Dear Editor: The next edition of Nice’s International Science Fiction Conference will be held in Nice, France, in March 2005.
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Dear Editor: I am an editor at Cyber-Pulp Books, which has created a site for readers that also offers e-zine links.
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*Pr–Sh–Error. Reindexing.*
*No threat.*
The computer’s voice came from nowhere, but just leapt into Allela’s eardrums fully formed. It sent a shiver down her back. She looked at Lukas. “Damn it, would you stop that?”
Lukas was hunched over the console, paying no attention to her. She couldn’t tell why, but his customary arrogance seemed to have magnified itself in the past few minutes. He didn’t acknowledge her.
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Malorchia was content, savoring the newness of her first birthling on Pollis as Iron Feather steered his craft out of the Equuid system. Now that the most important and personal matters had been attended to properly, it was time to police the quadrant for the Confederation.
The first order of business was for Iron Feather to check in with his father via a privately established communicator. Langford Joh gave out very few of them, for the Prail technology was based upon their own nerve impulses from the days before the Prail became pure energy beings. Captain Iron Feather was permitted a device because of their father-son relationship. He pushed the green button and waited patiently for Langford’s image to appear on a floating screen by his command chair.
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Micker and I spread the map out on the table. “You can see it all here,” I told Pagomari. “The sewers are wide enough to fit a man through, and the Temple of Kashell has its own drain.” I spoke in a whisper, and Micker kept his eyes peeled to make certain that none of the drinkers in The Gauntlet and Brand were paying too close a mind to us. “The drain is in the kitchen, but the kitchen’s just a speck over from the shrine, where the gems we mean to lift are.”
The Bard Pagomari listened patiently, a pipe in his mouth, his dark eyes narrow as he studied the map. “This came from Amundi the Saber,” he said. Micker gave us a nervous look over his shoulder.
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Thurman stood and walked over to Jeffries, eyes wide, mouth convoluted in a warped smile.
“I am reality!” he screamed into Jeffries’ indifferent face. “I am being!”
Richard cowered behind Barker, the largest of the bunch. The three men looked over at their ranting comrade with growing unrest.
“I must find an outlet,” Thurman said, suddenly forgetting his raving. He tried to push past the long-haired Barker, who would not let him by. Instead of using more force, Thurman approached the nearest X-ray palette, which was situated in front of the oven. He looked through. The metal of the oven was real, and there were no greenish, asterisk-ish spots characteristic of entity outlets.
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“Don’t pay the ferryman
Don’t even fix a price
Don’t pay the ferryman
Until he gets you to the other side”
- popular song, Second Millennium *
I was climbing the mountain to be closer to the stars. It was nearly dark when I came upon the hidden cabin and the old woman. She said nothing but knew I must be of the Chosen and what I must do. I was tired from my wanderings; even a strong, young boy of seventeen winters becomes tired walking so far, for so long.
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Abstract:
From the Proceedings of the 49th Convention of the American Datatician Society Meeting, Akron Hilton, Akron, Ohio. November 1994.
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