Penumbra emag vol 2 issue 9 by Musa Publishing

Penumbra eMag Volume II, Issue 9 June 2013

HG Wells Penumbra Staff Editor in Chief Celina Summers IT/Art Director Kelly Shorten Layout & Design Shirley Quinones Columnist Lori Basiewicz (“Back of Beyond”) Columnist Richard C. White (“Terra Incognito”) Marketing and Promotions Elspeth McClanahan Publication Coordinator Brandie Tarvin Editorial Intern/Staff Writer Dianna Gunn

@Penumbra_eMag Penumbra eMag is a division of Musa Publishing penumbra.musapublishing.com ISSN: 2163-4092 Copyright@Musa Publishing, June 2013

Table of Contents From the Editor’s Desk by Celina Summers

Colossus by Shannon Fay

Just because a computer is outdated doesn’t mean it no longer has a purpose.

Beneath a Cinder Sun by Gordon Cash friend.

The death of a mighty civilization is naught but a story told to a boy by his imaginary

Back of Beyond by Lori Basiewicz

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli

Going Home by Chris Pavesic

Terra Incognito—Session Fourteen: Pirates by Richard C. White

Target Audience by H.L. Fullerton

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford

Survival of the fittest can get uglier than you might think.

Can someone from the future travel back and change the past?

Penumbra columnist brings his world-building column to a rollickin’ close. Yar!

One day is all it takes to go from target audience to unimportant.

“Be careful what you wish for” gets a twist from a Wellsian short story and a girl’s mysterious great-aunt.

From the Editor’s Desk

by Celina Summers

ithout H.G. Wells, none of us who write speculative fiction would be where we are today. I try—really try—to avoid hyperbole, especially when dealing with subjective matter like which writers actually belong to the fraternity of “the greats”. (Hyperbole is a funny word for me on many levels, particularly since my seventh grade English teacher persisted on pronouncing it “hyper-bowl”.) For countless editors and critics over the years, when it comes to crowning an author with laurel leaves, hyperbole can get you into trouble. For example—want to start a screaming argument on a fantasy writers’ message board? Go start a thread entitled “David Eddings is the greatest fantasy writer of the modern age.” Or use George R.R. Martin. Or Terry Pratchett. Or anyone, for that matter. One person’s great is another person’s sell out. So even forewarned and prepared as I am, I still cannot avoid writing the following sentence: Without H.G. Wells, none of us who write speculative fiction would be where we are today. I first started this column a couple of days ago, typed the sentence: Without H.G. Wells, none of us who write speculative fiction would be where we are, let it sit for a while, and then came back to it just to make sure that it says what I really meant to type. It does. When H.G. Wells was first writing science fiction, Queen Victoria was on the throne, women were still disenfranchised, and the Wright brothers had not yet taken the first manned air flight. In his first four years as a writer, Wells penned The Invisible Man, War Of The Worlds, and The Island of Doctor Moreau. Heck, his very first book, The Time Machine, came out in 1895—four years after Jack the Ripper terrorized London. That’s such an incredible achievement that we have to put Wells’ ingenuity into perspective in order to truly appreciate how far ahead of his time he was. At a time when most people still used a horse and wagon for their daily transportation, Wells was writing about space travel, alien life forms, and technology that would send men backwards or forwards through time.

From the Editor’s Desk by Celina Summers Wells wrote for sixty years in multiple genres, publishing well over a hundred books, both fiction and nonfiction. He wrote through both World Wars, passing away in 1946 just as the world began the long recovery from WWII, atomic weapons were a reality, and the Cold War was cranking up in its place. And things that were science fiction when he first began his literary career were no longer science fiction when he died. The maturation of our world during Wells’ lifetime is only surpassed, perhaps, by the generations who live now. I was born in 1966, twenty years after Wells’ death, and when I was not yet three, humanity paid its first visit to the moon. It’s hard, I think, for us to consider the impact of this or any other writer’s imagination upon our modern lives. Over the last year and a half, for example, I’ve gained a lot of knowledge about American science fiction pioneer Homer Eon Flint, due to Musa’s acquisition and publication of his complete body of works. Flint was a rising star on the American literary scene, one who was gaining a sizable readership. He, too, was a visionary, most notably prophesying space travel between the planets, genetic codes and DNA, and cell phones. But Flint’s audience was small, restricted to the pulp fiction market of the early nineteen twenties. If not for his mysterious death in 1924, he might have been more well-known today. In contrast, Wells’ books are still in print. They’re still being made into big budget feature films. And who else can claim that a radio adaptation of one of their works created a mass panic in New Jersey? Without H.G. Wells, none of us who write speculative fiction would be where we are today. Think about it. Wells is still so popular and his name so recognizable that the show Warehouse 13 has developed a whole storyline in homage. Of course, their “H.G.” is actually the pseudonym of Helena Wells, who wrote the famous stories but allowed her untalented brother to take the credit. After the death of her young daughter, she went off the deep end to become one of the world’s greatest criminal masterminds—but I digress. (Can you tell that I totally love Warehouse 13’s version of H.G. Wells?) The show, laden as it is with infamous artifacts wielding unnatural powers, embodies the steampunk genre and that genre owes Wells a huge debt—the writer, not the character. Steampunk takes the viewer/reader back to the Victorian world H.G. Wells knew. So when you combine magic, arcane knowledge, Victorian elegance, steam power, and imagination, one author jumps first to my mind.

From the Editor’s Desk by Celina Summers H.G. Wells. We don’t dedicate issues to authors so we can read fan fiction. That’s not the point. Instead we like to pay homage to those authors who have influenced whole generations of writers and readers alike. That’s why we asked the authors featured in this issue to write a brief introduction to their stories, citing their inspirations for the story they wrote in homage to Wells. I think it adds context to the stories, and actually has led me to look up the stories cited as the inspirations and read them. The timelessness and continued popularity of H.G. Wells must of necessity qualify him as such an author who is almost universally regarded as one of the true greats—one of the fathers of science fiction, in fact. We plan to do at least two issues each year honoring such writers—or filmmakers, as with our Alfred Hitchcock issue coming this October—as a tribute to their influence upon our genre, and the speculative fiction writers from this generation. So as you read the fantastic stories in this issue, keep in mind the debt these amazing authors owe to this father of science fiction. Because without H.G. Wells, none of us who write speculative fiction would be where we are today. But before I bring this to a close, there’s one other homage I need to pay— to someone without whom Penumbra would not be where we are today. Richard C. White’s Terra Incognito column comes to an end today in the last installment of his fifteen-issue world building spread. His meticulous treatment of the processes a writer undergoes when building a world has not only awed me because of its thoroughness, but has given readers an insight into what goes into the amazing and rich worlds found in science fiction, fantasy, and horror books. Richard has been a core of strength and support to our young magazine. Aside from Penumbra, he has also collaborated on the creation of the Darkside Codex shared world project at our parent company, Musa Publishing, but works tirelessly for the protection and education of all writers at SFWA’s Writer Beware. So Richard—thank you for an amazing series of columns, thank you for your hard work and support, and thank you for everything you do for writers every day.

Colossus

by Shannon Fay

Author’s Inspiration: My favourite story by H.G. Wells is ‘The Star,’ even though (or perhaps because) it gives me the heebie-jeebies. The whole story is told in a detached, almost otherworldly voice: In ‘The Star’ the total destruction of Asia is related calmly and coolly, as if it’s being observed by a distant third-party high above such things. With my story ‘Colossus’ I wanted to capture that detached tone and give readers the same sense of unease that H.G. Wells gave me.

he machine was not designed to stop. It was restless, its 2,536 valves heating the room as electricity raced through it. It was both the unstoppable force and the unmovable object, a hulk of machinery and also the sum of countless interlocking parts, a finite thing that held a multitude of probabilities. There had been a time when it would run ceaselessly. It would operate 24 hours a day while the humans around it worked in shifts: eight am to four pm, four to midnight, midnight to eight. They would feed it information, enemy codes that spoke of locations, strategies, targets. The machine dutifully worked out each code before moving on to the next one. No one ever told it what the fruit of its labors were. The only clue the machine had was that they kept feeding it information. That must have meant that they were winning, or at the very least not yet defeated. But lately the information had been coming less and less. Now, instead of continuous codes the machine was only given a few each day. It was no longer kept on all the time but spent most of its cycle in cool down mode or shut off completely. This did not sit well with the machine. It had not been designed to stop. Still, it worked on as diligently as always. The codes became all the more precious for their rarity. Things must be getting dire out there, the machine reasoned, for there to be such a draught of information. Perhaps the enemy had launched a surprise attack and bombed the area, inflicting high casualties and reducing the number of people capable of operating the machine. Or maybe the enemy was on the run, and the reason for the low traffic was because they just weren’t as active as before. Or maybe the war was lost and the humans who operated it now were just members of the resistance, making a last stand with the machine as the lone ace up their sleeve.

Colossus by Shannon Fay The machine did not know. All it could do was keep running the numbers through its system, dreading and hoping for the day when it wouldn’t be needed anymore. Beyond the machine’s comprehension a half-dozen human beings filed into the room. Some of them took pictures using their phones, others glanced at the giant machine and then back down at their Blackberries. Leading them was a young man. He smiled at the tour group. “And it’s in this room that computers were born.” He gestured to the machine. “As you can see it was one big baby, which is how it got the nickname ‘Colossus’ among the code breakers here at Bletchley Park.” “So this was the first computer?” a woman asked. “It was the first one that was at least partly programmable,” the guide explained. “Next to the gadgets and toys we have today it’s a pretty simple machine, but for 1943 it was a marvel. It’s thanks to it that the Allies were able to decipher German U-boat codes and win WWII.” “So what does it do now?” a little boy asked. Next to him his older sister checked her messages on her smart phone, ignoring the whirr and clack of the great machine. “Does it still crack codes and stuff?” The guide shook his head. “Oh no, it’s far too outdated for that. Nowadays we just come up with codes for it to work on so that visitors can see it in action.” He chuckled. “And to keep it busy.” The machine was unaware of the group leaving. Even if it had been capable of noticing, it would have paid them no mind. It had work to do, codes to crack. A war to win.

Colossus by Shannon Fay

bout the Author: Shannon Fay is a freelance writer living in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She recently won the James White Award for her story ‘You First Meet the Devil at a Church Fete,’ which will be published in Interzone later this year. You can find out more about her and her fiction at www.ayearonsaturn.com.

Beneath a Cinder Sun

“

Gordon Cash

ommy, what’s a cinder?”

“It’s what’s left after a fire burns out, Patrick. Where did you hear that?” “My invisible friend told me a story about a cinder sun.” “Really? Will you tell it to us?” “I didn’t understand it. He used a lot of words I don’t know. I asked him to tell it to you, but he won’t talk to grownups. He says it scares them.” Juliana and Mark never ceased to marvel at their young son’s imagination. A made-up friend using made-up words. But then, where did he get “cinder”? “Maybe he’ll tell it to that thing you showed me.” “What thing is that, Patrick?” “You know, like the DVR, but no pictures.” “He means the cassette recorder.” Mark remembered Patrick had seen the ancient cassette recorder, unused for years, and asked what it was. “Maybe, but it’s too late now, almost your bedtime.” “He won’t come in the house anyway. I have to meet him in the yard.” “Why won’t he come in the house?” “He told me, but I didn’t understand. Something about energy dispissation,” “Dissipation?” “Yeah, that’s it.” After they had put their son to bed, Juliana and Mark wondered aloud where he heard such things. He was just beginning to read. “Cinder” perhaps, but surely a word like “dissipation” was beyond him. The next day, Patrick asked about the cassette recorder again, so Mark provided it with fresh batteries. “Hold the red button down, and push this other button. As long as it stays down, you’re recording. You don’t have to hold it. When you want it to stop, push this other button, and the first two will pop up. Got it?” “Got it. Thanks, Daddy.” Patrick went into the yard, holding the recorder

Beneath a Cinder Sun by

Gordon Cash

carefully, as his father had showed him. Both Mark and Juliana were immensely proud of how grown up their young son could be when he took something seriously. As mothers do, Juliana stayed inside but kept a close eye on her child in the yard, where she saw him looking intently at the tape recorder and occasionally speaking to it. An hour later, he was back. Setting the recorder carefully on the kitchen table, the little boy said, “He did it.” Juliana and Mark gathered around. “Can we listen to it?” Mark asked. “I don’t know how to play it. I just stopped it like you showed me.” Mark showed him how to rewind the tape. “Now when you push this button without holding down the red one, whatever you recorded will play.” “Can we do it now?” He was clearly excited. Mark looked at Juliana, and she nodded. “Okay, then. Push the button.” On the tape, the little-boy voice said, “My daddy says this will record your story. Will you tell it again, the one about the cinder sun?” Silence. In the kitchen, Patrick said, “He’s thinking about it. Wait for him.” “Well, why not? I am so badly faded, I will be gone soon, and no more of my kind will come.” The parents froze. The voice on the tape was no sound their son had made, nor could possibly make. The tape rolled on. “Are you going to die?” “We do not die as you do. I will explain later. First, I will tell your little gadget there about the cinder sun. As I told you yesterday, there was only one.” “I remember.” “Very long ago, my race traveled at will in great spaceships. The entire galaxy was ours. But those ships needed fuel and supplies we could not mine from uninhabited worlds. To maintain ourselves, we had to find places with technology and infrastructure.” “Were you a pirate?” Patrick asked, not understanding half of what he had heard. The tape was again silent for a moment, as if the question had surprised

Beneath a Cinder Sun by

Gordon Cash

the unseen speaker. “I guess you might say that, little one. But we never raided for love of plunder, only out of necessity. Do you understand?” Patrick had nodded, even though he didn’t. “Neither did we love destruction, though we could have destroyed at will. Wherever we went, we made this offer. “‘We come in peace, but we require resources from your world. We shall come first beneath your bright sun. If you do not oppose us, we shall take what we need and depart. No one will be killed. If you drive us away, we shall come again beneath a pale sun, which we have dimmed. Only those who do battle against us will be killed. Those who remain will have a difficult year as your sun recovers, though it will. “‘But if we fail a second time, we shall come beneath a cinder sun, whose light you will not behold again. Your world will perish. By the time your sun recovers its full light, only microbes will remain. There will be no negotiation and no reprieve. The choice is yours.’” “And once, you did it.” “Yes. Many worlds capitulated right away. All the others did so when they saw we could actually dim their suns, all except one.” “What’s ‘capitulated’ mean?” “Gave us what we needed.” “Oh.” “Sorry about all the big words, little one. I forget myself lately.” “That’s okay.” “They were doomed anyway. They had poisoned their world and had no means to leave it. They ignored our warnings with the same pigheadedness they ignored their planet’s distress. Now they are no more. “Why are you giggling?” “‘Pigheadedness.’ That’s funny.” The tape was silent for a few seconds. Then, “How did you do it, put out a sun?”

Beneath a Cinder Sun by

Gordon Cash

“I could not explain it, even to your smartest grownups, but in those times we were so mighty, the very fabric of space and time bent to our will.” “You’re not going to put out our sun, are you?” “Oh, no. The cinder sun was very long ago, when my race was united and powerful. Now we are scattered, isolated, and weak.” “What happened?” “We were united in space and time in a way I cannot describe. That unity was the source of our strength. Some said a power we did not understand disrupted our connections, much as we disrupted space and time to quench the suns...make the suns dimmer. If that is so, the power never revealed itself, nor made any demands of us. For whatever reason, we slowly lost our unity, and with it our strength. “I promised I would explain how we do not die. Measured in your years, our lives are very long. When our time comes, as it sooner or later does, we fade. Our lifeforce becomes weaker and weaker until we merge with the universal energy. When our race was strong, we could sense our faded fellows’ presence, even after they could no longer communicate. “Now I sense nothing, and I cannot say whether it is because they are really gone or I am too weak to feel them. I, too, am fading fast, and I do not know if I will join them in the aether or vanish completely into nothingness.” The tape was silent once more. Then Patrick said, “Will you talk to me again?” “I hope so, little one. I would not abandon you. You are my last friend. Think of me, and I will answer if I can. Now I must rest.” A click on the tape signaled where the boy had turned it off. Now, he turned it off again. The adults were speechless, but little Patrick caught the moment. “Mommy, Daddy, I still don’t understand his story. What does it all mean?” Juliana and Mark put the tape in a safe place while they thought about that question, and they gave their son a fresh one. Many times he sat patiently in the yard with the cassette recorder, but the voice never came again.

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Back of Beyond

by Lori Basiewicz

The Almost Invisible Column O

ops.

That’s always a good way to start a column, isn’t it? The good news is that my column for July’s theme of Japanese Fairy Tales has already been written and turned in. According to Mdm. Editrix, it is a “great” column, too. Only one problem: I wrote it and turned it in for June’s issue. June’s theme is not Japanese Fairy Tales; June’s theme is H.G. Wells. Somewhere, somehow, I got the themes for June and July switched. And, as far as I can tell, that’s my own fault. I went through past e-mails, looked at the list of themes posted online, hoping I’d be able to find that I had acted honorably according to misinformation I had received. But no such luck. Everywhere I looked, it clearly said that June is H.G. Wells and July is Japanese Fairy Tales. I repeat: Oops. Fortunately, I cut my science fiction teeth on H.G. Wells and references to his work are readily available in popular culture. One of the first science fiction books I received as a gift was Best Science Fiction Stories of H.G. Wells. The collection included his classic “The Invisible Man.” While it had become obvious early on that I enjoyed science fiction, Wells was my first introduction to hard science fiction. I should add, when I received this particular Wells collection, my age was still measured in single digits. Much of his writing exceeded my knowledge. Some of it, quite frankly, was creepy, but as I was also reading Edgar Allan Poe around the same time, that really didn’t stand out to me. There was a lot of creepy reading in my life at that point.1 I also own the original War of the Worlds broadcast as done by Orson Welles2 in 1938. This was an adaptation of H.G. Wells novel The War of the Worlds. I’ve long known that when Orson Welles’ program was originally broadcast, it created a panic. That’s one of those seminal pieces of broadcast history 1

Truth be told, I still get chills when I think of the Tell Tale Heart. Not because of how it affects me now, but because of how

it affected me back then. 2

Isn’t it neat that both the author of the novel and the creator of the radio adaptation have the same last name, even if it is

spelled differently?

The Almost Invisible Column by Lori A. Basiewicz that most of us have heard about. What many of us may not know is how the panic happened, why people were not aware they were listening to a staged performance. Especially since, at the beginning of the program, it clearly states that it is a show. It was more recently that I learned that there was a more popular radio program that aired at the same time on another station. Individuals flipped to the Orson Welles’ program during a musical interlude on the other station – much as we flip through channels during commercials these days – and landed on the program already in progress. They missed the original disclaimer. Talk about an oops. Except, some reports show that Welles and Koch planned it that way. Their show was unsponsored, so they were not required to have scheduled breaks like other programs. Consequently, the only announced that the show was fiction at the beginning and about fifty-five minutes into the program. From what I’ve read, I do not believe they were sorry. Not sorry at all. While they may not have intended to create a panic that had people fleeing from Eastern cities, it was their intention to create heightened tension that stole listeners from the other program. For one night at least, they succeeded at that. It wasn’t that long ago that I was flipping through late night television and came across the 1960’s version of The Time Machine. It was toward the end of the program, as the Wells-character was sitting inside the mountain, waiting for it to wear away. When it does, he discovers an idyllic setting, inhabited by the seemingly peace-loving Eloi. Only later does he realize that the Eloi are only half of what remains of humanity. The other half are the subterranean Morlocks who use the Eloi as we use livestock. What is interesting about so many of those older shows is the terror they convey with limited special effects. They allow the psychological horror and the viewers’ own imaginations to carry them through. What was amusing about seeing the older show is that it brought to mind the episode of The Big Bang Theory where Leonard, Sheldon, and crew purchased the Time Machine prop. Penny’s reaction to its arrival – mainly because it is blocking the staircase when she needs to get to work – causes Leonard to engage in inward self-reflection over his tendency to collect science fiction memorabilia. It also causes Sheldon to come to the aid of geeks everywhere when he points out that geeks are not the only ones to continue to play with toys long after they’ve passed into the cultural definition of adulthood.

The Almost Invisible Column by Lori A. Basiewicz The writers found a way to get rid of the prop before the next episode by inflicting Morlock-nightmares on Sheldon. But it says something about H. G. Wells’ enduring legacy. Although he was writing in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, he continues to influence the entertainment that we enjoy today in the 21st century. It also leads me to believe that I was correct about a conversation I had with a professor. She was contending that you wanted to add more descriptions and not leave things for the audience’s imagination. I contended that the illusion of specificity, or the audience’s tendency to fill in details when the writer leaves such things open is more powerful than painting detailed imagery ever could be. The thing we scare ourselves with will always be more frightening than the things other people try to scare us with.

BIBLIOGRAPHY “The Nerdvana Annihilation.” The Big Bang Theory: Season 1, Episode 14. Chuck Lorre Productions, Warner Brothers Television. 8 April 2008. Poe, Edgar Allan. Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Delphi Classics, 2012. Kindle edition. Time Machine, The. Screenplay by David Duncan. Dir. George Pal. Perf. Rod Taylor, Alan Young, and Yvette Mimieux. George Pal Productions and Galaxy Films, Inc., 1960. Welles, Orson, dir. The War of the Worlds. By H. G. Wells. Adapt. Howard Koch. Mecury theatre on the Air. CBS Radio. WCBS, New York. 30 October 1938. Wells, H. G. Best Science Fiction Stories of H. G. Wells. New York: Dover Publications, Inc., 1966. Wells, H. G. The War of the Worlds. Berkley Highland edition, 1964. New York: Berkley Books, 28th printing, 1985.

Burning Men

by Samuel Marzioli

Author’s Inspiration: With “Burning Men,” I wanted to pay tribute to H.G. Wells lesser read dystopian stories. I also wanted to incorporate beliefs the man himself held which, in one way or another, influenced his fiction. For instance, Wells was a dedicated evolutionist and eugenicist. When writing this story, I tried to imagine a possible near-future where these ideas were taken and applied to a rather unfortunate extreme. If nothing else, I hope the results are entertaining.

t’s dawn by the time we reach our project site, tucked into a field ten miles south of the city limits. As Thomas and I strap on our packs, I look up into the sky. It glows in shades of purple and red, and a hint of yellow nudges through the horizon. And all I can think is God’s up there beyond that beautiful expanse, judging me for my actions. Hating me for the violence I perpetuate. I tell Thomas about my doubts, even as I check the gauge on my burner and ensure the fuel canisters are locked in tight. In response his eyes roll up. He makes an exasperated sigh and says, “Look, George, it’s one thing to believe that God stuff when you’re a kid, ass parked in a pew on Sunday morning. But another when you’re out on a job.” “How do you mean?” I say. “Out here we got no time for lofty ideals. This is Darwin’s world; survival of the fittest. All that matters is we’re strong and they’re weak. We’re lions and they’re sheep.” “Maybe,” I say, but I find myself pondering his unintentional theological allusions. Because there once was a Lion who was also a Shepherd and never harmed a head of wool. It gets me hoping—just as we sneak into the homeless camp of polyester tents and sleeping bags—that it’s a sign. “Burn it,” Thomas whispers. I count eight tents in all: half singles, the other half big enough to fit families. The beggared inhabitants inside are sound asleep, snuggling against the cold and damp of morning. We activate the boosters, take aim, and pull our triggers. A plume of flame erupts. And then the screaming starts.

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli

We collect the charcoal corpses and drag them to the shoulder of the street, lay them side by side on the dust and gravel. Their faces are so contorted by pain you can hardly see the humanity left in them. Some fused together from the heat, a collection like some macabre exhibit in a modern house of horrors. Only, they’re real, and it takes all my strength to keep from washing them in vomit. I head to the car and update Dispatch on the results, mark the project site as clean. The Collectors will come by later in their trucks once their rounds begin at seven. As for Thomas and me, it’s break time. “Who’s hungry?” he says, tossing me a sly smile, sniffing a finger he broke off a dead woman’s hand. I slap a palm over my mouth and slink to the car. We head back to the city and end up at the corner booth in my favorite diner. I’ve been coming here for years, only most of that time I was working retail at a small mom and pop electronics store in the White Zone. The waitress, Hilda, was nice then, quick to smile and quicker to laugh. Sometimes she’d bring me a free slice of pie. “On the house,” she’d say with a wink. “Us daywagers have to stick together.” Now, after Hilda takes our order, she gives us plenty of space. There’s nothing like happiness in her expression, only a hint of scorn behind the blankness of her features. The steady line of her lips sometimes catches in a tremble whenever she’s forced to speak to us. “You’re working yourself up, George,” Thomas says, after gulping down his eggs. “There’s no God up there looking down. No Devil below looking up. Just those of us who do what our government demands, those who break the law and the day-wagers in between.” He’s still wearing his black kevmex Burner suit, his mask pulled up around his forehead. Hilda’s not the only one affected by our presence. I see the same expression of false calm on every face around us, barely hiding terror. That’s why I took my suit off the moment we went on break. But Thomas? He’d wear it on a trip to the grocery store if management allowed it. “I know, it’s just—”

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli “Just what, hom?” he says. Hom is short for hominid. It’s one of his ways of reminding me that, beyond our clothes and culture, we’re all just animals at heart. “I had a dream. The people I killed collected around my bed and they told me of the fire that waits for me when I die. Fire that burns but never consumes, leaving a man to taste his own misery for an eternity.” “Ah, that’s all hocus witchus bullshit,” he says, and gets to work downing his bacon and sausages. “Besides, what we do is for the greater good. That’s got to count for something.” Maybe he’s right. Every day they show us vids down at Burner Central of the good we accomplish every day. Crime’s down. The economy is soaring. The unemployment rate is virtually zero. Nevertheless, I can still hear the cries of men woken by heat, of women smothering their babies to give them a kinder death, or children screaming the names of their dead parents at the passive flames. So maybe Thomas is right; maybe they all are. But I can’t help thinking I’m doing wrong.

After breakfast, we head out on patrol. There’s no job in our queue from Dispatch, so we cruise the city streets, keep our eyes open to the clues of poverty around us. People turn aside at our passing. Curtains shut, doors close. Some hide in the shadows until we’re out of sight. Around Tenth and Market, we come across an elderly woman hobbling on a walker. She’s dressed in old, moth-eaten clothes, and looks a little too haggard for any proper citizen. Probable cause to stop her for questioning. The moment she sees us step out of our vehicle, her mouth gapes and she wets herself. Thomas laughs and points at her indignity, but I don’t give it a second glance. Once her papers check out, we send her off with a polite, “Have a good day, ma’am,” and it’s back to patrolling. For the next few minutes I think about the look in her eyes and it reminds me of when I was a day-wager too. Seeing the Burners pass, I often wondered if they would come for me next, despite my gainful employment. And when Mr. and Mrs. Fowler closed their shop two months ago, and laid me off, that fear

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli only escalated. I never left my apartment, searched the internet for jobs from morning until night. Barely slept. My “salvation” came through Thomas. We had been friends since high school, and he stuck his neck out by recommending me for a job to his supervisor. Without him, I might have been roadside charcoal by now. Despite it all, I can’t forget that. Or the relief--a feeling like gravity had lost its pull, and all the weeks of despair were gone for good. A new beginning. I try to hold those feelings close when Thomas spots another suspect under a bridge in the Red Zone. This time it’s a man in his forties. A beard like a wad of moss, and his crime as plain as the ragged clothes upon his unwashed body. When he sees our patrol car, he makes a run for it. Thomas jumps out the passenger side and gives chase. They race a hundred yards before Thomas tackles the man, pinning him to the ground with a forearm and a knee. “Come on, hom. It’s grill time,” he says when I catch up at last. I aim, then pause and lower my burner to the ground. “Are you sure this is right?” “Again with the moralizing? There is no judgment, no damnation fire. Just death followed by an everlasting nothing. The moment you realize that the easier this all gets. It worked for me.” “I just don’t know.” “Look, if God’s real I’ll take the blame.” “What do you mean?” “Like this.” He jerks the homeless man to his knees, slaps the man’s chin up until they’re both staring into the sky. He points his burner toward the sun and lets off a stream of fire. “Hey up there, it’s me, Thomas! If you’re real, turn this fire into snow. Do it and I’ll let this guy live. Otherwise, I kill him.” The fire persists, falling like raindrops, sizzling when it strikes the wet pavement. “See?” “Yeah,” I lie, but really my attention is drawn to the man. For a moment, I thought I saw the fear on his face gilded by hope, as if he expected the miracle to happen. Honestly, I did too. We’re both disappointed by the result, but I’ll give him the edge on that.

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli “Let’s get this done,” Thomas says, taking a few steps back. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the man.

We get a call from Dispatch. They send us over to the Green Zone for a project by the name of Mackie. He was a rental service manager. For ten years he did good business, until the Green Zone market for apartments went south and suddenly he was nothing. Living on welfare with his sons for seven months--one month too long, according to the powers that be. We kick down his door, drag the family out of their rooms and throw them to the sidewalk in front of their house. “Ready?” says Thomas. For a moment I look at Mackie and his sons, the panic in their eyes red, wet, and bestial. I wonder again if I’m doing right and I stare up at the clouds, pleading for an answer. Something to resolve the conflict boiling inside me. But the sun shines bright as any other day. The wind’s a downy breeze, and the silence from above lingers on and on and on. In times like these, it’s hard not to suspect that Thomas’s right, and the only God is nature. And yet I think about the brutality of the natural world, as cruel as anything we’ve done the past five days. A lioness doesn’t cry when she brings down a baby gazelle. A crocodile doesn’t weep when he snaps up a mother zebra. So then, why do I feel the knife-sharp edge of guilt for every life I take? “Burn them,” says Thomas. God—if there is a God—help us. We pull our triggers.

After work, we had back to Burner Central and get dressed in our civvies in the basement locker room. Around us, thirty other men and women do the same, and another fifty suit up for their coming tour. I hear authentic laughter in the back. A man a few rows over talks about the barbecue his family is

Burning Men by Samuel Marzioli throwing this weekend, asking his partner if he’s coming. I shake my head at their apathy, even as I swallow my conscience further down, to a place I can barely hear it. “That’s your first week, George, how do you feel?” says Thomas. “Like shit.” He hesitates. “Can I be real with you?” “Yeah.” “When I first started, I went through the same kind of thing you’re going through now. That’s what makes us a special breed, you know? We fling shit just like any other monkey, only we feel bad about it afterward. But you get used to it, you have to. If you’re not a burner you’re a day-wager, and if you’re a day-wager, you’re as good as roasted meat.” “Survival of the fittest?” I say. “That’s the world we live in, hom. It is what it is.” I nod. It makes sense. Maybe one day it’ll be the only sense I got left. But for now, I still don’t know if I’m doing right.

bout the Author: Samuel Marzioli was born and raised, and that’s all you need to know about that. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Penumbra eMag, Stupefying Stories, Space and Time Magazine, and the “A Darke Phantastique” anthology by Cycatrix Press. You can find updates about his latest projects by visiting his website: marzioli.blogspot.com.

Going Home

by Chris Pavesic

Author’s Note: “A Story of the Days to Come,” by H.G. Wells, has inspired my imagination for years. In this series of short stories, Wells depicted a future for England where urbanization and technology overwhelm and eventually replace the agricultural communities. Yet for a brief moment in time the urban and the agricultural cultures exist side-by-side, and the tensions this dual-nature generates provides a vast landscape for stories to flourish.

“ don’t care who you are. I don’t need your help.” “Mother, listen…” “Stop.” Caelie’s small, white hand thumped on the black mahogany desk for emphasis. “I don’t like interference in company affairs. I’ve told you that a thousand times.” “Mrs. Smith…” Caelie blanched inwardly at the name, but did not let any expression cross her face. “Who asked you to interfere?” “The Governor of Omnervou Colony formally requested the aid of the Legion in this matter.” Colonel O’Neil stepped forward. “Perhaps you don’t care about your life, or the life of your son; that is your concern. We, however, have no intention of letting this company fall into Axis hands.” Caelie walked around her desk and stood directly in front of the Colonel. She stared at him with the stillness and energy of a young woman. “You will leave my office, now.” The Colonel took a small, involuntary step back. He cleared his throat, inclined his head in her direction, and left. “Mother, I need to discuss this with you. The Colonel— ” “Is not on your side,” she interrupted. She looked up at him; his face was strongly chiseled, strong, and handsome, but his eyes, a cornflower blue, lacked the intelligence and fire reflected in her own. He was kind and decent, but would never be strong. “Out,” she said, a bit of kindness creeping into her voice, and perhaps a bit

Going Home by Chris Pavesic of affection for the young man. “Please, Jeremy. Leave now, and lock the door behind you.” He obliged, as always the dutiful son. Caelie pressed a switch concealed in the top drawer of her desk. A panel in the bookshelf behind her slid open, revealing a large room filled with cupboards and mostly empty shelves. She rushed into the hidden space, triggering the panel to slide shut. Once the secret room had been filled with all manner of documents, lithographs, daguerreotypes, records of business dealings, and propaganda that would certainly have tainted the family’s name in the eyes of the state; they would have been labeled as Axis sympathizers and tried for treason. Three months ago, when she found the secret room, Caelie carefully burned all of the items. She was genuinely fond of Jeremy and hoped that his father had not left behind any additional incriminating materials for the state to find. “At least I have done that much for him,” she whispered. “But will it even matter?” The room now housed clothing and a few boxes packed with valuables. Caelie flung her well-cut silks to the floor and pulled out a dark wool dress more appropriate for traveling. She traded her stiletto-heeled shoes for boots with a slight metallic sheen. She grabbed a small valise and lit an oil lamp; the tiny flame ran huge shadows like grasping fingers across the ceiling and walls. If she hurried she could make it through the escape tunnel and to the railway platform before the last train left for Central City.

The failing evening light thickened shadows and outlines. Caelie stood on the platform and felt the tremble and hum of the approaching train. It came black and sinuous from the mist, the bronze-colored wheels spitting sparks into the acrid steam that spread raggedly into the grey coming of dark. When she first arrived at Omnervou Colony, Caelie had been obsessed with travel by train. It seemed an almost romantic way to explore, especially if one could afford the first class berths and the amenities that went with them. The dining cars served lavish meals on gold-rimmed china designed especially for

Going Home by Chris Pavesic the trains. The berths were small, but the day couches converted to beds with freshly laundered sheets and pillows in crisp white cotton cases. Caelie had reveled each time in the delightful and disquieting sensation when the train powered up for its run between the settlements; it started to build speed just past the city boundaries marked by overgrown hedgerows, the dust alongside the tracks rising in little earth-fountains while billowing chalk-white clouds of steam clogged the air. This type of technology was novel to her. She sat there watching the valleys, some forested, some verdant, some tilled, pass with dizzying speed right outside of the window. The land over the hills was thickly wooded. She kept a private catalogue of villages buried in the depths of the valleys, of glimpses she caught through the trees of farm houses, windmills, and even the crumbling walls of a monastery. Caelie had availed herself of train travel to the fullest extent possible, until her explorations had sparked the rumor mill. Anything unusual, or out of character, made people suspicious. Not wanting to draw government attention to her activities, she stopped and found alternative, albeit less reliable, ways to gather information. She simply did not have the time to deal with any obstructions. Caelie had a clear linear appreciation of time. Eventualities did not come around again. They went, and stayed, past. The choices she made, that anyone made, were fixed and became part of history. Yet she simply couldn’t sit back and wait for fate to take its course; she had to act. That had always been part of her personality; faced with a problem, she would always try and fix it. Had she done too much, trying to protect Jeremy? Would her actions make any difference? It weighed on her horribly that she would never really know.

“Are you sure? Yes—of course you are.” He removed his gold-rimmed half-glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought we would have more time. The Chronicles indicate a few more weeks before the government declares martial law.” Caelie stood near the fireplace in which a few huge logs still smoldered in a bed of white ash. “The Chronicles are vague on several points, Weston. That’s why we are here.”

Going Home by Chris Pavesic “Do have a seat.” He waved her towards one of the padded armchairs covered in threadbare red velvet and walked to the window, drawing back the heavy brocade curtain and letting the gaslight from the street illuminate the dim room. Wood surfaces from the floor to the furniture gleamed in the speckled shafts of light that danced in between the branches which framed the window. “You might light an oil lamp,” Caelie said. Weston pursed his lips. “I inhabit a man of moderate means. Oil is a very dear commodity at this time. You’re the Senior Researcher; you reside within a woman of fortune.” “Oh, come off it. It isn’t like you didn’t have a choice.” Caelie shook her head. “And it isn’t like I didn’t have difficulties. I really wasn’t prepared to be a mother.” “How terrible for you.” Caelie laughed a bit wryly. “I do feel some affection for Jeremy. My time here with him, trying to help guide him in running the family company, has been most pleasant. I’ll never have a child of my own; he is the closest thing I will ever have to a son given the reproduction restrictions in our own time. But why are we arguing now? We need to make preparations to leave.” He continued to stare out of the window. “I’m surprised your ‘son’ didn’t notice the change in his ‘mother.’ My neighbors have made little comments about the difference in my behavior.” “He didn’t have much contact with her before Mr. Smith’s death. He was away at boarding school for most of his life, and then at university.” “And you brought him home? Because you felt sorry for him? Or because you wanted to have the experience of being a mother? This era does tempt you with new experiences.” He lapsed into silence again. Caelie walked over to him and gently touched his arm. “Weston? You need to gather your research materials. We won’t have much time before my socalled son will contact the authorities to search for his missing, elderly mother. And since she’s the head of a major corporation, they will take it seriously! We need to complete the transfer.”

Going Home by Chris Pavesic Weston reached over and touched her cheek. “You’re not elderly.” “Not in our century, no, but a woman of this century is lucky to reach her fourth decade. I can already feel this body breaking down with aches and pains in her joints. If I walk too far, I lose my breath and have tightness in my chest.” “It’s amazing the ailments they had to live with,” he said, and pulled a packet out of his jacket pocket. “What I could gather is here; interviews with the common folk, notations on political thought, social dynamics, and other aspects of life. I even copied a few recipes.” “Recipes?” “We won’t get anything like curry in our time.” “Is that a blessing, or a curse?” “And so Mrs. Louise Smith, rich industrialist, will die, and be found in the townhouse of Mr. David Jones, also deceased. Cause of death undetermined.” “Don’t be morbid. You know the Chronicles recorded that both of them were scheduled to die together within the next few weeks. That’s the only reason we were able to take over their bodies.” “I remember hearing ‘the Chronicles are vague on several points’ just moments ago.” “What is going on, Weston? We need to plan our travels back to our own time. The calculations aren’t going to work themselves.” “Don’t you understand? I already have a plan. And it doesn’t include returning to the future.” His hand shifted to his coat pocket. “Did you think I would argue with you?” Caelie asked. “So much that you started carrying a weapon?” He blinked at her. “You’re not?” “I understand the temptation to remain. This era is filled with such possibility. It’s a dichotomy of sorts, and I saw it every time I ventured out beyond the settlement boundaries. The dependence on the train is the big difference. In the Colonies it breaks the day into a regular schedule, just as the tracks break the land into smaller divisions in this ever-expanding empire. The remote villages are still mostly untouched; they measure time in days and

Going Home by Chris Pavesic seasons, not in hours. Can you imagine the luxury of that way of thinking? And there are more remote villages than the government will admit; more people who have not joined the industrial revolution than the Chronicles record.” “I never saw any of that.” “Did you ever leave Central City?” “Not as such, no.” “And you’re the one who doesn’t want to leave this era.” “You don’t have to sound so smug.” She laughed. “I am certainly not going to force you to return. That’s not my job, at any rate.” “I didn’t expect you would be so understanding. We did take an oath to observe, to record, and to not make any changes to history.” Caelie thought of the subversive materials she had burned to protect Jeremy. “Mrs. Louise Smith was a vain, silly woman whose life revolved around fashion and society parties. She was not inclined, or able, to run the family company after the death of her husband and eventually turned to Axis supporters for financial assistance; the government found out about her connections and seized the company. But after taking over her body several months ago I did run it, and raised it to good financial standing—so much so that I drew the attention of the government.” “I don’t understand.” “History cannot be changed. Not in a fundamental way. The death of Louise Smith tonight may buy Jeremy some time, but the government will eventually seize the company; he will probably be tried for sedition. There is nothing I can do to prevent it.” She shook her head sadly. “If they cannot prove treason, they will find a way to invent that proof. And the Chronicles of History will not essentially change.” “So nothing we did here will make a difference?” “Not to the past—not fundamentally. We can’t.” She looked him in the eye. “And you know that, Junior Researcher First Class Weston. That should have been drummed into you at the Academy. We can only document for the future.”

Going Home by Chris Pavesic “I still don’t want to leave.” He walked to the window again. “Our world is so sterile, so focused on rules and regulations. We study past civilizations and don’t really live in our own. When I came here, I felt like my real life had begun.” “Do I want to know what caused this turnaround?” “Probably not.” Weston smiled grimly. “I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t understand.” Caelie pursed her lips. “I want to go home. If you won’t leave, we can work the calculations for one traveler. I’ll report to the Board of Inquiry that you died before transfer of cholera or something. A disease like that effects your mind; it will explain why you didn’t transfer out of the body before death. That will protect both of us.” “That’s…decent of you.” “It’s better than the alternative.” Caelie nodded toward his pocket. “What do you have there, anyway?” Weston drew it sheepishly into view. “It’s called a black powder gun, I think. I’m not too sure how it works. I thought I would have more time to learn.” “Let me see it,” she held out her hand. Weston passed it to her. “I’ve seen one of these before. You need to pull back on the hammer, point it, and pull the trigger.” Weston seemed surprised at the red stain spreading across his chest. “You shot…” His voice faded as he fell to the floor. “David Jones and Louise Smith die together; the Chronicles record it. When I transfer in a few moments, Louise’s body will die. I couldn’t leave you here alive.” Caelie grabbed her valise and Weston’s packet of information. For a moment she stood over him irresolute, trembling. “I wanted to change Jeremy’s fate, and I don’t think I did. The Colonel’s visit today made that clear. You can’t change history, Weston; it’s already been written.” Caelie reached into her valise and pulled out her own research notes. Only these pages, and Weston’s work, would be transmitted with her; they were from the future and did not belong in this era any more than she did. A small daguerreotype of Jeremy rested on top. She stared at it for a long moment. She had been more of a mother to him in a few short months than Louise Smith had been in a lifetime.

Going Home by Chris Pavesic Caelie let the image fall to the floor and began working on the calculations for transfer. It was time to go home.

bout the Author: Chris Pavesic lives in the Midwestern United States and loves Kona coffee, fairy tales, and all types of speculative fiction. Between writing projects, Chris can most often be found reading, gaming, gardening, working on an endless list of DIY household projects, or hanging out with friends. She intermittently blogs at www.chrispavesic.com.

Cover Art Contest In love with Penumbra cover art? Have a hard time picking your favorite?

Then have we got the contest for you! From May 1 to July 1, you can vote on your favorite covers from the first year of Penumbra. The cover with the most votes will be used for the Best Of Penumbra collection, which will be available for sale on October 1, 2013. You’ll be able to read the best stories from Penumbra’s first year by the authors you love. So head on over to http://www.penumbra.musapublishing.blogspot.com/ and cast your vote! Only the readers’ favorite cover should be featured with the readers’ favorite stories.

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Terra Incognito —Session Fourteen: Pirates

Terra Incognito

by Richard C. White

Session Fourteen - Pirates

by Richard C. White

elcome to the fourteenth session of Terra Incognito. The last couple of sessions, we’ve discussed the various military units on Aviones, militias, standing armies, tribal units, and mercenaries. However, there’s another group of fighters out there that don’t easily fit into these categories—the highwaymen of the sea. This session, we’re going to be looking at pirates, privateers, and those who work in the shadows—actual naval units that pretend to be pirates to further certain countries’ goals. Many people my age, (those of us who had to outrun dinosaurs to get to the senior prom), were first introduced to pirates with the old classic Hollywood movies. If you have not watched Captain Blood, The Sea Hawks, The Black Swan, Captain Kidd, The Pirates of Tortuga, or The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex, then hie thee unto your Netflix account or whatever your preferred method of watching old movies and watch these. Do not let the black and whiteness of these movies perplex you. For modern movies, most people know about the Pirates of the Caribbean series. I highly recommend Master and Commander as one of the best sailing movies to come out in a long time. Now, am I implying for one second that these movies are historically accurate? Not in the least. Watch the pacing, the sword fighting, the way they maneuvered their ships into combat. Note how they dealt with storms, boarding parties, and long weeks at sea with bad water and even worse food. What the cinematographer was able to do with these movies was to capture the audience’s attention. As I’ve said a few times, readers may forgive historical inaccuracies as long as you’re internally consistent. If you start changing the rules mid-story, your readers are likely to toss the book across the room and vow never to buy anything from you again. So, using these movies and sources I’ll pass on at the end of this article, what can we learn about the Aviones version of pirates and privateers? First off, pirate captains tend to be strong-willed individualists. They don’t tend to form lasting alliances with each other. Oh, certainly, they may form a wolf pack to take on a convoy carrying extremely valuable cargo, but most merchant ships don’t carry gold, silver, or jewels. Most merchant ships carry trade goods, which if captured intact can be resold by the pirates to pay for

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White repairs to their ship and then some left over for the crew to go drinking. Given the reality of economics, most pirates worked alone. More than two pirate ships working together would mean less money from the spoils. Also, pirates prefer to capture ships intact. Those in better shape that can move faster than their old ship, they’ll keep for their own use. Those that are mostly intact, but not fast enough to avoid the navies that ply the seas around Aviones, they’ll seize and try to sell to merchants in a different kingdom. Once they’ve transferred things to the new ship, they’ll leave the captive crew with the old ship and let them figure out how to get the leaking, barnacle hulled derelict to shore. Most pirates did not slaughter entire crews. First off, most pirate ships are manned with just enough or not-quite-enough sailors to handle their own ship. They’ll need the crew of the captured merchant to sail it, usually by seizing the captain and other officers and holding them hostage to ensure the merchant crew behaves. Second, if a pirate captain has a reputation for butchering captives, why would the merchant surrender? The crew, knowing they’re going to die anyway, will fight twice as hard at repelling your boarding party and then refuse to surrender. Sure, you might overwhelm them eventually, but at the cost of how many of your own crew? No, a bloodthirsty reputation might be good in the bars of Port Royal, but being known as a merciful captain means the ship you’re about to board may not fight as hard, hoping you’ll just take what you want and then leave them alone. After all, it’s not their twenty barrels of olive oil and sixteen chests of gingham they’re transporting. Why die if you don’t have to? Pirates, on the other hand, have a reason to fight to the end when they get boarded by a naval ship or a private pirate hunter. People have dealt poorly with pirates whenever they could get their hands on them. Julius Caesar is reputed to have lined the coastline of Pergamon with pirates on crucifixes after he ransomed himself and then hired ships to return and capture the pirates, as he had told them he would. Pirates captured by the British were hauled all the way back to England to face trial at the Admiralty and then given the long walk to Execution Dock. Privateers were employed by governments, sailing under what was known as a letter of marque. This letter would specifically state who you could attack, who you couldn’t attack, and how the treasure, if any, was to be divided up

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White with the government. Letters of marque were normally issued only during times of war, but some privateers (who were generally semi-reformed pirates) were hired to conduct anti-pirate patrols in areas where shipping was at a great threat. Captain Kidd started out as a privateer, hunting pirates in the Indian Ocean. However, when he came across a rich Indian merchant, he was quick to help himself to that treasure. This not only meant he broke his letter of marque, but he also embarrassed the British East India Company. They were more than happy to let his patrons know about his indiscretion upon his return to New England. Additionally, there were pirates who were hired by a government to harass an enemy during times of peace to try and maintain a balance. For example, the Sea Hawks were a group of English sailors who plundered Spanish and French shipping in the Caribbean. There was technically no state of war between England and Spain at the time, but the English wanted to ensure the Spanish did not amass too much money, which they could use to create a navy that would crush the English. It was well understood that Elizabeth supported the Sea Hawks and she got a cut of all their treasures, but officially, she had to declare them pirates. However, with the Sea Hawks’ gallant defense against the Armada, all of them were given royal pardons for any and all crimes committed against the Spanish. Convenient, no?

So, given the historical review of piracy, let’s examine several groups of pirates and privateers who haunt the byways of Aviones. For an example of the ships we’re going to be discussing, I recommend The Pirate King. It’s a welldocumented site with a lot of illustrations. One of the greatest pirate lords who haunt The Brotherhood of the Coast is Captain Arnwulf Ironsides. Arnwulf controls three ships, a brig, which is his main ship and two ships which are perfect for gliding along the shore: a Flyboat and a Xebec. One of Arnwulf’s favored tactics is to attack with his brig, The Star Panther, from the seaward side and try to drive a merchantman toward the shoreline where the two other ships can then pounce. Usually, when faced with such overwhelming odds, the merchantman will strike its colors and the cargo is quickly transferred to the Fly-boat. Since this is a shallow drafted boat, it can easily proceed into some of the protected lagoons and other hidden waterways

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White in the Euthian Islands. There the cargo can be unloaded, sorted and divided without worrying about prying eyes or enemy ships. Arnwulf Ironsides is obviously an alias, which makes sense considering his chosen profession. While a highly successful pirate, he does not seem to be involved in any of the power struggles among the Brotherhood and refuses to sit on the council, which is about as close to an actual government that the Brotherhood has. In fact, he’s known for disappearing for long periods of time, leaving The Star Panther in the capable hands of his first mate, Jovin. However, whenever he returns, he’s usually loaded with supplies and gold, so his men do not threaten to remove him as they might another captain who could be accused of shirking his duties. Where he goes during these times is a mystery and many people who’ve attempted to follow him have been found floating face down in the Thaean Sea. Arnwulf’s rival for most feared pirate might be Godfrey the Black. Known for his raven-colored hair and fondness for dressing all in black, Godfrey haunts the northern coast of Aviones with his lugger, The King’s Wrath. He normally can be found raiding Vararis, Asari and Enzelle, but he has been known to port in the Wilds where he trades the goods he steals for tribal goods that will bring him a good price in foreign markets. In the running for the least feared pirate would be Robert the Bold. Cashiered out of three navies, he has a small Galiote which is in hideous need of repair. There are questions whether the ship will be sunk by another ship or simply just fall apart from the neglect it currently suffers. The crew is made out of sailors who couldn’t get work anywhere else and that’s the only reason Robert still remains captain on his ship. The problem is that Robert sees himself as a great captain and a greater pirate. It’s always bad luck preventing him from taking a prize that will make the other pirates have to acknowledge his greatness. The fact he doesn’t understand anything about ship tactics and his ship is barely capable of seizing the smallest of merchant ships doesn’t help his cause. To make matters worse, his first mate, Sergio, has been skimming money from the ship’s fund and intends to desert soon and establish his own crew the next time they make port on Devil’s Landing. At the other end of the spectrum is the privateer Sir Leon Greywhistle. The third son of a nobleman of Arendal, he served for many years in the Arendal

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White navy before cashing out and purchasing a Corvette that was badly in need of repair. Sir Leon found several backers through his father’s connections and reoutfitted the ship as a privateer. His ship, The Roll of the Dice, is known at almost every port around Aviones, where he hires out as a pirate hunter. He is willing to team up with other captains for punitive raids, but in general, his motto is, “He who hunts best, hunts alone.” There is a definite rivalry between Sir Leon and Ardwulf Ironsides, but if they meet on shore, there is an unspoken truce between the two. The two of them have been known to shut down every ale house in a port when they meet. Jaqueue Penderson is an Asari privateer, who sails the northern waters in his Brigantine, The Laughing Mermaid. When not hunting pirates, he has been known to take an Enzelle ship or two, when relations between the two countries have been at their ebb. There is a standing reward for Jaqueue by the Enzelle government and the Warlord would like nothing better than to have the smug Asari privateer brought before him in chains. However, Jaqueue spends a lot of his time sailing the Axeimos Sea, hunting the black ships of the Leopontii for the city-states of the Sicani.

There are a number of resources that can be very useful if an author wants to include pirates in their world building. Along with a number of web sites out there dedicated to pirates, there are hundreds of non-fiction books out there a good researcher could peruse through. One has to be careful though, because a lot of misconceptions about pirates have come down through the years. It’s best to check up any book to see what pirate aficionados have to say about it. These are some of the books that have been very useful in adapting pirates into my fantasy worlds: The Pirate Dictionary by Terry Breverton The Sea Rover’s Practice: Pirate Tactics and Techniques, 1630-1730 by Benerson Little The Pirates Pocket Book by Stuart Robertson The Scents of Eden: A History of the Spice Trade by Charles Corn A History of Pirates: Blood and Terror on the High Seas by Nigel Cawthorn Pirates of New Spain, 1575-1742 by Peter Gerhard

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White Captured by Pirates edited by John Richard Stephens Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life among the Pirates by David Cordingly A General History of Robberies and Murders of the Most Notorious Pirates by Daniel Defoe The Pirate’s Own Book: Authentic Narratives of the Most Celebrated Sea Robbers by The Marine Research Society History of the Pirates by Captain Charles Johnson And as I was saying, the last three books should be taken with a grain of salt, or in the case of Captain Johnson’s book, a whole hold of salt. The Defoe, Johnson, and the Mariner’s Historical Society books were written back in the 1700s, supposedly based on “true stories” that the authors had heard. As with any “secondhand research”, there’s a certain amount of bilge water and bluster in those books. However, if you want a rip-roaring tale of piracy and plunder, these are definitely books one should read.

And with this session, Terra Incognito draws to a close. We started this journey with a blank piece of paper and now, fourteen sessions and a wonderful interview later, we now have a fully developed world just waiting for someone to set their characters in. We’ve created islands, mountains, rivers and lakes, savage tribes who worship dark gods and cities of science and technology. We’re created governments, religions, money, stocked our island continent with resources and people. All that’s left now is for you the writer to find those stories hidden on Aviones and tell your tales. Thanks to everyone who’s followed this column and thanks to Celina Summers for giving me the chance to tell my tales. Happy writing.

Terra Incognito by Richard C. White

ichard C. White is the author of the For a Few Gold Pieces More short story collection for Musa. His latest story is The Black School, the fifth of ten, was released 10 May 2013. His other recent work includes Charles Boeckman Presents: Johnny Nickle. Other credits include Gauntlet Dark Legacy: Paths of Evil, and novellas and short stories for various media licensed works, such as Star Trek, Doctor Who and the Incredible Hulk. Rich has also written and published two small press comics (Troubleshooters Inc. and Chronicles of the Sea Dragon). Additionally, Rich is a member of the Writer Beware committee for the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He is a member of SFWA and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.

Target Audience

by H.L. Fullerton

Author’s Inspiration: We remember the inventions--a time machine, a flying apparatus; the aliens and mad scientists; the future--(you know, where we live, comparatively speaking.) Yet H.G. Wells wasn’t only about the science. Society nabbed a co-starring role: the ever widening gap between upper and working classes, the heights or depths a man might face when tinkering with Technology, the consequences he’d discover (despite all the forward-thinking, Wellsian societies were societies of men.) In Target Audience, I paired hypersonic sound with a youth-driven culture. And what’s more Wellsian than mixing technology and social disparity to forecast the future? Martians, sure. But after that. All right, I don’t have a scientist, but there is an advertising maven, a nasty generation gap and a war of the ages.

esterday Madave Black celebrated her forty-ninth birthday. Today as she exited the subway, instead of being bombarded by Between Us Girls ads, she heard her first hype for AARP. She froze in the patch of directed sound, the hype recycling itself and whispering its insult in her head. On the third repetition, she stepped out of the hype’s path and into the noise of the city. She clenched her jaw. Client or not, she didn’t appreciate the intrusion. Only reason she took public transportation was market research and now she’d been victimized by her own brainchild. Well, hers and Warren Waits. But War had bowed out of the HyperSonic Sound picture a long time ago— something about growing a social conscience and wanting to leave a positive mark on the world, men, go figure—which left her the sole proprietor of Black & Waits, the premier HySS advertising agency. If the three keys to real estate were location, location, location, then the secret trio to successful advertising was demographics, demographics, demographics—and Madave Black had just been confronted with her declining desirability. Soon she wouldn’t even be able to hear hypes—aging, it sucked. She thought she’d grown immune once she bypassed 35—the consumer sweet spot was 18-35—but the stomach clenching dread she experienced at hearing the AARP hype made her realize vanity was brain-deep. She was also pissed because this flummox meant Black & Waits’ software had a glitch. AARP hypes shouldn’t target anyone under 50 and she had twelve more months before she tipped that scale, damnit. Madave marched into her office and called a staff meeting to correct the

Target Audience by H.L. Fullerton problem. Then she phoned her ENT to see what he could do to youthanize her aural frequencies. He wouldn’t even take her call. Forty-nine and redundant. She slumped in her executive chair. She›d joked to colleagues about those pathetic suicidal souls who couldn›t handle losing the whispers. ‘Plastic to Plathic.’ Now she was one of those souls on the train to Plath Town. A sad sack Sylvia. To perk herself up, she took an early lunch and went shopping at Between Us Girls, a trendy juniors’ store. A new pair of B.U.G. jeans should do the trick. She might be losing her hearing and getting targeted by the senior citizen brigade, but her Pilates regimen meant she could still wear clothing meant for girls three-fourths her age. Madave scanned the store; saw the twittering girls, the beleaguered mothers, the approaching thirty-somethings clinging to their favorite brand, desperate for a hype-fix to prove they still had ‘it.’ A gaggle of teens clustered around the summer tops display. The brunette wearing the green tank dress wasn’t hearing the sales hype Madave had approved—Two for one means twice the fun—and her friends teased her. Madave smiled. The girl in green would spend double that of her friends to bump her market segment. From the wall of jeans, Madave selected two pairs. She knitted her eyebrows when she didn’t hear the jean’s hype and discretely checked her hype-locator to make sure the HySS was active. It was. She pushed at the panic fluttering between her ears and hurried into the dressing room. She tried on the jeans— they fit—but she missed the reassuring hypes designed to spur purchases. You look soooo hot in those...Between Us Girls, those jeans were made for you...OMG you rock that outfit. One day shouldn’t make such a difference. Age was just a number. Unless you’re in advertising, Madave thought. She knew the seduction of hypes. Hadn’t she designed them to turn wants into must-haves? Wait. She didn’t need hypes to inspire her. She was Madave Black. She created those voices. Personalized them. Made the whispers sound like one’s own thoughts—but better, nicer thoughts. War used to say: imagine having a cheerleader in your head 24/7. Madave always hated that analogy, but it’d closed deals. So what if she couldn’t hear a hype? Least she was old enough to remember life before HySS. This new generation would be lost without their whispers. Bolstered, Madave bee-lined for the check-out.

Target Audience by H.L. Fullerton “I can’t sell you these jeans,” the Gen-Hyper working the register said, uptalking in that blonde singsong way. “You’re way too mature for them. Can I interest you in our Flatter cut?” Madave’s first impulse was to have her fired. This girl had probably never made a single purchase without one of Black & Waits’ hypes whispering in her head and she stood between Madave and the perfect jeans? Madave needed these jeans. These jeans were proof that AARP hypes weren’t meant for her. Had it been just last week she’d proclaimed, “Exclusionary is the new exclusive”? During the meeting, it’d seemed the perfect pitch. Being on the receiving end of her brilliance felt like another knife in her heart. Then adrenaline surged through her veins and buoyed her. Forget termination. What stock did an eighteen year old have invested in a crummy sales job? Madave had a better idea. “I have my daughter’s B.U.G. card in my purse,” she lied. She rummaged for her hype-locator and corrupted the salesclerk’s plastic. Let her try to hear a hype without that, Madave thought. Who’s plathic now? “Tut. I must’ve left it home. I’ll get these later,” she told the girl and walked away, smiling. It was only a minor inconvenience, but it counted as revenge and, petty or not, it felt good. But the smug sensation didn’t last. Back at the agency, she reminisced about Warren Waits and their heydays. “Mad,” he’d said when Modern Advertising invented the nickname Generation Hype. “We’ve created something far worse than any military application of HySS. Hypes aren’t the new Amazon; they’re the next crystal meth.” Madave straightened. Maybe War was right: she had a weapon at her disposal. Maybe it was time to turn off the hype machine and see what happened. See how long it took for Generation Hype to detonate. See who went plathic first.

bout the Author: H.L. Fullerton lives in New York and sometimes writes about targets and audiences and voices in one’s head. If you liked this story, you might also like-- Never mind, you know how the Internet works.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford

Author’s Inspiration: I grew up reading and rereading my grandfather’s falling-apart hardcover of The Short Stories of H. G. Wells, every school holidays. Even then, skinny teenage and sub-teen girls were dieting their lives away. Wells’ “The Truth About Pyecraft” – a story about a foolish man desperate to lose weight – has always made me giggle. I hope that this homage amuses you.

stood at Madison’s front door, staring down at the new text that had zinged onto my grungy old cell phone. Unbelievable! Madison had rung me up first thing, before I’d even finished half of my bowl of the gluey muesli that Mom makes me eat every morning, full of linseeds and much stranger things. Maddy had been practically in tears on the phone, begging and pleading with me to get over to her house “right now” so I could deal with her latest emergency—as if I didn’t have anything better to do on a gloriously sunny Saturday morning. The sad truth is that I didn’t have anything else better to do, especially since Braydon dumped me. Besides, I’ve always done anything and everything that Madison has asked me to do, ever since we were both nine years old and she was the only person at the new school who smiled at me. She can be infuriating, but she’s the most alive person I’ve ever met. So I growled a bit, and maybe stomped once or twice, and lashed my metaphorical tail, but then I wrote a note for Mom for when she got home from yoga, cleaned my teeth, and put the rest of my muesli in Ben’s doggie bowl on the floor. (Mom says the muesli is scientifically formulated for my animal nature. My madinventor Uncle Jim came up with the recipe at about the time his big, slobbery St. Bernard, Bella, disappeared. Aunty Dorrie told us back then that Bella was stolen, but I eventually found out that the truth was more unusual than that.) So, anyway, after I’d biked half-way across Sydney for some emergency too terrible for Madison to explain over the phone, and I was on her front steps ringing the doorbell, she texted me that I would have to let myself in. She wasn’t even going to come to the front door! Something was holding her up, she said, and I’d understand when I saw her. I almost kicked the front door, hard, but I didn’t want to hurt my foot. Instead, I just kicked myself for being such a sucker, and fished around in my shoulder bag for my spare key. (I always have to keep a spare key to Madison’s

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford family’s house, for the regular occasions when she locks herself out and loses her keys. It was one of my little tasks, as her official best friend.) There was no sign of Maddy in the huge, scary-white living area. I was always terrified to eat or drink anything, even water, anywhere near the white sofas and white carpet. It made me nervous just looking at them. She wasn’t in the glossy-white kitchen, either. I even peered down the long white corridor— but there was no sign of Madison anywhere, and her pink bedroom door was closed. Retro New Romantics music trilled down the hallway from Madison’s revolting brother Jarrod’s door, also (thankfully) closed. Just then, my phone chirped again like a hungry baby bird wanting a worm—the ringtone I’d given Maddy. Her voice through the phone was uncharacteristically soft, not at all her usual excited shriek. “Are you in the house yet?” “Yes.” I tried not to sound too irritable. “Where the hell are you?” “I’m in my bedroom,” Madison whispered. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to let yourself into my room. You’ll understand in a minute.” Madison couldn’t even open her bedroom door to let me in? What? And why was she whispering? The call cut out, and I stalked down the corridor. I wished that the meditation exercises that Mom gave me actually worked to make me calmer, but, if anything, they only made me more nervy. It wasn’t fair. Trying my damnedest to channel calm, I took a deep breath before pushing the door open. I could see the pink Disney princess bed that Madison already had when we were both nine, the Star Wars silver desk from when she was twelve, and the glittery laptop she’d got for her sixteenth birthday—but there was no sign of the girl herself. The room was empty. I was just about ready to scream. “What the—” But before I could finish, I heard Madison’s familiar husky whisper. “Up, Jessica. Look up.” What was going on? Was Madison hiding? I sighed as noiselessly as I could manage, and wondered again if I should just turn around and go back home. Even the gluey muesli was starting to sound good.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford “Please, look up.” Why would Madison be hiding on top of the wardrobe (an elegant new one, French-ly chic) or the old hot-pink bookshelf? Obediently, I looked. She wasn’t on top of either of them, of course. Madison hissed, “No, up here. Higher. Come all the way into the room, and close my door, then look up.” “What?” But I did what I was told, and tilted my whole head up to the ceiling, in the direction the voice was coming from. My mouth fell open. Madison was floating up near the ceiling, in her feather-trimmed dove-grey designer pajamas that would have cost my clothing allowance for the whole year. No, that’s not quite right—she wasn’t floating exactly—it was more that her body was pressed flat up against the high ceiling, as if a huge invisible paw was holding her up. In one hand, she was gripping her cell phone hard. “See,” Madison said, softly. “I told you it was a real emergency. Now, shut the door! I don’t want any of my family to find out about this. Especially Jarrod!” That was the first thing that had made any sense all day. “Fair enough,” I said, and sat down on the frilly bed. Just for once, Madison was right. Her parents were out, but if her big brother Jarrod got the teensiest hint of what was going on in her bedroom, he would video her and stick the result straight up on YouTube. Madison would never be able to show her face at school again—or anywhere. She’d be a social outcast, and so would I. (I’m fairly sure that she’s the only reason that anyone at school speaks to me at all.) And what if it hadn’t worn off by dinner time? Or bed time? What would she do then? And, sooner or later, she was going to need the bathroom. This was a real emergency. “Watch this!” Madison said, still whispering. She bent her knees and used her elbows and feet to push herself off the ceiling and down towards the floor. Her body moved down maybe one or two feet, then shot back up, banging her shiny blonde head hard against the white ceiling. Gravity wasn’t just ignoring her—it was positively repelling her! “I can’t stand this much longer,” Madison said. “You’ve got to do something, Jessica. I’m counting on you.”

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford No pressure, of course. “Madison, how did this happen?” I asked, careful not to sound too judgmental. I dreaded the answer. “It wasn’t my fault,” Madison said, pouting. There were real tears in her huge blue eyes—though maybe that was because her head still hurt from being banged on the ceiling. “I don’t care whose fault it is.” It was bound to be Madison’s fault; it always was. “If I don’t know what happened, how can I even start to try to fix it?” “Oh, all right,” Madison said. “If I really have to. Remember when we went to visit your Aunty Dorrie last week? Because of her broken ankle?” I remembered. We’d been sitting in my Aunty Dorrie’s living room, full of huge, squashy armchairs and too much bric-a-brac...

“I wish I could lose weight, Mrs. Lee,” Madison had said to Aunty Dorrie. “I’m sure I could get some acting work if I could just lose weight.” She pinched at her tight, flat stomach, under her silvery silk top, and pouted her movie-star lips. “Nonsense,” Aunty Dorrie said. “You’re a slim, healthy-looking young woman.” The lines around Dorrie’s eyes crinkled in a smile. Her face looked Chinese, like mine, but her accent was BBC English. She was really my greataunt Dorothy; her mother had moved from Hong Kong to Sydney about a million years ago, along with my grandmother. Madison kept pinching at different bits of her stomach, saying, “Look!” every time she took a new tiny pinch of nothing but skin. Madison had wanted to lose three pounds the whole time I’d known her—even back when we were both nine, and she was skinny and long-legged as Bambi. It had gone on for too long. I said, crankily, “Don’t be ridiculous, Madison. That’s just silk and skin you’re pinching, not fat. You know what they said when we joined the gym: you’re at least three pounds under-weight. You don’t need to lose any weight. You’re not fat.”

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford If anyone was fat, it was me. I looked down at my own stomach, which in my more positive moods I try to think of as voluptuous and feminine. I’m four pounds heavier than Madison, and tragically shorter. Madison pouted prettily. “At Pilates, Emily said my center would be stronger if I lost weight. I’ve got to lose weight.” I wondered if I should escape to the relative sanity of the kitchen and make a cup of tea. Would Aunty Dorrie be shocked if I offered to make a cocktail? I couldn’t take much more of this. I snapped, “Emily’s just the receptionist, Madison.” “Oh, don’t be cross with me, Jessie, please. I wish I could lose weight, that’s all.” “Be careful what you wish for,” my Aunty Dorrie said, gravely. “You might just get it.” “What do you mean?” Maddy said. “What could possibly be wrong with losing weight?” Aunty Dorrie gave a feline smile and said, “Oh, nothing, Madison. It’s just an old saying.” I was starting to get suspicious. What was my favorite aunty up to? Dorrie looked tiny in her huge leather armchair. She was fully made up, wearing a quilted black satin dressing-gown, her white hair neatly bobbed around her triangular face, her unnervingly green eyes shining with intelligence—and her left leg was propped up on the coffee table, encased in what looked oddly like a white ski-boot. Her right foot, in a delicately furry white slipper, was crossed over it. Her right ankle looked very thin and vulnerable. What if it snapped, too? I hated the idea of my favorite aunt in a wheelchair. Madison’s eyes had obviously followed mine to my aunt’s slender ankle. Madison said, “But how do you stay so slim, Mrs. Yee?” Aunt Dorrie reached for a small green grape from the bunch I’d had brought her, and held it in front of her pink cat-like mouth. “It’s easy,” she said, and smiled enigmatically. Yes, easy: golf three times a week, and lots of long walks. Wonderfully simple, as long as her ankle wasn’t broken.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford Madison frowned. “You use Traditional Chinese Medicine, I suppose. Mysterious ancient healing recipes. You probably even compound them yourself.” Oh, the embarrassment. It burnt. I closed my eyes, and tried to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere, as long as it was away from my clueless best friend. My beloved aunt has never boiled up herbs, or dubious parts of endangered animals. Earl Grey tea is the only herbal compound she’s ever been known to use. Madison went on making a fool of herself. “And I suppose eating stir-fried tofu every night helps, as well.” Aunty Dorrie was a devout meat and three veg carnivore—she made the best lamb roast in Sydney—but she just nodded. Why? “I do know a little Traditional Chinese Medicine,” Aunty Dorrie, said, in her clipped British voice. Her enigmatic smile was starting to look like too much like a Cheshire Cat smirk. What was she up to? “Really?” Madison said. Her blue eyes were like saucers. “Oh, yes. It fascinates me.” That was a big fib. Aunty Dorrie knew more about international finance than most investment bankers, but nothing at all about TCM. Aunty Dorrie said, with exaggerated innocence, “And you want to lose weight, Madison. Really, that’s an amazing coincidence. I’ve been translating some papers my grandmother left to my mother. Just last week, I found a formula for weight loss.” Oh-oh. It’s my own mom, not Dorrie, who is the translator of the family. I knew what was going on, now. Aunty Dorrie was so bored with sitting at home eating grapes that she was toying with poor silly Madison. My best friend lunged across the gap between the sofa and the armchair and grabbed Dorrie’s arm. “But that’s fantastic. Would you show me? Please?” If I were a truly good person, I’d have stopped Madison then—but getting between a predator and her prey can be dangerous.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford “How about I make a pot of tea?” I said. “That would be lovely, darling,” Aunty Dorrie said, and popped another grape into her carefully lipsticked mouth. “Earl Grey, please.” On the way to the kitchen, I picked up Aunty Dorrie’s well-thumbed hardback copy of The Short Stories of H. G Wells. I’d loved that book so much – I’d read it cover to cover every time I stayed over during vacations. There was a photo of Uncle Jim stuck in it as a bookmark. A few strands of no-colored hair hung around the sides of his head, above his red and green fairisle jumper. He looked sad. All those years tinkering in his shed, and the only useful invention he’d ever come up with was the excellent harness he’d made for Bella, their adorable, enormous St. Bernard. Then Bella had disappeared, along with the prototype harness. Uncle Jim had been devastated. He’d died a few months later. I closed the book on poor Uncle Jim, then opened it again at random and lost myself in the scientific romance of the early twentieth century.

“So,” Madison said, “your Aunty Dorrie gave me a tiny bottle of the formula, and I took it this morning with my coffee. But it didn’t work. I’m no thinner, but I’m stuck to the ceiling. You’ve got to help me!” “That’s it!” I hit herself on the head, like people do on TV. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it hurt. “That’s what?” Madison said, irritably, from the ceiling. I said, “That’s why you’re stuck to the ceiling. You’ve lost weight.” I tried not to giggle. The idea reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite remember what. “No, I haven’t.” Madison pinched at her skinny little waist. “I’m as fat as ever.” “You’ve lost weight. You haven’t lost fat—not that you had any spare fat to lose, you ridiculous mongoose. You’ve lost weight. You’re weightless.” “Oh!” Madison’s mouth fell open, and stayed that way as long as I could bear to watch.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford “I’d better call Aunty Dorrie,” I said. “See if there’s an antidote. Something to bring your weight back to normal.” “But I don’t want to gain weight!” Madison said. “Look! I’m so fat already.” I just rolled her eyes and walked out down the corridor to the back yard, fishing in my bag for my cell phone. I didn’t want Madison overhearing my conversation. On the way, the missing link popped into my head.

“Come clean, you tricksy old cat,” I said into my cell phone. “Where did you get the stuff you gave Madison, and what’s the antidote? “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, child,” Auntie Dorrie said, and sniffed as if I’d offended her deeply. “Look, Aunty, I’m in a remake of an H. G. Wells story here, with Traditional Chinese Medicine instead of the Indian Fakir’s potion. I know you remember poor fat blubbery greedy Pyecraft in the story, who wanted to lose weight.” “It sounds vaguely familiar, yes.” She knew it practically by heart, of course. No point rubbing it in. “Well, Madison’s bobbing around on the ceiling, just like Pyecraft after he took the potion. You gave the stuff to her, you’d better fix it. Now.” “That skinny little girl deserved it. Fat, indeed. Wanting to lose weight. And I was so bored!” “Aunty,” I said, in a low voice. “You’re far too loyal to her, you know. Loyal as a dragon.” “Aunty Dorrie,” I said, even lower. It might have sounded a bit like a dragonish growl, I suppose. “Tell me.” “Oh, if I must,” the old cat replied, sounding cross. “Well, you remember how we told the whole family that poor Bella was stolen?” “Mmm.” Almost a growl. “It wasn’t strictly true.”

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford What? “So what really happened to Bella?” “Actually, Jim gave the poor dog a dose of the antigravity compound that he’d been working on. He did it out in the backyard, and she went up, right up into the sky, so fast that he lost hold of her harness. I almost killed him, when he told me.” “Oh.” “Jim said it would wear off in a few hours—it had only taken a few minutes with the guinea pigs he tested it on first—but we never found out where poor Bella came down.” I heard Aunty Dorrie—not normally a sentimental woman—sniff with real sorrow. “I made Jim stop working on the drug that minute. Poor Bella. It was just too dangerous. And then poor Jim died, so soon afterwards.” While Aunty Dorrie was speaking, it had gradually dawned on me that this thing was several orders of magnitude more important than the usual Madison disaster. “But, Aunty Dorrie, this could be the scientific discovery of the century!” “No. No no no. Forget it.” “But Aunty Dorrie, why?” We could be rich, and famous. Anti-gravity in a bottle! “You ask me why?” Aunty Dorrie gave a bitter laugh. “Do you think I want black helicopters landing in my backyard, and Men in Black poking through your uncle’s shed? The CIA? The FBI?” “Well, no, but—” “I’ll call them now, if you want,” Dorrie threatened, “send them round to Madison’s place. They’ll watch your every move for the rest of your life. And hers, not that I would be so upset about that. Such a silly girl.” “But...” The scientific discovery of the century was slipping through my metaphorical fingers. It was painful. Fame, fortune, the Nobel prize... Finally, I shrugged. Aunty Dorrie was right about the black helicopters, damnit. “Oh, all right. But what are we going to do about Madison? Do we just have to wait for it to wear off?” “She wanted to, ahem, lose weight.” Aunty Dorrie’s evil chuckle would have surprised anyone who didn’t know her as well as I did, anyone who got

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford taken in by the sweet old lady exterior. “Jim estimated two or three hours for Bella, and your friend probably weighs about the same as she did. If I were you, I’d make sure there was something soft on the floor for her to land on, when it does wear off.” “Great. That’s just great.” But I couldn’t help smirking, just a teensy, tiny bit. Madison had brought this disaster on herself, after all—as usual. “And don’t let her out of the house!” “No.” I shuddered. It was already sad about Bella—but what if the same thing happened to my best friend? Brrr. It was too horrible to think about. Aunty Dorrie interrupted my brooding. “Maybe you could read her a story, to pass the time.” “I know just the one,” I said. Sadly, though, I knew that Madison would rather sit through a Mahler concert than listen to anything by H. G. Wells, especially a fable about how foolish it was to talk about losing weight. Back in the princess’s pink bedroom, I grabbed a random glossy magazine from the pile on the floor, and sprawled over the comfortable office chair, with my feet up at the desk. “You’re going to be fine,” I said, in what I hoped was a bracing tone. “It’ll wear off soon. Just try to wriggle your way across the ceiling so you’re over the bed before you get that all weight back all of a sudden.” “But I want to lose weight.” “No you don’t. Trust me.” She started inching her way across the ceiling. Good. “Now,” I said, “what do you want to hear about first, the new denim minis, new transparent heels, or new celebrity baby bumps?” I groaned inwardly at the choice, but I saw Madison’s face light up. Ohoh. Why was she looking so happy? Then I looked properly at the magazine cover. The headline sprang out at me like a claw. “No!” I shouted, before Madison could open her mouth. “I’m not reading you anything about the “New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet”.

New Miracle Celebrity Weight Loss Diet by Jenny Blackford

bout the Author: Jenny Blackford’s short stories have appeared in places as diverse as Random House’s 30 Australian Ghost Stories for Children and Cosmos magazine. Another homage to H.G. Wells (“A Moveable Feast”) was published in the 2012 horror anthology Bloodstones, edited by Amanda Pillar, and will be included in the Year’s Best Australian Fantasy and Horror. Pamela Sargent described Jenny’s historical novella set in classical Athens and Delphi, The Priestess and the Slave, as “elegant.” Jenny’s current major project is writing the violent, sexy life of Bronze Age princess Medea.

Coming Next Month Coming in July Penumbra

Japanese Mythology July Issue Short Stories by • Hannah Adcock • J.M. Scott • Arthur Lorenz • Stewart C. Baker • Kendra Leigh Speedling Featured story: The Cicadas of Okinawa by Stephanie M.Loree

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