Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 25, Anniversary Issue!

8/14/2019 Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 25, Anniversary Issue!

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July 01, 2007Issue 25

Our special frst anniversary issue!


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Pg. 2

Ray Gun Revival magazine Issue 25, July 01, 2007

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

Venerable Staff:A.M. Sckel - Managing CopyeditorShannon McNear - Lord High Advisor, grammar consultant, listeningear/sanity saver for Overlord Lee

Paul Chrisan 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 bole

washer

Slushmasters (Submissions Editors):Sco M. SandridgeJohn M. WhalenDavid WilhelmsShari L. ArmstrongJack Willard

Serial Authors:Sean T. M. SennonJohn M. WhalenLee S. KingPaul Chrisan GlennJohne Cook

Cover Art: Proeliumby Eduardo Lopez Mustaros

Without Whom... Bill Snodgrass, site host,Web-Net Soluons, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor, con-dante, liaison Double-edged Publishing

Special Thanks:Ray Gun Revival logo design byHatchbox Creative

Visit us online athttp://raygunrevival.com

Ray Gun RevivalTable of Contents

All content copyright 2007 byDouble-edged Publishing,a Memphis, Tennessee-based non-prot publisher.

Rev: 20070701b

2 Ray Gun Revival - Table of Contents3 Overlords Lair

7 Travelling With The Archetypesby Calie Voorhis

14 The Exile of Joseph Reedby Colleen Drippe

20 Featured ArtistEduardo Lopez Mustaros

23 HotOfthePress

by Ty Johnston29 Deuces Wild - Chapter 13: Full Circle

by L. S. King37 The RGR Space Monkey Flash Fiction

Challenge
http://www.hatchbox.com/http://www.hatchbox.com/


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Welcome to our first anniversary at Ray GunRevival magazine! Its been a wonderful,

terrifying, amazing first year, and I wonderwhere the time went.

There were many times when I wondered ifwed make it to the starting line, much less thefirst anniversary.

The stories I could tell about everythingthat has happened in the lives of theOverlords and staff behind the scenes.Weve had the weirdest run of, well, life.Lost loved-ones, lost jobs, lost computers,lost opportunities, lost sleep.

For instance, did you know we hada fourth Overlord? When OverlordX came onboard in the early going,(their) inclusion in the staff gave us theshot in the arm that we needed at acritical time. Overlord X was absolutelyindispensable to the early developmentof RGR and brought so much to thetable, from brainstorming, to creativeenergy, to site elements that we still use.However, life infringed on our friendand Overlord X stepped back into theshadows as suddenly as (they) appeared,but not without leaving behind an indelibleimpression that continues to shape RGR useto this day. You know who you are. We cantthank you enough, and if circumstances permit

somewhere down the road, the virtual door ofour virtual spaceship always remains open.

Another oddity was the art. Looking back afterour first year, our quality cover art has been thegreatest hallmark of RGR, but it almost didnthappen.

We were less than a week away from our debuton July 1st, 2006, and we still didnt have art.A fellow editor and friend, Jeremy Whittedof Deep Magic, had given us the keys to thekingdom, the secret of finding great art, and all

we had to do was turn the key. But I was afraid.I thought it sounded too easy. I thought therewas no way it could work.

And the thing was, I knew exactly what I wanted.Id spent a lot of time dreaming and surfing overat deviantART.com, and had found the perfect

space opera cover. You know the oneIm referring to, Grand Space OperaEntry, by Sidharth Chaturvedi.

This image was the prototype for thecoverthis was the one we dreamed ofusing from very early on. I didnt figurewe could get it, but it was the yardstickthat all other covers were measuredagainst.

Im a goof. I put off the inevitablerejection until the 11th hour. The hourwas getting late and we were without acover, and I was entirely at fault. It wasshaping up to be an a disaster of myown making. I noticed the artist hadsome instant messenger accounts, so Ifinally worked up the courage to sendhim an IM.

No one was more astonished thanme when the artist replied andwonder ofwondersseemed open to the idea.

I confess, I dont remember much of the nextday or two, but the overriding impression was

Overlords Lair


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Overlords' Lair Pg. 4


that Sidharth was not only a great digitalartist, he was very cool and played along evenif he had nothing to go on other than myrambling fanboy descriptions. I have no ideawhat he thought about everything, but hecheerfully went along with it, and is probably

as responsible for the ultimate success of themagazine as any one person. The impact ofhis professional cover for ourdebut cannot be overstated.

And how about this yearsanniversary cover? Eduardo LopezMustaros provided a new instantclassic. I love it, and it seems tocapture the quality and wonderof our debut cover a year ago.

I could go on and on. We nearlydidnt make our deadline at leasthalf a dozen times. But each time,Paul and Lee and yours truly wouldget back together online and askourselves if we really believed inthis venture, and we always did.

And we still do. And you, thereaders, have believed, as well.You were always here, more andmore of you each issue, and we appreciate it.

So thats the beginning. What about theend? How long will Ray Gun Revival magazinestick around? Part of me hopes well be hereforeveror four years, whichever comes first,heh. Honestly, much depends on how thefinances shake out this coming year. Our hostingpartnership is with Double-edged Publishing,and they are looking for donations for fiscal2008. Frankly, the incoming donations arentkeeping up with our collective ambitions.

Weve added two new publications to the DEPfamily, and all of the publications want to paymore. Its a dilemma.

Here at RGR, weve tossed around the ideaof targeted advertising, and were open to

see where that might go. If you know ofsomebody in the biz, lets hook up and talkit over. We believe strongly in the digital

publishing revolution.

And were trendy, too. Were an entirelygreen publication. No trees were harmed inthe making of this magazine! Some electronsmay be have been excited, but I have reasonto suspect that they rather like it.

They say the only constant is change. There isa decent chance that we may have to considermaking a change of some unspecified sort atour next anniversary. If we do, rest assured

that we keep you in mind as we think aboutthe best way to keep running this runawayrocketship.

The idea of putting together a best-ofretrospective for our first year is simmering

and we may have something on that soon.Were also strongly committed to putting outPOD issues of the various RGR serial novels as

they wrap upalthough I haveno specific idea when that willbe exactly.

Oh, yeah, about the differentorientation. I thought it wouldbe fun to try something differentthis year. Instead of fightingwith legacy print holdovers,

Im jumping feet-first into anew way of developing themagazine. My reasoning wassimplethis is an e-zine, andmonitors are landscape, andmost of our artwork is in thelandscape orientation. And thecool thing is that you can stillprint it as 8 1/2 by 11.

And this decision rests fully withme. The other Overlords have their respective

cups more than full with the normal stuff oflife. I prefer to think of this as a bold designmove on behalf of the magazine and ourreaders. However, if you prefer to interpret itas Captain ADD here needing something newto experiment with, well, you could make astrong case for that, too. ; )

Speaking of our staff, RGR exists because ofthe tireless labor of a crack volunteer staff.The slushmasters have the thankless job of


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wading through the slushpile. Our ManagingCopyeditor, Anne M. Stickel, is one of the bestin the business, and if the magazine has nits orerrors, its my fault, not hers. And the Overlordsthemselves have been the picture of over andabove the call of duty. Paul has been delugedwith so much life, its a wonder hes still alive,much less contributing, and yet he does on adaily basis. If it seems hes not around much,Lee and I depend on his insight and his candorand his creativity. Paul, buddy, youre the best,and I hope you can one day relax a little andrelish what youve helped build here.

And then theres Lee. Ive never met aperson who has done so much and feelsso guilty about what shes not doing. Shehas continued to lift icky jobs from me,

performing them with grace and panache.She is the unsung hero of the magazine,from stem to stern, doing whatever it takesto get the magazine published. When I needa graphic, she comes up with one. When weneed a blurb or modified code on the siteor a sanity check on text, shes our gal. Shewrites, she edits, she creates art, and shecodes. And above it all, shes smart andfunny and self-deprecating. Lee, you makeRGR go.

So what is the state of space opera? One ofour goals was to reinvigorate space opera.Ironically, I recently picked up a copy ofThe New Space Opera edited by GardnerDozois and Jonathan Strahan. In the prefaceeditorial, they suggest we are in the midst ofa new golden age of space opera. My mailtells me otherwisespace opera soundslike opera in spacebut a resurgence ofspace opera is certainly welcome.

The book quotes Brian Aldiss from 1974:Science fiction is for real, space opera is forfun. Here we are, July 1, 2007, and thatsjust as true today as it was thirty years ago.Perhaps what we do here today will helpmake that sentiment just as true thirty yearsfrom now.

Johne CookBreezeway, WIJuly 1st, 2007

Traveling with the Archetypes by CalieVoorhis

Bob presents his biggest show ever. But whathappens when his characters rebel?

Bob was distracted by a tap on his shoulder in the

real world. He blinked out.Tracy, he said. Im so glad to see you. He rubbedhis hands on his pants and held out his hand.

Tracy didnt respond to his gesture. Im only doingthis because I owe you one, she said. One night.What play are you going to do?

Oh, you know, Bob said. Something to keep theaudience entertained.

Youre going to do thatplay, arent you?

Bob shrugged and hoped she wouldnt press theissue further. He didnt really have a choice. Hedpurchased the archetypes long before the play hadbeen banned.

If an imperialist catches you, youll be banishedfurther than the slums, she said. You knowEmperor Constann has forbidden that play. Youllbe lucky to keep your head.
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The Exile of Joseph Reed by Colleen Drippe

Exile. It means you are no longer a part ofthe human race, rejected and cast outplummeting through space at some unthinkablespeed alone with yourself. Or are you?

You can die slow, Bonner, the med tech, had toldme, with his thin-lipped grimace of a smile. Alifeme if you want it. Or you can die faster. Thesentence is the same, you know. He seemed to behaving a good me.

I told him what he could do with his sentence. Ielaborated some on his own personal habits andthose of his immediate ancestors. Later, he forgotto provide pain medicaon for my shoulder. Thingswere rough those rst few days.

So, I sat. And the food quit coming out of the servo-

unit. It didnt maer. I had a fever at the me, andmy shoulder hurt, and I wasnt hungry. Besides, Ididnt really believe they would kill me.

Then, the water stopped too.

When the air got mustyor was it myimaginaon?and I had a headache and foundmyself yawning when I wasnt sleepy, I gave in. SoIm spineless. Everybody has some really heavything they fear, and this was mine.

Hot O the Press by Ty Johnston

Roger Madock is a typical newspaper reporter,until he discovers his published words can alterreality.

Something weird is happening. The boss asked

me to check on the cop who had been shot, but Icouldve sworn... Roger looked up, into her eyes.You dont remember?

Remember what? Dorothy asked.

We saw it on the TV at the coee shop, Rogersaid. The cop, he died at the hospital.

Dorothy screwed her face up. I remember seeingthe story on the TV, but I thought they said he wassll alive.

Roger called the hospital again.

How may I help you, Mr. Madock? the doctorasked.

Hello, Doctor, Roger said, trying to sound politeand not frazzled. Im calling to check on OcerBrown. Hes sll in your care, isnt he?

Oh yes, the doctor said. Hes coming along quitene, really. Its something of a miracle. We didntexpect him to make it through the night.

Deuces Wild: Full Circle by L. S. King

Slap, Tristan, and Carter escape the planetEridani, but can Slap escape the nightmare ofhis captivity?

Tristan sighed and checked the instruments one

last me. He hit the comm. Are you in the cargobay, Slap?

Yeah, came the cowboys voice aer a moment.Were ready. Take it easy. Hes ighty.

By all means, I must consider the sensibilies of ahorse. Tristan took a deep breath and lied o.

Blips appeared on his screen. Carter, we havecompany.

What are they? Shules?

Interceptors. Looks like Boomerangs.

Whoops. How close are we to the core?

Close.

Then go for it. If theyre carrying torpedoes, ourturrets should take care of them.

I know that. But if they have missiles loadedinstead?

Uh....then we might have trouble.

You have a propensity for understatement.Giselles armor was in taers from that re-entry.One missile and they would be merely morescaered debris around Eridani.

L. S. King


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Travelling With The Archetypes by Calie Voorhis Pg. 7


Bob pulled the last road case acrosswarped floorboards. With a grunt hepushed it into position and flipped open thelid. The hologenerator motor whirred and thedark praying-mantis-shaped projector rosefrom inside.

Once hed had roadies to do this, swarmsof people who set up his equipment, but nowit was just him, alone in this decrepit theatre.

Thank goodness Tracy had found him thisspace.

He stopped for a moment to wipe sweatfrom his face. This place was old, but it hada certain grandeur, even faded. Hints ofgilt roses lined the proscenium arch. Hempropes and the pulley system of an old pin railrose to his left; the steel support grid archedfar above his head, bounded by the velvetcharcoal curtains and backstage weathered-brick wall. Best of all, it was on the outskirtsof the imperial city, in the slums, far beyondthe emperors notice. He hoped.

Bob activated the hologenerator, prayingit would last this one performance. A largemilitary starship materialized with a roar ofengines. The dark gray triangle filled thestage, swooped down over his head, andvanished into the back wall. The fortress grewout of the stage, a planetary orb structure thatwould provide the basis for the finale. Well,at least the generator was working right now.Like the rest of his equipment, it was cheapand outdated.

He checked the lighting next, pushingthe button on his watch that activated the

pre-show warm-up sequence. Rows ofelectrics above his head beamed on, rollingthrough gel changes of purple, blue, red, no-color-pink, and bastard amber. They swiveledup and down under Bobs command, shiningwaves out over the audience area. Then thegobos flickered in and shone their patternsdown; leaves, stars, cloud formations.

Spotlights turned on and focused on him,reducing his world to dots of light. Bob knewhe shouldnt look directly at them but he still

did, a moth drawn to the flame. The spotsdanced in front of his eyes and his stomachturned.

Low-tech, all of it, he knew. With a sigh,he brought his own internal morph cells onlineand began the final pre-show check, hopingit would last the evening as well. His bodywarped into alien shape with tentacles for hair,then grew a set of extra arms as he becameone of the extras. The sensation still botheredhim, this sprouting into another. It made his

armpits itch when the cells expanded and con-tracted. He ran through the rest of the cast. Ifonly he could use the morph cells to escape--become someone else, but they could onlyhold a form temporarily.

His stomach ached at the thought of theroles he would have to do himself tonight.Hed had to sell off so many of his assets afterhis exile from the emperors court--his voicesynthesizer, all of his hologenerators except

for one, more than a few of his personas. Ofthem all, he missed his synthesizer the most.

He hated doing mime.Bob wiped sweaty hands on his baggy

black trousers and checked his watch--time togo see how the personas were doing.

He steeled himself for the transition tothe virtual green room that existed only as avirtual recreation in his mind. The first shift ofthe night was always a bit jarring. With a blinkof his eyes and a twitch, he vaulted, leavinghis physical body and a small part of his mind

on the side of the stage.The green room was recreated from Bobs

memory of Thaliana Hall, where hed startedhis career. The yellow carpet was threadbareand stained with spilled coffee. The roomsmelled of greasepaint, cold cream, andhairspray. At least it didnt have rats, like thereal analog backstage.

The cast, his personas, were alreadyactivated and waited for him. Maiden sat

dressed in her white robes, Wizard sprawledon the opposite corner of the couch fromShadow. Hero sat in front of the mirror, asusual, and Farm Boy paced around the room.

Half-hour to the top of Act One. This isyour half-hour call, Bob said.

Wizards grey beard dipped in acknowl-edgement, and Maiden thanked Bob.

Hero, did you hear me? Bob asked.

Travelling With The Archetypesby Calie Voorhis


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Shadow poked Hero in the ribs.

Oh, sorry. Yes, thanks, half-hour. Herowinked at his reflection.

Bob breathed in the familiar scents to calmhimself. I dont need to remind us all how

important this show could be. Its our onlychance to earn enough money to get awayfrom Emperor Constantin and we might bedoing something for the resistance as well.

I cant believe were reduced to this,Wizard said.

Maiden looked at Shadow. Its his fault,she said.

Shadow pointed at Bob. If hed botheredto integrate us properly, like a Jungian actoris supposed to do with archetypes, then Iwouldnt have been able to make the jokeabout the Emperors wife.

Hero finished, And we wouldnt be here inthe slums performing for the dregs of society.

Enough, Bob said. Ive heard enough.He glared at them all and blinked to exit thegreen room of his mind to the real stage. Hewanted to check if there was an audience yet.

From backstage he could see the ripped redseats of the empty house. Bob hoped someonewould get here soon. He caught himselfstooping and forced his shoulders back.

He checked his watch again, twenty-fiveminutes to go. Bob blinked again and wentback to the green room, the transition less

jarring this time.

Hero still stared in the mirror, practicing

tender smiles, while Maiden rubbed Wizardscallused feet. Farm Boy sat by himself on theratty brown couch and ran his hands throughhis sandy hair over and over again.

How are you doing? Bob asked. Takedeep breaths. Red freckles stood out sharp

against Farm Boys pale skin.

Dont think about the audience, Maidensaid.

Pretend theyre all willing women, Herosaid.

Shadow tilted his head up and smirked.Just dont screw up your cues.

Farm Boy leapt to his feet and ran for thebathroom.

Bob sighed. You had to, he said to Shadow.You just had to.

Shadow shrugged. Like its been funhaving him in our head. Hes all pimples andnerves.

Maiden scowled at him. You could trybeing nice just once in your life.

He came cheap, Bob reminded Shadow.

Im sorry hes not as integrated as the rest ofyou, but I just havent had the time and I cantdo this show without him.

Were none of us properly integrated,Shadow muttered, bloody crutches is all weare.

Bob started to answer, but was distractedby a tap on his shoulder in the real world. Heblinked out.

Tracy, he said. Im so glad to see you.He rubbed his hands on his pants and held outhis hand.

Tracy didnt respond to his gesture. Imonly doing this because I owe you one, shesaid. One night. What play are you going to

do?

Oh, you know, Bob said. Something tokeep the audience entertained.

Youre going to do that play, arent you?

Bob shrugged and hoped she wouldntpress the issue further. He didnt really havea choice. Hed purchased the archetypes longbefore the play had been banned.

If an imperialist catches you, youll bebanished further than the slums, she said. Youknow the Emperor Constantin has forbiddenthat play. Youll be lucky to keep your head.

But its one of the Jungian classics, Bobsaid, hearing the whine in his own voice.

Its your head, Tracy said. She stalked offto the double doors leading out to the lobby.Bob watched her hips sway as she left.

He blinked back to his green room.

Fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes untilplaces for the start of the show.

#

Just after Bob called two minutes, hepeeked out and saw the house filled with silent,watchful faces. Dirty faces, yes. Bodies missinglimbs, veterans from the Emperors ongoing


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conquests, refugees, orphans, the detritus ofsociety, but an audience all the same. His socksslid in his shoes as his feet began to sweat.

Bobs watch vibrated against his wrist and heflicked to the green room. Places, everyone!Looks like weve got a full house after all.

Maiden whooped with delight, and evenShadow perked up.

Break a leg, folks! Bob exited the greenroom and made his way onstage in the dark,waiting for Maiden to assume his physicalbody. Breasts sprouted and his hips swelled asthe morphing system turned him into Maiden.Bob became the stage manager, relegated torunning the show. He stood in the doorwayof the green room and watched the action on

stage.

The hologenerator flickered on, and thelights powered up on cue, and the openingscene of an ovoid house surrounded by whitesand materialized.

On stage, Maiden bent down. She beggedan unseen figure for rescue from her kidnap-pers. It took a delicate touch for the personasto morph from one to another while keepingthe flow going, but Bob didnt worry about it.

Bob headed to the green room to check onFarm Boyhe was up next.

#

What do you mean, he wont come out?Bob mentally ran his hands over his baldinghead.

He says he cant do it, Wizard said.

Shadow laughed, sprawled in his black robeon the couch, his helmet beside him. Howmuch did he cost you again?

Shut up, Bob said. He straightened hisshoulders. Well, well just have to go in thereafter him. Again.

Wizard nodded. Ill help.

It was as bad as Bob expected when theyburst into the small bathroom. Farm Boy kneltin front of the porcelain, clutching the toiletseat with tight hands, retching. Bob got him tohis feet while Wizard wet a cloth and held it toFarm Boys head.

Get it together, Bob said.

Farm Boy groaned. I cant. I cant do this.What if I forget my pantomime? What if theylaugh at me?

What if they dont even notice you?Shadow said from the green room.

Shut up, Bob and Wizard said at the sametime. One on each side, they hustled Farm Boyto the green room door. They hurled Farm Boyon just in time to make his cue and then stoodwatching the stage from the doorway.

Bob waited for him to move, to act. Heknew what Farm Boy felt--anticipation, adren-aline, and nausea. He prayed he wouldnt haveto take over--hed become a Jungian actor toavoid acting himself.

Seconds ticked away as the audience staredback at the youth with disheveled blond hair.Finally Farm Boy stepped forward and startedto perform, pantomiming the beauty of theMaiden hed just seen and his urge to help her.

Bob wiped his forehead now that themoment had eased.

Theyre awfully quiet out there, Maidensaid.

Too quiet, Wizard agreed.

Shadow snorted. Perhaps Farm Boy killedthem with his acting.

A pulse began to pound in Bobs temple.

#

The rest of Act I flowed smoothly, althoughFarm Boy had to be tossed out pale and sweatyfor each of his entrances.

In rapid succession, Farm Boy took Maidensmessage to Wizard and they went off to rescueher.

Then came the bar scene. Bob forced hismorphing cells into manual mode, using thestock extras of the system. The spirit of thesecharacters he would have to provide. If onlyhe had more money, a proper cast. If only hispalms would stop sweating.

Morphing tentacles and a saxophone, he

started immediately off on a wrong note. Thesound of a bleating sax, almost the noise ofa goat, rang through the audience. He tooka deep breath to steady himself and triedagain. He reminded himself not to look at theaudience and kept on playing. His hands shook,but he hit the notes.

His stomach roiled by the time he cameoffstage and he felt as green as Farm Boy.Thank goodness that for the rest of the show


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he could use the personas and not himself.

Hero swaggered into the scene, taking theFarm Boy under his wing, rebuilding Bobs lostmomentum.

Hero helped Wizard and Farm Boy escape

in his ship, off to rescue Maiden from the evilfortress. With a final cue from Bob, the shipfaded into intermission.

Act I ended with a thud of silence from theaudience.

#

What the hell is going on with thesepeople? Hero asked. The rest of the caststayed silent, glum in their chairs. I gave

them my best strut and wink and stilldidnt geta damn morsel back from them. Not a singlesigh from anyone.

Maybe they just dont get it, Maiden said.Maybe youve lost your touch.

Never, Hero said, and blew her a kiss.

Sounds of retching came from the bathroom,followed by a moan.

Maybe they just dont like you, Shadowsaid, his voice dry.

You wont do any better in the second act,Hero said. Theyre an energy sink.

Bob joined him on the couch. He didntknow what to say. They were an energy sink,the most unresponsive audience hed everplayed to. Only the occasional rustle hadassured him they were even alive out there.

If we had a voice this wouldnt behappening. I hate miming. Wizard said andglared at Shadow.

I thought it was funny. I still think itsfunny, Shadow said.

Maiden frowned at him. Pity the emperordidnt. She fussed over her hair for a second,patting her two braided buns to verify theywere still in place.

A hand smacked his shoulder in the realworld. Excuse me, he told the archetypesand blinked out of the green room.

Yes? he said to Tracy.

She glared at him with brown eyes andclouted him again. Theres an agent here,she said. Her thin mouth tightened further.

Look!

Bob peered out into the audience from theedge of the stage. He could see a dim form inan imperial gray suit amid a ring of empty seats.The man was taking notes on a hand-heldrecorder.

Crap, he said, as his stomach sank.

Im calling the show, Tracy said. Im not

going to jail for sedition for you.

Please dont, Bob said. If you call theshow I wont get paid. He tried to swallow,his mouth dry.

Tough. Tracy turned away.

Why isnt the audience leaving? heasked.

Perhaps they dont want to draw attentionto themselves, Tracy said, her back to Bob.

Or perhaps theyre enjoying the show, Bobthought, but are too afraid to react.

Bob hurried after Tracy. He grabbed her

shoulder.Let go of me. She tried to shake him off.

Ive got to keep going. Its my onlychance.

I dont care, she said. I really dont. Shepulled away. Ill give you a few minutes to run.Its the best I can do. Her voice sounded sad,but determined.

Bob felt his hand curl into a fist. The show

had to go on.

He socked her in the jaw as gently as hecould and caught her as she collapsed. Boblowered her to the floor and propped her upagainst the stage wall. Her head lolled to oneside. He checked her pulseshe would be fine.He regretted doing it, but. . .

The show wouldgo on. He would finish thisone last piece, even if he did go to jail.

He blinked to the green room as the watchon his wrist vibrated. The cast stared at him.

What have you done? Maiden asked. Shegrabbed Bobs hand. Did you hit someone?

Bob ignored her, ignored the looks ofdisbelief from all of the cast. Places for thestart of Act Two.

Wizard got to his feet. Were doomed.


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#

Act II commenced with the starshipcaptured by the orbital fortress world. Bobwas glad to see the personas were taking theirjobs seriously.

Hero kept his shoulders back and his chestout, radiating confidence and bravado throughhis cocky walk. He flirted with the Maiden, byteasing and insulting her.

Maiden returned gibe for gibe.

And then Shadow entered. He took a fewminutes to let the menace of his presence washover the crowd. He glided over the stage in hisblack helmet and flipped his cape with grace.

#

Seven hells! Shadow said when he poppedback into the green room. There really is animperial agent.

Bob groaned. He watched Shadow pacearound the room, avoiding the Wizardsout-flung sandaled feet.

Well, theres nothing to be done about itnow, Maiden said as she interrupted Shadows

path. She turned him around and massagedhis shoulders with narrow white fingers.

Dont say it, Hero said. Do not say it.

The show must go on, she continued asshe rubbed Shadows shoulders.

Hero slumped in his chair.

Were going to jail, Shadow said. Bobs

going to jail and hes taking us all with him.Were screwed.

The green room shivered and twisted. Itblinked in and out, the stage superimposed.

Bob! Maiden said.

I knew it would get worse, Shadow said.You can count on it every time.

With a last strobe of light, the green roomvanished.

#

Bob stared at the house and the audiencestared back. Of all the times for the system togo wrong, it had to pick now. Of course, he

thought. He swallowed a giggle. The spotlightbeat down on his face and he could feel his bodymorphing back to norm. His hair receded andhis shoulders slumped as the system reset.

The audience waited.

Bob waited. He blinked, but nothinghappened. The green room system was stilldown.

His jaw ached from gritting his teeth. Think,

he admonished himself. What happens next?He had to do something.

He had to act. He knew this play, forwardsand backwards. He knew every light cue,every set movement. But hed never done ithimself. Not without the help of the personas,who werent here. He was alone in the whitespotlight.

He blinked again, hoping that maybe . . .

No.

Bob stepped forward. The duel, that wasit! They had to be at the duel scene. Oh God,he had to do the hardest scene by himself.

He forced the morph cells back online and

straightened. Another step and he began thelabored breathing of Shadow. He flicked onthe light sword at his side.

With action, each moment became moreand more possible.

He darted forward as Shadow. The swordarched through the air. Hoarse rasping breathrolled across the audience.

He forced the cells to switch to Wizard andbegan a series of classical defense moves.

For a moment he was Shadow, then Wizard,then Shadow again, as he played both roles,both sides of the duel. The morph cells shiftedback and forth from the old man to his formerstudent.

Shadow darted forward. Bob morphed backinto Wizard and blocked the sword thrust.

Bob ignored the sweat dripping into his eyes.He danced around the stage. Parry, riposte.

Wizards brown robes flapped. Shadows blackcape snapped. Bob lost himself in the moment,in the Zen of the part, and forgot about thefaces staring him down, forgot about theimperial agent, forgot about everything otherthan the joy of the moment and the rush ofadrenaline.

#


12/37



When the system came back online, Bobrelinquished control to Farm Boy and headedfor the green room. The duel was complete,the Wizard dead, but his spirit continued on.The Maiden was saved. All that remained wasthe destruction of the dark fortress and thevanquishing of Shadow by the Farm Boy.

His cheeks ached with an unfamiliarfeeling.

Wheee! he said and spun about theroom.

Wizard stepped forward and shook Bobshand. Im proud of you. After all this time,youre starting to truly integrate us instead ofjust using us.

Bob grabbed Maiden and kissed her. I did

it!

You did, she said, wiping her mouth. Butdont do that again. Its just too weird to bekissing a part of yourself.

I dont give a damn. Bob danced over toShadow and kissed him too. When released,Shadow sat on the couch and started giggling.

After a few seconds, Bob and the rest joinedin. The laughter spread from persona to person

and back again, growing to a roar. When FarmBoy came back at the end, they pulled him intoa group hug.

Time for the curtain call, Bob said as herecollected himself.

Oh, why bother, Shadow said. We couldtry to sneak out the back.

Its the form of the thing, Bob said. Well

finish this.

And then go to jail, Maiden said.

#

The audience sat still and silent and the ring

of empty seats around the imperial agent hadgrown. Bob let each person assume controlfor their bow. As himself, he took a quick bow,and stepped back. The show was complete.It wasnt the best hed done, but it was by nomeans the worst either.

He waited, still under the bright lights forthe agent to move forward, for the arrest heknew was coming.

The man stood up and made his way to the

aisle. The crowd got out of his way.Bob stayed in the center of the spotlight.

Hed never get his voice synthesizer back, neverperform again. He heard footsteps and lookedto the sides of the stage. Guards in white armorfilled the wings.

The imperial agent stopped when hereached the lip of the stage and pulled a sheafof papers from a jacket pocket. He tilted hishead up and met Bobs eyes.

I arrest you, Bob Knight, on charges ofsedition, performing a banned piece, incitinga crowd . . .

It was worse than Bob had thought it wouldbe. With these multiple charges there was nochance hed ever get out. And the agent wasstill reading.

He was ruined, destroyed.

Then one woman stood up in the audience.She looked up at Bob and started clapping.Clap, clap. A few rows away another person

joined her. Then another.

Bob stood there, still under the bright lightsas the audience came to life. The clappingswelled. The noise drowned out the imperialagent.

He felt his cheeks stretch wider and wider,and his face felt wet, though he didnt knowwhy.

The crowd surged forward. BOB! Theycheered him, these remnants of humanity, thelosers, misfits, and outcasts.

The mob pressed closer and closer to theagent. They trapped him between the edge of

the stage and their bodies.

The guards ran from the stage wings. Theyreached down to pull the agent up, but thecrowd kept hold. Bob could see the white fearin the agents taut angular face.

Bob looked out at the audience again, stillcheering and shouting his name. He filledhimself with the sight, drank in the sound tostore away. And then he turned and ran forthe backstage door.

As he ran, he could hear the archetypesinside his head, encouraging him. Shadow,Hero, Maiden, Wizard, Farm Boyall thoseparts of himself, integrated at last.

Perhaps he could contact the rebel under-ground. With agents looking for him there wasno way for him to get off planet now. And hewanted to keep on acting. Perhaps he couldstage the show again . . . Perhaps . . .


13/37



Calie Voorhis

Calie Voorhis is a life-long fan of the

fantastic, a self-proclaimed geek,

Odyssey workshop survivor, and current

Seton Hill student.


14/37

The Exile of Joseph Reed by Colleen Drippe Pg. 14


When I woke in the pseudo-morning,

sore of muscle and bleary-eyed,Vincent was leaning against the grainy, greenfront of a storage cabinet. The back of his headwas all pulped and blackened, and a big, tight,toothy grin was plastered on his yellowed face.I didnt know if that grin meant rigor mortis orgood morning.

It was always hard to tell. His eyes weredull and sunken, but far in the back some sparklet me know he saw me.

I rolled over, groping for a governmentissue Nikstik. As I lit the thing, I heard the airfilter kick on with a self-righteous hum and,when I turned back, Vincent was gone.

Almost unconsciously I relaxed, easing myback against the padded bed-wall while smokedrifted in clouds against the pale curve of theceiling. The shoulder burn I got when they tookme was almost healed, though it still itched abit, and I was in pretty good shape physically,for what that was worth

It was not, of course, as though anyonegave a damn, I thought ruefully. I had mydutiesmost of them meaninglessand, sickor well, I knew now that if I didnt do as I wastold, I wouldnt live long.

The first thing I had tried after I woke uphere was a good old-fashioned sit-down strike.They had read me the rules before they put meunder that final time and things were pretty

definite: cooperate, do the experiments, work

out with the machines, report the results.

You can die slow, Bonner, the med techhad told me, with his thin-lipped grimace of asmile. A lifetime if you want it. Or you can diefaster. The sentence is the same, you know.He seemed to be having a good time.

I told him what he could do with hissentence. I elaborated some on his ownpersonal habits and those of his immediateancestors. Later, he forgot to provide pain

medication for my shoulder. Things were roughthose first few days.

So, I sat. And the food quit coming out ofthe servo-unit. It didnt matter. I had a fever atthe time, and my shoulder hurt, and I wasnthungry. Besides, I didnt really believe theywould kill me.

Then, the water stopped too.

When the air got mustyor was it my

imagination?and I had a headache and foundmyself yawning when I wasnt sleepy, I gave in.So Im spineless. Everybody has some reallyheavy thing they fear, and this was mine.

I went to work setting up an array of mean-ingless experiments according to the instruc-tions provided. But I knew full well I was theprime guinea pig. I did my exercises, measuredmy heart rate, took blood samples, and thendid the mental stuff. It looked like Id be the

best-educated corpse this side of the next

galaxy.

Man in hyperspacethats me. At least Ithink so. Id heard all that about the speed oflight and being all twisted up and flattened outor living backwardsand none of it seemed tobe happening. Of course, how would I know? Iwas observing myself, and I and me were bothbarreling along at some unthinkable speedtogether. There was no place for an objectiveobserver to stand. The radio seemed to onlywork one way if at all. When I read off infor-mation into a grey, metal grille, a light wouldcome on. That was supposed to be an acknowl-edgment. But when I said something like, Heythere, you jerks. Hows things in the good oldsolar system? the light would go out. I guessthey picked it up, but no one was letting on.

To tell the truth, I hadnt heard a humanvoice other than my own in two weeks. Vincentwas silent, and so, for the most part, was I. I wasafraid to start talking to myselfand talking toVincent was a waste of time.

After my second amber-papered smoke, Ihauled myself out of bed and shoved the sleepunit into the wall. Vincent was back, grinninghis mindless grin and blocking the doorwaywith his shambling form. I regarded him criti-cally, noting how he seemed to have deterio-rated in the last couple of weeks. Still, it wasnot as much I told myself asnot like hedbeen in his grave for two weeks.

The Exile of Joseph Reedby Colleen Drippe

Mild language


15/37



But he had.

I slid my own eyes away from his muddyones and wondered if they had shot him fullof formaldehyde back on Earth. Somehow,I could almost smell him, and I wonderedmorbidly what was going on beneath his grey-

yellow skin.

And now, I told myself, Joseph Reedis going space happy. My voice seemed torasp out like an old rusty gate, startling meand causing my heart to hammer wildly for amoment. Then I stretched my lips into a grinof my own. Good going, Vincent, I told him.You make a great zombie.

And then I walked through him and intothe workroom.

#

The stuff I did kept me busy. When I finisheda session of body and brain work, I was readyto sleep again. That was a good thing, really,because they hadnt left me much else to do.No games, no entertainment, no books. Onlythe Nikstiks, which tasted worse each day.

Oh, I did some reading, but it was all on ascreenand it was followed by endless tests

to see if Id taken it in. It was mostly uselessstuff like how to tan hides or build a log cabin.A cabin in space, would you believe? The onlything I liked was the math.

So after a session, muscles aching andhead spinning, I would sit down and eat thetasteless crap that came from the serv-unit,shoveling in some kind of hi-protein oatmealwhile I kept an eye out for Vincent.

Vincent never bothered me when Iwas busy, but he had a way of turning up atmealtimes and staring at me as though heknew he would never eat again. Just staring,you know. And I would look up at his cheesy-chunky face and down at my cheesy-chunkymeal and try not to throw up.

And I would eat. Im a survival type. Godknows what I have to live for, but I just go on.

Sometimes, after I finished, I would slipmy grey plastic tray back in the slot and returnto the math machine. I wanted to be good andtired before I hit that bed, and I didnt want todream if I could help it.

The dreaming part, you see, was theworst. Worse than looking at Vincent even. It

wouldnt surprise me if they put something inthe water to help things along. Or maybe theyput it in the smokes.

Oh sure, I knew old Vincent was a holo. Hewas just a little added touch of spite in casesolitude and hopelessness werent enough todrive me mad.

I didnt know his f irst name before my trial.Vincent was just a guy on the wrong sidesomeone we held in the basement apartment

until we were sure they were not going tomeet our demands. And then, somehow, I wasthe one who got to do it.

Over and over in my dreams, I would watchthe others leaveBosk (Good luck, Joey), Tony(See ya, man), and Dr. Ellis.

I would close the door behind them andactivate the lock. And I would go over to thetable and pick up the little Torman special. Not

a fancy laser or anything like that, the Tormanwas just good for a silent burst of close rangeenergy.

With one shaking hand, I would pickup the Torman and cross the frayed browncarpet, feeling the cold hardness of the

cement beneath even through my shoes.And there would be the bedroom door, fakewood veneer peeling from a plastic frame. Itwas just a door, but somehow, it was so verymeaningful. It was as though that door wouldopen into something more than a dingy littleroom in a moldering old house. And I guess itdid at least for me.

I would pull off the lock field cube andstep inside, gun in hand. Thats how it was,that part, in real life.

Vincent would look at me, and I wouldknow that he knew his time had run out. Hiseyes would widen slightly.

Turn around, man, I told him, my voicetight but not mean. Its easier that way. Ididnt tell him I had never done this before.

He got this look then like, Yeah, Im scaredbut who are you to tell me to turn around soyou can shoot me? What right do you have?

But all he said was, Easier for who?I grabbed him and turned him andit was

over just like that, before either of us knew Iwas going to do it.

So thats how it was in my memory. Itwas at the point when the others left thatthe dream would deviate from what reallyhappened. I would go over and pull off thelocking cube and swing back the door on its


16/37



fake brass hinges and there he would be withhis back to me. His grey and white clothingwould be rumpled and he would be twistinghis hands nervously behind his back.

But when he turned around, it was alwaysthe wrong guy.

Sometimes it was Tony or Bosk or a girlI used to know. Sometimes it would be a lotof people in succession. Sometimes it wouldseem like the whole human race was there,and afterwards, I would be alone on a ghostworld. But sometimesand this was theworstit would be me I saw, looking scaredand sick and waiting like that, until I pressedthe firing stud.

I always woke up in a cold sweat after one

of the dreams, and reached out blindly forsomeone who wasnt there. Irene. She was thiswoman onceonly she liked someone elsebetter. Well, not really better, but we didntagree about some stuff.

Anyway, she wasnt there. Only Vincenthung around, and he was no treat to wake upto when youd just been dreaming you killedthe wrong guy.

No, I didnt want to dream if I could help

itand sometimes I didnt.And so the daysif thats what they

werewent by. I had been out about fourweeks when I found the book. I still didntknow where I was. Are you, in fact, anywherewhen you exceed the speed of light? So as Isay, it had probably been four weeks my timewith just Vincent and me and the work assign-ments, when I found this book lying on thefloor half under one of the consoles.

It was the old kind of book, and it hadpages and a cover. I picked it up gingerly fromthe floor wondering, what the hell?

The cover was green cloththe color ofhope, some idiots voice burbled in my brainand there in black letters was the title: The Life

of Robert Vincent.

I stood frozen, turning the thing over in myhands, my skin shrinking up like I had grabbedsomething dead. After a moment, I flung thebook as hard as I could against one pearl-plas-tic wall.

Damn you! I yelled. Damn you all! Damnthe whole human race!

But no one heard me, or if they did, there

was no answer. I thought of my lawyer, courtappointed, who had taken my case with thesame shrinking revulsion I had felt when Ipicked up the book. He was light years awayby now.

I hope you enjoy your goddamn joke, Itold my hypothetical listeners. I felt like a fool,but I couldnt stop. I hope your sun goes nova!I hope it burns up the whole solar system!

My voice didnt echo, exactlythe wallswere too resilient for that. The words just rangflat in my ears, helpless sounding and a littlebit shrill.

My eyes were drawn back to the book. Itlay now in a tangle of pages, the cover openand leaning against one wall. That, at least,was no holo. I had held it and felt its weight.

I guess it was then everything hit me atonce. Through the trial, I had been the quint-

essential cool guy. And then, when I found outwhat they were going to do to me, I managedto keep my fearmy panichidden. I had to,you see. Thats the kind of guy I am.

But now, I was alone. I couldnt even besure my tormentors heard my curses. I was a

trillion miles from Earth and going nowherein a metal-plastic coffin. I was just as dead asVincent, only I hadnt started to rot yet.

And now this.

It was like one last kick from society. Asort of good-bye present. Have fun, Reed, youscum. Sweet dreams.

I had a sudden vision of my own comingdeath. I would surely croak one day, right here

and alone. Probably I would be scared and inpain, and no one would even know. Later, theventilator would have to run harder for a whileand after thatwell, only the dust would pileup. Centuries of dust, maybe. Millennia.

It occurred to me, as well, that maybe myprison wasnt designed to last forever. Maybeit would fall apart before I did.

That one did it. I remember the walls tiltedup at some crazy angle and me yelling monstermovie stuff about being walled up alive. Andmaybe Vincent came back then, and maybe hedidnt. And maybe he gibbered at me with hisrigor mortis mouth, and maybe he didnt dothat either.

All I know is it was a long time later, and Iwas laying on the bed with a tender swellingabove one eye. My hands were sore too, likeI had been beating them on the wallswhichI probably hadand there was no sign of


17/37



Vincent.

I dug out another smoke with shakinghands, wondering if I had knocked myself outand if that was so, who had put me on the bed?I coughed on the smoke and put it out. Maybein the end, I would be reduced to sucking my

thumb.

I started to chuckle at that and stoppedmyself. None of that, thank you. My mindskittered away from the immediate past, whichwas fine with me. I didnt know what time itwas or how long I had been out of things. WasI supposed to be on duty now? And were theygoing to cut off the air?

This last thought propelled me to my feetand there, just by the wall where I had thrown

it, lay the Life of Robert Vincent.

I just stood there, one hand gripping theedge of the bed unit and the other extendedin mid-air, groping, I guess, for the Nikstik I hadthrown away.

Ive said before, Im a survivor type. Withthe life Ive had, both before and after I met Dr.Ellis and Bosk and the others, Ive had to be asurvivor. I bend. I bend a lot sometimes. But Ido not break.

Now it scared me maybe a little that Icould have come unstuck the way I had. Butonly a little. I knew I would snap back the wayI always had.

So I picked up the Life of Robert Vincentand riffled through it, wondering if they reallywere watching me back on Earth. Were theylaughing or turning away in disappointment?Or just saying things like, Ah, and Very inter-

esting.

I decided to check out the contents as Imade my way into the workroom. In a way, I wasboredand then, too, there is still this morbidstreak in me. It was like when I wondered if theworms had got into Vincent yet.

I held in my hand some kind of photoalbum with minimal text. And, I decided, itdidnt look too interesting. Baby pictures, firstbirthday, first day of school, first communionso Vincent was a kid once. Well, so was I, onlynobody bothered with pictures.

I skipped ahead a bit and saw him graduatefrom college. College, I thought sourly. This guygot a degree so he could become a two-bit civilservant and work his way up in the hierarchy.

And all that so I could make hash out of hishead.

He had brown eyes, same as me. I hadntnoticed that when I shot him. We liked thesame kind of music. Funny how I knew that. Icould almost hear it. He met this girl once andshe

Same as me.

Angrily I flipped on back. I wanted to seehim older, you know. I wanted to see him whenhis cold-hearted self-interest had jelled. Whenhe quit caring about anything but his career.When he had no more time for music and stufflike that.

Instead, I saw him coaching a kids baseballteam. I saw his kids growing up. Then on aboutpage forty-six, the pictures ended and thatpage was all torn up and blackened and itoozedunder my hand until I felt the blood and

brains pulping up between my fingers.

With a muffled cry, I threw down the bookand saw it make a red splat-smear there at myfeet. I raised bloody hands to cover my eyesbecause I knew the walls were going all funnyagain.

I am utterly crazy, I said aloud. It seemedlike I was talking about someone else. Okay, Itold the empty room. So you shook it all loosethis time. So youve driven me stark, raving

But I wasnt raving. Not really. I went intothe lav and washed the blood off my hands.Real or not, that made me feel better.

When I came out, the book was still a messon the floor and I stepped over it, not looking

down. Yeah, I figured, it was time to get backto work.

And that is what I did.

You see? Im a survivor. I knew there wasan explanation for what had happened. Soscience was a bit more advanced than I hadthoughtand society a lot more vindictive.

But me, I was a little bit tougher thantheyd thought.

I did look back once, and saw Vincentwatching me from the doorway with his deadpebble eyes and grinning his flaky grin. He wasdefinitely going downhil l, four and a half weeksdead now, and he looked smaller than he hadbeen. Maybe instead of falling apart, he was

just going to shrivel up.

I shrugged. Whatever those sadists backon Earth had done, it wasnt his faultbrowneyes and freckles, and he got a bike once for his


18/37



birthdaywasnt his fault, I say. Not his faulthe was dead and disgusting

Ive never been one much for sentiment andthat stuff. Oh, I once cared about humanity.Why else had I been there in that basementwith Dr. Ellis and the others? But humanity is

not the same thing as people.

Ellis had told me a lot about history andmaking a better world. I still thought PresidentGroff was a jerk. He had a private shuttle andhis own place on the moon, and he got aroundall over the solar system. Hed seen it all firstclass, spurning the worn out soil of Earth withhis well-made boots, leaving the rest of usbehind to fight over the scraps his kind left.What did Groff know about rats and stoppedup toilets and waiting in line for commodities?

What did he know about fear and lonelinessand hunger?

And yet, an uncomfortable but fairly honestpart of me observed, Dr. Ellis wore tailoredsuits, and though he paid the rent on thatbasement apartment he never slept there.

Vincent had a bike once and brown eyes.Just like me only my bike was second hand andprobably stolen. And he went to college justlike me only I had a scholarship and quit when

I met Dr. Ellis and Bosk and the others.

And he was a man once, just like me. Onlynow he was dead and coming apart and hewasnt really out to get me. I knew that. He

just grinned that way because he was dead. Itwasnt his fault.

It was mine.

Im sorry I shot you, Vincent, I told him

and I meant it. You poor stiff

After that I found myself shaking with sobslike I hadnt done sincesince never, I guess. Iwept for Vincent and his kids and me and Earthand the screwed up way things had of turningout. And when I finally raised my head from

the console, I was alone again.

After that, there were no more tricks. Thingsmellowed out, and I settled into my routine ina funny kind of half despair. I had nothing tolive for, but I lived. Vincent had had a lot tolive for, and I mourned for him. It was a newfeeling caring about someone elseand nottoo pleasant. I almost missed the holo, weirdas it was, because at least it was company.

But Vincent did not return.

The book was still there, though, and soI knew that it, at least, was real. In the end, Icleaned up the mess and shoved it all in therecept. I was sorry, sure, but not that sorry. Ididnt want to look at the pictures and bloodanymore.

And then, about a week after Vincentstopped coming, another strange thinghappened. One of the blank screens in theworkroom came to life and some guynot

Vincent or anyone I recognizeda regularperson with dark hair and a bent-up noselooked out at me.

Welcome to Garretts world, he said.Were bringing you in.

What the hell? I croaked. Is this anotherof your sick jokes? I had to restrain myselffrom actually putting a fist through the screen.Hadnt they done enough to mess up my mind?

They made me care about stuff when it wastoo late, and now this.

The guy looked at me funny, and thensmiled a little, like he knew a joke, but he wouldshare it with me. Procyon IV, he said. Penalcolony. Didnt they tell you?

No, man, I said, only half taking it in.Im dead, see. And youre not real. Ive seenVincent. I was uncomfortably aware thatmy voice was rising out of control. Ive seenVincent and the book and all that blood! Inearly screamed. But I never killed you, andyouve got no business busting in on my life!

His gaze became speculative. When hesmiled again it wasnt a nice smile at all. Ithink I understand, he said. Those creeps

didnt tell you a thing. Weve had a few otherscome in that way.

I only stared at him.

My names Nelson, he said now, and Icame here in a podthe same way you did.Only I knew where I was going.

Are you trying to say, I asked him carefully,holding onto my sanity with both hands, thatthis whole thing was a put on? That all thisholograms and that bookthat this

I dont know about holos, Nelson said,or that other stuff. We all have our thingFor a moment his eyes clouded and slid awayfrom mine. Funny things happen on the way,he finished lamely.

What do you mean? I snarled.

He managed a shrug. Youre Joseph Reed,pod number 4693, he said. Right?

h il f h d b ll i


19/37



I nodded cautiously. Thats my nameanyway.

Okay. Youre ours now. You live here. Firstthey sent robo ships, and now, they send us.But no one else has the guts to follow. Thewhole place is ours

I only gaped at him. It was still too much.

Ultralight drive, he said now. Its still inthe experimental stages, you know.

I lit a smoke and put it out immediately.Habit. I was really going somewhere all thetime, I whispered wonderingly. But the wordsdidnt mean anything.

Its our world here, I tell you, he said.Ours! And Here the smile came back a

little warmer. Its not such a bad life. Thisisnt a real prison, you know. Its a colony withwomen and now a few children.

He signed off then and left me to thinkabout everything. I sat down before the mathconsole and leaned my head on the cool greyplastic. So they wanted me to think I wasreprieved. And I did believe it. Silently cursingmy folly, I still believed.

Somehow, I must have fallen asleep there

in the chairor else they knocked me out.Anyway, when I woke, the sun was shining.

Oh, it was the wrong color, of course,and the sky was greenish. But it was morningoutside, and my pod had come open. Nelsonhelped me to my feet, and we staggeredoutside.

I let my gaze travel from his face to thewoodssome kind of conifersand then to

the green-blue arch of cloudless sky.

Remember, youre not the first, Reed,he told me quietly. The nightmare is over.And whatever the reason you came hereHe stumbled a bit over this part. Well, I thinkyoull do okay. Everyone does.

They said I began and stopped. I wasstill a step behind, and I couldnt seem tocatch up with what was happening. I knew justenough to keep quiet about Vincent, but I hadto ask him again about the holos. I hadto!

No, he told me. They dont have thatkind of technology. It was the light drive, isall. It does funny things toto the way we seethings.

They should have said something, Iprotested, squinting against the light. Warnedme.

Yes, he agreed. They usually do at leasttell about the colony. They must, he saidslowly, not looking at me, have been a realhard-ass crew.

I didnt say anything, but it occurred to methat maybe I had been a real hard-ass murderer.Maybe thats why I got special treatment.

And then, we paused while I gazed my fillat the woods and fields and cabins, knowing Iwould never see things quite this way again.This was a good place, fresh and new. It wasbetter than Earth as it was nowat least forme.

I found I was picking up on all sorts of thingsI had never seen before. It was as though somekind of meaningsomething larger than life

and full of promise hid just an eye blink behindthe scene before me.

But of course, the real difference wasnt inthe scenery. It was in me. I had shed a wholeload of hate somewhere between here andEarth, and it felt pretty good. If I had only

known!

Ultralight drive, I thought as I walked besideNelson over the fields. Yeah, it was weird, allright. I reached in my pocket and let my fingersslide over the ragged edges of the photo I hadtorn from the Life of Robert Vincent. I didnthave to look. I knew it showed a kid with browneyes. A kid with a new bike

I dont think Ill show it to anyone. But Imstill sorry, Vincent. I dont believe that crap

about the effects of ultralight, thoughAnd I dont think Nelson does either.

Colleen Drippe

Colleen Drippe is author of many

science fiction, fantasy, and even horrorstories. She is also editor of HEREDITAS

MAGAZINE, sponsored by Regina Coeli

Online Academy.

d k


20/37

Featured Arst: Euka Pg. 20


Name:

Eduardo Lopez MustarosAge:

37

Hobbies:

Digital Art

Favorite Book / Author:

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

When did you start creang art?

I have always tried in one form or another.

What media do you work in?

I have worked in tradional media, not exclusively in digital.

Featured ArstEduardo Lopez Mustaros

F d A Ed d L M P


21/37

Featured Arst: Eduardo Lopez Mustaros Pg. 21


Where your work has been featured?

Only inside deviantART

Where should someone go if they wanted to view / buy some of yourworks?

My deviantART prints page

How did you become an arst?

I have been a photographer all my life. From there, the natural ow of

things, from lm to digital. Digital equals computer digital manipulaon,

so here we are.

What were your early inuences?

Nature has always inspired me. Besides that, Roger Dean and Dylan Cole

What are your current inuences?Good friends at DA.

What inspired the art for the cover?

Proelium was done for an art pack in a group called Terraspace on

deviantART. I wanted to depict more than a waran invasion, the rst

stages of our eliminaon.

How would you describe your work?

My vision

Where do you get your inspiraon / what inspires you?

Everything

Have you had any notable failures, and how has failure aected yourwork?

No, I dont think failure on a big scale has aected me.

F t d A t Ed d L M t P
http://edlo.deviantart.com/prints/http://edlo.deviantart.com/prints/


22/37

Featured Arst: Eduardo Lopez Mustaros Pg. 22


What have been your greatest successes? How has success impacted you / your work?

My success has been my family and my work, and its what gives me free me and peace of mind to enjoy my digital art.

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art?

A fast computer, a big screen, a trackball, and a Wacom tablet.What tool / equipment do you wish you had?

An eight core 3GHz Mac Pro and a thirty inch screen.

What do you hope to accomplish with your art?

Inspiring images.

Hot Of the Press by Ty Johnston Pg 23


23/37

Hot Of the Press by Ty Johnston Pg. 23


Roger Madock screamed into thenewspaper.Dorothy looked over from her desk.

Whatd they get wrong this time? she asked,cup of coffee halfway to her lips.

Copy editors! Roger yelled. Theychanged a guys name again. Its supposed tobe Mark Rawlins, not Tim Rawlins!

Dorothy sipped her coffee and leaned backin her chair. You better tell the managingeditor about it, she said with a smirk. If youdont let them know, then...

Yeah, yeah, Roger said, wadding thenewspaper into a ball and dropping it into thetrash can beneath his desk. He loosened thetie around his neck and bent over, elbows onhis knees. It just steams me, you know? Wego to all this trouble to get the facts right, andthen they butcher our copy.

Know what you mean, Dorothy said. Lastweek they changed the sex of a source in oneof my stories. The Republican party chairman

didnt like being called a she one bit. Not myfault his name is

Rogers phone rang.

He picked up the receiver and said, RogerMadock, Monitor newsroom.

Hey, Roger, this is Sheriff Gable, the voiceon the line said.

Oh, hey, Don. I was about to call you,Roger said, glancing at Dorothy with a here-

I-go-having-to-apologize-for-someone-elses-mistake look.

You were about to call me? the sheriff

asked. What for? You got some morequestions?

Not yet, Roger said, Did you see todaysstory?

Nope, the sheriff said. Listen, Ive got togo quick. I just was calling to let you know thata couple of the guys walked. Their attorneysgot them out on bail.

Roger instantly reverted back to being areporter and grabbed a pen and notebook off

his desk. Okay, who walked?

The sheriff made a choking sound. Thatpunk Taylor is out, he said with distaste, andTim Rawlins is out, too.

Roger wrote down the names, then, Hey,you mean Mark Rawlins.

Nope, I mean Tim Rawlins, the sheriffsaid. Look, I gotta go now. Theres a mess ofpaper work still to be finished on this one. Callme tomorrow morning if you got any morequestions, okay?

Sure, sure, Roger said as he hung up thephone and put down the pen and notebook.

He felt dazed for a moment. He was sure theguy arrested had been named Mark Rawlins.It wasnt like him to make a mistake like that.Hed been a reporter for eight years.

You okay? Dorothy asked, seeing theweird look in Rogers eyes.

Yeah, sure, he said, looking up with a

smile. Just a long day, I suppose.Dorothy stood and patted him on the back.

Go home and get yourself a beer, she said asshe turned to leave for the night.

You bet, Roger said.

When Dorothy was gone, Roger reached forseveral of the notebooks that were on his desk.He flipped through several of them looking for

Hot Off the Pressby Ty Johnston

He found them filed in thebottom left drawer. Rogeryanked out the folder the

papers were in and began

scanning them.The third page was a

copy of a warrant for thearrest of Tim Rawlins.



24/37



the name of the arrested man.

Failing there, he looked inside his desk fora copy of the police reports hed picked upearlier in the day.

He found them filed in the bottom left

drawer. Roger yanked out the folder the paperswere in and began scanning them.

The third page was a copy of a warrant forthe arrest of Tim Rawlins.

Aw, crap, Roger said. He must have madea mistake, and the copy desk caught it. Thingswould be cool tonight because it was late, buttomorrow he was sure he would catch grieffrom the managing editor.

Call it a night, Roger said to himself as

he stood and took his jacket off the coat rack.You cant win them all.

#

Entering his apartment, Roger stopped inthe entrance hall long enough to scan over thedays mail. Most of it was junk mail or bills, butthere was one interesting-looking envelopefrom Nouveau Fantasymagazine.

Roger dropped his coat on the floor, sethis keys on the coffee table and fell back in hisreclining chair. He had sent a short story off tothe magazine several months back. The talehadnt been anything great, a piece of sciencefiction he had titled Attackers from Mars,but it had been fun to write. Roger had hopedthe piece would also be fun to read, especiallysince it poked fun at the low-grade B moviesfrom the fifties.

He tore open the envelope expectinganother rejection slip. He had been writingshort fiction for several years and had yet tosell a story to a magazine. He was surprised tofind inside the envelope a letter asking permis-sion to publish the story.

Well, Ill be, Roger said to himself. Hewould have laughed if he could have seen thesilly grin on his face.

He wasted no time getting out his type-writer and writing a letter giving the editors ofNouveau Fantasy permission to run the tale.The magazine didnt pay anything, but Rogerwas just glad he was going to have a short storyin print.

Maybe all those years are going to pay

off, he said as he pulled the typed letter outof the machine and put it in a new envelope.

After that, he wandered off to bed,wondering how long it would be beforeAttackers from Mars was published.

#

The managing editor stuck his head out hisoffice door. Roger!

Roger looked up from his desk where hewas busy typing in the police log.

We got a code 187 at 2112 Pliath Avenue,the managing editor said.

Roger grabbed two notebooks and ahandful of pens and headed for the exit. Code187 was a murder.

When he started his car he also turned on

the one-way radio the newspaper had suppliedhim.

We got an officer down. Repeat, officerdown, the radio squawked.

Roger sped out of the parking lot.

When he got to the scene, there were fourpolice cruisers surrounding the front of anapartment building.

You missed all the action, Sheriff Gablesaid as Roger walked up to him, notebook andpen already in hand.

What happened? Roger asked.

Aw, some junkie lost it and started shootingup the place, the sheriff said. He killed one

guy and wounded an officer. The idiot triedto hole up in his apartment, but he ran out ofbullets while trying to get inside. His wife hadlocked him out. A couple of the boys tackledhim down and cuffed him.

Look, you can get all the informationback at the station. I should be getting to thehospital. The guy isnt doing too good. Hemight not make it.

Yeah, sure, Roger said, still writing, but

which officer got shot?

It was one of the city boys, the sheriffsaid. I think his name is Leon Brown.

#

Five minutes after midnight.

Roger typed faster and faster. Deadline wasless than a half hour away.



25/37



The officer shot, Leon Brown, was still alive,according to the last person Roger had talkedwith at the hospital. Brown was doing well; hewas expected to survive the night, at least.

You got that story? the managing editorsaid with a testy voice over Rogers shoulder.

Hold on, hold on, Roger said, typing intwo more lines. Then, There. Its yours.

The managing editor turned toward one ofthe copy editors. Get it ready, were on theclock, he said gruffly, then went to his office.

Roger eased back in his seat and smiled.It was a good story. He knew that. The quotesfrom the shooters wife were some of the besthe had gotten in a while.

So, hows it going, sport? Dorothy saidfrom her desk as she closed her computerdown for the night.

Roger glanced over at her. Not bad at all,he said, still smiling. Ive got a great story fortomorrow.

The shooting on Pliath? she said.

Yeah, thats the one, he said, leaningback in the chair and putting his feet on the

desk. Hey, did I tell you I sold one of my shortstories?

Dorothy looked up, almost laughing.Its about time. I knew you had the knack.Somebody had to publish you sooner or later.

Yeah, it finally happened. I sent thema return letter today, Roger said, closing hiseyes.

Hey, you want to go for a coffee tocelebrate? Dorothy asked. I know a greatplace on Sixth. Theyre open all night and havethe best java around.

Roger thought it over for a moment. Todayhad been a good day for him, at least as good

as a day can get when youre a crime reporter.He deserved a little relaxation, and Dorothywas a nice lady. Sure. Im up for it.

#

During the hustle and bustle of the day,Roger had forgotten about the mistake withthe name in yesterdays story. Over coffee,Dorothy asked him about it.

You know, now that I think about it, none

of the editors said a thing, Roger said.

Thats weird, Dorothy said, taking a sipof espresso, usually theyre all over us aboutstuff like that.

From the booth they were sitting in, Rogercould see an old television sitting on the coffeeshops counter. The sound was turned down,but Roger still recognized the apartmentbuilding on Pliath Avenue.

Hey, hold on a second, Roger said,standing and walking toward the television.

Do you mind if I turn it up? he asked thewaitress behind the counter.

She nodded and he twisted the volumeknob.

Officer Brown died less than ten minutesago, according to sources at Wayne County

Hospital, a womans voice said on the televi-sion, while pictures of police officers surround-ing the apartment building moved across thescreen. He was shot today in a gun battle onPliath

Whats going on? Dorothy asked, stepping

up behind Roger.Ive got to get back to the paper, he said,

setting the paper coffee cup on the counter.The shot cop just died, and my story says hesstill alive.

Before returning to the newspaper, Rogerstopped at a pay phone to call Wayne CountyHospital.

Officer Brown died shortly after midnight,Dr. Margaret Clancy said to him over thephone.

#

No! the managing editor yelled at Roger.

I can have it typed in five minutes, Rogersaid to his red-faced boss.

No, no, no, the managing editor said.Its already past two in the morning. The last

edition is on the presses now. We can run acorrection tomorrow.

Were going to look like idiots, Roger said.The radio and television have got this storyalready, a full twenty-four hours ahead of us.At least let me write up two inches to throw insomeplace.

The managing editor huffed. Were pastdeadline. Way past deadline.



26/37



Roger stood there frustrated.

His boss turned and walked away.

#

The next day Roger stormed into the office,

nearly knocking over a trashcan and bumpinginto the publisher on his way.

He was still furious. He would look like afool to the other reporters and to his sources,not to mention what some of the managementwould think. Also, it was part of the business.Journalism ran in Roger Madocks veins. He, likeany other reporter, didnt like the idea of beingthe last one to get a story. The rush of gettingthe scoop on the competition was enough tokeep a reporter high for days, or at least until

the next major story erupted.

Roger grew even angrier when his bossstuck his head out his office door and said,Roger, you gonna give me an update on theshot cop?

It was almost more than Roger could stand.Pictures of violence went through his head,but he gritted his teeth and said, What do youwant? Hes still dead.

The managing editor stood there with aconfused look on his face. What do you mean,hes still dead? Your story in todays papersays hes still alive.

Rogers teeth ground together even harder.He was sure he tasted blood. Of course mystory says that, he said, wanting to add youstupid idiot, thats because you wouldnt letme stop the presses last night.

The managing editor looked even moreconfused. What are you talking about?

Last night, Roger said.

I dont know what youre talking about,the boss said. I dont remember anythingabout anyone wanting to stop the presses.

Rogers anger died, replaced with his ownconfusion. What do you mean you dontremember? he said loudly. We were righthere in the office arguing about it. You said thelate edition was already on the presses andyou werent stopping.

The managing editor tilted his head andsquinted one eye. You sure you feel all right,Madock?

Roger stood there with a blank look, andhis arms hanging at his side.

Maybe you should take the rest of the dayoff, the boss suggested.

Roger shook his head. No, Ill be okay, hesaid, wondering what was going on.

When Dorothy entered the office, Rogercornered her at her desk.

Do you remember anything odd about lastnight? he asked bluntly.

Dorothy dropped her purse in the bottomdrawer of her desk and sat in her chair, flickingthe switch on her computer while doing so.No, not really, she said, smiling, but with aconcerned look in her eyes. Did somethinghappen?

Do you remember me leaving you at the

coffee shop to come back to the paper? Rogerasked.

Dorothy stared off into space for a fewmoments, as if she were trying to remembersomething with difficulty. Finally, No, shesaid, you walked me home after we left the

shop.Roger shook his head and backed toward

his own seat at his desk.

Whats wrong, Roger? Dorothy said, theconcerned look spreading from her eyes to therest of her face. Youre acting funny.

I dont know, Roger said. Somethingweird is happening. The boss asked me to checkon the cop who had been shot, but I couldvesworn...

Have you checked? Dorothy asked.

Roger looked up, into her eyes. You dontremember? he asked.

Remember what?

We saw it on the TV at the coffee shop,Roger said. The cop, he died at the hospital.

Dorothy screwed her face up. I remember

seeing the story on the TV, but I thought theysaid he was still alive.

Roger called the hospital again.

Can I speak with a Dr. Margaret Clancy,please? he asked the receptionist.

Seconds later the doctor was on the line.

How may I help you, Mr. Madock? sheasked.



27/37



Hello, Doctor, Roger said, trying to soundpolite and not frazzled. Im calling to check onOfficer Brown. Hes still in your care, isnt he?

Oh yes, the doctor said. Hes comingalong quite fine, really. Its something of amiracle. We didnt expect him to make it

through the night.Later that night, after leaving work, Roger

poured himself a triple shot of whiskey andplopped into his reclining chair.

For the second day in a row a story of hishad been published with an error. Later, Rogerhad found out there wasnt an error, that whathe had written had been true.

How was that? How did it happen? He hadbeen so sure the man arrested two days agohad been Mark Rawlins, not Tim. Then thestory had come out saying Tim Rawlins hadbeen arrested. Roger had checked his facts andfound out that, yes, the man was named TimRawlins.

Then there was the deal with the shotpoliceman. Roger knew the man had beendead, or at least the doctor had told him theman was dead and the television crew hadreported the man was dead. Rogers story

had come out saying the man was alive, andMother of Us All, the man was still alive, doingquite well, in fact.

The liquor slowly coursed its way throughRogers blood and into his skull. A little ofthe whiskey would help him to keep his mindclear, he thought, but a lot would make thingsmessier.

He took another drink anyway.

Something was going on. Either there wassome complicated plot to discredit him, or hewas going crazy.

It was almost as if he were making up thefuture, writing something that could changewhat actually did happen.

Roger thought that one over for a minute.

It couldnt be, could it?

He took another drink of whiskey, a longone.

Theres only one way to find out, he thoughtbefore falling asleep in the chair.

#

It worked.

Sheriff Gable called Roger to ask if hewanted to come along on a drug bust. Rogerwent along. The bust happened at 71 WestMain Street.

In his story, Roger intentionally changedthe address to 992 Rosewell Street.

The next day Roger drove by 992 RosewellStreet. The place was covered with yellow

police tape. To be sure, Roger called the sheriff.Gable told Roger the bust had happened at 992Rosewell Street.

Roger didnt know how it was happening,but he was actually changing events after theyoccurred. It seemed that whatever he wroteand got published was coming true.

He had done some quick checking with thedrug bust story and figured out that events

werent changing until his story was actuallypublished. He could write all he wanted andnothing would change, but the moment thatstory was published, bam!

Roger decided to try another experiment.This was too interesting an opportunity to pass

by.He wrote a short story, only a few para-

graphs, about his co-worker Dorothy. In thestory Dorothy was head-over-heals in love withhim.

Roger thought it was possible he might havegone insane, but he knew he wasnt stupid.There was no way he would be able to get thislittle story past the editors and into the paper.

Late that night, after most of the reportersand many of the editors had gone home, Rogersnuck into the composing room, where theactual newspaper was put together.

The composing crew was on their lunchbreak and wouldnt be back for another fifteenminutes.

Roger ran the small piece of paper throughthe wax machine, which used the wax to holdthe stories and photos on the unprinted page,then placed the story at the bottom of an insidepage in the D section.

Now all he had to do was wait.

#

Are you doing anything tonight? Dorothyasked.

Roger looked up from his desk. His grin was



28/37



so wide it looked as if it would split his facein two. No, Im not busy, he said. You haveanything special in mind?

Well, I was thinking we could go to thatcoffee shop again, Dorothy said, acting bashfulfor the first time in Rogers knowledge.

Sure, thats swell, Roger said, thinking hewould have to slip in a story that said he hadwon the lottery, which it seemed he had.

They sat at the same booth they had sat atbefore, each with a warm mug in hand.

Youve been pretty chipper the last day orso, Dorothy said, smiling over her espresso.

Roger leaned back in the seat, trying toappear aloof and macho at the same time. Ive

been doing okay, he said, things are finallystarting to go my way.

Oh, did you get another story published?Dorothy asked.

What?

Did you get another short storypublished?

Roger sprang out of the booth.

Im sorry, Dorothy, he said, backingtoward the shops door. Ive really got to gethome. Ill call you tomorrow, okay?

Dorothy looked hurt and confused, but allshe could say was, Okay, sure.

On the street, Roger walked faster andfaster, almost running.

He didnt bother to shut the door when he

burst into his apartment.

Wheres that letter? he asked franticallyas he pulled out drawer after drawer, seeking.

Papers went flying, drawers clattered to theground. A box of staples fell and burst open.

Where? Where? Where? Rogerscreamed.

It wasnt in the front room.

The kitchen. Maybe he had put it in thekitchen.

Roger opened more drawers and cupboards,anxiously seeking the letter that had the phonenumber he needed.

Finally, he found it. The letter was sittingwhere he had last left it, in the middle of thekitchen table.

Roger hurriedly dialed the number printedon the letter.

Somebody be there, he said, please,anybody.

The phone rang nine times before the linewas picked up.

Um, yeah, can I help you? a young malevoice said.

Is this Nouveau Fantasymagazine? Rogerblurted into the phone.

Man, its awful late to be calling me, thevoice said.

Forget that! Roger yelled. Is this NouveauFantasy?

Yeah, sure, the voice said.

Im Roger Madock. You bought a story ofmine. Has it been published yet?

There was silence on the other end as Rogerthought he heard a humming noise comingfrom outside.

Uh, yeah, it came out yesterday, thevoice said. You okay, mister? You sound kindamessed up.

The humming sound was growing louderand louder. Roger looked out his kitchenwindows.

Sure, Roger said softly.

Ray Gun Revival magazine, Issue 25, Anniversary Issue!

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