PLANET MAGAZINE

Illustration (c) 2008 by Romeo Esparrago.

Before putting the X-ray on the market for copious amounts of money, Xavier could not wait to try it out on himself. What secrets or inspirations lurked below the surface? He imagined that his soul was a stately jazz musician. Or, he thought, his soul could be that of a Labrador Retriever – smart, steady, and loyal. Or, was it the soul of a child full of endless possibilities?

The X-ray was actually an entire room rather than some flashy gadget. A person could walk into the quiet space, hit the activation button tucked inside the armrest of the centerpiece couch, and wait for his or her soul to be bared on the large movie screen in the south end of the room. Once broadcast onscreen, the person could then converse with his or her soul on any topic imaginable in comfort.

Knowing one’s soul more intimately provided incredible benefits, Xavier believed. If your soul was troubled, you could put it into therapy or give it drugs to set it on a better path. Also, if your soul noticed something lacking in you, it could help you look deep within your soul to become a better person. Either way, the discourse between people and their souls was bound to make the world a better place.

Xavier knew his soul was going to be pretty impressed with him. What wasn’t to like? Xavier had built his entire life on scientific creation. He had scores of patented inventions to his credit. He was one of the smartest people in his field. Accolades and grants had been showered upon Xavier ever since his time travel invention. And he had a family who adored him, a wife who enjoyed tending to the house, and two children who were showing impressive scientific aptitude (just like Xavier).

Xavier entered his X-ray, hit the activation button, and waited for a seemingly endless amount of time until his soul appeared onscreen. He was greeted by a man who seemed to be quite similar to Xavier – middle-aged, smartly attired, and confident. Xavier said “Hello”, and waited for his soul to answer.

“Why have you not accepted the Lord as your Savior?” Xavier’s soul demanded.

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Illustration (c) 2008 by Romeo Esparrago

Madmen know. They shout it in the streets and in the fields but go unnoticed. Those dying know. They whisper it with their last breath but no one understands. The dead know. They touch the living in warning, passingsilently over what were once their homes, yet go unheeded. And I know, though I no longer bother to tell anyone. I will tell you, though I do not do so in warning for it is already too late. I tell you more out of a desire to understand what has become of our world; what has become of me.

It began years ago, in the silence of man’s ignorance. Warroks, they are known as. They were once men, fools who dabbled in what they did not understand. They were the first to see that essence of our existence, that whisper of magic which lives within our world and all things upon it. When understanding came, they began to leech it from the earth, living on it as man lives on bread, ravaging it until it became as rare as the life it once sustained. It is the reason for our existence, and our end.

I have run from them since I was a boy. I remember a late morning not long ago, standing in a forest. They had been closing on me lately, though I still could not understand what they wanted of me. Weeping branches hung above, lifeless forms reaching down with their cold touch. Cadavers of wood littered the rise of ground, limbs frozen by death in a last futile gasp for light. A smell of putrefying wood wrinkled my nose; one can become used to the decay when constantly faced with it. Amid a swirling mist that gave life to the decomposed, I barely noticed it anymore.

A forest stream ran through the birthing bog, gurgling with pity for the death of the land. I knelt before it and, throwing back my hood, careful not to wet the ends of my cloak, I splashed my face, enjoying the coolness and sharpness of life for I was alive. I stared at my reflection then, its form broken in the foraging water. Amon Rush is my name, though I no longer recognise the man that goes with it; black eyes set within a pale face, hair and beard rusty red as the mulching leaves at my feet. A thinner form that has lost its youth, though I am no more than twenty five.

For as long as I remember I have run from them and their hunger, wandered through the dying lands in search of peace, for hope is too much to ask for. I had wandered into a valley in the Arfael region that day, somewhere in the Northlands. I had hoped I might find a place to rest for the night, for forest land offers neither food nor shelter anymore.

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Illustration: “Cigar” © 2007 by Patrick Stacy

Portentia Clarke looked out the window and watched the cameraman struggle to get his legs into the contamination suit; he was a heavier man, and the producer and tech crew were helping out. It was five in the morning, and they weren’t scheduled to begin until after nine. Four hours of preparation, all for their safety.

“This is it!” Portentia said aloud. “We made it… we’re here.”

Grabbing the steaming pot of ‘NiCoffee’, she filled her cup with the warm sludge and added a squirt of freon and a tablespoon of Aspartame before taking it to her lips. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself — she was dressed and ready to go already. Too bad none of the crew had evolved yet; it would have made things so much easier.

Trying not to think about all the fuss being made outside, Portentia decided to make sure everything was ready with the house. Grabbing a cloth, she started to clean out the doorless microwave; of course, she had to make sure it was pristine. This was Derek’s first big invention, and she had come up with the slogan for it: “The easiest way to cook healthy!”.

Derek! Dear, brilliant Derek. He was on a lecturing tour now and would not be home for two weeks; the children were at summer camp in Chernobyl and would not be home for another week. Portentia wished they could be there with her on the pedestal, but she was more than prepared to shine alone. After the microwave was cleaned, she went on to the other inventions she was planning to showcase.

She took a deep breath of the carbon-monoxide-filled coal sauna when checking to make sure it was orderly. She thought about cooking something for the crew on the indoor BBQ, but realized they would have to open their suits to eat… or to go to the bathroom, for that matter. That was their problem, she decided, as she made sure the fridge was full of ‘Clarke’s Coala’. The fire pit was cleaned of its melted plastic and Styrofoam heap, and there was a fresh batch of polystyrene egg cartons and bags piled neatly nearby.

Seeing all of these wonderful things they had come up with had brought a tear to Portentia’s eye, and she felt it roll down her cheek. Quickly, she ran to the bathroom to wipe it off before it destroyed her dress, her dark, leather-like skin smoking where the tear had rolled down it. She always wondered what external pain felt like when she saw that.

Gathering her senses while she wiped the tear away with the asbestos cloth, she looked into the mirror to make sure she looked OK.

“It’s fine. You checked everything last night. The bathroom and septic pool are contained and clean in the backyard. Bedrooms are nice and clean, with a nice layer of soot covering the new lead-paint job. You outdid yourself with that, by the way,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “We’re here.”

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Illustration: “Mother May I” © 2007 by Junior McLean

The owner of Ozymandias has just gone over the edge of the horizon, and we love it. With OzymExo, he’s taken his well-established outlandish obscurantism and gotten rid of the landish. OE’s virgin catalog is pure weird candy for the unhinged and the mutated. I promise you — heavy rotation at Bebe Monster and Monkey Bar.

Someone once said, “Tuning a mellotherium doesn’t.” Well, listening to what OE’s offering up doesn’t. Take OZM(exo)020: Origin unknown. Species unknown. Just an artifact (“Vessel with Biotic Interior [Possibly Analog]”) floating through Pavonian space a few centuries ago that had “an Interior Communicative Organ Beeping and Whistling” (as the subliner helpfully clarifies). The “organ” makes non-repetitive, arhythmic beeps, squonks, and hoots for about three minutes. In the background, various hummings and swellings are punctuated by raspy clankings and crescendoes.

Intelligent? What’s the criteria? Music? As I was listening to this track, I imagined an alien “listening” to our industrial exhaust pipes churning out “music” via radiation signatures and asking a similar question. He might deduce our intelligence correctly, but be totally wrong in reasoning the purpose of these byproducts. For the same reason, I wondered if this semi-vivified soundmaker weren’t a “vent” of some kind. The Rosetta Sphincter.

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Illustration: “The Flaming Phoenix Storm” © 2007 by Junior McLean

The first days were always the hardest. It had been six months since I stopped counting the days and the nights. But somehow, somehow — I knew this was the first day. Maybe it was the black fog overhead, or the constant beat of war drums coming ever closer.

First day. Sacrifice. Food. Women. Children.

And they didn’t give a damn who or what. When the drums sounded, it was time to pay. This gothic aural calendar never failed, and as I stepped out of the wreckage of what was once my home, I could see the neighbors had fled. That meant it was me and my Julie. And I’d be damned if they were coming for her.

It hadn’t been too long since we all had family, friends, television. Hell, even running water. I remember taking those things for granted. I remember my car. Then they took that away, too. First, it was our power. Then it was our rights. Finally, every living thing that was deemed unfit for “consummation” (whatever the hell that meant) was destroyed.

In the new world, they didn’t give a damn about society. They didn’t give a damn about the Constitution. Black-market money. Power. Pleasure. Those were their games. It was a shame, too. I know. I used to watch the news. No one thought this world would eat itself away from the inside out. No. We all were watching out for Korea, for Space Aliens, for the Boogey Man.

Sometime around six years ago, society collapsed. Sure, the government did all it could to help, to make things better. The president declared martial law. The guys in green came out in force. If you were out after dark, you were an enemy combatant. You were dealt with. Easy enough. They were too smart. The sniveling little bastards. Someone told them they had rights, and they ran amuck. Daylight massacres became an everyday thing. Soon our patrols of hundreds were whittled down to scores of ten, then five. Then we were lucky to see one at all. The first called himself “Herrod.” Or something like that. To us, he was master. We did what he said. Or we’d die.

I remember when we had our court, when there was “justice.” Fifteen-stories tall and brand new, shining against the sun now blacked out. He lives there now. On the top floor, overlooking what used to be beautiful sandy beaches and the fresh ocean breezes.

“All living things belong to the earth. And so they are returned.” That was his first decree, right before he burned my town to the ground. Right before the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunfire and the acrid black-powder stench of certain death filled the air. My friend Joe, he ran to get his gun. He was going to fight back. He was going to be a hero. He was dead in the blink of an eye. They took his head and placed it on the roof of what used to be our police station. We never fought again. As for the rest, I heard they took them out west. Fertilizer for their crop.

Now it was first day. And he was hungry. And I was alone.

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Illustration: “Entropy” © 2007 by Carl Goodman

I remember dying, but my earlier memories are beginning to go. Being a particle physicist gives one a unique perspective on death, particularly while participating in the greatest experiment ever.

My initial thesis was to attribute my memory loss to the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Our universe resists order and works to always try to increase disorder. We physicists refer to this disorder as entropy. The portion of the electromagnetic wave encoded with my personality and memories was obviously degrading, and taking me with it.

I thought back to earlier in the morning….

* * *

“Jim, are you sure you want to do this?”

I looked up at my brother from the medical trolley. “Mike, you know I have to. There is no other way to prove my theory.”

“This won’t bring back Jessie,” said Mike.

“I know, and I’m not planning on joining her just yet. That’s why I’ve got the best doctor I know — my own brother — supervising the procedure.”

“Jim, even if we bring you back there may be brain damage.”

“I know the dangers, and it is a risk I have to take. Otherwise, everything else has been for nothing. All the sacrifices and Jessie’s death will be meaningless. You have to do this, Mike, and if you won’t then I will find someone else who will. I trust you; please have faith in me.”

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Illustration: “Eliminate” © 2007 by Romeo Esparrago

“I want everyone on that planet eliminated, Shadrach,” proclaimed Braux, the leader of the Kestel delegation.

I nodded once, and with a wave of his hand he dismissed me. The species would not die as mine had. There would be a few left to start over. I always made sure a few were left.

I didn’t like the Kestel, and I particularly didn’t like that pompous leader, Braux, but I needed this assignment. I already felt the effects of my last feeding starting to wear off.

I entered the Kestel hangar and climbed aboard my single-seat war bird. How many had I killed over the years? There wasn’t any way to come up with a figure; I had fed on more civilizations than I could remember. I was the Eliminator.

My next quest was a small planet on the far side of the galaxy. This planet had been playing around with nuclear energy for many years, and they still hadn’t realized the potential or the danger; all they could see was a weapon, a weapon of mass destruction, a weapon that could kill millions of enemies in one strike.

I fed the coordinates of the planet into the computer and watched the ceiling of the hangar open.

I reached over and pressed the ignition button; both nuclear engines kicked in. I pushed the throttle forward and the war bird shot straight up. The twin engines exhaled white fire as I streaked across the dark-blue sky towards the total blackness of space.

As the acceleration pushed me back into my customized pilot’s chair, I felt cool air inflate my flight suit, taking the pressure off my back. The sprawling Kestel city surrounding the port grew smaller in my rear video as I watched the planet start to fall away. The sky turned black and I shot into space.

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[Illustration: “Yous Guys” © 2007 by Carl Goodman.]

“What are you doing?!” a disembodied voice repeated.

An intricate spiderweb of cracks fractured 2.z’s anthropomorphic face, at the center of which was not an arachnid, but a word. That word was “you”. It protruded from the bridge of 2.z’s nose.

Until that moment, 2.z had not understood himself as having an identity. Himself? Or a gender. By his understanding, he was simply a complex grouping of molecules, as were the very numerous people he had caused to die. To 2.z the world was nothing more than a variety of molecular groupings, some of which he had altered in such a way that they no longer functioned as they had before. He had altered people using the Earth’s gravity combined with large distances, firearms, and swimming pools, but most often by the use of his human-like hand combined with a small red button the size of a pencil eraser.

Now he suddenly realized that he did have an identity, an ongoing self who was more than the structure and mass of the molecules he was composed of. Somehow, he had carried his deeds with him, and only now noticed them, each and every one. They were heavy, and he would have liked to put them down, but he found that he could not.

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Illustration: “Newsbot” © 2007 by Carl Goodman

“Dr. Fudiki, can you help us?” asked Mr. Yakito from the Advanced Robotics Laboratory in Japan.

“I’m not sure. I have never observed emergent behaviour like this before. You say that you have already rebooted the machines and uploaded the original programs?”

Yakito nodded. “We tried three times. Then we called you. They are supposed to be building washing machines, but instead… well, look for yourself”

“It looks like some kind of rocket!” replied Fudiki.

“I know! Even stranger is the amount of memory that is being built into the machine. You could practically store all of human knowledge in there. That’s no washing machine.”

“On the upside, maybe the robots will build something new that you can sell?” mused Fudiki.

Yakito looked thoughtful and began to nod. “Maybe…”

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Illustration: “Ghost” © 2005 by Patrick Stacy

Dan Constantine had steeled himself and thus was not at all surprised. When Lucian Renoir’s small hand came out in greeting as they stood at a side entrance of the magazine of Dan’s employ, Dan knew not to evaluate what his eyes saw. Here was a fellow, hardly a man yet, with fair eyes and skin and already acclaimed of greatness in the mode of the stalwarts of science. His eyes instantly balked at placing this fellow on the same podium as Newton, Pasteur, Einstein, and Hawking. Yet, what he’d done was as astounding as any of them. Lucian did not smile and his eyes merely darted at Dan’s own, and they quickly entered into a corridor of BOLD QUEST until they found the room where the interview was to be conducted.

Just inside the door another shaking of hands, this time with Lou Mangionne, Dan’s managing editor. “Monsieur Renoir, we couldn’t be happier to have you with us. Can I get you anything?”

“Yes, maybe two crackers and some mineral water, please.” Renoir’s English came out with a strong hint of his French heritage but otherwise was excellent.

The men quickly sat down and Renoir immediately took in the lighting. The protocol letters they’d exchanged had clearly stated his aversion to certain kinds of light, and the gentle nod of Renoir’s small head gave Dan immediate hope.

Lou spoke first and gestured with exaggerated, beefy strokes. “I’m glad we met initially by tele-conference, because you already know who we are. Of course we know who you are, but our thirty million subscribers are very curious about the most famous man on this planet. We hope our questions today will be forthright, to the point, and revealing. Monsieur Renoir, I’m going to leave in a minute and you and Dan can get to work. Do you have any questions for me at this time?”

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Illustration: “Self-Portrait” © 2007 by Robert Sorensen

The sun was sinking beyond the grotesque spires. There were times when Jacob wanted to topple them. In a few years, maybe the Venus sands will have corroded them enough that a good loud shout would fell them. Somehow, though, he doubted that.

No matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t seem to get away from the spires. They rose into the blood-colored sky like flat-tipped, colored fingers embedded with specks of glass.

* * *

“Didn’t they say there were supposed to be jungles here?”

Stepping off the rocket a month earlier, Jacob had felt ready to slap the speaker, a man named Eddie. Jacob had been ready thousands of miles before they had even reached the planet. Being around Eddie was like traveling in a car with someone who reads aloud every road sign. Jacob would have avoided him, but the others aboard spoke incessantly of the golden days before the War, which had devastated almost all of the world. So long to the countries of leadership; it was every person for himself in the aftermath. There wasn’t a can of food to be found on Earth that one person wouldn’t slay another for in the hours and days following the devastation. Those who survived the War and found their way back to civilization had been lucky enough to find enough canned food — usually in or next to the hands of the dead. It was just two weeks after the War that the first rocket started to be built. They had to start from scratch; the War had turned the other spacecraft into fused pieces of metal.

“They said a lot of things back there,” Jacob replied to Eddie, feeling the hot air on his exposed face and hands, and looking around at the rocky baked ground. Still, not bad, he told himself. The terraformers did a pretty good job, considering the challenge.

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Illustration: “Crop” © 2005 by D’Wayne Murphy

Its endless, dreamy half-sleep was broken. It sensed movement in the firm, cool substance that it lay in. The substance shifted around it. A new thing, cold and sharp, that it had never felt before, touched its outer skin. The familiar closeness of the substance that had always been around it was no longer there. The other thing touched its body, scraping the last of the substance away.

It felt new, strange heat on its skin.

“There it is. Big one, must be six feet. Keep digging it out.”

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