PLANET MAGAZINE

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: “Genghis in Space” © 2007 by Romeo Esparrago

time dilation

we sail headlong
towards distant stars
blinking at us–

like sirens
their cosmic call
everywhere at once
apparently

but the light left
so long ago
we would be late
even if we could
eventually arrive there
in vestigial time

exhausted by the trip
& generations
later much too late
to explain to those
we met

how it is they
like us
must endure the ironies
of E=mc2

but the trick is
to trust the appearing
or the disappearing

or maybe just the slow dilation,
knowing better than to trust your eyes.

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Recently, the Planet Magazine offices received the following message from “The UFO Pilots Ass’n of Testbed Earth”. Interestingly, it came in via traditional fax. We were able to verify the information as correct, however, via the 1-866 contact number on the press release. When we called to ask, “A fax, WTF?! LOL!!”, the alien representative we spoke with told us that fax technology is a pure form of Lo-Tek and therefore fashionable among many in the Galactic Hierarchy.

Anyway, here is the communication in full, given the importance of the subject:

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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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As of February 1, 2007, the Odyssey Writing Workshop is offering free podcasts on its website, www.odysseyworkshop.org.

Odyssey is an intensive, six-week workshop for writers of fantasy, science fiction, and horror whose work is approaching publication quality. The workshop is held each summer in Manchester, New Hampshire.

The podcasts are excerpts from lectures given by guest writers, editors, and agents at Odyssey. Every month or two, Odyssey will release a new podcast. Each one is ten to fifteen minutes long. The first podcast is an excerpt from a lecture Charles L. Grant gave in the summer of 2000 on characterization. Future podcasts will feature lecture excerpts from Robert J. Sawyer, Melissa Scott, Jeff VanderMeer, Gardner Dozois, and others.

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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Illustration: “Powercell” © 2006 by Patrick Stacy

The black security car slipped through the armored gates of the Areadni embassy like a cat sneaking out for a snack. Roger Desprey sighed, got out of his own car at the curb, and waved an arm. The limo slowed to a stop centimeters from his toes. He showed his ID (United Nations of Earth, Diplomatic Service, Level 9) to the human driver. When the lock snapped open he took one last breath of fresh air and opened the door.

     The odor hit him immediately, a harsh aroma that always reminded Desprey of a tropical fish tank in need of cleaning. The Areadni Second Emissary sat inside. She wore a thin loose robe, black and crimson, that left her long arms and bony shoulders bare, displaying the dark irregular blemishes that covered the pale Areadni skin.

     Desprey dropped into the opposite seat and straightened his navy blue jacket. “Good morning, Kry’ill das Sen’Pal.”

     “Where is Susannah?” Kry’ill replied.

Susannah Anson had broken her ankle at racquetball that morning. The Human-Areadni Relations Commission’s computer had designated Desprey as an adequate substitute for the 10:00 a.m. meeting between Second Emissary Kry’ill and the mayor of Chicago.

Desprey chose his words with care. “She injured herself. I am Roger Desprey. The Commission named me to act in her place as your escort this morning.”

Kry’ill’s three eyestalks swung forward to examine him in an emerald glow. “Roger Desprey. Yes. Is Susannah dead?”

“No. She injured her foot playing a sport. But she is not able to walk.”

The eyestalks retracted into Kry’ill’s skull. “You are male.”

“Yes. I hope that’s not a problem.”

Kry’ill said nothing.

The car glided forward. Desprey looked at his watch. Today’s assignment was routine, if unenjoyable: escort the Areadni diplomat to the meeting where negotiations for an expansion of the embassy would commence. Not exactly the glory-filled destiny he’d anticipated when he’d taken the UNE Diplomatic Service test in 2064: he’d dreamed of traveling to other stars, forging historic peace agreements, spreading friendship and understanding throughout the galaxy. Instead, his days were filled with press releases and committee meetings and speeches. His only contact with alien culture was the occasional errand for the Areadni, which suited him fine. For all his well-intentioned dreams and ideals he couldn’t force himself to like them. Their blotchy skin was repulsive. And their smell nauseated him.

“Roger Desprey, please explain the sport,” Kry’ill said. “The cause of the injury to Susannah.”

“It’s called racquetball.” As Desprey tried to think of a description that would make sense, he felt the car swerve and glanced out the thick window to see the walls of a gray alley. “This isn’t the right way,” he said. He pressed the intercom. “Hey, where are we–”

The limo jolted to a halt, rolling Kry’ill forward in her straps. Desprey pressed the intercom again. “What’s going on?”

Everything happened like a vid on fast forward: shadowy human shapes in gray grabbed the door handles outside; fists pounded the windows. Desprey yelled. The driver’s door opened and slammed shut. The gray shapes backed away and then a roar shook the car on its springs and the shielded glass next to Desprey’s face shattered and he felt a blast of heat sear his skin. His straps bit his shoulders as the force of the explosion pushed him away from the door and smoky burnt air flooded the car. In the blackness he heard shouts and curses and then he felt a shock in his arm and remembered nothing that happened after that.

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[Illustration: “Fairyworld” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

Bobby Burns is gone, and with him the fair tongue he spoke. I pray, therefore, the ancient Celts to forgive me as I interpret the Gaelic tongue in order to bring appreciation of it to a newer time. As a babe, my ears heard the words:

Those words remain behind, but I shall bring you the story.

Thomas the Rhymer, Lord Earlston, gave birth to prose before the likes of Chaucer had even worn a Christening cap. Thomas took much pride in his silver tongue, by which he oft wooed the fair maidens, but by which he mainly escaped the sweat of the plow.

It was a fine day when Thomas chose to lay on Huntly bank at the foot of the Eildon Hills. His mind wove a magical verse for use with the evening’s ale, but the thread was spoiled when down the bank rode a lady of great beauty. Thomas knew her for a queen. Her steed strode with majestic pride, carrying its burden gladly. Thirty silver bells and nine hanging from the mane played the magical songs of the wind. The lady’s saddle was of royal bone laid over in gold. Her attire gave homage to her beauty, not daring to shine greater. Yet, strangely, she had a bow in her hand and arrows in her belt - a huntress. Only a faerie queen could muster such strength yet remain so fair.

The faerie queen deigned to pass Thomas by, intent upon the trail her hounds followed. Thomas could not allow such a sight to escape him.

“My lady,” he called, rising from the bank.

Within moments the hounds surrounded him, guarding their lady from harm. She spurred the great steed towards the intruder of her hunt, and brought a dirk to bear on his throat.

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Illustration: “Rover Buggy” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The weed of crime bears bitter fruit. Crime does not pay. The Shadow knows.”

Maniacal laughter echoed into the emptiness of outer space, and for the next twenty minutes Valerie and Maria were transported to an alien world where men in black fedoras and trench coats solved the city’s problems with two .45s and a cigarette, and women in flowing silk gowns puffed out sexy non-sequiturs through a pound of lipstick. It was a world that never quite existed, except in the ether of radioland, but seemed more real now than the sixteen-hundred square feet of their moon base prison.

They had been receiving radio signals in the kilohertz wavelength for the past two weeks. At first they took them for a rescue team, then survivors, then… well, then it became clear what the signals were -– echoes.

“Had a great uncle on my mother’s side. Maybe he was a great, great uncle. I’m not sure. Very old fellow. He still had some of these shows on reel-to-reel recordings. He said people used to gather around the radio every night. Of course, that was before there was TV.” Valerie spoke over the sound of screeching tires and blasting pistols.

“Shhh!”

Valerie waited, but they were losing the signal. Eventually, the Shadow’s mocking laugh faded into the static of star noise.

Maria turned off the speaker. “Sorry. That was the best one yet. I just wish we could hear a whole show.”

Valerie smiled knowingly. “We might soon. The signals seem to be getting stronger. I can program the dishes to track them next time.”

“If there is a next time.” Maria flopped down on the plastic utility couch and closed her eyes.

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

Spatters of pure oxygen

Poisoning us, bubble-hard

Then comes the sweep cycle

–methane never smelled so good *

About the Author: Arun Ahuja is a science fiction writer with an MS in biomedical engineering. His piece “Pomposity Penalized” won Editor’s Pick in the University of New Mexico’s magazine.
Poem (c) 2006 Arun Ahuja helioray@netscape.net

About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago lives on a gas giant and is therefore super-cool.
Illustration (c) 2006 Romeo Esparrago

[Illustration: “Den” © 2006 by D’Wayne Murphy.]

Den had made himself a good life after leaving the service of King Alexander. He started a small farrier’s shop in the northern border town of Gladia, the kind of town that was full of a variety of passersby on any given day, but without much to speak about except a few shops and the old fort that hadn’t been manned for a hundred years. He made a decent living forging weapons, horseshoes, and whatever else he was contracted to make. He had a wife of five years, and was forty years old. Before his retirement from the King’s army, his service, being both voluntary and full of illustrious duty, had earned him the highest honors and recognition, along with a measure of fame. Some considered him one of the greatest Kingsmen of the age, and tales of his heroic deeds were well known throughout the land.

Den reached such a place of esteem during the many years of his service that King Alexander even offered him knighthood, a position of honor typically never entrusted with someone not of royal blood. The last commoner to receive such an honor had saved the King’s life on two occasions, nearly two-hundred years past. Den respectfully refused, choosing a simpler life, hundreds of miles from the glory, the riches, and especially the intrigues associated with positions of power. He wanted a simple life for his family, to retire in peace. Let the stories speak for themselves; he had lived it and no longer wanted the glory. Besides, the realm was settled, peace was gained on a level that had not been known in hundreds of years, and he believed his duty to be done.

But it was not to be. Five years after his settlement in Gladia, a northern race known as the Dumerians invaded, a surprise attack that spread nearly the entire length of the border west of the towering mountains. The main force marched on Castle White, many days ride east of Gladia, and raiding parties were sent into the western lands. Den was on an errand south to Cambria at the time of the invasion, to obtain ore from the foundries there. When he returned along the packed-dirt road, he spotted the hulking creatures smash into a home on the outer edge of town. Seven- to eight-feet tall, wearing leather and fur, their lumbering gaits and large, hairless heads were unmistakable from even hundreds of yards out.

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