data channel. Virgil had been turned and tilted by the rockslide, and some of the aerodynamic surfaces showed damage. This was not too serious. But both of the ducted propellers, port and starboard, were blocked by several hundred kilograms of loose rock. If the fans were started, they would not move, or else they would break. It was maddening. Katya confirmed that the propulsion and power systems were workable—minor failures only, with sufficient backups to cope. Katya dutifully talked these over with the Aphrodite. Yet everyone knew that there was only one problem that mattered: the rocky debris blocking the propellers, just a few meters away from where Katya sat, but as unreachable as the surface of the Sun. #

Eight hours after the accident, I pretended to take a cat-nap in the wardroom, mostly to Aphrodite: We can set up a link right away. prove to my shipmates that I did not need a Just say the word. sleeping pill. There was no chance that I would sleep. I reclined with my eyes closed, listening Virgil: Um. That’s okay. Just tell him that I’m to the wind moan softly through the rigging sorry about all of this. I’ll talk to him later. outside the gondola. The vibration and slight sway of the dirigible were usually comfortable Aphrodite: All right. sensations, but not now. Outside the air was thin and freezing, not much different from the conditions aboard the High Jump, in the stratosphere over the Pacific. But far below, instead of a warm tropical sea, there was a waterless desert of unimaginable heat and pressure. Katya and I had both dreamed of going there.

Ray Gun Revival magazine

Katya had gained her dream, while I had lost it. Through the open door I heard a voice from the cockpit. Madeline was talking over the link with someone aboard the Aphrodite. I couldn’t hear the other half of the conversation. “. . . . bearing up well enough, I think,” she was saying. “He’s catching some sleep.” She waited a while, then said, “What did you expect? God damn it . . . . Yes, we’re standing by. Still here. No, nothing like that. Just asleep—I can wake him up any time he’s needed. Well, I think he would, don’t you? I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell him later if . . . . Damn it, Frank, I don’t think you can make decisions like that. They’re married, for Christ’s sake. Certainly, we have to respect her wishes. But do you really think that she . . . . okay, I’ll hold.” The “Frank” told me that she was talking to Captain Bell, the mission commander, and it did not take a genius to guess the subject of their discussion. A minute or two later, and Madeline said, “Roger that. I’ll have him on in five minutes.” I heard Madeline come into the wardroom, so I sat up and rubbed my eyes. “Awake, Jack?” she asked. “More or less.” “Are you up to talking on the link?” “Who with?” “Katya,” she said, and I felt my heart accelerate and sink at more or less the same moment. It was not a pleasant sensation. “She’s about to go into a sleep period,” she went on. “We thought you might want to talk to her before she does. Can you do it?”





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, but they didn’t steady me. “Yeah,” I said. “I can manage it, I think.” “Because if you’re not sure, it’s okay. You can talk to her later. When she wakes up.” What Madeline did not say, because she knew we were both thinking it, was that Katya might not wake up. She knew the Pasadena Rule. Sometimes you’re screwed. And when you’re screwed, you don’t add to the sufferings of other people by spinning it out. Shutting down for a “sleep period” could be a graceful way to sign off for the last time.

Pg. 28 I could hear nothing. Finally I said, “Hello?” Katya said, “Jack? Is that you?” She sounded more tired than I could remember. “It’s me,” I said. “How are you?” I could have kicked myself as soon as I’d asked it; the answer was horribly clear to us both. But if I tried to stay away from painful subjects, then there would be nothing to talk about. “I’ve been better,” she answered, trying to make light of it. “And you?” “Not bad. Aside from the obvious.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “As I recall, things went to hell pretty much right after you said that.” “It turned out well, though,” she said. “But I tell you what. Now that I am on another geologically active planet, I take it back.” We shared a strained laugh. “I have been lucky to have you, Katya,” I said, instantly aghast at the verb tense I’d chosen. “Jack, it has been so good between us. I remember when I took you home with me, just before we left Earth. It was all so perfect.”

“That is good,” she said. Her voice seemed We had been married in a restored to relax a bit. I realized that mentioning the Orthodox church in Katya’s home town in She looked at me with a skeptical eye. Was obvious, even obliquely, was a relief to her. We western Siberia, a month before our departure I the sort to break down on the radio, to make would not have to dwell on it, but we would from Earth orbit. “That was a good time,” I said. Katya’s ordeal worse? Maddie would have no not have to ignore it, either. “It makes me happy to think of it now.” I didn’t way of knowing, really. At last she nodded. um, following things pretty closely sound happy. “Okay,” she said. “Grab some coffee and come up “We’re, here.” There was an awkward moment, and I cast down to the control pod. You’re on the air in around in my mind for something to keep three minutes.” “Yes, I know. Thank you.” the conversation going. It seemed to me that “And we’re all very sorry about J. B. He was each word was a precious thing, but they kept # slipping away. a good friend.” The others were filing out of the control “Jack,” Katya said presently. “I am very tired. “Yes. But for him it was over very quickly, I pod when I came in, leaving only Madeline think.” It has been a hard day. I think I will go to sleep to stay with me while I talked to Katya. It now.” was a generous gesture, but they spoiled it “That’s right,” I agreed. “We can be thankful by avoiding my eyes, as if they were afraid for that much, at least.” “Wait.” to look at me. I sat at the co-pilot’s station “I’m sorry, but I have to sign off now.” next to Madeline, who was speaking into her There was a very long pause, until I headset to set up the conversation. I heard her wondered whether she had closed the conplease, wait a moment. I want to ask say the word “private” about three times. She nection. But then she surprised me. “You know, you“No, a question, and I want you to answer it looked inquiringly at me, and I nodded. I felt Jack, I seem to remember telling you once that truthfully.” calm—way too calm, and cold. At a signal from we were lucky to live on a geologically active Madeline, I picked up my own headset and put planet.” She seemed to consider. “What is the it on. question?” “No, no. I’m all right for it.”

Ray Gun Revival magazine





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The Pasadena Rule by Ben Schumacher

Pg. 29

“Katya, are you in much pain right now?” I asked, working to keep my voice even. I heard her let out a deep breath. “Not much, Jack,” she replied, matching my tone. “But I am medicated.” “Okay,” I said. “Listen, I want you to do me a favor. Will you do it?” “That depends on the favor. I will try.” “Katya, I am not finished talking with you yet. But you’re tired—hell, I’m tired too. So I want you to go to sleep. But here’s the favor. I want you to call me back when you wake up.” “Ah.” “You understand? Go to sleep, but then wake up and call me back. Will you do that for me?” “Yes, Jack, I will do that. For you.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Katya. Goodnight then.” “Goodnight, Jack. I love you.” “I love you too. Talk to you in the morning.” I took off the headset and slumped back in my chair. I wiped my sweaty palms on the seat fabric. Madeline was frowning at the bright cloudscape beyond the window. She would not look at me. I could tell she disapproved. As far as she was concerned, I had just persuaded my wife to prolong her suffering for another day—and for no better reason than that I was not yet ready to say goodbye. God damn it, I wanted to say to her, I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not now. Not ever. But I stood up and left the control pod.

Ray Gun Revival magazine

Ben Schumacher I am a physicist who teaches at Kenyon College in Gambier, Ohio. My major research field is quantum information theory, though I have also dabbled in black hole physics and thermodynamics. I’ve been a science fiction writer longer than I’ve been a physicist, however, having sold my first (and so far only) story to Analog magazine at age 16.





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

There Interview, by L. S. King

Pg. 30

There Interview

E

by L. S. King ver wanted to go into space? Silly question to ask if you’re reading this zine.

Most of us will never get the chance, but now, we have the next best thing, courtesy of the Internet: virtual environments. These aren’t games, but worlds where people can meet and build relationships. Yet, these worlds offer even more. They allow one to live dreams.

Through the vision of the station’s owner, Jamestar, and its main builder, Sojka, this place is growing and has become an important part of

Recently, Ray Gun Revival became part of the station, and our headquarters are officially housed in the Overlords’ Lair. Visitors are welcome, but beware of the space monkey guarding the door.

Ray Gun Revival magazine

How long have you been in-world? Coming up on my three-year birthday on the Jamestar avie. My oldest avie is almost four. I’ve been here since the beginning. When did you begin building this space station?

In one such virtual environment, There, we have discovered a unique place that was of extreme interest to us, being SF geeks. It’s the Space Station P3X-420. We can now go into space, fly using back packs, check out the ships docked in the station, visit a lounge and casino, start a war with—or befriend—aliens, become part of shady research being conducted in secret, plot the overthrow of galactic governments—the possibilities are endless.

RGR Interview with Jamestar, creator of the space station in There

the There world. They both graciously granted us an interview.

Back in the beginning of There when we were exploring everywhere, someone actually put a backpack on, set a macro program to fly straight up, and “discovered” that There had Space. It wasn’t too long after that it was discovered that the paz (port-a-zone) only needed to have one corner post on something solid to remain at that height. Through the cunning way of “stacking” two player scoreboards, which can be dropped without a paz, the very first “Space Paz” was set out. The person to introduce me to Space was “Jubi,” no longer in game. From that paz and the put back trick, the First Space Community formed with people dropping pazes off one another. This was a collection of houses and parks; there wasn’t space stuff yet. Who knew? lol



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

There Interview, by L. S. King

Pg. 31

Randra_Loqqet made the first green space station parts, and I decided to break off the community and began stacking far away to create an actual space station. It was crude at best.

members to something other than “hoods” and chat groups. To allow them to go “wow” (that word has the potential to unlock greatness). What types of events do you currently have, and what are future plans?

What inspired you to build a space station in There? I work as a civilian at Wright Patterson AFB. There’s an area similar to the Sci-Fi channel’s Eureka. The first practical 3D virtual world was created in those labs. It was created for actual multi-craft virtual training missions. It was that very platform There used to create the world we love so much. The creators of There took that world and mastered avatar-centric communications. I had my niece check it out because of a post on our community board about the commercial applications of the military’s 3D worlds, she dragged me here,  and I  fell in love. How could I not do a space station? It’s in my genetic make-up. How many hours a week do you estimate you spend working on it? As often as my work allows. I’m very busy for weeks at a time and pop in only to pay rent, but also get weeks off and do some real building. During the Christmas holidays, I created the start of the station you see now. I was in There eight to twelve hours a day for two weeks. Now I just switch things around and add new designs to

Ray Gun Revival magazine

With the inconsistency of my work hours it’s very hard to run events...instead I have created a platform for others to run events but not many do. I’d like to see more people get involved. I’d like to start a spades group up here.

keep it fresh. Does the station’s name, P3X-420, have significance, or is it just some letters and numbers you threw together? One of my all-time favorite shows is/was Stargate SG1. Those  who are fans have already figured that out, but for those who aren’t...during the height of the show, when still exploring, the planet designations always began  as “P3X.” If you need an explanation of “420”, you won’t understand it anyway. lol What purpose do you hope this space station serves for the users of There? To expand horizons. To lift boundaries and show that anything is possible here. To introduce new

RGR Interview with Sojka, noted space station builder in There How long have you been in-world? I’ve been a member since June 24, 2006 How long have you been building, in-world and out-, and how did you learn? Did you take classes, or are you self-taught? I attended a four-year art college for computer animation about ten years ago. Since then I’ve been working in the video game industry on a variety of projects animating, building, texturing, rigging, and designing. Although I didn’t learn much of anything useful





Issue 31, October 01, 2007

There Interview, by L. S. King directly from any of my CG classes, the fundamentals of color, concept, and design have been invaluable. Not to mention gave me the basic knowledge to get into the industry. The 3D modeling and texturing skill set was all learned on job. What tools do you use? I was initially trained on Alias/Wavefront back when Silicon Graphics machines were all the rage. After school most of the work was done on one of the 3D Studio Max additions and Photoshop.

Pg. 32 and disarray, I—ah, I did none of those things I just said. What I did do was switched to hoverbikes. Things started off slow. It took me two weeks to get the first bike ready for submission. I had to figure out the hows and the whys and what all the limits meant. Rather confusing, too confusing to be honest. I was very nervous about making a mistake but the time was well worth it. The bike submitted with no issues. Success! I was

excited! Until I determined… No one seemed interested in looking at a bike that was not one of the older, more renowned developers, and getting the first one sold was definitely a hurdle. Most people, from my chats with them, buy bikes in a fashion similar to how cliques work, only following people they know, or developers who are hot for hot’s sake, and not being the social type spreading the word was not easy. But after some time, I finally sold my first bike. Selling the first one allowed me to submit the next, and so on. Eventually, I had a small, very small following, who wanted everything I put out, mostly one player by the name of Vesputo. In the hope of continuing the style beyond just bikes, I ventured out to new items.

What inspired you to build on a “space” theme, and when did you begin building pieces for this space station? What got me into wanting to build in There were the buggies. So I created an avie and got to ‘concepting.’ After a week of diving into the tools provided by the website I discovered that building a buggy was not an option. I fumed, I yelled, I tore through the neighborhoods casting destruction

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The desire for serious space -oriented structures was apparent after talking with J a m e s t a r.   H e wanted a serious space theme—this was obvious—and I wanted to do a





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There Interview, by L. S. King serious space theme, something I could really get into. All and all, this worked out well. Right out of the gate, I knew that I did not want to build in the same cartoon-y retro style that seemed very common throughout the world. I desired something grungy, hard, cold, and —most of all—mine. Once I completed the basics for space I wanted to explore doing actual star vessels. Multi-drop ships that combined much like that of a train and train cars. The idea was to build something modular that could be mixed and matched so the builder could use his or her favorite pieces to build whatever ship they wanted, but the real goal was to see something big… real BIG… a gigantic starship that would cast a shadow over the settlements trapped on the surface. Something I could look up at and feel that I had made my mark. Currently, the largest assembly of ships can be found at Jamestar’s Station P3X-420. I believe he has a single ship that clears 200 meters.

Pg. 33 More importantly, I consider customizing a frigate bridge or smaller starcraft. These are a perfect alternative to the typical houses. Plus, they have the huge advantage of being expandable. Is there anything else you’d like to leave us with?

styles, colors, and symbols based on faction. Generic space is fine, but I’d like to see it grow to the next level of focus, and nothing makes for a more exciting diorama than a real-faux roleplaying conflict.

Heck yes! I envision a developing story line environment, where an invading force or hostile raiders terrorize the shipping lanes and other

I am still refining my techniques to improve the amount of detail and overall quality in everything I supply. How much time would you estimate goes into a single item you submit? My strongest asset is I’m fast at production. I can take an idea to concept, from concept to 3D, and 3D to submission in between one and two days, assuming I have the days to use. Commissioned hoverbikes and hoverboats, I can typically deliver to the patron within a week. I’ll take this moment to say I am happy to personalize any item. I currently have nine completely different bike styles, several of which have customizable variations.

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civilian traffic. I like to see several sides arm up to engage each other for control of the surrounding space. I’d like to see heroes emerge in a universe where a ship can become legend and whose captain is admired. A solar system whose fighter squadron is honored. Imagine space stations with large cargo vessels docked and a surrounding asteroid belt armed with auto cannons, each with completely different visual





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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16, Strange Bedfellows, Part Three, by L. S. King

Pg. 34

Deuces Wild

Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three”

by L. S. King

T

ristan took a sip of his drink to gather his thoughts, his gaze on Betts’ smug face. “Let’s assume for a minute that McCarty is out of the picture. What are your plans?” “To drive the Separatists out, of course. This planet doesn’t have an abundance of green land. And they have most of it.” “I wasn’t referring to your objectives. What exactly are you planning to do? Will you continue as Lyssel did? Burning them out and killing them?” Betts’ eyes glowed. “You’ve thought me weak. I know you have. But I’m not.” She leaned forward. “Yes. I’ll do whatever I need to in order to get that land.” “Even Babies?”

killing

innocents?

Children?

Her mouth drew tight, showing the lines around her mouth. “Is this a trick question? You did save that child from Myers.” Tristan’s back stiffened; those first on the scene—and her parents—had called him a hero. It still rankled. “I told you—don’t attribute virtue to that. Letting that kid die would have been a net win for Myers, that’s all.” “She would have just been collateral damage.” “No, he turned her into a target, an objective

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in his game.” He lowered his voice, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t like to lose.”

like the same line you tried to sell Myers.”

Her chin lifted, she met his gaze with determination. “Neither do I. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“You want to be my partner.” It wasn’t a question.

“Are you buying?”

She thought he was looking for affirmation of her resolve, Tristan realized, and was trying to show how strong she was. Whether she truly had the stomach for it or not, she just put herself in the same league as Dray and Myers. He was right to want to take the Mordas down.

Tristan snorted. “That would be hubris at this point in time. Let’s say, I want to earn your trust. Work my way up.”

“First things first.” Tristan picked up his glass and took a sip. “If I’m going to work for you, I have certain conditions.”

Tristan raised his drink in a conciliatory salute. So, I’m on the inside—if I kill Slap.

Betts frowned. “What do you want? I told you I’d pay any price.”

#

Tristan shook his head. “I want in.” “In?” The ex-madam sat up straight, her eyes narrowed. “What are you really after?” Tristan waved his glass in a dismissive gesture. “Not to take over, if you’re thinking of that line of muck I told Myers. But,” he smiled, a difficult task with his stomach turning over, “I think we could...make a good team. Cover each other’s weaknesses.”

“I’ll...have to think about it, but...” She paused, her stare becoming more calculating. “If you take this contract and kill McCarty, I’ll give it serious thought.”

Tristan snagged a basket and slowly walked around the kiosk, testing and choosing various vegetables and fruits. He pretended not to notice that the vendor kept flicking his gaze to Tristan. Finally, he asked the man, “You’re a member of the Merchant’s League?” “If I weren’t, they’d run me out.” Tristan gave the vendor the basket. “What percentage do you pay?”

Slowly, with deliberation, Betts leaned back, eyeing Tristan warily. “This does sound



“Same as the rest.” “And that is?”



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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King The vendor told him. “And that includes the cut the Mordas take?” The vendor licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously up and down the street. “The Merchants’ dues are separate from the Mordas’s.” “And what do you pay them?” When the vendor answered, Tristan whistled through his teeth. “Seems like the Guilds and Merchants both cut their own throats when they got in bed with the Mordas.” The vendor didn’t answer, but instead told Tristan the cost for his purchases. Tristan paid for his produce. “Do you wish us to deliver, sir?” the vendor asked. “No. I’ll carry them.” Bag in one hand, Tristan wound his way through the marketplace, watchful and alert, shopping and asking questions.

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her. While the herbs steeped for his tisane, he began chopping mushrooms and onions, his mind wandering to the last time he’d worked in a kitchen. It was on Giselle, with Slap. He drove the knife into the cutting board with a thunk and ground his teeth. This was not the time to get sentimental. With a see-saw motion, he worked the blade out of the board and concentrated on cooking the omelet. After his meal, he poured another cup of tisane, sipping it as he paced, mentally reviewing his plans. Juggling all the pieces of this game at all times was going to be a difficult act. A stronger drink would suit him about now, but he needed his wits about him. What he should be doing was sitting at the comdesk, working, but he was fatigued, mentally as well as physically. A shower was what he needed. He set the tisane on the end table by one of the chairs and went to the bedroom. #

Finally, he started toward his rented house, eager to be out of the hot sun and dry desert air. A large dog ran past him, tongue lolling. Space was much better: invariable temperatures, cleaner, and—he sidestepped the dog’s generous deposit on the road—no animals.

As hot needles of water of attacked his body, he felt himself reviving slightly. One advantage of being downside; water instead of sonic showers. He scrubbed the planet’s grime and sweat from his body, then just stood under the jets, trying not to think, eyes closed.

He keyed himself past the security safeguards and entered the house, shivering in the cool, climate-controlled air. He put his groceries on the table with a sigh, wishing he were on Giselle, but the sleight of hand of seeming to sell her to the Separatists was likely safer for

A light rumble and tremor made his eyes fly open. He jumped out of the shower, dashing water from his face, and listened. A sound from his security board in the foyer indicated a matter requiring his attention. Water still dripping from his hands, he keyed the display.

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Someone had just tried to blow up the house. From the configuration of the blast, it was probably the same weapon that had previously been used against him. Whoever was after him must be an idiot to try to attack a force-shielded house. He pulled on a pair of pants, snatched up his PBG, and headed for the door. The perimeter scan showed clear. He hit the latch, and the door slid open. From here, he was still inside the shielding, but could see the street. Two of Betts’ men stood outside, PBRs drawn. “She was on the roof, Mr. MacCay,” came the one man’s voice through the wall comm by the door. “We saw her jump from one building to another. Three of our men are chasing her.” Her? Tristan’s mind skidded to a halt. What her could want him dead? Not Betts, and he’d met no other women on this planet. Tristan wanted to join the chase, but by now they were too far away, and besides, he was barely dressed. He nodded at the men through the shield as he keyed the comm. “Let me know when you catch her.” He closed the door and stood motionless, his thoughts in a muddled whirl. Her? Some moments later, the chime sounded, interrupting his train of thought. He checked the security vid. A woman, blonde, tall, not really a beauty, but with sparkling, blue eyes and a wide, full mouth waited between the two guards. This couldn’t possibly be her.



“Yes?” he asked through the comm. “Mr. MacCay? My name is Tanya Daniels,



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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King and I represent a guild which wishes to discuss matters with you.” “Which guild?” “The Courtesan Guild.” Tristan bit his lip. They even had a guild for that? “Betts didn’t send you.” “She...probably won’t like that I’ve come to see you. No, she has nothing to do with our guild anymore.” This could be interesting. Tristan lifted a finger to key her entry, realized he only wore pants, and instead said, “Give me a few minutes.” After getting dressed, he allowed her entry and watched as she passed through the scanner. No hidden weapons. She gave him a blinding smile. This woman had natural grace and style, and impeccable taste in clothes. He waved her to the living room and watched as she settled herself into a chair. He sat on the arm of another chair and let her scrutinize him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?” she finally asked. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Tanya laughed. “I like you.” She leaned forward. “I want in, Mr. MacCay. Whatever you’re up to, I want in.” “I’m not ‘up to’ anything except what Betts has hired me to do.” “And what is that?”

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Pg. 36

“That’s between her and me.” “Which brings up a question: what is between her and you?” “That’s none of your business.” “Hmm.” Her eyes teased him. “I might want it to be my business. I saw you in the doorway earlier. A shame you got dressed before letting me in.” “I’m not in the mood for flirting, and I have work to do.” “Score one for me. You went from being willing to wait for me to start the conversation to urging me to get to business.” “Which is?” “There are a few places where secrets are most likely to be leaked. One of them is the bedroom.” “Go on.” “My girls are trained to pay attention and pass on anything that might be of interest.” She paused, obviously waiting for an expression of interest. Tristan kept his face bland. Her eyes twinkled. “You are good.” She rose and began to wander about the room talking, her fingers touching a lamp, an objet d’art, trailing the back of a chair. “Now, my girls probably wouldn’t see much, only getting bits and pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, but I’m seeing a pattern. A very interesting pattern. And I think you’re definitely ‘up to’ something—much more than whatever you’re doing for Betts.”

Tristan had barely begun his assault; he didn’t even have his big guns assembled yet. What had she gleaned already? Without a doubt, this woman was dangerous. But, for whom? She approached, and he had the feeling of being stalked. He didn’t allow himself to move, keeping his eyes on her face, not the cleavage that was conveniently at eye level from his perch on the chair arm. This woman had naturally what Betts strove for desperately yet failed to achieve. Steady on—don’t let her know she’s gotten under your skin so easily. “And whatever it is you think I’m ‘up to,’ you don’t think Betts would have her own sources handy to pass on the puzzle pieces?” “She might get a few, but not enough.” Tanya’s dazzling smile lit her face. “I’ll pass on anything I hear. You just remember that when whatever it is you’re ‘up to’ is going down.” She stepped back with a knowing look. “I’d better go before Betts is told I’m here. She’ll likely have words for both of us. But I can honestly say I wasn’t here long enough to do anything but tease.” She headed for the door with a soft laugh. Tristan rose to key her out. As the door slid shut, he let his breath out in a slow exhale, running his hands through his hair. He needed another shower now. Cold, this time. # A little later, Tristan sat at the comdesk with a cup of steaming tisane and attempted





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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King to push the her, Tanya, and Betts all to the back of his mind. He must force his thoughts on the now. After checking the installation of all his own custom software, he opened one of the applications. Eyes narrowed, he opened a second program and began making notes. He understood the basic power structure of this hierarchy but needed to know details, specifically strengths and weaknesses of each tier. Most especially, the rich. Striking against them felt like a mosquito attacking an elephant—a herd of elephants. A call interrupted his research. He didn’t bother with the ear comm, just hit receive. “Yes?” “We couldn’t get her, Mr. MacCay. She was like a...ghost. She just vanished. We’ve been searching, but it’s no use.” Tristan wasn’t surprised. He’d had no luck tracking her, and he was the best. Whoever she was, she was a mixture of inexperience and experience. His curiosity was piqued.

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The chair creaked as he leaned back with a sigh. He reached for his tisane, took a sip, grimaced, and set it down. Cold. How long had he been sitting here? He rose, tossed the drink, and busied himself brewing a fresh pot. As he turned toward the living room, he stopped, arrested, as a lingering whiff of perfume hit him. This woman wasn’t going to blindside him a second time. Sipping the tisane, he reseated himself and opened a new interlink... # Tristan was in his element, and doing one of the things he could do best: wait. The restaurant was one of the finest; only the most elite dined here. And Tanya had made a reservation—for one, as usual. Telling. The table was in a dim corner, allowing a modicum of privacy. It would be enough. Soon, the waiter approached, a tall blonde in his wake. She was as alluring as he remembered.

“Thanks. Keep on it.” He broke the connection with a frown, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Two women invaded his world on the same day. He had to set both Tanya and her aside. With a sharp sigh, he focused his mind on the display.

She pulled up short, her mouth dropping open. “What are you doing here?”

Finally, a pattern emerged: weak points easily exploited. He cupped his chin in his hand. If you can get just one elephant going in the direction you want, the others will follow.

“I thought it only right to repay your visit.” He poured the chilled champagne. “I ordered the meal already. Here. Enjoy.”

He opened an interlink window and began working...

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He stood as the waiter seated her, then reseated himself. He nodded to the waiter, who bowed and left.

She took the stemmed glass with a disconcerted frown. “You’re very presumptuous.”

“It’s your favorite vintage.” He lifted his glass. “You have good taste.” A sip. He set it down and leaned back. Waiting. Predator setting his prey. “My fav— What are you up to?” “You asked me that once already.” Tristan lifted his glass and sipped again. “You’ve come a long way from the abandoned child you were. Your drive has taken you from the streets to being the president of your Guild. You’ve let nothing and no one stand in your way.” He named several incidents from her past, enough to let her know he had dug deep. She took a long gulp of champagne and licked her lips. “How did you find my past? I’ve been very careful to keep it locked away.” The waiter arrived with their meal, and Tristan set the napkin in his lap, waiting for privacy. As the waiter withdrew, she stared at her plate and murmured, “My favorite food.” “When I research, I do a thorough job.” She bit her lower lip, making her seem vulnerable—and even more sultry. When she looked up, the discomposure was gone. Her assurance, her intelligence shone in her eyes. “Would you, by chance, consider a partnership?” “What did you have in mind?” A finger traced the rim of the goblet. “I think partnerships are best when they combine personal and professional interests.”



Tristan hesitated, to quiet the thudding in



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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King his chest and steady his voice. “I think...I might be interested.” # The door slid shut behind Tristan. Betts sat at her desk, talking into her ear comm, and she didn’t look happy. She indicated the sofa with an outstretched hand. Keeping to habit, he sat instead in the chair opposite and waited. His mind wandered to Tanya, and inevitably he compared her to the woman in the room with him, making Betts seem seedier than usual. “Would you, by chance, consider a partnership?” His thoughts whirled as he realized how he had changed from a year ago. He’d come here to harass Myers and, inadvertently, the Mordas. He didn’t care about mobsters, or the people they controlled and terrorized. People were marks, no more, no less. What am I doing? This isn’t me... Taking down a mob, helping people—how did this happen? Somehow, in hooking up with Slap, he‘d changed. And he wasn’t sure he liked it. And... did he need to destroy the Mordas? He could seize control and—a vision of Tanya swam in front of him—run it with a partner.

No! Payment now, or the deal’s off!” Her fingernail flicked the ear comm, and she swiveled toward Tristan. Would Tanya look so pitiful when she aged, he thought, while aloud he asked lightly, “Problems?” She waved her fingers, trying to be nonchalant, but her make-up had set in ridges along her worry lines. It must have been a long day. “How can those rich slugs have no money? Three of them now have not paid me and blamed their banks. Something about electronic robbery. But I know it’s a lie—it’s not possible to hack into a bank and steal the money. Their systems are foolproof. Besides, they all have money in more than one bank. They’d still have access to funds.” “Nothing is completely foolproof,” Tristan said, “but I agree, the banks are very secure. Especially the out-systems banks.” Where various criminal factions hid their money, as did most of the rich in the Three Systems—as it was ill-gotten and, therefore, tax free. Those banks existed to serve those who skirted or shunned the law of the galactic governments. “Precisely. I imagine you have money in one of them yourself?”

He yanked his mind off Tanya and her proposal and listened to Betts’ conversation. “I don’t care about your bank’s troubles. You owe me that money, and I want it paid now.” Her fingernails tapped against the desktop as she listened. “I’ve held up my end, but you haven’t. If you wish, I’ll withdraw all my men, and you can provide your own... No.

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Tristan inclined his head. it?”

“And your bank hasn’t been ‘robbed,’ has “Not as of this morning. Yours?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s a ludicrous claim.”

The comm buzzed, and she ticked at the ear comm. “Yes?” Her eyes widened as she listened, and she shot to her feet. “What?” Tristan kept his expression one of polite interest, wondering which news she was hearing. “No one hijacks my shipments! You find who did it. And get our merchandise back. Do you understand me?” Tristan wished he had a drink to raise in a toast. Cheers to the new leader of what had been Myers’ Mercenaries. Their mystery employer had paid them well, but they’d be losing that when their bank was hit. They’d resell the wares eventually and make a profit. Betts tossed the ear comm on the desk. “That’s the second shipment I’ve lost! The first was bungled through—they claim—a clerical error, and this one was stolen!” She glared at Tristan. “And you—I want to know what you’re doing.” She stood and walked around the desk. “What did Tanya want with you? And you with her?” Her eyes narrowed, and she hissed, “I found out you had dinner with her last night.” And with Betts’ spies, if they’d done more than dinner, she’d know it, and he’d have likely gotten a raving visit from her before the night had been over. “She seemed to think I was discriminating against her guild by overlooking it. I assured her I wasn’t. I’ve been examining all the guilds. Fascinating system.” “That’s another thing! You’ve been seen all over the city this week, talking to the merchants, to various leaders of the guilds—





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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King what’s going on?” Very good. Mentioning the guilds diverted her from ranting about Tanya. One crisis averted. “Look, you want me to fight the Separatists. I need certain knowledge for the job. Some of those in the Guilds and Merchants are sympathetic to them.” “I want you to kill McCarty!” “His death alone won’t stop the Separatists now. They’ve found a backbone.” “They never fought before now! Not until he arrived.” Betts glared, leaning forward, her hands on the back of the sofa. “Not until you brought him back.”

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key players. McCarty learned a few tricks in his time with me, and I have no doubt he’ll be teaching them to the rest.” “So, what are you planning?” “I’m trying to plot where this...resistance might be attacking next. With a good strike force, we might be able to take out all the leaders in one fell swoop.” “I already have a team working on that.” Betts’ calculating gaze told Tristan she wasn’t totally buying his story. “Perhaps you could join them.” He lifted his eyebrows and smiled. “Perfect.”

Tristan leaned back with a smile. “Took you long enough to find out.”

#

“Why didn’t you tell me he was your friend when I told you I wanted him dead? You’ve been stringing me along, all this time—”

Tristan went through the building to where Betts’ team was gathered, his mind racing. He got off the lift and leaned against a wall, feeling light-headed. Run the Mordas with Tanya...

“Hold on!” Tristan rose and strode to Betts. She flinched, her expression a gratifying one of fear. “He’s not my friend. Get that clear. He did me a favor, and I returned it. I was glad to get rid of the hick.” He grabbed her arm, teeth clenched. “You renewed the war Lyssel started. And the real leader of the Separatists isn’t McCarty, but his father-in-law—Lyssel murdered his daughter and grandson.” Tristan let go and paced, not only to give the impression he was talking out his plan of attack, but to distance himself from her. “Killing my former passenger isn’t enough. Ewan Campbell must die too, and a few other

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Slap would never understand or agree with it. He’d fight. To become the new leader of the Mordas, he’d have to sacrifice the cowboy. “Would you, by chance, consider a partnership?” Oh, he was. He most certainly was... The door slid open. Betts’ men nodded and murmured greetings. Tristan’s mind spun as they brought him to the table. He shook himself; he must concentrate. “They’ve been hitting targets closer and closer to Zanti City,” Leddy, Betts’ minion said.

“We’ve tried to guess where they might hit next. These are the most likely spots.” Tristan peered at the map. Slap was being too predictable, and that made finding him and his allies easy. He sighed. At least make this a challenge, cowboy! “So are you setting up an ambush?” “Yes, sir. On all three sites.” Tristan nodded. “Good. Show me the details.” Leddy and his cohorts did, and Tristan had to admit, the plan was solid. “Good job. Nice to know the Mordas isn’t all frills and lace nowadays.” One of Leddy’s men turned a laugh into a cough. A second said, “Betts might not like such talk.” Tristan swung around to meet the man’s eyes. “Was the Mordas run the same under Lyssel?” He let his gaze grow intense. “And do you think you should worry more about Betts—or me?” The men shifted stances and glanced at each other, but no one answered. However, Leddy’s eyes glinted as he met Tristan’s gaze. # “Mr. McCarty! Mr. McCarty!” The boy rushed into the house where the men were seated, poring over a map.



Slap turned. “Call me Slap, kid. Everyone



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Deuces Wild, Chapter 16: “Strange Bedfellows, Part Three” by L. S. King else does.” Except his father-in-law, who always just called him “Son.” “Er, yes, sir,” the boy said, bobbing his head. “I was told to give you this.” He held out an ear comm. If they had been in Zendi Valley or the mountains, the comm wouldn’t work, but here in the desert they could use the most modern technology available. Slap took the tiny device and twisted it into position in his ear. The familiar motion made him almost homesick for ol’ Bertha; he’d taken care of most of the communications traffic while with Tristan.

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“He’s working with the Mordas and is helping plan the ambush. I was told to tell you to be very careful. He’s extremely dangerous.” A chill swept over Slap. Tristan—working with the Mordas? “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes. Word is, he’s lovers with Betts. He’s already killed a mercenary who was threatening her. We think he’ll end up being the real power behind the Mordas before it’s done.” Slap thanked the spy and took the comm from his ear. He set it on the table, frowning blankly into space. Was Tristan up to something or really now on the other side? Tristan had never really ever indicated Slap was his friend, only someone he owed his life to. And they’d settled that up when he dropped Slap off and left.

A science fiction fan since childhood, L.S. King has been writing stories since her youth. Now, with all but one of her children grown, she is writing full-time. She has developed a sword-and-planet series tentatively called The Ancients. The first book is finished, and she has completed rough drafts of several more novels as well.

She serves on the editorial staff of The Sword Review, is also their “Yes?” Slap asked. Columns Editor, and writes a column “The Mordas are planning an ambush on for that magazine entitled “Writer’s wherever you hit next,” whispered a voice he recognized as their spy. He knew what Tristan meant to him, but Cramps” as well. She is also one of the what did Slap mean to Tristan...now? Overlords, a founding editor, here at “And how do they know where we’ll be attacking?” Slap set his jaw. He didn’t dare trust his... Ray Gun Revival. “They’re guessing, based on your previous raids. They have three places staked out.” The spy told him the areas, and Slap muttered an earthy word under his breath; all three were on his list of future targets, the next scheduled for tonight. “And that’s not all.” “Oh?” “You ever hear of a man named MacCay?” Slap snorted out loud. One of Tristan’s aliases—the one he was known by here, obviously. “Yeah.”

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former friend. How could he possibly out-think him? Outfight him? But he had to, somehow. He turned to his fellow Separatists. “We have to make new plans...”

To catch up on previous episodes of the adventures of Slap and Tristan, visit:

http://loriendil.com/DW.php

Deuces Wild is dedicated to the memory of my best friend; my inspiration for an enduring friendship...http://loriendil.com/Starsky/

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

L. S. King



Issue 31, October 01, 2007

The RGR Time Capsule

September 15 - September 30, 2007

Sci-Fi news from the Ray Gun Revival forums RGR Date: September 17, 2007

The first collection released includes 106,000 pages, consisting of Heinlein’s complete manuscripts—including files of all his published works, notes, research, early drafts and edits of manuscripts. The documents offer a window into Heinlein’s creative process and provide background and context for his work.

RIP Robert Jordan, 58

http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1445

RIP, Robert Jordan, author of the monster bestselling fantasy series The Wheel of Time. Jordan had been suffering from a chronic illness for some years now, making it hard for him to finish new installments in the series — he died with the books unfinished. Some of his friends and colleagues are discussing his life and death on Making Light. He was 58.

Other collections soon to be added on the online archive will feature Robert and Virginia Heinlein’s business and personal correspondence, scrapbooks, photo albums, and unpublished works, including communications with Heinlein’s editor and agent.

Photo credit: Jor dcon2005.jpg, by Wikipedia user Valorian, released under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike image. RGR Date: September 07, 2007

For more information, go to www.heinleinprize. com.

The Flight of the Conchords

http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1429

RGR Date: September 25, 2007

http://www.heinleinprize.com/

Heroes revelations at ComiCon 2007 in San Diego

“The complete archive of renowned American science-fiction writer Robert Heinlein will be made available online, thanks to an unusual partnership of the University of CaliforniaSanta Cruz and the Heinlein Prize Trust. Heinlein, who lived in Santa Cruz for two decades, was one of the grand masters of science fiction. He became a pop icon in the 1960s with the publication of “Stranger In A Strange Land,” one of the most successful science-fiction novels ever published. He died in 1988. The entire contents of the Robert A. and Virginia Heinlein Archive—housed in the UC-

http://raygunrevival.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?t=1457

I haven’t seen this kind of hype since Firefly. I’m totally digging the show, and love how it’s unfolding. http://video.scifi.com/player/?id=150239#vid eoid=157040 Santa Cruz Library’s Special Collections since 1968—have been scanned in an effort to preserve the contents digitally while making the collection easily available to both academics and the general public. The digitization project was the brainchild of Art Dula, director of the Heinlein Prize Trust.

My favorite moment occurs with 35 mins remaining when they unveil Heroes: Origins and the surprise director comes on-stage. “I just don’t want to be the guy that ruined Heroes. ‘Clerks’ guy ruins show’. “ Heroes: Origins starts in April and runs for six episodes through May.