Contents (Volatile While Hot) Editor’s Note —3— EP265: We are Ted Tuscadero for President By Chris Dahlen —4— Review: Shades of Milk and Honey by Marie Robinette Kowal Review by Sarah Frost —13­— EP266: Kachikachi Yama By Michael R. Underwood ­—14— Dark Fiction Magazine Q&A By Adam Christopher —22— EP267: Planetfall By Michael C. Lea —25— Review: A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burrows Review by Josh Roseman —33— EP268: Advection By Genevieve Valentine —35— Review: Zero History by William Gibson Review by Sarah Frost —43—

Escape Pod Publisher: Ben Phillips – ben @ escapeartists.net Founder: Steve Eley – steve @ escapeartists.net Editor: Mur Lafferty – editor @ escapepod.org Assistant Editor: Bill Peters – bill @ escapeartists.net

The Soundproof Escape Pod and all works within are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial- NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. All works are copyright their respective authors. Greetings! We at Escape Pod have been thrilled and gratified at the response for the first Soundproof Escape Pod. We got kudos for everything from the fact that it existed, to the awesome layout job by our own Bill Peters. Speaking of Bill, this month I want to announce our staff changes. Escape Pod is hitting its stride now, thanks mostly to our new assistant editor. We promoted Bill Peters from the inside joke of Assistant to the Regional Manager, or the Right A.R.M., to Assistant Editor. He wrangles the slush and makes sure I am on top of things, and I don’t know where I’d be without him. We’re also delighted to welcome Mat Weller on as our audio producer. If you listen to Escape Pod, you’ll notice that Norm Sherman of the Drabblecast (a fine, award-winning podcast you should totally listen to) is still a part-time host, who, incidentally, makes me work harder on my intros. There has been talk of the death of the short story for years now. It’s no longer a viable way to make a liv- ing; if you count your money made versus hours spent writing, you make pennies an hour; people care more about novels. Frankly, it’s getting tiresome because, taking a look at our slush pile, the short story is not dead, not even resting or pining or scared. I’ve been gratified to hear some people talking about how the Internet and podcasts are breathing life back into the (not dead in the first place) short story, since there are several paying markets with tens of thousands of listeners. We still can pay only 5¢ a word, but that’s something. If you’re looking for more quality audio fiction, check out Podcastle for fantasy, Pseudopod for horror, Drabblecast for weird, and Lightspeed and Clarkesworld for SF/F. There are many others, and we’ll profile them as the months go on. Speaking of slush, in order to get a hold of the reins of this mighty team of slush ponies, we’re closing to submissions over December. We’ll be back on the job in January, once the hangovers fade. And as for holidays, there are many in December, and nearly all of them mark that the nights are very long, but hey, that’s okay, because there’s hope. We get tied up so much in the stress to make things perfect or even to defend a holiday that no one is attacking, that we lose the realization that it’s all about hope. The sun will return, the oil lasted eight nights, a child was born. The stories that stem from these holidays - including the origin stories themselves - almost always have a sense of the speculative about them, the movements or births of gods, the dark, magical time of the year, the miracles that seem impossible. If you want to get some excellent speculative stories surrounding the holidays, there’s always The Star by Arthur C. Clarke, or any number of stories from SF master and Christmas lover Connie Willis. You can even check the archives of Escape Pod where you’ll find work by James Patrick Kelly, Jason Erik Lundberg, and one or two from myself. But in this collection, you will get the work from November, and it will include the stories Planetfall, Ka- chikachi Yama, Advection, and We Are Ted Tuscadero for President. We also have four pieces from our blog, including reviews of Shades of Milk and Honey, A Princess of Mars, and Zero History, and an inter- view with the new Horror web/podcast Dark Fiction Magazine that also has its second issue out today. We welcome your comments and feedback, and hope you have a lovely holiday season, no matter what you believe. We’ll talk again in 2011. Be mighty ——

Mur Lafferty Editor, Escape Pod

(And please don’t forget to include Escape Pod in your year-end giving!) 3 EP265:We Are Ted Tuscadero For President By Chris Dahlen My name is Ted Tuscadero. And I want to be your President. I say that with a humble heart. I realize that even after eight stellar years in the Senate, some of you are still getting to know me. And I’ll admit, I am not perfect. The other day, when I told a VFW in Littleton I would blast Iran to glass, and at the same exact time I swore off the war at a town hall in Concord? My bad. Or the time that three of me showed up for the big debate in Manchester, and we got in a fistfight over who was going on the air? Yeah, the chattering classes had a few laughs over that one. And that little incident before the holidays, when I crashed, as lit as a Christmas tree, into a pole and my car exploded, killing me instantly and taking a mailbox, a transformer and a barn cat with me? It looked bad, I know. But that proxy was on the fritz. That’s not me. That’s not who I am. And the more we talk, the better you get to know me, the more you’ll see what I mean. ### I am a lucky man. Of the hundred of me that fanned out across New Hampshire for the presidential pri- mary campaign, I landed in Fairport, a cute spot on the coast. My ex-wife would’ve called it “darling.” I didn’t even know New Hampshire had a coast until they drove me here and got me a room, looking over the harbor, the tugboats, the cobblestone streets. The whole place is loaded with money and photo ops. I like to think it’s payback for a job well done. For the last six months I’ve been shaking hands, holding town halls, and listening to cranky seniors and eager young back-to-the-earthers. I’ve eaten food on a stick that belonged in the trash. I’ve honed my laugh lines and I’ve sold my vision. The primary’s in January, and my opponent, Billy LaMontagne, has local roots. Three-time governor of neighboring Maine, well known and well liked in the area, LaMontagne doesn’t use proxies: he’s stumping the state all by himself. But he doesn’t need proxies when everyone with four teeth or fewer knows his face and thinks they can trust it. I’m the insurgent from New Jersey with everything to prove. Here’s what the focus groups say about me: “City slicker.” “Promises anything to anyone.” “Will take away our right to bear arms.” That one really gets me – LaMontagne likes to wave around an assault rifle during deer season to show all the yokels that he likes red meat and Milwaukee’s worst as much as the rest of them. And fine, next to that, I do look slick. It’s called “owning a comb and a necktie,” and I’ve been do- ing it since Princeton, thanks. LaMontagne can crack the screen, I’ll grant him that. When this is all over, he should really get his own line of barbeque sauce. But we’re talking about a national election. The guy has a loose mouth and a small mind and if he gets the nomination, the Republicans won’t even run against him: they’ll kick back and watch him destroy himself. So, this race isn’t just about me. It’s my duty as a loyal Democrat to put this guy down. But back to me. I have two jobs here in Fairport. First and foremost is the usual campaign stuff – shake a lot of hands, get a lot of money. But I also have a project. I was explaining it to an eighth-grader the other day. She was doing a thing for her school paper – which has a teeny readership made up of a totally non- voting audience, but hey, any press is good, and I never talk above an eighth-grade level anyway. We sat in the school gym, with old crumbly murals and the outlines of kids painted on the wall, all kind of round and blank – probably just the same kid painted over and over. Above it all flew a giant American flag, and 4 I made sure it was in the shot when she took my picture. “So, um, Senator Tuscadero -” starts the kid. “Call me Ted,” I say, flashing my brilliant white teeth. “Um, I’m not sure how to ask this, but – are you the real Senator Tuscadero, or -” “I’m a proxy,” I say, smiling again. I never let anyone feel awkward, especially about this. “I’m one of the hundred proxies in New Hampshire, here for the original Ted Tuscadero, who’s down in D.C. doing the work of the people. The proxies are here to give the people of New Hampshire -” The first-in-the-nation primary voters, who can set me up with that sweet, sweet early momentum, I’m thinking - “ – A close look at my governing style, my experience, and my vision for a better America.” “So you’re called a ‘proxy.’ Do you ever call yourselves ‘clones’?” I laugh again gently. “We could, but we prefer the term ‘proxy.’” (“Clone” tested badly.) Next we get to why I’m in Fairport: my special project, which will show the voters what a doer and a leader I am. “So Amy, I’d like to tell you what I’m here to do. You may have heard that Fairport would like to build a windmill. A state-of-the-art, clean green energy solution that would cut your bills and make us safe from the bad guys across the sea.” Amy nods her head up and down and cocks it to the side, like she’d seen somebody do on TV. Maybe Couric. “That’s on Parakeet Ave,” she says. “Exactly. That’s the site they chose. And the trouble is, someone else – a man named Jim McSmit – bought the land, and he’d like to put a different business there.” “A bar?” “That’s right. A bar.” Here’s what the eighth-grader can’t put in her newspaper: the “restaurant and bar” would be called Body Shots. It’s a biker-themed titty bar, dropped right here on the snooty seacoast. The neighbors for a mile around are batshit about this, about how it’ll look, who it’ll draw, the growl of barely-ridden Harleys in the parking lot. But the zoning doesn’t prohibit it. Somebody needs to work out a deal. And that’s what I’m here to do. My campaign aide, Rachael, subtly taps her watch. Time to wrap this up. I answer a couple more questions and shook my little reporter’s hand. We also give her some pins and a pamphlet for her parents. “TOM TUSCADERO: A REAL LEADER FOR AMERICA.” “Don’t forget to vote!” I wink at her as they whisk me out the door. ### I’m here with two aides. One is my driver – after the Christmas crash, we all got drivers – and the other is Rachael, my aide. Also my lover. And by “lover,” I mean, ”yeeeeeeeee-haw.” She has a dual degree in poli-sci and psychology, though I’ll be frank, that’s not the first thing I noticed when they assigned her to me. A slender brunette just out of Swarthmore, she’s an idealist who still believes in the process. She loves politics. She’s smitten with me, too, and she’s also kind of fascinated by me. She’s drawn to my meteoric career – but also, to my complex personality.

5 “What have we got today?” I ask. “The senior citizens’ center at 10, lunch with the chamber of commerce at noon, and dialing-for-dollars in the afternoon.” I wince. I hate dialing for dollars. I call everyone I’ve known my whole life and ask them for money. It feels crass, plus, sometimes our lists get mixed up. I’ll end up calling my third-grade English teacher and just as I’m about to reminisce, she tells me that another proxy already rang her up with the same “you walked me to the school nurse” memory. It always makes me feel like a phony. But before all that, we head downtown. I swing by Main Street at least once a day. Grab a latte from the locally owned café dead center downtown. The same apple Danish: fatty I know, but it’s comfort food and oh boy, the way they bake ‘em it’s like an angel crying on your tongue. And then I swing by and spar with the guys at the barbershop. I can always count on five or six voters waiting for a cut. This barber is slower than death. Joe the barber hates me. He’s a Republican from way back. He probably cast his first vote for Lincoln. Every time I set foot in his shop he greets me the same way: “You cost too goddamn much.” “Hi Joe,” I say, smiling and winking at his peanut gallery. “What’s the good news today?” “The radio says they want to make more of you, for the general election,” says Joe. “It’s a waste of taxpayer dollars. We have too many politicians crawling around the country as it is.” “Well, Joe, as you know, making more proxies is cheap money after the first one.” This is true. When they perfected the cloning process, they found an interesting trick: cloning one person costs … well, it’s a state secret how much it costs, so you can guess how much that is. But the first time you do it, you make a kind of a “mold” – that’s how they explained it to me, anyway – and from that mold, you can pour as many copies as you want for a few bucks a shot. “I’m a bargain, Joe. You get to tell me off in person every day!” I wink. I take a quick glance to see how the other men react. But I notice that most of them are looking out the window at Rachael, who’s standing outside on her phone. It’s freezing, but she always waits outside at the barbershop. A little more chitchat, one more winning smile and I’m moving on. I’m starting to think I know this town better than the one where I live. I know where to get the best martini and the freshest lobster roll. I can practically count the votes here by name. “You know what, Rach? When I’m done with the White House, we should come back here. I would make a really good Mayor.” “First things first, Senator,” she says, and steers me back to the car. ### Back at the hotel, I get out of the shower to see Rachael tapping at her laptop. She snaps it closed as soon as she hears me. “Bad news in the polls?” I ask, smiling – not my politician smile, but my real one. Only Rachael gets the real one. “Yes, but not in yours. I was actually reading about the Republicans. Word is, Governor Kewt just got himself a sex scandal.” “Hot damn! Was he caught with a dead girl? A live boy? Both?” “Daughter of a senator – scratch that, two daughters – and they let it slip on Twitter. They get a book deal, 6 he’s down for the count.” That’s it! The Republicans are done! Kewt’s the only candidate they had this year who could walk down the street without wearing out his knuckles. I feel relief and desire and lust. I have this thing in the bag. I can picture myself … well, um, yeah, myself … walking into the Oval Office and dropping my loafers right on the top of that desk. She responds to my smile. She loves this game, almost as much as I do. I know what you’re probably think- ing: I picked her as my aide because va-vooom. But believe me, I’m lucky to have her. She’s been working on campaigns since junior high. This is her first real gig on a national campaign, and she already acts like a vet. I would be lost without her. And I’d be lost on nights like this, too. Back in Washington I was out every night and on the phone the minute I got home. I’d call old friends, new colleagues, people I had to cajole, constituents who thought I’d never remember their names. I loved to talk to people. But now that I’m … well, I can’t really do that now. None of us proxies are allowed to make casual calls, and these aren’t “my” friends anymore. It would creep people out. But Rachael? Rachael is all mine. “We have to get up in five hours,” she says, pulling me into bed. “So let’s get three hours of sleep.” “If you’re lucky I’ll make it one.” ### And so I’m tired and not in the mood the next morning when my phone rings. It was someone I didn’t want to talk to, and I had to schlep all the way outside to meet him. I pull on some clothes and go to the street to find Harry Angler idling at the curb, in a rental car, his win- dow halfway down. A doughy guy with a potato-shaped head and a comb-over like bent hay, he had, as always, no facial expression whatsoever. And here he is, getting me up first thing in the morning. Angler’s the guy who gets stuff done for me in D.C. When I first found him, early in my career, he was just a two-bit election-fixer working for dead-end campaigns. You know the racket – running push polls to make the other guy sound like Hitler’s lost grandson, or spreading photos of an uptight Christian blitzed at a gay bar. Angler didn’t have much of a resume. But I saw something there I could use, and now he works for me – I mean, the original me, the me in D.C. – on all of my campaigns. That also means he’s in charge of the proxies. He swings by to check in on me every couple of weeks. I used to have him on the phone twenty times a day, and now I only get time with him when he feels like showing up. “Harry, hi,” I say, leaning casually on the window. He just pushes a poll in my hand. “This is confidential from the campaign.” I skim the pages. “I don’t see any surprises.” “LaMontagne’s gaining ground with 50-65 year old divorcees. You have a lot of those here, no?” Could you at least turn off the car so I don’t have to talk over your engine? “Oh sure, I’m working their votes,” I say. “And listen, I also made some headway on the windmill project -” “That’s good. We have no room for error here. And don’t forget, Windswept Industries needs that thing built, or the money they’re sending us is gone.” We chitchat a little more, but I can tell he’s eager to move on. Dammit, I think, would you treat me – the 7 original me – this way? How would me-in-D.C. act if he saw you act like this? But again, I didn’t say anything. Because hard as it is to admit, I need him. Sounding casual, I ask: “Listen, so, any movement on the leaderboard?” “The leaderboard’s always moving,” he answered. “So how am I doing?” “You’ve done great work here,” says Angler. “Great work. And we expect even more.” And that’s all I get out of him before he leaves. ### “Can I ask you a question?” says Joe the barber, a straight razor over my temple. “Shoot,” I say. I was there, for once, to get an actual haircut, and we had the shop to ourselves. Seeing Angler’s scruffy dome made me want to get my own cleaned up. Have to look my best for all those lonely old women whose votes weren’t in the bag. “You’re Ted Tuscadero, and there’s Senator Ted Tuscadero down in Washington. And then there are ninety- nine more of you running around.” “That’s the headcount.” Well, it’s a hundred minus the one we lost on Christmas. And I think Rachael said another one just “dropped out.” I’m not sure what that means-I was eavesdropping. “So when this election’s over, what do you all do?” “Well, during the election as you know, I’ll be traveling the country for the campaign. After that? We’ll still represent the President, and push his agenda. You remember when people joked that President Obama was -everywhere- whenever he had something to push. I can really do it.” “So you stay on the road, while the first Senator goes to the White House?” I know I shouldn’t tell him. But I can’t resist. “Here’s the thing,” I say, lowering my tone. “We have something called the -leaderboard.- It’s how we rank all the proxies.” Joe is shaving me now, getting things oh-so-smooth around my ear. “The way it works, when you help the campaign, you move up. If you screw up, you move down. The proxies near the top get the choice assignments. And when the election’s over, the top one gets – well, I shouldn’t say.” “Let me guess. You get some time in the White House?” “Exactly,” I answer. “The original Ted can take long vacations while I stay in Washington. I get to share power with myself.” Joe thinks it over, but he doesn’t seem convinced. “I dunno. He’s you. You’re him. Would you give up the top seat? For even one single day?” He catches me for a second. But I shoot him an easy smile and say, “Well, I do like my vacations.” Joe laughs. Score. “I know you think you’re doing us voters a favor. But the thing is, people don’t like politicians,” says Joe. “We only like ‘em at their funerals.” “I care about the windmill. And I care about this town. You see me every day!”

8 “Ted, if you lived here, I’d hate you year-round!” “Maybe you just don’t know me well enough,” I grin. On my way out the door, my cell phone rings. I have to take this call: it’s none other than Jim McSmit, the guy whose nudie bar stands between me and the White House. He suggests we meet for lunch. Rachael had been working for days to set this up, and now he calls me, and names the restaurant. It’s not the one I would’ve picked – but only because I’m not a member. Yet. McSmit meets me at the 10 Congress Club. It’s a swank new social club, with a membership fee in the thousands and a line of old and new money waiting to pay. McSmit, shall we say, is “new money.” One look at the guy and you hid your wallet. Beady eyes squinted between a smooth-shaved dome and a bushy handlebar moustache, and his leather jacket was filthy. First thing he warned me: “Don’t swear in here. They’ll fucking fine you.” My goal here was to see if we could settle this at a cost the city council could swallow. And it wasn’t start- ing well. We started off on his turf, on his clock, and he knew that he had what I needed. “Here’s my thing,” he says. “I’m just a guy making a living on beer, tits and wings. Not a Washington big shot like you.” “Hey, I think I know a little more about your situation than you’d think,” I correct him. “I ran a small busi- ness myself.” “Yeah? What was that?” “My law practice.” McSmit scoffs, at that but I ignore him. “I was a trial lawyer. Win a case, and you’re rich; lose, and you just wasted a year on nothing. I know what American businessmen put on the line.” “What I’ve heard, you won plenty of cases. Did pretty well for yourself. Why’d you even get into politics? What do they pay you in the Senate?” “It’s not really about the pay,” I say, realizing no one ever really asks me about this. “I love it for the same reason I love a trial. I love going into a court and persuading people – because that’s half the battle, not just having the facts and the evidence, but convincing them you’re their guy. I’m good at that. Put me in front of anyone, face to face, and I can get them to hear me out. And when they do, they usually agree with me.” McSmit cuts me off. “Don’t count on getting any agreement from me. Seems you just came here to tell me to get out of town. And nobody tells me that. Ever.” Tough talk. But I’ve heard tougher. “Okay. Then what should I tell you?” “What’ll you give me if I nix the restaurant?” I laugh. “I’m not writing you a check, if that’s what you’re getting at. Election officials take offense at that kind of thing.” “I’m not fucking slow, I know you can’t just -give- me something. But even if you lose the race, you’re a fucking Senator. A favor from you could be worth something. And anyway, LaMontagne’s people have been dragging their dicks in the sand about what they’ll do for me.” This surprises me. “You’re saying LaMontagne’s backing you up on this?” “Well, yeah, I talk to some of his people. He doesn’t talk to me directly, like you. There aren’t as many of him, so his time’s worth a lot more.” His grin went halfway to a snarl. “LaMontagne will never make it to the White House. If I win here, I win the White House. And I will re- member the people who helped me along the way.” 9 McSmit goes silent. He swirls his drink around. “Well, that’s fucking sweet, but what can you do for me down there? LaMontagne’s right over in Maine. Lots of girls in Maine want to work for a Body Shots, ‘spe- cially in this economy. Lots of local talent up there. You know they have a topless donut shop up near the capital?” “So I guess you’re saying you don’t want me to go to Washington and save the economy,” I joke. That gets a genuine laugh out of him, and for a second there, I don’t want to kill the guy. But by the time the tab comes, I know we’re done here. And he hammers it in as he reaches for the tab and looks at the fines that the maitre d- was quietly ticking up every time he opened his stupid mouth. “Sorry I can’t help you. But hey, I’m the one who spent $240 to tell you what’s on my mind.” ### “What’s plan B?” Rachael asks back at the hotel, where I don’t even feel like sex. I sigh. “We can try to seize the lot through eminent domain, but that’s a scorched earth approach. It’s bound to tick off voters left, right, and center.” I groan. “Maybe I can find another buyer for the land.” “But LaMontagne will find a way to block you,” she says. And that stings. Here’s LaMontagne, playing his pawns against me while he won’t even stoop to sit at the chessboard. “When I get into office, I’m going to move so much nuclear waste to his state that that fucker won’t need lights on the highway.” “I love it when you talk all tough,” Rachael laughs. She walks into the other room to pour a couple of drinks. Her laptop is open, and I glance over and see a poll on her screen. I’ve never seen this one before. It isn’t a poll of the primary, or the likely nominees. It isn’t an issues poll, either. It’s a poll I’ve never seen before – a poll about proxies. “Do you support the use of proxies to reach out to voters?” asked the first question. 63% said yes. Okay, that’s nice. The voters still like the personal touch. “Recently, the federal government revealed the true price of the program. Do you think it’s worth the ex- pense?” Hey, that was news – I didn’t realize the cost had leaked. Doesn’t anyone know how to keep a state secret anymore? And here, the numbers look bad: 3% thought it was worth the money, 2% were not sure. Everyone else was totally pissed off. Well, okay, people hate it when you spend their money. But come on, we can spin this. I just catch the next question, which looked like it had something to do with my car crash last December. “Given the controversy over the cost, the ethical issues, and the public safety risks, do you believe the proxy program should-” And then I hear Rachael padding back into the bedroom. Skilled from years of surfing porn at the office, I flick the window back in time and slide away from the computer. “What’s up?” she asks. “Planning my next move on the Body Shots situation.” With a heavy sigh I say, “This is going to get ugly. Rach, I’m going to need to talk to Harry Angler tomorrow. Can you get me on the phone with him?” The minute the name leaves my lips, I know I’ve screwed up. See, Rachael’s an idealist. A world saver. She used to spend spring break walking girls past the mobs at abortion clinics. She hears me bring up Angler’s name, and she know exactly what I have in mind. “You don’t have any other ideas?” 10 “Nope. None. I can’t do this the right way. But I can still get it done.” Her eyes get hard – she’s giving me idealist eyes. “You know I joined this campaign because I know you can be a good man. That’s what matters to me. You’re here to do right, and this isn’t right.” “Rachael, sometimes the ends justify the -” She cuts that off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t bullshit me.” So I speak to her as honestly as I know how. “I don’t have a choice here, Rach. I really don’t have a choice. If I slip on the leaderboard, if I don’t deliver this town – I’m finished. Just finished. You think I don’t know have my own questions about how this thing works? Do you think I really believe that the bottom ten guys are getting ambassadorships? “And,” I added after a thought, “Regardless. I didn’t come this far to give up. That’s not who I am.” We don’t talk the rest of that night. The last time I see her is when she drops my blanket and pillow on the couch. But I can handle that. Give it time, and she’ll see my point of view. ### The next week was very convenient for me. McSmit made the papers: while driving back from a meeting to look at plans for an ice luge, McSmit started driving erratically. He totaled his Mustang on the lawn of a historic house, pulverizing a 17th cen- tury birdbath. And what should the cops find in the glove compartment but a tiny bag with a few snorts of cocaine. The legal bill will be staggering. Selling the lot for Body Shots is a given. By the time of the primary, we had a deal. The Council voted for it; the windmill company gave them a special price for a pilot program. Even Rachael started to warm back up to me. She isn’t happy about Mc- Smit – no mistaking that – but hey, green energy is one of her issues. Technically, this is a win. I won the primary, too. The state was close, but I had a landslide margin in Fairport. And I made the top of the proxy leaderboard. I should’ve been over the moon. But somehow I don’t feel finished with this place. In fact, to tell the truth? It feels like the town is finished with me. On primary night, I stood outside the polling place at the middle school, shaking hands at the gym. On the way in, everyone shook my hand and promised to give me their vote. And on the way out, they kept saying goodbye – like they were never going to see me again. My campaign party felt like a wake. At the Mayor came, and he gave me a beefy handshake. “Ted, we’re really pleased about this project,” he says. “And hey, I know you’ll be busy in the White House next spring. But is there any way you could come back for the groundbreaking? It’s your baby, and we’d love to take your photo with it.” “I wouldn’t miss it,” I say, smiling. “But listen. In case I’m busy. Could we take the photo with -” I didn’t know how to put this. “Like, could you take a picture of me for this?” “Ted, we haven’t even broken ground yet -” I blurt it out. “If I come back this fall, well – I don’t know if it’ll be me. Me me. You know?” The Mayor suddenly got my meaning. He stopped, and we had an awkward moment. But it was just a mo- ment. He’s a pol, and he knows how to come right back to the comfort zone. With a cough and a smile, he claps me on the back and says, “Ted? It’ll be you and me and the Secret Service and all your friends in Fairport. And we will welcome you back.” ### 11 My last day in Fairport, I decide to get my hair cut. Naturally I go to Joe’s. I wanted to say goodbye, and rib him a little for not voting for me. Rachael said she’d meet me here as soon as the cars packed, and then we’re off to D.C. for our next assignment. “Ted, I didn’t vote for you, that’s true. You’re on the wrong ticket,” says Joe. “But I’ve gotta say, you lived up to your word. You said you’d build that ridiculous windmill and saddle us all with debt, and you did it.” “It’ll save money in the long run,” I remind him as he changed clippers. “Remains to be seen.” “I’ll come back and find out,” I smile. Damn was I feeling home sick already, and we hadn’t even pulled out of town. Joe is silent for a while. “So, what’s next for you?” he asks, and he sounds a little funny. “They haven’t told me. But I have a feeling it’s gonna be great,” I say. Of course, I’m curious what’s next. Just because the election’s in the bag doesn’t mean we can stop work- ing. Maybe they’ll send me to California – the big prize. I love the weather. And one of me isn’t enough for a state that big. Maybe I’ll get more proxies, working under me – a hundred of them canvassing the state, and I would coordinate them all. In fact, I wonder if I can give each of them a Rachael. I look out the window to see if Rachael’s brought the car. And then I spot something: a van pulls up out- side, and a man in a rumbled trench coat slouches out. It’s Angler. “What’s in the paper,” I ask, “any good news?” “Nah. Nothing you should worry about. You just won big, didn’t you?” Angler walks in, and I get a feeling in my gut – the feeling I get when I’m about to be ambushed by a re- porter, or sunk in a debate, or just when I shouldn’t take a call. I get a feeling that I should excuse myself. But there’s nowhere to go. “Senator,” he says, “come with me.” “Wait a minute. His haircut’s not done,” Joe objects. He puts a hand on my shoulder. Angler doesn’t even look at him. “Time to go, Senator.” I nod to Joe and stand. I offer to pay, but Joe shakes his head. “On the house.” “Well, thanks Joe. I really appreciate that.” And for the first time, he extends his hand. We shake. “Best of luck to you, Senator,” he says. And as I leave the shop and get in the van, I feel good. I could swear I almost have his vote.

—30— Chris Dahlen lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire with his wife and son, who wants to be a robot. He usually write about games and music for Edge, Pitchfork, and the Onion’s AV Club. He’s the editorial director of Kill Screen, a new quarterly print magazine about videogames, and which you can read more about at http://www.killscreenmagazine.com

12 Book Review: Shades of Milk and Honey Review by Sarah Frost Written by Mary Robinette Kowal While I do not read romances, and I have not read a book by Jane Austen since high school, I neverthe- less decided to pick up Shades of Milk and Honey by Mary Robinette Kowal. She is a brilliant writer, and I trusted her to write something I could endure. As it turned out, enduring the book wasn’t a problem — the hard part was putting it down. The choice of detail in Shades of Milk and Honey is exquisite. Everything is described in spare, precise language. I can still see the glass cherries, the nymph’s face hidden in the tree, the dark and stormy bed- room of a heartsick girl. There is not a single wasted word or padded scene. That makes Shades of Milk and Honey a quick read. There is very little action until the dramatic ending, but that does not slow the narrative down. The majority of the book is concerned with interactions between people — with word and gesture, thought and response. I found it enthralling. I believe the plot will be familiar to readers of romance. Two sisters named Jane and Melody try to walk the narrow path that society has marked for them, with the threat of scandal and ruin pressing in on both sides. Mary Robinette Kowal does not pull her punches in her portrayal of traditional marriage as an eco- nomic arrangement between families. As the sisters cannot inherit, they must either marry well or fall into poverty when their father dies. Romance in this setting is a matter of survival. Melody, who is beautiful, has no shortage of suitors. Jane, on the other hand, is cursed with a big nose and brown hair, and believes that she will never find a husband. The aspect of the book that has gotten the most attention is its magic. Mary Robinette Kowal has made her book’s magic small and subtle, to avoid breaking history. This was not an easy task, and she has spoken at length about it elsewhere. The magic is called Glamour. It is the art of folding the ether to produce small illusions — a dress on a mannequin, a piece of ambient music to liven a party, or an elaborate “glamural” that turns a room into a forest glade. Jane has a particular talent for glamour, which gets her into trouble before it gets her out of it. Just as the magic has been carefully constructed so as to allow the Regency period to proceed more or less as it did in the real world, the language in Shades of Milk and Honey has been chosen to fit the period. Modern readers will notice obvious examples of archaic English, such as “shew,” but the overall effect is wonderfully subtle, making the book feel right without distracting the reader. Shades of Milk and Honey is a deceptively simple book resting on a foundation of solid research. I am told that there are plans for another book, which will involve swashbuckling. I can’t wait. I had my doubts about this book at first, but I’m glad I gave it a chance, and I am looking forward to the sequel. —30— Sarah Frost is a science fiction writer who lives in Kansas. Her first short story will be appearing in the March 2011 issue of Analog. She can be found on the Voice of the Vortex podcast, or trying to organize her library.

13 EP266:Kachikachi Yama By Michael R. Underwood The howl of the northbound train builds in crescendo as I stand on the ledge of the platform and hold the man above the tracks. He flails at me. The Shikoku station is far from empty. Groaning bodies dot the otherwise hospital-clean platform. A group of fleshmodded Gothic Lolita girls watch us. They look on with inhumanly white faces and void-black eyes. Twig-thin arms down to their knees wave in the wind. He begs. My denkigami’s polite but insistent voice chirps in my head. “Yamagata-sama orders the target to be elimi- nated.” Spirit of the fleshware machine in my brain, my denkigami is a constant companion, and keeper of my leash. The roar of the train grows louder, and bells ring in the station. The man pleads for his life. The train’s lights appear from around the around the corner. ### My daimyo’s summons comes at 3:27 in the morning. My denkigami wakes me, and within minutes I crawl through the servant’s entrance to his office, dressed and ready in simple white silk kimono, my hair in a topknot. The walls of his office are covered in the finest works from a millennium’s worth of painters. Basho, Cara- vaggio, Monet, Kiefer. Yamagata Kenichiro has never met my gaze. My father served him and his father, and I will know no other master until I retire as a nun or die in his service. Samurai. From Samuru—“to serve.” Yamagata-sama grunts. “My honor has been violated.” He pushes a digital tablet across his desk. The tablet shows a 360-degree image of a fleshmod-tanned hacker in his twenties, data-port centered in a swirling tattoo on the back of his neck. Yamagata stands and places a hand on the desk. “This criminal has brought shame upon my wife and upon my house.” “What is your desire, lord?” Yamagata-sama’s eyes narrow. “First, befriend him. Then, humiliate him.” He has not ordered me to do this before. “Why not just kill him, lord?” Yamagata slams his fist on the table. “It is not enough.” He walks around the table, leans over me and draws a finger down my face and across my chin. “He must know ecstasy before he knows agony.” I re- strain the shudder. He has always treated me like a woman first, a serving maid who could kill instead of a worthy member of a noble line. This is not a job for a samurai, but I do not have a choice. I serve him to honor my family’s name, prove that we were worthy of elevation to the samurai caste. I take the tablet with both hands as I bow. I crawl back through the low gap in the synthetic rice-paper walls while the side door–the one for his peers–remains closed. ### I pore over the files at the steel desk in my modest apartment in the servant’s wing. A seven-mat front room 14 large enough for a couch and exercise equipment, and a five-mat bedroom room connected to a compact bathroom. Synthetic shoji walls give me no privacy, thin as rice-paper but made of plastic. My red-lacquered family shrine stands centered on my dresser. When I was a child, I slept in the front room, ‘my’ walls covered in holoposters of the latest idols. The target’s alias is “Tanuki”–the raccoon-dog trickster of ancient folklore. A flash of memory–ancestral armor and bound bamboo. Lessons on bushido. “The way of the past is a unified one, my little rabbit. Samurai must listen to the past and speak to the future.” And so father insisted that I learn the old tales in addition to the old skills. He always taught two things at once: religion and endurance; bullets and bushido. To fail either lesson was to fail both. He wanted a son, but since Empress Toshi wed the first Imperial Denkigami and proclaimed the second restoration, women have been allowed to bear the daisho–the paired katana and wakizashi–so that they might serve. My father taught me how to live. Now I have my denkigami and Yamagata-sama. The dossier gives his school background, address, frequent haunts, and a detailed psychological profile. Yamagata’s orders will force me to do things below my station, but I am thankful it does not involve killing. I have murdered fifty-seven people by Yamagata-sama’s bidding, and in slumber, I still hear each of their screams. ### I ‘randomly’ meet Tanuki at a hacker café in the Akihabara district, known more commonly now as Ka- chikachi Yama, the ‘matchstick mountain,’ where the fire of creativity burns hottest and brightest, most creative and most dangerous. It is the home of the elite tensai hackers and aspirants alike. I spend an hour in front of the mirror, painting myself like a Heian-era lady-in-waiting. The café is decorated like the digital heaven Denkigoku itself, great clouds for the lampshades, the bar rising out of sea-blue floor, the design a stylized island from an ancient painting. Intense colors and soft lines make the building into a waking dream. Not three paces into the café and I catch his eye. The profile tells me he likes the classical beauties, no obvious fleshmods–strange contrast to his profession. I wonder, who is this man really? I order a green tea and flirt with the peek of a wrist as I inhale the steam rolling off the cup. Then I approach the table with the tiny steps required in my many layers of kimono. I miss my loose fighting clothes and their freedom of motion. “May I join you?” Classical beauties yes, but he liked his women aggressive. He rubs his shaved head and gestures to the seat. “Please.” I set down the tea and sit daintily, playing my part. I think of his work, and begin to play him like a dating sim. After hours studying his file, I know which movies to hate, what media feeds to quote. I play the part of a devoted fan. I am his desires sculpted into flesh. ### We go out twice before I begin to do Yamagata-sama’s bidding. My denkigami reminds me always of my orders, so I move more quickly to avoid its censure. I remember my father on the floor, a broken island in a still ocean of blood, the crater in the back of his head his punishment for refusing an unjust order. I obey my denkigami. ###

15 We stand on an open plain, wheat stalks swaying in the digital wind of Denkigoku. He is teaching me to hack. An attempt at romance. I hear my father’s voice in my head. “For the samurai, every experience is a lesson.” Tanuki’s avatar is the squat raccoon dog which gives him his handle–with comically-oversized testicles hanging to the ground. Mine is a samurai woman in kabuki style, all in red, lacquered armor and painted face–red streaks over a white base. He says my avatar is cute. I ignore the urge to rip off the tanuki’s testicles. I listen. Tanuki activates a protective denkigami, a blue-skinned oni with four arms and Indian clothes. It stands at attention. “Every denkigami has a counter. Like rock-paper-scissors with a thousand symbols.” He activates the program, and the oni levels its weapons at Tanuki. “Unauthorized passage is not allowed. Please provide your access code.” Tanuki strokes the fur on his chin. “With the right program, any denkigami can be conquered.” He reaches between his legs and pulls out a pair of fans. Doing a dance with the fans, he leaps side to side and the oni drops its guard. “Proceed, honored guest.” He bests another dozen denkigami to show his prowess. Each time, he knows the perfect tool. He holds up a naginata, the traditional weapon of a noblewoman. “This is how I hacked the denkigami of the wife of a corporate daimyo. To beat a denkigami, turn its power against itself, make it follow the rules that control it in a way that forces it to obey your request. With this icon, I turned her resentment against Yamagata’s control into a weapon.” I smile and flatter him. I learn two lessons– deception and hacking. My father would approve. Tanuki’s show is complete, and my true task begins. I meditated on this, asked my father for guidance on the unjust order. But I am samurai, and I must serve. We leave Denkigoku after his lesson, return to his spartan apartment. To show my ‘thanks,’ for his indul- gence, I take him to bed. He is enthusiastic, clumsy, and greedy, drinking of my body. I close my eyes and think of freedom. ### Denkigoku swirls into being when I dream, and I am again trapped by the spirits of those I’d killed. I lay on a green island floating in the vast sea of heaven, home to machine spirits, the restless dead and the great spirits of nature. Naked. I’m always naked. My protestation of purity or my weakness before their rage? I stand and snap off a branch from the island’s lone bamboo tree and hold it like a blade. I wait. They come in twos and threes, shining echoes of my victims. Carried on the winds of their screams, they fly at me; form a cloud as I wave them away with the branch. I plead with the dead. “Enough! You must move on! It was my duty!” the same words, the same response. “Murderer! Demon! Vengeance!” They tear at me with bloodied claws. The cuts cover my body in waves as the branch passes through their red-soaked clothes. A hand slaps away the branch. They knock me to the ground, and I curl into a shaking ball as their screams mix with the sharp wind. My 16 scream joins the chorus. ### Tanuki leaps out of bed when I wake him with my screams. He tries to comfort me, his arm around my shoulders. I escape to his shower and shudder alone. Wrapped in his black towels, I bring him tea when I return. Tanuki leans back and strokes a beard he doesn’t have. We lounge on a bed three times the size of my futon, with real silk sheets, a memory-shaped mattress, and mahogany bedposts in western style. His flesh- mod tan glistens in the afterglow. After a night of drenched sheets, spent condoms and still-echoing electronic bass, I move to the next part of the plan. “I heard about this new fleshware modification. They say it is wonderful for hackers.” “Which one?” he asks. As if there’s the possibility he has not heard of it. “It’s a selective synasthesia. Good for working in Denkigoku for hacking. So I hear.” The smallest edge in the machine spirit world can mean the difference between glory and humiliation. He nods. “A few of the tensai have it.” “And you’re a tensai.” I smile wide and make him believe I think he is one of the elite. “I think we should go and get it together.” My fingers trace along his chin. He shivers, and the sheets shift over his groin. “I don’t think I need it,” he says with a smile of his own. “I want you to hear my kisses and taste my moans, Tanuki. To dance to the symphony of you in me. Will you do that, for us?” Yamagata has made a samurai into a common concubine. I push aside the sheets and slide my hands up his chest. He dissembles, and I grit my teeth to contain my frustration. “You’re tensai, but with this, you could be Tensai Ichiban.” Tensai Ichiban, the number one hacker in the world, a coveted position which led to many hackers’ ends by blades or bullets in back alleys or digital mountaintops. He leans back, looks at his wall of hardware, staring past the screens into his imagined future. “Tensai Ichiban.” ### Hanamichi is my favorite fleshware parlor, I tell Tanuki. They are actually a new Yamagata-Corp acquisi- tion, but the deal has yet to reach the media. Deep blue mood lighting fills the room, with gel-sculpted couches, news feeds on the wall-panels, and local rock DJ-ed off one of the flesh artist’s rigs. Our artist is agelessly young, fleshmodded to look like a golden age anime heroine. Her eyes take up a quarter of her face, and her mouth is no wider than my thumb. The artist explains the procedure to Tanuki. The synasthetic mod is sculpted to the sensory system, acting as a processing center for sensory input. Left alone, it channels the information to the traditional centers. When accessed consciously, it takes sensory input and redirects it to be processed by other modalities. Tanuki nods and I can see him salivating at what the fleshmod can give him–the edge in Denkigoku, the power needed to vie to be Tensai Ichiban. That is what I want him to believe. 17 ### We recover from the procedure for a week, letting the brain acclimate to the possibilities. The whole time, Tanuki can only talk about becoming Tensai Ichiban. He ignores the fleshmodder’s advice and drinks, smokes, and paces around his apartment. “This is going to be amazing, Yuriko.” He knows me by my mother’s name. She took her life when my father died. I was fifteen. “Most of these losers, they don’t even know about this.” He taps his head where the skull was pulled back. He winces, teeth flashing through a grimace. “Everything in Denkigoku will be different. Data will sing. Graphics will boil my blood.” I smile again, and pretend to be weak from the procedure he thinks I have had with him. The fleshmod artist merely gave me the appropriate scar, perpendicular five-centimeter cuts. “That fucker Yamagata will never know what hit him. It”ll even top what I did to his wife.” “Yamagata? As in the Yamagata Corporation?” Feigning interest is not hard, this time. Hearing his side might illuminate Yamagata-sama’s motivations for making a concubine of me. “After I slipped into his personal datanet and hacked his wife’s denkigami, I had her go to him and screw. He was surprised at first, but he got so into it! I had them do the dirtiest stuff…I doubt they’d screwed since she squeezed out his heir!” Tanuki clapped like a giddy child. “And then, just as he was finishing, I hacked her voicebox and told him what I did!” This was the affront that Yamagata-sama had assigned me to revenge. Embarrassment for embarrassment. Tanuki should notice my flared nostrils, the clenched fingers, but he isn’t even looking at me anymore. “And now I’m going to rob him blind so we can go around the world, Yuriko.” I giggle for him, hand over mouth. I hate Tanuki for the way I have to act. I hate Yamagata-sama more. ### Tanuki buys sake and decorates his apartment, makes a party of his first journey to Denkigoku after having the synasthetic installed. I wanted it to be the two of us, but he insisted. Eight of his hacker friends are there, all fake-tanned like him, small men with big egos. They congregate and talk about clan raids on the latest online pro circuit. He has three oversized screens suspended from the ceiling, usually for his casual viewing pleasure. To- night, we will watch him as he goes in for Yamagata Corp’s payroll. After a few drinks, some ranting about his expertise and the corruption of the Zaibatsu feudal system, Ta- nuki begins. He spreads the rice, says the chant, and plugs in to make the journey to Denkigoku. There, hackers style themselves warriors battling digital oni security systems and currying favor with the denki- gami, machine spirits of the new Japanese empire. On my signal, my denkigami makes the call to Yamagata-sama’s men. Its voice gives me confirmation. “We will wait now. Yamagata-sama will be pleased.” The surreal world of Denkigoku swirls into visibility on the three screens. Painted clouds in ancient style dot the electric-blue sky, ten thousand denkigami flying through the air, the traffic constant. He walks across moss-covered bridges in the old style, under rows of towering red torii–the sacred gates separating common space from the sacred territory of the Yamagata Corporation. Tanuki is salivating like a dog, so enthralled by the synasthetic. He brags as he goes. “This is amazing! The 18 air tastes like salmon. The torii sound like bells.” Yuri, I wish you were here with me.” I sip sake and watch as Tanuki walks into the trap Yamagata-sama has prepared. The white walls of Yamagata’s castle stretch three screens high, the representation of the corporation’s digital holdings in Denkigoku. Tanuki’s waddling avatar approaches the gate, facing looming oni with black skin and bulbous tusks and weapons three times his size. He laughs, his hands coursing through the air making commands. The ava- tar reaches into its crotch to pull out the digital tool he would use to trick his way past the oni security. Tanuki told me he planned to use a hypnotic program he had been working on, represented by a vintage pokemon. Instead, his avatar pulls up a flapping koi fish, which splashes water in his face. The avatar stumbles back- wards and lands on top of the oversized testicles. The oni draw closer. “Please provide your security code!” Their voices bellow through Tanuki’s speakers, maxing the audio. The sound waves crash against my chest, and I take another sip. “What’s going on? Come on, work, dammit!” Tanuki scrambles backwards, flailing for the tool he needs, but all that will come out are koi, each more unwieldy and useless than the last. The oni run him off with pounding threats, and Tanuki’s so-called friends laugh. The piggyback program does its duty. The synasthesia is selective as promised in the earthly realm, but in Denkigoku, it is com- pletely random and incomprehensible. His mind is convinced sounds are touches, tastes are vision. He will be permanently disabled in Denkigoku, never able to hack again. Yamagata-sama’s revenge is complete. So I think. ### I sit once more in Yamagata-sama’s study, in the attentive seiza posture, feet and ankles tucked beneath me. I have given my report. Yamagata-sama strokes his beard and grunts wordless phrases. “Well done. However, I am not satisfied. He will suffer for a month, and then you will dispose of him. Take him to Shikoku. Leave his body there.” I bow. Fifty-seven spirits plague my dreams, and now Yamagata-sama is telling me there will be one more, a tanuki with plastic glasses. First he debases me, and then makes my demeaning act a cruel prelude to murder. I crawl out of Yamagata’s office and return to my apartment to prepare. I burn incense for my parents and go to kill Tanuki. ### Tanuki proves himself not a total fool. Five tattooed yakuza surround me in the train station when I arrive, razorwire blades and outlawed guns trained on me. My hand rests on the hilt of my blade. I wait. Tanuki gloats. “Hello lover. A friend of mine tipped me off, so I thought I’d bring some friends on our get- away trip. How pissed do you think he’ll be when I send his samurai lapdog’s head back to him?” I don’t bother to respond. The game is over; I do not have to pretend for him anymore. For a long moment, the world is still, six bodies ready to explode into motion while Tanuki stands back and laughs.

19 A tall man with a red dragon tattoo around his torso flinches, takes a stutter-step forward. I leap and draw. Ancient steel cuts through fleshmodded muscle. An arm hits the ground. I spin with soft steps, turning to keep the other four in my sight. My denkigami chirps a warning in my head. “Overhand blow, position seven.” It warns me in time to tilt to the side and let the thin blade cut the air beside my ear. Two yakuza tackle me, thinking their mass enough to overpower one small woman, samurai or not. We crash into a pillar and my head cracks against marble. My katana bursts from the back of one–impaled by his own momentum. I push and spin to pull out the blade. I slice at his companion, face fleshmodded to look like an oni. His skin is red, his nose bulbous, his mouth full of fangs. My grandfather’s sword widens his mouth to his cheekbone. Two steps sideways and I reverse the blade. My head drops as I spin in place and kick a gun out of one’s hands. Katana follows foot and splits the man’s collarbone. My denkigami’s warning to roll comes too late. Pain bursts in my back. The blade clatters on concrete. My head cracks against the wall of a magazine stand. Two more pains blossom in my chest. A steaming gun barrel stands in the air, held by a yakuza not out of junior high. I roll to the side and my vision tracks as if I’d indulged in too much sake. We lock eyes. He flinches, and I pluck the gun from his hand while he blinks. A sharp elbow to the temple drops him to the floor. I turn and fire a bullet through Tanuki’s thigh as he runs up the stairs. Tossing the gun aside, I retrieve my target. I lift him with both arms and move to hold him over the edge. ### The lights of the train grow wider at the end of the tunnel as I hold Tanuki over the edge of the Shikoku line platform. I grit my teeth from the strain. I show him my real face, too long hidden behind makeup and insincere smiles. “I am Ryoji Usagiko, vassal of Yamagata Kenichiro, and I have been ordered to erase the stain you have made upon the honor of the Yamagata.” “Please, don’t kill me! I’ll do anything, you hear? I’ll work for Yamagata, apologize to his wife, hand over other hackers. Please!” He will join murderers and traitors, slave-runners and callous ronin, more voice in the growing chorus of my nightmares. He may deserve death less than they, but he will scream for my death just as loud. My denkigami in my head again. “The train will arrive in 7.3 seconds.” Light fills the platform. If I leave him, he will bankrupt himself seeking revenge. I let go and watch his eyes go wide as I let go. He drops below the platform. I turn on the balls of my feet, walk past the nonplussed girls, and return to Tanuki’s apartment to complete one last task. ### Yamagata smiles when I give my report. He walks out from behind his desk to set a hand on my shoulder. I bow with my hands together, each in the opposite sleeve of my kimono. The sentiment comes too late. I draw the tiny knife from my sleeve and leap to my feet. The knife draws a crimson smile across Yamagata-

20 sama’s throat, and I drop my former master to the floor. My denkigami would have stopped me, stayed my hand before I could act. But I learned my lessons well. The once-constant voice is now quiet. Looking down at my master, we lock eyes. I watch surprise mix with outrage, then give way to fear. “You have violated the oaths of fealty between master and servant, dirtied yourself and your vassals. The Ryoji family no longer has need of the Yamagata’s patronage.” No other words have been as pleasurable. The weight of my father’s murder drops from my shoulders as I leave Yamagata dying on the floor. I leave by the side exit. This time, I do not have to crawl.

—30— Michael R. Underwood dances Argentine tango, studies renaissance fencing, and writes speculative fic- tion in Bloomington, Indiana. He holds a master’s in Folklore Studies and is a graduate of the Clarion West workshop.

21 From the darkest cor- ners, the voices can be heard Conducted by Adam Christopher Y’know, Halloween has always felt like the perfect time for storytelling. Whether it is ghost stories by the campfire, or Hammer horror from the comfort of your own living room (my personal preference), its just the perfectly obvious season for the supernatural and scarifying. While it has ever been thus for people like you and me, it seems to be catching on in the mainstream too. AMC’s zombie TV series The Walking Dead, based on the Eisner award-winning comic book series from Image, premiered to their biggest debut audience ever at 5.3 million viewers. Seasonal television is an American staple (perhaps less so here in the UK), with even series like the surreal college sitcom Community playing quite brilliantly with the zombie genre just a couple of days before. Halloween also saw the launch of a new, free online podcast magazine and website, showcasing the best in genre short fiction. Dark Fiction Magazine is the brainchild of Sharon Ring and Del Lakin-Smith, two names familiar to the UK genre scene. Their stated aim is to produce a monthly short fiction podcast maga- zine, featuring at least four short stories in each issue focussed around a distinct theme. In the spirit of ‘a rising tide lifts all boats’ (thanks for that, Mur!), we spoke to Sharon and Del about their new project and what people can expect. ### Escape Pod: Thanks for joining us! Let’s start with yourselves – what are your respective backgrounds, and what gave you the idea of starting Dark Fiction Magazine? Del: I have been working in IT for over 15 years in one form or another and have either run or helped out on numerous websites, so I have my feet firmly in the cloud, so to speak. I’m also obsessed with music, audio engineering and genre. I launched a podcast in February of last year called WordPunk which covers all sorts of geeky stuff like tech, genre, movies, etc. I had been looking for ways to expand it or cross pollinate with other non-audio based blogs. Sharon ran the idea of Dark Fiction Magazine by me and I was hooked. Sharon: I got into book blogging a couple of years ago with Dark Fiction Review. From there I moved into working as a freelance editor, mostly on horror novels and short stories. Dark Fiction Magazine was an idea I’d had rattling around my head all summer. Turned out, talking to Del, he’d been thinking along the same lines. And that was it: the coolest partnership in podcasting history was born. What made you want to make Dark Fiction Magazine a podcast instead of a regular, text-based website? Podcasts have been around since late 1998, but it was not until 2005 that Apple included native support in iTunes, increasing their popularity massively. These days most people will listen to a podcast in some form, be that a BBC iPlayer Listen Again, an audio book or an internet radio station. So to us, this is the perfect growth medium to launch a short fiction site on. There are many text based short story magazines, and a few audio based ones too, but we saw an opportunity in the market to bring a curated monthly magazine offering high quality genre audio fiction to the masses. How do you see Dark Fiction Magazine fitting into current landscape of podcasts and free audio fiction? 22 Hugo-winners aside, the UK seems to be lagging a little in the area, with podcasting still dominated by US shows. In particular, free audio fiction in podcast form has been produced Stateside for a long while now – Escape Pod being just one example! This is a very good question. Both in fandom and publishing, it is a very close knit community. And there are many passionate, selfless people all working together (and apart) to strengthen the community and industry. When we looked at the current market, we felt that we could add value to the guys and gals already bring- ing fantastic audio fiction to us. We are UK-centric, certainly, more from circumstance than deliberation, which lets us offer something different and focus more on our audience. We still see ourselves as a global service bringing out stories from authors all over the world. The liberating thing about being a free service is that the rules of competition and engagement are differ- ent. We are not stealing customers from others, as there are more than enough to go round and our service is similar enough to others that any new listener we get is also a potential listener for them. So we are try- ing to strike that difficult balance of differentiation enough to be intriguing, but not too much where we have nothing to compare ourselves to and align with. What are your mid- and long-term goals for Dark Fiction Magazine? To be honest we have been blown away by the positive responses we have had since launch and we are re- ally pleased with how it is going. As for plans going forward, we aim to keep growing our range of stories, authors, narrators and artists while creating a valuable medium for new talent to launch themselves from. We are also keen to partner with disability charities to ensure their customers get the best access to our free audio stories as possible and we are playing with the idea of expanding the platform into more cutting edge digital experiments. We are all about accessibility, so if there is a way to get great fiction out there, we hope to embrace it. So, who exactly is Dark Fiction Magazine aimed at? As well as current fiction, will there be readings of old classics? And are you open to submissions or contributions? Dark Fiction Magazine is for absolutely everyone who loves genre fiction. We’re not tied to one genre or sub-genre, so we’re able to podcast lots of content with broad appeal. Our target audience is anyone and everyone. We hope to get sci-fi readers tuning in to horror episodes; fantasy readers listening in to sci-fi. Too often people stick within their own little reading and listening niches. We’re after a wider audience than that. Good genre fiction knows no boundaries, and neither does Dark Fiction Magazine. We’re interested in submissions from new and established writers but we would ask people to check out our submissions policy first to see whether their material is eligible for submission. There may be some classic stories read in time. You’ll have to keep an ear out for future episodes to see which of your own favourites make an appearance! Del and Sharon, thank-you very much! ### Issue 1 of Dark Fiction Magazine is available now, and features stories by Gary McMahon, Sarah Pinbor- ough, Joseph D’Lacey, and Conrad Williams. Authors lined up for future issues include Pat Cadigan, Cory Doctorow, Jon Courtenay, Grimwood, Ramsey Campbell, Rob Shearman, Kim Lakin-Smith, Ian Whates, Lauren Beukes, Mark Morris, Adam Nevill, Gareth L Powell, Jeremy C Shipp, and Jennifer Williams, among others Dark Fiction Magazine can also be subscribed to on iTunes. Dark Fiction Magazine and its founders are all on Twitter as @darkficmagazine, @dfreview (Sharon), and @dellakin_smith (Del). 23 Happy listening! —30— Adam is a New Zealand-born genre writer now living in the sunny North West of England. When not writ- ing he can be found drinking tea and obsessing over Dark Shadows, DC Comics, and 60s Doctor Who. Adam is also very bad at épée but knows that Thibault cancels out Capa Ferro, unless the enemy has stud- ied his Agrippa. Which he has. Adam’s website is adamchristopher.co.uk, and he can be found loitering on Twitter as @ghostfinder.

24 EP267:Planetfall By Michael C. Lea Galthas Talisar stepped out from the buzzing chaos of the transportal and onto lush greenery. This world was alien, to be sure, but the patterns were almost familiar. The ship’s oracles had chosen well. Behind him, the transportal hummed again. An armored leg emerged and carefully found its footing on the blue-green ferns carpeting the jungle floor. More than twenty thousand miles above, the leg’s owner shifted his weight and stepped fully through an identical transportal, instantly emerging on the planet’s surface below. That cautious step belonged to Urjik, who could be called cautious in few other ways. In fact, his reputa- tion had left him few other options for a willing partner on this mission. Urjik did not care. He and Galthas had fought together against the worst the Zayeen had to offer. He trusted Galthas implicitly, despite his disdain for the other scrawny ascetics from Signet Battalion. Urjik’s greenish skin and jutting lower canines marked him as a charuk, his bloodline tainted by nether influences. Despite this stigma, and despite his temper, he had risen quickly in Rampart Battalion. Even the most burdensome battlesuit did not slow him, and no one was a truer shot with an inferno cannon or a hex-impelled railgun. Galthas, by contrast, had the pale skin and slight build of the feytouched. Unarmored and with no vis- ible arms, he was nowhere near as physically imposing as Urjik. Those who had seen Signet Battalion in action, however, knew that his bulky cold-iron armbands were weapons as formidable as any firearm or battleaxe, and far more versatile. “Air’s a little thick,” Urjik said, “but it breathes.” “I could have told you that,” Galthas replied softly, “since you insisted I go first.” Urjik flashed a tusky grin. “I thought that was protocol,” he said. “I always follow protocol.” Galthas frowned back over his shoulder at the armored charuk, but said nothing. His companion was ir- repressible, but Galthas had not quite recovered the use of his sense of humor yet. It was one more thing the Zayeen had taken. Perhaps here, on this world, they could find themselves again. The transportal winked out behind them, the thaumaturgic sigil in its keystone deactivated from the other side. No one else would be coming through. For such a vital mission there would ordinarily be at least a full squadron, with clockwork or golems for logistical support. Here, as on dozens of other mission sites, there were only resources for a two-man team. “Which way is it?” Urjik asked, looking around warily. The air was warm and humid, and buzzed with strange insects like fat blue bees. “We should be within twenty meters,” Galthas said. “This way, I think.” They moved through the brush, Galthas sliding quietly, Urjik with the subtlety of a tank. His armor’s servos whined as he plowed through flora and fauna alike. The cluster of large multicolored crystals jutting from the center of the armor’s back glowed as the suit drew power from them. The undergrowth thinned. A clearing lay just beyond. They could feel a vibration in the air¸ an indefinable high-energy presence, like a gathering thunderstorm. Galthas turned back. “Ready?” he asked. “Either this is it, or this is something very bad.” Urjik hefted his high-powered Vindocladian inferno cannon to his shoulder and aimed its sigil-carved bar- 25 rel into the clearing. Inside the bulky rifle’s main housing, a nether imp was caged, writhing in immortal fury but jacketed securely in heavy-duty curse-proofed lead. “One of these days that thing’s going to backfire,” Galthas said, “and all your kids will end up with ten- tacles.” Urjik shrugged. “They’re already gonna have tusks.” Galthas silently parted the foliage and advanced into the clearing. The source of the disturbance in the air was immediately apparent. In the center of a small field of yellow-orange flowers, a geyser of light foun- tained six meters into the air, too bright to look at. Galthas looked down at his armbands. The fey glyphs carved into them were shining with power. Behind him, Urjik struggled with his rifle as if fighting recoil; the angry imp inside was soaking up energy. His armor’s fuel-crystals grew brighter, their flaws and occlu- sions shining like stars. “Bespeak the ship,” Galthas said, his voice heavy with emotion. “Tell them the oracles were correct. Tell them we’ve found a sourcewell.” Tell them the lights will stay on and the ships will not starve. Tell them our world is dying, but our people may yet survive. ### Most people on Ashter had heard of the Zayeen before they came roaring out of hyperspace bent on geno- cide, but few thought much about them. They were frequent trading partners, but casual visits in either di- rection were rare. Their world Zayid was rich in certain rare earths and metals, but the people themselves were generally regarded as physically repugnant and culturally backward. The Zayeen were fanatical servants of a harsh and exacting deity, while the Ashterites practiced a genial animism whose very formlessness offended their rigid neighbors. In order to secure a vital trade route, the Ashterite military had established a base on Zayid, inadvertently trespassing on one of many holy lands and thus sowing the seeds of their own eventual ruin. Resentment on Zayid built over generations, until a swift and bloody coup left the Crusader faction in charge. The first wave of the Holy Zayeen Crusade departed for Ashter within weeks of the coup. In terms of technology, they were completely outmatched by the Ashterite military, but they brought with them a secret weapon that the Ashterites could never have anticipated. The Zayeen Crusaders had roused their dark god from its slumber. It flew alongside them, ringing with righteous fury, eager to descend upon the sinning Ashterites. ### The sourcewell, of course, came with its own complications. It seemed as if nothing would come easy, ever again. Galthas and Urjik found out about the aliens immediately after bespeaking the good news back to their ship. This close to the sourcewell, the bifurcated mimic-daemon in Urjik’s thaumaturgic squawkbox trans- mitted powerfully and received clearly. The mimics were bred to produce conjoined twins, and separated soon after birth. Whatever one perceived, the other repeated, no matter the distance between them. Al- though the little daemons lived their entire lives separated, Galthas occasionally wondered if they ever longed for their missing halves. While Urjik contacted the ship, Galthas sat and meditated on the sourcewell, feeling the fey energies dancing in his armbands. He sat at the very edge of the grassy clearing, and came no closer to the well itself. Any sentient being who strayed too close would be entranced, drawn irresistibly into the Source to be annihilated. The sourcewells were vital, they were the stuff of life itself; but they were also deadly. Urjik’s heavy tread had announced his presence long before he spoke. “We’ve got company,” he said. 26 “Maybe half a klick away.” Galthas reluctantly left meditation behind. “Zayeen?” he asked, eyes still closed. “No,” Urjik said. “Something else.” Before they left, Galthas decided to conceal the sourcewell. There was no way of knowing how the inter- lopers might react to it, or try to exploit it. Galthas fell into a stance, spreading his feet wide. He flexed his knees, and felt the earth below hold him in its grasp. He flattened his palms, swung his arms into the ready position, and prepared to carve his will into reality. His hands moved, weaving glyphs in the air, leaving a shimmering trail hanging in the empty space be- hind. Inside the bracers clasped around his forearms, captive fey wildlings shone brightly in response to his will. Their power flowed through a web of microtubules of cold iron, spinning through complex cir- cuits until it emerged, shaped into signs transcribed from Galthas’ mind onto the face of creation. Galthas drew a point, a line, a curve, suggesting the sweep of a clock’s hand. cen(x,y,z):=-45.0892, 207.6823, 32.3342 rad:=20m Next, an oval circumscribed by a circle: set perc:=from perc1 to perc5 for all perc from cen(x,y,z) to arc(cen,rad,360) Finally, a Moebius-like closed loop, curving back upon itself, to establish the simple recursion: perc:=perc+dist(dist(cen,rad),perc) next perc The glyphs hung in midair, shimmering. Galthas waved them together. They joined, overlapping, connect- ing in the proper places to allow power to flow through the newly-defined system. Galthas thrust his hands into the glyph, vertically aligned, right over left. Power crackled through his armbands as they intersected the potent symbol. He then rotated his arms, as if turning a wheel, until his hands were horizontal. The glyph rotated with them a full quarter-turn, locking into place with an impact he could feel in the pit of his stomach. Reality’s tumblers clicked over one another, and the world was changed. The sourcewell and its clearing vanished instantly, replaced by more jungle. Anyone looking in the well’s direction would not only fail to see it; their steps would be guided subtly around it. It would be safe from tampering or exploitation. “Now,” Galthas said, “let’s go meet our visitors.” ### When the astronomers first spotted it, they thought it was a mistake. It flew alongside the Zayeen fleet, gliding in and out of conventional space, radioactive auroras trailing in its wake in sinister serpentine waves. When it was too consistent to be labeled a mistake, they thought it was a massive ship, a dread- nought on a scale heretofore never seen. Even that would have been much better than the truth. The truth, which they saw once the Zayeen fleet breached visual range, was that it was a Vulcalisk gargan- tua. As far as the scientists on Ashter knew, no one had ever seen one alive before. The only known speci- 27 men had been discovered near Zayid, by the Ashterite military garrison placed there. A subsequent joint expedition had fully explored the site in all its awful grandeur. The beast lay coiled around a shattered planetoid, with the crumbling remains of a world smeared around it as an asteroid belt. The planetoid was scarred, obviously by the creature’s external assault, but it seemed to have been shot through with a network of fine holes as well. There was nothing left of the planet-sized monster but bones. They had considered it an anomaly, a unique aberration, but they had named the species nonetheless. It held the popular imagination on Ashter for some time; reconstructions, artistic speculations on what it had looked like alive, and even fictional entertainment featuring the gargantua as destroyer or savior were all eagerly devoured by a captivated public. But the Zayeen – the Zayeen had insisted it was a god. They even had their own name for it, terrifying and unpronounceable. They were rapturous at its discovery and thought the Ashterites’ whimsical fascination filthy and disrespectful. The Ashterites, for their part, thought the talk of god-bones laughable, but never snickered too loudly or in mixed company. When the Zayeen emerged from hyperspace with their scaly god behind them, sculling the solar winds with its massive crocodilian tail, the Astherites stopped laughing. They knew the Zayeen worshipped the beast, but never imagined that the fanatics could find or clone a live one, much less tame it. The Vulcalisk gargantua tore through their defenses and blotted out the sun, hungry for the hot marrow of Ashter. ### The aliens were “something else” indeed. Their scanners revealed that the ship was like a coffin; a lifeless box of metal, hollowed out, with stubby wings that imitated flying things but were not animated by any sort of life-force. To Galthas and Urjik, it was like seeing a rock or a corpse that flew. A door in the ship’s belly hissed open, powered by some motive force that was not immediately apparent. The thing that waddled out was tripartite; three arms, three legs, no head to speak of, a ring of watery green eyes around its midsection and a central mouth where its neck should be. Its flesh was gray and rubbery, with irregular patchy tufts of reddish hair. It was draped in metallic ornaments, many of which seemed permanently attached. Galthas and Urjik stood their ground, ready for anything. Urjik had relegated his cannon to a shoulder mount and now held a telescoping battleaxe that he had unfolded from its housing in his armor. Galthas’ bracers had sprouted shimmering bucklers and stubby blades of fey energy. Both stood ready for battle at any sign of aggression. They had been caught unawares by the Zayeen. Never again. Then the tripod-thing spoke, and a box on its chest echoed its words. Galthas and Urjik both started; they were quite certain that no creature or spirit nested within the box, and a talking cube of metal was unheard of. Unfortunately, both the tripod and the box spoke gibberish. The rubbery creature pointed to the box, then to its own mouth, then to Galthas. When there was no re- sponse, it said something unintelligible and repeated the gesture. “You think it wants us to talk?” Urjik asked. “I think so,” Galthas responded. So they talked. They spoke of the war. Urjik talked of the gargantua, of how it wrapped itself around their world and sunk its teeth, with tips as broad as cities, deep into Ashter’s hide. He talked of the destruction, or claws that rent continents asunder, of the flight into their great voidfaring ships, living creatures like 28 gigantic levitating horseshoe crabs. Galthas talked of the desperate fight to slay the gargantua, of witnessing the deaths of hundreds of thauma- turges of Mirror Battalion who died affixing talismans to one of the impossibly huge creature’s eye-sockets. He talked of Rampart Battalion’s heroism as its fighters, Urjik among them, wielded weapons bearing talismans mated to those affixed to the gargantua. They had fired bolt after bolt of imp-spawned hellfire, projectile after projectile, until their power crystals had all dimmed and their ammunition was exhausted. Every shot from a thaumaturgically-marked weapon curved in its path and unerringly sought its compan- ion talisman affixed to the gargantua. They spoke of the evacuation, of how the transportals had burned until the sourcewells sputtered out. Until the soul of Ashter perished in one final paroxysm as the gargantua spewed the planet’s lifeblood out into the void. Urjik spoke fiercely of the gargantua’s death-throes, of how it locked onto Asher with its tail and all six legs as it perished, curling around their world just as the ancient skeleton had been found curled around a shattered, dead planetoid. Galthas spoke softly of the decision to flee, of the main fleet leaving Ashter to seek out another homeland, while their still battle-ready companions stayed to try to repulse the remains of the Zayeen fleet. And then the alien spoke in their language – or at least, its box did. “Thanks be you for to discuss words,” the box buzzed out. “This one Prime Speaker, Loban Fleet.” Galthas and Urjik looked at each other. The box was a piece of dead metal that learned languages. They had met other spacefaring races, but this was truly alien. “I am Galthas, and this is Urjik,” Galthas said. “Of . . . of Ashter.” “Pleased are we of Loban to know you,” the Prime Speaker said. “And we . . . you,” Galthas replied. “For how long are you staying this orb?” the alien asked bluntly. “We are refugees,” Galthas said. “Our home . . . can no longer support us.” The Loban Prime Speaker paused. His large green eyes blinked several times in succession. Finally, he said, “We welcome you as competitors in spirit of fair play.” Urjik frowned. Galthas held up a hand to keep him silent and said, “We hope that, in this time of loss and tragedy, we can count on the assistance and cooperation of the Loban people.” “We welcome all competitors who wish to contend freely,” the Prime Speaker said quickly. “We seek a resource. Spotted from high-altitude scan. Strange light-fountain, high energy, very unusual. Was here, but now is not. Seen this resource, have you?” He’s talking about the sourcewell, Galthas realized. Was it possible that these Lobans had advanced all the way to interstellar travel without ever encountering a sourcewell? Whatever the answer, he knew that he could not risk being cut off from the well. His entire civilization would collapse without a usable energy source. This was all they had. “We have been traveling long,” Galthas said. “We are very tired. We must return and convey your greet- ings to our leaders.” The Loban blinked several eyes. Maybe it was the equivalent of a nod. Then it abruptly turned and marched back into its ship. ###

29 That night, they watched Ashter die. They established visual communication with the ship, intending to report on their encounter with the Loban ship. But they were confronted instead with their Section Com- mander, red-faced and puffy-eyed. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to show you,” he said. “I’m sorry you have to see it down there alone. But we all have to see it. We all have to watch.” “What’s going on?” Urjik asked, although on some level, they both knew already. Fresh tears coursed down the Section Commander’s cheeks. Neither Galthas nor Urjik had ever seen the man so emotional. He angrily wiped his face with his forearm. “The damn thing was hermaphroditic, or asexual, or the gods only know what,” he said. “We had every- one evacuated, we had the damn Zayeen lizard-troopers on the run, we were on the verge of implement- ing a plan to pull their big lizard off. Someday we might have been able to go back.” The Section Commander reached for something unseen, and the image hovering above the squawkbox changed to a view of Ashter, wounded but whole. The corpse of the reptilian gargantua was still twined about the planet. “The science boys say the eggs must’ve been encased in something super-dense, like neutronium,” the Commander’s voice said. “They can’t figure out how any egg inside would survive that. But we know there were two of them, and they passed right through the planet’s crust like it was water. When they sank all the way to the core they fused, and . . .” The voice broke off. The image of the damaged planet spun quietly. “When we realized what was happening, there were volunteers. Hundreds. They took all the golems and elementals and all the burrowing clockwork they could scrape together and they went back in to try to stop it. We weren’t even sure Ashter would ever be habitable again, but they still went back in.” They could hear the Section Commander sobbing. On the image, something strange was happening to Ashter. Volcanoes were erupting, so many and so violently that they were visible even when viewing the whole planet. Chunks of rock, of the planet’s crust, spewed out into orbit and beyond. But some of the chunks kept moving. Some of them . . . were something else. Creatures were bursting free of the planet’s crust, miniature versions of the giant lizard whose corpse draped Ashter. Tiny in comparison to the globe itself, they still must have been as large as cities or larger. At first just a few, then hundreds, then thousands burrowed free, bursting Ashter from within. They swooped and dove through the planet’s remains, swimming through the solar currents and breathing in the quantum fog, devouring promising possibilities and exhaling death. The planet collapsed, spreading into a bloody arc. Galthas and Urjik watched as all that was left of their world, everything they had ever known, every place they had ever lived, everything they had ever hoped or longed for or wondered about, every mystery unsolved and every story untold, everything that had ever defined home to them bled out into the vacuum. As the fragments cooled, the tiny gargantua abandoned them and turned on the corpse of their mother. “Always wondered what could have picked that thing down to its bones,” Urjik said, his voice thick. Galthas turned to rebuke him, but held his tongue when he saw his burly companion’s face. The charuk, too, was weeping openly. Numbly, they made their report and received their orders. Urjik wanted to attack the Loban ship right away, probably because he felt a deep need to strike back at something. But he had a point; the sourcewell had to be defended. 30 Command wanted information, however. They had quietly tagged the ship thaumaturgically, so it could be monitored from a nearby squawkbox. Scouts had encountered several derelict ships on the outskirts of the system. If they were Loban ships, the Lobans might be grateful for information about them. In the end, they were told to continue negotiating, and find out as much as possible without giving away vital information about their forces. The Ashterites no longer had the resources to squander potential al- lies. And while the temptation to inflict pain to still their own disquiet was there, High Command was determined that the remaining people of Ashter would not become like the Zayeen. They would trust until given a reason to distrust, and seek the good in all beings. We trusted the Zayeen, Galthas thought, and see where it got us. But he accepted his orders and prepared for a long, sleepless night. ### The next day the Loban Prime Speaker asked them bluntly about their technology. The Lobans had been monitoring them, it seemed, and regarded their equipment as strange or somehow sorcerous in nature. Galthas pretended to not understand. “Our devices are based on life, on binding simple spirits to do our will,” he said. The Prime Speaker blinked its eyes and fluttered its mouth a bit. “Are there . . . more of you coming to this world?” Galthas asked, and immediately winced. “Subtle,” Urjik muttered behind him. “Of course not,” the Prime Speaker replied. “As we said, we seek resources. This is done in competition, as it should be. Our location is secret of much seriousness.” “So the dead ships our scouts have spotted at the edge of this system are not yours?” The Loban waved an arm dismissively. “No, no. Not Loban. Some other race whose name we do not re- call. They were seeking resources also, quite urgently. But they did not know this orb was present. They tried to turn back, make for another system. Apparently they failed.” Galthas felt something cold worm its way through his gut. “You knew they were in urgent need of re- sources?” The Loban blinked. “Yes, yes. We communicated with them briefly. It yielded nothing. It was of little im- portance.” “Why didn’t you direct them to this planet?” Galthas asked. The Loban seemed taken aback; it blinked all of its eyes at once, three times. “We seek resources,” it said. “This is done in competition. All must compete for themselves alone, or the competition is impure. These creatures were not Loban. This orb was ours, found first by us. Why would we want more competitors?” After a pause, it added, “Of course, now that you are here, we anticipate striving for resources with you in the spirit of fairness.” “Of course,” Galthas said. He turned to Urjik and said, “Go back to our camp. Tell Command the ships they found were not Loban.” Urjik looked hesitant. “Go,” Galthas told him, and he did. Galthas contemplated the strange tripod-like alien. Based on their brief interaction, he could not say that they might become bloodthirsty fanatics, like the Zayeen. But they were incredibly indifferent, which might be just as bad. The Loban’s lack of compassion for the beings it had allowed to freeze to death was chilling. 31 He turned back to the Loban Speaker. “We accept your generous offer to compete for resources,” he said. “And in return for your magnanimity, I wish to offer you the secret of our technology.” ### When Galthas returned to camp, Urjik was nearly beside himself. “The Lobans!” he said. “I pulled ‘em up on the box – they got back in their ship and took off!” “Did they, now?” Galthas asked. Urjik pointed to the squawkbox. An image of the Loban ship flying over the countryside hovered over it. “They’re headed right for the sourcewell!” Urjik said. “But how did they find it again?” “Probably because I turned the ward off,” Galthas said. “Why would you . . .” Urjik began. But then he began to put it together, and fell silent. As they watched, the Loban ship hovered closer and closer to the sourcewell. They crossed the edge of the clearing, and kept going, edging closer and closer. The nose of their shuttle clipped the edge of the column of blazing light. The sourcewell flared, and instantly engulfed the Loban ship. It burned blue-green for a moment, and then returned to white, all impurities consumed. There was no sign the Loban ship had ever existed. “Apparently they have somehow advanced this far with absolutely no knowledge of the dangers of source- wells,” Galthas said. “Who could have imagined?” Urjik stared at him, wearing a look of dawning horror. He had been in favor of attacking them openly, but not this. “Bespeak the ship,” Galthas said wearily. “Tell them the Loban expedition has met a tragic end. Tell them there are no survivors.” Tell them that from now on, nothing comes easy. Tell them that out here it’s every man for himself. Tell them this is our world now. Why would we want more competitors?

—30— Michael C. Lea edited the critically-acclaimed superhero fiction anthology POW!ERFUL TALES (Peryton Publishing, 2009). He is currently editing its sequel, as well as the anthology LIMINALITY. His stories have been accepted for publication in a number of markets and many anthologies, including TIMES OF TROUBLE and THE TANGLED BANK. His collection COSMOS CUBED is due out next year from the Li- brary of Science Fiction Press. His screenplays have placed highly in many prestigious competitions, such as the Nicholl Fellowships, Scriptapalooza, and the ASA Screenwriting Contest. Michael lives in northwest Arkansas with his wife and a menagerie of dogs and cats. Planetfall was first published in 2009 in The Book of Exodi, published by Eposic.

32 Book Review: A Princess of Mars Review by Josh Roseman Written by Edgar Rice Burrows One of the things I’m going to miss terribly when e-books are the norm and brick-and-mortar stores are few and far between will be the opportunity to walk into a bookstore, pick up the one thing I really want to read, and then hit the discount rack on the way to the checkout. That’s exactly what I did when I was in Florida recently, picking up I Shall Wear Midnight, which I later reviewed on this site. Among the books I picked up on my way out of the store was a three-pack of John Carter of Mars novels, by Edgar Rice Burroughs. I’d heard there might be a movie coming soon, and I wanted to familiarize my- self with a sci-fi classic that I probably should’ve read long ago anyway. Now that I’ve finished A Princess of Mars, I can sort of see why they’re classics. Sort of. Like many novels written in the late 19th/early 20th century, A Princess of Mars starts out with the dis- covery of a manuscript by the author himself, and his memories of “Uncle Jack”. Burroughs uses the de- vice effectively to set up the mythology of John Carter, and then jumps into the story. The first act is fairly straightforward: Carter goes to Mars, discovers he’s stronger than most everyone there, and manages to impress the natives. Burroughs spends a lot of time describing this new world, and though most readers of current fiction would say tl;dr or bemoan the author’s use of infodumps, that was the style back then, so I give it a pass. At the end of that act, he meets Dejah Thoris, the eponymous Princess of Mars, and decides he’s fallen in love with her. By this point in the novel, I’d hit on its major sticking point — at least, in my mind — and it’s something I’ve seen in other fiction of the era: John Carter… well, he’s awesome. No, he’s not awesome. He’s AWESOME. There’s literally nothing John Carter cannot do on Mars: he has superior strength, agility, martial prowess, physical attractiveness (as compared to humans of Earth, not the Green Men of Barsoom), problem-solving skills, intelligence, and luck. It’s like God rolled a series of natural 20s when He was creating Carter, and Carter knows exactly how to take advantage of that. He instantly figures out how to move in Mars’s lower gravity. He applies his knowledge of battle from the Civil War to fighting alongside several different alien races. He isn’t completely floored by the weird -ap pearance of the Tharks (the green men of Mars). He learns to speak the Martian language and use Martian telepathy despite not — to our knowledge, anyway — knowing any languages other than English nor how to be telepathic at all beforehand. And, what’s more, he instantly wins the trust of pretty much everyone around him. The few who don’t like him are so clearly Stereotypical Evil Characters that the reader knows almost immediately they’ll be get- ting some kind of comeuppance, most likely at Carter’s hands (or sword). The rest of the story is spent on getting Carter back together with Thoris — they are separated in the second act — and it’s kind of blah through there (there’s even a pod racing scene, sort of) before the grand finale, when Carter leads the good Martians against some really, really, unmistake-ably evil Martians. Kind of like how, in Star Trek 6, there were honorable Klingons and evil Klingons. Overall, I really enjoyed the book. There was lots of adventure, interesting scenery and worldbuilding, and if the aliens were a little too human, that’s not really a failing — it’s just the way stories were written back then. Besides, the characters are consistent within themselves — none of them do anything that immedi- 33 ately drags you out of the story. The ending wraps up a little too fast, as stories from that era were wont to do, but that’s okay, because we know there’ll be more John Carter of Mars stories coming up. I feel bad for readers of that era, who didn’t know there’d be more. A Princess of Mars is short enough that you can read it in a weekend, if you read at a good clip. The version I have has some very nice illustrations by Thomas Yeates, and an introduction by Mike Ashley that lays out the history of the Barsoom series. The book itself is suitable for reading by mature tweens who are already into sci-fi or adventure stories, though the illustrations do contain PG-13 nudity (Carter himself shows up naked on Mars, and to assimilate with the Tharks, he forgoes clothing as they do). I’m glad I picked it up, and I’m currently enjoying the second book, Gods of Mars, which is part of the omnibus.

—30— Josh Roseman (not the trombonist, the other one) is a writer and web developer. His fiction has appeared in Big Pulp, and on the Dunesteef and the Drabblecast. He also has a decade of news and feature writing experience. Visit his website at roseplusman.com, or find him on twitter @listener42.

34 EP268:Advection By Genevieve Valentine The first day of fifth year a boy came in with the new eyeshields, a glossy expanse of black with no iris or pupil, and looking at him was like looking into an eclipse. All the other girls said it made them uncomfortable; they teased him to take them out, to put on some normal sunglasses like everyone else. They said they’d never forgive him for hiding eyes in such a hand- some face. “Fortuni, it’s a little much,” said someone. That was how I learned his name. We were all Level Two intelligence, but before the first week was over the news was out that some had managed to find the money for a sixth year. Janik Duranti, who spent the history lectures drawing stick figures screwing on his computer screen, was getting a sixth year. I’d be cleaning his office someday. An- swering his phones. Updating the registration on his blue ID cuff. Carol Clarke opened the top button on her shirt as soon as the shades went down; obvious, but it was worth it to be married to a guy who had a sixth year. The first time Fortuni opened his mouth was two weeks after start-of-year in geohistory, when Mr. Xi was talking about the five oceans. “After the emergency desalinization,” Mr. Xi said, “we held the first HydroSummit to determine the best use of resources.” “I think it’s awful about the dolphins that died,” said Kay, whose water ration was unlimited because her father was a diplomat, and that was how I first noticed her. Mr. Xi opened the rain cycle diagram on our screens; the blue advection loop from a hundred years ago had been overlaid by a three-point process from the Atmo water collectors to the thirsty ground, and the green web of the surface sweat system that preserved the little underground things that managed to sur- vive. My grandfather sent my mom a postcard from Niagara Cliffs when there was still a river at the bottom (RAIN! All my love, Dad), and as Mr. Xi talked about desalinization I traced the advection circle, thought about the sky filling with wet clouds, about water sliding over everything. I looked up, and Fortuni was watching me, his lashes casting shadows over his flat black eyes. “I’m going to engineer some rain,” he told me, and after a moment I laughed. That was how I met him. ### It was nearly the end of year when I walked past the upper-class apartments and saw the plant in the gar- bage. My heart leapt into my throat, and I checked to see if a cop was recording me, because nobody just left a clipping on the street. But besides the tram down the street full of commuters, there was nobody. I knelt and stared at the glossy tops, the browned underside where it was drying out, the pale hairs on the stem. Even from this distance the smell was overwhelming, wet and clean, and without caring if the cops were watching I scooped it up and dropped it into the back of my hood where it would be safest from the 35 sun. The tram home was endless; I felt the stem pressing against my neck and shivered. Half a day’s water ration went into a glass bowl, and I looked up what plant it was (jade) and how much water it would need (hardly any. It was a survivor). I sat up all night watching the pattern of leaves on the walls. I expected it to die; I cried like I’d already lost it, ended up dehydrated from tears and lack of water. When Fortuni walked with me after school the next day I didn’t ask why. I was making up my mind to show him the plant. My heart raced. He could turn me in. I didn’t really know him. It was too dangerous. I couldn’t. “Come with me,” I said, and he got in the tram without asking why. Even before I opened the door I hadn’t wondered why he walked me home, and when he smiled at the plant and said, “Beautiful,” I knew. He wasn’t a Level Two. Everybody else was a fool. He lifted his hand to the glass, closed his eyes over the black shields. He smiled like he knew he looked silly, or like the plant told him a joke. “The water is cool,” he said. “I keep it under my bed at night.” He opened one eye, grinned at me. “Hiding it from your parents or trying for condensation?” After a moment he took his hand off the glass and went home without another word. The next day he messaged: How is it? Dream about it? Stronger, I messaged back, didn’t tell him what I dreamed. At school we didn’t talk about it—we didn’t talk at all, because I had to work to pass exams, and he had to work to avoid tripping over girls who couldn’t get enough of his bone-white skin and his blue cuff. Kay ignored him. She sat one row in front of him in classes, and when he asked her a question she turned just enough to give him her profile, answered him curtly, turned back. “This winter I’m going to my uncle’s farm,” she told Carol. “He’s scheduled an Atmo so we can get rain.” “Oh, wow,” breathed Carol. My pen snapped, and I had to wait until end of class to get another one. Mr. Xi talked about the Reclaimers and the class got into a screaming match about whether they were terrorists or guerrillas. They yelled about the cave communities who harbored the sleeper cells; about whether wild rain was even a good idea any more. “It’s a waste of water,” said Janik, and I wanted to kick him. When I looked over at Fortuni, he was gazing unblinking ahead of him, his eyes fixed on the knot of hair at the nape of Kay’s neck, on her pale hand writing. I didn’t hear the rest of the class. ### Fortuni messaged: What do you think of Kay? I don’t. 36 Try. The plant was outgrowing the bowl, and I adjusted the stem, didn’t get around to answering him. The next day in geohistory Mr. Xi talked about Free Water, about the cave-towns authorized to collect condensation without reporting. The class got into it again about Reclaimers seeking asylum there. I looked at the cliffs and thought how they were underwater once, about vegetation breathing into the sky, about water so big you couldn’t see the end of it, about the wet slide of rain across skin. “It’s weird when you miss rain you’ve never felt,” Fortuni said, like I’d spoken, and my fingers went cold. “I know,” I said. He looked back at Kay, who had turned a little towards him as if by accident, resting a white hand on her throat. When I got home he’d messaged me. Clip it. I didn’t think about Fortuni when the side-by-side clippings grew so fast; all I knew was my dreams filled with the creaky, quiet sound of growing. ### Summer. The last day of fifth year Fortuni wasn’t there. I didn’t really think about it (he was Level Zero) except that Kay looked nervous, and it worried me that if something was wrong with Fortuni, Kay knew more than I did. I stopped her as she was walking back to her seat with her certificate, said, “Have you seen—” She pulled away from me like she was poisoned. Carol laughed, and I hoped she had to marry Janick Duranti. On the tram on the way home someone came up behind me, said in my ear, “Figured out rain yet?” It was Fortuni’s voice, and I was so relieved that I must have really been worried before. I turned, but he was wearing a black UV hood and I couldn’t see his face. It had a white bird outline on the side, and as I tried to find his profile behind the hood the silhouette took flight, wings beating. My hood was from the bargain market, standard SPF 150 striped brown and purple, and I’d never wanted to be rich so much in my life. “You weren’t in class,” I said. “Tapped for Level Zero?” He looked at me like he couldn’t help it, and for the first time I thought that maybe I’d managed to surprise him. “You think I’m special?” I didn’t answer that, and he grinned, shrugged. “Yeah, I wish. Just got held up with something.” For the rest of the tram ride he looked out the window, and I watched the bird flying on the taut black fab- ric between two of the ribs; when he put his hood back, the bird would disappear into the folds. It seemed really sad. I don’t know why. At my stop, I got off without asking him to follow me, and he took one step and changed his mind, gave me a half-wave as the tram pulled away from the stop and back onto the street. At home I slid it out from under my bed so it could breathe for an hour. It was big enough to be illegal; I was a criminal. I messaged him. You should see it.

37 The words sat on my screen, and he didn’t answer. Autumn. One of the big government offices was hiring, and I got my credentials and made coffee and shut- tled lunches and watched sixth-years plan trajectories and irrigation patterns and wildlife preservation. I made sure my plant had enough water. Winter. The dreams about Niagara Cliffs and the water cycle never stopped, and I applied for a sixth year without telling anyone. Spring. I went into one of the banks in my nice suit and folded back the expensive UV hood I borrowed from a nice sixth-year at the office, and arranged to go into a decade of debt for a year of Meteohydronics and a chance at a seat on an Atmo. My parents were surprised. Summer. It was too big for the bowl, and I had to leave clippings on the sill with the shade cracked, five minutes at a time until the sun shriveled them and they were dry enough to burn. A message came back from Fortuni. Want to go to a concert? It had been a year. ### As I waited outside the back entrance of Roseland I couldn’t think of anything but Fortuni’s UV hood, black with a white bird silhouette that flew in place as you watched. I pressed against the grimy brick to avoid the swells of tourists sweating in their “NYC” rental hoods, and my breath fluttered in my chest as I looked for Fortuni in a sea of strangers. My hands were clammy. When I saw him, bouncing along next to that little white bird was Kay’s pale blue hood with her coat of arms on each side—two greyhounds and a pile of helmets and swords. Kay must have just finished her sixth year, because as the crowd parted for her (crowds always did) I could see she carried nothing except a smug expression. I sucked in a sigh, and felt dust coating the inside of my mouth. “Sarah, hi!” Kay stepped under the marquee and pushed back the hood, shook out her long blonde hair. She’d gotten a grey wash in between exams—the latest thing to make you look paler. I made fists in my pockets. When Fortuni pushed his hood back, the white bird spread its wings into the folds. “Did we keep you waiting?” he asked. “Of course not,” said Kay. “She doesn’t have to worry about studying any more.” She grinned. “You must be so relieved that’s all over.” “We should go inside,” said Fortuni, and opened the back door. For a moment Kay looked disgusted by the shabby welcome, but she went. It was Fortuni, after all. Music was already throbbing as we approached the bar, and Kay gave Fortuni a look of delight. Her hood was too big for her; folded down against her back it made her look like a crested lizard. She brought him a glass. He passed it to me, and she had to go back for another one and look like it didn’t bother her. “This band is totally derivative,” she told Fortuni, who had hung back with me. He shrugged. “It’s the opening act. I didn’t pay much attention to the bill.” It was just like Fortuni to go to a concert without even knowing what band it was, and so I didn’t think 38 much of it. He just liked to stand in the crowd, eyes closed, feeling the breath of two hundred people. I’ve never felt lonelier than when I was standing next to Fortuni in a crowd. “Well, I figured you had better taste than that. I hear Hammond is amazing.” Kay swung back and forth between baiting and appeasing Fortuni so quickly I thought she’d get whiplash. “If you can hear anything around that stupid hood,” I said under my breath. Fortuni smiled into his glass, and his laugh, if he laughed, was drowned out by screams and applause. ### Kay flirted with the bartender through two more free drinks, glancing backs at Fortuni to make sure it was all right. “You’ve applied for a sixth year,” he said. He knew it the way he knew everything, and I didn’t bother to answer him. I’d requested a year in Meteo- hydronics. The study of rain. “So,” I said, “are you and Kay dating?” He smiled, still not looking at me. “Nah. We just talk.” I thought about green leaves spilling over the edge of the bowl. “What about?” “She has ambition,” he said. “It’s not something you run across often.” The ambition was her as the pretty shadow of some boy, and I saw that ambition all the time. “I don’t really feel like a concert.” I pressed my drink into his hand. “I need to study. See you.” “No,” he said, stepped forward. “Please, stay. Please.” He had his hand on my arm, the first time he’d ever touched me. I looked up and could see past the eye- shields into green, frightened eyes. He’d never asked me for anything, not one thing that whole silent year. “Okay,” I said. He smiled as if he’d never doubted, and I wondered if I’d just imagined that I could see through him. Kay materialized at his side, smiling, but her hand was wrapped around her glass so hard that the skin under her nails was red. “Sorry,” she said. “Am I interrupting? Hammond was announced, but if you want to be alone…” Fortuni dropped his hand. My arm was cold where he’d touched it. ### The band was loud, and when Fortuni leaned over and spoke he had to repeat himself, louder, before I heard him. “Come with me,” he said. My heart constricted. “What?” “You and Kay,” he said. “Come with me.” “Where are you going?” He half-smiled. “To engineer some rain.” 39 I thought, Reclaimers, but didn’t dare say it. I thought about his fingers on the glass bowl as he listened to the plant growing, thought maybe he didn’t even need the Reclaimers to make rain. My lungs pounded against my ribs. “Me?” “I want you with me for the first wild rain.” I don’t know why he could still surprise me, but he could; he was a wondrous thing, and back then I was easy to surprise. “And Kay?” I asked, because I was afraid, and it sounded like a spurned child asking. He said, “Come with me.” I had signed up for a sixth year. I wanted to work with the Atmos. I had a plant that would die without me. In Fortuni’s black eyes the reflection of the crowd was like wet clouds gathering, like the dream of rain. The music washed over us, and I was half-dreaming about walking beside Fortuni, walking into some other unknown life that was full of water, and without Kay’s white bracelet lighting up a warning we wouldn’t have known the police were coming. ### Kay moved first (she must have been used to getting out of something right before the cops got in), and shoved us towards the stairs, shouting something that was drowned out by the drums and the bass. As much as I distrusted her I ran, and beside me Fortuni ran, too. When we took the turn on the landing I caught a glimpse of her in the crowd, swaying to the music like she didn’t know us at all. At the top of the stairs I saw the EXIT sign and ducked into the utility hall pulling Fortuni behind me; he crouched and slid along the wall, and I followed his lead. “They’re not after your plant,” he said, which was the first time I thought they might have been. “What were you doing all year?” I imagined him in a cave, drinking condensation, blowing up reservoirs, blowing up Atmos with people like me in them. My voice shook. He turned and grinned. “Engineering some rain,” he said, and as we heard footsteps echoing in the stair- well he held out a hand, said, “Come with me.” We couldn’t make it to the fire exit before the cops got there, and he was holding out his hand, and I didn’t understand what he was saying, what he was. I hesitated, shook my head. He turned and ducked into the door on his right; I saw a cluster of rooms before the door swung shut be- hind him. As I moved to follow, the cops swarmed me. They weren’t all cops, some of them were kids drinking over-ration who got spooked and bolted, but it felt like a sea of uniforms and I covered my head to protect myself from the kicks, and I let myself be yanked up and handcuffed, listened for Fortuni to make his big escape. He didn’t. They stormed the dressing room (I bit my lips until they bled), someone shouted, the bang of a gunshot. 40 They had to drag me out by the cuffs because I was trying to run into the room, to see what had happened, to see them carry out his body. I heard, “—nothing left!” just before the door swung shut and they yanked me down the stairs. I thought of the little white bird, of the folds in his hood, how something could be so neatly tucked away. I stumbled. My eyes burned. Kay was outside, talking to the cop with the most brass on. As I walked past them, Kay laughed. “Her? Oh please. No way she’s over ration. Can’t afford anything.” And Kay stared at me like I knew something she didn’t know. I knew he had gone into the dressing room, and there was one shot—but maybe he was out by then, maybe he ran, he looked like a sprinter—and he would have run with me, taken me with him, but there was the shot, but even when his hood was folded back, and even when you couldn’t see it the little white bird was flying away and away and away. He would have taken me with him. Kay looked sick and turned away, and I wondered if he had leaned in over the music and asked her to come with him, too. ### They still play music there, not that anybody can get tickets unless they’re willing to sit under the stage, and when my big brother did that for Goblin Dust he almost failed his service physical six weeks later because he couldn’t hear. The top of the balcony stairs is dark and quiet—everyone goes for the view over the railing, no one even sees the hall behind the utility door. Baby-blue walls, like Kay’s hood, and two dressing rooms—one an inch deep in grime, makeup mirrors with all but two lights burned out, a pinball table rusted stiff. The second door opens to a honeycomb of little rooms, cloth tacked to the walls, carpet crunching un- derfoot. If there was ever an escape it’s not there now, and I ram the walls until my shoulder wrenches in the socket, tear down the fabric and check for hidden doors, and I fall to my knees and drag my fingers along the floor looking for a crack that will open the way. ### You have to apply at the Embassy to see anyone privately, even if you can recognize Ambassador Arnaun’s crest in a sea of hoods, even if his daughter called the cops off you. It’s a paper form, and if it’s not the Ambassador you want to see, then you write the person’s name in a little box underneath, and in the box below that you fill out the reason for your visit. I write, Accepted into sixth year. Advice? A guard directs me to the proper line, and I stand between Visas and Water Permits, and some woman stamps my paper and tells me to look for a response in my email. It takes six weeks, and then the image of my form is sent back so I can see that under ENTERED it has been stamped DECLINED. I end up looking up the social calendar for her kind of people, and a week later I find her outside a club, smoking, bare-armed in the cold to show off the big white smoking permit on her wrist. When she sees me she licks her lips, turns her profile to me like she used to do with Fortuni. 41 “Declined,” she says when I’m close enough. “Have they not gotten to long words in sixth year yet?” I say, “Do you know where he is?” which I mean to say, and “I miss him,” which I don’t. She says, “Well, I don’t know, do I?” which I expect, and bursts into tears, which I don’t. I go home and look up her life until then, little mentions on the society sites and on the galleries of the most fashionable people, and I feel like I’m checking up on someone I used to babysit. I get another message from the Embassy, which I expect, and accept the invitation, which I don’t. ### At night I pull the bowl out from under my bed and press my hands to the glass, feel with my palms for the voices of living things. When I sit back, the beads are already condensing, two handprints full of water. “I’m going to engineer some rain,” he told me, and I dream of him standing on the dry seabed, closing his eyes over black shields, spreading his arms, opening the sky.

—30— Genevieve Valentine’s first novel, Mechanique, is forthcoming from Prime Books in 2011. Her World- Fantasy-Award-nominated short fiction has, or will, appeared in: Running with the Pack, Federations, The Living Dead 2, The Way of the Wizard, Teeth, Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Escape Pod, and more. Her website is genevievevalentine.com. Advection was first published in Clarkesworld in August 2009.

42 Book Review: Zero History Review by Sarah Frost Written by William Gibson With the possible exception of the Very Ugly Shirt, I think I’ve seen all of the technology in William Gib- son’s new novel, Zero History, featured on BoingBoing. Zero History is a science fiction novel because a science fiction writer wrote it. If it had been written by someone other than William Gibson, it could have been shelved with the thrillers. On the other hand, Zero History does two things that science fiction is supposed to do: It examines the impact of technology on human beings; and if the science was taken out, the plot wouldn’t work. Hubertus Bigend, the eccentric billionaire from Pattern Recognition and Spook Country, once again re- cruits the former rock star, Hollis Henry. This time he’s tracking a fashion genius whose anti-advertising has created an underground sensation. With the former benzo addict Milgrim, would-be military contractors, and a surprisingly straightforward romantic subplot, William Gibson pulls together another intricate and enthralling novel. I found this book to be more ambivalent than the other two. Fear drives the characters. I have not figured out what Hollis is running from, aside from her mysterious and frightening benefactor. Milgrim is remem- bering what fear is like without sedatives to insulate him from the world. The generalized paranoia that underlies modern military-worship keeps the nominal bad guys moving through a series of misunderstood signals that might have been comic if the stakes didn’t feel so high. At the end, despite the protagonists’ celebrations, I had the unsettling impression that the bad guys won. Zero History is a continuation of the series that started with Pattern Recognition. It brings back both the style and many of the characters from those books, not his earlier work. Gibson’s precisely-machined writing is a pleasure to read, as always. He lets his plot drift, so it feels like all the characters are sliding slowly and inevitably towards towards a single point of crisis. While Zero History never reaches the frenzy I remember from other Gibson novels, it kept me engaged until the end. Also, I adored the bit with the penguin. I will reread this book. Zero History is not a stand-alone novel, and I believe I will benefit from reading the whole series in order. Readers who are looking for a return to Neuromancer will be disappointed. Fans of the other Bigend books should pick this one up, too.

—30— Sarah Frost is a science fiction writer who lives in Kansas. Her first short story will be appearing in the March 2011 issue of Analog. She can be found on the Voice of the Vortex podcast, or trying to organize her library.

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