PLANET MAGAZINE

[Illustration: “Cycle Duels” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

A famous stunt man
tried to leap a lunar chasm
on an old-fashioned
dirt bike.

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(Illustration: “Mars Dig” © 2006 by Patrick Stacy.)

I know a land where the sun never shines
no rain ever falls
and man like a grain of sand
blows aimless and lost in the wind….

Olympus Mons - Mars 2239

Alex Braxxian knew he was about to die. The sensation was not one of fear in the truest sense. It was almost a feeling of relief. True, Alex had faced death many times before in his short life. While some of them had left with him with a certain sense of fear, none had centered him in the truest way. Death was something that came easily on Mars. There were many and varied ways of perishing on this rundown crust of a world. There had been times when it would have been far easier to just let go, to let the endless struggle for survival to finally overflow you and to drift into that restful sleep everyone seemed to quietly seek. But something inside him awoke within the tiniest moment, a raw action that would not allow his end to come so quickly or without one last struggle for survival. Alex knew that for all the stupidity of his recent actions, and despite the fact that death was something he certainly deserved, she would not have his soul quite so easily this day.

* * *

He threw his vac-suited head to the side, just moments before the rifle butt slammed into the soft ground next to him. A cloud of red dust quickly bellowed around him, forming a blood-red cloud that danced and moved to a life of its own in the low gravity. It was more an act of sheer desperation as Alex kicked out at the dark figure looming over him, and rolled to the side as quickly as his bulky vac-suit would allow.

His desperation was rewarded with a solid feel, as his boot drove into the midsection of the scavenger with as much force as he could muster. The man staggered back, clutching his old rifle in one hand and drawing a long steel knife with the other. Alex rolled to his feet, and for the first time in what seemed an eternity managed to take stock to his situation.

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Photo-Illustration: “Penvolver” © 2006 by Andrew G. McCann.

As he walked into the park, Howard Teasdale thought about the gun in his pocket. It was a cheap, small-caliber revolver imported from Eastern Europe. A pistol like that would not be much use in a gunfight, but it was perfectly adequate for suicide.

Howard hated the fact that it was such a beautiful Sunday morning, warm and sunny with a slight breeze carrying the scent of flowers. In the movies, it rained when people died tragically. Maybe he should wait for a rainy day. No, he was just looking for excuses to hide the fact that he was losing his nerve.

He walked down the path from the main gate, through a grove of trees, and into a grassy clearing where a small fountain gushed. This would be as good a place as any. His body would be found quickly, before the ants and other insects had done much to it. Howard stood and took one last look around at the world he was glad to leave.

He had planned his exit carefully. A typed note was tucked into the breast pocket of his shirt, folded inside a plastic sandwich bag, so that no blood would soak it. The note explained why he was doing this. It described his ten years of frustration and failure since leaving college, working at an endless stream of menial jobs while he struggled to write his novels. Despite everything, he managed to finish five of them, only to have his work rejected by publishers again and again. When Donna left, that was the final blow.

“Face it, Howard,” Donna told him. “You’ll never succeed as a writer. I need a man with a decent job and a future.”

The memory of her words still stung him like a lash. Maybe she was right, but he couldn’t face life as a loser. He pulled the gun from his pocket, staring at its gray metal outline as though seeing it for the first time. Cocking the hammer, he raised the pistol to his head.

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