
Table of Contents

Jupiter XXXIX : Hegemone

Editorial

Blocked

Simon Fay

Rendezvous

Alessio Zanelli

Without Doubt

J. Rohr

Climbers

Alessio Zanelli

Gap Years

Robert Thayer

The Kiss Of Farewell

Alessio Zanelli

Alien Encounter

Graham Keeler

Signals and Sentiments

Tyler Winstead

The Ghost Writer

Steve McGarrity

Contributors

Don't Miss An Issue!

## Jupiter XXXIX : Hegemone

### January 2013

Jupiter is edited by: Ian Redman

Write to Jupiter at: Jupiter, 4 Stoneleigh Mews, Yeovil, Somerset, BA21 3UT, UK. or e-mail to: editor@jupitersf.co.uk Further information from www.jupitersf.co.uk

All comments or enquires about advertising should be sent to the above address.

Submissions: Stories to 10,000 words. Poetry to 25 lines. Artwork - cover and for use with stories, please send examples first (copies).

Full guidelines at www.jupitersf.co.uk/wguide.htm.

Copyright (2013) for this collection, Ian Redman. Published at Smashwords. Rights to individual contributions remain the property of the relevant writer/artist. The views expressed in Jupiter are not necessarily those of the editor or of the magazine or publisher. Any resemblance between any of the characters depicted and anyone alive or dead is purely coincidental.

## Editorial

We have moved! Any postal communications must be done using our new address shown on the previous page. Whilst we have set up a redirect, I would hate to lose any correspondence.

So, what have we got lined up this issue? Another good one I think, Daniel has provided a fantastic colour cover image and we welcome Alessio back with some more poems.

There are six great stories for you, from future (and past) earths to far flung new worlds. These stories are full of strange objects, space ships and future cities, and yet at their core they're all about people, their reactions to the world and the things life throws at them.

Enjoy!

[Ian  
editor - Jupiter](mailto:editor@jupitersf.co.uk)

## Blocked

### Simon Fay

She tosses her rucksack onto the ground in front of these two strangers as though they're old friends waiting for her arrival. "I'll be back with a drink."

She hadn't asked to sit down.

"Blondes aren't your type."

"Americans aren't yours."

"I've been meaning to expand my horizons."

The Yank's greeting doesn't so much ignite the competition between the men as much as it douses a can of petrol on the crackling fire they call their friendship. Boys will be boys. The taller one pushes a low barstool out from the table with his foot by way of welcoming the woman to her seat. "You'll have to excuse my friend, he doesn't like Americans."

"Nobody does," the two ends of her mouth perched on her cheeks.

"Maybe you can win me over," the smaller man says.

"Who says I want to?" As she leans forward to open a pouch on her rucksack the smaller man notices the cube shaped pendant dangling on a chain over the dip between her milky breasts.

"Never mind," he says dramatically, "She's a Blockhead."

By way of confirming this she slides a beer mat decorated with a picture of The Block off the table, and slips it into the open pouch of her bag.

The bigger one laughs, feeling this marathon against his friend turn into a sprint in which he's darting ahead.

"I find that term offensive," her smile not flickering, her eyes not dulled.

"He hates Blockheads more than he hates Americans."

"Man, I thought Irish guys were supposed to have charm."

"I should have guessed by the rucksack. A pilgrim for The Block," the smaller man shakes his head.

"You guys don't appreciate what you got."

"Sure we do."

"This one doesn't."

"My name's Phil."

"Sarah."

"Rupert."

Hands are shook, everyone making a conscious effort to grip hard.

"A Blockhead," Phil mourns the loss of his respect for the woman - Sarah - with a long sup of his beer.

"An alien object, the size of a shopping mall, of unknown origin, a perfectly shaped cube, moved from god only knows where in the universe and floated - not fell, floated - down from space and landed in Dublin city - your home - an enormous block of perfectly shaped granite landed like a feather in Phoenix Park, and you're not the least bit impressed by that?"

"Yeah? What's it done lately?" Phil knows well that The Block hasn't done anything for twenty-seven years, eleven months and thirty days.

"Phil's not easily impressed," Rupert explains, then shifts the conversation away from his friend, "personally, I think it's stunning. There's not a country in the world that didn't claim a shot at understanding the damn thing, how the hell it floated and where the hell it came from. Thirty years of poking and prodding it and no explanation other than - yep - it's made out of granite and it sure as hell is a cube."

Phil bites his tongue through Ruperts monologue, fully aware that he's waffling and happy to lie to get into the girl's pants. Codes of friendship sometimes serve as elaborate guidelines on how to torture each other. Rupert had taken his position, to love The Block, Phil was still resigned to smashing the thing, Yank or no Yank.

"It's comforting for you," Phil rolls his eyes, "That there's something you don't understand. You think people were scared when The Block first showed up? Imagine how scared they'd be if we knew everything. I don't blame you for taking comfort."

Sarah's eyes do not leave Phil and her smile does not fade, though her manner becomes cautious and detached, like she's looking at him through a sheet of glass.

"Phil's a deathbed Catholic," Rupert, kicking himself for redirecting the conversation back to Phil.

"Is that right Phil? Sin, sin, sin all the way till a priest shows up for the last rights then apologise for being rude to so many tourists?"

"I'll go to hell before apologising for that."

They all sit quietly for a moment till Sarah startles them with a burst of laughter. "You two really hate each other."

"Only all the time," Rupert says.

"We're going to need more drinks," Phil stands, patting pockets for his wallet.

"Stop pretending to look for it," Rupert hands him a twenty

Phil takes the money bashfully and mentally notes that Rupert has scored another point, Cheeky, he thinks, and makes his way to the bar, feeling every second he's away from the girl whom he's left with the competition, his friend.

"Feckin' Blockheads," a drunk at the bar giggles to his buddy.

He sees the drunk fling a beer mat at the girl which buzzes by her ear like a fly - she scratches the ear - and the missile goes unnoticed.

"You with her?" they ask. "Looper pilgrims."

Phil thinks, She _is_ a looper pilgrim, a blockhead, travelling all the way from The States on her own just to see a big lump of granite.

And then he thinks it again, She travelled all the way from The States on her own to see a big lump of granite.

Anyway, he shrugs off their comment with a diplomatic, "Blockheads' gotta drink too." With that sentence, he feels a line drawn down himself splitting him in two. He doesn't like that she's into the lump of granite, but he's protective of her. He decides, I'm the only one who's going to slag her about The Block, not some drunks at the bar. As he's thinking this, they fling another beer mat, this time hitting the target on her cheek. As Phil thinks, Rupert stands. Rupert's broad frame expands to make him a bull, his size more intimidating than anything he could say. The drunks at the bar turn away from him in a sulk. Another point to Rupert, Phil notes. As he seats himself across from Sarah he feels small sat beside his friend. "That Irish charm again," he rolls his eyes to the drunks. Sarah, she's still smiling, though her eyes have lost a spark.

"Rupert says you've never been to The Block."

"Rupert's very generous with information."

"Rupert says you're never going to The Block."

"Rupert's smile is starting to piss me off."

"We're going to The Block."

"Have a nice time."

"You're coming with us."

"Over my dead body."

She laughs that laugh again, no less startling this time.

Phil's hand tightens on the square shaped pint glass - he knows that Rupert senses his opportunity to steal her away once and for all.

"We're getting a bottle of wine. If Phil's coming I'll make it two. We're hopping the fence tonight," Rupert talks knowing she won't say no, "You don't want to be lining up with a bunch of picture taking tourists. You've come all the way from America to see the feckin' thing, we should make it special. The fence is about yay-high, I'll get you over with a boost. Then it's just us, the stars and The Block. Sound?"

"Sound?" she asks.

"Sound," he says, and goes to the bar to buy a bottle of wine.

"You've never been," she huffs at Phil, "Right on your doorstep, the most amazing thing on the planet, and you've never been, never want to go, _refuse_ to go. You're one stubborn piece of crap, you know that?"

"Don't admire a man who stands by his principles?"

She leans forward and places her hand on his, looking deep into his eyes, drawing him out of himself and says, "It'll be fun."

As it happens, that's all it takes for Phil to betray his principles, her hand and those words. "Rupert," He shouts to the bar, "Better make that two bottles," and knocks back the rest of his drink.

The two men, waiting in the back of a Taxi now, Sarah has popped into a shop for some smokes.

"She's too fat for you."

"I was about to say she's too skinny for you."

"You don't like Blockheads."

Phil doesn't have a retort to that. He doesn't like Blockheads. He was never going to visit The Block. He planned on spending the rest of his life in Dublin never having stood by the useless thing and here he is now, in the back of a taxi, hoping Sarah opens the door to the back seat so she's sat beside him.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she says as she slides into the front of the car, "I mean I know, it's what I came here for, but it's only hitting me now. I'm going to see it. I'm really going to see it."

Phil finds her enthusiasm infectious despite himself. Rupert nudges him. Whether Phil gets the girl or not, Rupert's got one up on him, he's made him pay the price. As they glide along the quays, city lights flickering on the river at high tide, The Block bares down on them from the distance. Spotlights hold it up for the city to see, it would otherwise be a black shadow at night, parked in amongst the trees of Phoenix park, invisible. Soon concrete paths become stretches of grass and the cube in the distance becomes an imposing wall outside the taxi. Rupert pays the driver. "Be careful if yis are hoppin' the fence, lotta scumbags round this time a night." They don't hear him, the silent block is far too loud. When the taxi is gone it's just them and The Block. Sarah is awe struck, Phil is agitated, Rupert is indifferent.

The three of them are walking around the main entrance, following the fence into a wooded area where it's easier to hop. "Walk-through entrance is closed up at night, you and your camera will have to come back tomorrow with the other tourists for that."

"If we were meant to walk through it we wouldn't have had to drill a hole in it ourselves," simply put, "And I didn't bring a camera. So come on guys, give me the tour."

"You probably know more about it than we do," Rupert suggests.

She inhales deeply, "Two hundred feet high," she pauses, "two hundred feet wide," pauses again, "perfect corners," pauses between each fact, savouring them, "estimated to be nineteen thousand tons. With no foundation for it to rest on, it is sinking into the earth at a rate of zero point seven inches a year." It looms over everything Sarah is saying, "Made of a common igneous rock - granite - it is composed mainly of magnesium," pause, "Iron," pause and a smirk, "silicon, sodium, calcium, potassium," she pokes Rupert in the ribs, "and aluminum," then pinches Phil's cheek. "Nothing remarkable about it, only for its size, the fact that it's polished down to a perfect cube, by who knows what, and the fact that it floated down to our little speck of a planet for no apparent reason other than to sit here for twenty seven-years."

"Twenty-eight years tomorrow," says Phil, swigging the bottle of wine.

Rupert boosts Phil over first, then Sarah, who falls over the wire fence and stumbles to the ground, tossed into Phil's arms by the weight of her rucksack. Looking up into his eyes, she asks suspiciously, "What age are you?"

Phil fixes the bag onto her back and ignores the question while Rupert Jackie-Chans himself over the fence in one bound. "Showoff," Phil accuses, then turning to the wall, "Look at this," He means the graffiti. The Block is scarred with new and old graffiti and the stains of older paint washed off again and again.

"This city's gone to shreds," Rupert chimes.

"I'm more impressed with the can control on that guys tag than I am with this hunk of nothing. You know how much practice it takes to get that smooth a line?"

"You're more impressed with, Stanto iz a FAG, than you are with The Block?" Sarah asks, pretending to be offended.

"Too right I am."

They stand quietly then, having no reply for the statement before them. After all, what's a person supposed to say to a two hundred foot high piece of stone?

"Phil's twenty-eight tomorrow," another chime from Rupert.

"I knew it!" Sarah laughs victoriously, "You're a Blockbaby!"

"I find that term offensive," another swig of wine.

"What time were you born at?"

"Sarah," Rupert, relishing the torture he's putting Phil through, "you're not talking to just any Blockbaby. You're talking to _the_ Blockbaby. This big chunk of granite floated down from space and touched our wet green grass at exactly 3:44pm."

"54," Phil corrects.

"3.54pm and so far as my friend here is concerned the only thing impressive that came into Ireland at that time on that day was his grumpy little self."

"I knew it. Oh my god you are such a loser! You're just pissed off with The Block because people have been on your case about it since-"

"The day I was born."

"We're coming back to this in a minute," she warns, and at that, turns around and takes slow steps toward the granite face pushing down on them. Her head is titled back as she focuses on the top of the monument, night clouds obscured by spotlights shining up the flat surface of rock. Phil follows her slowly and realizes that Rupert is not behind him, he's leaning against the fence with his arms folded, his eyebrows arched expectantly as he nods Phil forward. Phil sighs. She's at the wall as he steps through the strip of gravel within two marble curbs, touching the spotlight - it's hot - with the tip of his finger as he passes it. Then he's beside her, The Block in front of him. Her hand is raised and her eyes open, no smile on her face, for the first time tonight, no smile.

Phil opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off, "Don't ruin this moment for me," she doesn't look at him, "Just... let me have this."

Closing her eyes she reaches forward and places fingers onto The Block, then after three quick beats of her heart, presses the entire palm of her hand against it. For twenty more beats she stands this way with Phil watching her, then lets her hand slide back down to her side and opens her eyes, satisfied with whatever she just experienced. Now, without saying a word she turns around and walks back toward the fence, Phil following along behind her, not having touched The Block, or even realizing it was there for all the focus he had on this woman, this Blockhead - I'd give my right hand for her not to be a Blockhead.

"A fucking Blockbaby," she says.

" _T_ _he_ fucking Blockbaby," Rupert confirms.

"Utterly fucked by The Block," Phil curses.

"You've been giving The Block shit all night," Sarah challenges, "What's your problem with the thing? You're a smart guy, you know how crazy it is that the it's even here, that it touched down on the planet the exact minute, maybe even the exact moment you were born. You can't deny its mind blowing."

"Yeah? And what else happened the moment I was born? Some guy was taking a messy crap because he had a chicken vindaloo the night before. Some other guy was getting laid with the best looking tramp of his life. Some woman was on her mobile when she was driving and smashed some kids brains up because she just found out her husband was cheating on her. I'm supposed to be impressed with the fact that a hunk of nothing dropped down from space the same time all of that was going on?"

"You're supposed to be impressed with the _idea_ that maybe, yes, there's a connection. That this block came from somewhere or maybe even nowhere, dropped down here for reasons or no reason whatsoever, but that in any event it's here, and it's changed everything, and you of all people could be directly connected to it!"

Phil had thought about this. He agreed there were connections. This block had dropped down onto the planet and landed in his country, changing everything from the day to day lives of the cities people, to the political and economical landscape of Europe, even further, with America pushing their way into Irish interests for the right to prod the thing to boredom - discovering nothing - and in the end only drilling a hole in it with the biggest phallic symbol they could find. He agreed that there were connections between The Block and Ireland's ongoing subservient relationship to the States, ever thankful to them for doing nothing and to Europe for forgiving them and bringing them back into the fold when old Uncle Sam pulled out leaving the place with nothing gained but for a hole in The Block. He agreed that the people who'd met and didn't meet would have had completely different lives - some better, some worse - if not for the lifeless thing landing here, because they were either too afraid to live near it or too afraid to live away from it. Everything that happened in this city and throughout the world was a web that could lead back to this oblivious rock... and many other things, so tangled were the impenetrable layers of taut silk. And Phil was completely unimpressed with The Block because the web was there, with or without The Block, tangled to knots, and he was supposed to be impressed that there was one giant arrow pointing towards just one of these intersections, at which he happened to be stuck in the centre, listening to every idiot who thought that the idea he was born at 3.54pm was impressive. Yes, there were connections, but any meaning put onto them were the creation of human minds, without that projection from people, Phil opined, the whole world and everything that happened in the universe was just a long line of coincidences and whether they were beautiful or shitty was entirely in the mind of a man. Yep, as far as Phil was concerned, connecting himself to a giant alien block was about as an inspired connection as the one between himself and the old sponge caked hard in his bathtub.

Now, if he could only string it all together like that in words, Phil might have won her over, however crudely explained, it wasn't such an offensive idea to hear - she might even be a little inspired. But Phil being Phil, well, he's rather drunk at this stage, and before he can mount a wall between his brain and his lips he says, "Listen, Blockhead, the only connection that thing has to me, you, or Rupert here, is the fact that one of us are going to get in your pants tonight, and it might just be thanks to that thing you've travelled so far to see."

At that moment, you could have heard every animal and insect in the park going about their animal and insect business, only there's nothing to hear, because all of them have stopped with their mouths gawked open, until, somewhere out there, a squirrel slaps its forehead at Phil's stupidity. "Fuck you," Sarah says plainly, hurt but not showing it. "I'm out of here. Seeya later, Rupert. Ditch your friend next time."

"You sure are a tossbag, Phil"

"She's the Blockhead,' he says weakly.

"All that trouble I went to, bringing the wine, getting you out here, setting her up for you. Bud, you must really hate getting laid."

Phil is about to act outraged at the idea that Rupert had his friend's interest in mind all night long, but realizes that he's already made an idiot out of himself once. No point doing it again.

"And you liked her."

"Who says?"

"You really liked her."

Phil remembers that she didn't bring a camera and he thinks, I really liked her, she didn't bring a stupid camera.

"So go get her," Rupert shouts, "Use that smart-ass mouth of yours to help yourself out for once. Go!"

Phil finds her around the corner, strolling forward in her own world. He stops to watch her for a second, then calls to her.

"Go away!" She shouts back.

"I'm an idiot," he hollers as he runs to her, hearing his confession echo off The Block.

"I'm supposed to like an idiot?"

He stops in front of her, "I don't know who you're supposed to like."

She stands expectantly, arms by her side, the rucksack heavy on her back. Phil doesn't know what to say, "I'm not trying to get in your pants. I mean... I don't know what I mean."

"You're an idiot," she laughs, he doesn't know if it's with him or at him.

"I'm an idiot," he laughs anyway. "You're smiling again."

Sarah radiates contentment now, like a glowing fire place, Phil feels drawn to sit in the warmth. His hands held out to her, he's not sure if she'll take them or lower them to his side. Before he can find out he hears the jeering of a group of teenagers hopping the fence.

"She's a ride!" One shouts.

"Get in there ya bollocks!"

One throws an empty beer can at their feet, turning the jeers to violence. They make a circle around the pair, at once cutting them off from the idea of a safe world. "We're just leaving," Phil takes Sarah by the hand and walks through the wall they've made. He sees Rupert turning the corner and is both relieved and surprised that they get through the wall without any trouble. Only then, as the boys turn round and are walking the opposite direction, one of them tosses a half can of beer over his head. It knocks Sarah and she grunts, more in surprise than pain. Rupert sees this and charges forward at the crowd of scumbags, fists flying at the one who threw the can, the bull in him flinging one into the air with his horns and bucking his feet with all the power of a train to send a lad flying five feet, ten feet, hitting the ground at twenty feet. Yeah well, he's holding his own anyway. Phil and Sarah are shouting to break it up.

For once, Phil doesn't think, his mind unblocked of doubts, he charges into the middle, getting between his friend and scumbags with arms outstretched to break things apart. There's a pause and heavy breathing from all around. "Just leave it!" He shouts. In response he feels one of the kids jump at his back and he's tossed forward into another of their arms, only to be pushed backwards again to feel his feet get knotted in each other.

He thinks he hears Sarah shout something but then he's on the ground, and time must pass, because Sarah and Rupert are knelt over him without being hassled. She looks worried, Why does she look worried? His head starts to feel light, and he thinks, There must be blood leaking, it's making me light as a feather. Rupert and Sarah are saying words to me. I can't be bothered understanding. He can feel himself floating away. There are two things he notices before closing his eyes. His hand is in Sarah's and she's holding it close to her heart. The other thing, behind them, The Block is floating upwards, gently and slow, like a hot air balloon puffed up by a warm fire. It mustn't be making any noise as it departs, because Rupert and Sarah don't notice it disappearing from the planet as it drifts upwards behind them.

Phil sees it. Phil tries to laugh. What a shitty coincidence, he thinks. His laugh must sound contorted, because it doesn't seem to be comforting his two friends. What a shitty coincidence, he thinks again. It's the last thing he thinks as The Block floats away, the spotlights on its surfaces being pulled like threads as it rises, then finally they let it go.

## Rendezvous

### Alessio Zanelli

### Fly steady – moony, gloomy jibenaut –  
you're excused for not saying goodbye.  
No matter you'd long gone off course,  
now you've rejoined your Mothership.  
Yes – you're finally back in full control,  
and we copy you distinctly – old mate.  
Fly and reconnoiter out there for us all.

## Without Doubt

### J. Rohr

I always thought space opened us up to possibilities. I never considered we'd just be exporting humanity. The irony of hindsight: to know best when it matters least.

My name is Adrian Tully, and I don't know what to do except write this all down. I graduated from the Schillar Vocational School in Evanston, Illinois. There I learned how to construct and maintain power sources. Solar panels and hydrogen cells primarily. I went for an education I knew I could do well at, which made me dull instead of sharp. Rather than feeling pushed, challenged to excel, I went with what I could sail through. (People don't make much sense to me, so I prefer machines. The parts align and function to one purpose or else something is wrong. And that something can usually be fixed. If not... well, no one minds throwing it away.)

I didn't graduate top of my class, but I did alright. Suffice it to say no one came knocking at my door. So I went to the job fairs. Giant posters and banners hanging everywhere; recruiters calling from booths, "You there! Is your future on Saturn?" Or, "Do you have what it takes to mine the asteroids?" And always in some form or another, "Your fortune awaits among the stars."

I remember passing a small man in a grey pinstripe suit. He smiled and nodded, let me go on, not once trying the hard sell. His passive approach made me curious, so I turned back to visit his booth. He shook my hand with a grandfatherly grip, firm but not challenging, and introduced himself as William Malken. He passed along a set of brochures, suggesting I "peruse them at my leisure." I couldn't make sense of the technical titles. CFBSIR-1459+11.

"It's a binary star about 75 light years away," he said.

"And there's a planet out there?" I said.

Malken nodded, "Oh yes. Several in fact. The HARP-7 satellite returned some impressive photos, but we're only interested in one world."

"Which is?"

"We're calling it Argentum." He smiled at this, leaning forward waiting for me to get the joke. I turned up a lip corner and nodded, hoping he would continue. He said, "If you direct your attention to page three." He tapped the brochure I held, pausing till I turned to the page before resuming, "It's a world rich in rhenium, indium, palladium, and rhodium. Extensive deposits from what we can tell. The satellite only orbited two or three times before veering off but that was enough."

Enough for the gamble, I thought. All space exploration is a chance. Hell, sometimes ships never come back. The disasters all make sense. Ships explode, outbreaks of indigenous disease, unanticipated extreme weather, but it's the weird ones which stick in mind. The Grace, the Edda, the Celeste, all sailed off into the void. No signal or sign, as if the crew just chose to slip into the vastness and disappear. But there are billions waiting off world. So the risks are ripe for mythical rewards. Thumbing through the brochure I came to the final pages which outlined my pay.

Seeing what page I read William said, "You'll be paid an above average 75k per year. Standard contract dictating you commit to at least six years. In addition you'll be in a position to either purchase or acquire through hard work a percentage of the planet's output. Say .0001% of a projected three trillion dollars."

"What kind of crew are we looking at?"

"Standard colony start. Engineers, doctors, miners, techs, infrastructure construction, etc., etc., and a bare minimum of bureaucrats.

"You'll be on the ground floor planting a stake on an alien world, extending humanity across the stars..."

I zoned out as he went into his spiel. I appreciated the soft sell but decided to pass. My interests inclined to more local arenas, Mars or maybe even Titan. So I nodded, thanked him, and walked off. Six years is a long time to commit to anything, especially when two are just for the trip there and back. Never mind there's no guarantee you'll make it home.

But the rest of the fair didn't go well for me. Recruiters sized me up too quick, started ignoring me the second I opened my mouth. Their thoughts practically screamed out their eyes, "Why is this guy wasting my time? I need top tier not second string." So that night I went home, opened a bottle of bourbon, and listened to my neighbor's fight through the wall. It's better than TV... which I can't afford.

Around midnight I dug into my pockets for cigarettes only to find Malken's brochure. For a laugh I did the math. .0001% of 3 trillion is three million. Not a bad start for a twenty-three year old.

The next morning I signed up for Argentum.

### ***

We took a Daedalus Class ship. Z-pinch fusion pulse propulsion and type-4 Bussard ramjets. Not exactly state of the art, but the Arcadia looked like a solid enough ship.

The reality of my situation didn't sink in till Jupiter started receding in my porthole view. I used to think, at sixteen when I ran away to live with my Uncle in Chicago, five hundred miles is a long way from home. Yeah, I don't really get along with most people, but despite the three hundred fifty individuals aboard ship, I couldn't help feeling like this trip meant leaving humanity behind. After all, weren't we a different type than those still on Earth? Or at least we wanted to think so. I didn't come out for adventure, curiosity, or despite my job, to build anything. My prospects on Earth seemed too grim, and the money William Malken offered sounded too good to pass. In a way I felt like a fraud. These people seemed like they wanted to make the universe more, leave a mark behind, that sort of thing. I just wanted to make some money, not have to worry about bills for once; I didn't think I belonged here.

Almost two months in, keeping pretty much to myself, I sat in the canteen drinking green tea to calm my nerves. Alcohol isn't allowed between worlds. People tend to get strange. A man sat down across from me. He ate with ravenous passion for a few minutes before looking up. Not expecting anyone, he flinched and said, "You been there the whole time?"

"Yeah."

"You mind if I sit here?"

"No."

"All right then," and he returned to devouring his meal. He wore grease stained overalls and a dirty orange vest. Underneath he wore no shirt (I suspected on purpose) allowing his muscular build to be more obvious. The crags in his face made his angular visage seem the result of erosion. A mirthful glint in his eye almost belied the hardness lurking beneath the surface. When finished eating, he leaned back and slapped his stomach, "Oh boy." Threading a cigarette between his lips he said, "There's, or I should say was, a problem with one of the ramjets."

My eyes went wide. A problem with the engines this far out sounded catastrophic.

"But no worries," he said, lighting up, "We'll get there sooner now." He reached a hand across, "Mick Lenehan."

"Adrian Tully." We shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you. Smoke?" I nodded, he offered his, and I took one. Pointing at my cup he said, "Whatcha drinkin'?"

"Green tea," I said sounding none too thrilled.

"Okay." He slipped a hand into an inner vest pocket. Pulling out a flask he said, "You want some whiskey?"

Making sure no one saw us, I pushed the cup towards him. He said, "That a boy," as he filled my mug with several ounces.

Taking a sip I said, "I thought we weren't supposed to..."

"Fuck that." Mick cast a dismissive wave, "As long as I'm the one keeping this heap running, I can do whatever the hell I want."

"Fair enough," I grinned.

He smiled back, "Goddamn right. And it isn't a fair world to begin with." He raised his flask and openly drank from it. Leaning forward, an elbow on the table and chin in his hand, Mick said, "So tell me something. You play poker?"

### ***

"You sonuvabitch!"

"Calm down Joe."

"Shut up Mick. I'm gonna throw him out into space."

"What did I do?"

"Ace, King, full house? That's bullshit!"

"Let him go Joe."

"Mick, I swear to God..." Joe didn't get a chance to finish. Mick cranked him across the back of the head with a wrench. Joe the giant fell onto his knees, unconscious, though his hands still gripped my shoulders.

Mick pulled him off me saying, "This is why folks out here aren't supposed to drink. They can't handle the crazy. Me? I can handle all kinds of crazy." Glancing at me he said, "Hey Tully. Don't forget to breathe."

I sucked in a lungful.

The next morning, eating my breakfast, Joe came right to my table. He leaned in close and said, "Sorry about last night."

"It's alright," I said, holding a fork tight, ready to stab.

Joe smiled and slapped my shoulder, almost knocking me over, "Just make sure I get a chance to win some back." He headed to the chow line grinning.

After a while Mick joined me. I told him about Joe. He said, "That's how it can go. Just keep in mind, you two play again, don't let him win a goddamn thing. Like on purpose. Don't give it up."

"Why?" I asked.

"Lets say you bleed him back some cash, to be a nice guy. Now ol' Joe knows if he presses on you ya'll bend. Anytime he wants his way over yours alls he's got to do is put on some pressure. That's how the screw turns... soon enough crushes."

"Good to know," I said.

Something about the way I stared into my coffee made Mick add, "Joe's great to have on a crew, but he's useless when it comes to people. That's why he can't get a good job around Earth. I mean, why else you think he's out here? Or any of us for that matter."

"What do you mean?" I asked, leaning forward.

"These people want to call themselves pioneers or some shit like that. Whatever. But if things were going well for them back home you think they'd be blasting off a billion miles to nowhere? This is a risk taken by desperate people with no prospects where they were. Stick around back home in a shitty situation or head for the stars and a chance for better." He held up his hands like teetering scales, "You know what I'm talking about. We all made the same choice." One hand dipped low.

"Yeah. I know what you're saying." From then on out I didn't feel so out of place.

I stuck to Mick for most of that year. He didn't mind, said he liked having someone around who hadn't heard all his stories. Mick spent most of his life planet hopping with his parents. Born on Mars, now forty-two years old, he'd never even set foot on Earth. At first I thought he belonged to the Arcadia's crew. He laughed at that, "Na, I overheard the captain and engineer going over some problem with a ramjet. Engineer didn't know what he was talking about, so I stuck my nose into it. When you know somebody's wrong you got to be willing to call them out." And that was Mick.

The year passed. It didn't go smoothly. Cabin fever set in around the third month. People got twitchy. Fights broke out too regularly, usually over petty things. The passengers avoided eye contact with one another. One wrong look would set someone off. And it wasn't just being confined to the ship (though some corridors barely opened wider than a person's shoulders). The ship's rotating core provided light gravity, enough to keep your feet planted, but it tended to wax and wane making your innards float up and down inside you. That took a while to get used to. You'd get accustomed to the sounds - the muffled roar of the pulse propulsion, like several freight trains passing in a few seconds; the ramjets' titanic sizzle; sometimes the sound of the hull groaning, briefly, under some new stress - only to find one noise suddenly... not quite right. Are the engines failing? Is the hull about to breach? The nerves crackle, and the heart beats painfully. You get used to the idea of dying, but then life goes on leaving you to wonder if next time, the time you don't tense, is when your fear becomes reality. Even Mick, with all his laid back manners, cracked a bit under the strain. This would be his longest trip ever, which made me nervous considering this as my first. And of course, we all knew the only way home would be to endure this again. Sometimes knowing the future isn't comforting.

But eventually, we arrived at Argentum.

### ***

I should really be getting to the point quicker. But when I look back I can't help dwelling on the good times. It keeps the present at bay.

From orbit, Argentum looks like a great silvery ball wrapped in shadowy threads. Craters pock the surface. Every so often a field of volcanic activity rolls into view as the planet turns. The molten rock provides some of the few colors on the planet's surface. Clouds quickly circle the world in ominous spiral bands, easily miles across. Like any lifeless sphere, made mostly of rock and metal, it can look intimidating... provided you haven't spent 377 days in a steel shoe box... that feels smaller every day. After that, Argentum is a paradise.

The expanse of the mare-like plains is almost overwhelming. The term "breath taking" finally makes sense to me. Mountains rise up reminding there are no limits - no ceiling to bang your head against. The horizon doesn't end in a bulkhead. We almost didn't want to put up the temporary shelters. Those seemed like another confinement. But knowing there's something out there, some place to go, we settled in and smiled collectively for the first time in months.

The funny thing is this all gets experienced inside a full body suit and helmet. There isn't much oxygen on Argentum. What little there is we couldn't breathe for risk of indigenous disease. But we'd made it which is all that mattered then.

Time went by quickly. I wish I knew how to make it sound epic, but it was all really cut and dry. Crews divided and started their respective duties. One group set up an arboretum, installing a variety of young trees and plants, to start harvesting oxygen as soon as possible. That and grow food. I spent the first several months putting together solar panels and establishing power lines. Mick worked on the construction crew, setting up sturdier more permanent shelters. Survey teams crisscrossed the plains, explored craters, and put together maps of the area. Techs made sure the computer systems worked and manned communications. Once power flowed the miners, well, mined.

We lost fifteen people the first month. Dust storms took seven. We weren't even prepared. One afternoon the wind howled, everything went dark, and five minutes later the cloud moved on like we never mattered. The storm left behind five bodies striped to the bone. The other two it carried off to god only knows where. Afterwards, precautions went into place.

Mick and Joe set up a watchtower. It looked crude, but it survived the next storm. From then on someone always took a watch during the day, scanning the horizon for any sign of a storm. But on occasion communication equipment malfunctions, and somebody doesn't hear the warning...

The Arcadia's crew stayed with us for two months. They helped out from time to time, but no one expected them to work. We knew the trip they'd be taking all too soon. When they left we could see the ship from the surface, and Melissa Jones, a tech, started walking along like she planned to follow the Arcadia home. Some guys managed to stop her, but the next morning... the tracks from her temp. shelter led to Melissa's corpse. She ran out of oxygen.

Before the completion of living quarters two dozen temp. shelters malfunctioned in one night. The occupants died in their sleep. Mick worked double shifts for the next several days to finish the dorm style residences sooner.

Other accidents happened, some suicides took place - by the end of the first year we'd lost almost a third of the colony for a variety of reasons. A hundred people gone, most of the graves just crude markers. And somehow those are the times I remember fondly. The colony felt close after a loss. Like we pulled tighter together for fear one, and in a way all of us, might slip away. After a memorial - a few words over a piece of scrap metal with a name on it - we'd go back to the mess hall to talk. Conversations started with recollections of the dead, eventually evolving into Get-to-Know-You chats. I learned about Jim Gates' ex-wife in Orlando. Sandy Brimm's stepdad on Titan. The Litwiller's plans for a family, a life, on Argentum. Yeah, we'd chat sometimes on the Arcadia, but it never really turned into anything other than cordial conversation. But in those first months, for a while, we stopped being strangers.

### ***

Aldus Cranston worked as a geological surveyor. He mapped out, what he considered, the best locations to start mining. One day he's out charting a vein of rhodium and ends up out of communications range. So when the warning goes out that a storm is coming he doesn't hear it. Some people kept their fingers crossed, but realistically Cranston is dead. Joe the giant went looking for a piece of scrap to make a marker. Then, a half hour after the storm clears, Cranston comes back.

Of course everyone is overjoyed. It feels like someone beat this world. He gets asked how he survived, and he says, "I saw this cave and just thought, 'I should look in there.' The storm came up while I was inside. I don't know. I just felt - I knew it was the right thing to do at the time."

Fair enough. Back then all I cared about is the fact another marker isn't getting placed - the graveyard won't grow. And the first couple of weeks it didn't seem strange people gathered around Cranston in the mess hall. Hell, even I did it. Once. A person could sense this aura of luck, and we wanted to bask in it, maybe soak some up for ourselves. I also get the feeling we wanted to somehow make his story our own. Like what happened to him happened to all of us. Argentum didn't seem so dangerous anymore.

About a month later I'm in Mick's room, just killing time, and he says, "You hear about Jill Heller?"

"Yeah, she got zapped pretty bad. I guess her and Tommy Malort were connecting a power line when it happened. Or a junction box or something. I heard she's going to make it."

Mick nodded as he stared out the window. He pulled his flask out of his vest. I hadn't seen him drink in weeks. He said, "Tommy was running around the mess hall earlier telling people all about it. How he told her not to touch the line because it wasn't safe."

"How did he know?"

"Cranston told him."

I looked over, my face twisted in confusion, "Cranston?"

"Yep. He and Tommy have breakfast together almost every day. Tommy's getting ready to go to work when Cranston says, 'Be careful.'"

I shrugged, "So what? I say that to like half a dozen guys all the time."

"Yeah, but" - Mick tapped a finger against his temple - "You never saved your own life."

"The hell you say."

"You know what I mean." Mick's brow furrowed, "The whole cave thing."

Yawning, I got to my feet, "Tommy Malort's got his head up his ass. People'll probably roll their eyes if he blathers at them about the magic of Aldus Cranston."

Folding his arms across his chest, Mick leaned with his shoulder against the wall, "I worked this asteroid once. I musta been younger than you. Lotta things went wrong out there. Lotta people died. And some of those that didn't, they started to feel blessed. I'm not saying, I'm just saying: it could get weird out here pretty quick."

"I'm telling you there's nothing to worry about."

Mick let the matter drop, and I went to get some food. In the mess hall I saw Tommy Malort with five people. When I came in they stopped talking for a minute. They eyeballed me as I got some stew then continued murmuring to one another after I sat on the other side of the room. I didn't think anything of it.

### ***

I ran away from home at the age of sixteen. My Pops caught me smoking and beat the shit out of me. He didn't do it because I was smoking but because I took his cigarette. One cigarette out of a carton. That wasn't the first time I got a beating, but it was the first time I ever hit him back. I snatched this empty beer bottle off the coffee table and cracked him across the forehead. I didn't wait for him to wake up. I just left, headed straight to Chicago and my Uncle Pete. The funny thing: in order to run away you've got to have somewhere to go.

That's the kind of thing I remember thinking about during the second year.

The group eating with Cranston got bigger and bigger. Every morning Tommy would ask about the day, and Cranston would tell him whether or not to worry. This habit caught on, and soon the whole group sat waiting for Aldus's prediction. Sometimes he warned them about an impending disaster which caused most of his flock to refuse to go to work. (Around that time dust storms occurred every other day, so if Cranston prophesied danger and a storm hit then the group presumed it would have killed them if not for Aldus's intervention.) Instead of going anywhere they'd all just sit in the mess hall, gathered together, waiting to feel safe.

I'm eating dinner with Mick one night when in comes a mining foreman. He marches right over to Jim Gates, jabs a finger into his chest, and shouts, "I don't give a shit what that fuck tells you. You miss one more day, and your contract is forfeit. I'll send your ass back on the resupply ship with no pay." He stomped out, and I remember thinking, 'Maybe that'll put a stop to all this.'

But Mick frowned, "Jim better not end up dead." I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn't say.

The next day Jim Gates went to work. Aldus issued no warning. The foreman who made the ultimatum... a premature blast literally blew his head off. It got blamed on a faulty fuse.

That night I saw Joe sitting by the edge of Cranston's group. Within a week, Joe sat right in the heart of them all. Sometimes I even saw Cranston petting his head.

Soon after Aldus began delivering individual predictions. He told each person every morning whether or not they would be safe that day. The safe ones went out to work. The rest stayed in the mess hall with Cranston. Sometimes he picked one or two and took them back to his room. When they returned, usually hours later, the chosen ones would tell the others little tidbits. I overheard Bryan Vance telling a wide eyed trio, "He said, 'Reason insists on doubt, but once there is proof there can be no doubt.'" And I'm like,

"We've got the proof." The trio bobbed their heads, muttering, "Yeah. Yeah." I didn't finish eating. I just left.

I told Mick I'd be eating in my room. I couldn't stand being in the mess hall anymore.

He said, "Don't. Don't be the odd man out. I can handle crazy, and I'm telling you, in this instance, that means acting like it's not even a problem."

"What happened to wrong is wrong and calling people out?"

"You wanna hear about wrong? How 'bout this? Jim Gates is a fucking blast tech, and his boss got called by a blast. I am not calling these people out. And before you get all self righteous, ready to fight the good fight, take a head count. Because the whole colony is sitting on Cranston's side of the room. There's like twenty-five guys not with 'em and that's counting the two of us."

"I don't know how much longer I can stand this."

"Five months. That's how long. Then the resupply ship gets here, mainly to pick up what's been mined, and we can leave on it."

"So we just keep our heads down."

Mick nodded.

Sometimes Cranston would whisper something to those close by, and his pronouncement then trickled through the assembled mass. A few might turn, looking over at someone apart from the group. They'd shake their heads, a sad expression on their face. I can imagine them thinking, 'If only you were here, a part of us, you'd know when you aren't safe.' The sad looks underline an interesting thing: Cranston's people are always smiling. They look calm at all times. I'm fixing a power line that got shredded during a recent storm. Dylan Hauser is helping me out. The line's live, little mini arcs sparking out of it, so it's tricky to handle. Hauser just grabs the thing like there's no risk. He picks it up with his hands. We get it disconnected, and afterwards I say, "That was pretty ballsy, grabbing it like that."

He just smiled at me, "He told me I'd be safe."

Accidents go up. People die because of the dumbest mistakes. Rebecca Waits gets nicked with a welding torch, and it ignites the oxygen in her suit. The guy that nicked her, Steve Brooks, he just watched her burn, said, "She didn't have enough faith." A storm is coming in and Fred Mueller decides to go outside to get a spool of wire. I said, "Screw it Fred. It's just wire." He smiles at me and says, "I'll be all right." Three minutes. That's how long it took for the wind and rocks to shred him to pieces. Things continued in that way for weeks. It felt like years passing. And every time someone died Cranston or one of his devotees would talk about the faithful. How doubt crept in when they needed to believe absolutely. I remember Cranston preaching, "We have not come this far by chance. It is our will that sustains us. I have told you when those outside our circle were in danger, and in a show of love and compassion you reached out with your faith to protect them. Faith in what we know - there is no reason to doubt."

I heard Mick's teeth grinding as Cranston spoke. But we only needed to make it two more months, so he kept his mouth shut. I did the same.

### ***

Bill Litwiller's wife died surveying a crater. Her ATV flipped over, dumping her down a seventy foot slope. She broke a lot of bones and tore her suit open. There're traces of O2 on Argentum but not enough to keep someone alive. She probably suffocated with the taste of oxygen in her mouth. So that night, when Cranston preaches about "a lack of faith" Bill (probably thinking about his wife's agonizing death) punches him in the face. He hollers, "Maggie never doubted!" He might have said more, but Joe punched him. Blood and teeth spewed out of Bill's mouth. He dropped to the floor. Joe didn't stop. He kept hammering away at Bill's head. Cranston recovered from the jab and stood behind Joe, watching. Only once it's clear Bill isn't getting up ever again does Cranston say, "That's enough."

Huffing and puffing, Joe said, "He shouldn't have hit you."

Petting Joe tenderly Cranston said, "It's all right."

They took Bill's body outside and hung him from the watchtower upside down and naked. An example for others about lacking faith.

That turned out to be Mick's last straw. He came by my room later to say, "Whatever happens, stay cool till the ship arrives. Don't be stupid." I wanted to help with whatever he planned, but he told me not to worry. He said, "Some roads you gotta walk alone."

Mick waited till everyone went to sleep and cut Bill down. He dug a grave by Maggie's and put Bill next to his wife. For whatever reason, someone must've been awake, caught sight of what happened.

Next morning two bodies hung from the tower. Bill by his ankles. Mick by his neck.

I wanted to kill the whole colony. I made plans involving explosives, poisoning the food, and mixing up a toxic gas to flood through the air vents. But I remembered what Mick said, so I kept it all in my head. Don't rock the boat, just wait for the ship. It'll be here soon.

Only... tests of faith have started. Cranston orders people out into storms. There's no real choice - go on your own or Joe carries you out. Sooner or later it's going to be my turn. Probably sooner. So I'm making a record and hiding it in a shipment of ore we're sending back. I just want people to know what happened here. I don't want to be a mystery. Like the ships that drifted off into the void. 

## Climbers

### Alessio Zanelli

### Misty-footed further off, they cast their tops  
up in the sky – gold slivers on lapis lazuli.  
And yet they're wholes – there are no parts,  
no discontinuities. They're huge and grand.  
Young but primal, transcendent standers –  
most pure and perfect absolutes. Monoliths.  
Fixed out there for us to win or be won by.

There is no escape – we have to tackle them,  
surmount their heads and possess that blue.  
Yes, once come this far it's all we're left to do  
to make things right. It'll take our best – then,  
no hesitation. The solid sun of dawn has just  
begun to smash against their summit walls.  
We must be going, we must meet verticality.

Resplendent heights will not keep frozen long.

## Gap Years

### Robert Thayer

"Yes," he grumbled only half audibly.

I didn't really want to talk to the old man, but whenever I get nervous I always talk too much, and he was the only other person in the waiting room.

"Really? When?"

"When?!" He growled angrily. "What do you mean _when_?!"

"I-I m-mean w-what, uh, how old were you?"

He sighed, and a flood of emotions seemed to cross his face, ending with a look of utter disdain for me, "Twenty three."

"When? Uh, I mean, sorry, I mean what time period?"

"Seventeenth century, Paris."

"Really! Wow, that sounds great!"

He just looked at me as if I was the stupidest person alive.

"I'm going to 1770!" I said proudly.

"Are you now?"

"Yes!"

"Good for you."

He turned his head away, obviously trying to avoid any further conversation with me, but his puzzling surliness had made me even more nervous than I was before, so there was no stopping me.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"What?!" he snapped angrily.

"What did you do, you know, when, I mean..."

"I invented tooth paste."

"What?"

"I invented tooth paste!"

"Really?"

"Well, I'm not sure I invented it, but I was the only one who sold it in Paris anyway. I called it Riley's Teeth Cleaning Powder; baking soda and mint. I also made little horse hair brushes and sold them to the nobility. Did pretty well, really."

"Hmm, that uh, sounds great." I couldn't hide the disappointment in my voice, making him angrier.

"Yeah, and what are you gonna do then?"

"I'm going to invent the steam engine!"

He shook his head. "Bleedin idiot!"

"What?"

"It's not that easy you know."

"I know how to build a steam engine."

"Maybe, but they don't."

"I'll teach them."

"Is that right?"

"Sure, why not?"

"O.K., tell me genius, what grade steel are you going to need, and what is the metal composition of that steel?"

"Uhm, I..."

"See, you don't know. And I bet you don't know where to get the right materials, and I bet you don't know how to forge the materials. You'll need to know this, you know. You'll have to know every single detail about the process or they won't listen to you. Not that they'd listen to _you_ anyway, being just a kid."

"I'm eighteen!"

"Besides, the agency can't be that accurate. You can't just ask for 1770 and know you'll get there. They could be off by several years. The steam engine could already be invented by the time you get there."

I shrugged. "Then I'll invent something else."

He glared at me, wondering if he should even bother talking to me. "Don't you see? Listen, here's what's going to happen. First you'll get there, hopefully still in one piece, and no one is going to understand a word you say. The accent will be so different you won't even believe it's English. They'll think you're speaking in tongues or something. If you're lucky they'll only believe you're simple, and not mentally ill or possessed by demons. Then you've got to find someone who has the skills to build what you think you might want. Simple things, cylinders, pistons, they don't know what they are, and they're not just going to drop whatever they're doing and start working for you, making something that will sound absolutely crazy to them."

"I've got drawings."

"Oh for fuck's sake! You damn stupid kids. I suppose this is your gap year then?"

"Yes."

"Listen, stick with food, that's the easiest."

"Food?"

"Yes, food! I knew a guy in Paris who invented the croque monsieur; ham, cheese, bread. Simple. He set up a little cafe, did very well for himself. Stick to something like that. No a bleedin steam engine for Christ's sake."

"I don't know, sounds a little... boring."

"Boring?"

"Well, yes. I want to be famous!"

"Well, you can't."

"What?"

"You can't be famous, at least not for something you do in the past."

"Why not?"

"Because if you did, you'd already be famous for it, wouldn't you?! All the history books would say: you, the stupid kid who I don't know his name..."

"Derek."

"Fine. Derek, the stupidest kid in the world, he invented the steam engine. But they don't. They say that so-and-so invented it."

"James Watt."

"Whatever. That's not you is it?"

"No."

"No, and it will never be you."

"What if I create a separate time-line?"

"Oh God, here we go! What a load of bullocks!"

"It could happen... supposedly."

"It doesn't matter. You're still going to be brought back to this time line, aren't you? How is the agency going to bring you back to a time-line that doesn't exist yet? No matter what you do, either you never invented the steam engine, or you did and somebody else stole your idea and got the credit."

I shrugged. "I can still try. Besides, if it doesn't work out, it's only for a year."

He suddenly jumped up, scaring the hell out of me.

"It's a year here! Here! In this time frame it's a year! But the times are not correlated. You have no idea when you'll be brought back in their time frame. It could be a week, or it could be 100 years. You don't know!"

"But they promise in the brochure..."

He grabbed the brochure from me, ripped it in two and threw it away. "Forget the fucking brochure!"

The energy then seemed to seep out of him, and he slumped back into his seat sadly.

"How long were you there?"

"Twent..." his voice was cut off in his throat. "Twenty seven years."

"Twenty seven years!?"

He didn't answer.

"Is that why you're here then, to get your money back?"

"No."

"No? Then why are you here?"

"To go back."

"What?! Why?!"

"Twenty seven fucking years of my life!" he growled. "I have a wife and family there now, don't I? As far as my wife knows I stepped out of our bedroom one day and disappeared. How do you think I feel about that?"

"But you said yourself they can't target an exact year. You could get there years before you met her, or years after."

"You don't think I know that?"

"Man! You could get there and have to watch a younger version of yourself sleep with her, just waiting for your younger self to disappear so you could replace him. But of course you'd be older, maybe by several years! Or! When you get there she could be much older, and she hates you for leaving her, and..."

The look on his face made me finally come to my senses and stop. God I'm such an idiot sometimes.

Very quietly he said, "What choice do I have?"

"Wow."

He shook his head and smiled ironically. "Yes, wow."

"I'm Sorry. What was it like?"

"Stinks."

"What?"

"It stinks! The stench will knock you off your feet. The horses, the open sewers, the people not bathing more than once a month, if you're lucky! I spent the whole first week retching. That's one reason why I invented tooth paste. It was the only way I could even imagine kissing one of the women." He chuckled. "I also built this luxurious bath, and any woman I brought to my place I would set up a nice hot bath for them. They thought I was being all gentlemanly, but really I just wanted to get some of the scum off their bodies so I could stand to shag them."

"Hmm, scum. I never really thought about that."

"Well, you better. And syphilis, you have to be careful of that, it's everywhere, not to mention plague, TB, and cholera. And don't eat meat unless you've actually seen it butchered. You don't know how long it's been hanging there."

He was enjoying scaring me, I could tell.

"Where do you plan to go?" he asked almost friendly now.

"Glasgow, you know, the steam engine and all."

He shook his head. "No, you don't want to do that. They're just as inaccurate with space as they are with time. You could end up appearing in the middle of a busy street, or worse, inside the foundation of some building."

"Where should I go then?"

"Pick a place that was definitely an open field during that time, not too hilly, you don't want to appear under a thousand tons of dirt, then pray you don't pop up in the middle of a cow or something."

"Inside of a cow?!"

"It's messy, _believe_ me, and scares the locals something fierce."

"I...I c-can imagine."

"Yes, it's best to not have anybody seeing you arrive. If they decide you're a witch or a demon you've got real problems. At least if you're out in the middle of a field when you show up usually there won't be more than one person to see you. Then if they get spooked you can kill them before they alert anybody else."

"K-kill?!"

"You might have to. Don't rely on police. If you can find any at all they're corrupt and only worry about the rich. If you're poor, it's every man for himself."

"Every man for...?"

"Yes, bring weapons. People don't know it, but the murder rate was much higher back then than it is today."

"Murder rate...?"

"People disappeared all the time."

"Disappeared...?!"

"Mr. Jones?"

A man from the agency wearing a rather tight-looking suit stood in the waiting room. I looked back to the old man now wearing a self-satisfied grin, he had been waiting longer than I had after all, but he just shook his head.

"Go ahead Derek my man! Have fun!"

I got up slowly and followed the man from the agency to a small office in the back.

"Have a seat," he said.

"Thank you," I said sitting down in a chair opposite his desk.

"So! _When_ would you like to go?" he said, repeating the slogan the company used in all of their advertisements.

I wanted to say 1770. I swear that I did. In fact, that is the number I thought I was saying. But to my surprise, in my own voice, I heard the number "1968" being pronounced instead.

The agency man looked disappointed. He sighed, "Another one for _free love_ , is it? I suppose you'll want to go to San Francisco then, am I right?"

I hadn't really thought about that, but now that he mentioned it...

## The Kiss Of Farewell

### Alessio Zanelli

### The crust has hardened,  
the waves have frozen,  
the wind has fallen –  
feel the touch of stillness.

The thunder has gone,  
the earthquake has ceased,  
the tornado has dissolved –  
hear the sound of silence.

The plan has worked,  
the schemer has won,  
the losers have gone –  
taste the kiss of farewell.

## Alien Encounter

### Graham Keeler

As Larry sat peacefully, enjoying the ride out to the hyperspace boundary in his scout ship, a voice behind him shattered the silence.

"Hello, Grant. I bet you didn't expect to meet me again."

He leapt up and spun round. It was the girl he'd seen earlier in his favourite bar, now sitting in his rear seat and pointing a gun at his head.

Her face was expressionless as she spoke again. "I'm going to make you pay for what you did to Rachel. I know you're responsible for what happened."

How in the name of the seven saints had she managed to get aboard his ship, why was she mightily pissed off, and why did she seem to think his name was Grant? The last time he had seen this strange girl, he had been intrigued by her presence in his favourite bar, wearing a wig and padding. He had perhaps stared too obviously, because she had glared at him before abruptly walking out of the bar. He had never expected to see her again.

Before he could frame a suitable reply to her, a siren on the control console blared.

His world turned upside down for the second time. A glance at the viewscreen showed a ship bearing down on him on an interception course, its ident declaring it to be a Galactic Union Enforcement vessel. Shit, he was in deep trouble.

Larry made a rapid decision. The girl wasn't likely to shoot him straight away. She seemed to be looking for a confrontation first. But if that ship got a tractor on him, he was finished. He'd have seen it seconds earlier but for the damned girl.

He turned away, triggering another distracting outburst. "Hey, arsehole, I'm not finished with you. Listen -"

"Lady, shut up and let me concentrate, or we'll both be in deep shit."

He slammed the thrust control hard left and back. The ship's gravity compensator had masked the earlier bone-crunching thrust of the fifty g drive out toward the hyperspace boundary, but it whined as it struggled to cope with the rapid changes of direction. The slight lag made him clutch the top of the instrument panel to avoid being thrown about. He was vaguely aware of clattering behind him as the girl was thrown off balance by the same uncompensated forces.

His manoeuvre put some distance between him and the pursuer. The girl shouted something else. Forget about her, he had to keep that other ship out of tractor range.

Larry rammed the control stick forward, to maximum thrust. There was more scrabbling behind as the violent manoeuvre unbalanced the girl again. He dared not look at her yet. Once she had got his attention, she wouldn't put up with him ignoring her a second time.

He wouldn't be able to outrun the Enforcer, but he should be able to keep out of its clutches long enough to reach the boundary, if he didn't make a slip and let it get too close.

He checked the hyperspace unit. It had a suitable random jump programmed in. Everything was set for the jump - he just needed the active light to change from red to blue.

The wait to reach the boundary was less than a minute, but it seemed far longer. The girl was frantic now, screaming at him and punching him on the head and shoulders. He ignored the blows as he jinked the controls in a series of violent twists and turns. It had the advantage of throwing the girl off balance. Heaven knows what it was doing to the gravity compensator, but he had to risk it. He couldn't let the Union vessel take him.

Soon the hyperspace active light turned blue, and thankfully he punched for the hyperspace jump to safety. The Union ship couldn't track him through hyperspace.

Outside the canopy there was an abrupt rearrangement of the stars, and he felt the familiar momentary tearing sensation of the jump. It silenced the girl behind him for a few moments. Larry took the opportunity to turn to face her. He eased up out of his seat as he did so and raised his hands to shoulder height, palms outward, in a token show of surrender.

The girl now gripped the backrest of his seat with her right hand, and the pistol trembled in her other hand. Her eyes burned with fury as her words tumbled out. "What the hell were you doing, you miserable bastard? Don't you care if I shoot you for what you've done? It's what you deserve."

Larry needed to buy time to think. "Don't shoot. What have I done to upset you?" He lowered his eyes in a submissive gesture. It had the bonus of allowing him to study her weapon.

She launched into another tirade, something about him killing her sister. He let the words wash over him as he weighed the options. From the way the girl stood much too close to him, she seemed to be inexperienced. It would be simple to knock her arm away before she could shoot, but dare he risk it? The gun could go off, and he couldn't chance a stray bullet damaging the control panel or ricocheting round the cabin.

On the other hand, the pistol didn't seem to be cocked, and the knuckle of her trigger finger did not show white to indicate initial pressure on the trigger. A blow on the correct spot on the inside of her wrist ought to numb the hand and make her drop the weapon without firing it.

"Well? Answer me, damn it."

She'd finished by asking him something. He made up the start of an answer as best he could, to distract her. "You have to believe it, I swear it wasn't me..." As he spoke, he struck fast with the edge of his palm at her gun hand, aiming for the critical spot.

She screamed as his hand slammed into her wrist. The gun flew safely toward the back of the cabin.

He tensed in the expectation that she might try to retrieve the weapon. Instead, she launched herself at him with renewed fury, lashing out, clawing at his face with her fingernails.

He fended off her flailing arms, trying to soften his blocks so as not to hurt her more than necessary. She had no idea how to fight properly, but she had surprising strength and speed. Two or three times she broke through his defences, once leaving a streak of blood across his neck.

Eventually he managed to catch hold of first one wrist, then the other. Thwarted from scratching at him, she tried to kick, but the seats got in the way. Instead she tried to bite his hands. He avoided her teeth and swung one arm over her head so that she faced away from him, pinning her arms against her chest like a straitjacket. She struggled and squirmed, panting heavily, and he had to grip hard to restrain her.

"Look," he said, "This is getting us nowhere. I have no wish to hurt you. If you stop struggling, I will let go and we can talk."

She stopped suddenly and glared at him over her shoulder, her eyes still on fire. You could always tell from the eyes. She wasn't ready to give up yet.

"Okay," he said, still gripping hard, "I'm not stupid. You have to _promise_ to stop before I let go. And if you break your promise, I will not be gentle with you."

Her shoulders slumped, and the fire faded from her eyes. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He released her, and she turned back to face him as she sank into the rear seat.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked defiantly, rubbing her sore wrist.

" _Do_ to you? Why should I want to do anything _to_ you?" What to do _with_ her was the problem.

"Oh, come off it," she snapped back, tossing her head. "Don't give me the innocent act. I've found you at last, but I've messed up. Rachel's dead because of you. No doubt I'm next."

By all the saints, you had to admire her spirit. Exhausted and defeated, and for some reason thinking he would harm her, she still showed no fear, just a tired defiance. He probably ought to be annoyed with her, but he was much too intrigued by what drove this firebrand of a girl, and how she had got here?

He'd been on the run from the Galactic Union for eight weeks now, since he'd been framed by the damned Ziloni. He'd found a nice little hideout back on Earth, where no one was aware of the existence of the Union. He only knew about Earth because he'd made a covert visit as part of his work for the Interstellar Exploration Programme.

He'd been passing his time on Earth enjoying an early evening beer, when the girl walked in. She was fairly tall, about a metre seventy, with a buxom figure. In her late twenties at a rough guess. Casually dressed in a tee shirt, jeans and trainers. What had caught his attention was that she wore a wig - and not a very good one at that. In spite of the wig he found her attractive, and he studied her more closely. She also seemed to be wearing padding and cheek pads to make her look larger.

She hadn't stayed in the bar long, and shortly after, he'd decided to make another reconnaissance trip. The chances were remote that anything had changed, but he liked to make the occasional trip to check whether the hunt for him had died down, and he felt the need for action.

His ship was hidden in a large stone barn way up in the hills, and he'd enjoyed the long, quiet ride in his sporty Audi convertible. It didn't seem possible she could have followed him, but now, here she was, and he wanted to know how.

"Please believe me," he said. "I have no idea what you are talking about. I have never met _anyone_ called Rachel. Who is she and why do you think I have done something to her?"

She clenched her fists, and for a moment he thought she might launch herself at him again. "I don't believe you. I spotted the surprise in your face when you looked at me in the bar. You thought that I was Rachel, come back from the dead. She told me that you sometimes met up in a bar, but she never told me your name or what you looked like. So I had to track you down and trick you into giving yourself away. I've been searching for you in all the local bars since the day she died. Today I finally caught up with you."

The girl's accusation didn't make sense, but he was curious. "So why would I think you were Rachel? Oh, wait, the strange disguise. Were you supposed to look like this other girl?"

" 'This other girl' was my _sister_ , you bastard, and I do look like her. I had you fooled at first."

Larry shook his head. "Lady, I'm sorry you have lost your sister, but that was not why I looked at you. Of course I'm going to stare when someone walks in with a ridiculous wig and a lot of unnecessary padding. Look, I don't think I can get you to see reason any other way, maybe this will help."

He moved down the cabin to where her pistol had fallen, retrieved it, and handed it back to her. One of his favourite techniques was to wrong-foot his opponents. She wouldn't actually use the gun now. She was clearly confused and looking for answers. Only hardened psychopaths could really kill someone in cold blood.

"If you still don't believe me then shoot me. I don't know what else I can say that will convince you."

### ***

The girl stared at the gun in stunned disbelief. Could this be a trick? Or had she made an awful mistake after all?

She set the pistol next to her and looked back at the man, seeing him properly for the first time. He was medium height, probably in his early thirties, good looking with fair, curly hair and pale grey eyes. He had an open expression that didn't look right for the face of her quarry. Her impetuous nature seemed to have landed her in trouble again.

"Oh, hell," she said slowly. "I don't know, I was so sure that you were Rachel's boyfriend. Who _are_ you then?"

He settled himself in the seat opposite her. "I am Laren'hi." He spoke in a very precise fashion and pronounced the name with a sort of cough in the middle. "Laren'hi Jalid Rasilii, but everyone calls me Larry."

She looked round. When she had first hidden the light was dim and her attention was focussed on her mission, without paying much attention to her surroundings. She had assumed she was in a motor home with fancy styling. But it was like nothing she'd ever seen before. The four seats and strange instrument panel seemed more like an aeroplane cockpit. It was still only early evening, but what looked like windows showed pitch dark now, punctuated by stars that were startlingly bright and didn't seem to twinkle. Even the air smelt different - a stale, metallic tang.

"So what on earth is all this?"

"It's exactly what it looks like. We are in outer space. I thought you might be impressed. Most of my other passengers have been."

Most of his passengers were probably blonde bimbos. They might indeed be impressed by this fancy display.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you. I assume it's a computerized simulator."

"No, it's my ship."

His ship? Was he trying to kid her that it was some sort of spaceship? That was absurd. It might work with his gullible girlfriends, but not with her.

She'd watched pictures of space launches. They were huge, dramatic events. The astronauts were pinned back in their seats by the rockets, which made a deafening noise. But the most certain give-away was that she was still under gravity. The one thing that made space travel so different was that astronauts were weightless in space.

On the other hand, it was over the top for a babe magnet. She felt rather foolish now, and her quick temper had dissipated equally quickly. She ought to get herself out of this fix, but it was all so peculiar, and her curiosity was too strong. What the hell had she stumbled into?

She tried a different tack. "Why did you turn away from me when I confronted you? What was so important you didn't care that I was threatening you with a gun?"

"We came under attack. I very nearly got snared by a Union ship, and the way you distracted me didn't help."

Attack by a Union ship. Even on his simulation, there'd been no ships to be seen. What sort of stupid answer was that? "If you won't tell me, just say so."

He grimaced slightly and pulled at his earlobe. "I'm sorry, I think our situation will be hard for you to believe. Before I explain, I want to know how you got here and who you are. And I suggest you take off that silly disguise."

Damn, she didn't want to appear compliant by doing what he told her, but it would be nice to get rid of it all. She pulled the cheek pads out of her mouth, took off the glasses and peeled the wig from her head. She shook out her own long, dark hair and flicked it away from her face with another toss of her head. The padding would have to stay, Rachel's clothes wouldn't fit her without it.

She was starting to relax and getting used to the idea that she had fouled up. Now to square things with this guy who she had quite unjustifiably attacked, and see if she could persuade him to overlook her indiscretions. Oh yes, and she needed a lift home as well.

"I'm Karen Marshall," she said. "That's a funny name of yours, is it foreign? You have got a slight accent." She'd noticed it straight away, but couldn't put her finger on it. Maybe Eastern European, not quite Germanic but fairly hard. And he had a precise way of speaking - English probably wasn't his native language.

He laughed. "You could say that. I will tell you more in a minute. You have not yet told me how you came to stow away in my ship."

Why did he get to ask the questions? She was the one with the gun. On the other hand, she would like a lift home. She was way out in the countryside, miles from anywhere. "Well, it's simple. When I thought you recognized me in the bar, I went outside to wait for you. In the carpark I'd seen what I felt certain must be your car, typical flashy sports car. I checked with the bartender. He confirmed that it belonged to you."

She waited for Larry's reaction, but his expression gave nothing away. He didn't seem to be offended, maybe he didn't care what she thought about his choice of transport.

"So I slipped into the footwell at the back, hid under that coat you have in there, and waited for you to drive away."

Larry looked puzzled. "Did you not feel anything when you got in?"

"It's funny you should say that. I did feel rather queasy, but I put it down to nerves."

Larry said, half to himself, "Yes, of course, the aversion field has a proportional response."

Karen shook her head. "I'm not sure what you mean. Anyway, that's what I did. I had my pistol ready in case you saw me, but you didn't."

Larry smiled. "I was miles away, puzzling over what I had done to upset you so much."

She didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed that he was thinking about her. Had she really been that obvious? So much for her scheme of surprising him. She swallowed hard, collected her thoughts, and continued.

"I stayed tucked down to find out where you went. As far as I could see you drove way out into the country. Then you parked your car in the barn and opened the door of this... well, I'm not sure what it is."

She stopped. Maybe he would answer her implied question. But he just sat and waited, so she felt obliged to carry on.

"Anyway, when the barn door slammed, and you went to fix it, I took the opportunity to run in through the open door and hide in the back." She pointed to the rear of the ship.

"Now I understand," he said. "It never occurred to me that someone might hide in the back of the car. I should have realized the aversion field only protected the front."

That was twice that he'd mentioned an aversion field. What the hell was he talking about? Oh well, it didn't matter. She'd answered all his questions and he obviously wasn't going to answer hers. Maybe he'd let her go now.

"Look, Larry, I don't want to be rude. I know I've made a mess of things and trespassed in this - whatever this thing is. I'm sorry about attacking you earlier, but do you think I could leave now? I'd like to go home."

### ***

Larry had a big problem on his hands. How could he make it clear to this poor girl that her request was impossible? Any other time, the challenge of coping with a stowaway and concealing the truth from her would have made an interesting diversion. But she had to choose the same trip that the Union ambushed him.

His job as Interstellar Exploration Programme agent had been to make covert visits to inhabited planets to check on their stage of technological development. Earth had been the most pleasant of the planets he'd visited recently, so when he was framed over that Ziloni affair, he'd gone on the run and hidden away on Earth. He hadn't anticipated the possibility that the Union wanted to capture him so desperately that it would go to all the effort of staking out the planets he had visited. Now there was no possibility of returning to Earth any time soon. He was stuck with this girl, and somehow he had to explain the whole complicated mess.

"Before we talk about taking you home, I would like to ask you something, Karen," he said. "Have a good look around this ship. Look at this instrument panel." He indicated the controls, that included the 3-D holographic viewscreen and various other instruments with what must surely be very strange markings to her.

"Look out there," he indicated the canopy above, through which burned thousands of bright stars in constellations never seen from Earth. "Now tell me, what do _you_ think this ship is?"

Karen shook her head slowly. "I'm not at all sure. I assumed it was some sort of futuristic motor home. There _are_ a pair of bunks in the back. But this inside is weird. And what I _really_ can't understand is why it looks as if it's dark outside."

Larry sighed. He had suspected that she wouldn't realize where she was. After all, she didn't expect to come across an alien spaceship hidden away in an old barn up in the hills, and his ship was nothing like the huge, cumbersome rockets her people used. It would be difficult to convince her of the truth if she was rationalizing it into something else. She'd just have to believe what she wanted until he found a way of showing her the truth.

"Karen, you are not even close. The trouble is, it's not physically possible for you to go home right now."

"Rubbish. I'm not staying here another minute. Don't try to stop me." Stopping her was the last thing he would try. Let her find out for herself - though doubtless she'd still blame him.

She picked up the pistol, retrieved her clutch bag from the rear, and marched over to the door. The opening mechanism was obvious, a large lever next to the door that currently lay horizontally across it. She pushed up on it and it moved easily to the vertical position, leaving the door clear. For a moment a look of relief showed on her face, then she jumped as a warning siren sounded and the red light that had been glowing steadily over the door started flashing. She pushed against the door and pressed the recessed pad beside it, but nothing happened.

She turned back to him, raising the pistol once more. Her anger had returned. "You must have locked it when you got in, or somehow by remote control," she snapped. "Let me out, or this time I really will shoot."

Maybe it wasn't so clever to give her back the gun, but even now, he doubted she could shoot someone in cold blood. Larry shook his head sadly. "Karen, would I have given you back the gun if I had planned to keep you captive? Can you see any lock on the door? If you can't open the door, shooting me will not get you out. Try anything you like to open it, you won't succeed, though I'd prefer it if you would close the lever again. That awful sound will not stop until you do."

Karen examined the door carefully, tried pushing at it in several places and pressed the recessed pad in the wall alongside the door twice more. But the safety locks kept the door firmly shut. Nothing short of explosives would open that door while the pressure differential existed. At last she reluctantly lowered the lever, which silenced the insistent noise of the siren.

Larry watched her from his seat, careful not to make any sudden move. He mustn't spook her more than she was already. "It's as I said, I have no wish to keep you here, but that door is not going to open at present. Look, I promise that everything will become clear soon if you bear with me for a little while longer. I want to show you something that might help you to understand what this is all about."

She paused for a few moments and frowned, then she nodded. "All right, but I don't trust you, so don't try any tricks. I'm keeping out of your reach this time." She stepped back and gave a warning wave of the pistol.

"Don't worry, I have no intention of upsetting you. I shall make another jump in a moment. I should warn you that you will get that same strange sensation you must have felt earlier. After that, there will be more to see outside the ship."

He had to get her off the ship, because while they were inside she would never believe that they were in outer space. That suited him fine. Just one place remained that would be safe from the Union. Years ago, in the IEP archives, he'd come across a freak planet. It was totally sterile, probably from when its sun had exploded into a red giant, but for some strange reason it had a breathable atmosphere. He'd called it Hideaway and established a small base there in case he ever needed one.

Now his forward planning would save the day. He could stay there until the Ziloni revealed their hand, as they would eventually, and he'd be cleared. But he'd have an unexpected guest. He had a feeling that this firebrand of a girl would turn out to be interesting company, once she'd got over the shock. And after he was cleared, he would make it up to her by helping her find the real killer of her sister.

He moved to the front seat again, while Karen watched warily from behind the second row of seats. Larry dialled the setting for Hideaway on the hyperspace control panel and punched for another jump. Again the tearing sensation, and the stars outside the canopy vanished, snuffed out by the appearance of a huge, blood red sun that lit up the cabin. The automatic shielding in the canopy darkened to cut the light level down to a gloomy red glow.

Karen grabbed the seat back for support and clasped her forehead with her other hand. "Oh, what a weird feeling."

"Was it uncomfortable? Some people find it a painful experience."

"No, not really. Just odd. What is that peculiar light coming from outside the window - well, I thought it was a window, but it can't be. Larry, what the hell is going on?"

"Would you believe me if I told you it's exactly what it looks like - a red giant star, out in the fringe of the Orion arm?"

She snorted. "Yeah, and I've been abducted by aliens. How stupid do you think I am?"

Not stupid, confused because you don't understand what has happened. And you haven't been abducted, you stowed away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You will have to wait just a little bit longer. Meantime, keep watching and enjoy the view."

He rolled the ship away from the sun. The canopy cleared and stars reappeared. He continued to roll the ship until the planet he was looking for appeared, reddish in colour because of the light from the red giant.

The ship had come out of hyperspace with the same high velocity it had been travelling at after the attack by the Enforcement ship. Larry pulled back on his joystick, trimmed for cruise reverse thrust and sat back to let Karen watch for a while. Their course curved toward the planet, it grew slowly larger and the surface markings became more pronounced. After a short while he decided that he should start laying the groundwork for the shock to come.

### ***

Karen still struggled to make sense of what she saw. It looked exactly like she'd expect if they were in space. But that was pure fantasy. Anyway, if they were in space, why was there that planet that looked a bit like Mars and the gloomy red star outside, instead of the sun and the Earth?

The planet had no clouds or surface water, but large ice caps and lots of structure in the reds and browns that made up the land colouring. In places, craters and various streaks of light and dark scarred the surface. The planet appeared much larger than the moon did from Earth, and half was in darkness.

Larry turned to her. "Karen, I expect part of your confusion is because you don't understand how we could have travelled to a different star."

How strange. He had accurately anticipated her biggest objection. She nodded.

He said, "It turns out that well away from the gravitational fields of stars and planets, outside what we call the hyperspace boundary, space is folded up. So it's possible to jump through hyperspace from one fold to another, many parsecs away. These spaceships have an enormous thrust compared with the rockets that you are used to. They can accelerate all the way out to the boundary at, let me see, in Terran units it would be around fifty gee. So the hundred and fifty thousand kilometres journey only takes about a quarter of an hour."

Karen gave another snort. "That's impossible. I've seen films about fighter pilots, no one can stand more than about ten gee."

"You are quite right, so to withstand that much force you have to have gravity compensation for the passengers. With that they don't feel anything."

_Oh yes,_ _that 's a likely story. Couldn't you come up with a better excuse than that?_ But she decided not to comment again.

"To keep the journey short, we accelerate all the way to the hyperspace boundary, because it doesn't matter what speed you are doing when you make a hyperspace jump."

At this point Karen had to voice her scepticism. "You mean you do this jump when you're going like a bat out of hell?"

"Yes, you come out the other side of the folded up space at the same speed that you entered, and you decelerate as you fly down to your destination. As you can see, we are well into the deceleration stage now and aiming for the sunny side of the planet."

Larry pointed outside. The planet was indeed growing large and was all in sunlight.

It was time to put an end to this silly story, he was spinning it out too long. "You're talking about this as if it were real. If it weren't such a ridiculous idea, I'd think you really meant it."

"Don't you believe what your eyes are telling you?"

"Of course not. I've seen enough computer animations to know you can simulate anything."

Larry didn't reply, but looked at her with a sad little smile.

Karen felt bemused. Could his outrageous story be true? No, that was ridiculous. This had to be some fantastic computer simulation of space flight, though it was an amazing trick how he achieved the effect of the view moving across the canopy as she moved her head. She was certain now that her earlier guess was right. The show was Larry's method of impressing people. _What a poser_. However, it all seemed harmless enough, and the view was getting spectacular.

She pocketed her pistol, slipped into the right-hand front seat beside him and sat back to enjoy the show.

Before long, they had slowed right down with the red planet above them and filling the canopy. Larry moved his joystick and the ship tipped until it pointed straight down at the planet surface. A whistling noise started faintly, and it steadily increased in pitch. Karen recalled the same noise when she had been hiding, but this time it rose to a much higher-pitched whine than before. She looked around, but the sound didn't seem to come from anywhere in particular.

"What's that noise? I heard it earlier as well."

"It's the sound of the airflow over the ship. We are well down in the atmosphere now. Normally you have to stay under the speed of sound to avoid creating a sonic boom. But this planet is deserted, so it doesn't matter and we are descending at about Mach five."

He was still sticking to his pretence.

Soon features became visible on the ground below. Karen could see mountain ranges, gorges and plateaux quite distinctly through the crystal clear air. The craters that had been visible much earlier were now huge. She marvelled at the amount of detail in the show. It had to be a show - didn't it?

She shook her head in irritation. Of course it was. His excuses were absurd. Hyperspace, gravity compensators - what else would he dream up?

They appeared to be heading straight down toward the edge of a large plateau and she developed a sensation of falling. The descent slowed down again as the ground at the foot of the plateau began to rush up toward them. The sensation of falling built up so much that Karen had to put her hand out to brace herself on the instrument panel in front. Larry pulled back on his stick and brought them to a hover a few metres above the surface. They floated there briefly, staring directly downwards in a stomach-churning fashion, before he levelled the ship and they settled onto the ground.

"Wow, that was fantastic," exclaimed Karen. "A bit like those surround cinemas where they show a roller coaster ride that makes you want to sway with the motion, but even better."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." Larry gave her a wry smile.

The simulation now showed a broad open plain of bare rock that looked chestnut coloured in the sombre light of the red giant. The plain stretched into the far distance, studded by tall pillars of reddish rock. It was a bit like the desert scenes in old westerns, but even more barren and with a depressing air from the gloomy illumination. The graphics were amazing.

Beyond the plain rose a range of brown hills that stood out sharply in the clear air. Nowhere was there any trace of vegetation, no trees, bushes, grass or even primitive lichens. Close by on the door side was the edge of the plateau, a sheer, ochre-coloured cliff, pitted with cracks and holes that looked as if they could be the openings to substantial caves. The cliff towered over a hundred metres into the cloudless sky, that was much darker than on Earth and bluish green.

Karen knew she would regret asking, but she couldn't resist. "Why is the sky such a strange colour?"

"The sky on most planets is blue because atmospheric dust particles scatter blue light much more than red. But this red giant doesn't have much blue light in its spectrum, so there is less scattered light here, and what little light there is, is more green than blue."

More science. This guy was obsessed with it. Her gut feeling that she shouldn't ask had been right.

Larry turned to his control panel and pressed another pad. A hissing sound came from the direction of the door and her ears popped. He looked back at her. "I've equalized the cabin pressure with the outside, which will release the safety locks. You might like to try the door again, Karen."

She turned to look at the door - the light above it now glowed blue. Larry watched her with a flicker of a smile. A sudden premonition sent an icy shiver down her back. She had an urgent need to get the door open and see the familiar blue sky and trees and Larry's barn. She hurried over to the door, moved the handle up again, and pressed the recessed pad beside it. This time the door folded outward and down with a quiet sigh.

A blast of freezing air hit her. Above her hung the gloomy red sun. A short distance away the ochre cliff loomed up into the dark green sky.

She gasped. "Oh dear Lord, it's real!"

## Signals and Sentiments

### Tyler Winstead

Her voice carried me to a sincerity that reminded me of the world I lost so long ago. The passionate gestures, angular jawline, body that had never been worked, and hair cut so ambiguously that I could hardly distinguish her masculine features from the feminine combined into this one ethereal being, refreshing us all of the sounds, imagery, and mystery that our lives once were, but never could be again. My mates and I stood on, peering into her ever bearing soul underneath that spotlight, envious of her freedom yet grateful all the same. When her lips met for that final time and only the fading instrumentation remained, we felt the shadows of reality creeping back into our peripherals.

We were on leave for the cycle, and knew the only way to spend it was at "The Brain", which wasn't the name of the venue, but the slang name of the metropolis that we frequented whenever we had the chance. We worked anytime else, in our respective positions on a military base that was busying itself with the construction of new and "innovative" signal shifters bound for a sector none of us had ever heard of. Tonight though, we were working on recapturing a time like the youthful days prior to our integration into the Cycle System.

This world was no longer such a pretty place for us. If it wasn't the ever consuming urban filth of the metropolis, then it was the sprawling desertification and canyon wasteland that we used to roam under the canopy of trees. Once you are placed in the Institution of Progression though, your life is always clocked and monitored in the middle of the "badlands". You can easily tell us "i-progs" from everyone else. We are larger, dress blandly, act with a reserved demeanour, and speak of time in measures of cycles as opposed to days or weeks. A cycle was 48 hours, and we would break that into quarters and halves. Our work was done in quarter cycles, or 12 hours, then a resting period for an eighth cycle, 6 hours, and then we repeat until completion of the assigned cycles. Ordinarily, we work 4-6 cycles in a row before receiving a cycle's worth of leave.

The girl of our attention left the stage and disappeared into the backroom. Tonight was different for me. She saw to that. Many of the brainy girls dress in bizarre attire, which always reminds me of the fluttering insects that I used to capture as a young boy. I never touched them with my bare hands though, the girls or the insects. I have never been too keen on touching any sort of strange creature. In either case, the girl on stage dressed like the people I used to see in my grandmother's fashion booklets, before the times of self-updating holo-tabs that the brainy women use to seek their ever changing directions of achieving an appealing appearance. The men of the city were strange when stood next to me as well. Most of them seemed twice as old, half the height, and a quarter of the muscle mass. I was told that growing up in cities stunt your growth, but I never really believed it until I began venturing to this particular metropolis during my leave cycles. They spoke almost entirely of money and women, and had no concern for scientific breakthroughs, communications, space, or warfare. Though, I suppose unlike most i-progs, I didn't find much interest in those subjects either. Right now, the only subject that I can think of as interesting is that girl, and her song.

Advertisements filled the silence in-between the news or performances. There were several screens splattered throughout the bar, all with different images, but with a universal message. I didn't see them all that often, so I sort of liked looking at the variety of them all. No, no. Tonight, I wasn't to be distracted by such trivial things as conversation with the locals, advertisements, or games of any sort. I felt something that I hadn't felt for a very long time when that girl was on stage. Leave cycles were always filled with some relief, but only because I wasn't working, not because I ever really felt anything significant.

My mates mingled into a crowd of rather repulsive brain girls, wearing so much make-up and body glitter that I was challenged to discern their skin colour in the dim lights. My girl though, the one I was searching for, was void of any such things other than perhaps some darkening around the eyes, which I didn't mind. I slowly made my way to the door that she disappeared into, leaning against the wall between the threshold and a smaller screen with only a company name running across it. "Saldrin Nation!!!" What the hell is that? Sometimes a topic, generally a product, would flash across the screens with generic upbeat music and you were supposed to talk about it. I would never partake, but enjoyed observing the absurdity of it all.

A sliver or two of a cycle had gone by, and I had ascertained by casual conversation with employees and eavesdropping that her name was Sara. Sara Q. She was young, probably around 24 or so. I was 24 when I first started working for the space communications department of the military. Her life has so much more potential than mine did at that age. I'm only 29 now, but as any i-prog will tell you, once you're in the system, you will never escape. You will, like the technology, only progress a little more within your own dimensions, or become outdated and discarded.

The door began to open; it was her! She was small, smaller than she appeared to be on stage. Her hair was more combed down to one side than it was the other, obscuring much of her face. That tiny body produced such a powerful, gentle voice. What could I say to her? What did I want to say to her?

"Excuse me, miss?"

She didn't hear me, and started for the exit. I followed until were we outside. Fear crept up inside of me. The city was looming and dark, the neon lights lining the streets offered only a blurred confusion instead of any sense of direction. Sara moved from block to block as a shadow does over obstacles along the ground, leaving me in a struggle to keep pace.

I realized that I had been following her for quite a while now and hoped she hadn't noticed. Just as I considered speaking up she stopped, but I continued in her direction, my body in auto-pilot.

"What do you want?"

She said as she turned around in a completely dazzling manner, stopping me a few feet from her.

"Um... I just saw your performance."

She looked on towards me with a sort of impatience, but softened as I attempted to avoid eye contact.

"Do you want me to pay you for having to listen to such noise?"

I immediately turned to her and took another step.

"No! No. I was levelled by it. Really, I was."

Levelled by it? Luckily, a treize (which was a new type of public transportation that hovered over the neon lights) rushed by near us, and caused us to stand in silence for several seconds, her apparently amused at my ridiculous statement.

"Did you want to get my signature for something?"

Music and movies didn't really play as much a part in people's lives as they used to, and it is no longer a common occurrence to seek autographs from "famous" people anymore, but it might flatter her.

"Would you really sign something for me?"

She grinned slyly,

"Is it a petition, or are you trying to suck me into joining a service of some kind?"

I saw what she was doing, and contorted my mouth back,

"If it gets me your name, then I don't care what it is."

That sounded better in my head. Damn it.

"Well,"

She came nearer to me,

"I don't have a pen or holo-tab on me, so I'm afraid I can do no such thing."

She was playing along with me. Or was I playing along with her?

"That's okay, I think just meeting you is enough."

Her smile. Those times that her voice reminded me of; her smile surely allowed me to relive.

"What's your name? I like to get to know my fans a little."

Off my guard, I stumbled as she playfully pushed on my chest.

"I'm Emery Marabar."

She stood up straight as she could, as if raising her ears.

"I'm Sara. I can't tell you my last name for legal reasons."

I laughed slightly as she grinned; making sure she was joking first.

"I know the last initial is a 'Q' anyway."

She gave me a playful look,

"Are you a fan, or a stalker?"

"Is one more flattering than the other?"

She smiled once more.

We walked together down the rest of the street until we came to a tunnel leading to the under district of the city. I'd never been there before. The under district is called that not because it is poverty stricken or further south, it's because it is literally situated on the inside of a mountain side lying along the edge of the city and canyon-filled wastelands that I spent most of my life living and now working in. She lived in the under district, and seemed to be inviting me back to her residence. Houses did not exist in the cities, and apartments were not called apartments in the under district. If you lived in the under district, you lived in a "burrow".

The under district had a constant rumbling echo that could be felt all throughout your body, and I swear that it occasionally knocked your heart out of rhythm. You could not see the ceiling, only structures stretching into the darkness. Still, I retained the i-prog demeanour and walked upright with an assured stride. Sara moved at a quicker pace to compensate her shorter legs, and I almost felt like we were children with our differing walks. I was the boy trying to act mature while she was a girl avoiding cracks on the sidewalk. Whenever I think of my childhood, I always assume that I romanticize it a little bit. But if instances like this flood memories back to me, how much can possibly be exaggerated?

"This is it. This is my mole-hole."

We stopped at a small earthen pathway that leads to a door built into the side of the mountain itself. I wasn't sure what to expect, but even this was rather strange to me.

"What do you think?"

I pause for a moment, noticing the air is rich with soil.

"Looks as cosy as any other home I suppose."

She walked to the door, made of a light but durable metal, and entered a code into the keypad that was fitted into a slot within the door itself. The door rose up and disappeared into the threshold.

"The doors at the base slide to the right. I sort of like that yours goes into the ceiling."

I followed her in as she tilted her head slightly, looking back to me,

"What is it that you do there?"

We hadn't really talked in-depth about what I do for a living. We mainly discussed our childhood and hardly touched on our current lives at all.

"I work in the communications department in the military."

I strayed off at that, noticing the interior of the room. It was exactly that; a large room that had two doors on opposite sides of the bed, presumably a closet and bathroom. The floor creaked as I took a step. Wooden floors, a novelty.

"Are you an operator?"

I circled around, taking in the ceiling, raw and uncovered earth with pipes running underneath it and thin metal beams running across, but only for lights, not support. This room was a death trap.

"No, I work on the signal shifters that we launch into space."

"What do they do, exactly?"

I sighed, realizing how embarrassed I was to admit it to her.

"Well, the miners and few other people living on the outposts and stations in the further reaches of the solar system do not have the luxury of television there. The shifters that I build are used to better transmit our broadcasts directly to them. They serve no other purpose, and it is the most lucrative business in the military."

She didn't make it clear that she was disappointed, but all the same, I felt embarrassed.

"They do not improve tele-conversing capabilities or anything like that, too?"

I lowered my head,

"No."

She shrugged,

"I guess if you broadcast adverts there, they won't need to talk to anyone anyway."

She sat down at a table in the centre of the room. The chairs had no back support, but had a comfortable padding. I joined across from her.

"Is performing your only profession?"

Sara sighed and made a circle with her finger on the table,

"No. It's actually not a paying thing that I do. It's just a hobby."

My eyes widened.

"You don't get paid?"

She got up and turned to the kitchen section of the room.

"No. Would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely. Why don't you sing professionally?"

She ran some water into a container and plugged it into the wall to begin boiling.

"Oh come on. Nobody gets paid to perform anymore. Unless they are advert tunes."

I lowered my head down on the table. It smelled of chemically cleaned plastic.

"What do you do for money then?"

She was preparing the tea into cups.

"I'm a communications operator, myself. The Civil Helpline. It's the most personal job left I think."

Civil helplines were exactly like they sounded. Whenever a city dweller had a question or problem that was city related, they would call the Civil Helpline.

"Oh I see. What do you mean by 'personal'?"

She served me the tea and sat to my left, as opposed to across from me.

"It's a human interaction thing, you know? I want to actually talk with and help people."

This tea is terrible, but it tastes fresh. Fresh terrible is better than preserved mediocrity I think.

"Forgive my saying, but you seem very old."

She peered at me through the tea vapours that were being lead towards her nose as if I had said something profound.

"You're one for compliments, aren't you?"

She knew what I meant. I made a look to reflect that.

"You're right, though. I pride myself to be."

I stare into her and her into me.

"Sara?"

She was sipping her tea.

"The last song that you performed tonight... why choose that one?"

She sat her cup down and glanced into the swirling contents.

"Like I said, I want to help people."

I watched the corner of her eye, waiting for her to look up at me.

"Help them what?"

Her eyes were still on the tea.

"Feel something. Not just anything, but something that they've felt before, something from the past."

We sat in silence for a few moments until she finally finished her tea. I did the same, feeling as if I had to keep up with her in every way possible.

The couch was big and didn't really match anything else. There was a pile of books near it and a table in front, also with books crammed underneath it. Looking over the titles, there doesn't appear to be a single service manual, engineering guide, or anything of that sort. There are a lot of foreign names that I cannot particularly pronounce. Ah! 'Forster'. That much I can make out. I turned to Sara with a slight grin of satisfaction, but she was peering intently into one of the four walls. The first wall that the front door is in, along with the two sides, are all quite similar to the walls at the base; white with a grey border. The fourth wall is just the rock wall of the mountain. I noticed a screen had been unmounted from the side-wall that she was fixated on, and placed in the corner.

"Is your screen broken? I'm pretty good with technical and mechanical things, I could take a look at it if you'd like."

She shook her head,

"No. I took it down for a reason. I got tired of watching nothing but adverts and com-coms. It influences you to just talk about meaningless things."

It was true; television had become so filled with advertisements and commercials that they replaced real programming. Now, instead of sit-coms, you had com-coms (commercial comedies) that were essentially extended commercials with a very loose plot based around a particular product.

"There's something special in recapturing the past for me."

Sara was still staring into the wall as she spoke,

"Something that makes me feel again."

She turned to me as if she had said some sort of taboo.

"Feel what?"

She brought her legs up to the couch and rotated her entire body to face me. She began slipping off her jacket as she put on an unreadable expression. I continue to watch her for a sign of what to do as she allowed the jacket to slip off her back. She's wearing a black and white horizontal striped shirt that looked almost too tight for her. The sleeves stop just past her shoulders, collar wrapping around her neck. She crosses her arms and clutches the bottom, pulling it slowly over her head. Her stomach twists slightly as she wiggles her arms and completely removes the shirt. Her bra is white, as is the pale flesh of her breasts. But my attention is suddenly locked closer to the right side of her collarbone and shoulder area. There's a metallic shape, a sort of square with the right line not connecting the shape, but instead slanting towards each other like one half of an 'x'. It was like a curved bracket.

"It's a tag."

Her expression remained unchanged. It was like admitting to something that you were scared to, but knew it was only inevitable.

"What kind of tag?"

She took a deep breath. I couldn't help but notice her breasts swell, and glanced down to the left to hide my shame. There were more 'tags' running in horizontal rows down her right side. They were longer, thinner, and just straight.

"Touch them."

She raised both of her arms directly up into the air. I hesitated, her eyes looking down at her 'tags', as were mine. I rest my hands on both of her sides. She didn't seem to mind as I gently ran my fingers down the row of metal, there were six of them, then came back halfway and rested my palm against them, a finger on each of the grooves of skin in between the tags. She lowered her arms down, and squeezed my hands into her sides, rotating her shoulders so that my hands rubbed her skin in a circle.

"Can you feel the difference?"

I was confused, but didn't want to lose the moment. Her right side felt colder, but that was probably only because of the metal.

"Here; just brush my skin lightly."

She released my hands from her arms, and I lightly ran my finger tips up and down both of her sides. That's it. There is a difference.

"Your right side is completely hairless."

There wasn't a single hair, not even the "peach fuzz" as my father would refer to my facial hair during puberty.

"That's right."

She gripped my left hand and manipulated it into a claw shape. I was limp, but she drove my nails into her and dragged me a short distance near her tags before I flattened my palm and retracted.

"What are you doing?"

"It's okay. You didn't even leave a mark, and I hardly felt anything."

I look at the area and she was right. There should have been clear marks, but there was nothing. Come to think of it, her skin felt almost sponge-like while she was dragging my nails across her.

"What is it?"

She was rubbing the area with her left hand,

"It's artificial. So is the skin on my right shoulder, back, and part of my chest."

My hands were off of her now. She looked up at me from a lower angle, eyes like a wounded animal. Her right leg was bent up against the couch, so I stretch it out between the couch and my body as I laid her down on her back, lowering myself closer to her. Her eyes were such a deep green, with a light brown trim. Her right eye differed from the left in hue and cut of the iris.

"It's artificial too, my right eye."

I could see the lens-like pupil refocusing itself onto me. I moved my face to the left, past her right eye and to her ear and neck. I kissed her lightly,

"What about your jawline?"

I could feel her cheeks tighten into a smile.

"Natural."

I exhaled a slight laugh,

"Are you sure?"

Her hands ran up my back, pulling my shirt along with it.

Her bed smelled damp, almost like rotting... something... familiar. I could tell the sheets hadn't been changed for quite a while and the spring mattress sank, pulling our weight into it. Newspapers! That's what the scent of the bed reminded me of. It wasn't at all unpleasant though, for more reasons than simply having such a significant and beautiful girl underneath me. Our bodies were vulnerable under the cover, her tags cold against my warmth. I ran my fingers through her hair as I kissed her forehead, and felt yet another tag on the back of her head, but paid it no attention.

The morning came, but I only knew it was morning due to my fine-tuned internal clock. An advantage of working in the cycle system I suppose. Her home had no windows, nor any clocks that I could see from bed. She lay in the crease of my right arm, her right hand resting upon my chest. I couldn't see her face, but I could smell her hair. Slightly burned, I think. But not from heat, sometimes hair just smells that way if it's become dirty. My leave cycle was nearly over, but did she know that?

I felt her body tense up, as if awakening. I positioned myself in a way that I thought she would be more comfortable. She raised her head to my chest, and watched her own finger as she traced a circle around my torso.

"Your body is perfect; neither a scar nor blemish anywhere."

She glanced up to me with that youthful smile. I noticed for the first time the specks of scarring along the right of her face, her brow refusing to grow in small spots along the top of the eye. It wasn't noticeable until I saw her close, at this angle, after knowing about her other injuries. It made her all the more captivating.

"Is it rude to ask what happened to you?"

She lowered her head back down on my chest, stopping the pattern that her finger was tracing.

"No. It would have been before, but it's okay now."

I wrapped one arm around her and pressed her closer to me, so that I could feel the tag on her chest.

"I was young, and it was the first time that a doctor had ever touched me before."

I felt her eyelashes brush my skin as they closed, going back to the experience.

"Until then, I had always stepped into the body scanner, and if an injection were necessary, it would do it for you. The only human contact ever made was scheduling an appointment, or filling a prescription."

She sighed, and burrowed herself closer into me.

"After the incident though, there were so many doctors and surgeons that felt me, cut me, and stitched me. Nurses too would occasionally offer me some form of comfort. I could never talk to them, or stay conscious long enough to think about anything other than the immense pain, but I knew they looked out for me."

She was telling this story as if a child were telling you about falling off a bicycle.

"When I woke for the last time, there were so many people standing over me. They all looked at me curiously, anxiously, and I looked back to them and started to cry, but not because it hurt. They all cheered and shook one another's hands. I didn't know any of their names until I read an article about the ordeal years later. I never knew how important it all was. I was the first successful patient to use this skin. It completely eliminated graft-versus-host disease. My eye was hailed as a technological breakthrough, though older models did exist, mine was much more stable and detected the full colour spectrum. The tags that are left in me are so other doctors, should the need ever arise, can scan them and know exactly how my body works now. They had to completely re-work many of my internal organs. Even my ribcage, spine, and back of my skull are scientifically engineered."

She was getting wrapped up, but all at once she collapsed into me. There was a long silence.

"They told me that I would never be human again."

There was another long silence.

"What happened to you?"

I regretted asking instantly.

"You understand why I am the way I am don't you?"

I wasn't sure what she meant, and felt ashamed.

"What do you mean?"

She wriggled slightly,

"Why I dress the way I do. Why I don't use a screen in my home. Why I sing the songs that I do for free. Why I work to help people. Why I want them to remember the past."

I loosened my hold on her as she propped herself up next to me, gazing into my face for an answer.

"Because you want to make people feel a certain way. At least, that's what I got from your performance. I felt like a child again, I felt _something_ that I hadn't in a very long time. You care."

Her expression seemed to have found what it was looking for and turned to relief.

"I want people to be human again."

"Like you?"

I felt her body tense at the question.

"Yeah... like me."

We would lay the rest of the morning together, in a dozing sort of silence. I knew that I had to catch a shuttle back into the desert, back to base, but I didn't want to leave. There was something to Sara that I wanted to keep forever. Her glances lay fragments of her being into me that fester such feelings that I seldom ever felt. How lucky was I to happen into that bar, that night, at that time and see her? Hear her. Feel her.

She stirred and sat up on the bed, letting the sheets drop, exposing herself.

"Emy. I know that you probably have to go back sometime soon, right?"

"Yeah. It's life in the cycle."

She frowned and looked around for her clothing.

'Emy' she called me. I'd never been called that before, not even as a child. We both got dressed and she began to put some lunch together. I sat at the table, eyes locked on the back of her head, thinking about her skull and how she never actually told me what happened to her. I was still thinking about it while we ate.

As she was walking with me out of the under district, I made a note to look up to the ceiling now that it was day. I still couldn't penetrate all the way up to the roof of the mountain.

"You know, there used to be lights that resembled stars up there with a large screen that projected the positions of the moon and sun to create the effect of a sky. But when they introduced the treize tram lines, they redirected all 'unnecessary' power to that project."

I could feel the disappointment in her voice. We walked for several more blocks, out into the open sun again. It was blinding, but Sara could still see perfectly and guided me along. We were already nearing the station just as I could completely focus again.

"Sara? You know that I'll be back in a few cycles, right?"

She clutched onto my arm,

"I know that."

I was burning to ask her. I had to know about her injury.

"Sara..."

"Look at that."

Sara pulled my on arm and pointed off into the distance through a clearing of buildings in the direction of the base. A signal shifter had just been launched. 

## The Ghost Writer

### Steve McGarrity

These days, we don't sit and wait for heroes to be born. We manufacture them.

You'll have heard of that celebrity jerk, Axel Anderson. Noted his perma-tanned presence on all the TV talk-shows. Seen him at A-list parties with a curvaceous starlet twinkling on his arm. Observed his love of fast cars, his recent dalliance with politics.

You'll certainly have read his autobiography, Martian Eclipse: it topped the e-reader charts last year. The holo-movie of his life story is eagerly awaited. Leading actors of the rough-hewn type are competing for the role, like ferrets in a sack.

Right now, Anderson's probably the most famous person on the planet, next to the U.S. President and the Pope.

But still, the question needs to be asked: who is Axel Anderson?

Who exactly is he, and what is he?

The guy was a nobody astronaut in his earlier days. Just one of the faceless minions labouring for the UN Space Bureau. That is, until the accident in space that made him famous. That lit up his name in garish lights. Now here's a related question. Can a guy who was once a non-entity, and is now a skirt-chasing egotist, still be a hero: because of the truly brave things he did in one three-hour episode of his life? Believe me, those three hours made him what he is today. They created the phenomenon known as Axel Anderson.

And now, without fanfare, I need to introduce myself, because I assisted in that creation.

My name's Peter Kruger. I'm one of the world's most successful authors, though you've never heard of me.

I'm a ghost writer.

My usual clientele are movie stars, sports champions, the accidentally famous. All manner of people who have achieved fame or had it thrust upon them. I service the inarticulate denizens of the celebrity universe. They share with me their fragmented memories, their muddled thoughts and aspirations. And I mould these disconnected fragments into a slick, readable whole: into autobiographies. (Told in the first person, of course. One must retain the illusion of authenticity.)

Martian Eclipse is my best-known effort. It was certainly the most lucrative. It helped to make Axel Anderson rich, celebrated and obscenely famous. Me? I settled for just getting rich. The advance and royalties on that book mean I'll never need to write again.

Except I do need to write. Not for money. Certainly not for fame. No: I'm writing this piece out of stark necessity.

Because somebody, somewhere, has to tell the ugly truth about Axel Anderson.

### ***

"When calamity struck the Ares IV, it was as sudden as it was overwhelming. One second, our routine Space Bureau mission was proceeding on schedule. We had just entered standard orbit around Mars. Our ship was now invisible from Earth, on the "far" side of the red planet. Radio contact was being maintained, however, through the usual satellite-chain link.

"I was in the mess-room with the ship's captain and Natasha Glinka, chief scientist. The three of us were off-duty, grabbing a light supper before some much-needed bunk-time. We were chatting, of all things, about baseball.

"Next second...

"The ship careered violently with the force of the explosion. All three of us were flung like rag-dolls from our seats. With sickening force, we were driven head-first against the far bulkhead. I immediately blacked out...

"... consciousness came back to me in feeble waves, ebbing and flowing. The ship had been plunged into absolute blackness. I called out names: the Captain's and Natasha's. No reply. No sound, either, from the adjacent cockpit where the other crew members had been working.

"The ship was in a terrific state of spin: a crazed combination of pitch, roll and yaw. It was like a centrifuge on steroids. Somehow, my unconscious body had become wedged under one of the mess tables.

"I glanced at my luminous wrist-watch. I'd been out cold for about ten minutes. I reached carefully inside my overalls for the emergency kit we all carried.

"My pocket torch illuminated a scene of carnage. Wrecked equipment and crockery cascaded around the room. A human body floated serenely past me, its neck obviously broken. I recognized the face. It was the Captain's...

"I struggled into the cockpit, where more bodies were floating around like so much jetsam. I appeared to be the only survivor amongst the crew. The computers were down. So was the radio and life-support. I could make no contact either with the satellites or with the Martian colonies below.

"My thoughts then turned to the "meat freezer": our nickname for the cryogenic module. Three hundred passengers lay down there, in their hi-tech sarcophagi. They'd been in deep sleep since we left Earth's orbit: those men, women and children we were ferrying to a new colonial life on Mars. Their sleeper-tombs, welded in place, carefully padded and sealed, would have cushioned them from the worst effects of the explosion. Almost certainly, those sleeping passengers were all still alive.

"Almost certainly, also, they would soon be dead if I didn't get the Ares IV back under control..."

Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

### ***

I had to lay my trap carefully, because Anderson was as wily as a fox.

I started by calling up his agent, a slime-ball named Guy Steiner. Over the net-phone, his oily face waxed unctuously at me. He looked the very picture of the bloated ten-per-cent leech he actually was.

"Kruger," he smiled, favouring me with a glimpse of varnished canines and incisors. "A delight, as always. Is it business or pleasure?"

"Is there supposed to be a difference?"

He brayed lightly. "With you, mon ami, no. Not when Martian Eclipse is still the hottest e-book on the planet."

I replied, "I'm looking forward to seeing the holo-movie version. It promises to be a scream."

He barked again, like a hyena on happy pills. "It'll be a piece of crud, as you and I both know. But with what they've offered us for the film rights..." He shrugged contentedly, went on, "I take it this is no social call, however."

"No. Listen, Steiner: I need you to set up another meeting for me with Anderson."

"Hah! How about a year's time next Thursday? He's solidly booked until then." His eyes glinted craftily. "What are you planning anyway? Martian Eclipse: The Sequel?"

"Not exactly. Is it true he's planning to run for the U.S. Senate next year?"

Steiner paused, began to fidget with the nanotech toys on his desk.

"How would I know? I'm his agent, not his political mentor."

"Come off it, Steiner. You don't need to play the virgin with me. Anderson trusts you: you're his confidante, his big listening ear."

He smiled complacently. "I might be, at that. What do you have in mind?"

"A big re-launch of Martian Eclipse, to coincide with Anderson's campaign for Senator. It'll be a special edition, with a new intro and an extra final chapter. Anderson will be reflecting on his new celebrity status since returning to Earth. His personal reaction to fame and so on. Or rather," I added, "I'll be reflecting for him, in disguise."

Steiner appeared sceptical. "You really think the market can take another new edition? So soon after the antique leather-bound affair, the one we printed on real paper?"

"If we tie it in with his push for the Senate next year, yes. It's just a question of timing."

"Hmm, I suppose it might work." His face got serious. The financial computer that was his brain began crunching figures and percentages. "I'll be honest with you, Kruger. Anderson's flirting with politics, but so far it's just a one-night stand. It might develop into something more serious, though. Especially with some gentle nudges from those close to him. Have you approached his publisher yet about this?"

"No. I thought I'd let you handle that side of things. I need to speak to Anderson first, anyway. Gauge his reaction to my idea. Try to get at least a semi-coherent account from him of how his life's been these last two years. Something basic I can work up into a proper text."

Steiner shook his head, amused. "I thought you were through with the ghost-writing game."

"So did I. I guess even an old hack like me can still get itchy fingers."

He shrugged. "Okay. I guess there's no harm in us exploring the idea. We're not committing to anything at this stage, you understand?" He was clicking through a laptop diary now. "Let's see. Anderson's doing a lecture tour in Europe at the moment. Lessons in Courage and Leadership for the Modern Age, or some such bilge. He'll be laying waste to the beauties of Paris tomorrow. London and Vienna to follow. Back in California early next week. Supposed to be filming a net-promo for the latest Ferrari jet-car. We can postpone the shoot a day or two, I'm sure."

We set up a date, time and place and I signed off. By now, my skin was crawling, and not just because of the glutinous presence of Steiner's face on my net-phone.

I was anticipating... the worst? The best?

Something explosive, anyway.

### ***

"... finished wrestling with the manual back-up for the steering controls. I had the ship's orbit stabilized now, more-or-less. But the radio and life-support systems were still down. Cabin temperature was dropping, the air starting to foul up.

"I heard a groan behind me, coming from the mess-room.

"Guided by the pencil-beam of my torch, I made my way aft again. To my astonishment, Natasha Glinka was slowly stirring. Like mine, her body had become wedged underneath a table. I examined her again as best I could, shocked to find she was still alive. Her head injuries looked pretty bad, her young Ukrainian features almost unrecognizable. I guessed she must have severe internal injuries. I'm no doctor, but to me she looked like a dying woman.

"There was just one chance in a thousand to save her. I had to get her down to the meat freezer. Find a spare sarcophagus to preserve her body in deep-sleep, till the medics could get to her..."

Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

### ***

Steiner had arranged for me to meet Axel Anderson on neutral territory. It was an exclusive hotel in downtown L.A.: a business suite which took the idea of ostentatious luxury to a level beyond decadence. Of course, Anderson was so thoroughly used to the 5-star treatment that he would have accepted nothing less.

I prowled around the suite. The wall-clock, an ornate thing of ponderous brass, showed Anderson was already late. I had anticipated this. Celebrities never show up on time, punctuality being a concept for lesser mortals. I didn't really mind. It gave me more time to rehearse what to say to him.

There were a dozen ways of broaching the subject, but none of them would be easy or pleasant.

There was a complementary buffet which would not have disgraced a palace banquet. I poured out a glass of sparkling wine, helped myself to smoked salmon. Then I sank into the cushioned splendour of an antique armchair with brocaded antimacassars. The crystal chandelier overhead sparkled wastefully. The free-form Artframe in the corner morphed liquidly from Van Gogh to Warhol, regressed to Canelletto. I thought of all the things that Anderson had done to obtain this lifestyle, and how I had aided and abetted him.

The guilt was there again, bubbling up like a reflux in my gullet. I knew my anger towards Anderson was driven, in part, by it. I had that much self-knowledge, at least.

You can despise yourself only so much, before you start to take it out on other people.

Twenty-three minutes behind schedule, the door finally opened and Axel Anderson wafted in.

He had the well-honed smart-casual look today. Sleek and prosperous, like a well-fed lion. His designer stubble was micrometer-perfect. He glanced at me and his teeth flashed a nova-white smile.

"Hi Kruger." He waved a nonchalant hand. "How's it going?" He drifted over to the buffet, not waiting for a reply. "Not bad, huh?" He nodded at the food in grudging approval. His hand hovered over a vol-au-vent, before descending on some glazed affair involving a chicken leg.

"You're looking well, Axel," I observed, giving him a cool once-over.

"Yeah, I'm terrific," he yawned. "A little jet-lagged after my tour, but that'll soon pass. Say, Steiner told me about your latest scheme. A re-launch of our book, or something." He took his chicken leg over to a sofa and spread himself about. "Sounds like a swell idea," he said absently.

"I haven't really explained it to you yet."

"Well, I'm listening," he grinned.

I nodded. "First things first. There are a few things that we need to straighten out. For example, what's this about you running for the U.S. Senate next year?"

"Oh, you've heard about that?"

"Steiner half-confirmed the rumour to me."

"He did, the old leech? Well... yes!" he said with sudden bravado. "As a matter of fact, I am running. Why not, after all?" He gestured expansively. "I already have some campaign themes in mind. Stuff about leadership skills and handling a crisis and, er, so on."

"You really think you can win?"

He swallowed a biteful of food, almost choking with laughter as he did so. "Win? Of course not! That is... well, it would be an unexpected bonus. No, a quick-fire campaign will help to raise my profile, get me more noticed. It'll be a terrific publicity boost."

I shook my head in wonderment. "Axel, you're already about the most famous person on the planet."

"Yeah, but what exactly am I famous for? Beyond the obvious, I mean: my exploits on the Ares IV?" He frowned, suddenly rather serious. "Let's face it, Kruger, I'm part of the jet-set crowd now. I get to stay in all the best hotels. I rub shoulders with all the beautiful people. But, to most of the public, I'm just a piece of glossy entertainment. A mild diversion in their lives, a source of titillating gossip: nothing more. Nobody really takes me seriously. Oh, they acknowledge my heroism and courage, etc. But even that becomes a ritual chore for them after a while." He stared moodily around the room. "I want to be respected as a human being again, Kruger. Like I was in the days when I first returned from Mars. Before I jumped on board this silly celebrity merry-go-round."

"I see. You want gravitas," I suggested.

"Well... yes. Don't get my wrong. I'm not a saint, have never pretended to be. Once a hedonist, always one, hey? But I want people to feel there's substance and depth beneath the surface wrapping. A few orbits around the Planet Politics should do the trick."

I winced at the word trick. It seemed to open up vistas I didn't care to look down too closely. "Martian Eclipse" I began.

"Yes!" he cried, excited. "A revised edition would help to get my new persona launched, don't you think?"

"It all depends," I said significantly, "just what kind of revisions we have in mind."

"Steiner said something about a new intro, an extra final chapter"

"That's what I told Steiner. Actually, I was planning a bigger revision. Much bigger."

Something in my tone caught his attention. He looked at me curiously. "You really think that's necessary?"

"Yes, I do," I said with firm emphasis. "That is, if we want to get closer to the truth."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean the truth about what really happened on the Ares IV."

"What?" For a few seconds, his face was a picture of bafflement. Then he gave a sharp laugh. "Oh, I think I see now. Look, Kruger, we used a lot of artistic license in writing that book, I know. Dammit, you even encouraged me. The literal nuts-and-bolts truth will bore the readers silly, you kept saying. We need to spice up the narrative. Indulge in a little playful exaggeration. Never straying too far from the essential facts, of course. But..." he groped for an example. "Look, remember when I told you about the moments before the explosion. I was in the mess-room, discussing orbital vector adjustments with Natasha and the captain. And you said, that sounds too dry. Too intellectual. Why not make it baseball? It adds a human touch. Okay, it's a little white lie, but it conveys a greater truth. That the crew of the Ares IV were not just faceless technicians, but human beings. So the reader cares about what happens to them." He paused, than jabbed an accusatory finger. "Well, Kruger? Didn't we do that pretty much throughout the book?"

"We did," I agreed.

"Didn't you even tell me it's just a standard technique? One that you've used throughout your ghost-writing career?"

"That's true," I agreed again. "Though I'm not exactly proud of it."

"Not proud?" He started to get indignant. "Well, your pride hasn't stopped you from enjoying your new-found wealth. All from your sizeable take of Martian Eclipse's profits."

"All of that is perfectly true," I admitted. "I'm not a paragon of virtue. I'm just a hack writer in a cut-throat business. But Martian Eclipse is built on more than little white lies, Axel, as you well know."

He didn't deign to reply. The ball was still in my court. Instead he chewed chicken and practised his best petulant look. So I went on:

"You said it best yourself, just now. We mustn't stray too far from the essential facts. Embroider them a little, yes. Exaggerate... maybe. But Martian Eclipse is just one huge deception from start to finish. Isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he reacted angrily.

I shook my head. "I think you know all too well. When we first worked on the writing of that book, I had to trust you, Axel. Trust to your memory. Beyond that, to your basic honesty and decency. The whole world had to. We had no choice, after all. You were the only crew member who was conscious during the Ares IV incident. All the computers had gone down, which meant the vidcams and other ship's monitors were also down. We couldn't even see the ship from Earth, not even with the Super-Hubble scope. It was the far side of Mars. We had only your testimony to rely on. Your version of events."

"True in every essential detail," he insisted. "Any slight manipulation that was done, was done with your approval."

I shook my head again. "I'm afraid I don't believe you, Axel."

At that moment, right on cue, Natasha Glinka wheeled herself into the room.

### ***

"... with Natasha safely entombed, I could focus again on the bigger picture. I made my way from the meat freezer back up to the command module. I was now shivering with cold, my breathing laboured in the foul air.

"There was one way, and one way only, to reboot the vital life-support, radio and IT systems. The master back-up system for those lay in a special suite located just off the mess-room. But the corridor leading there was now a twisted maze of metal wreckage. Even a mouse couldn't crawl through it.

"So I would have to go outside the ship. There was a hatch-cover giving emergency access to the suite directly from the outer hull.

"EVAs, or Extra-Vehicular Activities, form no part of routine Space Bureau training. Oh, we have some sessions fooling around in simulators back on Earth. But the Bureau no more expects its astronauts to be ace space-walkers than the Navy expects its sailors to be Olympics-level swimmers.

"In seven years service with the Bureau, I'd never done a space walk.

"In my case, there was an added problem. I'm agoraphobic. Not enough to fail the basic Space Bureau psych tests. I'd bluffed my way through those. But now my bluff was being called. I was going to have to don a spacesuit and slip through an air-lock and introduce myself to the great immensity of open space outside. Despite the cold, I could feel myself perspiring freely at the prospect. Reluctantly, I opened the suit locker...

"... the sense of wild panic was now overwhelming. I hung there on the outside of the ship, the tiniest spider on the flimsiest thread. I had nowhere to go, except an infinity of falling in every direction. I held the grip-bar riveted to the hull, felt my breath in the sealed helmet coming in great asthmatic surges. My heart seemed to be thumping its way right through my rib-cage. This was the panic attack to end all attacks. I shut my eyes and, for a moment, I had an impulse to let go of the grip-bar, to let slip my safety-line, and drift off into space.

"Death would come oh-so-easily, if I opened the air-vents of my suit.

"In that critical moment, I dug deep down inside myself. There's an inner core of calmness and wisdom inside us all, waiting to be tapped in a time of crisis. With a supreme effort, I quarried within for that core until I found it...

"...Cursing again the crude design of my gauntlets, I fumbled over the final adjustments to the back-up systems. The open hatch-cover obscured my view of the hull aft. Mars hung directly underneath me. Its vast arid wastelands were a shock of ochre-red colour in the monochrome of space. As I watched, I saw a blue-green star rise over the Martian horizon. It was the Earth: we were no longer in eclipse.

"The ordeal was nearly over. A strange sense of calm oozed through me: a benign lightness of limbs, a thrilling glow in my sinews and blood. There were still perils ahead, but I knew now the worst was behind me. I had saved the ship..."

Martian Eclipse, Axel Anderson

### ***

I'll give Anderson credit: he kept his damned nerve. Natasha's unexpected entrance fazed him no more than if a maid or cleaner had entered the suite. He stood up slowly and made a slight bow.

"Hello Natasha," he said gravely.

"Hello Axel," she replied through her voice synthesizer. Natasha Glinka propelled herself further into the room. Her hi-tech wheelchair was virtually a miniature motor vehicle. In it, her broken body sat semi-erect, supported on cushions warped exactly to suit her deformed body-shape. Her left hand, the one that was not paralysed, played expertly over a complex control-board. She flicked a switch and the chair came to a halt.

Her face, after the ravaging miracles of plastic surgery, looked almost human again.

I had seen pictures of Natasha taken before the ill-fated Ares IV mission. A young and vivacious Ukrainian, energetic and ambitious, she'd joined up with the Space Bureau when she could have pursued a staid academic career on Earth. Her journey in the Ares IV had been her first trip into space, and her last.

Axel said, "I had no idea you were out of intensive care, Natasha."

"Well, you never visited." The words, perfectly enunciated by the voice-synth, rolled in a rich contralto through the room. But they lacked nuance. Was Natasha annoyed with Axel? Amused? Merely being factual? It was impossible to guess. Tone of voice, inflection, the subtle melody and rhythm of ordinary speech: all of these were missing. The voice-synth was like a piano that could play only one note.

"I neglected to tell you Natasha was coming," I said to Axel. I added, rather acidly: "Actually, I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you."

"It is pleasant," he forced himself to reply. "I am genuinely puzzled, though. There's been nothing on the news about this"

"We chose to keep my recent discharge from hospital a secret," said Natasha.

"We?" echoed Anderson. The bland voice-synth words seemed to hint at a teasing variety of inner meanings.

I crossed over to Natasha's side, squeezed her hand gently. "Natasha and I have been getting to know each other quite well, these last few months. I started to visit her when she was still in hospital, before her discharge. I was there in a professional capacity, you understand. Natasha wants me to ghost her autobiography, her own account of events. We've had many interesting conversations about the Ares IV."

"That we have," Natasha agreed blandly.

Anderson still didn't take the bait. Approaching the buffet, he poured himself a generous scotch. He sank half of it in one swift gulp. Then he wiped his lips, turned to face us.

"Alright Kruger. Let's get to the point. What's this really all about?"

"The point," I said, "is that Natasha's memories of the Ares IV affair are, ah, somewhat different from yours. In fact, radically different."

"Memories?" Anderson frowned, "But she was unconscious all through the incident!"

I gestured to the wheelchair. "There's no need to speak of her in the third person. She's right here. Perhaps you'd like to address your remarks to her."

"I'm all ears, Axel," Natasha said in her neutral synth-voice.

We both looked at the twisted, grotesque figure in the motorized chair. It was impossible to read anything from Natasha's frozen face, from the language of her semi-paralyzed body.

Anderson's hand wavered again over the scotch bottle, then dropped to his side. "Okay Natasha," he said harshly. "I've never asked for any gratitude from you for saving your life. I was just doing my job, after all. All the same, I expected something better than this."

"Better than what?" she rejoined.

"Questioning my honesty. My integrity, even. I'm guessing that's what this is all about. Presumably in a squalid effort to promote your own book, once Kruger's written it. Are you so anxious to jump on the celebrity gravy-train?"

"Are you so anxious to stay on it?"

He shook his head. "The lifestyle isn't all it seems, as I was explaining to Kruger just now. But let's get down to specifics. Tell me just what you recall of the Ares IV affair."

"I will." With a deft finger-click, she adjusted her chair so it was facing Anderson directly. She looked him straight in the eye, her frozen face quite impassive. "The explosion on the ship happened just as you described it in Martian Eclipse. Only I wasn't knocked unconscious. In fact, I wasn't even badly hurt, not to begin with. The rest of the crew wasn't so lucky, of course. They all suffered appalling injuries in the first few violent seconds, when the ship spiralled out of control.

"I survived by jamming myself under a mess-table. I watched, helplessly, as our crewmates were all flung to their deaths. All except you, Axel. You'd found refuge, like me, by squeezing under a table. And you weren't knocked out, not even concussed. You were simply screaming. Screaming in blind, uncontrollable panic. It was like the howl of a frightened animal. I saw your face, in the flash of my torch beam, and I knew you'd be no help to me. I was going to have to rescue the ship all on my own.

"The Ares IV was spinning wildly out of control, but getting IT and life-support back up was the first priority. I went to explore the corridor leading to the master back-up suite. It was impassable with wreckage. So I knew what I had to do. Like you, I'd never done an EVA for real before. Nonetheless I donned a space-suit, went through the air-lock.

"I managed, with difficulty, to reach the hatch giving emergency access to the suite. Space was spinning around me every which way: the stars, the planet Mars, all just a giddy kaleidoscope. By the time I'd finished the basic repairs, I was about ready to vomit in my suit. Somehow I made it back through the air-lock, struggled my way to the cockpit. By now, you were no longer cowering in your cubby-hole. You'd managed to crawl forwards into the pilot's chair. You should have been working the manual controls, getting the ship under proper steerage again. But you weren't. You were just staring blindly at the instruments and mumbling to yourself.

"Now I had a real problem. You were the ship's co-pilot. You had the expertise, which I lacked, to handle the steering override. I had to get you to co-operate, and I wasn't gentle about it. I slapped you hard a few times, called you some very imaginative names. You reacted by turning on my wildly. You were about ready to throttle me, I think. We struggled together, went head-over-heels with the ship's crazy gyrations. That's when I picked up most of my injuries, Axel. The trauma that's left me a paralyzed wreck of a human being. I was thrown repeatedly against the bulkheads, eventually knocked out cold.

"By that time, you must have come to your senses. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing me badly maimed. Anyway, you somehow got me down to the meat freezer and safely into a tomb. Then you used your skills to get the ship's orbit back under proper control. Then, and only then, did you reactivate the ship's internal monitors.

"You played your part in the end, Axel. You helped to save the Ares IV and all of its passengers. And I would have been happy to give you credit for what you did. I might even have been willing to gloss over some of your shortcomings. Perhaps not to mention your frightened hysterics. But, dammit, you insisted on monopolizing all the credit for yourself. You had to pose as the big almighty hero. You had to strut the world stage like a celebrity colossus. Well, I hope you've had some fun these past two years. Because when I get to write my own version of events, with the help of Mr. Kruger here, I'll not pull any punches about your true role in the affair. You'd better believe I won't."

Anderson had listened to Natasha's lengthy speech in complete silence. He stood there stony-faced for a few seconds. Finally he gave a nervous chuckle.

"You don't seriously believe a word of that fairy story, do you, Kruger?" When I made no reply, he went on, "Look, Natasha, I'm willing to be charitable. You've been through a terrific ordeal. Quite possibly you've been hallucinating. Dreaming strange dreams during your long coma. Perhaps your memory is playing tricks on you. Any or all of these I will accept, if you withdraw these slanderous accusations. Otherwise," he drew himself up to his full height, his tone darkening, "you'll force me to believe the worst. That you're driven by simple envy at my lifestyle. That you want a big slice of it for yourself. Well, just go ahead and try. Tell your lies and half-truths. My agent Steiner knows some very successful libel lawyers."

"You can't suppress any of this, Axel," I said. "If you fight us through the courts, you'll just give Natasha's book even more publicity. Go right ahead. We'll enjoy it." I grinned maliciously. "Of course, the book's not actually written yet. But we already have a title: Martian Revelation. Quite neat, don't you think?"

The look he gave me was pure poison. "Okay, Kruger. You set me up like a patsy for this meeting. You've had your kicks. You and Natasha have both made your points. But I don't have to listen to any more of this cripple's fantasies."

With an air of aggrieved dignity, he stalked quietly from the room.

He did slam the door rather hard behind him, though.

Natasha and I stared at one another. Natasha said, in her monotone voice: "That was a most unpleasant experience, Mr. Kruger."

"No worse than I expected."

"I'm not sure this confrontation with Axel was such a good idea."

I shrugged. "I wanted to observe his reactions first-hand."

"Was he bluffing with his talk of libel lawyers?"

"I don't know." I sank down into my chair. I felt suddenly tired and deflated. "The Ares IV was in eclipse behind Mars. The ship's monitors were down. Basically it's your word against his. I think I know who the public will believe. They're bound to take your side out of sympathy with your injuries, for one thing."

Natasha's frozen face glowed harshly in the light from the candelabra.

"And who do you believe, Mr. Kruger?"

Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled her chair around and motored slowly from the room.

### ***

I sat marooned in the antique chair, lost in my thoughts. The hotel suite around me stank of luxury and indulgence. In the cloying warmth, the banquet food was beginning to reek, the expensive wine turn slowly sour. Yet still I could not summon up the energy to rise from my seat.

Whose account of events did I actually believe? Axel's? Natasha's?

Neither?

The real truth, I decided, was probably some strange admixture of the two. Truth and lies, so intricately interwoven in both versions that the real story could never be properly unravelled.

The Ares IV had been in eclipse. Hidden away, like some mysterious quantum event. There were an infinite number of ways the incident could have played out.

Maybe they all happened. Maybe they were all true.

Or perhaps there could be no truthful version. Only a series of subjective interpretations: each one manipulated by ego, self-interest, false memories.

Perhaps all such narratives must be unreliable. Even mine.

When a writer has ghosted for long enough, the truth becomes a slippery concept. It almost ceases to be.

I roused myself, with some effort, from the fog of metaphysics. I cast a look of quiet loathing around the hotel suite.

I was a wealthy man. I would go on being wealthy. I knew I wasn't strong enough to give this lifestyle up.

I walked slowly from the room, revolving in my mind the best way to spin Natasha Glinka's narrative.

For the waiting world, a brand new heroine was about to be made.

## Contributors

**J. Rohr:** has a taste for history and midnight barbeques.  A graduate of Depaul University, he studied creative writing under National Book Award Winner Larry Heinemann.  He believes that every cynic is the by-product of failed romanticism, he himself being one.  Having recently finished a novella entitled Home Sweet Homicide: a tale of reasonable madness, he is operating the blog www.honestyisnotcontagious.com to deal with some of the more corrosive aspects of everyday life.

#### <http://www.honestyisnotcontagious.com>

**Robert Thayer:** A former physicist, a current software engineer, and hopefully evolving into a future writer. He is also a cricket watching, ale drinking, gubbins babbling Londoner, with no immediate plans to evolve from these professions. This is his first publication.

**Graham Keeler:** Graham was born in Hertfordshire and grew up in neighbouring Essex. He now lives near Bolton in Lancashire, and he taught Physics at Salford University until he retired this year. This is his first published short story, but his science fiction novel, Stowaway to the Stars, was recently published by Netherworld Books. If you like this short story, Stowaway to the Stars recounts much more about what happens to Larry and Karen.

#### www.grahamkeeler.co.uk

**Tyler Winstead:** a Southern dandy who prefers to live as far from the American South as possible. Naturally, he moved to a tiny Minnesotan town, now attending college at the University of Minnesota, Morris. He is pursuing a Bachelor's degree in English and History. In addition to classic literature, Tyler greatly enjoys film in his leisure time and currently writes a review column in the University's newspaper. He is influenced by his perceptions of problems in people and their resounding lack of communication.

**Steve McGarrity:**  born in 1960, lives in Scarborough and works for the NHS. Writing has been a lifelong hobby. Currently, his main interest lies in writing SF and fantasy stories. "The Ghost Writer" is his third story to appear in Jupiter.

**Alessio Zanelli:** an Italian, has long adopted English as his literary language and his work has appeared in about 130 magazines from 12 countries including, in the UK: Acumen, Aesthetica, Dream Catcher, The New Writer, Orbis, Other Poetry, Poetry News and Poetry Nottingham. His fourth collection, titled Over Misty Plains, was published in 2012 by Indigo Dreams. He is the poetry editor of Private Photo Review and the Italian Stanza Representative for the Poetry Society.

**Daniel Bristow-Bailey:**  a freelance illustrator and graphic designer with a partiular interest in the fields of science-fiction illustration and production design. Most of his work (including this issue's front cover) is created in Photoshop with a graphics tablet.

He lives in West London with his wife, who takes a somewhat dim view of the frequency with which scantily-clad women appear in his work, but who is otherwise very supportive. He is always happy to talk to people interested in commissioning work.

#### <http://www.dbbcreative.co.uk>

## ARIA: LEFT LUGGAGE by Geoff Nelder

### WINNER P&E Award!

### Infectious amnesia. Imagine the ramifications.The bus driver gives passengers change for last week's prices and today's amnesia. Some just started work at the power plant, water treatment works, hospital, fire station. All to shut in weeks. Can Ryder and his friends avoid this apocalypse?

###

### Endorsed by Jon C Grimwood, Mike Resnick, Brad Lineaweaver and Geoff's friends.

### print ISBN: 9781905091959

### e-book eg Kindle: ASIN: B008RADGYC  

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