PLANET MAGAZINE

[Illustration: “Henge and Druids” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

Thousands of years ago on a flat bit of land that eventually would be called Salisbury Plain, in what eventually would be known as Southern Britain, stood a ring of wooden uprights that would be compost. For generations the ring had taken many forms and signified many things, including the free availability of wood and where the smell was coming from in damp weather. At that precise moment in the ancient religious site’s history, a single great stone lay on its side, surrounded by the men and women who had dragged it across the land. It had been stopped by an obstacle more serious than steep hill or flooding river. The leader of the band, App Front, had to face the final problem alone.

“You’ve got no appreciation of Nature,” accused the protester.

“I’m a druid,” replied App.

“But not a real druid. You were fast-tracked. You’ve not spent decades getting in touch with the Earth Mother. You wouldn’t know a shamanistic ritual if one bit you on the bum. When did you last explore the entrails of –”

“Please,” App interrupted. He was doing his best to keep his patience. This was hard, especially when his opponent began sounding like Master Thunder Cloud, and he just knew, if he didn’t stop this right now, there’d be some comment about his beard.

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

“Eww, there’s that creepy Johnny,” Amanda said, squishing her face up.

Megan wondered why her face didn’t look that cute when she practiced that expression in the mirror. Then she was fighting to keep her balance as Amanda jerked her behind one of the striped carnival tents. Her stumbling feet stirred up the scents of dust, old hay, and stale popcorn.

“I can’t stand him,” Amanda stage-whispered. “He’s such a nerd, and he’s always trying to touch me.”

Megan snuck a glance at the outlines of Amanda’s push-up bra showing through the tight shirt and knew why every boy in school tried to brush up against her. If it was Brandon or one of the other football players Amanda was currently in love with, she didn’t seem to mind. Glancing down at her own sweats, loose and form-concealing, Megan almost wished she had Amanda’s nerve.

“We have to hide somewhere,” Amanda said. Then Megan found herself being dragged along by the elbow at a near sprint to the opposite side of the tent. Amanda stopped so fast that Megan nearly ran into her. And Coach wondered why she preferred long distance to the stop and start of sprinting.

Amanda pointed. “There, the fortuneteller’s tent.”

“I don’t know,” Megan said. Her parents had warned her about messing with the occult — at best, they were scams, at worse, it was Satan’s realm. Knowing Amanda wouldn’t be turned from her course without a good alternative, she pointed at the building next to the fortuneteller’s somber black tent. “What about the freak show?”

“Eww, gross! Come on, I want my fortune told.”

So much for a good alternative. Megan found herself running behind her friend, unease tightening her stomach and shoulders. Amanda pushed aside the flap of the tent and ducked in. Megan stopped and allowed the flap to close with a puff of warm, cinnamon-scented air. It didn’t remind her of her grandmother’s kitchen. There were several other scents mixed in — something that might have been sandalwood and a green, crushed-herb scent that made her jittery. If she waited outside for Amanda, Megan would have to put up with the resulting silent treatment because she didn’t follow. And Johnny was kind of a jerk. She lifted the tent flap and slipped in.

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

“Look, if you’ll just inspect the implant in the back molar on the left side of my mouth, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth.”

Dr. Karrow looked at the disheveled man in ragged clothing who was sitting in the dental chair. They were now behind the partitions and the door, and the hearing of others. Dr. Karrow let out a sigh. He gazed at the little tin-foil hat that the dark-skinned man had fashioned and capped his thinning strands of black hair with. The hat was torn on one side. Karrow silently wondered at the impulse he felt to listen to this disoriented and babbling man, instead of simply calling the authorities to deal with him. But there was something… a quality of sheer earnestness in the man’s eyes and in his voice that compelled Karrow to listen. Dr. Nathan Karrow had rarely witnessed such earnest conviction, however delusional it might prove to be.

He smiled, patiently. “Now, please tell me your name.”

The homeless man held out a stress-thinned hand with gnarled fingers. His watery dark eyes went wide — searching for some sign of understanding.

“Eno. Eno Ecnahc.” He flashed a brief and nervous smile.

“Well. That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? Is it perhaps South American?”

Eno frowned and shook his head. “No. It isn’t.”

“And is this molar the only reason you’re here?”

“Yes. Dr. Karrow. Yes. The molar is the key. For you see, they are coming. The Qual. The Qualdrads. The Mother-Ship. They are coming, to steal your sun!”

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

It’s two for a dollar
the Whirlie-Warp ride
just past the Fun House
through the white gate
climb the wood tower
slide into the tunnel
and disintegrate
to cosmic scintillas
a boreal glow in
Devonian skies
a sparklet of moonrise
in dinosaur eyes
a night planet’s wink
at the prayer of a Sikh
aswirl through the eons
till whipped to a peak
you’ll step out again, whole
and find it’s last week. *

About the Author: Michael Katz teaches anatomy at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio.
Story (c) 2006 Michael Jay Katz mjk8@case.edu

About the Artist: Romeo Esparrago lives in a Fun House of the mind.
Illustration (c) 2006 Romeo Esparrago

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

On Bishop-34’s southern hemisphere the wind started to pick up. I could already tell, experience being the best sensor, that this was what I considered a “Classic” storm and as the first of the hydrogen-sleet began to sever land sensors and pelted what remained of my belt armor, I just shut down. No sense in being aware of a storm that could last up to a year or more.

* * *

The last time I had seen a storm like this was during my first tour of duty with Earth Guard as part of the 7th Fleet, Altaan-Sector. I remember it only because of how badly it had hampered our mission. The Altaan-Sector was on the far-most edge of human-inhabited space and had enjoyed enormous prosperity due to at first unrealized natural resources.

With the influx of such wealth in such a short amount of time the company-like colonies had gotten it into their heads that they no longer needed Earth and with that no longer needed to repay the massive loans extended to them. They then began to annex other small colonies. The fleet was sent in to remind them of their obligations.

The colony leaders had chosen a violent planet to use as their base of operations once it became clear that military action was due. Like mountains or bodies of water long ago, the colonists had mapped the planet’s weather systems extensively and had timed their landing and our approach perfectly. In short, we were held up for almost a year while the colonists fortified their defenses. I hated weather and I hated storms even more.

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[Illustration: “Space Alien” © 2006 by R. Lloyd rrobot34@aol.com.]

Eleanor Wolfsson had a rather bleak outlook on the fate of the world, but for now she was concerned only with taming her unkempt hair. Strands of brown hair escaped from between her fingers as she tried to pull them back and tame the tangle with the delicate, golden hairpiece her grandmother had given her for good luck. She managed to capture some of her hair in the clip, but the rest evaded her and hung limp at her shoulders.

Forsaking the hairpin at the sound of the alarm clock on her desk, Eleanor raced over to the only mirror in her one-room flat and critically regarded her clothing, hands akimbo. Her many-layered gauze skirt, printed with a pattern of interlacing flowers, was complemented by a black blouse with opalescent buttons. Looking over her green horn-rimmed glasses, she adjusted the choker around her neck.

Preceded only by a thin, whining noise, a sudden roar screamed by and then dimmed into nothing. This time, the noise was so loud that she winced; her ignorance as a newcomer to the Global City hardly ever worked in her favor. The single window in her underground flat peered out onto Highway 63, and every time a nucleobus whirled by the explosive blast was deafening.

The scanner whirred softly under Eleanor’s finger as she locked the door to her flat, and she slipped into the sleek metal elevator silently. The elevator climbed upward swiftly, reaching its destination before Eleanor could finish polishing her glasses. The doors stood open, almost restlessly, as they waited for her to step out.

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

The Hill of Magnificence had been in sight all day, but it was only on the eve of dusk that Samuel reached it. It was tall and verdant, and standing at the base, he could not see the top, where the stone slab stood embedded in the wild grass.

Samuel’s head swam as he ascended the slope. Now, after so long, reaching his destination felt like the final step on the gangplank, or perhaps the final tightening of the knot that held him to the guillotine. His calves were screaming, his feet blistering, but none of that registered.

He had spent what seemed like an eternity, lumbering along desert roads, with the eastern mountains at his back, searching for the Hill, which was somewhere in this desert world between the mountains of his home and the mysterious sea in the west. Finally, struggling over the crest of the Hill, he was bombarded by scarlet sunbeams. They stung Samuel’s tired eyes, and he raised his arms to block them.

The stone sentinel was there in the center, just as he had been told; silent and austere, it cast its long shadow towards where he stood. He sensed the energy in his body evaporate like the sparse morning dew on the desert roads. He fell to his knees and slid forward on the slick grass. He hid his face in his arms, despairingly, and lay prostrate, weeping uncontrollably. As the sun sank, the headstone’s cold shadow reached out and kissed his face, taunted him, made the memory of Michelle jump to life and fill him with guilt. He knew it was his fault that she was dead.

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[Illustration: “Like I Don’t Exist” © 2006 by Romeo Esparrago.]

It’s not easy being a superhero. Snap judgments are what it’s all about. I mean, all I saw was her, running out of her bedroom. Him, panting at her heels, his face red — leering — his shirttails hanging out of his pants. He grabbed her when she reached the top of the stairs, pinning her against the banister and she cried out. It sounded like a scream.

So I only did what any superhero would do. I yelled, and when he turned, I concentrated all of my energy in the heel of my foot and I kicked him downstairs. How was I supposed to know that he was her boyfriend?

His neck was bent at an odd angle from how he landed, head first, knocking against the wall at the foot of the staircase. Mom and I craned our own necks to look at him. “What did you do?” Mom whispered. She stared at me as if she didn’t know who I was. Not for the first time I thought: She doesn’t appreciate me.

She walked downstairs like the bride of Frankenstein, limbs all unhinged. She leaned to get a closer look at him, her hair falling forward and hiding her expression. She didn’t touch him though. She didn’t lay a finger on him. Then she walked into the living room and I sent myself to where she was walking. She yelped when I materialized in front of her. You’d have thought she’d be used to it by now — I’ve only been doing it for about seventeen years.

“What are you going to do, Mom?” I asked.

She gazed at me steadily. Then she said, “Jacie, I’m going to call the police.”

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[Illustration: “Wolfman” © 2006 by B. Lloyd.]

Dwelis Spurnfit exited the tower of the Order of the Watch and looked up at the night sky. His long, brown hair swayed with a passing breeze. It was cold and coming from the north. Soon the snows will cover the land, he thought.

The last embers of dusk glowed, low on the horizon, and stars appeared in its wake. He slung saddlebags over his mount, Loth, and prepared for the night’s patrol of the woods that surrounded the tower. The tower itself, a large structure of solid rock standing taller than a giant, overlooked much of the Split Land. This was where the knights surveyed the land for any trouble that might be seen.

Dwelis looked to the two brothers who were also preparing for the patrol. Chaltin Locke stood as tall and as proud as his brother Welthin, although the two could not be more different. Chaltin was always clowning around, and as knights in training had often gotten the three of them many detentions.

His brother, Welthin, was the opposite. Quiet and reserved, he calculated every movement and observed every detail.

The three knights had entered training together from the town of Thistlehorn, a day’s ride southeast from the Castle of the Order. Their training in combat and the codes of the knights made the three almost inseparable over the years. Now, among the two siblings, Dwelis couldn’t help but feel like a brother with them. He looked forward to the patrol this evening with the two men he admired most, even though they would be patrolling different areas.

“Any signs of trouble?” asked Welthin.

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To the editor(s) of Planet Magazine:

I am the editor of the new online science fiction magazine Atomjack, and I’m pleased to announce that Atomjack has just published its first issue, with short stories by Rick Novy, Bruce Boston, Cameron Pierce, Thomas Canfield, and Robert Laughlin. The site was created by the Rev. Brian Worley, whose credits include every issue of Susurrus Magazine and the web site for Lullaby Hearse.

http://atomjackmagazine.com

I’d be thrilled if you could check it out and let me know what you thought. I think you’ll enjoy the site, the stories, and the artwork.

Thanks for you time and consideration,

Adicus Ryan Garton, Editor

[Illustration: “Nuke Moon” © 2006 by Tracy Dilorenzo.]

Maxwell was in the middle of the first steak he had seen in almost a year when the communicator holstered at his waist began to beep. Maxwell sighed and closed the lid of his magnetized plate so the medium-rare ribeye wouldn’t float away, and answered the call. The mid-watch duty officer appeared on the device’s tiny screen.

“What can I do for you, Commander?” Maxwell said, idly using a fork to pry a piece of gristle from between two molars.

“Haystack has picked up a sizable object headed our way,” the officer said. Maxwell locked the fork into a slot on the table.

“How long?”

“We’ve got 372 minutes before it enters the exclusion zone. I’d say you should get a move on it.”

Maxwell passed his steak to the surprised maintenance tech sitting across the table and headed for the door. Eleven months off-planet had taught him to use the handholds lining the station’s walls with the agility of a hyper-adapted space monkey. The launch bay containing the only two Catfish class spacecraft in existence and their control apparatus was on the opposite end of the linked-globe structure that made up Platform Alpha.

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The link below provides a progress report on the invasion situation assembled by the Alien Commission (otherwise known as “the editors of Planet Magazine”). Future updates will be publicly transmitted the same way, but encoded and transmitted via broadcast and cable television. Planet readers should remain on high alert, as always, for these hidden messages. We hope you are inspired by its vision and determination.

Click here for coded communique