 
#

### Plasma Frequency Magazine

### Issue 4: February/March 2013

Cover art by Tais Teng inspired by "Cross-Wired"

eReader Edition

Editor-in-Chief, Richard Flores IV

Assistant Editor, Amy Flores

Assistant Editor, Molly Moss

Assistant Editor, Vacant

Art Editor, Vacant

Marketing and Advertising, Vacant

Plasma Frequency ISSN 2168-1309 (Print) and ISSN 2168-1317 (Electronic), Issue 4 February/March 2013. Published bimonthly by Plasma Spyglass Press, Vacaville, California

Annual subscription available at www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com. Print edition $56 for US residents for one year. Electronic edition available free.

Printed by HP Magcloud in the U.S.A.

Copyright © 2013 by Plasma Spyglass Press. All Rights Reserved.

www.plasmafrequencymagazine.com

www.plasmaspyglass.com

# In This Issue

Cover Art by Tais Teng

From the Editor

The Man with the Opaque Skull

By S. R. Algernon

Movement to First Contact

By Sean Patrick Hazlett

Book Review

Snake Oil: And Other Tales of the Weird West

Art By: Eleanor Leonne Bennett

The Whitman Inn

By Matthew Wuertz

Sensory Overload

By Julie Frost

Book Review

Danger Close

Art By: Richard H. Fay

Nothing Altered

By Beth Powers

Back to School

By Michael Haynes

The Door

By Mark Wolf

Cross-wired

By Ronald D. Ferguson

#  From the Editor

It is a new year and it would seem the end of days once again passed us by unnoticed. In all seriousness, we are extremely pleased to be back with our readers in 2013. Our first three issues were a very big success and we hope that the six issues we bring you in 2013 will continue to bring bigger things for everyone involved.

Our goals and mission remains the same this year. We intend to bring you more great speculative fiction, great artwork, and some honest book reviews. Since we established our magazine around these goals, who needs a new year's resolution?

We welcomed a new editor to our staff. Molly Moss joins our ranks and has already done a great job for us. We are still hunting for a proof reading editor as well as other positions. You can find out more about those by visiting our website.

We have some great stories this issue, including one of the longest stories I've published thus far. We welcome back three great artists that we've had from issues past. Speaking of past issues, if this is the first issue of Plasma Frequency you've read, or perhaps you want to get some back issues of our magazine in print. All three of our past issues are still available in print and electronic form on our website.

We are greatly honored that content from every issue of 2012 was nominated for the 2012 Preditors and Editor Readers Poll (hosted by Critters Workshop). From issue 1, Tais Teng's cover art was nominated for best Magazine Cover Art. The artwork placed 5th overall. From Issue 2, Lindsey Duncan's story "Mythocraft" was nominated for best Science Fiction and Fantasy short story. Her story placed 7th overall. And from Issue 3, the book we reviewed Beyond the Cell by Sara Tribble was nominated for best Young Adult Novel. All in all, we are extremely pleased and honored that our debut magazine received such recognition by readers.

Here is to continued success in the new year. Our recognition comes from the talent on the pages of each of our issues. Thank you to the writers and artists who continue to make us what are and what we will become. Let me step aside and let the work of our writers and artists shine. Enjoy.

Richard Flores IV

Editor-in-Chief

#  The Man with the Opaque Skull

# By S. R. Algernon

"Do you see him?" said Virgil, who sat next to mine in the packed grandstands lining the parade route. At first I thought he meant our Exalted Leader. Hoping for a glimpse of the hovercade, I turned to my right, looking past the wrinkled brains of the other spectators, each within its own clear plastic dome. A violet glow from the arc lights above the grandstand passed through their skulls and mine. Light-sensitive pigments in our frontal and temporal lobes transmuted the color into tranquil, reverential awe.

"No, not there," said Virgil, pointing backward past the crowd. His brow lights cycled orange and yellow. The cadence, just faster than my heart rate, struck me like the synchronized footfalls of an advancing army. I followed his gaze to the back row.

Silhouetted against the ambient glow, at the top of the concrete steps, stood the Hatter. He wore a suit and tie like a G-man from an old comic book. Rumor had it that a month earlier he had smashed the crimson boundary lights around the Ministry of Guidance, and that the week after that he had glued propeller beanies on every statue of the Exalted Leader in the city square.

The Hatter's signature fedora disgusted me, yet I could not turn away. To wear it—or any other hat—was, in a literal sense, unthinkable. The nanites in my cortex—miniscule radio antennas—had pinched off some circuits and sculpted others to ensure that I could never obstruct the flow of light into my brain. So traumatizing—so viscerally wrong—was the sight of a hatted head that the censors had blacked out every cranium in all the old photographs in the city archives for fear that a stray bowler or baseball cap would set off a panic.

"How could he live like that," I wondered aloud, "with his thoughts locked away in his mind?"

I thought about the streetlights that led us from place to place, the desk-lamps that kept us on track at work, and the radio transmitters that granted us a common set of hopes and values. My brow-light emitted an aqua of pensive confusion.

As I stared at the Hatter, hoping to catch sight of those hidden thoughts, the lighting changed. Chartreuse replaced violet, as if an enormous spectral pear had swallowed the parade grounds. The crowd erupted into a jubilant frenzy. I shared their rush of excitement as I turned toward the oncoming hovercade. The Exalted Leader had arrived.

"All right, Hatter! Wooo!" said Virgil, as the Hatter reached the barricades, just a few meters from the pavement. Abusing the color signals to express a private thought—chromatic subversion— was a serious crime, but I doubted anyone else heard him over the cheers.

The Exalted Leader stood on a high, gilded pedestal. We craned our necks to see him. We had a clear view of his uniform and the gleaming medals that lined his chest. We saw his outstretched hands and his prominent jaw. A corona of white light--white being the sum of all colors--enveloped the top of his head. We stood on tiptoe and angled our heads downward to expose our cerebral cortex to the Exalted Leader's rays. All of us, that is, except Virgil. His eyes never left the Hatter. Despite my growing unease, I found my own eyes following Virgil's. Virgil's brow-lights flashed a discordant blue, counteracting the chartreuse and sending me into a wordless, pensive nostalgia. Aware that my thoughts were now corrupted, I turned away from the beneficent glow and watched the Hatter hop the railing.

The Hatter landed within the barrier zone, suddenly awash in precisely calibrated red light that would have sent any of us into convulsions. His silk suit reflected some of the light into the crowd. I winced and turned away.

"It doesn't faze him at all," said Virgil, who squinted but held his gaze steady. "Look. He's climbing the skirt of the hovercraft."

The guards aimed their ray guns and blasted the Hatter with crimson flashes. In desperation, they turned to a crippling cycle of scarlet and magenta, but the Hatter continued on.

Front row spectators, caught in the crossfire, curled into fetal positions under their seats. Some of them, lost in their torment, wrapped their arms over their heads in violation of their chromatic conditioning. It seemed an unnatural, inhuman act, like the contortions of condemned souls in a medieval woodcut.

The Hatter climbed until he reached the pedestal. The Exalted Leader backed away in shock as the Hatter stood before him and looked him straight in the eye. The Hatter flashed the crowd a sly grin, and then sucker-punched him right in the gut.

As the Exalted Leader doubled over, his head dropped below the corona. The crowd gasped at the sight of his unadorned pate. It was a jubilant gasp, to be sure, under the chartreuse light, but what we saw transcended color. Atop the Exalted Leader's head was not plastic or even skin, but a tuft of thick hair, as if he had an armpit where his brain ought to be.

The Hatter removed his hat and bowed theatrically, revealing a perfectly average cortex beneath his plastic dome. His brow-lights radiated chartreuse laced with tangerine that was somehow more powerful than the city lighting. You can do this too, his smile seemed to say. With an acrobatic flip, he leapt past the guards, jumped the barricades again, and disappeared into the crowd.

The Exalted Leader grimaced and regained his footing. As the procession lurched on, he looked back warily. He must know, I thought, that we could not forget what we had seen. As my mind recoiled from the impossible event I had witnessed, an equally unimaginable vision took shape before me. In my mind's eye, I saw a throng of Hatters overrunning the city square. Before long, millinery resistance would spread through the city. It was only a matter of time before the lights went out.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

S.R. Algernon studied fiction writing among other things, at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He has been a member of critters.org for three years. His fiction interests include historical fiction, Golden Age science fiction, contemporary Japanese science fiction, hard science fiction, and science fiction that explores the sociological and political impact of new technology. He currently resides in Singapore.

#  Movement to First Contact

# By Sean Patrick Hazlett

The ten-thousand foot crystalline dome towering over what used to be San Francisco reminded Lieutenant McNulty of the man-sized anthills he had seen in the Pacific Northwest. McNulty shuddered at the memory of the anthills' thumb-sized, red-headed, black-bodied architects that had swarmed atop their frightening creations. The main difference between the anthills and this structure was that the dome's outer surface was quiet and lifeless. It was what lurked inside that unnerved him.

"Reaper Six, Reaper One. REDCON One," McNulty transmitted the standard code words over the company radio net to report his platoon's readiness. His tank platoon waited in column on Highway 101, on the city's outskirts as Apache attack helicopters buzzed in the distance, completing another circuit around the structure. The dome's edge extended a few meters beyond what used to be Candlestick Park.

"Reaper One. Reaper Six. Standby for engineers," Captain Dorfman, Lieutenant McNulty's commander, replied.

McNulty's crew shifted in their bulky MOPP suits. Even at a pleasant seventy degrees Fahrenheit, the chemical suits were uncomfortable, and they made fighting and communicating difficult.

"Sir, I got to take a piss," Private Hanson, the tank's loader, broadcasted over the internal communication system.

McNulty rolled his eyes. "Dammit, Hanson! You knew we were going to launch at oh-six hundred, why didn't you take care of it before?"

McNulty already knew the answer. Hanson was a good kid, but a damaged one with suicidal impulses. Once he had turned up with a broken hand due to an "accident." Weeks later, McNulty's men confided to him that Hanson's "accident" had happened after he had punched a seventy-ton Abrams tank over some trifle.

"Never mind," McNulty said. "You're just gonna have to hold it. It's too late to dismount now."

The net was silent for a few moments, then Hanson responded, "Roger, sir."

The engineers were deep inside the tunnel, attaching the final several hundred pounds of C4 to the breach site. They'd been at it for several weeks now. They'd bored a hole small enough for Packbots to get through, but now had to expand the tunnel so tanks could enter the strange structure. The amber-colored translucent substance they were blasting through was stronger than reinforced concrete. After connecting the explosives to a detonation cord, they emerged from the tunnel in preparation for the final explosion.

The crew waited. Sergeant Turner, the tank's gunner, checked and rechecked the tank's weapons systems four or five times. Hanson rocked back and forth. Private First Class Garcia, the nineteen-year old tank driver from Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, hummed hair metal ballads over the tank's intercom from his isolated driver's hole.

"All right gents, as soon as the engineers blast a hole through the dome wall, remember our orders. Under no circumstances are we to open our hatches. The S2 warned us that some of the gasses trapped in this structure react explosively with normal air. Something to do with nitrogen."

McNulty recalled the briefing his platoon had received from Captain Wade, the battalion's intelligence officer, with contempt. The S2 had struggled to explain the technical aspects of the chemical environment the platoon was about to enter. A history major, Wade was clearly out of his depth.

"Yeah, sir," Garcia said, "I remember. It's that silicone stuff chicks put in their tits."

The crew erupted in laughter.

"Garcia, it's silane, not silicone," McNulty reminded him.

The levity was short-lived as the crew prepared for the imminent mission.

"Reaper One. Reaper Six. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole," Dorfman transmitted.

Moments later, the engineers detonated their explosives. A massive cloud of dust and debris resulted, reducing visibility to zero. A steady crescendo of humming resonated from within the structure and near the point of the breach.

"Reaper One. This is Reaper Six. Report."

"Reaper Six. Reaper One. Negative contact. Break. Loud humming is coming from the hole. Permission to cross the LD?" McNulty reported, ending his transmission with a request to cross the line of departure.

"Reaper One, this is Six. Standby."

The crew waited for Captain Dorfman to relay the request up the chain of command. The wait seemed like an eternity to McNulty, and he could sense his crew was growing impatient.

"Sir, what the hell is taking higher so damn long?" Hanson whined.

"This is the first time the military's sending armor into the dome. It's also the Army's first movement to contact mission in an alien environment. The last few Packbots the engineers sent in never returned, and you sure as hell can't send crunchies through," McNulty answered. The term "crunchie" referred to the sound an infantryman's bones made when a tank rolled over one. "The gasses will eat through their MOPP gear and kill 'em. That's why we're going in with tanks. That's also why we cannot, under any circumstances, open our hatches."

"Christ," Hanson cursed, "You mean we won't have any infantry support?"

"That's right. We won't have any artillery support either owing to several tons of rock that will be covering us throughout our mission," McNulty said, shrugging.

Moments later, the order finally came down, "Reaper One. Reaper Six. Permission granted. Go. Go. Go."

McNulty issued the command to his tank platoon, and led the column of four seventy-ton Abrams tanks into the smoldering hole left by the engineers.

The armor rolled through the breach. The tanks' turbine engines whirled against the overpowering hum echoing throughout the crystal lattice structure. The tanks passed through a hundred-meter thick wall of crystalline silica, before they reached the other side, and into the dome's inner cavity.

"Start scanning," McNulty ordered over his platoon's intercom system, "Report any movement. Remember the rules of engagement. Don't shoot anything until you get my order. There could still be civilians out there."

McNulty doubted his last point. Nothing could possibly survive in this toxic environment.

The platoon headed along its planned axis of advance from Highway 101 to Highway 280, where it halted at its first checkpoint.

"Reaper Six. Reaper One. Radio check, over," McNulty reported to headquarters as planned. He was disheartened by the lack of a response, though he had anticipated it. McNulty attempted a similar radio check with his platoon. To his chagrin, there was no response.

"Radio still ain't working, sir," Garcia said. McNulty could always count on Garcia to state the obvious.

"The radio's working fine, but for some reason radio waves don't propagate inside the dome. The S2 said the NASA boys at Moffett Field think the EM spectrum's been saturated inside this structure. It's not really surprising we can't communicate with headquarters or the rest of the platoon. We'll just have to make do with the communications techniques we practiced in training," McNulty said over the tank's intercom. "We knew going in that radio comms might not work, especially after the first Packbots didn't return."

McNulty had drilled his platoon on alternatives to radio communications. Nevertheless, the platoon's inability to communicate using its radios would be yet another impediment, like the MOPP suits, to McNulty's ability to maneuver and control his platoon.

"Garcia, tap your brake lights twice. It's time to move out," McNulty ordered.

The armored column roared back to life and advanced up Highway 280, along the southeastern outskirts of the city and toward its next objective.

As the platoon edged closer toward San Francisco's financial district, the humming became louder and increased in frequency. The steady resonance sounded like the otherworldly chirps of metallic cicadas. McNulty sensed his crew's uneasiness. It was not the eerie lack of human activity in the cityscape ahead that bothered McNulty so much as the lack of human remains. How could hundreds of thousands of people disappear without leaving behind any sign of their passing?

"Sir, don't you think it's kinda odd there aren't any cars on the freeway?" Sergeant Turner offered, "I mean, you'd think when the meteorite's fragments solidified around the city, and the silane gas suffocated the drivers, there would still be cars and car wrecks leading all the way to the heart of the city. What gives?"

McNulty had observed the same thing; he just didn't think it would help morale to say it out loud.

"I'd noticed. Maybe some folks did survive," McNulty answered in a half-hearted effort to put a positive spin on the mystery.

"No way, sir. Something took 'em! You said yourself that nothing can survive here!" Hanson panicked.

"Calm down, Hanson. Everything is going according to plan. We're about halfway to our objective at the Transamerica Pyramid. Once we get there, we'll link up with second platoon, which is advancing from the Bay Bridge. We'll then proceed together toward the Bay Bridge, and back to friendly territory."

"Sir, I've got AT&T Park on my right," Turner said.

"Driver, turn left on Third Street and reduce your speed to 20 klics. Turner, keep scanning. We're about to enter a built up area, so I want everyone alert."

"All right, gents," McNulty addressed his crew, "We're about to hit our third checkpoint at Market Street. Use this as an opportunity to check your equipment and..."

_THUD! THUD! THUD_!

The crew's tank shook from some unknown impact.

"What the hell was that?" McNulty said as he tried to make sense of what had slammed into the tank. "Turner, continue scanning!"

_TUNK, TUNK, TUNK. TUNK, TUNK, TUNK_.

"Gunner, follow those fifty cal tracers," McNulty ordered. "It looks like Sergeant Johnson's tank is engaging something."

"Sweet Jesus!" Turner yelled, "Do you see that, sir?"

McNulty looked into his sight. "Holy crap, put your thermals on!"

McNulty's screen lit up with seven or eight contacts, each the size of a horse. They were bounding toward the column, and launching projectiles from what appeared to be scorpion-like tails.

McNulty's training took over.

"Contact! Enemy. Front." McNulty transmitted over the platoon net from habit. Realizing the other tanks wouldn't receive his transmission, he then switched to the internal net and said, "Garcia, hit the brakes three times. We need to get the platoon on line."

The platoon wheeled into position, orienting its tanks toward the advancing contacts in a single horizontal line to maximize its collective firepower.

"Son of a bitch! The fifty cal didn't even make that thing flinch," Turner said. "Looks like we should try something a little stronger. Whaddaya say, sir?"

McNulty nodded.

"Gunner – HEAT – seven hostiles – nearest hostile!" McNulty commanded. The crew leaped into action.

"Identified!" Turner declared, alerting McNulty he had the M1A2's one hundred twenty-millimeter smoothbore cannon trained on the first target. The ammo door at the turret's rear compartment opened, and Hanson grabbed a HEAT round from the ready rack, a honeycombed chamber teaming with rounds. HEAT was an acronym for High Explosive Anti-Tank that tankers used to destroy lightly armored targets. He shoved it into the main gun's breech, jumped out of the cannon's path of recoil, and reported, "Up!" to notify McNulty that he was out of the way.

"Fire!"

"On the waaay," Turner reported as he pulled the trigger and a HEAT round sped toward its target at over a thousand meters per second. A familiar clang sounded as the HEAT round's cylindrical brass AFCAP hit the turret floor.

The round hit the thing closest to the tank dead center and propelled it about twenty meters into an adjacent building in a riot of dust and debris.

"Target!" McNulty announced.

McNulty listened as the rest of his platoon blasted away at the strange entities. His men used a carefully rehearsed escalation of weaponry per the platoon's rules of engagement. First, they'd use machine guns. If the machine guns failed, they'd use HEAT rounds. If HEAT rounds failed, they'd fire SABOT rounds – high energy, kinetic rounds designed to penetrate heavily armored targets.

To McNulty's dismay, the first target got back on its six black spindly legs and charged at the platoon.

"Gunner – SABOT – hostile. Near hostile!"

"Identified!"

"Up!"

"Fire!"

"On the waaay!"

The SABOT round struck home. The high velocity, depleted uranium round created enough overpressure that it sucked the creature's insides out of it as the round passed through the target at over fifteen hundred meters per second. Soon the rest of the platoon was firing SABOT rounds, making quick work of the encroaching enemy.

In the heat of battle, McNulty had blocked out the strange metallic droning in the background. Now he couldn't ignore it. Almost as if in response to the engagement, the pitch became higher and the sound's intensity increased.

"Driver, flash your front headlights once," McNulty ordered Garcia to signal to his platoon that his tank was still fully mission capable.

When the other three tanks responded in kind, McNulty breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright, let's move out. Garcia, give 'em the signal."

"WHAT THE HELL! WE'RE GONNA DIE!" Hanson screamed. He cradled his head with his arms and rocked back and forth. "You're all insane! They're everywhere! We gotta turn back. Now!"

"Get your shit together!" McNulty raised his voice. "We have a mission to complete, and our country is depending on us. We aren't going to turn back until we determine what's emitting that EM signal from the vicinity of the Transamerica Pyramid. The people at NASA think it's the one place in this whole godforsaken complex where these bugs are communicating with something in space."

"No way, sir. I'm not doing it. No way."

"If you don't, you'll be court-martialed when we get back."

"We ain't gettin' back, sir."

"Sergeant Turner. Remove Hanson's service weapon," McNulty ordered.

Turner sprung to his feet and thrust his elbow under Hanson's gas mask, pinning him up against the tank's ammo door. "Surrender your nine millimeter, or I'm going to rip off your mask, and you WILL die," Turner threatened.

Hanson seemed stunned and did nothing as Turner removed the sidearm.

In any normal tactical environment, McNulty would force Hanson out of the tank and send him to the rear. Turner would then act as loader, and transfer control of the weapons systems to McNulty's commander's station. However, forcing Hanson out of the vehicle would guarantee his death and doom the rest of the crew, as toxic silane gas would build up inside the tank's hull. McNulty felt he was left with only one suboptimal solution.

"Hanson," McNulty addressed the soldier in a reassuring tone. "I know you've just been through a crazy event, but you survived. Whatever's out there, we can kill it. If you just keep your cool, and we all work together, we can get out of this alive. You have two options: Stay in the tank and fight, or get out and die. What'll it be?"

Hanson returned to his post, slouching back onto his seat.

The platoon split into two-tank sections with one section moving forward, while the other covered the advance from an overwatch position.

"Garcia. Stop the tank," McNulty commanded. "Does anyone hear that?"

"Hear what, sir? I can't hear anything anymore," Turner answered.

"That's what worries me. The humming's stopped."

"Why do you think it's stopped, sir?" Turner asked.

"I don't know. Let's keep moving. Garcia, give the signal for the other tanks to move out."

The column crept along Kearny Street. The tanks' turrets rotated back and forth, scanning the buildings towering above them.

The absence of automobiles and bodies continued to weigh on McNulty. _Where the hell did everyone go_? he wondered.

"Garcia, we're only a few blocks away from the objective. We need to turn right here on California Street."

The city remained deathly quiet as the platoon turned and made its push toward its intermediate objective on Montgomery Street.

McNulty moved his head back from the commander's sights to check on Hanson. The boy still didn't seem right in the head. Turner continued to view the outside environment through the limited lens of his gunner's sight.

"Oh my God! Sir, I think I know where all the cars and people went," Turner shuddered, "They..."

A high-frequency whine cut off the sergeant. McNulty pressed the lenses of his gas mask back against the commander's sight.

"Hostiles! Twelve o'clock!" Turner shouted as he observed a large number of black silhouettes descending toward the tanks from the surrounding high-rises.

This time, the creatures weren't firing spikes at the tanks, but advancing toward them.

"Gunner – SABOT – Hostiles. Near hostile!"

"Identified!"

"Up!"

"On the waaay!"

The tank shook in recoil and one of the assailants burst into shards of rock and sand. Chunks of rock and debris rained down on the tank as the SABOT round passed through its target and into a hotel across the street. McNulty's wingman, Sergeant Rogers, blasted another hostile from his tank. Rogers' main gun engaged targets from left to right while McNulty worked from the opposite direction.

The two tanks ahead of Sergeant Rogers's and McNulty's had also stopped to join the fight.

As the platoon fired SABOT after SABOT, the creatures kept coming.

"Loader, ammo check!" McNulty commanded.

"Ten SABOT rounds remaining, sir," Hanson responded, then added, "I told you we were gonna die."

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," McNulty swore. "Calm down, Hanson."

McNulty considered for a moment. "Alright, here's what we're gonna do. If second platoon had gotten this far, we'd have heard them fighting these things by now. We need to get to the Bay Bridge ASAP. The most important thing we can do is pass on what we've learned about these creatures to headquarters."

"Sounds like a plan, sir," Turner said.

"Garcia, drive close enough to the front of Sergeant Johnson's tank so we can signal him that we're turning around. Do it fast."

Garcia complied by throttling the tank to its maximum speed. Before he could reach Sergeant Johnson's tank, the crew watched a horde of aliens flood from the buildings around them. They reached Sergeant Johnson's tank and were laboring to overturn it.

"Driver, stop!" McNulty yelled. He then issued more fire commands.

"Sir, we might hit Sergeant Johnson's tank," Sergeant Turner warned.

"If we don't do anything, he's dead anyway."

The SABOT ripped along the street, rendering its target into a burning hulk. The target was so close that its stony remains hit McNulty's tank.

"What the hell was that?" Garcia asked.

"Alien gut," McNulty said.

"What the heck are these things made out of, sir?" Turner asked.

"The Moffett nerds think it's silicon."

"You mean, like in sand and rocks and stuff?"

"Something like that."

The three other tanks fought to eliminate the swarms overrunning Sergeant Johnson's tank, but the creatures kept coming.

SABOT rounds whipped through the streets and between the tanks as the creatures swarmed over the platoon. Sergeant Johnson's tank was littered with them. His tank could no longer move forward or backward as the creatures began to push it toward the center of the domed structure.

"Sir, we need to get out of here," Turner warned. "There's no saving Sergeant Johnson's crew."

"I won't leave 'em behind. Keep fighting."

The three operational tanks continued firing SABOTs at their attackers, but soon the enemy was on the verge of overrunning them too.

"Screw this, sir, I'm turning the tank around!" Garcia said.

Before McNulty could countermand Garcia, the tank jolted into reverse, and then executed a sharp U-turn back up California Street and past the two remaining tanks. As they passed the rest of the platoon, dozens of the spindly silicoids overtook the pair of tanks Garcia left behind.

The humming had begun in earnest the instant the second attack began, and was now at a fever pitch as McNulty's crew abandoned twelve of the platoon's men.

Garcia throttled the tank to its top speed as he maneuvered the seventy-ton monster up the hill and back toward Kearny, retracing the platoon's original path into the city. McNulty judged that Garcia had unilaterally abandoned any hope of reaching the Bay Bridge.

"Garcia, slow down!" McNulty ordered just as Garcia made a hard right turn into one the creatures at over forty miles an hour.

The tank bulled right through the thing, taking three of its arachnid-like limbs with it.

As the tank continued forward, it lurched to the right. A mechanical whine followed.

"Sir, we threw track!" Garcia screamed.

Of all the things that could go wrong with this mission, the fact that something so mundane would doom them was almost comical to McNulty. He figured that the creature's limbs had gotten tangled in the tank's track, and somehow cut through the rubber treads, rendering forward movement impossible. What a clusterfuck.

"Prepare to defend in place," McNulty said, trying to ignore the fact that one of his subordinates had so overtly disobeyed his orders.

On the outside, the incessant whine continued to reverberate. Inside the tank, there was silence.

"What the hell was that?" Hanson interrupted the strangely comforting deadman's truce as a loud tapping echoed throughout the tank. More tapping started in from all directions. Then the tank began to rock.

"They're all over us!" Garcia shouted over the intercom.

More silence.

"Turner, you said you saw what happened to all the cars and people. Now's the time to speak up," McNulty ordered.

"Sir, those things were using the metal from cars to build some sort of inner wall in this structure. I could see steel all wrapped into what looked like some sort of twisted mechanical web."

The rocking of the tank and the rapping on the outer armor intensified.

"What about the people?"

Turner hesitated and then spoke. "Well, sir. I can't be sure of what I saw. They...I saw...shapes...human shapes...suspended from the buildings. Like cocoons."

"Screw this, sir! I'm getting out of here!" Hanson shrieked.

Turner stretched across the breech to stop Hanson, but Hanson's right cross to Turner's gas mask caught the gunner completely unaware, knocking him unconscious.

McNulty reached for his nine millimeter, but Hanson was on him and thrashing at McNulty's gas mask before the lieutenant could pull the trigger.

Two shots rang out.

~

Death would have been a better fate. At least McNulty would have remained human. Now he was turning into something else. Enshrouded in hardened silicon crystal lattice, time felt slower and his affinity with humanity faded away.

The creature known as McNulty would be useful to the hive, even with a third of its brain matter dead and gone. The McNulty entity was one of them now, and the hive would soon establish its dominion over this world.

~

Six hours after the two platoons from Alpha Troop failed to reach their checkpoints on time and as planned, Colonel Brown decided to commit the entire Regiment.

He felt sorry for Captain Dorfman, who had lost two-thirds of his Troop in an operation he hadn't had the opportunity to oversee himself. It was lamentable, but they had their orders.

~

A week later, a mass similar in size to the original meteorite ejected from the San Francisco structure. Based on the object's trajectory, NORAD projected it would land on New York City within the hour.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Sean Patrick Hazlett is a technology analyst and Army veteran living in the San Francisco Bay Area, where he writes fiction to keep himself entertained. "Movement to First Contact" is his first speculative fiction sale. For more information, please visit: reflectionsofarationalrepublican.com.

# Book Review

# Snake Oil: And Other Tales of the Weird West

From the Amazon.com Book Description:

" _A boy's life changes when a snake oil salesman with a dirigible comes to town ... An easygoing cowboy's troubles begin with a six-shooter, some moon men and a girl ... Annie Oakley travels west incognito on a train attacked by a gang of ghost bandits. A collection of three weird west short stories from Jennifer Campbell-Hicks: Snake Oil, Cowboy Jake and the Moon Men, and The Great Ghost Train Robbery."_

Jennifer Campbell-Hicks is a fiction writer and newspaper copy editor living in Colorado (http://jennifercampbellhicks.blogspot.com/). I was well aware of her stories and style, as he has many well respected publishing credits.

We don't typically review anthologies. It isn't anything against them it has just been that novels have provided a more in depth review for me. But given the talent I have seen in Campbell-Hicks's recent short story publications, I gave this one a shot.

Basically we have three short stories here, all written by Campbell-Hicks. They range in length from 6,500 words to 3,500 words. All of these have been previously published in other publications some time ago, but have been brought back to life in this collection.

After reading all three, "Snake Oil" is by far my favorite of the three. But, "The Great Ghost Train Robbery" is a close second. The stories are told well and they are all fun to read. They don't really tie into each other, so they make for a great read when you have a moment.

Even though I really enjoyed "Snake Oil", my favorite character has to be Phoebe Ann Butler in the "The Great Ghost Train Robbery". But that being said all the characters are well done in each of the three stories and they bring life to these short stories.

All three stories reflect Campbell-Hicks's natural ability to tell a great tale. They are fun to read, have enjoyable plot points with real conflict, imagination, and just all around a good read.

This book is available on Amazon.com for your Kindle. It is set at a price of $1.99. This is a reasonable price, but for an anthology that doesn't break 20,000 words, I'm not sure I would want to pay that much. Don't get me wrong, it is worth the price, but I've already read it to know that. So while it may seem high, I think you should take the chance.

Overall, the only real pitfall to this anthology is the price. Jennifer Campbell-Hicks is a great story teller. The stories combine a lot of fun elements for a great read.

The summary:

Snake Oil: And Other Tales of the Weird West

By Jennifer Campbell-Hicks

Published October 1, 2012

ASIN B009KET512

Available on Kindle at: Amazon.com

US: www.amazon.com/dp/B009KET512

UK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B009KET512

My ratings:

Prose: Excellent

Characters: Excellent

Story: Excellent

Value: Okay

Overall: Excellent

This is a good collection for the steampunk or weird west fan. Don't let the $1.99 price point scare you, you will enjoy it and read it again and again.

#  The Whitman Inn

# By Matthew Wuertz

# Art By: Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Dave followed the stagecoach route through the woods of southern Indiana, his heart still thundering in his chest. The cool, autumn air buzzed with the sound of cicadas and crickets while twilight set in around him. He felt certain he was alive, which meant that his device had unexpectedly worked.

He pulled out his cell phone to check the time and quickly realized his foolishness. "No service here," he said to himself with a laugh, hoping it would ease his nerves.

When darkness came, Dave second-guessed everything. He didn't know that much about the nineteenth century, at least not as the particulars went. What kinds of animals dwelt in the forest? Were there still Indian tribes in the state, and if so, were they friendly or hostile?

Dave hadn't told anyone he was going, not that he had many people to tell. He was thirty-one and divorced with no children. Work had laid him off a month ago in order to "weather the storms of change," or some such nonsense that his manager had echoed from the executive team. As for his friends, they might notice his absence after a month or two of no-shows to game night, but he wasn't sure they'd be bothered enough to look for him.

The road bent and sloped downhill. Dave saw the dim lights of a house about a half-mile away. That had to be it, he thought. He was a little disoriented because of the difference of the landscape from his time, but he couldn't think of another structure that would be along the road so close to his point of origin.

He heard voices as he drew closer, at least one man and woman. When the man laughed, it drew Dave almost as strongly as the space-time anomaly that had pulled him into the past.

The two-story wood home revealed little of its architecture in the dark, other than a long porch that groaned as he stepped onto it. Near the front door, he peered through a square window, discovering a quaint parlor filled with a couch and chairs.

Before Dave could knock, the door swung open. He faced a slightly taller man with wrinkles and graying hair, but there was such merriment in his eyes that he seemed ageless. "Good evening, sir," the man said. "How may I be of service to you?"

Dave dipped his head. "Is this the Whitman Estate? I heard you had an inn here."

"Yes, sir. I'm John Whitman, and we do host guests on occasion. Do you require lodging? I daresay that you won't find much hospitality either north or south for at least thirty miles."

He looked past Dave for a moment. "Did the lantern go out on your coach?"

"What? Oh, I didn't travel by coach. I walked here."

Mr. Whitman laughed infectiously. "Walked here? From where?"

"I only walked about a mile, but I've traveled much farther than that." He took a breath. "I'm from the twenty-first century."

The older man smiled. "Yes? Well, come in." Pointing to Dave's bare, bony arms, he said, "You certainly dressed the part, though you must be a bit chilled from dashing about without a proper shirt or jacket."

"It was warmer where I came from."

Mr. Whitman led Dave to a round, oak table in the front room of the house. Kerosene lamps bathed the room in an orange glow. It reminded Dave of times in his childhood when thunderstorms would knock out the electricity, and his mom would light candles.

"I shall ask my wife to prepare some food," Mr. Whitman said. He walked towards a hallway off to the right and stopped abruptly. "Ah, forgive me, sir. I've forgotten my manners in all of the excitement of your arrival. What is your name?"

"Dave." When Mr. Whitman pressed his face forward and raised his eyebrows, Dave added, "Baumgarten."

"Ah, a nice German name. I shall return momentarily, Mr. Baumgarten."

Dave settled into one of the chairs, surprised at its comfort despite the lack of padding. This was simply ridiculous, he thought. He was actually sitting in the original Whitman Inn.

The wooden walls around him were barren, except for a painting of bucolic fields near a river. Dave recalled how the restored inn from his time displayed historical information along the wall, arranged beneath large captions to draw readers. "John Whitman," read one of the captions near the door, and Dave had read the article beneath it more than all the rest.

An uneasy feeling suddenly fell upon Dave when he considered that Mr. Whitman might contact the authorities (of some sort) to apprehend him on the charge of insanity. His suspicions increased when he unmistakably heard Mr. Whitman say, "From the future."

Dave rose as quietly as he could and approached the hallway. "No, the future as in hundreds of years from our present time," Mr. Whitman was saying..

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," a woman's voice answered.

Mr. Whitman laughed. "Don't you see? He's a play-actor here to entertain us. The lieutenant governor likely sent him here from Indianapolis."

"Oh, how fun!" she replied. "Can I tell him that I arrived from the past? I want to be from Elizabethan England."

"No, no, you mustn't ruin his show, Tabitha. It isn't a play if all the audience is on stage with the actors."

"Very well. I'll just be myself. That's enjoyment enough."

With brisk steps, Mr. Whitman crossed the hall before Dave could retreat. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Baumgarten. Mrs. Whitman will be along with some refreshments shortly." He handed Dave a wool overcoat. "This should warm you in the meantime."

"I appreciate that, Jo- I mean, Mr. Whitman."

The older man motioned to the table. As soon as they sat down, Mr. Whitman clapped his hands together. "So tell me, what is your trade in the twenty-first century?"

"I'm a software developer professionally and an inventor on the side." Dave had rattled off his one-liner so many times that he didn't even pause to think about what he'd just said.

"What are the job responsibilities of a software developer?" With a wink Mr. Whitman added, "Did I get that right?"

Dave tried to think how he could explain such a profession to a man in the past. "I build things that help businesses increase their profitability and efficiency. I try to automate manual processes."

Mr. Whitman laughed. "You sound like a politician."

Mrs. Whitman was a petite woman whose dark hair was streaked with gray. She bustled into the room carrying a tray of food that Dave thought was too big for her, but she set it on the table without commotion. "Here we are," she said.

Sliced, dense bread and a multi-colored cheese lay spread on the tray with a trio of yellow apples on one side. Dave took an apple and wiped it on his jeans. "Thank you," he remembered to say before biting into it.

"You're welcome, dear." Looking to her husband, she asked, "Shall we not say grace?"

"Oh, yes," Dave said sheepishly. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. He was certain he felt their gazes upon him, but he wasn't about to say a word. It wasn't that he didn't know how to pray, but he'd left his Christian upbringing behind when he'd left home for college, realizing that he simply didn't have an interest in church.

"Heavenly Father, we thank you for our guest tonight," Mr. Whitman prayed. "We ask for Your blessing upon our conversation and this food. Amen."

When Dave opened his eyes, Mr. Whitman waved a hand towards him. "Mr. Baumgarten was just telling me about his business as a software developer and an inventor."

"Oh, an inventor?" she asked. "What have you invented?"

Dave blushed. "Well, nothing, really. I guess I'm more of a hack. I tinker with ideas people already had. That's how I was able to come back to this time. The patent expired on the original invention, so it fell into the public domain."

"Well, even duplicating another's efforts can be quite a challenge," Mr. Whitman said. "You should be proud of yourself. After all, we haven't met anyone else from the future, so perhaps you are the only one to figure out how to make the invention function correctly."

Dave set the half eaten apple back on the tray. "Everyone's thinking too broad. They keep trying to make a device that can work on a large scale, like ships, planes or spacecraft. I was able to take a much simpler approach, a single-person device that integrates with a cell phone."

"Listen to all those inventive words," Mr. Whitman said. "I must say, you've got my mind racing."

With a grin, Dave unclipped the cell phone from his belt and flipped it open. "I know you think I'm an actor, but maybe this will convince you otherwise." He held the phone out to Mr. Whitman.

The screen illuminated the deeper wrinkles in the man's face as he carefully examined the phone. "I don't understand what this is," Mr. Whitman said, "but I know it isn't an actor's prop."

"Its basic use is to call someone in a different location," Dave explained. "The sound of a person's voice is sent from one phone to another. You could instantly speak with someone else anywhere in the world."

Mr. Whitman handed the phone back and brushed his hands on the front of his shirt. "Did you not fear the repercussions of such a visit?" he asked. "Our time was undisturbed once. Now, your influence, however minute, is impressed upon us."

Dave shook his head. "You're thinking about time all wrong. Moving from one time to another is like taking a trip from here to New York City. No one worries about changing New York City in the present, but it is no different than changing New York City in the past. The only difference is that from a time perspective, you've _already_ gone there."

"I think I understand what he's saying, dear," Mrs. Whitman said. "Our home in 1840 is a place that Mr. Baumgarten chose to visit. He might have wandered in from Indianapolis within our own time period, or he might have arrived from a future location. Regardless, from God's eyes, he came to visit us this night. That is the only history this night and place will ever know."

"Yes, that's a good way to look at it," Dave said.

Mr. Whitman folded his hands. "Why have you come here, Mr. Baumgarten?"

"Things haven't been going well for me lately." He smiled bleakly. "Actually, things are a mess. I was at a loss for what to do.

"I visited my hometown. I really don't know why I went. My parents are both dead; Mom died last year. This isn't how it's supposed to be for someone in their early thirties. It's like I'm an orphan with only casual acquaintances with the rest of my family.

"Then I started tinkering with this device, but I thought that even if I were able to cause an anomaly, it would likely rip my body to shreds. Honestly, I was hoping it would.

"Some people might have chosen something simple for a test, like going back a few minutes in time, but I thought of my test run like a wish. If I could go anywhere, where did I want to go? That's when I remembered all the trips I'd taken to Whitman State Park as a kid."

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Mr. Whitman said.

"About thirty years from now, this town will be abandoned. Historians aren't sure if it was due to a changing marketplace, or maybe because the stagecoach lines lost favor to the expanding railways. Regardless, Millersburg literally drops off the map and is forgotten.

"Sometime in the 1920's, people from my hometown push for this area to become a national park to draw in tourists. While they're setting up roads and mapping the area, they come across a number of the original buildings of Millersburg. I can't imagine how exciting that must have been."

Dave stretched out his arms. "This room was all they found of the inn, and it was almost in disrepair, but they were able to rebuild from the foundation. From what I've seen so far, they put together the puzzle of how this place looked pretty well."

"So our home is to become a museum?" Mrs. Whitman asked, her eyes turning away. "What about our children? This was to be their legacy," she whispered.

"Perhaps you shouldn't speak anything more of this," Mr. Whitman suggested. "You're upsetting my wife."

Dave's face fell. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Whitman," he said. "Your children are fine. In fact, they're part of the reason I came here. You see, my mother's maiden name was Whitman."

Mr. Whitman smiled. "So we're your ancestors."

"That sounds so distant," Dave said. "You're more like the grandparents I never had."

"Well, now that you're here, what would you like to do?" Mrs. Whitman asked.

Dave rolled a second apple around in his hands. "Do you know what a tourist is?" he asked.

"A traveler," Mr. Whitman said. He raised his eyebrows. "You, for example."

"In my time, it's common for people to take trips all over the world, exploring new places, new sites. Imagine if people could travel here and stay at the original Whitman Inn. People would pay me well for such an opportunity. And I could compensate you generously, of course." A couple of shiny nickels from the extraordinary profit ought to do it, Dave thought.

"I thought your device only worked for one person," Mr. Whitman said.

"I think I could bring back two or three people at a time, and that would be plenty. Unless you wanted to build more rooms. Oh, but you never did that, so never mind."

"If you know what I've already done, then you must already know my answer," Mr. Whitman said.

"Well, I don't. I found no record of my coming here. That's part of the reason I thought the device would fail. All I know is that you've entertained a variety of guests over the years, so why not host some people from my time?"

Mr. Whitman frowned. "I don't think I want those kinds of guests here. You're more than welcome to stay with us, though. You are a bright, young man. We could use your help with bookkeeping, and an extra hand at the mill would be welcome. Maybe you can use your skills as a software developer to make us more efficient."

"But we'd be passing up a fortune," Dave argued. "That's the kind of change I've been looking for."

"We are already quite fortunate," Mr. Whitman said. "You say you're looking for change, and I'm offering that to you."

Dave didn't answer.

"Why not sleep on it?" Mrs. Whitman asked. "I was about to make up the spare room."

The younger man stood up. "I think I need to get back. This is all a bit of a jumble for me and not really what I expected. I could probably come up with a better plan for the tourism thing if you think you might change your mind. That idea just came to me a few moments ago."

Dave tried to hand the overcoat back, but Mr. Whitman refused to take it. "I wouldn't want you to catch cold before you get back."

Mr. Whitman walked Dave to the door, keeping his hand on Dave's shoulder. Dave felt a bit awkward from the gesture, the closest thing to a hug he had felt from another man since he was a kid. "I hope to see you again soon, Dave," Mr. Whitman told him. "Don't forget that you have family here. Even if you can't live with us, we would appreciate a visit every now and again."

Dave looked the man in the eyes briefly, judging the sincerity of the statement. "Thank you."

When the door had closed behind their guest, Mrs. Whitman came to stand beside her husband. She leaned against him, and he kissed her forehead. "The Whitman's have a good line, wouldn't you agree?"

"We do," she said.

A light rapping drew their attention back to the door. Mr. Whitman opened it tentatively.

Dave stood on the stoop, but his face was lightly bearded, and he carried a large bag. Instead of jeans and sneakers, he wore dull brown trousers and hard shoes beneath Mr. Whitman's overcoat. "I heard you could use a hand at the mill," he said with a broad smile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Matthew Wuertz develops software in addition to developing fiction. His stories have appeared in several magazines, including _Abyss & Apex_ and _Heroic Fantasy Quarterly_. Matthew lives in Indianapolis, Indiana with his wife and three children. To learn more about Matthew, please visit his blog: http://matthewwuertz.blogspot.com/.

ABOUT THE ARTIST:

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist. Her art is also globally exhibited and has been featured on ABC television.

#  Sensory Overload

# By Julie Frost

"You have got to be kidding me."

"Trust me, it wasn't my idea." Jenna, my immediate supervisor at Watchdogs, Inc., leaned on the wall in her office and crossed her arms, glaring at me.

"I do security work, not babysitting," I said, crossing my own arms and glaring right back.

"After that last disaster, you're lucky you still have a job, Fitz." She shook her head. "The big bosses wanted you specifically for this one."

Blaming me for my principal getting shot when they wouldn't even let me carry a weapon seemed unfair. At least he hadn't been killed, and I'd taken out the people ("things" would have been a better word, everything considered) that were after him with my bare hands, almost dying myself in the process. I called that a win, but I guess people in high places were still pissed. Now they were sending me off on another job where I couldn't carry a lethal weapon. "Easing me back in," my ass. Maybe someone had told them about the nights I still woke up screaming.

But work was work. Even though tagging along behind a little team of artsy-fartsy types while they analyzed the culture of our new alien friends wasn't exactly my idea of a rip-roaring good time, I still had to eat. Paying off the sensory enhancements, which I credited for saving my life during the cluster-foxtrot my previous assignment had turned into, would be a bonus.

"How's your implant?" Jenna asked. She seemed genuinely concerned, but the big bosses had probably sent her fishing for information about the chip that kept my brain from ODing on input that the humans weren't really designed to receive. I'd heard rumbles that they blamed the enhancements for the screwup.

"It's fine, for God's sake," I said with some irritation. "I'd be dead if I didn't have them, and so would that Mears dude. I saw their heat signatures before I saw the actual bad guys. Tell the big bosses _that_."

"Okay, okay. Look," she said, "just go down and enjoy the pretty pictures, okay? There's nothing dodgy about our hosts or the job; the bosses want to get you started on something easy your first shot out of the box after the last fubar."

"So, what's my function? If there's nothing dodgy and I can't carry a weapon, why bother sending me?" I was still grouchy.

"You've got those manly muscles, and you're not stupid. Bad things can happen even when no one intends them to." She shrugged. "Not for us to question why; we just go where we're paid to."

That was so. I didn't have to be happy about it. "Yeah, I've seen pix of these critters. My so-called muscles aren't gonna be much use against them."

"Fitz..."

"Fine." I grunted. "Yay, artwork." I hoped I'd be able to stay awake.

~

I got stuck on a shuttle with two kids—PhD wannabes, according to their files—and a professor. Daniel, the male student, and Stepanov, the female prof, looked me up and down once and then ignored me. I was furniture to them, and that was fine. We humans were still tiptoeing around alien species; very much the new kid on the intergalactic block, we didn't want to ruffle any feathers. Or tentacles, in this case. This was our first cultural expedition to the planet Mahndinia, and it needed to go smoothly, though the government mucky-mucks had looked each other over and decided we could get along.

I stifled an eyeroll as the girl student came over and sat beside me. There was one in every crowd. This one had her mouse-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she hadn't sprung for the surgery that would have made her glasses unnecessary. "Sorry about them," she said, jerking her chin toward her colleagues. "They can be almighty snobbish at times." She had a soft drawl that she hadn't acquired in this sector. She stuck her hand out. "I'm Meredith. My friends call me Merry."

"Fitz," I answered, engulfing her tiny hand in my huge one and feeling suddenly awkward. "You, uh, ever been on one of these art things before?"

"I did my Master's thesis on hidden imagery in the Gwifaldian sculptures." She shrugged, but I could tell that her casual disinterest was hiding a case of the wibbles—her scent, soap and jasmine shampoo, got slightly stronger, while her cheeks were flaming red to my thermovision. "This is the first time I've been one of the _first_ , though."

"That's something I don't get," I said. "Why send down a couple of students and a professor for the very first cultural expedition? You'd think they'd want people more...experienced?"

"Maybe they want fresh eyes on it." She grinned. "I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth."

"Well, I'm just supposed to hang back and make sure nothing bad happens." To either the art students or the Mahndinese. I reflexively checked my stunner. "Not much for the museum scene, myself." Other than nose art on interstellar fighters, I'd never really been interested in paintings.

"We might be able to find something you like in this one." She smiled. "The Mahndinese used to be a warrior race before they found enlightenment."

_And turned into a bunch of wimps_ , was my unspoken thought, but I wasn't going to say it out loud. The fact that they were a peaceful race now was lucky for us; their technology far outstripped ours.

"It'll be fascinating to see how their art has evolved since they quit fighting each other." Merry waved her hand at her compatriots. "Daniel, the other student?" Daniel had a pony-tailed mohawk and a goatee, which meant he looked exactly like I thought an art student should look. "He's a conspiracy theorist; he doesn't believe they've actually gone peaceful at all. It'll be nice to be able to rub his nose in the artwork." She leaned over and whispered, "I got a sneak peek at some of it. It's amazing."

I didn't know what could be "amazing" about art done by creatures who bore so little resemblance to us humans, but I guessed I was going to find out. The shuttle slowed and shook a little as it came in for a landing.

Before we touched down, Stepanov gave a little shriek. "What are you doing with _that_?" she asked, pointing at my stunner.

I looked at her like she was an idiot, which, to my mind, she was. "I'm a security guard. It's a little extra security."

"Good god, leave it here. We can't offend the Mahndinese by going to their museum armed to the teeth."

Great, she was one of those. But she was also the boss. Reluctantly, I took it off and set it on my seat, shaking my head and hoping I wouldn't need it. The Mahndinese were supposed to be peaceful, but I'd only believe it when I saw it.

We landed, and I let the others go out first. A representative from the museum met us at the bottom of the ramp. I hadn't realized the things would be so big—its bulbous body towered a good half-meter over my two-meter-tall frame. The Mahndinese had tentacles everywhere; they used four for locomotion, five more as arms and hands, and a few smaller ones scattered around their bodies for...I didn't want to think about what. Their three eyes were at the tips of flexible stalks with a trio of tentacles above each of them that served as eyebrows. This one smelled like a combination of seaweed and rotting strawberries. It kind of creeped me out, but then, I'm the type that avoids eating calamari.

The Mahndin observed us for a moment, waving its tentacles in a complicated dance while purple highlights flashed off and on in the folds of its olive-green, hairless skin. The harness it wore jingled as it spun around and rumbled, "Follow me, please," through a lipless slash of a mouth.

"Isn't she fabulous?" Merry whispered to me as it ushered us toward a conveyance on a rail in the street.

Daniel shot her a dirty look and muttered something about "consorting with Neanderthal Philistines," so I shot him a dirty look in turn. He hadn't meant me to hear him, and he turned red and walked a little faster.

"How can you tell it's a she?" I asked.

"The harness," Merry said as we got into the car. "They don't have secondary sexual characteristics like we do, and even without the harnesses they can tell each other apart, but the arrangements of the buckles and decorations are unique to the sexes."

She started to sit next to me, but the prof, frowning, drew her aside and had a low conference with her. I caught "not supposed to make _friends_ with him" and "reminds me of my brother" before Merry pulled away and sat beside me anyway, shaking her head. "Elitist prigs," she mumbled.

"Hey, if you're gonna get in trouble..."

She waved her hand. "I'm a scholarship kid that worked my ass off to get here. They can go whistle for it." That explained the glasses, anyway. "And Professor Stepanov didn't pick me; the committee did. She's lucky the committee picked her, in fact."

I was finding Merry kind of fetching, after my initial annoyance with her had faded. She was a lot more like a real person than I'd expected her to be. Maybe she'd go for a drink—

I squashed that thought flat. The ivory towers of academia and the low-down dirt of security work had no truck with each other except in situations like this. Wouldn't be fair to bring her into my world, and I wasn't smart enough to be in hers. This was a job. Plain and simple. No socializing with the natives.

We stopped in front of a slug-colored building made of some kind of unnaturally smooth aggregate, and the Mahndin took us through a door too tall for humans and into an echoing chamber, before handing—tentacling?—us off to a colleague and leaving with another complicated wave of her limbs.

"I am Nomalli, the director of the museum," the new Mahndin said. It was practically identical to the other one, except for its harness and its smell, which was more like seaweed and rotting meat; I assumed it was male. I sure couldn't tell from the voice. "I trust your journey was pleasant?"

"Pleasant enough," Professor Stepanov said, glancing down her nose towards me. "Thank you for letting us see your museum on such short notice."

"It was, as you say, no problem," Nomalli said. We exchanged introductions, and he blinked at me and twitched his eyestalks before escorting us onwards. "The museum begins in the center," he said while we walked, "and goes outward in a spiral, starting with our most primitive works and ending with our most modern, and encompassing painting, sculpture, holos, and...other forms." He let out a wet cough, rolled his tongue out, and examined what was on it by dipping one eyestalk down before popping it back into his mouth. His tongue had suckers on the bottom of it. I shuddered.

Nomalli led us into the first chamber and gestured around. "These are ancient paintings on the walls of sea caverns. The original cave walls were excavated and brought here..."

His voice faded to a drone as I tuned him out. I wasn't here for an art lecture, I was here to make sure nothing untoward happened to my charges.

Not that there was much chance of that. They'd shut down the museum for us, and the paintings and sculptures and things were no threat. The only problem I was going to have was staying awake.

At least, that's what I thought until something skittered across the corner of my vision.

When I turned my head to look directly at it, nothing was there. However, I could have sworn that it was about knee-high, shaped a lot like our hosts, and holding some sort of staff.

Nomalli didn't act like he'd seen anything unusual, and neither did anyone else. I almost thought I was imagining things, until I saw it again as we left the room. It leaned on the staff for a few moments, and then blipped out of existence. This time I saw it for long enough that I could tell it was registering with my infrared detectors, but none of my other senses. A twinge of pain nipped me between my eyes.

I remembered Nomalli's remark about "other forms" of art and thought this must be one. Resolving to pay better attention, I looked around the next chamber with more interest. This one held ancient, simple sculptures carved from wood and molded from clay. Most of them were obviously creatures native to this world, but some of them were aliens we'd encountered in other places, and a few were unrecognizable.

Daniel asked about them, and Nomalli managed to convey a shrug. "No one knows," he said. "They may be alien life forms from long ago, or they may be representations of the old gods. Our ancestors didn't leave a written record behind; all we have is their art."

More infrared beasties populated this room. Some of them were Mahndinese, and some of them were other aliens. They warred with one another, enacting scenes of violence and bloodshed that no one but me, apparently, could see.

All but one. It stood there, observing, holding a staff, its tentacles drooping. I wanted to ask Nomalli about it, but I was furniture and not supposed to get involved, so I kept my mouth shut—and my eyes open. The twinge of pain worsened, and I rubbed my forehead.

Room by room, the art became more elaborate. Wood and clay sculptures gave way to stone, bronze, and holographs. The paintings had complex colors out of the spectrum of normal human vision. Abstracts became prominent, although they didn't dominate. Some of them were in colors that made my stomach queasy, and a few looked...not quite abstract, although I couldn't make out what they really were, and the hairs on my arms stood on end when I looked at them. I wished that Merry had the same enhancements I did, because she'd enjoy this tour a lot more. She was enthralled enough anyway, but she didn't even know what she was missing.

Most of the works depicted scenes of war. Even the subjects of ordinary portraits were armed to their pointy teeth, and the children had weapons as well. Images of quiet home life were practically nonexistent. And the Mahndin with the staff was in every room. He got slightly bigger each time, and I noticed that he had three extra tentacles over each eye. All he did was watch.

The next-to-last exhibit held a huge painting portraying an epic battle in a civil war that had taken place on land, sea, and in space. This work combined the mediums of stationary paint and the moving infrared creatures, which played out their scenes and then snapped back to their original places to start over again.

The painting beside it showed the aftermath. Wrecked boats, vehicles, spaceships, and bodies were strewn about a harsh and blasted landscape, and the infrared Mahndinese were nowhere to be seen. However, in the upper part of the painting, the Mahndin with the staff was outlined in ultraviolet paint. Even though our species were vastly different, he had been drawn in such a way that I felt the crushing weight of his sorrow, and I wondered if he was supposed to be some sort of religious figure. The three extra eye tentacles reinforced this impression. The pain in my head became a definite ache.

Of course, I didn't know if the Mahndinese even had a religion. Most species did, interestingly enough—and a lot of them were pretty similar. "Who's that in the top part of the painting?" I blurted. "I keep seeing him."

Professor Stepanov shot me a withering look, curling her lip. "There's no one in the top part of that painting. Please excuse our _security guard_ ," she said to Nomalli. "He seems to have forgotten his station."

"It's quite all right," Nomalli answered. "Some of our pieces have an...interesting effect on certain of our visitors." He gestured around the room at the rest of the art. "These works represent our last, and hopefully final, civil war, a scant fifty cycles ago. We nearly destroyed ourselves as a species, and we are still rebuilding. Coming to the conclusion that wars were unhealthy for us wasn't much of a leap in logic. We have applied ourselves to peaceful pursuits ever since, as you will see in our concluding exhibit."

As Nomalli led us onward, Merry hung back and touched me on the arm. "Are you all right? Stepanov was pretty nasty."

"Like I care what someone like her says." I rolled my eyes.

"What did you see?"

"Eh, nothing." I rubbed my forehead again. "Trick of the light, probably."

"If you're sure..." She was concerned, and it was cute.

"Positive. Look, here we are in the crowning glory of the Mahndinese culture." I smiled through my headache. "Don't worry about me; go examine your stuff."

Nomalli droned on about turning the weapons of war to peaceful purposes and coming together for the good of all Mahndinese, and I tuned him out again. The art in this room was a huge leap in both beauty and execution above anything we'd seen before. The colors in the paintings, the textures of the sculptures, the clarity of design, with everything lit just so, all combined to nearly dazzle me. They'd really knocked themselves out to put this together.

As one of Nomalli's eyes swivelled on its stalk to follow me, I stepped closer to a painting showing an underwater city. Something was off. On the surface, the picture was a happy scene of Mahndinese going about their daily lives in pursuit of whatever it was they pursued. And yet...

The artist had used colors outside normal human spectrums to show something completely different. Everyone in the painting was actually dead, killed in some awful way. Tentacles ripped off, bodies eviscerated, heads cleaved in half—this was not a pretty picture.

Everything else in the room was the same. A pastoral holo of a farmer plowing a field wasn't so pastoral when I realized that he was plowing bodies. Children weren't playing in that statue over there, they were killing each other and using eyeballs and body parts as missiles.

The centerpiece of the room was a life-sized infrared depicting the ghostly Mahndin with the extra eye tentacles. He was nailed to a board, and his skin was bruised, scraped, and cut. Surrounded by Mahndinese who were jeering and pelting him with stuff, his expression was one of long-suffering and, somehow, contentment. The infrared scene ended with him dying before it started up again from the beginning.

Peaceful purposes, my ass. And I was the only one who could see it. The ache in my head had turned into a definite thumping.

Nomalli was winding down. An assistant came in, carrying a painting. "Please allow us to present you with this gift of goodwill," Nomalli said. "We commissioned one of our finest artists to paint this in anticipation of your arrival. I hope our species can come together in the interests of all sentient beings. Outward appearances to the contrary, I think you have found, through our art, that we're not so different from one another."

"I'll say," I muttered, eyeing the painting. It portrayed a group of Mahndinese and a group of humans, seemingly coming to some sort of agreement over a table. Closer examination proved that the leader of the humans had her throat sliced open, and the rest of them were wearing chains.

The others had no idea what was really in that painting. Merry bounced with excitement. Daniel appeared to still be slightly skeptical, but looked like he was more than halfway sold. That guy would never make it in security work; he wasn't nearly suspicious enough if his conspiracy theories could be allayed by a simple present.

Stepanov's expression was smug. "Thank you for the lovely gift," she said. "I'll convey your message to our leaders. I'm sure we can come to an accord that will be beneficial to both our peoples."

God, I wanted to throw up, and not just because my head was pounding. I decided to play the part of the bored security guard, and rolled my eyes. "Are we done? Can we go now?"

Stepanov muttered " _nekulturny_ Cro-Magnon" and gathered Merry and Daniel in her wake. I followed, with my headache fading as we left the museum. My write-up was going to be really interesting.

~

Jenna shook her head. I stood in her office, facing her across her desk. "I can't possibly file this report, Fitz. The higher-ups would crucify me."

"Better than having our entire species wiped out by big ol' treacherous squids."

"Lots of people have examined the painting they gave us. None of them have seen what you say you did in this ridiculous report." She pushed it back across the desk at me. "Fix it. Or I'm not responsible for what happens to your job."

"The enhancements—"

"Experts with the same enhancements as you looked at the painting. In fact, Stepanov has the same enhancements you do. They're not seeing it." She sighed. "Either your chip is malfunctioning, or something else is going on with you, Fitz. Do I need to send you back to the shrinks?"

A sliver of self-doubt nibbled at me. I was positive I'd seen all that stuff, but...maybe I'd merited Stepanov's glare when I asked about the ghost in the corner of that one painting. I'd just thought she couldn't see it; but that an art professor was enhanced was pretty logical. I grasped a final straw. "Can I see the painting they sent back with us again?"

Jenna pursed her lips. "Honestly, Fitz, the only reason I've indulged you this far is because I feel bad about how the last job went." She ran her hand through her short-cropped hair. "But if you do, and it's fine, will you modify this damned report?"

Her conditions for seeing the painting made me uneasy, but I _needed_ to look at it one more time, if only to convince myself that I wasn't going crazy. "Fine."

Somehow, she managed to get us in to see it that day. It stood on an easel, in its own naturally-lit room, and I stared at it helplessly. She planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head. "Well?"

Well.

But...

_Crap_.

"Jenna, I swear—" But it was no good. The hidden images in the painting were gone. If they'd ever been there at all. My shoulders slumped, and I shook my head in defeat. "Yeah, okay."

~

Sleeping was never easy for me in any case, so when the door to my quarters opened late that night, I woke up with my hand on the blaster under my pillow. Before I could bring it to bear on whatever had invaded my room, one of those damned Mahndin squids leaped in and landed on my chest.

The thing was incredibly fast and even bigger than the ones I'd previously met, and it wrapped tentacles around my arms and legs, holding me immobile. Another tentacle wrapped around my throat, and still another shoved its way into my mouth and down my gullet.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I gagged, trying unsuccessfully to bite down, but my jaw didn't have enough leverage. The Mahndin tasted like day-old fish left in the sun.

I'd learned their secret, and now I was going to die for it. My last thought was that maybe Jenna would believe me now—

And I came truly awake, gasping, sitting up in my bed in a cold sweat. I barely made it to my bathroom in time to vomit into the recycler.

I didn't fall asleep for the rest of the night.

~

Merry requested me specifically when she went back to Mahndinia to have a closer look at the artwork the next day. I grudgingly accepted, torn between wanting to know if I'd been seeing things that weren't there—and never wanting to go back. The nightmare still haunted me.

She sat on the floor in the very last room, taking notes and making sketches, while I prowled around like a caged and hungry bear. The works that had featured extra, hidden elements were missing those elements, and the niggling doubt about my first impressions exploded into full-blown wondering if I _was_ crazy. And the headache was back.

Except...the centerpiece was still there, in the middle of the room, and Merry couldn't see it. And I had no way to bring it to her attention. "Hey, Merry, have a peek at the invisible artwork. Isn't it interesting?" Yeah, that'd go over real well.

I wandered around the infrared, looking at it from every angle. It was roped off, and probably alarmed, so I couldn't get as close to it as I wanted. For a piece of artwork made of heat, it was amazingly lifelike and heartbreaking. I felt bad for the Mahndin nailed to the board; he seemed so resigned to his fate that I wanted to reach in there and save him myself.

Merry noticed me circling the ropes. "Fitz? What are you doing?"

"Oh. Um. Nothing." I shrugged, elaborately casual.

"I'm sorry." Her expression was contrite. "You must be awfully bored here with nothing to do but wait for me."

"Nah, it's fine." I gave her a grin and sat beside her. "Would rather be bored than otherwise. Especially since they still won't let me bring weapons in here."

She swatted me playfully. "Peaceful people, now, remember?"

"Yeah, I guess so." But the infrared sculpture in the center of the room gave the lie to that.

~

"You will not stop us."

The infrasonic voice echoed in my head. I'd gone to sleep not long ago, and my room was completely black. Not a glimmer helped my enhanced vision pierce the darkness, but it felt as though the room was spinning around—possibly as a result of the infrasound, which'd had that effect before.

"Your race will be subjugated, like others before. One more in a long line of conquests."

"I saw—"

"You saw what we allowed you to see, no more or less."

"I'll tell my boss," I croaked.

"She won't believe you. And this is your burden, and your nightmare. To tell, and be thought insane, and possibly institutionalized—or to not tell, and live with the knowledge that you may have prevented it somehow."

"Why me?" My anguished cry echoed around the room.

"You are a test subject. Nothing more. Be grateful we aren't testing you more thoroughly." A flash of light gleamed off a wickedly sharp surgical instrument before winking out.

I twitched awake in a cold sweat, with a scream clawing from my throat behind clenched teeth.

~

The next time Merry took me down, the centerpiece was gone, replaced by a combination solid- and holo-sculpture that nearly took my breath away with its beauty. Whatever you wanted to say about the Mahndinese, I had to admit they could do art that even I could appreciate, even if I couldn't quantify why it was so pretty. It just...was. And I didn't even know what it represented; it was just this huge abstract _thing_. Pain bloomed behind my eyes again, but I was starting to get used to it—maybe even welcome it.

"D'you mind if I poke through the other exhibits?" I asked Merry.

"Oh, go right ahead." She waved her hand. "The only reason I'm inflicting this on you in the first place is because the officials insist. What's going to happen to me in an art museum?"

I could imagine plenty of things, but she was only a scream away if she needed me. I wasn't planning on going far.

Just into the previous room, in fact. I wanted to see if the ghostly extra-tentacled Mahndin was still in the aftermath painting.

He wasn't.

And now I definitely thought the whole thing might be a figment of my imagination. I was getting really tired of whoever it was playing peek-a-boo with me.

If they were. I sighed. Maybe the infrared sculpture had been put in the wrong room by mistake. Maybe the Mahndinese were as kindhearted as they wanted us to believe. Maybe I hadn't really seen what I'd thought in the gift painting. Maybe I was projecting—security work on the rougher edge of the universe had turned me into a suspicious bastard, expecting violence at every turn. Maybe Jenna was right and I had cracked, seeing things that didn't exist and attributing nasty motives to a peaceful people.

Maybe I did need to go visit the shrinks.

I hadn't seen a single weapon any of the times I'd come down to the planet, after all. The museum security guards weren't armed, and the Mahndinese thronging the street in front of the museum didn't have so much as a knife on them.

This job had me imagining things. Ghosts. Because, really, who made infrared sculptures? Yeah. No maybes about it; I _did_ need to visit the shrinks.

~

Delayed-onset post-traumatic stress, they said. They fiddled with the interface chip for my enhancements, made faces, and booked me on the next ship home to Earth.

I sat in the passenger waiting lounge, listening to music and zoning out on prescribed happy pills. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and there stood Merry with a shaky smile on her face. "Fitz, I heard you were leaving us." She shifted her weight back and forth, and I got the impression that she didn't want me to go. "You'll never guess. The Mahndinese sent you a special present."

A jolt of unease shivered down my spine. "What sort of present?"

She handed me a small abstract painting. "This. They said the artist painted it just for you. Isn't it fabulous?"

The paint swirled over the canvas in a riot of color. Shades that humans were never meant to detect coiled across it, drawing my eye towards the center, where a tiny, ghostly image of the extra-tentacled Mahndin resided. The headache returned, and I greeted it like an old friend.

The picture was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I was stunned. How in the world could I ever have thought that the Mahndinese wanted to harm us? Something in the back of my brain screamed a warning, but I shoved it aside. My subconscious had gotten me into enough trouble already.

The Mahndinese were conquerors, yes, and heroes. They would do what was best for all of us. I could see that now.

And I continued to believe it at home in the hospital, staring at my painting—even when their warships filled the sky over Earth, and ultraviolet and infrared beams lanced down, incinerating people and buildings.

Creating another kind of Mahndinese masterpiece.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Julie Frost lives in the beautiful Salt Lake Valley with her husband, her son, her dog, and her cat. When not writing, she enjoys birdwatching, photography, and going to science fiction conventions. You can follow her on Livejournal at http://agilebrit.livejournal.com/

#

# 

# Book Review

# Danger Close

From the author's website:

" _Two CIA operatives. Two BlackWater mercenaries. One mission. Their target – a "re-education" facility nestled deep in the heart of Afghanistan. A place where Allied soldiers are tortured. Brainwashed. Converted._

The mission: infiltrate the facility; rescue any friendlies they find; reduce the "school" to rubble.

But not everything is what it seems. And on a mission like this, the unknown can kill."

Robert D. Marrion is a fiction writer living in Northern DC (www.robertdmarion.com). Robert has several works available now. This would be the first book of Robert's that I have read and is a prelude to a new series.

When I got my hands on this advanced reader copy, I was excited to read it. I have never had a chance to read a book prior to release, so I felt like I was getting something special here. It turns out I was in for a treat by reading this action packed thriller.

It is hard to summarize this story without giving too much away. But essentially we are following a CIA agent as he is trying to gather evidence to prove something, more to himself than anyone else. And we wind up following a wild ride that takes place both in "present day" and in past events.

The story is told really well, but the trick is to pay attention to the chapter headings. I rarely pay much attention to these, but in this novel they tell you the timeline you are reading in. So if you are like me, pay attention to those. It might have been better to have those in the first line of the chapter. But that is really the only fault I have, so I could just be a little nit-picky there.

The main character is Nick, and he is a very driven individual. I found him interesting, but really I wasn't very attached to him. The ancillary characters contributed to the story, but they are a bit under played. It would have been better to hear more about the contractors and even Clarissa.

The story is great, but I was a little put off by the opening. I was certain that Ben Kissinger would be our main character. So when we suddenly switch and start with Nick, I was a little confused. But, this all plays out in the end. Overall the story is told well, researched well, and believable in the modern day setting.

The book is currently available on Amazon.com. He has set the price at an ambitions $2.99. I just don't see the value there. A 99 cent price would be excellent and $1.99 would be good, but the length of this story makes $2.99 hard for me to justify. You can borrow it for free in the Amazon lending library.

Overall, It has inspired me to purchase Marion's other works. Robert is a story teller that the action thriller genre needs and I will looking for the rest of this series in the future.

The summary:

Danger Close

By Robert D. Marion

Published: January 26, 2013

ASIN: B00B6NE8SA

Available on Kindle at Amazon.com

US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00B6NE8SA/

My ratings:

Prose: Excellent

Characters: Okay

Story: Excellent

Value: Okay

Overall: Good

This is a great story for those looking for something fun to read that will keep you turning the pages. Just make sure you have the time to finish it, you won't want to put it down.

#  Nothing Altered

# By Beth Powers

# Art By: Richard H. Fay

"Can I help you, uh, um..." he floundered, grasping for the proper term with which to address me and my lack of feminine attire. His dark blue eyes held all of the confusion that his polite manner attempted to hide. Without sympathy, I watched him as I struggled to keep my own emotions from reaching my expression. It was hardly my fault that he didn't know what to do with a woman who refused to wear wasteful, not to mention cumbersome, extra folds of cloth wrapped around her lower half. Finally, the poor gentleman stumbled on to, "...ma'am?"

"Yes, sir." I had no such problem. As a warrior in the Prince's Legion, Duke Daevarren had to be addressed with the proper respect. "I heard that the Crown is now accepting commoners as candidates for the Legion. Is that true?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral with some effort.

Traditionally, the Prince's Legion consisted of an elite fighting force comprised of any sons from the landed gentry who had hopes of a military careers, as well as many who did not. The Legion's counterpart, the King's Army, was where commoners, voluntary or conscripted, fought for the realm. When the southern portion of the kingdom decided to stage a rebellion, the Crown became more desperate to obtain well-trained warriors for the Legion and began taking candidates regardless of their background. My information said that Duke Daevarren had been one of the more vocal nobles in favor of allowing commoners a chance to earn their colors in the Legion, which is why I had come to him with my request.

The duke nodded a confirmation, "That's right. We are," and leaned his elbows on his polished oak desk, lacing his fingers together in front of his chin. "Are you asking on behalf of a brother or a friend?" he suggested with polite interest.

Shaking my head, I told him, "No," and met his questioning blue eyes. "I thought maybe if the Crown was willing to take commoners, you'd be willing to take a commoner woman. I was asking for no one but myself," I added as a note of defiance leaked through my carefully controlled voice. I had always struggled with keeping my emotions in check. The combined efforts of my foster-mother and the community of scholars who raised me had failed to stamp my temper out entirely.

The duke's eyes, which had begun to wander over to the stack of parchment on his desk, snapped back to mine, once again giving me his attention. "Is this some kind of a joke, ma'am?" he bit out in icy politeness, "Because if it is..." trailing off as his eyes hardened to match his voice.

With a deep breath to douse my temper, I responded as calmly as I could, "No, sir, I want a chance to earn my colors. Would the Crown be willing to allow a woman to fight for it?"

"Absolutely not," he shook his head emphatically.

"Why?" I asked with all of the politeness I could muster. I touched my fingers lightly to the plain brass bracelet on the opposite wrist. Losing my temper had the nasty side effect of unleashing my magic. If I couldn't control my emotions, I couldn't control my power. The bracelet helped me to maintain a tight leash on the magic even if I was on the verge of losing my temper. The duke's answer wasn't entirely unexpected, but I wanted to hear the reason from him. I needed him to tell me to my face.

With a weary sigh, the duke ran his fingers through his dark hair and explained, "Women just aren't capable," he dropped his hand and looked up at me again, "not meant to be fighters. You'd only get hurt." His blue eyes were softened with kindness, and his words made me want to punch him in the face.

Resisting the urge and wrapping my fingers tightly around my bracelet, I persisted, "Are you sure you won't reconsider, sir?"

Shaking his head, the duke selected a piece of parchment off of the stack, and said in clear dismissal, "I'm sorry, ma'am, no."

My shoulders hunched in defeat as I turned away and crossed the small room to the door. The duke's refusal made me think that I should have carried out my original plan. Before I had come to the palace that morning, I had stood before the mirror, knife in hand. I had been fully prepared to create the greatest deception of my life. To wipe myself out of existence. To replace myself with someone else, someone acceptable, someone, to all appearances, male. With the knife in one hand, I had taken a hunk of my thick dark hair in the other. Glancing up, I met my own dark eyes in the mirror and froze. I couldn't do it. I couldn't lie to everyone. I couldn't lie to myself. I refused to be someone I was not. Tyna I was, and Tyna I would remain.

My hand rested on the doorknob to the duke's office, which I had pulled open a couple of inches. "No," I told him firmly. I would not let this man shut me out and make me ashamed of being who I was. At least, I wouldn't give up without a fight. Letting the door click back into place, I turned around. In a clear quiet voice, I announced, "I challenge you to a duel," adding calculatingly, "You have insulted my honor, and by your honor, you cannot refuse."

That caught his attention more completely than anything else I had said during the entire interview. He dropped the parchment from his hand and rose, asking, "Are you mad?" His eyebrows descended in concern, "Rescind your challenge," he advised as though trying to decide whether or not I was serious, "Someone could get hurt."

I would not be so easily deterred. "I cannot," I raised my chin stubbornly and insisted, "You have insulted me. I intend to redeem my honor and prove you wrong."

He studied me for a moment through narrowed eyes before gritting his teeth and agreeing, "Fine." Stepping around his desk, he continued briskly as though he wanted to get this ordeal over with as quickly as possible, "As the one being challenged, I say we fight as soon as I can find a reliable witness. With swords. If you don't have one—" he looked questioningly at me.

"I do," I supplied.

His eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Commoners weren't allowed to own or carry swords without special permission from the Crown. I doubted that the wording of the law included commoner women because it would not have occurred to the lawmakers that they would have reason to carry any weapon, much less a sword. Apparently, the duke decided it wasn't worth pursuing at the moment because he nodded and went on, "Good. I'll find a witness who can ensure that neither of us cheats with magic, unless you wish to exercise your right to choose an additional witness or a second?"

With a shake of my head, I waived the traditional right. It was easier than trying to explain that I knew no one who would serve in either capacity. I didn't think it was necessary to drag a stranger into this affair by soliciting the presence of the young soldier from the King's Army who had directed me from the stables to Duke Daevarren's office that morning. The soldier, whose name I didn't even know, was the only person besides the duke himself that I had met in the capital city. The duke's witness would have to suffice as apparently my opponent didn't want or need a second either.

"My squire can direct you to the practice yard, then," he finished, "Unless you've changed your mind..." the duke stopped, looking back at me, with the door open and his hand on the knob.

I brushed past him, "Absolutely not."

~

"Is my witness acceptable?" Duke Daevarren asked me with such a combination of patronization and annoyance in his tone that I thought he was merely humoring me with the formalities.

We stood in the middle of the practice yard where we had met after I had picked up my blade, and he his witness. I glanced over at the gentleman in question. His grey hair marked him as older than either of us but not so old that I thought he was leaning against the fencepost for support. Even from the distance, I could tell his clothing was expensive and well made, which meant that he was probably a noble.

It didn't really matter who he was as long as he kept his eyes open and his memory honest. It's not like I had anyone more suitable to suggest. The only people I truly trusted resided a few days ride north in a self-sufficient community based on a division of labor and devotion to scholarship. Turning back to the duke, I nodded, "He's fine."

With a return nod in my direction, the duke said formally, loud enough for his witness to hear, "Should you win, I will give you the chance to try to earn your colors, and if I win, you will drop this nonsense and go home."

"Agreed," I answered with equal formality.

The duke continued, "Fight to yield? I don't think either of us is willing to die for this."

I shrugged, "Fine by me."

"Good." He lowered his voice, "Last chance to back out."

"No way."

With a look indicating he had doubts with regard to my sanity, Duke Daevarren told me solemnly, "Very well, then, draw your blade." He put his words to action, drawing his own.

I removed my dark blade, which was several times older than I, from its embroidered sheath, which I tossed over by the fence at the edge of the practice yard. My foster-mother had never told me the story of my weapon, and I wasn't entirely sure she knew it herself. She had taught me how to use it, despite swearing that she was no noble. When I was younger, I'd concocted a romantic tale of how she'd learned swordsmanship from a warrior she'd fallen in love with during the rebellion. The fabricated tale involved much self-sacrifice and last-minute saving of lives. She'd evasively denied any such story but had also refused to replace it with the truth. If I won this duel, I would owe it to the basic training she'd given me. Returning to the center, I faced my opponent and stood at the ready. Once the duke had taken a similar stance, the witness called, "Begin!"

Duke Daevarren seemed unwilling to attack, apparently wanting me to make the first move. I obliged, sending my blade in a lazy arc at his side like I'd been taught. As I'd expected, the duke blocked it easily. I hadn't intended it to hit him. I just wanted to get his measure. He didn't return the attack—probably afraid he would hurt me.

At my second swing, the duke leaned back and slapped my blade aside with his own. Allowing my arm to be redirected, I cut in toward his knees, but his sword met mine instead. Picking up the pace, I swung toward his head, and he blocked me. Back to his side, but his blade was already there. Starting another cut toward his legs, I changed direction mid-swing and brought my sword straight up before it reached his block, ripping a straight line up the front of his shirt from naval to neck. To avoid damage to more than his tunic, he had to jump back, giving me a small measure of satisfaction.

Despite my minor victory, it had become clear to me that Duke Daevarren was the better swordsman. I was winded and straining to keep up the pace, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. His superior ability was made even clearer when he finally counterattacked. Before I had time to react, his blade flashed around mine, metal shrieked, and I watched my sword sail out of my hand to land in the dirt behind my opponent.

Instead of pressing his tremendous advantage, the duke leveled his sword in my direction and asked formally, "Do you yield?"

I hesitated. Yield and I would lose—the duel, my dream, myself. Yield and he would be right. I would become exactly what he had claimed me to be—not capable. I could not allow him to win. Too much was at stake. "Absolutely not." I punctuated my words by snapping a kick into the duke's side, causing the air to whoosh out of him as I danced back out of range before he could react.

He jerked to the side with the force of my blow and wheezed, "Are you crazy?" before taking a cautious step back.

Setting my jaw in determination, I told him, "I have yet to be placed in a position where I am compelled to yield, therefore I will not."

With a disbelieving shake of his head, the duke attacked. I gave ground to avoid being sliced to ribbons as his blade flashed in my direction. I had barely been able to hold my own before when he hadn't been attacking and I still had a weapon, now it was near impossible. If I was going to win this, it would have to be done quickly.

In desperation, I stepped forward, inside the duke's guard, as he stabbed at my midsection. As his blade slid past, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it. Snaking my arm underneath his and narrowly avoiding shaving a few inches of skin off of both of us, I pushed his arm toward him, forcing him to turn away from me or risk removing his shoulder from its socket. This motion allowed me to lock his sword arm behind his back with my left hand wrapped around it, and pluck his sword hilt from his unresisting grasp with my right. Shifting my grip, I reached around the duke and placed his own blade against his throat, asking, "Do you yield?"

Without only a moment's hesitation, Duke Daevarren growled in helpless frustration, "Yes."

Releasing him, I returned his blade, noting something akin to respect in his eyes, and went to fetch my own. While I was gone, the witness joined the duke, clapping him on the back. I could hear him say enthusiastically, "He's excellent, Daevarren, I don't know why you made him challenge you to a duel."

My mouth nearly dropped open when his words reached me. How could the duke not have told the gentleman why we were fighting? "Excuse me," I interrupted. If he hadn't figured it out for himself by the pitch of my voice or seeing me up close, and if the duke wasn't going to correct him, I would provide the necessary enlightenment. "Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Tyna, and I'm no 'he.'"

Eyes widening with surprise, the witness studied me for a moment before turning on the duke, "She? How could you let a woman talk you into this? Let her think of aspiring toward joining the Legion? Absolutely not."

"Hey!" I was forced to interrupt again since no one else seemed willing to acknowledge my existence or stick up for me. "How dare you insult me!" My hands curled into fists, causing the bracelet to tighten around my wrist, as I struggled against my temper, "You give my skills praise one minute and revoke it the next after discovering that I am a woman. I don't care if you're the king himself, if you continue to insult me, I'll challenge you to a duel next!"

"Tyna." The duke prevented me from continuing by informing me gently in a low voice, "He is the king." By way of explanation, he added, "I needed a witness whose word would be beyond reproach."

Unrepentant, I bowed as was proper and said imperiously, "I will not apologize, your majesty. You insult me by your words, and you insult yourself if you do not honor the terms you witnessed."

"If you send her away now, you force me to go back on my word," Duke Daevarren put in mildly. Mine wasn't the only honor at stake. "Besides, she's already proven that she can fight," he added with a grudging respect in his voice that gave me a fierce feeling of satisfaction, "We could at least give her a chance. That doesn't mean she'll make it," he pointed out.

The king turned toward the duke and gave him a searching look before telling him reluctantly, "You've made waves before, Daevarren. Many will be unhappy about this one too."

The duke's expression remained bland, but his eyes sparkled dangerously, which made me think that he was looking forward to shaking things up again, "They'll get over it."

"Does that mean...?" I asked, wanting one of them to say it aloud.

The king nodded, and the duke told me with an almost-smile curving against the sides of his mouth, "Absolutely."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Beth Powers currently studies long, rambling novels from nineteenth-century America in an effort to add a PhD to her collection of degrees. Powers lives in Ohio with her cats, Murphy and Roscoe. Her work has appeared in both 2012 issues of _Shelter of Daylight_ , and her forthcoming story, "A Thief's Gift," will appear in the Spring 2013 issue of the same magazine. Visit her on the web at www.bethpowers.com.

ABOUT THE ARTIST:

Richard H. Fay currently resides in upstate New York with his wife and two cats. Formerly a laboratory technician-turned-home educator, Richard now spends his days juggling numerous art and writing projects. History, myths, folklore, and legends serve as inspiration for his creative endeavours. Many of the fruits of his labour have appeared in various e-zines, print magazines, and anthologies.

#  Back to School

# By Michael Haynes

Laura and her twin older siblings came home to find their mother holding postcards with this year's teacher assignments.

"Who'd we get?" asked the twins, in unison.

"Jackson, you've got Mrs. Coe. Julia, you'll have Miss Hamilton." The school had wisely never put the twins together.

"Lucky!" Jackson said. "I'd much rather have Miss Hamilton than Mrs. Coe, whoever she is."

Julia rolled her eyes. "Naturally! Half the school knows you have a crush on her."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Oh, yeah? Then why's your face getting all red?"

"Enough," their mother interjected, stopping the tiff before it could escalate to a tussle. "Laura, you have Mrs. Riley."

Laura's mouth felt dry, a contrast to her eyes which were starting to grow teary.

"Now, Laura, I'm sure it'll be fine," her mother said.

Julia put a hand on Laura's shoulder. "She's a good teacher. I had her for second grade, too."

"Wasn't that the year she died?" Jackson asked.

"Yeah. We had a sub for, like, four weeks. Mister Walker. He was the _worst_!" She looked back at Laura. "But you'll like Mrs. Riley. She was cool."

Laura doubted that. She'd wanted a living teacher, not a dead one. Second grade was going to stink.

~

The first day of school arrived and Laura's siblings walked with her. They lived farthest from the school so they started alone, but other kids joined along the way.

"You got Mrs. Coe?" One of the boys asked Jackson. "My mom said she's a zombie."

Anna Garrett, an eighth-grader, piped up. "I wish we didn't have zombies in our school. My dad says the reason we have zombie teachers is because they don't want to give up their jobs even after they're dead."

Another of the older students replied. "Yeah, well, my dad says we only have zombie teachers because they're cheaper and don't get health benefits."

The two debated the topic disinterestedly for a few minutes before letting it drop.

Soon, the pack of kids was at the edge of the school grounds. Laura reached for her big sister's hand.

"You'll be just fine, Laura-kins."

Laura scrunched up her nose at the pet name.

"Mrs. Riley was just as good a teacher after she died. You'll see. Give her a chance."

~

Jackson didn't like Mrs. Coe and let everyone know it at dinner. "And not 'cause she's a zombie. She's just mean. I bet she was mean even when she was alive."

"How was your day?" their mother asked Laura.

She shrugged. "Okay, I guess." Surprisingly, it had been. You could tell Mrs. Riley was dead, of course. She didn't move quite the same as a living person. Her breathing was infrequent if she wasn't talking and her skin color was off. But she didn't smell bad, or really look all that strange.

And she seemed like she might even be nice. But Laura wasn't ready to admit that just yet.

Julia chimed in, praising Miss Hamilton. "We're doing a science fair in the class, and for our writing journals Miss Hamilton said we could write whatever we wanted! It doesn't have to be poems, or about our summer, or something she says — anything!"

Jackson hurled a bread roll at his twin. She snatched it from the air and took a bite, grinning.

"Mrs. Coe gave us writing journals, too." He glowered. "But we have to write about our day, every day. Even weekends! Like it's a diary or something. She said self-examination was important."

"That could be interesting," their father said. "You might enjoy looking back on it when you're older."

"Whatever. I'll just make up a bunch of stuff. Watch out, Laura, you're gonna come down with pneumonia soon. I should be able to get several entries out of that."

"Mom," Laura whined, "Jackson's being mean to me!"

"Alright kids, cut it out and finish your dinner." Their mother stood up. "And Jackson, I expect you to be truthful in your writing journal."

His mother's back turned, Jackson dared to roll his eyes and mouth "whatever" again.

~

Weeks passed and everyone settled into a routine. Even Jackson now only complained about his journal when Julia called it "his diary."

Laura swung lazily in the yard. A few raindrops still clung to the grass. Laura smiled, remembering the pleasant surprise of a full recess earlier in the day.

They'd just gone outside when it began raining. Not a downpour, just a slow steady rain. Still, she figured they'd go inside for quiet indoor recess. But Mrs. Riley patiently stood and watched the class play. Apparently, zombies didn't mind getting wet.

It wasn't the first time Mrs. Riley had surprised her. Last week everyone was outside for a school-wide track meet. Frankie Hill from Jackson's class was teasing Laura. He asked why she was at school if she had pneumonia, and would she die soon, and did she think she'd become a zombie or just be dead?

Laura tried to ignore him, but he kept picking at her, and began crying. Mrs. Riley saw what was happening and pulled Frankie aside.

Laura certainly hadn't been expecting to see Mrs. Riley bare her teeth at Frankie and growl. At least, that's what she _thought_ she saw, but she wouldn't think that teachers — even zombie teachers — could act that way. Maybe it wasn't really a growl, maybe just a snarl. Either way, Frankie left her alone after that.

In fact, Laura couldn't think of anything with Mrs. Riley as a teacher which hadn't been just fine.

She kicked harder, swung higher. The end of October was soon. She wondered if Mrs. Riley would like a Halloween present. Laura had given other teachers Christmas presents, but maybe Halloween was a special day for zombies. She'd have to ask her mom about that.

Laura kicked higher still, felt the crisp air rush by her skin, and burst into laughter. Who would have thought having the living dead for a teacher could be so much fun?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Michael Haynes lives in Central Ohio where he helps keep IT systems running for a large corporation during the day and puts his characters through the wringer by night. He had over 25 stories accepted for publication during 2012 by venues such as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, and Daily Science Fiction. His website is: http://michaelhaynes.info/

#  The Door

# By Mark Wolf

Not a sound accompanied the oaken door's appearance in the dreary, pre-twilight gloom of late autumn — merely the darkened form of the door itself, appearing as if a bear reared up before George upon his log bridge to contest his crossing.

Old George McCready fell backward from his bridge, and into the shallow stream below it. The flowers that he'd picked for Maggie's and Rosalyn's grave drifted away on the current.

"What's this?" His heart thumped.

He first thought was that his neighbor's hellion sons were pulling a prank, yet there were no overhanging branches from which to suspend a door. He stood up, saturated and cranky, and climbed back up the stream bank to the door.

He drew back his hand to knock, thought better of it, and craned his neck, to see what might lie behind it.

Nothing. Not even as much as a door edge, merely a door front. He shivered with fear and put his hand on the doorknob. It felt warm in his hand.

And here I was, just this morning, thinking that nothing exciting ever happens to me anymore.

The doorknob grew even warmer in his hand, as though whatever behind it was warmer than an autumn day. He gulped and turned the knob.

Thunder boomed, yet no lightning flashed. The door opened inward onto a hot summer morning. George stumbled in and fell to his knees. The door slammed shut behind him with another thunder crack and disappeared.

He stared about himself in wonder. The grasses were summer green instead of autumn-yellowed and the leaves hadn't turned yet. He heard birdsong and insects. He gazed down.

Beneath him was the most striking little wooden footbridge he could imagine. He marveled at its clever construction, quite ornate, with each baluster fashioned into miniature wooden figurines of satyrs, centaurs, griffins, and other mythological beasts, no two alike. He wished he had the skill to craft such an edifice.

"Oh, but you're a beauty!" he gushed.

"I beg your pardon," a gravelly voice said from the other side of the stream.

George beheld a bare-chested man glaring at him, partially obscured by the tall alder brush along the stream edge. George was minded to challenge the man for trespassing — he owned the one hundred sixty acres abutting the stream. Even with the addition of such a beautiful footbridge, George recognized the land as that which he'd husbanded the last forty years.

George's displeasure must've shown on his face, for the man stepped forward in answer to his challenge, trotted forth from the brush with the sound of hooves. George gasped. Standing before him was no man on horseback.

"Oh, my dear!"

"I'm not a deer as any fool with eyes can see. I'm plainly a centaur."

"Why, yes. You are one, indeed," George stammered.

"And I don't suffer fools that compare me to such," the centaur huffed. "Nor do I enjoy being called beautiful, for I'm not a filly, am I?"

"Why no, of course not," George temporized. The centaur wore no clothing. One would have to be blind to mistake the centaur's gender. "I meant the bridge, my dear fellow."

The centaur scowled.

George gulped when the beast stomped its front hooves. It stood at least seventeen hands. George tilted his head back to look up.

"Then why do you hazard my wrath?"

"I'm sorry." George pushed himself to his feet and pointed down. "I wasn't speaking of you. I was remarking on the fine woodwork of this footbridge."

"Oh, that," the centaur said. "That's the spell-working of the Great Wizard; not true woodworking, whatsoever."

"Great Wizard?"

The centaur scowled. "Everyone knows about the wizard. Everyone from these environs, anyway. His power is such that he merely desires a thing and it comes to pass. Now, that I've satisfied your curiosity, satisfy mine. Who are you _,_ and why are you here? They're very few humans in these parts."

"Oh, me? I'm George. George Mc Cready. I walked through a door that appeared above the bridge on my land and found myself here."

"You're George? Maggie's George?"

"Why yes, if you mean Maggie O'Donell. I married her many years ago. I was on my way to visit her and our daughter Rosalyn's grave at the falls. That's why I was crossing the bridge to head up the trail."

The centaur gasped and the human part of him bent forward at the waist in a bow.

"My pardon, sire. I did not know it was you. I'm unsure what you mean about a grave, but Maggie passed by here earlier and told me to tell you she awaits you at the falls."

"She _awaits_...?" _Could it be?_

Without another word he lurched forward, pushing the centaur aside. His heart hammered in his chest as his faltering steps turned first into a jog, then a run. The years melted away as he ran. Just as he entered the clearing before the falls, Maggie's sweet voice rang out.

"George, dear, my Great Wizard!" Maggie smiled at him, their child, Rosalyn, in her arms. She sat Rosalyn down so the little girl could waddle her way to him, arms outstretched. George stepped forward and swept her up, then wrapped his free arm around Maggie's waist and drew her in.

The smell of honeysuckles surrounded her, George's favorite memory scent.

"But how...?" Maggie placed her fingertips on his lips, shushing him.

"I don't know, dearest. All I know is, we're here now, and so are you. We've our whole lives before us. Let's live them."

George looked down at his hands. They were now a young man's hands, not the twisted, arthritic ones he knew. He lifted them and felt his smooth face. He decided not to question how it had happened, but to accept things as they were.

"So we shall then, my dear, so we shall." He bent forward to kiss her.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mark Wolf has stories published with bizarre titles such as "Bubba Versus the Werewolf," "Killer Krill from Outer Space," "Flat-Cat Frisbees and Bullfrog Amputees," and "Revenge of the Rabid, Killer Were-Possum." He'd write more such stories if his attendants will ever give him back his crayon during activity time.

#  Cross-wired

# By Ronald D. Ferguson

# Cover Art By: Tais Teng

Tony Blevins seized the churning mind mist and pulled himself onto the bumpy tide. Seeking a swell, he chased the current. Precipitous jetties of emotion thrust against his consciousness.

Empty chaos. Tony hand-signaled Murray to broaden the short board scan.

Not here. Not there. Perhaps . . . He tacked his will across the foam-filled confusion, stumbled, zigzagged, and popped onto the ragged mind wave.

He thumbed-up Murray to lock the connection.

The mind wave swelled. What emotions crashed here? Of course, it was sex. Immediately, Tony regretted the intrusion, but Murray would enjoy this ride. Mind surfing sex should keep Murray focused through the entire lesson.

A second wave of emotion double-upped against Tony's mind. The freeboard connection to the mind wave stabilized and sharpened. Violent sex? Tony's vision cleared. It had to--

Tony bolted upright on the short board and jerked the electrodes from his forehead. He leaned his forearms against his knees and gasped.

Murray dropped his hand from the control panel and pointed an accusing finger. "Hey, Dude, you bailed. I was ready to record. Damn. Look what you did to my wiring harness--spaghetti."

"I . . . He killed her." Tony gasped for breath.

"I'll have to rerun . . . what?"

"My freeboard ride." Tony rubbed his temples. "He killed a girl."

"What do you mean he killed her?" Murray asked.

"What do I mean?" Tony cocked his head in disbelief. "He killed her, that's what I mean. I thought it was sex, but when the connection stabilized, she fought beneath him. He stabbed her, again and again, and it was like I was the one who stabbed her. The fight drained from her body, and it was like I was the one who died. Everything smudged together, damn it, like I was surfing them both. He killed her, that's what I mean."

"What can I do for you, Brah?"

"Call the police." Tony wiped his hand across his mouth. His mouth was dry. "He murdered her, and we have to report it."

Murray placed his right hand on Tony's shoulder. "Calm down. Try to think clearly. Who was murdered?"

"What? I don't know. How would I know that? I couldn't see her face." Tony struggled to open his phone, but his hand shook. "Do I call nine-one-one or the police?"

Murray covered the phone with his left hand. His voice was quiet and reassuring. "Who was the guy? Who was this murderer? How tall was he? Was he heavy or thin, pale or dark, bald or what? What did he look like?"

"I don't know." Tony swiveled his feet from the short board to the floor. He paced the dimly lit office with nervous energy, trying to make sense of his phone options.

Murray stepped into his path. "Where did the murder take place?"

"I don't--"

"You don't know. So, what will you tell the police? Confess that we were doing a little surreptitious mind surfing? Experience transcribing may be your day job, but there are laws against schwagging other peoples brains."

"What's all this 'who what, and where' business? Are you saying a murderer is entitled to privacy for his crime?"

"You left out 'when and why.' What will you report? I don't know of any equipment that can identify who the freeboard ride is when you mind surf. Complete anonymity, and lucky for you, there is no way to identify the surfer, either. If you could get him to stand before a mirror and hold an ID for you to read--through his eyes, of course--well, maybe that counts as eyewitness identification. Murderers don't usually do that, so we don't have much choice. Besides, do you want to tell Billingsley we borrowed his equipment? Do you want to tell the police we bent the law?"

Tony pointed to a status display on the console. "He's slotted into the big tube."

Murray swiveled his head toward the panel. "What?"

Tony moved to the console and tapped the LED. "He's tube riding the emotional swell from the original wave front. He's trapped in the green room. We haven't lost contact."

Murray adjusted the panel position and re-checked the signal strength. He looked at Tony. "This can't last. He's full-on wild to ride this long. He has to snap loose soon."

Tony returned to the short board and fumbled with the electrodes. "We've got to find out who this Barney is."

Murray grabbed the scrambled wire from Tony and pushed him against the short board. "Climb aboard, you color-blind Bennie. How many times do I have to tell you the orange electrode goes on your forehead?"

Tony curled onto the board. "Hook me in."

Murray peeled fresh tape to stick the red electrode to Tony's right temple. He paused while he separated the orange lead. "What if he's not finished?"

"Finished?" Tony struggled to stretch out on the board, to clear his mind, to relax.

"What if he is not finished with the girl? What if he is cutting her into bite-size pieces? What if he is lugging her out to sea? What if he's digging her grave? What if he is doing other stuff to her that you don't want to see? Are you sure you want to experience all of that?"

"Yes. No. I don't know, but we have to do something. We can't let him get away."

Murray stuck the remaining electrodes to Tony. "What now?"

"Record it," Tony said. "I'll pass the ride raw and unfiltered."

"Huh?"

"I know you don't get it. Just record it. We need the evidence." Tony stared at the ceiling and reviewed his relaxation regimen.

"Evidence?" Murray nodded. "Yeah, right. We need the evidence." He snapped the wrist grounds in place and adjusted the inducer about Tony's head.

Tony glanced at Murray. "Is a mind-surf recording admissible evidence?"

"Well, it's not exactly hearsay, but I don't know if it would be evidence."

"Yeah. I guess. I might qualify as a witness, but we need a date and time stamp."

"Monday the twelfth. Got it. Okay." Murray hit the panel launch icon. "Surf's up, Brosef. Hope the ride ain't too gnarly."

~

Murray handed Tony a plastic pack of cola. "Not even five minutes and you rag dolled, Dude. I ain't ever seen you wiped like that. Bummer, you're still shaking."

Tony sipped at the plastic pack. He felt drained. "I tried to bail."

"Bail again? Was it too gory?"

"No gore. Nothing. I never saw the body. Just technical adjustments he made to his electronics."

"Technical adjustments? Is he some meticulous psycho?"

"He was wired, man."

"Wired?"

Tony nodded. "He adjusted a mind surf panel. The kook wore mind surfing gear. He recorded himself while he killed her, and..." Tony took a long drink of cola and swallowed hard.

"And?" Murray fidgeted. "And what?"

The night was warm, but Tony felt a chill. "He surfed her mind while he killed her. That's why I had the double images. While he killed her, when she died, he surfed her mind."

"Oh, wow, bummer. That must have been tough."

"He was wired, man."

"Yeah, I know, Brah, he was wired."

"No, you don't know. He felt me tailing his wake. Somehow, he picked up my freeboard ride. I think he knew I was there."

Murray whipped his head toward the panel and slapped the 'Done' icon on the shortboard control panel. The panel glow faded.

~

Murray nudged Tony. He pointed across the hallway to the opposing cubicle. "I think Melissa's got a thing for you. She keeps looking over here. You should ask her out. Hey, are you listening? Put down your reader. Look across the hall. Nectar, Dude, pure nectar."

Tony swiveled his chair and flashed his reader at Murray. "This is not recreation. I searched the local police blogs. They list four murders reported in the city last night, or did you forget we witnessed a murder?"

"You witnessed it, Dude. I'm an innocent bystander, and I saw nothing. I don't believe you saw much more. Were any of the reported attacks by Jack the Ripper?" Murray drooped deeper into the side chair.

Tony reviewed the reader screen and shook his head. "No stabbings. Three shootings and one gang beating."

"Maybe the murder hasn't been reported yet. Maybe. . . ."

"Maybe what?" Tony looked up at the change in Murray's voice.

"Maybe you surfed some actors recording a scene for a commercial horror surf. There are plenty of explanations short of murder. Access to portable mind surfing equipment isn't--"

James Billingsley rapped on the plastic nametag alongside Tony's door. "Are you gentlemen on company time? Mr. Blevins, didn't I schedule you to transcode pottery skills this morning? I understand that Mr. Fenway is always on break, but I expect better from you, Blevins."

"The potter needed a break." Tony stood and twisted past Murray to meet Billingsley at the door. "We just started the horsehair pottery segment. He was already nervous about being mind surfed. On the first try, he pulled the clay too fast, and the pot collapsed. He wanted to prepare better and practice before we hooked in again."

"How was the connection?" Billingsley directed his disapproval at Murray, who sprawled half-in, half-out of the side chair.

"Radical," Murray said without shifting position. "Potters don't move around, so the connections are direct. All long board connections. No mind wave transducers needed, no problems."

"Very well," Billingsley said. "I expect you both back on the beach no later than 10:00 A.M. We cannot lose the entire morning. Stay focused Blevins. There are deadlines for this crafts training project. The fall schedules of more than two hundred school districts depend on you. And you Fenway, why are you never in your own cubicle?"

Murray flashed a shaka sign with his thumb and pinkie. "Not to worry."

Billingsley shook his head, stalked to the next cubicle, and rapped on the nameplate.

"I don't like him," Murray whispered. "He's just an Accessory Man."

"We don't see him that often," Tony said.

"If we have so much liberty on this job, why do we freeboard two nights a week?"

"I thought I was teaching you to surf, but lately, I've wondered myself--especially after last night." Tony sipped at his cup. The coffee was cold. He pushed the cup to the back of his desk.

"Hey, Man," Murray said. "It's just kicks. Nobody will give me another chance on a company long board. So night surfing is the only ride I can catch."

"No one trusts you to surf because you can't read the waves."

"Harsh, Dude. I don't believe in all that wave-reading business. Anyway, I'm too valuable as a crew master technician to . . . Hey, wait a minute." Murray sat upright in his chair. "Maybe Mr. Accessory Man is your murderer. I'd love to stick him with that."

Tony shuttered his reader. "I can't wait to hear your convoluted reasoning."

"Convoluted? Very scientific I should say. When we free board a night ride, the transducer range is limited to a kilometer, and it's difficult to tune at much more than half a kilometer. That means the murder took place nearby. No other company on this side of town has commercial experience-surfing equipment."

"None that you know about. The military--"

"The military's nowhere, Dude. I think I'm onto something. I never trusted Mr. Accessory Man. He has all the nifty gadgets. He's too rich. Good looking, too. He has to be crooked. Besides, I don't like him."

"Really? Who could tell?" Tony's wrist PDA beeped a ready alert. He shoved his reader into the top desk drawer. "Surf's up. The old potter is docked and ready to ride." He started for the door.

Murray remained seated. "How do you know the potter's a geezer? We've never seen him. He could be young and handsome like me."

Tony tapped the cubicle wall. "Let's go. I've seen his hands on the potter's wheel. Believe me, you don't get that wrinkled from too much moisturizer."

Murray moaned, followed Tony out the door, and then brightened. "Say, I bet I could ride the geezer's surf. You want to swap? You run the tech board, and I'll harvest the experience."

From the opposing office cubicle, Melissa glared at their noisy exodus. Murray winked and waved to her as they passed.

"No can do, Dude," Tony said. "You have no focus." He nodded at Melissa's cubicle. "Easily distracted, too."

"So I'm easily distracted and can't read the waves." Murray thumped Tony's shoulder. "You, on the other hand, straight arrow, are an easy target."

Tony rubbed his shoulder. "Ease up." He shoved through the swinging door into the Sun Beach lab.

Sun Beach, the smallest of the three lab beaches, supported two long boards. One surfer--eyes closed, head wired--occupied the red long board near the door, while his crewmaster monitored the recorder. A wave-pulsing, holographic mural of the North Shore, Oahu, covered the back wall. Near the hologram, the blue long board awaited Tony.

Murray glanced at the nearby surfer and whispered. "What's to read in a wave? Seriously, Dude, I don't get it." Murray sounded genuinely perplexed.

Tony sighed and whispered, "If the potter had a fight with his wife this morning, there will be more in his surf than throwing a pot. Or maybe some guy cut him off on the trip over and he's still mad. I have to read these eddies in the wave, and then I have to slide past the argument with the wife and the frustrating flip-off to focus on the pottery strand. I _cannot_ let the extraneous experiences filter into a pottery lesson for kids, even as background noise. You only notice the immediate action, while the other stuff lurks in the background waiting to surface during playback."

Tony reclined on the blue long board and handed the electrode harness to Murray.

"Kids." Murray uncoiled the wires and tore some fresh tape. "You always bring in the kids."

"Not so loud," Tony whispered and then he nodded toward the other surfer.

"I swear to you, Brah, there were no eddies in my long board surf." Murray adjusted the inducer closer to Tony's forehead. "The bowler had no fantasies while I rode his wake. He rolled ten straight strikes with never a beach bunny in mind."

"Well if he had no fantasies, then you did, because I reviewed your recorded ride, and fantasies lurk in the breakers. Murray, schools would have sued us if your raw bowling segment had made the sports training package. I'm a good surfer because I read the wave, track the line, and slip the baggage. I don't transcode the jetsam. Come on, let's do our jobs. Is the potter docked?"

Murray regarded Tony for a long moment, and then he tapped the inducer. "We got all greens from the staging area. I tell you, Brah, nothing was wrong with that ride. Billingsley sabotaged me. He wants to keep me off the long board so he won't have to give me a raise."

"Blame it on everyone else. Okay, I'm ready here."

Murray walked to the recording panel and snapped the power icon. "Hey, I'm no cavasos, Brah."

"I'm just saying you're blaming everyone but yourself." Tony closed his eyes and reviewed his relaxation regimen. "Surf's up."

~

"Why couldn't we do this in your office?" Murray asked.

Tony slipped the memory cartridge into the playback slot. "Because you have the latest playback system in your cubicle. Besides, Melissa is working late, and I don't want an audience."

"I don't know about this dual hookup." Murray struggled with the spliced electrodes. "It dilutes the signal. You need special interface cabling."

"Quit complaining. It's a playback. I want you to piggyback my ride. Maybe you'll spot something I missed."

"Yeah. Okay. You're sure there's no gore. I'm not clucked, but you know . . . Hey, I can't get a full strength signal with this split."

"Believe me, you don't want a full strength playback."

"Our pizza is getting cold. Couldn't we forget this run and start a new surf?"

"Get it through your head. I'm not laying more night tracks for you to surf until we resolve this nightmare. You can practice ride the tracks we've already recorded. Now, hand me the tape. I'll attach my own electrodes."

"Sure, Dude. Chill." Murray passed the tape. "Speaking of attaching your electrodes, did you ask Melissa out?"

Annoyed at the crude attempt to distract him, Tony snapped back. "Yeah. Thanks for the humiliation. She gave me the 'you're a worm' stare and 'didn't I know she had a boyfriend?'"

"She has a boyfriend? I've never seen him." Murray taped the electrode to his right temple, jiggled it loose and re-taped it.

"How would you know?" Tony finished patching his electrodes. "Do you watch her all the time?"

"Only when she's in the room, and sometimes when she's not."

"Obsession, I should have guessed." Tony had to laugh. "Why don't you ask her out instead of hanging me out to dry? Finished? You check my connections, I'll check yours."

"Your hookup is fine." Murray sagged into his office chair. "I did ask her out. Several times. At least once a week for the last three months, ever since I did the substitute gig as her crewmaster. Dude, she is one smooth surfer."

Tony leaned forward in the side chair and studied Murray's connections. "You never said a word. Did you go out?"

"Yeah. No. She always told me she had a boyfriend, but I never saw him. Except during the last month, then she didn't speak to me at all. I guess I'm back to beach bunny bubbles."

"Your connections are fine, you troll." Tony snugged his back against the side chair." I can't believe you sent me to her knowing--"

"Hey, she looked our way, and I knew it wasn't for me. You ready for playback?"

Tony closed his eyes and gripped Murray's hand for signals. "Rip it."

~

The mind mist cleared. Tony pulled hard to pop onto the swell and dragged Murray along. He back-doored the green tube, and locked into the freeboard wake. The mind surf panel loomed before him, and he watched hands, suddenly his hands, work the panel.

~

Murray pulled the electrodes from his forehead and carefully coiled the cable for each connection. "Do you think he plans to sell the recording? I mean, why else would you surf somebody while they die? Somebody you're killing? You can surf some strange mind shows on the 'net, but what kook wants to experience death? Could there be a lot of money in horror surfs? If not, you have to be one angry dude to record that stuff for your own amusement."

Tony shook his head. "Is that what you saw on the replay?"

"No, Man, just my take on the human condition. What I _saw_ was our guy firming the mind frames. Did you see the way his hands played the keyboard? The guy is good, very good."

"I'm glad you focused." Tony wadded his wiring harness into a ball and tossed it to Murray. "I didn't notice the rubber gloves the first time we played back. He must have planned the murder, and he didn't want to leave fingerprints. Did you see any reflections off the equipment, any hint as to what he looks like?"

"I'm sorry, Bro. I have a full-size mirror at home, but I don't recognize my own good-looking face in a video. The whole thing is creepy. How did he know you were riding his wake?"

"To me, it felt like a sudden change in the wave form. I guess he felt the same change through his mind surf harness. Maybe I'm wrong and it was something else. Could you see how he blasted me?"

"Probably he heterodyned your signal through his equipment. The feedback amped-up the wave. You should have been cactus juiced."

"Sounds like our guy is a technical expert," Tony said.

"Sounds like Billingsley to me." Murray pursed his lips. "I hate to admit it, but that dweeb is a helluva engineer. I don't know how many mind-surfing-technology patents he holds, but--"

"That's why he gets the big bucks, Murray. I don't buy your theory, but suppose you are right. We still need evidence. Accusing the boss of murder without some sturdy facts is not a good workingman's strategy."

"Agreed," Murray said. "You do whatever you want, but I plan to watch Mr. Accessory Man. If he figures you rode his wake, he may do more than fire us. Do you think this will affect my stock options?"

"One thing for sure, the friggin' kook is someone from the company."

"How do you know?" Murray leaned forward. "What did you see?"

"How could you miss it? Bottom left hand corner of the control panel, a shaka decal--your mark. You serviced his equipment."

"Me?"

"Yes you. And if this guy is half the technician you are, he knows one other thing."

"What?" Murray asked.

"The short board range, Dude. He knows that whoever rode his wake works for the company."

~

Tony checked the clock when Murray entered the lounge. A full-size, three-D mural of a young Duke Paoa Kahanamoku on a sixteen-foot Koa-wood surfboard filled the lounge wall opposite the cabinets and the refrigerator.

"You skipped my ride with the hairy potter this morning." Tony took a deliberate sip of coffee. "I _did not_ like the substitute crewmaster."

Murray grabbed a cola and flopped into the chair next to Tony."Chill, Dude. I had stuff to check out. I got your back after lunch."

"Did you track down who borrowed a short board on Monday night?"

"Naw. We got five of them in storage. I've serviced them all. They all have my decal, same location. According to the records, no one signed for a 'board on Monday."

"Not even the 'board we used? I thought you had approval for surf lessons."

Murray shrugged. "You know Billingsley hates me. Officially, no shortboards were out."

"Right. Well, if you didn't want to leave a trail, I'm sure the murderer wouldn't."

"The internal logs were clean, and a short board uses a removable recorder. Anyway, total access indicates Mr. Accessory Man again."

Tony pulled his reader from his pocket. "I scanned the police blogs this morning. So far, no body found, but I'll check again. You can't accuse Billingsley without a body or a motive."

"I know the motive," Murray said.

"What?"

"The motive. The victim had to be Billingsley's wife. They separated three months back with rumors of infidelity and divorce. You can imagine the settlement money involved. Anyway, no one has seen her in a week. Disappeared."

"You're saying Billingsley killed his wife?" Tony pocketed his reader. "Still no police report of a body."

"Mr. Accessory Man never changes expression. Who can tell what evil he plans?"

"How did you hear? About the separation, I mean."

"Melissa told me."

"I thought she wasn't talking to you."

Murray swigged from his cola and extruded a crooked smile. "No wahine can resist my charms forever."

~

"Have you seen Murray?" Tony stuck his head through Melissa's door. "He missed another surf session."

Melissa touched her computer screen and rolled the display scroll into a discreet cylinder. "Why would I know anything about Fenway?"

"I'm sorry." Tony stepped inside her office. "I thought you were talking to him again."

She folded her arms across her chest. "It's not likely that I have anything to say to him."

"Huh. He said you told him about the Billingsley affair."

Tony stepped back as anger flushed across her face.

"That rat. He promised he wouldn't tell."

"The police will have to know."

"What?" Melissa stormed out of her chair and glared at Tony. "It's been over for a month. Why do the police need to know I had an affair with the boss?"

Tony spread his hands palm down in an effort to calm her. "I'm sorry." He retreated to his office. "I didn't know it was you. I'm truly sorry."

~

The next day, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, a man wearing a pinstripe suit and a mottled red tie escorted Billingsley from the building. When they passed Tony's cubicle, Billingsley said, "If I am under arrest, I would like to call my lawyer."

"We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Billingsley." The suited man smiled and gripped Billingsley elbow. "When we get downtown you may call your lawyer, if you wish. However, your wife's parents are worried about their daughter. We thought you might like to cooperate."

_Lucky me_ , Tony thought. _Looks like I get a pass on submitting my nighttime surfs to public scrutiny._

Across the hallway, Melissa watched the men guide Billingsley from the building. When they were gone, her worried expression faded, and she scowled at Tony. Tony pointed to himself, shook his head, and mouthed, "I know nothing." Melissa appraised him for a moment and then returned to her cubicle.

~

"Hello, I wanted to meet you." The leathery-faced, elderly woman extended a well-worn hand.

"Yes?" Tony rose from his desk chair to accept the handshake. The woman's grip was stronger than Tony expected.

"They said you were the one who transcoded--is that the right word, transcoded--my craft session. I cannot teach full classes anymore, arthritis you know, and this may be my last opportunity to share my skills with the next generation. I just wanted to thank you. You were very patient."

"I'm sorry. I don't know who you are. We've had so many artisans on these projects."

"How silly of me. I am Mrs. Kayani, the potter."

"Oh, the potter," Tony glanced at the woman's hands. "Of course. For privacy reasons, they don't give us names. Please, sit down Mrs. Kayani." He gestured toward his side chair.

The old woman continued to babble while she took the chair. Tony crossed his hands across his chest and pretended to listen.

The potter was a woman. When he surfed her experiences, he avoided the eddies. Focused on the potter's wheel, he had seen only her hands. Never once had he suspected she was a woman.

"Thank you very much, young man." Mrs. Kayani rose and started for the doorway. "When you love something, you want to share it. You've helped me share my pottery."

Tony walked her to the door, where she started down the hall with small, careful steps. Across the hallway, Melissa glanced from her cubicle and then glared at him.

Tony glared back. _The murderer didn't have to be a man_.

~

"Why are you here?" Melissa shoved her chair from the desk and looked toward the doorway as if searching for escape. Tony blocked the exit.

He took a single step into the cubicle. "You and I need to talk."

"I don't think so." Her lip curled with determination, but she looked small and frightened.

"I didn't call the police about Billingsley, but I might call them about you. Did he break it off with you because he was going back to his wife?"

Melissa crossed her arms. "That's none of your business."

Tony pointed to her chair. "Sit down. Sit. Down. That's better. If Billingsley reconciled with his wife, he had little motive to kill her."

"Kill her? She's dead?"

"His wife is missing."

"Oh, she's missing. Hiding most likely. Pouting, that would be just like her. Jim wouldn't kill anyone." She docked her chair at her desk.

"Billingsley is an engineer, not a real surfer. I'm not sure he ever tried to surf alone. You on the other hand are an experienced surfer and a former technician."

Her knuckles whitened when she griped the arms of her chair. "I don't know what you are talking about."

Tony pulled her chair from the desk until she faced him. He leaned close. "Why did you tell Murray that you had an affair with Billingsley?"

"I never told him. I didn't know he knew until he blackmailed me."

"Blackmail? You mean Murray took money from you?"

"Not money." She sighed. "Murray said he would tell Mrs. Billingsley about the affair, if I reported his so-called joke to Jim, to Mr. Billingsley."

"What joke?"

"That pervert. Murray substituted for my crew master several months ago. I scheduled to surf the wake of a golfer--we were ripping sports training experiences--you probably remember. As usual, the initial connection was blurry, but when it stabilized, my ride wasn't a golfer. My ride was a woman in the midst of sex. I could see her partner's face clearly. It was Murray. Both of them wore surfing harnesses, and they were riding each other's wake. The emotional undertow pulled me in." She blushed and looked down.

Eventually, she looked straight into Tony's eyes. She was no longer angry. She sat calm, resigned, and very beautiful. "That ride was an emotional maelstrom. The surf broke wildly and the undisciplined waves consumed me. I had trouble kicking out. Once I broke loose, I realized Murray had fed me a raw recording as if it were a live ride. Even worse, he recorded my reactions to surfing his sex experience. I told him I would report him to Mr. Billingsley. That's when he told me he knew about the affair. That's when he blackmailed me. I don't like being blackmailed."

Raspy voiced, Tony whispered, "I haven't seen Murray in two days. Did he try to blackmail you again? Where is he?"

"Don't look at me like that. I don't want to know where he is."

Tony opened his phone. This time his hand did not shake. "It's time I told the police everything I know."

~

Tony downloaded five mind surf recordings from the web site. His credit card dinged that he was dangerously near his limit. He attached the inducer harness to his temples and loaded the first wave into the playback module. Quickly, he reviewed his relaxation routine and closed his eyes.

The mind mist cleared, but the quality of the surf remained a swirl of unedited raw eddies. The first swell broke in a cascade of ferocious emotion. The raw power of the recorded wave amped Tony directly into the tube. There would be no potter's wheel at the end of this green tunnel.

Sex.

Sex times two. The two waves crested, merged, and crested higher. Tony fought to find a track, any track for focus in the maelstrom, but the undertow pulled him back.

Moments later, Tony emerged from the wave emotionally exhausted. He sipped his coffee and tried to relax. Rather than fight the power of the emotional main wave, he would have to resist his surfer training. All that awaited him along the main track was sex. The raw power of the main wave would quickly overwhelm his focus. Instead, he would trek the emotional jetties to salvage the side eddies like archaeological artifacts.

Tony took a deep breath and reached for the replay icon. He swirled into the mindmist and reached past the main swell into the undercurrents.

~

"Who's there?" Murray raised his voice. "Come on, I heard you talking. Is that you, Tony?"

"Yeah, just me," Tony said.

Tony hung up his phone, walked the darkened hallway, and stuck his head around the cubicle door. Murray sprawled in his chair, his right arm draped loosely over his eyes.

"I wasn't sure you were here," Tony said. "Where have you been for the last couple of days?"

"Job hunting mostly. With Billingsley in jail, the company will go down the tube." Murray directed Tony to the empty side chair. He grinned broadly. "Say, I heard about Melissa. Who would have thought that beach bunny would carve anyone. Well, she does have a temper. Did they take her away in cuffs? Are she and Billingsley in cahoots? They could cover each other's ass. Well, I guess they already did that."

Tony sat in the offered chair and interlaced his fingers across his chest. "When I called the police from Melissa's office this morning, they told me they just found the body. You were right. The victim was Billingsley's wife, very convenient to find her body so soon after his arrest. There was little deterioration. She must have been on ice, making the exact time of death difficult to pinpoint."

Murray shifted in his chair and draped one lanky leg over the chair arm. He clasped his hands at the back of his head.

Tony regarded Murray for a long moment. "When I first realized that I didn't know whether the murderer was a man or a woman, and that it might be Melissa, I thought she had killed you. You disappeared for two days. I thought you had discovered something important, and she shut you up."

"How could a Gidget slice up a big guy like me?"

"Knowing your appetites, I didn't doubt that you would confront her if you had evidence, just to see what you could buy. As you say, she is pure nectar, and I was sure she could distract you long enough to slip a knife in your ribs. I missed that call."

"Sorry I didn't give you a heads-up," Murray said. "Too many expenses, I needed to harvest some dead presidents."

"The stolen experiences you've been selling online weren't providing enough money?"

"You knew I was selling the schwag? Well, the recordings did me no good as surfing lessons. I'd practice with them, but I never saw the eddies. So I thought, 'why waste 'em?' I always meant to cut you in, but you're so old school. Besides, we didn't collect the schwag on company time, so I didn't see any problem, Dude."

"I suspected as much, especially when you wanted to continue lessons, but made no progress."

Murray sighed and sat up straight. "I know I live beyond my means, Brah. I have expensive tastes, and I don't get a surfer's salary. Besides, I love to surf. A little loot on the side smoothes the ride. I learned enough to lay a few tracks on my own. No problem."

"No problem for anyone but a poser."

"I don't have a four-one-one on that, Brah."

"I visited your web site. You're selling more than schwag." _Damn. He hadn't meant to say that._

Murray looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Did you like the recordings?" He didn't smile.

Tony tried to remain nonchalant. "Too raw for my taste. Very creative to record a tandem sex surf. With what you charge for a recording, you should make a lot of money."

Murray placed his thumb firmly to his lip and regarded Tony. Tony fidgeted.

"Did you recognize the woman?" Murray asked.

"Was it Melissa?"

Murray shook his head. "I flashed her a sample recording and asked her to partner because I knew she would produce better recordings than I could. She would have none of it, and so I told her it was all a joke."

Murray scowled. "You watched all the recordings didn't you, Brah? You couldn't leave it alone. Tell me. You're the great experience surfer. Did you see who was with me?"

Tony plunged in. "Did you have the affair with Mrs. Billingsley to spite the boss, or was it insidious spadework for financial reasons? Both seem likely."

"Don't be an assmunch. So we had a fling, and I made a few bucks selling our duets on line. But I was with you when Billingsley killed her, or maybe it was Melissa. Think clearly. You're my alibi. I'm depending on _you_ , Brah."

Tony nudged Murray's foot. "Tell me, hodaddy, how did you convince Mrs. Billingsley to do the first tandem body ride? You know, the one you snuck onto Melissa's surf. I suppose Mrs. Billingsley told you her husband had an affair with Melissa. Was that her motivation for riding the waves with you? Did she know that you were recording the sessions? Did she know you planned to sell the recordings? When she told you she reconciled with her husband, did you blackmail her, too?"

Murray tilted his head. "Believe me, Dude, cross-wired sex is awesome. Two people intertwined, body and mind, each cresting the other's wave. Whatever you feel, she feels and vice-versa. So, maybe she did it because she liked the ride. Maybe she liked it a lot. But maybe she liked her husband's money more."

"Maybe she did," Tony said. "Was she going to confess to her husband? How did you get her onto the surfboard the last time? Did you promise no more blackmail in return for one last ride, or did you promise you wouldn't interfere when she went back to her husband?"

"Blackmail, Brah. Where's the evidence? Maybe you have another reason to accuse me? Did Melissa promise you something I couldn't give you--you know, something intimate and very personal--if you'd just help her out?"

"That Monday night ride, you wiped me off the free board so I wouldn't notice the wave was a raw recording like the sex surf you fed Melissa. You knew I rode the murderer's wake because from the console, you monitored my ride of the recording. From the console, you amped-up the wave to blast me loose. For consistency, you kept the recorder running on the last ride, but it was ingenuous to dump me with the recording in case you needed an alibi. The harsh ride confused me, but still I would testify that you were beside me when I witnessed the murder. When did you actually kill her, Murray? Did you record her the previous night or even before then?"

Murray slid his leg from the chair arm and crossed his ankles. He leaned back in the desk chair. For a long moment, he said nothing.

"You think I murdered her, Brah." Murray's voice was cold and hard.

High on his own emotional wave, Tony ignored the tone of the comment. "I expect network backups on the company's shortboards to reveal discrepancies. Even if you managed to blank the log and backup redundancy from every machine, the record of your erasures is still in the system."

"Circumstantial. You've got nothing."

"I've got the most important part. Blackmail or not, you couldn't resist selling the tandem sex recordings on line. I played them back. Enough flashes of you and her would allow any competent surfer to make the identification."

"Still circumstantial. Our affair only gave Billingsley more motive."

"Sad, all that creative thought, but you just don't have the knack to filter and transcode a ride. You never see the eddies. Undercurrents of your plans to marry Mrs. Billingsley for her share of the fortune taint the earliest recording. The current shifted when she suspected you were after her money, and again when she threatened to go back to her husband. You never noticed the undercurrents in the recordings because you can't read the waves to avoid the eddies that trail into your wake. I read your background fear, fear that she would confess to her husband and end your career. If you were any kind of surfer, you could have transcoded the sex and slid around the incriminating noise." Tony leaned forward. "And that's what I'll testify in court."

Murray flailed with his right foot, catchy Tony on the side of his face. Stunned, Tony straightened from his chair and stumbled against the cubicle wall. _Murray hit me?_

Murray was on him in an instant. He yanked Tony's hair to one side and elbowed Tony's head against the cubicle wall.

_Damn, he is big._ Pain spread from Tony's forehead down his neck.

Tony shoved his open hand into Murray's face; Murray kneed Tony's groin. Pinned against the wall, Tony groaned and twisted sideways from the pain.

Murray slipped behind him and forced his right forearm tight against Tony's larynx. He locked the grip with his left hand and squeezed.

Tony clawed at Murray's grip, but the forearm tightened. Tony gagged and dropped to one knee.

Through clinched teeth, Murray whispered in Tony's ear. "I'm no surfer? You think I'm no surfer? Who's riding the top wave now, Brah, and who's taking the acid drop. I wish I had you wired."

Tony's vision blackened. His thoughts spiraled into a dark mind mist.

Murray's head jerked backwards. Strong hands pried Murray's arm from Tony's throat.

Tony slumped to the floor. He couldn't focus his eyes. He couldn't see what happened. Protecting his throat with his left hand, he waved his right hand to kept Murray at bay.

A strong hand gripped his extended arm. "Let me help you, Mr. Blevins. Are you all right?" Another hand tugged at his shoulder and guided him to a chair. Tony sat heavily. His left hand explored his bruised throat.

Tony's eyes cleared. Two uniformed policemen assisted Murray from the floor. Handcuffs drew Murray's hands tightly behind his back. A third man wearing a pinstripe suit and a mottled red tie handed Tony a glass of water.

Murray glared at Tony from the doorway. Tony managed to rasp, "When I saw you were back, I called the police. Unfortunately, you heard me talking to them from my cubicle."

Murray leaned against the cubicle wall and deliberately yawned. The policeman prodded him toward the door. Murray pulled back and looked at Tony. "Do you expect me to whine? I'm no cavasos. I took my shot. The wave didn't break my way."

The policeman tugged again. The second policeman joined him, and they led Murray down the hall.

"Yeah," Tony whispered. "For a poser, the wave never breaks at all."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Ronald D. Ferguson (https://sites.google.com/site/ronalddferguson/home) is an active member of the SFWA and Codex Writers. His short fiction has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Nature:Futures, The Universe Annex of the Grantville Gazette, New Myths, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife, a dog, and five feral cats on two acres of the Texas Hill Country.

ABOUT THE ARTIST:

Tais Teng is a pseudonym for a Dutch fantasy and science fiction writer, illustrator and sculptor. His real name is Thijs van Ebbenhorst Tengbergen and he was born in 1952 in The Hague.

As an illustrator he made several hundred covers and interior illustrations for science fiction, fantasy and horror novels and magazines. He sold covers and illustrations to Daily Science Fiction, the Nightl Land, Plasma Frequency magazine, Postcripts to Darkness, and the Spatterlight -ebooks of Jack Vance. He works both in color and Black & White. You can see his work at http://taisteng.deviantart.com/gallery/   
Tais Teng has also written more than a hundred novels and his books have been translated in German, Finnish, French and English. The Emerald Boy has been published in the USA. He recently sold the story Embrace the Night to the Night Land site. You can download his recent short story collection (108.000 words) LOVECRAFT, MY LOVE at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/171375

### Look for Issue 5 April/May 2013

### Release Date April 5, 2013

### Details about our Year One Anthology will be announced in issue 5.

### See you next time for more great stories, art and books. Don't forget to subscribe at:

### www.plasmafrequencymag.com

