Product – Cuisine from Beyond

By Rachael Hill
ISBN: 9780977043781
Binding: Trade Paperback
Price: $20.00

Don’t face oblivion on an empty stomach!

Cuisine from beyond contains 100 full color pages full of tasty dishes inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft.

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Product – Cuisine from Beyond


By Rachael Hill
ISBN: 9780977043774
Binding: Hardcover (Signed Limited)
Price: $40.00

Don’t face oblivion on an empty stomach!

Cuisine from beyond contains 100 full color pages full of tasty dishes inspired by the works of H. P. Lovecraft.

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Product – Seely’s Pond


By Christina Barber
ISBN: 9780977043750
Binding: Trade Paperback
Price: $15.95

Some doors were never meant to be opened.

When Julia Tayte and her family move into a small, upscale town in western New Jersey, she unknowingly frees an ancient evil from its watery prison.

When blood rains from the sky and an Asian curse settles upon her family, will Julia be able to survive against the powerful force that lurks beneath Seely’s Pond?

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Fiction – The Kennel

By Maurice Level
Translated from French By Alys Eyre Macklin


As ten o’clock struck, M. de Hartevel emptied a last tankard of beer, folded his newspaper, stretched himself, yawned, and slowly rose.

The hanging-lamp cast a bright light on the tablecloth, over which were scattered piles of shot and cartridge wads.  Near the fireplace, in the shadow, a woman lay back in a deep armchair.

Outside the wind blew violently against the windows, the rain beat noisily on the glass, and from time to time deep bayings came from the kennel where the hounds had struggled, and strained since morning.

There were forty of them: big mastiffs with ugly fangs, stiff-haired griffons of Vendee, that flung themselves with ferocity on the wild boar on hunting days.  During the night their sullen bayings disturbed the countryside, evoking response from all the dogs in the neighborhood.

M. de Hartevel lifted a curtain and looked out into the darkness of the park.  The wet branches shone like steel Hades; the autumn leaves were blown about like whirligigs and flattened against the walls.  He grumbled.

“Dirty weather!”

He walked a few steps, his hands in his pockets, stopped before the fireplace, and with a kick broke a half-consumed log.  Red embers fell on the ashes; a flame rose, straight and pointed.

Madame de Hartevel did not move.  The light of the fire played on her face, touching her hair with gold, throwing a rosy glow on her pale cheeks and, dancing about her, cast fugitive shadows on her forehead, her eyelids, her lips.

The hounds, quiet for a moment, began to growl again; and their bayings, the roaring of the wind and the hiss of the rain on the trees made the quiet room seem warmer, the presence of the silent woman more intimate.

Subconsciously this influenced M. de Hartevel.  Desires stimulated by those of the beasts and by the warmth of the room crept through his veins.  He touched his wife’s shoulders.

“It is ten o’clock.  Are you going to bed?”

She said “yes,” and left her chair, as if regretfully.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“No–thank you–“

Frowning, he bowed.

“As you like.”

His shoulders against the mantelshelf, his legs apart, he watched her go.  She walked with a graceful, undulating movement, the train of her dress moving on the carpet like a little flat wave.  A surge of anger stiffened his muscles.

In this chateau where he had her all to himself, he had in bygone days imagined a wife who would like living in seclusion with him, attentive to his wishes, smiling acquiescence to all his desires.  She would welcome him with gay words when he came back from a day’s hunting, his hands blue with cold, his strong body tired, bringing with him the freshness of the fields and moors, the smell of horses, of game and of hounds, would lift eager lips to meet his own.  Then, after the long ride in the wind, the rain, the snow, after the intoxication of the crisp air, the heavy walking in the furrows, or the gallop under branches that almost caught his beard, there would have been long nights of love, orgies of caresses of which the thrill would be mutual.

The difference between the dream and the reality!

When the door had shut and the sound of steps died away in the corridor, he went to his room, lay down, took a book and tried to read.

The rain hissed louder than ever.  The wind roared in the chimney; out in the park, branches were snapping from the trees; the hounds bayed without ceasing, their howlings sounded through the creaking of the trees, dominating the roar of the storm; the door of the kennel strained under their weight.

He opened the window and shouted:


For some seconds they were quiet.  He waited.  The wind that drove the rain on his face refreshed him.  The barkings began again.

He banged his fist against the shutter, threatening:

“Quiet, you devils!”

There was a singing in his ears, a whistling, a ringing; a desire to strike, to ransack, to feel flesh quiver under his fists took possession of him.  He roared: “Wait a moment!” slammed the window, seized a whip, and went out.

He strode along the corridors with no thought of the sleeping house till he got near his wife’s room, when he walked slowly and quietly, fearing to disturb her sleep.  But a ray of light from under her door caught his lowered eyes, and there was a sound of hurried footsteps that the carpet did not deaden.  He listened.  The noise ceased, the light went out….  He stood motionless, and suddenly, impelled by a suspicion, he called softly:

“Marie Therese…”

No reply.  He called louder.  Curiosity, a doubt that he dared not formulate, held him breathless.  He gave two sharp little taps on the door; a voice inside asked:

“Who is there?”

“I–open the door–“

A whiff of warm air laden with various perfumes and a suspicion of other odors passed over his face.

The voice asked:

“What is it?”

He walked in without replying.  He felt his wife standing close in front of him; her breath was on him, the lace of her dress touched his chest.  He felt in his pocket for matches.  Not finding any, he ordered:

“Light the lamp!”

She obeyed, and as his eyes ran over the room he saw the curtain drawn closely, a shawl on the carpet, the open bed, white and very large ; and in a corner, near the fireplace, a man lying across a long rest-chair, his collar unfastened, his head drooping, his arms hanging loosely, his eyes shut.

He gripped his wife’s wrist:

“Ah, you…filth!…  Then this is why you turn your back on me!”

She did not shrink from him, did not move.  No shadow of fear passed over her pallid face.  8he only raised her head, murmuring:

“You are hurting me!–“

He let her go, and bending over the inert body, his fist raised, cried:

“A lover in my wife’s bedroom!…  And…what a lover! A friend…  Almost a son…  Whore!”

She interrupted him:

“He is not my lover…”

He burst into a laugh.

“Ah! Ah! You expect me to believe that!”

He seized the collar of the recumbent man, and lifted him up towards him.  But when he saw the livid face, the half-opened mouth showing the teeth and gums, when he felt the strange chill of the flesh that touched his hands, he started and let go.  The body fell back heavily on the cushions, the forehead beating twice against a chair.  His fury turned upon his wife.

“What have you to say?…  Explain!…”

“It is very simple,” she said.  “I was just going to bed when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor…uncertain steps…faltering…and a voice begging, ‘Open the door…open the door’…  I thought you might be ill.  I opened the door.  Then he came, or rather, fell into the room…  I knew he was subject to heart-attacks…  I laid him there…  I was just going to bring you when you knocked…  That’s all…”

Bending over the body, and apparently quite calm again, he asked, every word pronounced distinctly:

“And it does not surprise you that no one heard him come in?…”

“The hounds bayed…”

“And why should he come here at this hour of the night?”

She made a vague gesture:

“It does seem strange…  But…  I can only suppose that he felt ill and that…quite alone in his own house…he was afraid to stay there…came here to beg for help…  In any case, when he is better…as soon as he is able to speak…he will be able to explain…”

M. de Hartevel drew himself up to his full height, and looked into his wife’s eyes.

“It appears we shall have to accept your supposition, and that we shall never know exactly what underlies his being here tonight…for he is dead.”

She held out her hands and stammered, her teeth chattering:

“It’s not possible…  He is…”


He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then went on in an easier voice:

“After all, the more I think of it, the more natural it seems…  Both his father and his uncle died like this, suddenly…  Heart disease is hereditary in his family…  A shock…a violent emotion…too keen a sensation…a great joy…  We are weak creatures at best…”

He drew an armchair to the fire, sat down, and, his hands stretched out to the flames, continued:

“But however simple and natural the event in itself may be, nothing can alter the fact that a man has died in your bedroom during the night…  Is that not so?”

She hid her face in her hands and made no reply.

“And if your explanation satisfies me, I am not able to make others accept it.  The servants will have their own ideas, will talk…  That will be dishonor for you, for me, for my family…  That is not possible…  We must find a way out of it…and I have already found it…  With the exception of you and me, no one knows, no one will ever know what has happened in this room…  No one saw him come in…  Take the lamp and come with me…”

He seized the body in his arms and ordered:

“Walk on first…”

She hesitated as they went out at the door.

“What are you going to do?…”

“Leave it to me…  Go on…”

Slowly and very quietly they went towards the staircase, she holding high the lamp, its light flickering on the walls, he carefully placing his feet on stair after stair.  When they got to the door that led to the garden, he said:

“Open it without a sound.”

A gnat of wind made the light flare up.  Beaten on by the rain, the glass burst and fell in pieces on the threshold.  She placed the extinguished lamp on the soil.  They went into the park.  The gravel crunched under their steps and the rain beat upon them.  He asked:

“Can you see the walk?…  Yes?…  Then come close to me…hold the legs…the body is heavy…”

They went forward in silence.  M. de Hartevel stopped near a low door, saying:

“Feel in my right-hand pocket…  There is a key there…   That’s it…  Give it to me…  Now let the legs go…  It is as dark as a grave…  Feel about till you find the key-hole…  Have you got it?  Turn…”

Excited by the noise, the hounds began to bay.  Madame de Hartevel started back.

“You are frightened?…  Nonsense…  Another turn…  That’s it!  Stand out of the way…”

With a thrust from his knee he pushed open the door.  Believing themselves free, the hounds bounded against his legs.  Pushing them back with a kick, suddenly, with one great effort, he raised the body above his head, balanced it there a moment, flung it into the kennel, and shut the door violently behind him.

Baying at full voice, the beasts fell on their prey.  A frightful death-rattle: “Help!” pierced their clamor, a terrible cry, superhuman.  It was followed by violent growlings.

An unspeakable horror took possession of Madame de Hartevel; a quick flash of understanding dominated her fear, and, her eyes wild, she flung herself on her husband, digging her nails in his face as she shrieked:

“Fiend!…  He wasn’t dead!…”

M. de Hartevel pushed her off with the back of his hand, and standing straight up before her, jeered:

“Did you think he was!”

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Fiction – Follow the Monkey

By Tom Pendergrass

Illustration by Nicola L. Robinson

It was October 57th, Martian Halloween; the day we had planned to break out of prison. There were just the four of us in the machine shop: me, Blaine, Ibrahim, and the Monkey. None of us knew the Monkey’s real name. That’s what the guards had called him since they brought him in, and he never told us any different.

“Genthelmen,” the Monkey said in his thick-tongued lisp. “Ith’s thime we begin. Ibrahim, if you wouldh remove the mixthure from refrigeration.”

When I first met the Monkey I thought he was some kind of moron, what with his lisp and the coarse black hair which covered his body. Not so much hair that he didn’t look human, but still more than God had intended any man to have. And he had an enormous beaky nose, which made him look so funny I would have laughed except he was almost two feet taller than me and solid muscle. That and he seemed to be on edge all the time, like he was so filled with rage that could explode at any minute.

Ibrahim pulled the tray of white goop from the refrigerator that stood alone in the corner of the shop. He sang while he did it, some little song about a pretty girl and a horse and date palms. He was always singing. I thought it was sort of nice and would usually hum along, but Blaine would grind his teeth and yell at both of us to stop.

We had removed the spare batteries from the refrigerator to make room. No doubt Combine security would figure it out when a crawler got stranded with dead batteries on some God-forsaken stretch of the desert, but by then we wouldn’t have to worry about it, one way or another.

“Remember,” the Monkey said, “this compoundh is very sensithive to heath. Wear your gloves.”

Blaine looked at the Monkey strange, like he was pissed off at something but didn’t know what. I didn’t know Blaine any better than I knew the others, but I could tell he had an ego that resented being bossed around by a circus freak. The Monkey ignored him. I wished I could. Blaine made me nervous.

We each scooped a handful of the goop and molded it in our gloved hands like clay. The material was stiff at first, but it softened as it warmed from our body heat. The Monkey had swiped the explosives from one of the ore crawlers when he was loading supplies for the mines. We didn’t need much, and a few kilos would never be missed. In a few minutes we had a pyramid of a dozen grenades that looked like dirty snowballs.

“You sure these grenades are gonna work?” Blaine asked. There was an edge to his question, as there was to everything he did. “Cause if you’re doggin us…”

Blaine’s was always cursing in miner slang. It ticked me off. To call someone a dog was the worst of all possible curses down in the mines.

The Monkey stared back at Blaine. I could see the rage beneath his hairy exterior, but, as always, it stayed beneath the surface. For a man so angry, he had amazing self control. But then I still wasn’t sure that he was really human.

“They’ll work,” he said.

The Monkey pressed his gloved fingers into the surface of one of the snowballs. Then he held it close to his face and sniffed it. The Monkey tested the grenade with his teeth.

“They’re readhy,” he said.

Ibrahim walked to the standing tool chest and dialed in his combination. He came back with a nylon pillowcase that sagged at the bottom. He tilted the bag over the table. Thousand of razor strips that we had painstakingly removed from our daily allotment of safety razors cascaded over the table. They were no longer than my fingernail and each as thin and flexible as a sheet of paper.

“That’s a dogload of razor blades,” Blaine said.

“They look like all the stars in the sky,” Ibrahim said, “a razor blade Milky Way.”

Ibrahim was the sensitive one; the only one with any real education. When he wasn’t singing to himself he was reading books or writing in his journal. He had been an office man. Ibrahim had never been in the mines like me and Blaine and the Monkey. He carried a picture of his daughter in his shirt pocket and I used to catch him looking at it when he thought nobody was watching.

The Monkey smiled, showing off his jagged yellow teeth. I looked away because I didn’t want him to think I was staring. That sort of thing made him mad. Not that he would take it out on you. But you knew that he was mad at you for it, and you didn’t want to be the one who finally caused him to blow.

We took the grenades and rolled them in the razor blades until they sparkled like Christmas ornaments. Ibrahim pressed a homemade ten-second fuse into each and placed them into the pillowcases we had brought from our cells.

“So Blaine,” I asked, trying to make small talk to ease the tension I felt. “Which mine were you in?”

“Ice,” he said gritting his teeth.

The ice mine was really a trench dug into the wall of the Valles Marineris. It was the easiest assignment in The Combine. Open skies, light work, and little danger. I wondered why he had screwed it up and gotten thrown in prison. I had worked in the platinum mine, which was dug into the floor of the canyon, where the conditions were brutal but the pay was decent.

“What about you?” I asked the Monkey.

“Uranium,” he said.

“That’s the worst,” Ibrahim said. “Not many people live through that. You’re lucky you made it to prison.”

The uranium mine was at the foot of Olympus Mons, where the remnants of volcanism still stirred the Martian crust and cave-ins were normal. But one day’s output from the uranium mine was worth more than a month’s worth from the other mines.

The Combine owned the only known source of uranium on Mars. They sold it to the Free Base and to all the other industrials on Mars, for whatever price they wanted, since nobody was going to ship fissiles from Earth.

“All right, boys,” Blaine whooped, “It’s time to Trick or Treat. And my mind is set on Trick.”

If the breakout worked as planned we would be in Free Base in a few days, out of the reach of The Combine. But to get there we would have to travel through 200 km of the most inhospitable terrain inhabited by man.

We each picked a pillow case and made our way into the corridor. It was dimly lit and smelled of antiseptic.

It’s a funny thing about Mars. Since the years are so long, they treat every holiday like it was some major event. I guess if Christmas comes only once every 687 days, you need to make some of the other days in between special. And the crazy thing was that it even rolled over into the prison. I mean with something as money-hungry as The Combine running it you wouldn’t think that they would go in for any amenities. And they really don’t.

But even The Combine celebrates the holidays. We got Easter baskets, ate mock lamb on Eid al-Fitr, had King Cake at Mardi Gras, and celebrated New Years Day, Tet, and Rosh Hashanah. And all the convicts go trick or treating on Halloween.

We followed Blaine down the corridor to the recreation room. There was a line of fifty or so prisoners, all men. Some were haggard and worn beyond caring, but most were excited at the thought of a little candy and a skin magazine.

“Get a costume from that box behind the skee ball machines,” one of the guards said. It was Nurmi; he was a real ass. “Except for the Monkey, there. He doesn’t need one. He’s scary enough already.”

He laughed at his own pathetic joke and some of the men in the line laughed too. I noticed the Monkey looked down and clenched his jaw. Like I said, amazing self control.

Ibrahim tossed me a werewolf mask that I put over my head. It smelled like dried spit and old sweat, and I wondered if the guy who wore it last year was still alive, or if he had died in the mines. Ibrahim found a pirate hat and an eyepatch for himself. Blaine put on a crown and a long white robe. I guess it matched his ego. Ibrahim handed a clown mask to the Monkey, but he refused it.

“A definite improvement for all of you. Except for the Monkey there. He’s even uglier than in real life.” Nurmi laughed again like he was the funniest man on Mars. “All right losers, stand behind the line. When I say go, you can run down the halls to each guard post. They have some candy and magazines for you. Ready.”

Nurmi paused grinned wickedly. “Set.” A few of the men started. He hit one in the arm hard enough to raise a bruise. “I didn’t say go yet, freak. Now get back behind the line, all of you.”

Nurmi surveyed the line again. “Ready.” He paused savoring the moment. “Go.”

The men hesitated, waiting to make sure. Then some of the newer prisoners darted out while the ones who had been there before took their time. Most prisoners were repeat offenders. Whenever the mines got too depressing, or scary, some of these guys would break a piece of machinery, or smack their supervisor, or steal some extra rations. That would be good for a few months of rest time in prison where the work was light and above the surface.

The catch was you didn’t get paid while you were here. And the Combine charged the expenses to your account. So most of these guys were so in debt they could never work their way out of the mines. The Combine owned them. I knew, because it owned me.

The rec room cleared out and Nurmi yelled at us. “Get that retard out of here. What’s the matter, you don’t like candy? Maybe it’s that you don’t like to see naked girls. I don’t have any Global Geographics with pictures of apes if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

I thought that the Monkey was going to lose it, but Blaine saved him the bother. He pulled a grenade from his sack and with a speed that shocked me he stuffed it into Nurmi’s mouth and pulled the fuse. The three of us ducked real quick behind a big pool table and Blaine hit the floor. There was a muffled bang and the sound of something wet splattering the walls.

“Dog you Blaine,” I said, standing up. The rec room was scattered with blood and bits of flesh. Blaine was standing there holding Nurmi’s head, the brains dripping down his arms. With his crown and robe he looked like the Statue of Liberty, except with a severed head instead of a torch.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” Blaine said, winking at me like it was just some joke he had pulled. He rolled the jawless head down the skee ball track. It stuck in the ten point tray and Blaine cursed out loud. “Where’s my tickets?” Then he burst into laughter.

“This way,” said the Monkey. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or pissed off.

We followed him into the corridor. I felt sick from the carnage, and I could tell from the look on Ibrahim’s face that he did too. The Monkey looked the same as always, a seething cauldron of controlled anger. But Blaine was happy as a doggin’ clam.

I was surprised that there weren’t any alarms, but I guess the Combine wasn’t too worried about escapes. I mean, where are you going to escape to? The only place on the planet that was safe was Free Base, and I guess they thought no one would be foolish enough to try.

Walking down the corridor I noticed that Blaine’s back and neck were covered with scratches that were bleeding horribly. “Are you all right, Blaine?” I asked.

“Yeah man, I don’t feel nothing.”

“Maybe we should tape up those cuts?”

“No time for that,” he said. “We got to kill some more of these doggin’s.”

I let him go. The Monkey led us toward the crawler bay. I thought we would be home free, but a couple of trick or treaters came round the corner surrounding one of the guards. It was Johnson, one of the nice ones.

I guess he saw Nurmi’s blood on Blaine, because he pulled out his needle gun and held it out in front of him, all shaking and nervous like. The other prisoners scrambled back down the corridor and away from us.

Blaine and the Monkey both pulled grenades from their sacks and rolled them. We ducked behind the wall and heard the explosion. I closed my eyes as we walked back around the corner, not wanting to see what the razor bombs had done. Ibrahim held on to me as we walked through the door and into the crawler bay. The Monkey shut the bay door behind us.

“Suith up, men.” He said.

I pulled off my werewolf mask and crawled into the day-suit that was hanging in my locker. It was supposed to be good for twenty-four hours on the Martian surface. The plan was to take the crawler to Free Base. At ten clicks an hour we should easily make it before the suits got foul. Still, the Monkey told us to load extra air canisters and batteries into the back of the little six man crawler.

The alarm light went off above the bay door. They must have found one of the guards. I nudged the Monkey, but he was already looking at the light.

“Everyone on boardh,” he said. “Helmeth’s on.”

I checked the seals on my suit and gave a thumbs-up sign. When all the rest had done the same, Ibrahim opened the bay door on to the red-brown Martian landscape. There was a whoosh of air as the atmosphere in the bay escaped. Ibrahim and I ran to the bay doors and set grenades on the door tracks. We pulled the fuses and ducked outside. With the explosion the doors would be jammed open, making it tough for any of the guards to come outside, unsuited, and grab a crawler to follow us. All we needed was an hour head start and they would never be able to catch us.

Blaine was driving the crawler and the Monkey was beside him in the open air seat. Ibrahim and I scrambled up into the rear seats. The crawler was slow, no more than a moderate walking pace, but with no real pursuit it could work. And we had made sure over the last several days in the repair shop that none of the crawlers left were capable of catching us. We didn’t know what the Combine would do. They didn’t have any real security, but if word got out that there had been an escape I guess they would have trouble on their hands, what with all the miners in hock to the company for several years wages. The last thing they wanted was for any of the huddled masses to know there might be a way out.

We left the bay and drove into the cold of the Martian evening. I saw in the dim light of the crawler lamps the mining track that would lead us to Free Base, which nestled on the slopes of the great rift valley. The navigator program would keep us on the road, so there really wasn’t much for us to do.

Blaine lay down in the back giggling to himself. Ibrahim seemed lost in his own thoughts. I crawled into the front next to the Monkey and stared at his grotesque face, barely visible through the faceplate of his suit, and wondered what his story was. He had been in the uranium mines, the toughest assignment here. Most people who went down there either had a death wish or a huge debt to pay. I wondered which one it was for him.

I dozed off for a while, lulled to sleep by the steady bump of the crawler treads over the loose rock. I felt a nudge and opened my eyes. It was the Monkey. He was pointing in the sky. I saw in the dim dawn light two dark specks silhouetted against the dusty butterscotch sky.

“Flyers,” I said. “How long have we been gone?”

“Abouth eighth hours, I guess.” His voice sounded tinny over the com channel, and even harder to understand than normal.

Eight hours. If we had made good time we would be just eighty kilometers from the prison, less than halfway to freedom.

“Do you think they’re armed?”

“I don’th know. Ask Ibrahim.”

I nudged Ibrahim and pointed the flyers out to him. “What do you know about them?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said. “They’re mostly used for survey work. They were designed to circle above one place, so they can stay up for long periods of time. And they’re a lot faster than we are.”

“What do you think they’ll do?” I asked.

The flyers got closer and we could see their great broad wings and long propellers as they gleamed white in the light from the distant sun. They swooped low over us, and I could see the pilot sitting at his controls.

“Turn around and return to the prison,” a voice crackled over our suit coms.

“Never, dogs,” Blaine shouted. He had one of our razor blade grenades in his hand. He threw it at the plane as it passed overhead and it exploded harmlessly about forty feet away.

“Save the grenadhes,” the Monkey hissed.

I put my hand on Blaine’s shoulder and he shrugged it off. He pulled another grenade from the pillow case and brandished it like it was Excalibur, letting off a stream of profanity that made me blush.

“Thalk to him, Ibrahim”

Ibrahim toggled the transmitter switch at his throat. “We decline your offer.” He sounded cool and like he was used to being in charge.

“You cannot escape. We have dispatched guards to catch you. Return now or I will shoot.”

“He’s bluffing,” Blaine said. “Why would the Combine give us a second chance? He’s not armed. Let’s frag the dog.”

“I think Blaine is correcth that he’s not armed,” the Monkey said. “Besidhes, the flyers have more problems than us.” He pointed to the horizon where a brick-colored haze was rising from the surface.

“Flyers, please be alert,” Ibrahim said. “There is a dust storm coming from the west. I advise you to return to base.”

“I suggesth we take shelther as well.”

I scanned the horizon. There was nothing but boulder-strewn plains to the south and west. The ground was much the same to the east and north except for a dim shadow on the northern horizon.

“The canyon,” the Monkey said.

The great Valles Marineris was ten kilometers north of us. And while it didn’t look like much from where we were, the canyon was over four miles deep. We would be able to find shelter there.

The Monkey shifted our course to due north and disabled the autonav. He would have to pick his way through the boulders manually.

I watched as the storm approached. The dust swirled the colors of dried blood and caramel. It reminded me of the guards at the prison. Nurmi was a dog, and he had it coming. But Johnson…he was like the rest of us. Just there to make a living and ship any extra cash back to his family on Earth.

The leading tendrils of the storm were grabbing the crawler as we reached the canyon wall, making the Monkey fight the controls to keep it straight. We got out of the crawler and looked below. The rock wall here was at least four hundred meters of sheer drop. There was no way we could make it down alive. Blaine looked east along the rim and pointed.

“Looks like it’s easier there,” he said.

About a kilometer from the crawler was a place where the rim had crumbled. A vertical drop of a hundred meters tumbled into a pile of dust and rocky debris.

“Looks goodh. We walk from here. We can go fasther than the crawler. Pull the oxygen canisthers and batheries. We’ll need them. The grenadhes, also. And change the canisthers you are wearing. We don’th need to run outh of air on the canyon wall.”

We walked along the crater’s edge like Sherpa porters, loaded with equipment. In Mar’s light gravity, a man can carry three times what he can on Earth, so we left nothing behind. The air around us darkened with dust and I could feel the steady pressure of wind on my back. Luckily the air was thin or it would have pushed me into the abyss below.

We were at the lip of the canyon. What from a distance had seemed to be an easy way down looked daunting up close. There were deep grooves in the canyon wall that undulated all the way to the bottom. Water had flowed here millions of years ago. But now there was just crumbling rock and dust.

“Follow the channel dhown,” the Monkey said.

I went first. Ibrahim followed me. Blaine and the Monkey came down next. I scrambled for handholds with my thick miner’s gloves. Luckily, in this gravity I could support my weight with one hand. I labored down, searching for holds with the clumsy gloves. And my dust boots, their broad flat soles designed to spread my weight on the light soil, almost tripped me up as I searched for ledges to put my feet.

I paid no attention to anything around me but the placement of my feet, the hold of my hands, and the labor of my breathing. The dust whipped around me with increasing force, obscuring my vision. The storm was getting closer. The wind gusted, blowing pebbles and small rocks against my helmet. If the storm got worse, it could throw debris with enough force to cripple a man and smash his air tanks. I had known miners that got caught in storms and they never found their remains.

We were about halfway down when Ibrahim fell. I saw the shadow of him first; then felt his body glance off my shoulder as he plummeted past me. I heard his scream over the com. It was all high pitched and seemed to go on forever. Then, all the sudden, there was nothing. I struggled to regain my balance and clung shaking to the canyon wall.

“Ibrahim,” I called once I stopped shaking.

“Whath happened?” the Monkey’s voice crackled.

“Ibrahim fell. I can’t see him in the dust.”

The Monkey and I called for Ibrahim. I knew he was gone, but I couldn’t help myself. Nobody could have survived that fall. I saw the shadow of Blaine above me.

“The storm’s getting worse,” Blaine said. “We better go. There’s nothing we can do for him while we’re hanging on the side of the cliff.”

I didn’t like his attitude, but I couldn’t argue with his logic. I continued the descent. The Monkey still had his com on and I could hear his breathing. He sounded like some wild animal panting.

When we reached the bottom, visibility was only a few meters, but we could see Ibrahim lying crumpled at the base of a big boulder. His faceplate was smashed and ice had formed on his eyelashes and beard. Dust was piling up on the windward side of him from the storm.

“He’ll be buriedh within the hour,” the Monkey said. “The storm will cover him and our thracks.”

I said a silent prayer as Blaine pulled Ibrahim’s ration packs and passed them to me. Three men dead in the space of a day and a big storm just beginning.

“Leth’s find some shelther.”

We followed the Monkey down the strewn rubble close so as not to lose him in the swirling dust and sand. The canyon ran primarily east-west, and the winds were channeled down its length. I felt the thump of larger pebbles as they hit my back and helmet. I cringed. The wind was starting to pick up rocks that could do some real damage if they struck the right place.

“It’s getting worse,” I said over the intercom.

“There’s a canyon branch justh ahead.”

I could barely see Blaine ahead of me now and hurried to catch him, careful not to trip over the rubble that lay on the uneven ground. I laid my hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off and turned to glare at me.

“Just don’t want to lose you,” I said.

The silence in my head was eerie. All around me the wind whipped and threw dust and sand and pebbles, but here in my cocoon I heard nothing except the steady beat of grit against my helmet and my own labored breaths.

Illustration by Nicola L. Robinson

The canyon wall loomed to my right and I saw Blaine’s shadow disappear around it. In a minute, I was there too and the air turned from darkness into a rosy haze. We were in a narrow twist of the Valles, on the leeward side of the rock. I looked up and saw the dark storm hurling pebbles across the sky a few hundred meters above, but only a fine mist dropped down to us.

I sat to catch my breath. I took a few pulls from my water tube and leaned against the rock wall of the canyon.

“How long do you think it will last?” I asked.

“Somethimes ith thakes days. Maybe we’ll be lucky and ith will be clear tomorrow. I think we should resth here while we can. We’ll be safe from the flyers while the sthorm lasths.”

Blaine stretched out at the bottom of the cliff face and closed his eyes. I squatted to relieve myself in my suit. It was nasty business, but you get used to it after a while. It was one of the many charms of Mars, having to undo all those months of potty training my Mama had worked hard at. My business done, I moved to sit next to the Monkey.

He had put his ration pack to his feeding tube and was eating. I looked at my box of supplies and decided to do the same. I found a canister labeled “homemade chicken soup” and screwed it into my helmet. I gave it a minute to heat and then drank the soup from my tube. It tasted horrible, like cardboard and salt, but it warmed and revitalized me nonetheless.

The Monkey and I sat in silence for a while, watching the whirling dust fall, coating Blaine and the rocky canyon floor with a thin layer of rusty frost. The winds were picking up, and the dust was falling more heavily now. I looked up and could see rocks the size of my head flying high over us.

“So what’s your story?” I finally asked.

The Monkey waited a long while before answering. I don’t think he had ever talked to anyone about himself before.

“Have you ever heardh of a canary in a coal mine?”

“Can’t say that I have. What does that have to do with you?”

“In the old days on earth, they used to take a birdh down in the mines with the miners. The birds were more sensithive to the poisonous gases in the mines. The idea was thath the canaries would die from asphyxiation or poisoning or whathever before the men did, giving the men enough thime to get outh of the mine.”

“I was creathed here on Mars by the Combine. I am their canary. They cloned me from one of the miners, but they altered my genethic sequences to give me exthra senses. I can feel tremors that no normal man can feel. I can see infrared wavelengths. I can even smell gases down to fifthy parts in a million.”

“They creathed me because they were having too many accidents in the uranium mines. They have to be able to pay a miner’s round thrip from earth. It normally takes a year in the mines for a worker to repay that fare. In the uranium mine at Mons Olympus, workers weren’t lasting more than a few months.

“That’s why they made me. They didn’t plan on me looking like I do. Or plan on giving me a thick thongue. They didn’t plan, either that the extra senses they gave me creathed more pathways for my neurons to connect in my brain. And more connections mean more intelligence. I’m smarter than you are. Than anyone they know.”

“But everyone thinks you’re stupid.” I said. “And you seem to play that up.”

“I learned early on to hide some of my talenths. It made life easier for me.”

I brushed the dust from my facemask so that I could see him better.

“Is that why you are so angry all the time? Because of what they did to you?”

The Monkey gritted his teeth and his face turned red like I had really pissed him off. But he regained control over his emotions and talked to me in a quiet tone.

“No, I have learnedh to live with my differences. I was created to save people. And though they did it with the wrong motives, it still is a noble reason for existence. I can only suppose that my anger comes from the same place as my gifts. Some mis-wiring in the medhulla oblongatha is my guess. An accidhent, nothing more.”

He turned away from me and lay against the smooth canyon wall. I sat there for a long time next to the world’s angriest canary, just thinking, before I finally gave in to my exhaustion and fell asleep.

The next morning I awoke to see the Monkey standing over me. I looked down and saw that my legs were missing. I started to hyperventilate, then I realized they were just buried in the brick colored dust.

“Give me your hands so I can lifth you outh. Then we have to find Blaine.”

The Monkey yanked my arms with enormous strength, and my lower body slid out of the dust. I tried to guess where Blaine might be, but nothing looked familiar. The floor of the valley was smooth and featureless, like a blank canvas. The Monkey began digging out a spot about a meter away. I crawled beside him and began digging too.

I uncovered Blaine’s shoulder first. Then I started digging harder. The Monkey helped from the other side and we got his head free. I could see fog condensing on his faceplate. He was still alive.

“Blaine, wake up.” the Monkey tapped on his faceplate.

Blaine’s eyes opened and I saw him panic as he tried to move his arms and legs.

“We have to dig you out. The storm buried you in sand and dust.”

“That’s not funny, dog,” he said. He squinted at me and then at the Monkey. “Get me the hell out of here.”

“Patience,” said the Monkey. “It will only take a few minutes. I was afraid I had lost you, like Ibrahim.”

Blaine snorted. “It’s better he was dead. He was management, man. I bet he was planning to dog us all along.”

“Ibrahim was the best of all of us,” I said. I could see the anger in Monkey’s face, and then the control as he tightened his lips.

“You think your way, I’ll think mine. I say good riddance.”

“I do not thake death so lightly,” said the Monkey. “Nor do I enjoy it.”

Blaine ‘s arms were free now and he pushed me aside as he dug his legs free of the sand. He crawled to his feet, standing unsteady in the deep dust.

“Let’s cut the philosophy and get going. Anyone know the right direction?”

Monkey looked up at the sky through the narrow canyon walls. It still swirled with pink and brown sand. He held up his hand and pointed.

“Through here”

We walked out of the crevice and into the main canyon. The whole of it was covered with fine dust, and the rocks we had seen just yesterday had disappeared completely under a smooth layer of sand. I followed the Monkey and Blaine. For some reason having Blaine behind me made me nervous.

We tromped through the valley for hours. We had to limit our pace because of the deep dust drifts. Once I stepped waist deep into one and had to call for the Monkey to pull me out. At our slow pace, the majesty of the canyon walls grew monotonous in their harsh beauty.

We stopped a few times for water and food and to relieve ourselves, but everyone kept quiet. The air in my suit was getting stale as my waste compartment got full. I wouldn’t be able to stand the stench of myself for another day, I thought.

The distant sun cast long shadows across the crater floor. The air was clear now, making the shadows sharper than any I had seen on earth. Mars could really be beautiful if you looked at it right. If it weren’t for the mines and the surface suits and the unpayable debt, it just might even be pleasant.

We finally decided to stop for a dinner break. Blaine wandered up the canyon and sat apart from us. I guess he didn’t care for the Monkey’s company. I can’t say that his absence bothered me. I sat next to the Monkey and ate a canister of fish chowder. It tasted remarkably like the chicken soup.

“What’s your real name?” I asked the Monkey.

He sat and sucked on his feeding tube a long while before he spoke.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I hate that every time I think of you I call you the Monkey in my head.”

He smiled and the anger passed from his face.

“They named me Remus, after the son of the Roman God Mars. I was the firsth to be born here.”

“Remus,” I said. “Glad to be of your acquaintance.” I held out my hand to shake his.

The Monkey smiled, his yellow crooked teeth showing. He took my hand and squeezed it.

“So Remus, why were you in prison?”

The Monkey sucked down the last of his dinner and licked his lips with his fat blue tongue.

“I was in the uranium mine. The lowesth level. I was with the men who were setting the explosive charges. They thought I was strange looking, but I think they liked me. They certainly appreciathed that I was there to help them. Besides, everyone looks the same if you have a helmet on.

“I felth the thremor and shouthed to the men. They scrambled for the safe area. It was a thithanium sphere that could withsthand the pressure of a cave in. Anyway, I heard one man call for help. I looked and I saw him. His foot was trapped under an ore crawler.

“The tremor hith us then and the rock began falling down on our heads. I heard the supervisor order me into the safety sphere. But I couldn’t go. All I could hear was the poor man crying for help.

“I ran to him when the floor of the mine dropped beneath us. A crevice had opened in the mine itself, and all the rock and debris started sliding into it. I grabbed the man before he fell in. The crawler rolled off of him and I pulled him back up. The whole world seemed to be thurned upside down after the tremor, and it took me a little while to determine which way was out.

“My supervisor kept yelling at me over the headset. I thold him everything was okay. I found the safety sphere and opened ith. The men inside were scared, but safe.

“Then I felt another tremor coming. I pushed the men back inside the sphere, but there wasn’t enough room. My supervisor ordered one of the men outh so I could get in. I ignored him and sealed the door from the outside. I scrambled back thoward the entrance of the mine when the second tremor hit.

“It was worse than the firsth one. I stopped and hunkered down, sure that ith would be the end for me. I heard a rumble behind me, and the floor of the mine opened up. The sphere fell into it and I could hear the screams of the men over my headset as they plunged into the depths of Mars.

“I lost conthrol of my anger then. The only thime in my life. I climbed back to the entrance of the mine, smashing all the equipmenth I saw, cursing the Combine for putting us all here. I knew then that my skills only helped send more people to their deaths. I hadn’t saved anyone.”

“They put me in jail for destruction of company property. I was due to geth outh on Thanksgiving.”

“So why did you want to breakout?” I asked. “I mean, you have no family on Earth like Ibrahim. You have nowhere to go.”

“I can’th stomach another day in the mines. I was reading abouth labor unions in the prison library. I could organize on of those for the miners.”

“The Combine will kill you first,” I said.

“The mines would have killed me sooner or later.” He stopped. “Besides, whath do you have to go back to?”

I shrugged and mumbled something noncommittal. He was right. I had come to Mars to make my fortune, to be something that I never could on Earth with its crowds and filth. If I made it back, I would return a failure.

“Where’s Blaine?” I asked to change the subject.

“I don’th know. He was over there before dinner,” Remus said, pointing to a spire cut into the face of the canyon wall by one of the ancient rivers.

We walked to the spire but Blaine was gone, leaving only a line of tracks in the sand that were slowly blowing away in the breeze. They disappeared into the distant shadows on a track due east.

We slept that night in shifts. The Monkey said we should be on the lookout for Combine flyers. But in truth, I think that Blaine’s disappearance had spooked him. It made me nervous. I much preferred having Blaine close where I could keep an eye on him.

In the morning, I awoke to the foul smell of my own sweat and waste. My mouth tasted like last night’s dinner and I realized I had neither bathed nor brushed my teeth in days.

We left the camp and the empty oxygen containers behind. Free Base was only a few hours hike away now, and though Remus didn’t say anything, I could tell he was feeling better about Blaine’s disappearance. I had convinced myself that he had been too impatient to wait for daylight and managed to find his way through the valley at night.

The walk was easy, with the dust thinning out here and there so that in places we could see the bedrock of the canyon floor. I felt happy for the first time in months.

We climbed a hill that rose from the canyon floor, and from the summit I saw the glint of a reflection on the canyon wall. On the North side of the canyon, built into the wall itself like a Pueblo Indian city, was Free Base.

It had been drilled into the mountain and sealed against the Martian atmosphere with dura-glass. Rising from the city was a great steel and plastic elevator that soared to the rim of the canyon.

Remus tapped the side of my helmet. I turned to look at him and could see his yellow teeth smiling back at me. I gave him a thumbs-up.

Once we got inside Free Base, the Combine held no sway. They couldn’t collect my debts or confiscate my belongings. I would be safe while I tried to raise the money for my return to Earth. And Remus would be safe to do whatever it was that he wanted.

We loped down the hill taking huge strides in the light gravity. The Monkey stopped all of a sudden, and I collided into his back.

I followed his gaze and saw a Combine crawler parked between us and the city. Beside it were two figures. I knew in my heart that one of them was Blaine.

“Do you think they caught him?” I asked.

“No,” Remus said. “Look ath the way he’s sthanding. He seems to be in control of the situation. I think he made a deal.”

The two men walked toward us. I looked to the Monkey to see what to do, but he just stood there waiting. His massive jaw was set so tight that I thought he would grind those yellow jagged teeth to dust. I looked around for something, a rock even, but all that lay at the bottom of the canyon were slowly shifting sands.

The two men left a trail on the dust as they climbed the hill toward us. All was silent until I heard the crackle of their communicators as they got within transmit range.

“Remus, this is Marshall Winston of Combine Security. Surrender yourselves now and you will be returned to prison unhurt.”

The man speaking had the two moon emblem of the Combine printed on his suit in bright blue. He was brandishing a gyro-gun the size of Phobos. He waved it at us. I knew there was no way that the combine was going to let us live. Not after we had killed two of their guards.

“What did he promise you?” I asked Blaine.

His faceplate was scratched from the sand, but I thought I could still make out Blaine squinting with his evil eyes. “A one way ticket to Earth. That’s more than I would have gotten from you losers.”

“You killed Ibrahim.”

The Monkey’s voice was controlled, but I could hear its edge even through my tinny headspeaker. And I knew that the Monkey spoke the truth.

“I did him a favor. He was a loser. I’m doing you a favor too.”

Blaine and the Combine man were about ten meters away now. They were close enough that I could see the clouds of dust that lifted up with every step of their boots.

“Enough,” said the Combine man. “Put your hands in the air.”

To have come this far and failed was more than I could bear. I thought of my mother heartbroken on Earth. No doubt she would be told that it was a mining accident.

“Do as he says,” the Monkey said, more loudly than he needed to.

I dropped my backpack and raised my arms. I saw the Monkey unsling his bundle. His pillowcase was on top. He reached in and pulled the timer on one of the grenades.

“On the ground,” he yelled.

I dove face first to the sand as Remus hurled the pillowcase full of grenades down the hill. I felt the concussion of the grenades as they exploded like a string of firecrackers. I heard the howl of wind over my headset and the sound of gasping.

When I stood, I saw a cloud of pink mist, and two dark forms inside laying still. The pillow case full of razor blade grenades had hit the Combine man square in the chest. The explosions had severed his limbs. He lay, scattered and motionless on the red sand.

Blaine lay two meters away. His face plate was covered with spiderweb cracks, and I could see that the razor blades had cut through his air hoses. The frigid Martian air now was filling his lungs, freezing the moisture there and rupturing his alveoli. It was the death we all feared most. The same slow death Ibrahim had faced.

The Monkey got up behind me and we walked down to look at Blaine. Blaine’s hands were pulling at his helmet. I helped him wrestle it off. The air that escaped from his suit fell as frost on his chest.

I half expected him to say something to me that would make sense of all this. That would justify the trail of corpses that we had left across the planet on our way to freedom. But the low air pressure was pulling at his body. His eyes bulged and he coughed blood. Then nothing. There were no last words, no sense of satisfaction. Nothing but death.

I looked away and caught my breath. I began to pull Blaine’s body into the Combine crawler.

“Leave ith,” the Monkey ordered. “The Combine can come geth them if they wanth. Let’s geth to Free Base before anyone else comes.”

I looked at the Monkey, straining to see his expression through the mist-covered face plate of his surface suit, but he saw me looking and turned away. He walked in silence toward the glimmering promise of Freebase, suspended like a dream on the canyon wall. The wind whipped the dust, erasing his footprints as he walked away.

I stood there on the valley floor, surrounded by the silence of the most desolate place that man has ever known. I looked at the corpses already frozen stiff in the dust and sand and then I looked back to the figure walking toward the city. It was an easy choice. I followed the Monkey.

Posted in Fiction, Science Fiction | Leave a comment

Fiction – Gilding the Dandelion

By Marissa K. Lingen

The monster was available by appointment only.

Liza had made her appointment a week in advance, and by the time she stood on the monster’s porch twisting her fingers, she had talked herself into the request she meant to make.

The porch light was blotted out, and she looked up with a little squeak.  “Are—are you the—”

“I’m her assistant, Ivor,” said the man who answered the door.  “You’ll know her when you see her.  Come in.”

He looked like enough of a monster to Liza, tall and stoop-shouldered, with a face that leaned to the left.  “All right,” she said, and he let her past him, into the house.

The entire house smelled of metals—silver and iron, some, but mostly gold.  Under the metallic scent of the gold, Liza could smell something like molding cornbread.  The hall was bare, with the same golden wood planks on the walls and the floor.  The bare floors were meticulously cleaned, with not a spot on the finish.

“It’s a very nice place,” Liza murmured.

Ivor grinned.  His grin leaned to the right.  “Not what you expected, is it?  I keep it clean here.  She likes it that way.”

Liza had not expected the monster to be a woman.  If it was even human—she hadn’t expected the monster to be female at all.

They entered the living room.  It was dominated by a dark brick fireplace and a wide bench with a broad-shouldered figure hunched over it.  The figure turned, and Liza steeled herself not to gasp as if she was in some horror movie.  She gasped anyway, and then wished she hadn’t:  the sick, sweet-sour scent of molding cornbread was overpowering.

The monster wore a stylized golden mask, and the mask was not smiling.

As Liza adjusted to the light and had the chance to look closer, she could see that none of the monster’s skin was visible.  She was entirely covered in gold armor, some of it rigid and some, such as the fingers, made with such detailed flexibility that Liza couldn’t help but admire it.

“Did you make your fingers yourself?” she blurted, and then, “Are you the—?”

“I’m the monster,” said the monster in a level alto.  “Although I prefer to think of myself as the Goldsmith.”

“W-whatever you want,” said Liza.

“You have heard of my rules?”

“You will make something beautiful to keep,” Liza recited, “and it will destroy one person for me.”

The Goldsmith nodded.  “One adult person.”

“As long as you’re—”

Adult,” said the Goldsmith firmly.  “Are we clear on that?”


“Who would you like me to remove from your life?” asked the Goldsmith, with an ostentatiously patient sigh.

“My brother Benji.”

“No children!” said the Goldsmith.

“He’s not!  He’s twenty-five.  But he’s…well, you’ll see.”

“Why do you want to get rid of him?” asked the henchman Ivor from the doorway.

The Goldsmith turned her impassive gaze upon him but said nothing.  She looked back at Liza.

“I—I don’t want him.  The things he can do aren’t right, they’re creepy, and the things he can’t do are worse.  But I have to have him anyway, there’s nowhere else that will—I need out, I need—”

“We don’t require an answer to that question,” said the Goldsmith after she’d let Liza flounder for a moment.  “Ivor was overstepping his bounds.  I’ll need to meet this brother before I can do the piece.  Do you want him dead, or merely destroyed?”

“Dead,” said Liza immediately.  “If he wasn’t dead, I’d still have to take care of him.”

The Goldsmith inclined her head.  “Possibly.  All right.”

“I’ll bring him in tomorrow.”

“That’s fine.”  The Goldsmith turned her masked face back to her workbench, and Ivor escorted Liza out.

When he came back, he said to the Goldsmith, “There’s something wrong there.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to do it anyway?”

“I don’t turn away work.”

Ivor shook his head.  “I don’t like it.”

She didn’t answer, and he spent much of the evening scrubbing things and pouting.  The Goldsmith finally gave in and joined him in the kitchen, where he was polishing silver they had not used in months and had no plans to use.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” said the Goldsmith.

“Then don’t.”

“I have to work.”

“I know,” said Ivor, rubbing at a bit of tarnish in the scrollwork of a knife handle.

“Can’t you just trust me?”

“I trust you.”

“Well, good,” said the Goldsmith.

“Was that all?”

The Goldsmith sighed.  “Yes.  That’s all.”

*     *     *     *     *

When Liza returned, Ivor was waiting at the keyhole and popped out the minute her knuckles hit the door.

“This is Benji,” said Liza, glancing around her and pulling her brother inside with a little jerk.  “Benji, this is Ivor.”

Benji was almost as tall as Ivor himself, but he slanted neither to the right nor to the left.  Instead, he seemed to have a somewhat internal pitch; the look in his eyes was bright and clear, but focused just beyond Ivor.  “Like Igor?” he said eagerly.

Liza rolled her eyes.  Ivor looked at him carefully, shutting the door behind them.  “Almost.  But not quite.”

“Do you make things come to life, like with the monster?”

“Life and death are her job.  I dust and mop.”

“Why?” said Benji.

Liza hissed at him.  “Benji, don’t be rude.”  She turned to Ivor.  “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s not rude,” said Ivor.  “She took me in when I had nowhere else to go, and I help her when she needs it.”

Benji nodded wisely.  “Liza helps me when I need it.”

Ivor gave Liza one of his long looks.  “I’m sure she does.”  Liza had the good grace to squirm.

Benji got to the living room first and stopped, his jaw agape, while Ivor and Liza maneuvered around him into the room.

The Goldsmith looked from Liza to her brother and back again.  “I don’t do children,” she said, so quietly that Liza had to strain to hear.

“He’s not a child.”  Liza’s voice got louder as if to compensate.  “He’s twenty-five.”

Benji smiled sweetly at the Goldsmith.  “You’re so pretty.”

The Goldsmith’s metal face was impassive, but there was an unwilling smile in her voice:  “I made myself.”

“Could you make me, too?”

Liza looked at her triumphantly.

“I could,” said the Goldsmith.

“Well, then,” said Liza in a high voice.  “It’s all settled.”  She snapped the clasp of her purse open and brandished a faux snakeskin wallet at the Goldsmith.  “How much do we owe you?”

“Ivor,” said the Goldsmith.

Ivor retrieved the wallet nimbly from between Liza’s fingers and extracted most of the contents before handing it back.  She tried to rub it unobtrusively on her skirt before replacing it in her bag, but he saw.

“Come back in a week,” said the Goldsmith.  She turned to her workbench just as dismissively as the time before.

“A week?  But I—”

“A week.”  The Goldsmith didn’t look back at her, and Liza took Benji by the shoulder and steered him out before Ivor could do it.

*     *     *     *     *

Ivor did not mind being kept from escorting Benji to the door.  He was staring after them in interest.  “He retrieves things,” said Ivor.

The Goldsmith brushed dust from the tiniest corners of her work surface with a fine-haired brush.  “I heard that.”

“He doesn’t know what he does.”

She polished her loupe with a fine chamois cloth.  “I heard that, too.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“You,” said the Goldsmith, “are going to make dinner.  Something curried, I think.”

“Something curried,” muttered Ivor.  “If you do this job, what’s the difference between—”

The Goldsmith straightened her shoulders.  “There is no difference between me and the other monsters.  I’ve told you that before.”

“But the others—you’ve always had standards for—”

“No difference.”  The Goldsmith looked at her bench pensively.  “Something curried.  With lentils on the side, please.”

Ivor served her macaroni and cheese from a box and banged the plate down to emphasize the point.  The monster’s mask allowed for not even the slightest hint of a smile or frown, but by then Ivor knew that she didn’t care; she was in the middle of the work.

When it was finished, it lit the darkened living room, even into the corners of the fireplace.  Some of its golden glow spread into the golden wood of the hallway.  Ivor, forgetting his pique just a bit, polished and scrubbed to make sure the place was fit for it.

It was a dandelion, modeled in soft gold to an exquisite perfection of rumpled petals.  The root system was exposed, as though the flower had been pulled from someone’s lawn before being gilded.  It was a weed, and perfect.

“Benji has to wait in the dining room,” the Goldsmith ordered Ivor.  “Tell her that when they come.”

*     *     *     *     *

Benji and Liza were on time, as Ivor and the Goldsmith both knew they would be.  Scowling, Ivor relayed the instruction.  Benji settled himself at the dining room table, and Ivor handed him a few sheets of paper and a pen, the only drawing implements they had in the house.  “Keep yourself busy,” he said gruffly.

Benji’s smile worked on the room like the dandelion itself.  “Thank you.”

“Mind-your-manners-don’t-make-a-fuss,” Liza rattled off automatically.

When she saw the dandelion on the table, she gasped and reached out for it instinctively.  “Go ahead,” said the monster.  “It’s yours.  I made it for you.  No one can take it away from you.”

Liza picked it up, holding the dangling roots in her hand.  “I never would have imagined it would be like this.  You said it would be a thing of beauty, but—”

“You didn’t believe me.”

Liza nodded eagerly.  “And I should have, seeing your face like this, but—oh, this is beyond what I could have imagined.”

“I know.”

The flower shifted, as though a draft had blown it, but it was too heavy to be tossed about on chance winds, and the room was still.  “Is it animated?” asked Liza delightedly.  “Oh, I should come back when I don’t have anybody to—”  She remembered Benji’s near proximity and bit off the last word.

“No one ever does,” said the monster sadly.

“It looks like it’s going to seed!”  Liza was right:  the golden petals were tapering, forming themselves into a globe of perfect golden spores.

“Hold very still,” said the Goldsmith.  “It knows you.”

Liza let out a little shriek.

“Hold still,” the monster commanded.

And then it seemed she couldn’t do anything else—the roots were soft gold, not steel, not stabbing in any way, and yet they penetrated the skin of her hand, and her blood started to flow.

“Is this—for the spell?” Liza asked.

The Goldsmith nodded.  Then she leaned over and blew on the golden dandelion.

Some of the spores escaped into the room, to lie harmless on the wooden floor, but most of them hit Liza full in the face.  Her shriek was cut off as the spores buried their golden points in her face, her neck, and her hands.  Her flesh dissolved around them, their softness forcing her bone to yield.

The Goldsmith made herself watch.  When it was all over and there was nothing but a pile of bloodied gold fragments on the floor, she said aloud.  “Never children.  Not any kind of children.  Remember that.”

She called Ivor in to clean up the bits of gold.

Benji was still waiting in the dining room.  “Where’s Liza?”

“Liza—went away,” said the Goldsmith.  “She won’t be back.”

“That’s too bad,” said Benji.  “Liza took care of me.  I like it here.”

“Can someone take you home?” asked the Goldsmith.  Ivor appeared in the doorway from the living room, shaking his head.  Benji shook his head, too; they all knew that there was no one.

“Where should I sleep?” asked Benji.

“You can’t stay here with me,” said the Goldsmith.

Benji smiled sweetly.  “I could.  Liza went away.”

“I made Liza go away.  Do you understand?”  The Goldsmith searched his face.  “Sometimes I make people go away.  I don’t want you around for that.”

“It’s all right,” said Benji.  “Sometimes I make people come back.”

Ivor looked at the Goldsmith hopefully.  “Sometimes it would be nice if people came back.”

“Not when I’ve made them go away!” said the Goldsmith.  “Oh no.  I want no part of seeing that.  I still have—”

“You still have many scruples,” said Ivor.

“And that’s one.”

“Not the people she made go away,” Ivor told Benji.  “Just people, okay?”

“Okay,” said Benji.  He wandered away into the kitchen, and the Goldsmith could hear him opening and closing cabinet doors, carefully.  She picked up his drawing paper and examined it:  a butterfly, a masked woman, a cheerful campfire.

“Now look what you’ve done.”

Ivor shrugged.  “Better you and me than Liza.”

The Goldsmith sighed.  “Yeah.  Better than Liza.  But that’s not saying much.”

“It’s what we’ve got.”

“I should have turned her away.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ivor, listening to the Benji’s finger tinging on a wine glass.  “He might make a good assistant’s assistant.”

The Goldsmith turned back to her monster’s appointment book, glad that no one could see the slight smile under her mask.

In the living room, through the fireplace bricks, the tiny golden dandelion seeds were beginning to sprout.

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Book Review — The Prefect

By Alastair Reynolds

Rating: ★★★★★ 

Imagine, if you will, a perfect democracy. A democracy where there is no centralized government, where every citizen votes independently on nearly everything. Each habitat (of which there are 10,000 comprising the Glitter Band) is a unique social system, yet all share the common right to vote accomplished through a centralized network simply referred to as The Abstraction.  In many cases this network is connected cybernetically to every citizens’ brain, and everything and anything is subject to continuous polling. Each habitat decides its own politics, laws and manner of living. In this future Golden Age of absolute democracy (demarchism) the worst crime is to withhold a person’s right to vote or to tamper with the votes themselves. The responsibility to protect these rights and make certain every citizen is afforded them rests upon the shoulders of Panoply, an order of enforcers armed with a unique and versatile weapon called awhiphound.

The Panoply chain-of-command is as follows: Cadet – Prefect in training; Prefect – Neophyte Prefect, in-house duties only; Field Prefect – Prefects experienced enough to police the Glitter Band; Senior Prefect – Experienced Field Prefects serving mostly as administrators; Supreme Prefect – Jane Aumonier.

It is 2427 in the keenly constructed universe of Revelation Space, well before the events of Chasm City, and in the seemingly highest order of human civilization a great crime has been committed. A lighthugger (a colossal starship) has attacked a habitat killing every citizen. Field Prefect Dreyfus and his team have been assigned to investigate and a delightful, fast paced, and incredibly thoughtful adventure begins. This is action-adventure come detective mystery come Hard SF novel not to be missed. The characters are extremely well conceived and brilliantly developed. With every twist and turn of the plot Reynolds reels you in like a hypnotized bass. All of the trademark elements that validate him as being amongst the best working SF writers today are present. The twisted and deviant villains and sub surface motives and schemes.

I asked Alastair Reynolds back in May of 2006 what made him return to the Universe of Revelation Space and he wrote

“After two books away from the Revelation Space universe, I felt that the time was right for me to return to it. I really felt that Absolution Gap was the last word on the matter, but by the time I’d written the new stories for the Galactic North collection, I felt a lot more excited about the idea of doing another RS book. It’s sufficiently different in tone and approach that it feels like something new – to me, at least. It’s got nothing of the gothic/noir sensibility of the first four books, being a lot more high-tech and hard-edged, with loads of cool gadgets and nasty weapons.”

I loved it, and I highly recommend this wonderful epic!

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Book Review — Pushing Ice

By Alastair Reynolds

Rating: ★★★★☆ 

I am incredibly fond of Revelation Space and all wonders of that groundbreaking series, and I must admit I was secretly hoping for another, but I can honestly say after reading Pushing Ice that I would now prefer a sequel to it as opposed to the former. Make no mistake, Pushing Ice pushes the limits of hard science fiction and, like a great rushing comet, soars magnificently through the stellar medium of

modern science fiction. This awe inspiring novel follows the lives of two women aboard a comet mining vessel as they experience an unforgettable sojourn through time and space. They battle the elements, their resources, each other, aliens, and time itself.

This is no daft space opera here. Alastair keenly develops every scene, character, and plot device meticulously with the practiced hand of a literary surgeon. In an unprecedented (and perhaps unconscious) lift of the oft forgotten 19th century classic literary technique of using a character with the initials J. C. to act as the sacrificial Christ-like catalyst and turning point of the narrative, Alastair Reynolds cleverly blends classic and contemporary literary strategies, intrigue, action, and character throughout the scope of this novel.

I have often wondered who would finally answer the question of how do you justify or create a universe where vastly different races develop at approximately the same rate. The overwhelming odds are that if several different races did come together they would be at such vastly different levels of technological development that they would never truly interact. This fact has been ignored or overlooked since before Ming the Merciless attacked the Earth with his Purple Death Ray.

My favorite race from Pushing Ice is best introduced by Alastair himself: “Musk Dogs are not in themselves belligerent or aggressive, nor are they exceptionally advanced by Structure standards. They are just . . . trouble.” And that was no overstatement.

Read this book and be captivated. I have to ask, does anybody

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Book Review — Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell

By  Suzzana Clarke

Rating: ★★★★☆ 

“Can a magician kill a man by magic?” Lord Wellington asked Strange. Strange frowned, “I suppose a magician might, but a gentleman never would.”

These words summarize the mentality of the magicians in Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. For all intents and purposes, this story provides to us fantasy nuts proof that not only science fiction writers can do great alternate history stories.

This multi-award winning novel documents the quest of Gilbert Norrell and Jonathan Strange to revive the lost “English Magic” during the time of the Napoleonic Wars.

Filled with intrigue, hidden deeds, conflicts between magicians and the beings from fairy, this story offers hours of enjoyment for all readers, and if the audio book is more to your liking, the talented British voice actor, Simon Preble, lends his voice to the mix.

All in all, this story is truly the great piece of literature it has been touted to be, and anyone looking for their next favorite, would do good to look here.

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AD Ep 004: Nobobies and Somebodies

By Eugie Foster

Read by Cori Samuel

The first time I see a new patient, I try to fix upon something distinctive or idiosyncratic about them as a mnemonic to keep them straight. Oftentimes, a physical quirk or peculiarity is more effective than any amount of note taking, and there’s nothing quite so embarrassing, not to mention unprofessional, as bringing up a salient point in a patient’s case history, only to discover that I’ve misremembered their background. I’ve often wondered if some purported cases of repressed memories have been due to overzealous efforts on the part of my less scrupulous compatriots to cover their gaffes.

However, I found myself struggling to identify anything memorable about the woman sitting across from me. Her features were unremarkable, neither attractive nor homely, and her choice in apparel was wholly generic in cut, color, and style. Even her voice was neutral, being neither high nor low in pitch or volume, and lacking any discernable accent. Frankly, her most remarkable feature was that she was utterly unremarkable.

I was so distracted by this deficiency that I found myself inattentive during our introductory interview, going through the motions of collecting her information with only half an ear. I admonished myself for my reprehensible negligence, and undertook to give her my undivided attention when she began telling me her reason for this consultation […]

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