“Crop” by William Wilde

Illustration: “Crop” © 2005 by D’Wayne Murphy

Its endless, dreamy half-sleep was broken. It sensed movement in the firm, cool substance that it lay in. The substance shifted around it. A new thing, cold and sharp, that it had never felt before, touched its outer skin. The familiar closeness of the substance that had always been around it was no longer there. The other thing touched its body, scraping the last of the substance away.

It felt new, strange heat on its skin.

“There it is. Big one, must be six feet. Keep digging it out.”

“Power Cell” by John M. Cowan

Illustration: “Powercell” © 2006 by Patrick Stacy

The black security car slipped through the armored gates of the Areadni embassy like a cat sneaking out for a snack. Roger Desprey sighed, got out of his own car at the curb, and waved an arm. The limo slowed to a stop centimeters from his toes. He showed his ID (United Nations of Earth, Diplomatic Service, Level 9) to the human driver. When the lock snapped open he took one last breath of fresh air and opened the door.

     The odor hit him immediately, a harsh aroma that always reminded Desprey of a tropical fish tank in need of cleaning. The Areadni Second Emissary sat inside. She wore a thin loose robe, black and crimson, that left her long arms and bony shoulders bare, displaying the dark irregular blemishes that covered the pale Areadni skin.

     Desprey dropped into the opposite seat and straightened his navy blue jacket. “Good morning, Kry’ill das Sen’Pal.”

     “Where is Susannah?” Kry’ill replied.

Susannah Anson had broken her ankle at racquetball that morning. The Human-Areadni Relations Commission’s computer had designated Desprey as an adequate substitute for the 10:00 a.m. meeting between Second Emissary Kry’ill and the mayor of Chicago.

Desprey chose his words with care. “She injured herself. I am Roger Desprey. The Commission named me to act in her place as your escort this morning.”

Kry’ill’s three eyestalks swung forward to examine him in an emerald glow. “Roger Desprey. Yes. Is Susannah dead?”

“No. She injured her foot playing a sport. But she is not able to walk.”

The eyestalks retracted into Kry’ill’s skull. “You are male.”

“Yes. I hope that’s not a problem.”

Kry’ill said nothing.

The car glided forward. Desprey looked at his watch. Today’s assignment was routine, if unenjoyable: escort the Areadni diplomat to the meeting where negotiations for an expansion of the embassy would commence. Not exactly the glory-filled destiny he’d anticipated when he’d taken the UNE Diplomatic Service test in 2064: he’d dreamed of traveling to other stars, forging historic peace agreements, spreading friendship and understanding throughout the galaxy. Instead, his days were filled with press releases and committee meetings and speeches. His only contact with alien culture was the occasional errand for the Areadni, which suited him fine. For all his well-intentioned dreams and ideals he couldn’t force himself to like them. Their blotchy skin was repulsive. And their smell nauseated him.

“Roger Desprey, please explain the sport,” Kry’ill said. “The cause of the injury to Susannah.”

“It’s called racquetball.” As Desprey tried to think of a description that would make sense, he felt the car swerve and glanced out the thick window to see the walls of a gray alley. “This isn’t the right way,” he said. He pressed the intercom. “Hey, where are we–”

The limo jolted to a halt, rolling Kry’ill forward in her straps. Desprey pressed the intercom again. “What’s going on?”

Everything happened like a vid on fast forward: shadowy human shapes in gray grabbed the door handles outside; fists pounded the windows. Desprey yelled. The driver’s door opened and slammed shut. The gray shapes backed away and then a roar shook the car on its springs and the shielded glass next to Desprey’s face shattered and he felt a blast of heat sear his skin. His straps bit his shoulders as the force of the explosion pushed him away from the door and smoky burnt air flooded the car. In the blackness he heard shouts and curses and then he felt a shock in his arm and remembered nothing that happened after that.

“Thomas the Rhymer” by Resha Caner

[Illustration: “Fairyworld” © 2006 by D'Wayne Murphy.]

Bobby Burns is gone, and with him the fair tongue he spoke. I pray, therefore, the ancient Celts to forgive me as I interpret the Gaelic tongue in order to bring appreciation of it to a newer time. As a babe, my ears heard the words:

Ye maun ken of Thomas Rymour, of Ercildoun,
In Lauderdale. He had nae will to the wark
But was a gudsire wi’ pipes and song.

Those words remain behind, but I shall bring you the story.

Thomas the Rhymer, Lord Earlston, gave birth to prose before the likes of Chaucer had even worn a Christening cap. Thomas took much pride in his silver tongue, by which he oft wooed the fair maidens, but by which he mainly escaped the sweat of the plow.

It was a fine day when Thomas chose to lay on Huntly bank at the foot of the Eildon Hills. His mind wove a magical verse for use with the evening’s ale, but the thread was spoiled when down the bank rode a lady of great beauty. Thomas knew her for a queen. Her steed strode with majestic pride, carrying its burden gladly. Thirty silver bells and nine hanging from the mane played the magical songs of the wind. The lady’s saddle was of royal bone laid over in gold. Her attire gave homage to her beauty, not daring to shine greater. Yet, strangely, she had a bow in her hand and arrows in her belt – a huntress. Only a faerie queen could muster such strength yet remain so fair.

The faerie queen deigned to pass Thomas by, intent upon the trail her hounds followed. Thomas could not allow such a sight to escape him.

“My lady,” he called, rising from the bank.

Within moments the hounds surrounded him, guarding their lady from harm. She spurred the great steed towards the intruder of her hunt, and brought a dirk to bear on his throat.

“Echoes from Radioland” by David Wright

Illustration: “Rover Buggy” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows.”

Maniacal laughter echoed into the emptiness of outer space, and for the next twenty minutes Valerie and Maria were transported to an alien world where men in black fedoras and trench coats solved the city’s problems with two .45s and a cigarette, and women in flowing silk gowns puffed out sexy non-sequiturs through a pound of lipstick. It was a world that never quite existed, except in the ether of radioland, but seemed more real now than the sixteen-hundred square feet of their moon base prison.

They had been receiving radio signals in the kilohertz wavelength for the past two weeks. At first they took them for a rescue team, then survivors, then… well, then it became clear what the signals were -– echoes.

“Had a great uncle on my mother’s side. Maybe he was a great, great uncle. I’m not sure. Very old fellow. He still had some of these shows on reel-to-reel recordings. He said people used to gather around the radio every night. Of course, that was before there was TV.” Valerie spoke over the sound of screeching tires and blasting pistols.

“Shhh!”

Valerie waited, but they were losing the signal. Eventually, the Shadow’s mocking laugh faded into the static of star noise.

Maria turned off the speaker. “Sorry. That was the best one yet. I just wish we could hear a whole show.”

Valerie smiled knowingly. “We might soon. The signals seem to be getting stronger. I can program the dishes to track them next time.”

“If there is a next time.” Maria flopped down on the plastic utility couch and closed her eyes.

“Gas Planet” by Arun Ahuja

[Illustration: “Natsuko” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

Spatters of pure oxygen

Poisoning us, bubble-hard

Then comes the sweep cycle

–methane never smelled so good *

About the Author: Arun Ahuja is a science fiction writer with an MS in biomedical engineering. His piece “Pomposity Penalized” won Editor’s Pick in the University of New Mexico’s magazine.
Poem (c) 2006 Arun Ahuja helioray@netscape.net

About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago lives on a gas giant and is therefore super-cool.
Illustration (c) 2006 Romeo Esparrago

“Den the Deedworthy” by Adam Hanisch

[Illustration: "Den" © 2006 by D'Wayne Murphy.]

Den had made himself a good life after leaving the service of King Alexander. He started a small farrier’s shop in the northern border town of Gladia, the kind of town that was full of a variety of passersby on any given day, but without much to speak about except a few shops and the old fort that hadn’t been manned for a hundred years. He made a decent living forging weapons, horseshoes, and whatever else he was contracted to make. He had a wife of five years, and was forty years old. Before his retirement from the King’s army, his service, being both voluntary and full of illustrious duty, had earned him the highest honors and recognition, along with a measure of fame. Some considered him one of the greatest Kingsmen of the age, and tales of his heroic deeds were well known throughout the land.

Den reached such a place of esteem during the many years of his service that King Alexander even offered him knighthood, a position of honor typically never entrusted with someone not of royal blood. The last commoner to receive such an honor had saved the King’s life on two occasions, nearly two-hundred years past. Den respectfully refused, choosing a simpler life, hundreds of miles from the glory, the riches, and especially the intrigues associated with positions of power. He wanted a simple life for his family, to retire in peace. Let the stories speak for themselves; he had lived it and no longer wanted the glory. Besides, the realm was settled, peace was gained on a level that had not been known in hundreds of years, and he believed his duty to be done.

But it was not to be. Five years after his settlement in Gladia, a northern race known as the Dumerians invaded, a surprise attack that spread nearly the entire length of the border west of the towering mountains. The main force marched on Castle White, many days ride east of Gladia, and raiding parties were sent into the western lands. Den was on an errand south to Cambria at the time of the invasion, to obtain ore from the foundries there. When he returned along the packed-dirt road, he spotted the hulking creatures smash into a home on the outer edge of town. Seven- to eight-feet tall, wearing leather and fur, their lumbering gaits and large, hairless heads were unmistakable from even hundreds of yards out.

“Stone Me” by Roderick Gladwish

[Illustration: “Henge and Druids” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

Thousands of years ago on a flat bit of land that eventually would be called Salisbury Plain, in what eventually would be known as Southern Britain, stood a ring of wooden uprights that would be compost. For generations the ring had taken many forms and signified many things, including the free availability of wood and where the smell was coming from in damp weather. At that precise moment in the ancient religious site’s history, a single great stone lay on its side, surrounded by the men and women who had dragged it across the land. It had been stopped by an obstacle more serious than steep hill or flooding river. The leader of the band, App Front, had to face the final problem alone.

“You’ve got no appreciation of Nature,” accused the protester.

“I’m a druid,” replied App.

“But not a real druid. You were fast-tracked. You’ve not spent decades getting in touch with the Earth Mother. You wouldn’t know a shamanistic ritual if one bit you on the bum. When did you last explore the entrails of –”

“Please,” App interrupted. He was doing his best to keep his patience. This was hard, especially when his opponent began sounding like Master Thunder Cloud, and he just knew, if he didn’t stop this right now, there’d be some comment about his beard.

“Fortune Maker” by Teresa S Rich

[Illustration: “Fortune Maker” © 2006 by D'Wayne Murphy.]

“Eww, there’s that creepy Johnny,” Amanda said, squishing her face up.

Megan wondered why her face didn’t look that cute when she practiced that expression in the mirror. Then she was fighting to keep her balance as Amanda jerked her behind one of the striped carnival tents. Her stumbling feet stirred up the scents of dust, old hay, and stale popcorn.

“I can’t stand him,” Amanda stage-whispered. “He’s such a nerd, and he’s always trying to touch me.”

Megan snuck a glance at the outlines of Amanda’s push-up bra showing through the tight shirt and knew why every boy in school tried to brush up against her. If it was Brandon or one of the other football players Amanda was currently in love with, she didn’t seem to mind. Glancing down at her own sweats, loose and form-concealing, Megan almost wished she had Amanda’s nerve.

“We have to hide somewhere,” Amanda said. Then Megan found herself being dragged along by the elbow at a near sprint to the opposite side of the tent. Amanda stopped so fast that Megan nearly ran into her. And Coach wondered why she preferred long distance to the stop and start of sprinting.

Amanda pointed. “There, the fortuneteller’s tent.”

“I don’t know,” Megan said. Her parents had warned her about messing with the occult — at best, they were scams, at worse, it was Satan’s realm. Knowing Amanda wouldn’t be turned from her course without a good alternative, she pointed at the building next to the fortuneteller’s somber black tent. “What about the freak show?”

“Eww, gross! Come on, I want my fortune told.”

So much for a good alternative. Megan found herself running behind her friend, unease tightening her stomach and shoulders. Amanda pushed aside the flap of the tent and ducked in. Megan stopped and allowed the flap to close with a puff of warm, cinnamon-scented air. It didn’t remind her of her grandmother’s kitchen. There were several other scents mixed in — something that might have been sandalwood and a green, crushed-herb scent that made her jittery. If she waited outside for Amanda, Megan would have to put up with the resulting silent treatment because she didn’t follow. And Johnny was kind of a jerk. She lifted the tent flap and slipped in.

“The Qual” by Neil Burlington

[Illustration: “Braydahs Ship” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

“Look, if you’ll just inspect the implant in the back molar on the left side of my mouth, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”

Dr. Karrow looked at the disheveled man in ragged clothing who was sitting in the dental chair. They were now behind the partitions and the door, and the hearing of others. Dr. Karrow let out a sigh. He gazed at the little tin-foil hat that the dark-skinned man had fashioned and capped his thinning strands of black hair with. The hat was torn on one side. Karrow silently wondered at the impulse he felt to listen to this disoriented and babbling man, instead of simply calling the authorities to deal with him. But there was something… a quality of sheer earnestness in the man’s eyes and in his voice that compelled Karrow to listen. Dr. Nathan Karrow had rarely witnessed such earnest conviction, however delusional it might prove to be.

He smiled, patiently. “Now, please tell me your name.”

The homeless man held out a stress-thinned hand with gnarled fingers. His watery dark eyes went wide — searching for some sign of understanding.

“Eno. Eno Ecnahc.” He flashed a brief and nervous smile.

“Well. That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? Is it perhaps South American?”

Eno frowned and shook his head. “No. It isn’t.”

“And is this molar the only reason you’re here?”

“Yes. Dr. Karrow. Yes. The molar is the key. For you see, they are coming. The Qual. The Qualdrads. The Mother-Ship. They are coming, to steal your sun!”

“The Midnight Carney” by Michael Jay Katz

[Illustration: “Lava Raft” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

It’s two for a dollar
the Whirlie-Warp ride
just past the Fun House
through the white gate
climb the wood tower
slide into the tunnel
and disintegrate
to cosmic scintillas
a boreal glow in
Devonian skies
a sparklet of moonrise
in dinosaur eyes
a night planet’s wink
at the prayer of a Sikh
aswirl through the eons
till whipped to a peak
you’ll step out again, whole
and find it’s last week. *

About the Author: Michael Katz teaches anatomy at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio.
Story (c) 2006 Michael Jay Katz mjk8@case.edu

About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago lives in a Fun House of the mind.
Illustration (c) 2006 Romeo Esparrago