Astonishing Adventures Magazine Issue 4 by Astonishing

Astonishing Adventures Magazine Issue Four

Astonishing Adventuresmagazine.com

Table of Contents

Editorial................................................. John Donald Carlucci Nisel, My Darling................................. Michael Patrick Sullivan A Killer Combo......................................Phil Beloin Art.... Joanne Renaud A Private Triumph.................................Greg Camp Delta Ghost............................................ Mike Hughes I Want to Sleep With … Telly Savalas.... Katherine Tomlinson Morgue File........................................... Russell Roberts My Kind of Job....................................... Chris Dabnor Art.... Joanne Renaud Terrible Tess.......................................... Matthew P. Mayo The Many Worlds of WOLD NEWTON. Henry Covert Art... John Donald Carlucci The Return of Mike Ashby................... Rachel Kadushin What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?.......... Scott Harper

4 5 10 15 24 30 34 41 50 59 63 76

Cover “Rain on Scarlett”...................... John Donald Carlucci Issue #4 Publisher John Donald Carlucci PublisherJDC@Gmail.com

Editor-in-Chief Timothy Gallagher

EditorTimGallagher@Gmail.com

Editor Katherine Tomlinson AAMDragonlady@Gmail.com

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. All right belong to the original artists and writers for their contributed works. August 1st, 2008

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Editorial By John Donald carlucci

Pulp: A publication, such as a magazine or book, containing lurid subject matter. American Heritage Dictionary Pulp: A magazine or book printed on rough, low-quality paper made of wood pulp or rags, and usually containing sensational and lurid stories, articles, etc. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1) “Any time the heroes resolve a complex situation by running down a corridor as shit explodes around them and completely over-the-top implacable enemies scream imprecations through rising flames and our guys pause just long enough to say something somehow simultaneously smart and corny and heart-achingly true, then start running again because the clock is ticking and nobody saw this twist coming and they’re making it up as they go along -- pulp.” John Rogers - kfmonkey.blogspot.com

’m here doing a little recruiting in place of Tim this time around. AAM is growing and we’re looking for a few people who love pulp as much as we do. We’re looking for editors, artists, and writers who have strong voices. The launch of the new site shows the continued refinement of where we’re going and how the Internet is shaping the journey. Consider joining our team and take a chance on helping us build that future. John Donald Carlucci Publisher

“NISEI, MY DARLING”

The Auslander in

“NISEI, MY DARLING” By Michael patrick sullivan

orporal Joe Levandowski put up a hell of a fight. When bushwhacked by a foreigner with shockingly white hair and an out-of-season black trench coat, he responded with a doublefisted fury rarely seen outside of the squared circle and certain back alleys on the South Side of Chicago. His first few jabs connected with the stranger’s gut. It was the booted reply that kept the young, but burly enlisted man from finishing the conversation in short order. The steely-faced outlander managed to dodge most of Joe’s following attacks, but in doing so had difficulty connecting a hit to his uniformed foe. He had been taking many things into consideration as they fought in the deserted bus station in the California desert. He wanted no blood to land on the young man’s Army uniform. He also wanted no blows to land on his own face. It would only cause questions that would not easily be answered. Several minutes of dancing with the occasional loss of wind on either man’s part came to an abrupt end when the foreigner came to the conclusion that the dusty slick floor of the rarely traversed bus terminal, and a heavy metal bench were better weapons than his chapped knuckles. With a crash and a thud, Corporal Levandowski was pinned, a prone target for the stranger’s relentless blows. And as his consciousness faded, the young khaki-clad soldier managed to get three words out. The same three words the blackand-white man hated to hear. “Who are you?” There was only one answer. Always the same

answer. The only one he knows. “Ich bin ein Auslander.” It gave The Auslander no pleasure to beat the soldier senseless. Just as it gave him no pleasure that he may well be the very Nazi scum that such a young man had signed up to kill. All the German-speaking stranger knew for certain was that several weeks prior, he had awakened in a motel room with no knowledge of who he was or where he came from. His only clues as to his possible and horrible former identity was an Austrian accent when he spoke. That and the dreams. Dreams that always led him to places where Nazi sabotage was about to strike. The most recent of those dreams was hazy and unclear, but it led him here, to a bus station outside of Manzanar, California. The sight of razor-wire fences was familiar to him, as was the feel of a stiff uniform. He couldn’t place the time or the locale exactly but he had an idea. A terrible idea. A lot of things were familiar about the Manzanar internment camp. He knew, though, that it could be worse. A mouth full of cotton balls and the words “dentaw pwocedure” got himself and his accent through his initial reporting for duty. His shift began that evening, where he would patrol the perimeter for ten hours. In waiting, he kept to himself, becoming familiarized with the grounds, and the faces of the Japanese-Americans interned there. It was a reminder to him that there was more than just the war he knew going on. And

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

he was here because those two fronts were very well about to meet right here, in one of the metal-roofed huts under the hot western sun. Somewhere within the chain-linked fences that held American citizens prisoner, for no other reason than they looked like the enemy, was someone named Charles Yashida. The Auslander knew that Germans and Japanese alike sought after Yashida. Every face, whether the Asian features of the interned or the sunbeaten Caucasian faces of their keepers, sparked suspicion in the shock-haired sentinel. Any of them could be an agent of the Axis powers, be they eastern or western. And whoever got to Yashida first would wield a horrible power, but what the power was, the Auslander did not know, nor did he care. He merely thought it ironic that the power to end the war was locked away by the only hands it should ever fall into. He knew only that Yashida was a promising scientist, born and raised in Kyoto and educated abroad, notably in Vienna, a city the Auslander assumed he knew well once. He recalled a typewritten page emblazoned with a swastika at the top and the word “geheimnis.” Secret. There was also a notation that the information came from an intercepted communiqué of some kind. As tensions rose in Europe, The Auslander recalled, and an unsettling feeling plagued him in his homeland, Yashida chose to immigrate to the land of the free, only to find himself considerably less free than he’d anticipated. When war broke out, he abandoned his research as being too terrible to fall into hostile hands, but the nowAxis powers were all too aware of Yashida and his work. Only the Allies, it seemed, knew nothing of Yashida’s research, or he wouldn’t be wasting away in a blazing internment camp. The Austrian Avenger had little time to find Yashida and ensure his safety. It was late Friday, and by Monday morning, the bus station manager would surely find the bound Army corporal in his office. There was only one problem. He had no idea what Yashida looked

like or if, in fact, he was too late and he’d already been captured or killed by Japanese spies or by Nazi agents that he himself may have dispatched, in another life. By the end of his second sentry duty on Saturday, the khaki-clad foreigner had located a barracks that housed one Charles Yashida. There was no guarantee this was the right man. There was always the possibility that the dream that led him here was just that. A dream. There was also the concern of how to protect Yashida. Was he to convince him to go the Americans with his terrible knowledge, whatever it may be? Was he to help him escape Manzanar? If so, then to where? The Auslander’s time was ticking away, faster than he thought he would find. From the corner of his steely eyes, the amnesiac adventurer caught sight of a slender, black-clad figure as it dodged between the searchlight patterns and leapt, amazingly quiet, from the rooftops of one barracks to another. The figure moved swiftly, with purpose, as if on the hunt. “I have my bird dog,” he thought to himself as he surreptitiously followed the figure’s spirit-like movements from below. The ebon-sheathed dodger came to rest on the roof of an unmarked building. Not a barracks. Built better, more solidly. It served some official capacity, but not one that was readily apparent to the untrained eye. The Auslander, however, knew instinctively what went on behind the non-descript, easily overlooked. It was a place where secrets were both kept and, perhaps, betrayed. “The Americans found Yashida first,” the foreigner muttered to himself as he surmised that the swift-moving figure was likely an agent of the Third Reich. One he might have known at one time. One who may know him now. It was a prospect that filled The Auslander with dread. With every “mission” he undertook, he learned a little something about he who was. Things he wished he could unlearn. And each time there is the fear that that monster might return.

“NISEI, MY DARLING” The faux-corporal paused outside the door of the shadowy structure. Preparing for the possibility that he may have to subdue a couple of guards. Not kill. Not the allies, regardless of what he thought of the internment camp. “It makes the job so much harder,” he thought to himself, aghast a moment later at his want for fatality in the name on convenience. A creaking of a floorboard within, prompted him into action. Something was happening and he needed to know what it was. The heavy wooden door came down with a massive thud. The Auslander moved as a blitzkrieg through the empty front room, opting for speed and force over his opponent’s litheness and stealth. He immediately took a stance of defense, ready to take on the absolutely no one that was in the room. There was only another door. Ajar. And with another charge and a total disregard of personal safety or quiet, the foreigner hit the door with his shoulder. Instead of landing on an unfortunately and perhaps poorly-trained Army private, or an overly well-trained O.S.S. officer, or even just an empty wooden floor, he found that he was the destination of another landing, as his sly opponent’s foot landed squarely on his hardedged nose, rendering it a little less straight that it had been. Pain was something The Auslander was skilled at deferring. He barely recoiled from the impact at all, instead continuing forward and grabbing hold of the shadowy stranger. His fingers found the forearm of his opponent and locked onto it like brakes on a wheel, grinding her to a stop. Her. The forearm was soft and thin, but not at all frail. It was rigid and moved with a power he could scarcely contain. It was unexpected. “Was de Tuefel?” The words slipped out of his mouth much the same way his stolen M1911A1 automatic pistol slipped out of its holster and into the free hand of female foe. She was covered

in black form head to toe, save for her eyes. Fierce eyes that certainly spelled death for The Auslander. “You’ll not take Yashida, you kraut scum!” The only thing that stayed her finger at the trigger was the lights in the room suddenly coming up and the four U.S. Army soldiers with rifles trained, two each, squarely at his and her head. She let the gun go slack and hang off her finger for one of her captors to snag with a quick and cautious lunge and a spring back. “Take off the mask,” said the Captain. She had no choice. She reached for the top of her tightly fitted hood. “Slowly,” the Captain clarified. She pulsed it directly up as she tilted her head downward. With the mask came a cascade of silky black hair that continued the service of the mask and hid her face away until she looked up with eyes just as fierce as they had been in battle. They were creaseless and almond-like, in shape and color. Her skin had a sandy hue. She was Japanese and, it appeared, The Auslander’s opposite number. To a stranger, it would appear they faced a common foe. She knew as little of him as he did of her. A German and a Japanese agent, faced by a squad of armed Americans. Whatever their purpose and goal regarding the target Yashida, they would both benefit by the joining of forces and she was quick to pick up on his very slight facial gesture. Almost a tick. It was a tick that led to one soldier being swept off his feet by the femme fatale, though less by her beauty and more by her swinging left leg as she dropped to the floor and pivoted on her hands, looking for a moment like a cross between a ballet dancer and a Howitzer. A second rifleman’s aim was thrown off when the first fell into him. The Asian agent had set the two up to fall like dominoes. She caught the first man’s weapon when he lost hold of it the same time he lost hold of his balance, but to The Auslander’s surprise, she used it as a blunt force

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

weapon rather than for it’s intended function, rendering two of their would-be captors unconscious. He caught her actions in his peripheral vision, as he was squarely focused on his share of the Americans. He gripped the Captain’s rifle by the barrel and with a jerk and a shake had managed to get the senior officer’s finger behind the trigger, and with a twist, broken, as well as stuck in the trigger assembly. The shock-haired sentinel kept hold of the Captain’s gun as a leash, forcing the writhing officer to his knees and conveniently in the way of his subordinate, who had held off on firing for fear of hitting his commander. He’d waited too long to fire and now fear had taken hold of him. He saw his Captain controlled and his colleagues neutralized. “What will you do?” The Auslander asked, in his thick Austrian accent that he simply could not shake and not at all uncertain of the answer. It was less a question and more an offer. With that, the remaining soldier relinquished his weapon to the Eastern woman. “Where is Yashida?” Before he could answer the European, the woman reached for the young man’s neck and with a twist, rendered him unconscious. The Auslander looked to her, puzzled. She stared back at him with her brown eyes, almost black in the poor light. “There is no Yashida,” she said, certain. “It was a trap. One I nearly ruined.” She spoke with a slight accent, but not a Japanese accent. He vowels were flat. She was born here. She lunged at him, renewing their battle with vigor, as if they’d never been interrupted, as they would surely be again, and in greater force. “At least I’ll be able to take one Nazi agent off the board,” she uttered as kicked a rifle from the floor into her hands with and adroitness the likes of which the foreigner had never seen. The Austrian put the facts together as he took hold of the rifle barrel as he did previously to

the Captain, but he did not trap his feminine opponent as he did the American officer. Instead he pulled her closer in, moving the muzzle of the weapon harmlessly past his head. “I am not here in service of the Third Reich, as you are not here in service of the Empire of the Rising Sun, are you?” She was right, he realized. It was indeed a trap, meant to expose stateside agents and saboteurs. It was clearly one that the Germans had sussed out, as he had yet to locate such an agent in his short time at Manzanar. Instead, the Yashida gambit caught two unlikely agents for the force of good, it would seem. “You sound like a Nazi,” she said, as she slipped her finger from the trigger trap, but kept her place in front of the stone-faced outsider. She locked her eyes onto his, and gripped his wrist, to hold him in place, perhaps, or gauge the truth of his words. “Once, I think I was. Call this my penance.” Her eyes lost the fire of violence. She believed him. He broke the brief silence with a question. The one he always hated to hear. “Who are you?” She looked away from him briefly, either to fabricate an answer or to debate with herself to let him know the truth. She returned her gaze to his square-jawed face. “I was a prisoner here until late last year, when my father died here. I had no reason to stay so on New Year’s Eve I slipped away and ceased to exist. Once I was out, I didn’t know where to go and I fell in with some Issei and Nisei who would not comply with Order 9066, living underground. They were bitter at the treatment they received at the hands of the people of their home. Some of them turned their allegiance back to Japan. I wouldn’t and they tried to kill me. I escaped and now I’m trying to track them down and stop them.” “We are of a kind, then,” The Auslander said quietly. “We are, it seems.” She still gripped his wrist. He lowered the rifle slowly to the floor.

“NISEI, MY DARLING” At first, she thought the soft clattering she heard was the weapon as he deposited it, but they both realized the truth. Fisticuffs are rarely quiet, and disarming the United States Army is less so. “At least fifteen,” she said. “Twenty.” He was positive. Whatever training he once had, it was still in there and it was very good. “We’ll do no one good in a prison cell.” She looked around, as if an option might present itself. “I can get out of here, but I can’t take on—“ “Don’t worry about me.” He smiled as he spoke. He was looking forward to this. “You go.” She released his wrist and leapt up toward a hatch The Auslander had not noticed in the building’s attic. She disappeared into it, just as quickly, her face reappeared in the shadows. “We’ll meet again one day.” “Hopefully, it will be Victory Day for the allies.” She lowered herself, inverted from the portal of her escape, putting her face-to-face with her newfound confederate. “Hopefully sooner than later.” She took hold him, her slender fingers sifting between his white, cropped locks and kissed him like it was the end of the world. She seemed almost to levitate back up into the ceiling. She faded into the darkness, save for her eyes and a Cheshire smile. He watched her slowly vanish. “What is your name?” “Call me Katsumi.” From a complete shroud of darkness, she asked, “What do I call you?” He heard the boots on the door of the outer room. He turned his eyes from the pure black shadows above him and faced the onslaught about to try to burst through the narrow second doorway. For the first time, he smiled as he spoke the words: “Ich bin ein Auslander.” At the debriefing in the camp infirmary

the following morning, all any of the exactly twenty broken men-at-arms could remember was laughing and a fist that hit like iron. At the same time, Corporal Joe Levandowski was awakened suddenly by the bus station manager who found him tied to a chair in his office. The corporal’s consciousness arrived so suddenly he let out an expletive: “--die Scheiße.” And though the manager was classified 4F, he still got to beat up some Nazi swine. Michael Patrick Sullivan is a Californiabased writer of fiction, non-fiction and reports of questionable veracity. He is currently trying to break into writing for TV with a big stack of spec scripts and a small stack of blackmail photos. In the meantime, he is a contributing writer for Comic Book Resources, the creator of the Area Five series of internet videos, and was recently recognized by the Rod Serling Conference at Ithaca College for his short feature “Ghosts That Smell Like New Car.” His character, The Auslander, makes his fourth apearance in this issue. He can be contacted through redrighthand.net

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“A Killer Combo” By Phil Beloin

londe hair. Blue eyes. A killer combo. I would “How does it feel, Hank?” she said. know. I was lying in the bottom of the grave I Tightness in the chest, a little burning, had dug up, staring at Celia and the smoking Colt surprisingly not much blood. “No more, Celia,” Root in her hand. I muttered. Celia bent down, her dress going tight along the swell of her chest, to pick up the case that held the Ancient Ring of the Tartans. “Oh, sure, Hank.” And then she stepped away from the hole. I tried to get up, but the bullet had drilled my body into the moist earth. I stared at the arthritic branches of a dead oak that hovered over the cemetery. Beyond the limbs, stars shined from the heavens. My eyes got weak, and I couldn’t stop them from closing. Two spinsters heard my calls and brought me to their home overlooking a hook in the Mississippi. Both had been nurses, one had even tried to be a doctor, and she dug the Colt’s discharge from between the ribs just below the heart. The women reminded me of my sisters, their features and movements similar, but at the same time not. Hard to explain. Hard to rationalize even. During my interminable bed rest, I explained to my saviors that I had been walking near the cemetery when I noticed the grave robbers, who noticed me at the same time. They tried to snuff me out, my body dropped in the hole for dead. I don’t know how long I was in their home

“A Killer Combo” before one of the ladies said, “You need greater convalescing than we can provide.” “I recommend the hot springs in Alabama,” the other said. “They are excellent for a wound so near the heart and lung.” They brought me to the station, and as we said goodbye, I called them my sister’s names. They only smiled and hugged me tighter, avoiding the tenderness of my left side. The bus trip seemed endless and left me with a sore chest and difficulty breathing. I found lodgings near the springs, and the next morning, I took my first bath, keeping my entire body under the water for as long as possible. Then I’d turn, belly up, for air. I lost the days, immersed in the cleansing heat. Each visit, I did the dead man’s float, letting the waters take my pain away. The springs even healed the skin around the bullet hole, leaving behind no scar. My lungs regained their full power. I would visit this ramshackle joint for an afternoon beer-its benefit as fantastic as the springs-and while I never got drunk, I cannot recall the features of the place. On a timeless afternoon in a never-ending heat wave, I was slouched at a corner table sipping a foamy draft, when this beauty strolled in. As she turned my way, my heart pinged against my ribs, sending a shiver of pain around my old wound. Celia hadn’t changed one iota-the shining blonde hair, the piercing blue look, a dress so skimpy it could raise the departed. She came right at me, sweet strides swaying those fine hips. “Look who’s back from the grave,” she said. “Thought I was goner?” “Not you, Hank.” While sitting across from me, she brushed a strand of blonde from her vision. “I’m not surprised to see you in these parts.” “How’s that?” “I knew you’d hear about the dagger.” I hadn’t been thinking about buried treasure.

“You must still be flush from the Ring,” I said. “It’s the chase, Hank,” she said. “You know that.” “Then why’d you try to rub me out? We had done some good chasing together.” She leaned forward, giving me a sumptuous view, and took my hand in hers. “Plain old greed. But I couldn’t finish it. I walked away because I realized...” She stopped to wipe tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “Realized what?” “I still loved you, Hank.” She broke down, dropping her head to the table. “Can you ever stop hating me?” “I never hated you, Celia.” “When I left the cemetery that night, I stopped at the first house I came across and two ladies answered the door. I told them I thought I heard gunfire in the graveyard. They said they’d look into it.” Looking up, the blue in her eyes grew brighter. “Will you ever be able to forgive me?” I took a slug of beer, wiping the foam from my lips. I could remember thinking how much I loved her as I handed up the Ancient Ring of the Tartans, for which she shot me. And then gone for help. “Tell me what you got on this dagger,” I said. Celia had stopped in that dump to get directions. We were looking for the address of an ancient Confederate before he left for the 75th Reunion at Gettysburg. Celia said nearly two thousand veterans from both North and South were heading towards Pennsylvania now. President Roosevelt would be there also, dedicating a new peace monument. The bartender sent us to a dirt road, into back country of abandoned sharecropper huts and unplanted fields. The house turned out to be a log cabin without conveniences of any kind. As we parked, I saw an old fellow sitting in the shade of the porch. He eyed us coming up the stairs.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“Ya’ll from the government?” he called out. He wore a Confederate gray frock coat with brass trim and buttons. A kepi contained his hair, but not the scraggly white beard that stretched to his lap. “No, we’re not,” I said. “Some sol-jer boy suppos’ come take me up North.” “Are you Silas Yancey?” Celia asked. “Sure is. Who ya’ll?” “We’re researching a book on The War between the States,” I said, “and if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you some questions.” I took out a small notebook Celia had given me in the car. He cleared a thick wad from his throat by spitting to the side. “You know, I was born in this place over ninety years ago. Came back to the ‘zact same spot after the war was lost in 1865 and here it be nineteen hundred and thirtyeight, and not once in all that time has any book writers, ‘specially Yankees, come see me.” “There’s not many veterans left,” I said. “Well, son, we’re going fast enough,” he said. “Fact is, I’m all’s that’s left from the old regiment.” “Mr. Yancey...” Celia said. “Silas to a pretty lady, ma’am.” She gave him her shy smile, with her chin down slightly, but her eyes lifting to catch his. “Silas, we’d been interested in whatever you could remember.” “Talk to ya’ till my ride come,” Silas said, “but, I got to tell ya, I was only in one real fight.” “Where and when did you serve?” I said. “I join up with the Alabama Home Guard late ‘64. Lied about my age, told ’em I be seventeen but it was fourteen. Did ‘bout six months till ‘round May when we gave up.” “We understand,” Celia said, “that you served with Colonel Leonidas Price.” “Yes, ma’am. My commanding officer. A good man.” “Was it true he carried an old dagger?” I said.

“He had a sword, too, but he swung this little blade ’round and ’round to git us all excited for that one battle we in. Spanish Fort is where I git wounded. I recover pretty quick, though.” “An officer using a dagger?” Celia said. “If I recall,” Silas said, “there was some foolhardy rumor among the other officers, the colonel’s dagger come from Rome ‘round the time of Jesus.” “That old?” I said. “It must have looked strange.” He turned away to spit again. “I only zaw it a few times, can’t even remember what it looked like. Not one feller in the ranks believed it belong to some Roman, though.” A black topped sedan came down the dirt road, raising up dust, beeping its horn. “Probably that government boy, now,” Silas said. “What happened to Colonel Price after the war?” Celia asked. “He was might’ near his seventieth year at war’s end,” he said. “Didn’t live much beyond them carpetbaggers ruinin’ everthin.’ He git buried in full dress uniform.” The Buick Century pulled in next to Celia’s Packard. “We’d like to go and see the colonel’s tomb,” I said. “You know where that is by any chance?” Celia asked. It was the crux of our visit. Celia’s research had found nothing on the colonel’s burial site. The soldier from the Buick walked onto the porch. “Mr. Yancey, sir?” he said. “I’m here to transport you to the train station.” Silas stood, using a cane I hadn’t seen before. “Suitcase is inside the door there. Can ya git it for me?” “My pleasure, sir,” the soldier said. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, going into the cabin. “Hey, let me show you Yanks where I git shot at Spanish Fort.” “Silas?” Celia said. “What we’re really

“A Killer Combo” interested in is...” But she stopped as Silas unbuttoned the frock coat and lifted up his shirt. He had a small black circle in his rib cage just below his heartalmost where I had taken one. “Bluecoat cavalry done this,” he said. “Feller rode in real close on me and used his Colt Root.” I looked at Celia while Silas fixed his clothes. She seemed like she hadn’t heard him. Instead, she put a hand on his shoulder as he peered after the soldier who had gone inside his cabin. “Silas,” she said, “do you recall where your colonel is buried?” He looked back at her. “Heck,” he said, “I done helped carry his casket.” It was an old cemetery with tombstones dating back to the seventeen hundreds. We wandered around until coming across a section reserved for Civil War veterans. Colonel Price’s marker was a little bigger than the other Confederates, the chiseled writing faded, but readable. “You think the dagger is in there?” I said to Celia. “Only one way to find out,” she said. “Won’t be dark for a few more hours.” She had a blanket in the Packard’s trunk along with a shovel and flashlight. I set the blanket down behind a sarcophagus, and we laid in each other’s arms. As the sun dropped behind the mountains, Celia woke me from a deep sleep. “Hank?” “Celia?” “You trust me again, don’t you?” I kissed her forehead and patted some golden locks back into place. “Always,” I said. “I love you, Hank,” she said. “I love you, too, Celia.” We kissed and when we parted, she spoke, her breath warm on my lips, “Let’s get married.” “You mean it?” “More than anything.”

“Yeah, let’s tie the knot, “ I said, staring into those blue eyes that could kill a man. “But we got some digging to do first.” It was difficult spadework, the earth hard and unyielding. My chest ached as I drove the shovel into the stony ground. The pain didn’t bother me much early on, but the farther I dug, the worse it became. By the time I exposed the top of the coffin, I was hunched over. “Are you okay?” Celia said from the top of the hole. “Yeah,” I said. I went to my knees to open the lid. It fell apart in soft rotten chunks. I brushed away the debris, revealing the burial cloth. That material disintegrated to the touch. Beneath it was the remains of a frock coat very similar to the one Silas Yancey had been wearing. “What do you see?” Celia said. “Toss me the flash.” I looked up, the light blinding me until it fell towards my outstretched hand. I shined the beam on the colonel’s skull, empty eye sockets staring at me, the jaw fixed in a demented grin. I swung the light along the body, and while I peeled more cloth away, pain shot up my arm. I ignored it as my fingers found a scabbard, long and curved, holding a regimental sword. On the other side of the skeleton was a small sheath, a handle sticking out. “Well?” Celia said. The handle glowed in the light. “I think...” I said, reaching for the dagger, “this is it.” “Hand it up, Hank.” I was breathless, whether from exertion or excitement, I couldn’t tell. I yanked on the handle. The dagger was gold with encrusted jewels. “We’re going to have the biggest wedding ever, Celia,” I said.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

My eyes shot open. It was darker than death, and when I moved my hands, I felt damp earth all around me. As blood dripped down my side, a chill rattled my bones. My chest burned when I tried to breath. I stared at the arthritic branches of a dead oak that hovered over the grave. Beyond the

limbs, stars shined from the heavens. I lost consciousness and dreamed. Blonde hair...blue eyes...a killer combo.

“A Private Triumph”

“A Private Triumph” By Greg Camp

ulpin stared through the wispy smoke toward the main display. He suppressed a cough, trying not to let the acrid scent of burning insulation overcome him in front of his officers. On the screen, he saw the asteroids being illuminated by the bursts of the energy weapons that he had predicted would be hidden there. His first officer, Lieutenant Manxus, looked back wearily from across the conn. “Tasitor, damage report, if you please,” he asked the ship’s master, who was standing between the helm and the gunner’s stations in the forward part of the compartment. “Guns one, three, and seven destroyed, Captain. Dorsal hull forward has breeches, but affected compartments have been sealed. No other damage reported, sir.” “And casualties?” “Two spacers killed, five wounded. No officers were hurt,” Tasitor answered. “Increase speed to three quarters cee, and get us out of range of those gun platforms,” Vulpin ordered, fixing his eyes on the deck before him and working not to show the hatred that he felt toward such lack of concern over another’s death. He listened to the master repeating his order to the helm officer. “Once we are out of range, bring us about and come to a stop,” he added. “We have an advantage in range of a hundred thousand miles, so fifty thousand miles out of their range ought to do.” Vulpin, himself, had risen through the ranks, having started as an able spacer impressed

from a merchant ship that ran the trade route between Earth and the Centauri system. That he had risen on ability and not family connections made many of the traditional officers in the Fleet despise him, out of offended pride, of course, but also out of jealousy for skills that they lacked. It was just this pride that had got Vulpin’s ship, the Raptor, and the other ships of the squadron into trouble. To be sure, the reports on the Epsilon Indi system came from hired spies and not noble warriors, but were such warriors unable to read a navigational chart? The asteroid belt lay obviously across the course that Admiral Draccus had directed. It had ideal places for hiding gun platforms, as Vulpin had repeatedly observed to the admiral. He had recommended an approach to the second planet from above the system to avoid the asteroid belt altogether, and had anyone else suggested it, that would have been the squadron’s course, but coming from a commoner, the idea had been rejected. The ship shook violently, dragging Vulpin out of his thoughts. “They’re firing again, sir,” Tasitor said. “Indeed, and why aren’t we?” “We’re bringing our guns to bear, sir,” Tasitor answered, trying to cover his inactivity. Vulpin turned away to give the master a chance to nudge the helm officer with his foot unobserved. Tasitor was a fool, but as the second son of a fleet admiral, he had to be excused a great deal. “To remind you of my order, you are

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

to bring our guns to bear once we are out of range—whatever guns we have remaining, that it. That was not to say that firing the guns while we are still in range was forbidden.” “Aye, sir.” “Lieutenant Manxus, join me, if you please,” Vulpin said, as he moved to the aft of the compartment. Manxus came back to stand beside him. “Lieutenant,” Vulpin said softly, “schedule combat drills at your earliest convenience.” “Some of the officers will object, sir,” Manxus answered, looking over at Tasitor. “No doubt they will, but slightly humbled is more alive than proudly dead.” “You do keep asking for more attention on yourself than I’d think that you’d want, Captain.” “Don’t worry, Manxus. Your connections will save you, even from having my name in your service history.” “I was more concerned about your safety, sir. Some officers see accidents as opportunities.” “So you’d object to a promotion?” Vulpin asked, allowing amusement into his voice. He had known his first officer long enough to feel no threat from him. “That would leave me in command of Tasitor, sir. That’s more of a burden than anyone would take on willingly.” Vulpin sighed and moved forward to stand next to the helm station. Surely the ship was out of range of the rebel guns by now. “Captain,” Tasitor said after nudging the helm officer again, “we are now out of enemy range and are coming about.” “Very well,” Vulpin replied, “am I correct in understanding that our starboard guns are still functioning?” Tasitor nodded. “Bring those guns to bear, and commence firing.” Tasitor made a show of being efficient, but he hesitated before giving each order, and the gunner and helm officer took their own time obeying. Vulpin wondered how long he

would have this particular crew. The squadron had been assembled in haste, as no one in the government had expected the rebellion. Ships had been brought from distant systems by skeleton crews and staffed with anyone who happened to be at hand. Vulpin preferred to spend several months in training with a new crew, but the squadron had taken only a week to travel from Earth to Epsilon Indi, barely enough time to get everyone assigned to a particular station. The deck rumbled as the guns fired. Looking at the main display, Vulpin watched the bursts of energetic particles being flung at the asteroids. The gun platforms took multiple hits. As his own ship was firing, the other ships in the squadron were grouping around the Raptor— not in any sensible formation, naturally—and firing as well. As he watched, he noticed a haze in front of the screen, and his eyes shifted focus to see that a small fire was still burning in the exposed wiring on the deck. “Tasitor, do you think that the engineer could spare someone to put out that fire?” “I’ll check, sir,” Tasitor answered. Vulpin held himself back from barking that a proper ship’s master would already have done so. Looking back at the screen, Vulpin saw that the rebel guns had been destroyed. It had all been a battle for show, really. That must have been the real reason that Vulpin’s recommendations had been ignored. Admiral Draccus knew that there would be casualties and damage, but what good was a battle without some loss? If no one died or was wounded and if there was no need for the repair docks upon return to base, the whole expedition would look trivial, even ridiculous, and certainly no cause for a triumph through the streets of the capital. “Captain,” Manxus said after taking a tablet from the signals officer, “we’ve received orders to proceed to the second planet to begin the bombardment. You personally have been ordered to repair to the flagship. Admiral

“A Private Triumph” Draccus wishes to speak with you.” “Our Father calls, eh?” Vulpin asked, not even trying to hide the sarcasm. “Ask the boat deck to ready my barge for launch, if you please.” Manxus sent the order. “Lieutenant, walk with me,” Vulpin added after stepping over to the hatch and opening it. Manxus followed him out into the corridor. Vulpin said nothing as they headed for the boat deck, and Manxus remained silent as he walked beside his captain. Finally Vulpin stopped and looked both ways down the corridor to see that no one was around. “Lieutenant, you’ll be in command of the ship during the bombardment,” he said. “The admiral, it seems, wants me off my ship during the heroic fight against defenseless civilians.” “He has no cause to doubt your loyalty, sir.” “He has plenty of cause to doubt, and he’s right in doing so. Manxus, can you tell the difference between a rebel base and an ordinary city?” “Yes, sir,” Manxus answered and then added, “aye, sir.” “Don’t get yourself into trouble,” Vulpin said, laying a hand on Manxus’s shoulder, “but do remember that our crews are not noted for their efficiency Well, you’d best get back to the conn before Tasitor mucks things up beyond all hope for rescue.” Manxus nodded and left. Vulpin continued toward the boat deck. He had never wanted to be an actor, but yet again he was being called on stage for a performance. His audience was Admiral Draccus. Vulpin would have to put on a good show at being gratified while watching thousands die. Vulpin boarded his barge and sat silently in the back, saying nothing more than was necessary as his coxswain worked the boat off the deck and out into space over to the flagship, the Revenge. The Raptor and the Revenge were flying in loose formation with the five other

ships of the squadron toward the second planet in the system. Vulpin watched his barge approach the Revenge. His coxswain brought the boat up along a parallel course until it was even with the ship and then slowly over toward the portside boat deck. There was a brief shaking as the spatial fields of the two vessels touched and then merged, but that ended soon. Vulpin smiled briefly at the image he got of a remora approaching a shark—imperial ships did look remarkably like the Earthly predator—but he felt his throat tighten when he remembered what awaited him in the flagship. Admiral Draccus had summoned him, and while the reason had not been given, Vulpin believed that he had been close to the truth in what he had said to Manxus. The admiral wanted to watch him watching the bombardment. The barge landed on the boat deck, and Vulpin saw the outer hatch close, feeling that the imagery was appropriate. The feeling of being trapped increased as he got out of the boat and entered the corridor to walk to the admiral’s stateroom. Vulpin walked slowly, but not wanting to appear reluctant, he made a show of looking at the statues that lined the corridor. Large figures of gleaming marble loomed above him, and he wondered how much energy was wasted on the force fields that held the statues in place. The statues themselves were of persons whom the empire thought of as heroes. They were carved to emphasize the point: lots of armor and bulging muscles beneath square and firmly-set jaws. The worst of the collection was at the end of the corridor above the doors to the admiral’s stateroom. There in a niche was the emperor in full military regalia seated on his throne on a dais with Draccus standing two steps down on the emperor’s right. At least it appeared to be Draccus, but the admiral’s sinking physique had been lifted to the same standard of martial fitness as was shown in the other statues.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Vulpin alternated between feeling the urge to smirk and to run. In his mind, he recited lines from the Iliad that he had learned in the Academy. A guard stepped out from a booth to the left of the doors. “Stop,” he ordered. “State your name and business.” “Captain Vulpin. I was summoned to see the admiral.” The guard returned to his booth, and after a moment, the doors swung open. A hopeful sign, Vulpin thought, knowing that Draccus kept those with whom he was displeased waiting sometimes for hours. Vulpin walked through the doors and traversed the distance aft to the admiral’s desk with measured steps. The desk itself was a heavy mass of wood with more heroes and now also their deeds carved into its panels. A neat stack of data modules lay on top, along with an antique dagger. The desk sat in the middle of the stateroom. The room itself was a large rectangle. The walls were covered by screens. Vulpin had been to briefings in this room when it was filled with tables and computer terminals and also to dinners when half the room had been occupied by a dining table and the other half by leather chairs. Now it was barren. The only object in there besides the desk and the screens was a drawing mounted on an easel to the right of the desk. Vulpin looked around the room, certain that there were cameras watching him. Did Draccus want to see what he would do? If so, Vulpin decided to provide a show of appreciating art. He walked over to the drawing, and as he neared it, he saw that it was a drawing by David of Napoleon crowning himself. So this was the image that Draccus liked to keep near him while he worked. Vulpin had heard rumors that Draccus had designs on the throne. Suddenly this expedition and perhaps even the rebellion itself made more sense. Was this all a prelude to a coup?

A hidden door in the aft wall opened, and Draccus entered. Vulpin turned to face the admiral and came to attention. “At ease, Captain,” Draccus said. “Don’t let me disturb your study of my David.” He came over to stand next to Vulpin, who turned back to look at the drawing. “A fine work,” Draccus continued. “It pleases me to see you appreciate it. Most who come in here babble on like guilty children.” His voice was soft like ash falling from a distant fire. Vulpin occasionally took sideways glances at Draccus. The admiral’s face slackened into what Vulpin decided must be unveiled desire for a moment before hardening into its usual quiet sadism. “I am gratified that you are able to keep silent—it is the mark of a controlled mind—but I did ask you here for a purpose other than to contemplate art. We have the bombardment of the planet to consider.” Draccus led the way over to his desk. He opened a drawer and reached in to press buttons that Vulpin could just see inside. The screens on the walls lit up, showing the squadron approaching the second planet. “If you were leading the rebels, Captain, what would you do at this point?” “If I were leading the rebels,” Vulpin answered, hoping the subjunctive mood emphasized his loyalty enough, “I’d have gunboats hanging at minimal power in low orbit. I’d order them to attack the squadron as it entered orbit. . .” “The point at which our flight path must stabilize and our systems will switch over to orbital mode,” Draccus concluded. “I like to find such delicate brush strokes in a tactician’s work. This does raise an interesting point, however.” Draccus pressed another button. “Conn, have our ships begin active scans for vessels in low orbit.” A moment later, the screens showed the boats highlighted, floating seemingly just above the cloud layer. The ships began firing on the rebels, and the boats fled around the planet.

“A Private Triumph” “It is good to have you with us, Captain,” Draccus said. “I don’t see us as being as successful without you.” “I do my duty, sir,” Vulpin answered, working to hide the cringing that his body was instinctively doing. He wanted no credit for this particular brand of heroism. “There will, of course, be a triumph when we return,” Draccus said. “I’d like you to take part.” “Thank you, Admiral,” Vulpin said painfully. “It troubles me that I seem to have so few captains of real intelligence. Most of them spend too much time telling me how brilliant I am rather than making useful suggestions. You, however, apparently have no desire to flatter your superiors. Have you no wish for advancement?” “I serve at your pleasure, sir.” “And you do your duty. Yes, we’ve established that. Do be aware that I can suffer only one honest subordinate.” Vulpin stared at the screen, keeping himself from looking at the dangerous animal that had drawn him into its lair. “At the same time, I must have that one honest subordinate,” Draccus continued. “There is important work to be done, and I need to know which of my captains I shall keep and which are disposable.” Vulpin involuntarily glanced at Draccus and saw a smile of subtle pleasure tense the admiral’s lips and then fade. Looking back at the screen, he saw that the ships had entered orbit. “I did hope that this expedition could begin later, but the Council feared the consequences of delay. I must make clear to the leadership of the empire—whoever that leadership happens to be—that we cannot control these distant systems without a firmer hand. You might consider a plan for that. I’d be interested to see your ideas.” A grid appeared over the planet with targeting data superimposed over the cities. “Ah, it is time for the bombardment,” Draccus said. “Yet another one of those duties to perform, I

suppose.” “Yes, sir,” Vulpin replied as the guns began firing. He bit his tongue to keep his stomach from erupting. With each one of those duties, he felt a piece of himself slipping away. Vulpin paced the aft of the conn, only half listening to the reports from the marines landing on the planet. He had to obey his orders, and in the presence of the admiral, he even had to show at least some measure of willingness to obey, but on his own ship, he did not have maintain any pretence. His officers already knew that he took no pleasure in this expedition. He heard a voice that seemed to be calling to him from the front of the conn, but he tried to ignore it. It called again. “What did you say?” he asked, finally accepting that he had to respond to the ship’s master. “The flagship reports that a rebel transport has broken through the line and is heading for the second gas giant in the outer system. We have been ordered to pursue.” “Tasitor, what do we have on that planet?” “Nothing remarkable, sir. Its diameter is seventy thousand miles. There are thirteen moons and a thin ring system, but no navigational difficulties.” “No navigational difficulties,” Vulpin repeated after coming over to read from the helm’s screen. “Do I not see on this chart that one of those thirteen moons is judged to be inhabitable? Perhaps you could enlighten me on the potential for navigational difficulties when approaching a moon that is inhabited by rebels?” “Ah, yes, sir, I. . .” “Stop,” Vulpin said softly. He was unable to speak any louder without shouting. “Captain,” Manxus interjected, “we have a lock on the transport. Shall we fire?” “No,” Vulpin answered after looking

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

at the data on the transport. “We’re going to make this the drill that we obviously need. You will command, Lieutenant. I want a silent approach with the goal of attacking the transport as it enters orbit of the moon. Send the crew efficiency reports to my cabin when the job is finished.” “Sir?” Manxus asked, confusion showing on his face. “As I did not say ‘please,’ you may assume that it was not a request,” Vulpin answered, cutting him short. He then walked out of the conn, focusing his mind on each step to keep himself from exploding with fury. His orders were clear in every detail except for their moral justification. The transport was carrying civilians. The scans showed an unarmed vessel in bad repair with a crowd of wounded passengers of all ages aboard. This was no rebel transport. The people on that vessel were just trying to escape death, something that was irrelevant to the orders from Draccus. Vulpin’s mind burned. In the instant that he had read the scans of the transport, he had formed a plan for how to save those people. Manxus had nearly pointed out the irregularity of calling for a drill in the middle of a battle, but Vulpin would have no trouble with that. As hastily as the squadron had been put together, the crews were clearly in need of training, something obvious even to people like Draccus and Tasitor. The many errors and general sloppiness of the spacers’ performance had been seen as simply inevitable. What was about to happen would be taken as nothing more than an unfortunate accident. Draccus might even be pleased to see the “delicate brush strokes,” as he had put it, applied to this pursuit. Vulpin pulled his mobile out of his pocket. “Hesphertus,” he said after pressing a button, “please join me in my cabin.” “Aye, Captain,” the engineer’s voice replied. When Vulpin reached his cabin, he saw

Hesphertus waiting. Vulpin pulled open the hatch and waved the engineer in. He then shut the hatch and attended to the locking of each lock. “I need a favor,” he said carefully and then added, “we have been friends for many years.” “Since before we entered the Academy,” Hesphertus said. “In all that time, have you ever known me not to be loyal to the Empire?” “Never, Vulpin Mens.” The engineer’s face asked the questions that he gave no voice to. “You’re aware that we’re pursuing a ‘rebel’ transport?” Vulpin asked, saying the last words with difficulty. “Yes, and conducting a drill.” “I’ll have you back at your post soon. I need you to help me disobey a direct order from Admiral Draccus.” “Captain!” “I know; I know,” Vulpin said. “This isn’t like me. But I’ve been questioning orders my whole life. Is it any wonder that I am finally disobeying one?” “But why? Is this worth the risk?” Hesphertus asked. “That transport isn’t carrying rebel warriors. It’s carrying civilians—civilians that we have beaten and driven from their homes. I’ve obeyed every order so far. I took my ship through the asteroid belt, even though I knew that we’d take casualties. I would have led my ship in the bombarded the planet if the admiral hadn’t called me over to the flagship for a chat. That much I’ve done, but this I won’t do. Killing the people on that transport is too much.” “What do you need me to do?” Hesphertus asked. “You accept things that easily?” Vulpin returned. “This is a risk, one that you need to take willingly. Don’t feel that you must do this. But if you’re willing, it would be good if we had a computer failure when we attack the transport.

“A Private Triumph” Make the sensors think that we hit the vessel, but make the guns only graze it. It’s only barely held together, so be careful. Then have the whole system go down, at least enough for us not to see the transport land on the moon.” “How much time do I have?” “Plenty of time for you, my friend. The children in the conn are still trying to figure out what they’re supposed to be doing. If anyone asked, you and I discussed the status of the engines going into the drill. You reported to me that they were functioning normally.” “I understand, Captain.” “Listen, if anyone questions you about this, say first that it was an equipment failure. I doubt that anyone will ask anything beyond that, as the gods know that we’ve had plenty of failures. If you’re pressed further, say that I ordered you to create the failure, and claim the protection of following the orders of your captain. The hazard is mine alone.” “Yes, Vulpin Mens.” “Don’t worry. Failure is expected, given the times that we live in.” Hesphertus left the cabin, and Vulpin walked over to the porthole and stared out into the blackness. His thoughts drifted to the conversation that he had had with Draccus. Spacers usually did not tempt fate, but Draccus was safe in predicting his own triumph upon returning from this expedition. There had been few enough triumphs through the streets of the capital lately, as even the government could not twist so many disasters into glories, so pummeling weakly-armed rebels would have to qualify as a stunning success. Vulpin would have to be a part of the procession, of course, as he was one of Draccus’s captains, one that the admiral apparently had taken an interest in. There was a time when he had yearned for his own triumph. That was in his early days in the Academy, when like the other cadets, he had been enthralled with the decorations of military glory. But that was before his wish had

been fulfilled. It had been like the time in his youth when he had longed for a piece of some special candy. Even its name escaped him, so insignificant it was now. He had begged for it and was promised it on the completion of a task also now forgotten. It must have been something that his parents had characterized as particularly heroic, just the way that the Admiralty would characterize this current expedition. The one clear memory that Vulpin had was of the sweet taste of the candy souring in his mouth soon after he ate it. All else was vague. His own triumph had been the same. His accomplishment had been minor—the capture of a pirate vessel—nothing that warranted the excessive praise of blocked traffic and crowds of citizens cheering a day off. The only clarity in his memory was the emptiness that he had felt afterward. He had felt then, as he often did, that the shape of his whole life was in front of him, but just as he reached out to grasp it, it turned to smoke. Triumphs left most officers thirsty for more glory. His had left him thirsty, but he could only just outline the name of the water that would sate him. It was always on the fringes of his mind, tantalizing his thoughts. Vulpin’s hand felt cold against the porthole. In fact, his whole body felt cold. He wondered what the reason was, but then he remembered that he had ordered a silent approach, meaning that the ship was emitting as little radiation as possible—thus the low heat. As he was putting on his coat, the voice of the first officer came over the ship’s speakers. “All stations stand ready for attack.” “So it’s time,” Vulpin whispered. “May the gods save me from my little sins.” He felt his throat tighten. A quiver trembled through his body. His mind knew that he would be safe. The flagship’s weapons had failed during the bombardment. Hesphertus was a good engineer. There was no reason to doubt

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

that what was about to happen would be seen as an accident. But somehow the animal within knew that it was cornered. Looking through the porthole, Vulpin watched the gas giant grow before him, a wan orb banded with strips of pale yellows and browns. Thin, icy rings spread around the planet, shepherded by small satellites. At some distance on the right was the inhabitable moon. Inhabitable was an optimistic judgement. Its orbit was high enough not to be wrenched by the tidal forces of the planet and to escape the radiation belts closer in, but it was a rocky, dead body whose only advantage was its undesirability to those who could live on better. “Secure from silent running,” Manxus’s voice called out. The ship rumbled as the engines reversed power. Vulpin heard the whine of the weapons and saw sparks flying off the transport where the ranging shots had found their marks. His mobile beeped, and he pulled it out. “Captain to the conn,” Manxus’s voice said. “We have an emergency.” “On my way,” Vulpin answered and then switched the channel off. “An emergency indeed,” he added softly. As he made his way to the conn, he was passed by harried spacers and junior officers, all scurrying about in a panic of activity. It occurred to him that if this were a real emergency, they would all die an ignominious death. Upon entering the conn, Vulpin was confronted by the distorted face of the ship’s master. Vulpin immediately became irritable. Tasitor’s pomposity always caused him to feel that way. “I do not see a fire,” Vulpin said sarcastically, “at least no more than was here when I left. Everyone looks busy, but no one appears to be dead. Tasitor, as you are not the first officer, I don’t want to hear you speak—at least not first.” Tasitor choked back the barrage of words

that he had been waiting to release. “Good,” Vulpin said, watching the efforts of the master. “Now Lieutenant,” he continued, turning to Manxus, “would you be so kind as to tell me what is going on?” “We were firing on the rebel transport when the firing controls and the sensors failed,” Manxus answered. “So you are telling me that we have failed in our mission.” “Sir. . .” “Let me finish,” Vulpin said, working himself into indignation. “We were given an order to destroy that rebel transport. That order came from the admiral himself. Now Draccus is not a poet, but when he uses the word, ‘destroy,’ I presume that he is speaking with precision. Now what do we have in this transport? Is it a line-of-battle ship? Is it even a warship? No, it is a corroded, underpowered, two-hundred year old transport. I gave an order to this crew to follow the order of the admiral, feeling secure in the belief that all of you could carry out that order. I return to the conn to find that astonishingly, with one of the empire’s best ships at your disposal, you are unable to fulfill your mission. I know of asteroid jockeys with mining lasers that could have carried out my orders.” Vulpin worried that he was laying this all on too thickly, but he hoped that a layer of embarrassment would make his crew overlook the real cause of the failure. “We believe that we damaged the transport enough to make it crash,” Manxus offered. “I can show you the sensor data from right before the failure.” “Yes, you will do that. For now, open a channel to the engineer.” “Here, Captain,” Hesphertus’s voice said. “Tell me what specifically is going on with my ship, if you please.” “I don’t know for sure, sir.” The engineer’s voice sounded far too amused for Vulpin’s comfort. “I think that it’s a

“A Private Triumph” programming error—something to do with the hurried overhaul that we got before leaving on this little jaunt.” “I want more than that,” Vulpin demanded, hoping to suppress Hesphertus’s obvious pleasure. “Yes, I know. I’m rebooting the affected systems now. We’ll be back up in a moment. When that’s done, I’ll have a team run through the code, but it’ll take a few days.” “Very well,” Vulpin replied. “I’ll need a report for the admiral soon, though.” “That I can give you,” Hesphertus said. “Along with someone to deal with the smoldering wires up here in the conn, I hope.” “Aye, sir.” Vulpin closed the channel. The screens of all the computers in the conn went dark for a moment and then flashed messages that the systems were coming back on line. “I’m reading evidence of debris,” Tasitor said loudly as he peered at the helm’s screen. “Don’t shout,” Vulpin said, then walked over to join the master. “Well, it appears that we have achieved a glorious victory after all.” The data showed too little mass to account for the transport. Hesphertus could work miracles, but with the computers’ safeguards, only so much was possible. “I suppose that you meant to tell me that most of the transport was consumed by fire from our weapons or from the vessel’s exploding engines?” “Uh, yes, sir,” Tasitor answered. “Captain,” Manxus said, “We’ve just received a message from Admiral Draccus. He wants you to join him again on the flagship to give him a report.” “Of course he does,” Vulpin said, working to shove down a moment of fear. He walked over to the hatch and pulled it open, but then turned to look back at the officers in the conn. “Put us on course to rendezvous with the flagship. My visit with the admiral would go much easier if all of you could have reports

ready for me before I leave the ship. You’ll have enough time, I think, given that the engineer will likely want to run a check on the engines.” Vulpin walked back to his cabin, uncertain of just what it was that he was feeling. Had he done the right thing? There was no way to know for sure. What he had done was unlikely to be discovered for what it had really been, and in that, he felt a measure of security, but was he actually safe in a world where one could use the appearance of incompetence as a cover for doing what was right?

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“Delta Ghost” By Mike Hughes

ENTAGON WINTER, 2008

“Jesus Christ...,” doubting Thomas gasped, leaning in his chair stiff as a stone slab. Mouth agape, eyes wide and fixed on the flatscreen computer. His mind flashed back to the funeral, a year ago. The old woman’s eyes. Gripping her rosary. Her hideous wail as they lowered the lifeless body of her son, Colonel Roland Ronovich, into his eternal grave. The email stung him. Ironically, considering the supposed nature of his occupation, Tom Septer never actually witnessed the supernatural, always arriving after the “miracle” occurred. As the lead investigator of Section Zero, chartered to investigate paranormal phenomena, the process always elucidated the truth. Truth founded on reason. His partner Dermot, that Irish Catholic holey roller, dubbed him with the high rank of Chief Skeptic. He didn’t mind that nickname considering Dermot had called him worse including “bloody heathen” and “godless commie bastard.” But the words on the screen fractured his shield of reason. That sophomoric nickname. The rendezvous point. All signs indicated him. From: roland3500@hotmail.com To: tsepter@gmail.com Date: Feb 2, 2008 3:00 AM ----------------------------------

BEARCAT, BELIEVE. OUR SPOT. 2100 Roland MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY Fall, 2007 Dr. Ian Daniels rubbed his hands together after closing the project file. He raised his arms to the heavens while standing over the corpse. Then he felt a power rush through his veins that was indescribable. Roland Ronovich, whom they called the Ghost, hesitated when he heard the explosion on the other side of the behemoth steel door. He nodded to Jensen who keyed in numbers into a panel on the door and paused, awaiting the final indication. Roland signaled four other Delta Force operators to surround the entryway; soldiers donned in black hockey helmets and flack vests, M4 Carbine rifles readied. Roland gave the final nod, the vault door slid open with a swooshing sound and Roland uncharacteristically faltered because he thought he bore witness to the gates to hell. Piercing screams assaulted his ears that emanated from a fiery portal; a red orange blaze surrounded an oval black opening that hovered in the middle of the physics laboratory. A corpse with wrinkly grey skin sat bolt-upright, its eyes glowing with a phosphorescent green. The

“Delta Ghost” undead subject dressed in a white cassock, let out an inhuman cackle that unnerved Roland. Dr. Ian’s hands were raised like some high priest, appearing to be orchestrating the surreal ceremony. Ian shot Roland a look of hot rage. White hair surrounded his bald dome, tiny glasses covered beady eyes. Ian’s mouth opened, but his protest was drowned out by the corpse’s deafening prattle and the roar from the rapidly expanding ingress to some unknown Abaddon. Jensen fired his grenade launcher and the corpse’s head ruptured like a melon, bloody chunks spread across the walls. Before Ian could take another step, Roland tapped two bullets into his forehead. The portal imploded with one final atomic boom and then vanished. Dead silence. Charcoal grey will-o-the-wisp left floating in the air. Roland panted, on one knee, wondering what evil this unholy combination of physics and witchcraft had unleashed. A chill went up his spine as a hissing sound zipped past his ears. It felt like an unseen entity babbling in archaic dialect. Roland jumped. Ian reanimated charged towards Roland from across the room, chanting something in an undecipherable tongue, his eyes had transformed into green embers. He swiped at Roland but then his head exploded, parts of it splattering against Roland’s chest. Jensen stood on the other side of the room with gun still smoking. That very same evening, his first kill flashed through his mind. The savage fury with which he slit the Iraqui soldier’s throat. Precise. Efficient. Roland then thought about his meeting with Regan, the undersecretary of defense, two nights before the encounter at M.I.T. “An experiment, um, that has, shall we say . . . gone awry,” Regan told him, brown hair parted perfectly to the side, a career civilian in

the defense department. An uneasy smirk had formed on Regan’s face. Roland turned off the lights and dropped to his knees in the darkness. He gripped the scapular around his neck and prayed at the foot of his bed. Crawling into bed, exhausted, he was out in seconds. As 3 A.M. struck, Roland’s eyes snapped open. An inexplicable bolt of fear shot through him as he gripped his pillow tightly. His skin rife with goose bumps, the temperature in the room had dropped to an unnatural cold. He deliberately rolled onto his right side and looked toward the draped window in the pitch black room. He could swear he heard some type of sound from the corner, a barely audible hissing. He thought he felt a presence in the room. This is crazy, Roland thought, as he tried to sit up. But he was thrown back down by an unseen force. He felt paralyzed, as if hands and legs were bound with cold hard shackles. His eyes grew wide as he deciphered the words that sizzled in his ear: “Roland,” said the voice from the darkness. “Roland,” the voice hissed his name slowly. “Legio,” it rasped, closer than ever. “G-God, Help Me,” Roland yelled. The invisible bonds gave and he lurched for the door. Diving he flicked the switch on the wall, lighting up the room. It was empty. He poured with sweat even though the room was twenty degrees, and then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. He looked up above his bed with trepidation. He screamed at the sight of the crucifix over his bed that had been turned upside down. Glory days swam through Tom “Bearcat” Septer’s mind as he walked towards the parking garage. He thought of that sardonic rugby misnomer bestowed on him by Roland, his college roommate at Harvard, the equivalent of calling fat guy “Tiny.” Tom had played the fly half position, which could be equated with

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

quarterback in American football. A position of finesse, strategy and mostly kicking. Whereas, Roland had played inside center - a hybrid between reckless fullback and vicious hitting linebacker. He stopped reminiscing, and couldn’t believe he was going to try and meet this dead friend at “Our Spot”, a hole in the wall tavern near Georgetown. Tom thought of the events leading up to Roland’s death -- before Roland came home from Columbia in a body bag. There was the incident at M.I.T. and the shady dealings with Regan. He recollected the conversation he had with Roland on the night Roland had his brush with satanic possession. “Do me a favor,” Roland had said, his voice quivering, never sounding so desperate. He asked Tom to research the word “legio”. Tom felt guilty about his first thoughts that Roland saw the Exorcist one too many times. But Chief Skeptic had obliged and got a hold of Dermot to conduct some research. Dermot had informed him that it was Latin for “Legion”. Now the terminally agnostic doubting Thomas was no Bible thumper, therefore Dermot had to educate him. He remembered Dermot rolling his eyes while explaining. “Lad . . . for the love of . . . Legion is a demon found in the Good Book,” Dermot began. “Jesus traveled to meet a man possessed by an evil spirit. The most commonly quoted version is found in Mark 5:9. It says that Jesus asked him: ‘What is thy name, demon?’ And the demon answered: ‘My name is legion: for we are many.’” Tom had paused to let this sink in. At the time he found it all to be so ridiculous. COLUMBIA SUMMER, 2007 Stringy wet leaves whipped against Roland’s face as he slashed through foliage. The black

cadre slowly carved its way through the dense heart of the foreboding tropical forest like a single organism, towards the lair of a drug lord. They surrounded the house in the clearing from the perimeter edge of the jungle. There wasn’t a noise or sign of life. Jensen slithered on his belly inch by inch, melting with the black mud. A quick peak inside a window, empty. The entire Delta chalk was in the building in seconds, clearing room after room, save one watching the perimeter. Roland’s heart sank when he heard the whistling sound of a rocket propelled grenade. The house took a direct hit. Roland’s body was airborne. He landed on his side in a puddle and got the wind knocked out of him. A piece of shrapnel sunk into his cheek. He tried getting his bearings and then he yelled. They were surrounded by an entire unit of Columbian soldiers that began rattling off their ammo. Roland yelped like a wounded dog as bullets pulverized his chest, tearing through his assault vest. He then landed face first in the mud. He looked over and saw Jensen. Jensen’s eyelids were plastered open, wearing the look of the dead. He felt like he was slipping away. He then wondered if they had been ambushed and why. And then he wondered if it mattered anymore. And then the Ghost was consumed by pitch blackness. He dug his keys out from the trench coat and went to open the blue sedan when the voice startled him. “Detective Septer.” A figure stepped into a column of light and then approached Tom. Tom’s hand crept towards his handgun, but then he breathed easy when Regan’s face was uncovered as he stepped into the light. “Sorry, sometimes this poor man’s X-files shit can get to me,” Tom said with a smile.

“Delta Ghost” Regan had smiled brightly and they stared at each other in silence. Then a booming voice cut through the silence from the other end of the parking lot, and Regan growled. ”He’s arrived,” said Regan. Four other figures sprang from the darkness in crouched sprints towards the voice’s source. Tom attempted to produce his gun but Regan swiftly slapped it out of his hands and it clattered to the ground. Tom froze when he realized Regan’s entire eye sockets appeared to fill up with green lava. Regan had his hands around Tom’s neck within seconds. It felt like Regan drove Tom’s Adam’s apple to the back of his throat and just as he was about to pass out - Regan erupted into flames. Tom cringed from Regan’s blood curdling cry, as he saw a look of horror through the flames. The body had been reduced to a pile of ash. He stepped forward and saw four other ashen piles on the black tar of the parking lot and in the middle of the carnage stood Roland. Tom “Bearcat” Septer rustled uncomfortably in his seat. Roland had driven them an hour out of D.C. and they checked into this motel. He could barely look the “Ghost” in the eye that sat across from him. He noticed Roland’s new duds, a black skin tight suit with an insignia on his chest that appeared to be some type of white orb, but he didn’t ask about it. It certainly didn’t look like a government issued battle dress uniform; he wanted to ask Roland when he had enlisted in the X-Men. Tom felt a tug of guilt for looking at Roland as if he were the devil’s spawn. Part of him wanted to put a bullet into his head or a stake through his heart and run for the goddamn door. “Please tell me your death was a cover up,” Tom blurted. “No,” Roland said and paused with a sigh. “This is very difficult,” Roland stated eerily, pausing again to size up Tom’s reaction. Roland then summarized to Tom what went

down in Columbia. “The mission must’ve been compromised . . . but why?” Tom asked with a look of disbelief. “That’s the million dollar question,” Roland replied. “P-Please go on,” Tom pleaded, not sure whether or not he really meant it. It almost made Tom sick. “I began to slip away,” Roland continued. Everything faded to black. He read about folks that had come back from the dead, supposedly, and most described this out of body experience. He felt ill as he looked down upon the massacre. He heard a piercing noise that nearly popped both ear drums. He somehow knew he no longer had physical ears, or a natural physical body. Then he saw it. A bright light appeared at the end of this long tunnel. Some people were overwhelmed by a peace and joy beyond comprehension when they saw the white light. But not Roland. He felt unadulterated horror. Roland screamed like a mad man in an asylum. He prayed as tears flowed from his eyes until he passed out. He awoke to the pure shock of lying in a coffin in a suit decorated with bronze stars. He heard mumbling voices from above. Heard music as he felt the coffin being lowered. Then the sound of shovelfuls of dirt pounding the top of the coffin. He pummeled the coffin with imaginary fists, but his body hadn’t moved a smidgen. “Why God!! Why!” The blackness returned and days passed. How many, impossible to track. Then one day it felt as if some unseen force grabbed him up and dragged him through the earth. Everything was blurry, but it felt like he roared into space at the speed of light. He thought of Legio and he thought of Dr. Ian’s resurrection and he thought that how God abandoned him.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

He then remembered floating aimlessly, the planet earth below his feet the size of a classroom globe. Then, a white glowing orb appeared out of nowhere that struck and encapsulated him. His entire body coursed with raw power. He was then blasted back to earth in the pod of glowing white light, barreling into the side of a mountain.

He climbed on Roland’s back. And then Tom screamed: “No!” He didn’t want to die and he thought Roland was committing suicide and bringing Tom with him. Roland jumped out of the fourth floor window with Tom on his back. They began to drop, but amazingly they stopped. Tom thought they must have gotten caught on something and looked around. But Minutes of silence passed and Tom didn’t they were suspended in midair. Impossible. know what to think or say. Roland had empathy Roland with clenched fists began flying. Tom in his eyes, wearing a look that said: “I know hung onto the Ghost as tightly as Louis hanging kiddo, but that’s life.” As if it were Tom who onto Clark. had to come to terms with reality. The sun began to rise in the east and what it “S-so now what?” Tom asked. uncovered was unsettling. Over glen and dale “With my second chance at life,” Roland bodies strewn, demons pouring out of buildings. said, and paused, suddenly struck with emotion. His heart leapt in his throat when Roland “I just want to go about My Father’s business.” levitated over the Arlington cemetery where “Which is?” Tom asked shaking his head green eyed demons erupted from graves. in annoyance, still not buying all of it. But he And they were many. didn’t get an answer because the door burst open, On the horizon he saw another human splinters nearly hitting Tom in the head. speeding through the air coming right at them. More of them. But even more frightening, “Roland!” Tom yelled and pointed over they looked like ordinary people: maids, doctors, Roland’s shoulder. gang bangers, businessmen. Wearing clumps of Roland blasted another demon and then earth and looking decomposed. There had to looked at the oncoming interloper. be ten or more of them swarming through the But Roland simply smiled. doorway, each one with glowing green eyes. “Jensen,” he said. And what Tom saw next he would never Jensen soon hovered next to them, dressed forget. Roland locked both arms straight in in the same uniform as Roland. He gave Roland front of him and closed his fists. Then his fists a quick smile, then a look of determination as emanated a bright white laser that scorched the he motioned towards the ground. Roland’s demons. Roland seemed to steel himself as the men were incinerating demons, the local police raw energy flowed through him and out of his joining the fray to fight off evil incarnate. hands, and he did not stop until he blasted and From the cemetery to the horizon, the earth destroyed each and every one of them. was littered with pockets of battles, death and Tom speechless, turned to Roland. Roland destruction. Screams, cries, fires, bullets. And was breathing heavily, and there was agony in his the skies were sprinkled with floating humans, eyes, but then it was overshadowed with a look blasting the beasts that sprung from the bowels of resolve. of the earth. Yes, Tom’s shield of reason finally Roland grabbed Tom and commanded him split asunder as he witnessed this carnage and to jump on his back. with it, the dawn of a strange new world. “W-What?” Tom asked, but then thought better of arguing at this point.

“Delta Ghost”

Mike Hughes is a business strategy consultant by day and a scribe by night, spinning tales of horror and adventure from the bowels of the South Side of Chicago. Mike is an emerging writer, so he says, and his work has appeared in Yellow Mama, a horror ezine ranked in the top 10 in the 2007 Preditors and Editors Poll. Somehow, Mike graduated from the University of Notre Dame with a degree in political science and has dabbled in political consulting as well as journalism. Mike plans on launching an online journal for political news commentary that many are describing as “Crossfire on the internet”. Mike admits that the “many” are two of his best friends and his mother, but the point is, he is excited about the project and should have a site hatched sometime before the 2008 presidential convention. Mike loves comics like the X-Men, as well as tales of horror and adventure - so he fell in love with and became an avid reader of Astonishing Adventures Magazine immediately upon reading issue #1.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“I Want to Sleep With … Telly Savalas” By Katherine Tomlinson

f you live in Los Angeles, you get used to seeing celebrities around. Steve Carell opens the door for you at the Firestone tire place and you barely recognize him. Ed Begley, Jr. is in front of you at the bank, joking with the tellers whose names he knows. Britney Spears is at the counter in your favorite Starbucks getting her caffeine on. And hey, isn’t that Jennifer Aniston quaffing a margarita at Marix? Sure looks like her. Ho. Hum. Most of these brief encounters are not memorable. Most fall into the category of what a local DJ calls “lame celebrity sightings.” You know the type—that model with the angermanagement problem, that comedian who used to have a talk show, that actor whose latest gig was a stint on The Surreal Life or a similar showcase for the formerly famous. In other words, most of these moments are hardly worth mentioning. But sometimes even a blasé Angeleno will run into someone so intrinsically cool that just relaying the story is kind of a thrill in itself. So here’s my story. I was stopped at a light in Century City when a sleek silver Rolls pulled up next to me. Or maybe it was a Bentley. It was one of those big cars that only the supremely confident can drive without looking foolish. The driver was a middle-aged man, a big guy, who looked at home behind the wheel of the big car. He was wearing a suit. And he was wearing a hat. Not a backwards baseball cap. Not a goofy

golf cap. It was a snap-brim fedora, the kind of hat a man wears. And he wore it with panache. The man glanced in my direction, saw me looking at him and smiled. Then he tipped his hat to me and his smile widened. Then the light changed and he drove off and out of my life forever leaving behind a trail of pheromones drifting in the air and the lingering sensation of regret. His license plate read Telly S. As if I needed to be told. I had just had just crossed paths with the world’s coolest television star—Mr. Aristotelis Savalas, better known as “Telly.”

“I Want to Sleep With … Telly Savalas” In a town full of pretty men with perfect teeth and coiffed hair, Telly was something else and that something else was … manly. When he was 53, he posed bare-chested for a Gillette razor ad. The photograph is a portrait of mid-1970s masculinity that’s so far removed from today’s preference for boyish-looking celebs that it could illustrate a textbook on how times have changed. Metrosexual? I don’t think so. That advertising agency knew what it was doing.

action figure.

There was the Biblical epic (he played Pontius Pilate in The Greatest Story Ever Told), and there was also a part in Cannonball Run II, the redneck precursor to The Fast and the Furious. He even appeared in The Muppet Movie as a character named El Sleazo. He was nominated for an Oscar for his supporting role in The Birdman of Alcatraz, but lost out to Ed Begley, who won for his role in Sweet Bird of Youth. He played the title role in Pancho Villa (!) and a Mongol in Genghis Khan. He also played the Cheshire Cat in master of disaster Irwin Allen’s hip television production of Alice in Wonderland. (How hip was it? Sammy Davis,

Telly’s IMDB credits read like a pulpfest. There were the war movies (among them, The Dirty Dozen), there were the westerns (Mackenna’s Gold), there was the Bond flick nobody ever talks about (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service). His villainous character, Blofield, even got his own action figure. You know you’re cool when you have your own

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Jr. played the Caterpillar and Ringo Starr was the Mock Turtle.) From 1959 until his death, Telly appeared in at least one episode of every television show that mattered: Naked City, Ben Casey, The Untouchables, 77 Sunset Strip, The Fugitive, Bonanza, The Virginian, Combat, The Man From U.N.Cl.E., The Equalizer. His episode of The Twilight Zone, “Living Doll,” is considered one of the classics of that legendary series. If

with Telly on two Kojak episodes and remembers him fondly. “[He was] notorious for loving Las Vegas and gambling. We were prepping in New York for Kojak and when the time came for Telly to leave LA, to guarantee he would show up, we had an AD drive him from his home to the airport. (In those days it was no problem to escort him to the plane until the door closed.) Meanwhile in New York, another AD was waiting for the [plane’s]

you’ve never seen it, chase it down here on WWW.YouTube.com. And then there was Kojak. Telly inhabited the skin of Lt. Theo Kojak as if it were his own, branding the character with his own inimitable style. Kojak was suave and silky with a sinister edge. He might have enjoyed a lollipop but he was no candy-ass. When a perp complained that Kojak was threatening him, the character growled back, “Greeks don’t threaten, they prophesy.” And when he threw out his signature line, “Who loves ya baby?” it was no idle question. Kojak was a lover and a fighter and television audiences embraced the character and the show, which ran from 1973 to 1978 with the character resurrected for a series of television movies that aired from 1985 to 1990. He won one Emmy for the role and was nominated several times more. Director Richard Donner, himself a prime example of vintage Hollywood cool, worked

arrival. .The door opened, but there was no Telly Savalas. Houdini? “No, just ‘who do you love baby?’ He had talked the stewardess into letting him leave [the plane] in LA through the food delivery hatch. Next we knew, he was seen in Vegas at the tables Five days later, Telly Savalas showed up in New York. That was Telly, and that’s why you loved him “ Like many actors before and since, Telly also

“I Want to Sleep With … Telly Savalas” tried his hand at a singing career, bringing his unique vocal stylings to songs like Bread’s “If.” Cigarette in one hand, microphone in the other,

the performances were …unique. But that was Telly and that’s why I loved him. Telly Savalas died in 1994, one day after he

celebrated his 72nd birthday. He went out with style, just the way he lived. He was one of a kind. He was irreplaceable. He is missed.— Katherine Tomlinson

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“Morgue File” By Russell Roberts

effrey Sanborn tumbled into the motel room the moment I opened the flimsy metal door. For an instant the knees of his tailored gray suit kissed the slimy floor. With a visible shudder he scrambled to his feet as a silverfish slithered past the place on the floor where his hand had left a dusty print. Peeking through keyholes again, Jeffrey?” I said dryly. “I thought only perverts did that.” He looked at me disgustedly as he wiped his hands with a monogrammed handkerchief. “I’ve been looking for you for weeks, Mickey O’Connell!” he said. “What the hell are you doing in this dump? Where have you been lately? The whole city wants to know, and I want the story. Now.” He stared at me; I could see his upper lip curl in distaste. I combed through my thick beard stubble with filthy fingers and contemplated his fat, stumpy, ugly little body. If the Pillsbury Doughboy had an effete brother, it was Sanborn. “And why the hell do you look like the Old Man of the Mountain?” Sanborn continued. “I could say that you owe an explanation to both your readers and to your bosses at the Herald, but screw them! I want to know why you’ve dropped out of sight these past weeks, and I’m not leaving until I find out.” I looked at him like a scientist looks at a germ through a microscope. I had spent the first few weeks of my seclusion in this room sobbing and the next few drinking heavily. But this past

week I had finally come to terms with it. I smiled thinly at Sanborn. He was my bitter rival on the cross-town News-Tribune, copying my style of personal journalism right down to the fancy way he signed his name at the bottom of the page. He always claimed a readership of two million for his column; I just figured he had a big family. After all, no one could top my three million readers a day, those loyal and faithful followers of “O’Connell’s Column” who bought the Herald to read me spouting off about anything and everything in our fair city that pissed me off. Believe me; I was pissed off a lot. Sanborn had tried everything to top me, including a trumped-up paternity suit. I had fought back the only way I knew how - - hard - but none of that mattered now. “How’d you find me?” I asked. “Informant,” he answered haughtily, as if it was his birthright to receive the information. He took a cigarette out of one of those sissy little gold cases, stuck it in his mouth and looked at me with his fat little black pig eyes. I just smiled at him. I knew what he wanted, and I was going to give it to him. But it had to be done just right. “So, O’Connell, what’s the deal?” he asked, lighting the cigarette. “Are you going to stand there grinning like some mindless fool, or are you going to tell me why the self-proclaimed ‘toast of the town’ suddenly disappears and then turns up weeks later in this roach motel?” I smiled again. Rain was splattering onto the

“Morgue File” dirt-streaked window. Soon the roof would begin leaking, and, as usual, my many insect neighbors from inside the walls would come streaming out into the room seeking a dry haven. At first that had bothered me, but not anymore. Like I said, I’ve come to terms with things. “Why do you want to know, Jeffrey?” I asked softly. He snorted and blew a smoke ring into the air. With his fancy clothes and nouve rich mannerisms he was as out of place here as a Rockefeller at a soup kitchen. “Why? Because I found you, that’s why,” he said in answer to my question. “It’s my story. Besides, I’d tell you, if the situation was reversed. I’ve always respected you, O’Connell.” Yeah, like a rattlesnake respects a mouse, I thought as I brushed my greasy hair back from over my eyes. But we both knew that I was going to tell him. “O.k. Ace Reporter, you got the story,” I said. I swung an old, wobbly, wooden chair around and sat on it backwards, facing Sanborn. “But take good notes, and don’t interrupt. I’m only going to say this once.” It all started a few months ago. It had been a slow news day, and I was sitting at my desk in the Herald Building waiting for something to happen. I had shaken a few sources and gotten zero; everybody was taking it easy, enjoying the weather. It was a warm spring day, one of those typical May days that offers a preview of summer. The sun was hot and various flying bugs kept dive-bombing my coffee every time I picked up the Styrofoam cup to take another swallow. I was halfway through a mean game of solitaire on my video terminal when my editor, Ace Feeney, stuck his head out of his office. “O’Connell!” he bellowed, his crew cut standing up in sharp rows like a gray picket fence. “Are you going to write something today or just sit around and grace us with your presence?” I should point out here that Ace

hated telephones and intercoms. He much preferred hollering at his reporters, establishing what he called that “interpersonal relationship of fear.” And don’t even ask about e-mail. Yet you couldn’t find a better newspaperman. The guy had probably been weaned on printer’s ink. “I’m yours to command, my chief,” I called out over the perpetual city room din of reporters simultaneously talking, typing, running, and cursing. “Get down to our morgue,” Ace said. “Timothy Van Rivers just died and I need 300 words on him by two o’clock, or I don’t need them at all.” He pulled the ever-present cigar from his mouth. “Think you can handle that, hotshot?” he snapped. I should have been used to his chiding tone, but it still rankled. Once we had been as close as brothers, but our relationship had deteriorated since my column had driven my popularity through the roof. Ace always said that “a newspaper is never one man,” and he seemed intent on proving that axiom with me. “No problem, boss of bosses,” I replied, affecting the semi-serious tone I always adopted with him in order to avoid getting into either an argument or a brawl. “I’m on it like ugly on an ape.” Timothy Van Rivers had been a prominent businessman in the city. Three hundred words on him would be a snap and besides, it gave me something to do. Slow news days can be hell... Sanborn sighed and rolled his beady eyes. The dull light gleamed off his balding skull. “I know how boring the newspaper life can be,” he said. “Get on with it.” I shot him a look and he quieted down. I was going to tell this my way. All newspapers have morgue files. That’s where up-to-date information on prominent people is kept. When somebody famous dies and you have to write a piece on them, you pull their morgue file and it’s all right there. It may sound grisly, but it’s a helluva lot better than researching an entire lifetime on a one-hour

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

deadline. The Herald’s morgue was in the basement. It consisted of seemingly endless rows of lawngreen file cabinets arranged alphabetically. Appropriately, the morgue was an unhappylooking room, illuminated by dirty neon lights with rusty wire cages over them. The room always stank of mildew and decay. Periodically you’d get dripped on by the ancient, exposed water and heating pipes overhead. Leeanne was the current keeper of the morgue. She was a shy, quiet girl, with long eyelashes and eyes that burned like tiny suns in her thin face. Her midnight-colored hair and Mediterranean features reminded me of a gypsy. The keeper of the morgue updated the files with new information as it became available, and sent off files to the city room upstairs when the reporters needed them. Leeanne had been with the paper only a few weeks, hired by Ace to replace old George, who had moved on to the real morgue at City General. Ace always put young kids, who thought they were the next Woodward or Bernstein, in some menial job for awhile, until they realized that the Pulitzer Prize wasn’t just waiting around for them to pick up. I’ve seen some kids hate working in the morgue so much that they quit and went into another profession, but not Leeanne. She seemed to like it down there; the word in the City Room was that she sometimes even slept there. That day I took the elevator down to the morgue, only to find it deserted. Leeanne’s small green desk lamp was lit, and a newspaper with a pair of scissors on top was spread out across her desk, but she was nowhere to be found. After calling her a few times and getting no response, I walked over to the row of file cabinets marked with a neat, black “V.” I was about to open the drawer and pluck out Van Rivers’s file when a manila folder lying on top of the cabinet caught my eye. I picked up the folder and flipped it open, intending to refile it. I scanned the first page, which in any morgue file is always

a chronological listing of important dates in the subject’s life. Then, like a red flag attracts a bull, the very last entry jumped out at me: “Died May 17, 11:00 A.M., of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” “What the hell?” I exclaimed. “What is this crap?” You see, the name on the file was Stanley Vandeermeer, and Stanley Vandeermeer was my prime pigeon. He was a former city councilman whom I’d caught skimming enormous amounts of cash from city labor contracts. I’d nailed his ass in my column, and he’d resigned in disgrace. Currently he was under indictment by a federal grand jury. Vandeermeer had been the main reason my column’s popularity had soared; people just couldn’t wait to read me give it to him in print. His trial was going to start in two days, and I was ready to feast some more on his carcass. He was wearing more of my tails than you’d find on a pack of alley cats. He couldn’t even go to the john without me knowing about it, much less shoot himself. That was the first reason why I knew the file information was wrong. The second was that May 17th was today, and a quick check of my watch showed that it was still a few minutes before 11. I knew damn well that Stanley hadn’t killed himself. “Damn!” I said aloud. That was very careless of Leeanne, putting the wrong information into the file. Obviously she had gotten information about someone else and put it into Vandeermeer’s file by mistake. Although ratting on someone (except politicians) is not in my nature, I decided to tell Ace; the paper could get into serious legal hot water over Leeanne’s carelessness. Grabbing both the Van Rivers and Vandeermeer files, I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the city room floor. When the doors swung open it was like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Reporters were running past me towards the stairs, photographers were yanking cameras and

“Morgue File” accessory bags from their desks, and telephones were ringing off the hook. Then Ace appeared, chomping furiously on his cigar, his heavy face red with excitement. “O’Connell, where the hell have you been!?” he shouted above the confusion. “Your meal ticket Vandeermeer just blew his brains out on the steps of the Criminal Courts Building! Get your ass over there now!” The big wall clock read 11:00. A feeling of incredible strangeness swept over me. I felt lightheaded, as if I’d just gone ten tough rounds with Jack Daniels and lost. But I quickly composed myself and joined the rush to the court building. Gradually, over the next few days, I convinced myself that it had all been an extraordinary coincidence. Leeanne must have just heard the news about Vandeermeer before I arrived, so she entered the information and then went dashing off somewhere. Maybe Ace had called down there for me, and she’d been looking around. Hell, anything sounds plausible if you say it long enough. Five days after Vandeermeer’s death, I needed some background information on one of his associates who’d disappeared after the shooting. I telephoned the morgue, but there was no answer. I didn’t want to go down there, but I was trapped. When you’re on deadline with Ace Feeney, your excuse for not having a story ready had to be better than saying you were scared of the bogeyman. “Kid’s not around, huh Mick?” said Harry Hornish from across the aisle. Harry was my best friend on the paper, a helluva writer who’d bust a gut to get a story. The two of us often hit the gin mills together, killing brain cells, arguing about writing, and scaring away women. “No, I can’t reach her,” I said. “Guess I’ll have to go down myself.” “The exercise will do you good, old hoss,” Harry chuckled. He was always cracking on me

because my idea of aerobics was lifting a beer can, while he ran three miles a day and was a lifetime member of the Richard Simmons fan club. In the elevator to the basement, I felt like a kid on my way to the principal’s office: my stomach hurt, my palms were sweaty, and I wished that I were anywhere else. When the car stopped, with that typical elevator lurch, my heart practically shot up my throat and bounced out of my mouth. When the doors hissed open, I looked anxiously over at Leeanne’s desk. It was empty. Her high-intensity lamp was on, shinning like some super nova in deep space, and suddenly I was afraid. Some unknown, prehistoric instinct, the same one that warned cave men about enemies sneaking up behind them, made me frightened to step off the elevator and go into the room. “O.k. time to hit the files,” I said aloud, just like the guy who feels compelled to whistle as he walks past the graveyard at night. It took all my self-control to walk calmly out of the elevator and over to the file cabinets. I was just about to pull open the drawer when I froze. I can still feel the chill that went skating down my spine, like an ice cube down the back on a hot summer’s day. On top of the file cabinet was another manila folder. “Leeanne?” I said, but I might as well have been calling for Lucifer in St. Peter’s Cathedral. Cautiously I picked up the folder, holding it at arms’ length as if it was on fire. Finally, with my pulse racing faster than any nag could ever hope to, I looked at the name on the label: “Harry Hornish.” My fear melted away, replaced by a burning curiosity; I hadn’t known that the paper kept files on its own employees. I opened the folder and scanned the first page. When I saw the last entry I suddenly felt dizzy. “Died May 22, 11:30 A.M., of a heart

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

attack,” it said. That was today. “Goddamn!” I burst out. That was just plain stupid on Leeanne’s part. Harry was no more going to die of a heart attack than I was going to be elected Pope. I glanced at my watch, and saw it was 11:23. If I hurried, I could catch Ace before he left for lunch. This time I wasn’t going to let nothing stop me from giving him an earful about Leeanne. When I got upstairs, however, Ace wasn’t in his office. Harry smiled at me as I sat back down at my desk. “Harry, do you know where Ace...” I began, then stopped. A horrible, contorted look had washed over Harry’s face. His mouth twitched, his hands shook, and his breathing was raspy. He moved his lips, but only gurgling noises came out. He half-rose, and for an instant, I saw raw fear in his eyes. Then he pitched forward onto his desk, knocking his video terminal to the floor, blood spurting from his mouth like the spray from a geyser. I began screaming. While two women tried desperately, hopelessly, to revive Harry with CPR, I just stared at the wall clock, which read 11:30. I could see that Sanborn was getting worried. Furtively he eyed the door, undoubtedly measuring his chances of getting to it before I got to him. Casually I rose and began pacing as I continued my story, always keeping myself between the door and Sanborn. He’d wanted to hear it, and he was going to hear the whole thing. Four more times in the next two weeks it happened, always the same way. I couldn’t get Leeanne by phone, and was forced to go to the morgue myself. Once there, a manila file would be waiting for me. The first time it was a wellknown actress, the second and third times two local politicians. The fourth one was Mr. John Q. Average; some poor schmuck named Gary Geers, killed in a car accident. I certainly didn’t want to be the Angel of Death; I already had a job. Yet there I was, being trained in the

fine art of knowing when everyone in the world was going to die. I could see myself wading through stacks of manila files every day, files that were just waiting for me to read them so that some poor slobs could get the royal kiss-off. It was not a pleasant thought. I had a reputation at the paper, understand, as a rough-and-tumble guy, a hard-drinking two-fisted Irishman who didn’t take nothing from nobody. I couldn’t exactly walk around babbling about how the word “morgue” was really becoming appropriate for our morgue. People would have looked at me as if I was ten cents short of a dollar. This was my problem, and I had to deal with it - - somehow. Then it happened again: The file was on Lincoln “Honest Abe” Billings, used car lot owner, who was killed in a robbery. What made this one far worse than any of the others was that I didn’t have to go down to the morgue for it. It was delivered right to my desk, straight off the grill from hell. One minute I was getting a cup of coffee; the next I was punching the ticket for some poor slob with a cheap used car lot and an even cheaper sense of humor. I felt trapped, slowly twisting in the wind, like a fly that some sadistic little kid tortures. I couldn’t run, and I couldn’t hide. “Why’d you keep reading the files? Why didn’t you just stop?” Sanborn cried. Everybody’s a critic. I stopped pacing and chuckled. “You just don’t get it, do you Jeffrey?” I said. “I didn’t have a choice. I was...chosen. I couldn’t get out of it that way. Another way would have been found. Now shut up. We’re almost done.” That evening, after I had put Lincoln Billings out of business permanently, I stopped by Ace’s office at quitting time. “Hey, Irishman, come on in,” he smiled. I saw that he had been reading the final edition - - a particularly good one that day, filled with a

“Morgue File” couple of late-breaking stories and an exclusive - - and I knew that I had caught him at a good time. Ace got up, shut the door to his office and drew the blinds. Then he pulled a bottle of Four Roses from the bottom drawer of his scarred wooden desk. “Can’t let the staff see me imbibing,” he grinned. It was an old joke between us, harkening back to better times. His drinking was the world’s worst kept secret. I took a glass and cradled it in my hands, grateful that he had picked now to rekindle the embers of our friendship. Sensing that the mood was right, I decided to plunge boldly ahead. “Ace, do you believe in the supernatural?” “You mean ghosts, vampires, witches, unexplained phenomena, that sort of thing?” I nodded. “No,” he said. “You know, Irishman, reality is in my face every day, and it’s not pleasant. Crimes done to children, serial killers, plane crashes, fires, wacko terrorists...that’s bad enough. If I started worrying about goblins and guys bending spoons with their mind, I’d go nuts.” He put down his glass and looked hard at me. “Why?” I stared into my own glass. “I don’t...know,” I said. “It’s just that things have been...well, lately, when I go to the...” I stopped when I saw the dubious expression on his craggy face. Right then I would have had trouble convincing him that we were sitting in his office. I drained my glass and rose from my chair. “The hell with it,” I said, with more conviction than I felt. “I think Harry’s death has shaken me up a bit.” I turned to leave. “Hey, Irishman, are you O.K.?” he asked softly. There, in the dim light behind his desk, with the blinds drawn and the shadows playing over his face, he might have been my father the day my dog Ricky had been killed by a car. My dad had asked me if I was all right as he

rocked me slowly back and forth in the big black rocking chair in his book-lined study. At first I had nodded and even tried to smile, but then everything had overwhelmed me; I surrendered and let the tears come flowing forth. It’s all right, my dad had whispered; sometimes men have to cry too. But you know that a tough-as-nails Irishman can’t break down blubbering in the boss’s office; not good for the image, you know, and at that point image still meant everything to me. Instead, like men always do, I decided to tough it out. “O.k.? Me?” I said. “Hell, I’m fine.” Ace stared at me for a moment, then swung around in his chair. “What do you say we grab a burger and brew at the deli?” he asked. “Got any plans?” I didn’t, but right then I would have canceled a dinner date with Cleopatra just for some human company. “No, that’ll be great. Just let me grab my notebook and coat.” I was almost out of his office when I turned back. “Thanks, Ace.” “Don’t thank me,” he grinned. “You’re buying.” I hurried back to my desk, enjoying the taste of laughter in my mouth for the first time in days. But the chuckle caught in my throat like a piece of dry steak when I saw what awaited me on my desk: a manila folder from the morgue. Then I saw the name tag, and my whole body went numb. The name on the file was Ace Feeney. Has your tongue ever gotten so dry that it feels like it’s swelling up inside your mouth until it fills the entire thing? That’s how I felt at that moment. I wanted to die and escape this nightmare. But then something hardened inside of me - some deep and inner resolve inherited from my grandfather Jake O’Connell, a two-fisted gambler from County Cork in Ireland who had immigrated to America when his card tricks had

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

worn out their welcome in his native land. I knew, right then and there, that it was time to stop this ghoulish ritual. Death was about to take a holiday, courtesy of Mickey O’Connell. “Come on, Irishman,” Ace called as he walked toward the elevator. “The beer’s getting hot and the burgers are getting cold.” I grabbed my notebook and sprinted over to him. A quizzical look crossed his face. “Hey, what’s the matter?” he asked. “Why’d you come running over here? Are my pants split or something?” “No reason. I just wanted to...” At that moment the bell sounded softly and the elevator doors slid open. Ace stepped first into the empty car. Just as I was about to follow, some force - there’s no other way to explain it knocked my notebook out of hands and onto the floor outside the car. Automatically I reached down to pick it up. The elevator doors slid shut with a triumphant hiss. I heard the unmistakable sound of the elevator cable snapping. “Mickey! My God!!” Ace cried. Then he was gone, screaming my name, the disembodied words floating up the shaft until they were replaced by the crushing sound of metal striking concrete at high speed. “That’s it?” Sanborn asked, after I’d been silent for a few minutes. “Is that all?” His upper lip was swimming in sweat. I nodded. “Everything that’s worth mentioning. I never went back to the Herald Building. Four days later, I found this outside the door of my apartment.” I pointed to a large brown sack lying in the corner of the room. “What’s...what’s in there?” asked Sanborn, getting up slowly, his eyes widening by the second. I smiled. “Oh, just some manila files.” I dipped into the sack and pulled the top one out. “Here’s one you might be particularly interested in.”

“My God,” Sanborn whispered, his tanned face now ice-white. “You’re nuts. Absolutely crazy!” I saw him measuring the distance to the door. I grinned and shook my head. “You can run, Jeff old buddy, but you can’t hide. And as for crazy...well, I got you here with that phony tip, didn’t I, just so I could see your face when I did it. I think that that’s pretty clever.” “No, no, no,” he whimpered. With a flourish I opened the file. “Jeffrey Sanborn, natural causes,” I intoned. He was dead before I closed the folder. So now here I am, looking down at his fat body, and thinking: Crazy? I don’t know about that. After all, I told him I had come to terms with it, and I have. You can either fight your whole life, or give in and go with the flow. Right now I’m swimming easy. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. There’s something important I have to ask you. What did you say your name was?

“My Kind of Job”

“My Kind of Job” By Chris Dabnor

s soon as the handle of the door rattled, I swung my feet off the desk, sending my now cold coffee crashing to the floor. Damn it. In my attempt to look professional and busy, I now looked like a klutz. That’s the thing about having a unique angle, you don’t get many clients, but when you do, the pay is good and you have to grab them with both hands. And, in my line, the clients were normally embarrassed, nervous and scared. “Mr. Ryan?” He looked like he should be a banker or something. A good suit, shoes so shiny you could see your face in them, thick, round glasses, and a figure that could only come from good living and sitting behind a desk. He waddled forward and extended a puffy, sweaty hand. I stood and shook it. “At your service.” “My name’s Simon Goodwin. The other detectives told me that you were the person to speak to about these...” his nervous pause hung in the air, but then again, I was used to it and gave him an encouraging glance, “these kinds of cases.” “Who told you to come to me?” “Bill Troon.” Good. Bill Troon was good people, and very tenacious, no way he’d just fob a case off on me. I made a mental note to buy him a whisky next time I saw him. “So, what can I do for you?” I motioned towards a chair and he settled into it. “It’s, well, it’s my daughter, Claudette. She’s gone missing. She’s always been a bit wayward,

but usually she contacts her mother one way or another if she thinks she’ll be gone for a long time,” he looked up at me a little fearfully, “Is this really your sort of case?” He must have heard something of my reputation, and I think that unsettled him. But, if Bill Troon had referred him to me, then his fears could be nothing compared to the reality. “If Bill Troon sent you my way, there has to be a good reason. What can you tell me about your daughter, her last whereabouts, anything that could be of use?” He held a picture out to me of a young girl sitting, grinning, on a park bench. She had one of those infectious, easy smiles that made you smile too, and for a moment I was there with her. “That was Central Park in 1952. Her 19th birthday. We took her to Macy’s to buy a new outfit. Seeing her so innocent like that...” he shook his head, as if to dislodge a distasteful train of thought, “Don’t get me wrong Mr.Ryan, she’s not a bad girl; she’s just... wilful and a little too high spirited.” At least he still spoke of her in the present tense. “She liked carousing with her friends, hanging out at the Negro joints, the rowdier side of town,” he leaned forward, looking round as if to make sure no-one was eavesdropping, “I think some of her friends smoked marijuana.” He pronounced every harsh consonant of the alien word. “Any particular clubs she mentioned?”

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“You might think I’ve been reading too many detective novels, but I found this in her room.” He handed me a match book. I smiled and took it. “Sammy’s. Yeah, I know the place. Me and the owner are friends... Sometimes. Well, I got somewhere to start, at least. Mind if I hold onto the photo?” “Of course, of course. Does this mean you’ll take my case?” “Sure. Here’s my card.” We swapped business cards. I made a show of placing it in my wallet. “Unless you can think of anything else, I’ll get on over to Sammy’s as soon as it’s open. And if anything comes up, I’m sure you’ll let me know.” Politely, but firmly, I saw him out of the door. Me and Samantha had what you could call an off and on friendship. She had a strong personality and could turn on you in an instant, but then again, you missed her when she wasn’t there. The thing was, for a young girl, her place could often be the first stop on a slippery path. I opened my safe. Inside was a bottle of whisky (I’d gotten into the habit of hiding it, even though I was divorced), my old service revolver, a cross and the various other tools of my trade. I tried to remember the last time me and Sammy spoke. Oh yeah... I holstered the revolver and took a swig of the whisky. The gun wouldn’t be much use if Sammy was really mad, but, it was good to have around. Sammy’s was loud and hot and sweaty as ever. The singer was writhing and, in a voice that promised ecstasy and damnation in equal parts, was singing an old Blues number. For a moment, I thought her eyes locked on mine, but I could have been mistaken. I pushed my way through the crowd to the back door. Two of Fitz’ goons grabbed me by the shoulders. “Mr.Fitz don’t want to talk to you.” “I’m not here to see Fitz; I’m here to see Sammy. It’s business and I’m sure neither you, nor Fitz want to get in the way of Sammy’s

business.” Once they had lifted their huge paws off me, I straightened my jacket and went into what Fitz called his office, but what everyone else knew as Sammy’s waiting room. Fitz was sat at his desk looking bored. He was a pinch-faced man in a cheap suit and too much pomade. His expression changed from one of boredom to one of annoyance when he saw me. He liked to maintain this charade of running the club. Most people either didn’t know he didn’t own the club, or humoured him. I thought he was an idiot and enjoyed showing him up. It was a sad state of affairs that Sammy had to get a white person to front her business and people like Fitz were all too quick to take up such an ego-massaging role. “I ain’t got time for your antics, Ryan,” his voice, like his face, were rat-like, a physical reflection of his internal nature. “Then just let me through to Sammy.” “What if Sammy don’t want to talk to you either?” This was the same ritual we went through every single time. “Look, Fitz, we know how this is going to end. Sammy will find out one way or another that I’m out here and order that you let me in. Now, I can’t stand the sight of you and I’m sure you don’t see me as buddy material, so why don’t we cut the bull and you just run along and tell Sammy I’m here.” His face turned red. He was in a corner. If he did as I suggested, he knew he’d have to do it every time. If he didn’t, and Sammy found out he’d turned me away without letting her know, his life wasn’t worth living. For me, it was a winwin. “Go on Ryan, get out of my way, I’m a busy man.” As I walked past him, I noticed him easing forward the hammers on the double-barrelled shotgun strapped to the underside of the desk. Sammy’s room was a grotto of drapes and cushions. She was lying in repose at the far end of the room, being fanned by two undead

“My Kind of Job” servants. There were various other zombies spread around the room, people who had died in debt to her, I remember the first time I saw zombies, it scared the bejesus out of me. They looked like people, but for their vacant, unwavering expressions. Some acted as her servants, some her bodyguards and others were prostitutes. You should never die in debt to a witch. Or the dead. If you owed a zombie from before their death and you died whilst still in debt to them, you would find yourself taking their place. Most people who knew this tried to keep at least one person in an unpaid debt. “Ryan,” her voice was rich and welcoming and not entirely natural, “long time no see”. She laughed her wonderful laugh. In my head I knew she was a witch, and her techniques of seduction were designed to spin a man around her finger, but part of me was more than happy to go along with it. If I didn’t snap out of it soon, I’d walk out of there with no information and on some crazy job for her. I shook my head vigorously. “Sammy, you know every day apart has been like a dagger in my heart,” I knew flattery was the best way to deal with her. It made her think she was on top. Plus, I did honestly miss her when we were apart. A lock of my hair stolen whilst I slept saw to that. There were probably a thousand mugs spread across this city that thought they and Sammy had something special going, and I was the biggest mug of all - I knew it was a spell and still believed it. I reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around a small charm. My emotion began to settle, but for how long was uncertain. She would know what was up, and, if she needed to, step up the offensive. “So, Ryan, what is it you want?” She smiled and I felt my body shift toward her slightly before I could steel myself. “I’m looking for a girl.” “I’ve got plenty here, if you want.” She

gestured towards the zombie women who writhed lasciviously in the corner and laughed. As I said, you could scarcely tell them from the living, but the knowledge of what they were horrified me and she knew it. “You know you’re the only one for me Sammy.” I produced the picture of Claudette Godwin and held it out. A zombie took it from me and passed it to the smiling Sammy. She looked at me briefly, as if to read my intentions, before looking down at the picture. Her smile disappeared in a flash.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“Ryan, you will forget about this one.” “I’ve been asked by her father to find her. She’s only a child.” I’d never seen Sammy in anything but perfect control of her outward emotions and it scared me a little. “No, Ryan, this is not a request, I am telling you. Drop this case and return home. I will pay you whatever your client is. Do this for me.” Her last statement was pleading. I didn’t know whether it was for me or her that she feared. Either way, she was spooked, and when you see someone that solid spooked, you knew there was good reason. “I will not tell you again, leave this.” “Come on; just point me in th...” Zombies were slow and cumbersome, but they were silent. The first I knew of the one that had moved behind me was when his fist connected with my chin. I was lifted off my feet and crashed into a wall. Thank God for soft furnishings. Sammy was on her feet and shouting at me, her lips drawn back tight against her teeth. The zombie was lumbering towards me. I didn’t know his intentions and I reached for my gun. Stupid. The various wards and spells around the place would prevent my piece from working in here. I had only just realised this when the zombies booted foot connected with my wrist, sending the gun skidding across the floor. The zombie grabbed my by the lapels and lifted me. I closed my eyes as one of it’s fists drew back. This was going to hurt. The blow, thankfully, never came. Sammy’s beautiful smell filled my nostrils and I opened my eyes. She had regained her composure slightly and was staring at me, her face so close I could feel her breath on my face and it was affecting me in all the right ways. “Ryan, please, leave this. I don’t want to hurt you. This girl is gone from here and must remain so. There are forces involved that you don’t want to cross. Please. For me?” Here eyes locked on mine. I felt them drawing me in. My

fingers fumbled in the pocket for the charm. I’d let her think she’d convinced me. She stared deep into my eyes, seeking out my intent. When she was satisfied, the zombie dropped me to the floor. She folded the photo and put it in my top pocket. “Give this back to her father, he’ll need to cling on to every memory of her that he can, and he must never know the truth. For him, for you,” she paused, “for me.” She held my head in her hands and kissed me. “Thank you.” I think I still had that dumb grin on my face when the zombie tossed me out amongst all the other garbage. I pulled a piece of lettuce from my face. I would need to go get cleaned up if I was going to continue my investigations. I watched the spiral of blood disappearing into the plug hole. My jaw felt about twice the size it should be. I winced as I prodded it with a finger. My side was also bruised, but fortunately nothing was broken. I put on a clean shirt and went into the living room of my apartment. A bottle of single malt stood invitingly on the table. I grabbed it and collapsed into my couch. My jacket was draped over the back of the couch and from it I retrieved the photograph of Claudette. What on earth had a sweet, innocent looking thing like this done to deserve a fate that terrified even Sammy? I shuddered. I got the feeling I would never see her alive. The whisky suddenly seemed like a very good idea. I came round staring into the face of some big mook. My first thought was that I didn’t remember inviting anyone in. My second thought was that it was a zombie again, but the intake of breath as he drew back his fist proved that wrong. The third thought was that I was in for another beating. The third thought proved to be right. I managed to turn my head with the blow, lessoning the impact slightly, but it still managed to rattle my teeth. Two huge paws grabbed the front of my shirt and I was hauled to

“My Kind of Job” my feet. One of the hands let go long enough to swing a backhand at me. I watched as an arc of blood sprayed through the air. A fist was driven into my stomach, forcing the air out of me. I was thrown back onto the couch. I looked down at my shirt. It was stained with blood and some of the buttons had come away. “Come on, I just bought this.” “Ryan, still the wise cracking idiot,” I recognised that squeaky voice. “Fitz,” I croaked, “does Sammy know you’re here?” “No, but neither is she going to find out. My real employers are not too happy with your line of questioning and they have asked me to make sure you don’t continue any further.” The pleasure in his voice was palpable. I suppose I’d brought this on myself. He drew his piece and slowly pointed it towards me. His lip curled in an ugly smile. Just as he was about to fire, I kicked backwards, tipping the couch over and me with it. As I was toppling backwards, the bruiser grabbed at the air where I’d previously been. Off-balance, he staggered forwards and fell just to the side of me. For once, my luck was in, and the now empty whisky bottle, which I had dropped when I fell asleep, rolled towards me. I grabbed it gratefully and smashed it over the heavy’s head. He was a little dazed, but still conscious. As a bullet hit the wall behind me, I grabbed the gun from inside his jacket and returned fire from the cover of the couch. Then, I jabbed the gun into the belly of the heavy, who was regaining his senses. He looked at me pleadingly, no longer the tough guy. Ah hell, I knew I’d regret it, but I pulled the gun away from his stomach and hit his temple hard with it. He’d have a headache, but he’d be alive. Hopefully he wouldn’t bare a grudge. Now for Fitz. A couple more bullets flew wildly past me. Fitz was used to getting other people to do his dirty work. I waited until he stopped shooting and got up, calmly taking aim over the top of the ruined couch. I didn’t want to

kill him, I might be able to get something out of him, so I shot him in the shoulder, causing him to drop his gun and yelp in pain. As he groped for the gun with his other hand, I clambered clumsily over the couch and hit him hard in the face with my knee. He dropped like a sack of spuds. “Tell me who you’re working for, you treacherous son of a bitch,” I drove my fist into his face. I’d been beaten up enough for one day, and this slimy bastard was going to get a taste. “I can’t say, they’ll kill me,” he was genuinely scared. Problem is, the kind of scared people got in my line of things followed them past the grave, so it was hard to get information from them. It was worth trying though. I hit him again. He spat out a tooth. “Talk,” I shouted in his face, spraying him with bloody spittle. “I can’t, they won’t just kill me, they...” I shut him up with a knee to the groin. “I don’t want excuses, I want answers.” “Please, please, just kill me, I won’t talk,” he pleaded. I almost felt sorry for him, but he must have known what he was getting into. I pointed my piece at the bridge of his nose, to test his resolve. He didn’t say a word, just closed his eyes and whimpered. I eased back the hammer and tossed the gun to the side, before collapsing next to him. “Aw, Jesus, you’re pathetic, you know that?” I reached into his jacket and pulled out a packet of smokes. I lit two and passed one to him. He took it gratefully. I must be getting soft in my old age. “Why get involved with people like that? You know it won’t end well. I’m a nice guy, so I’m going to let you and Max Baer over there go. However, if you cross me, I won’t come after you, the word will spread that you squealed on your employers.” I closed my eyes and finished the remainder of my cigarette. When I finished my smoke, I opened my eyes again. Fitz and his goon had left. Without bothering to lock the door, I fell asleep

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

on the floor where I lay. I shook down the usual sorcerers, witches, and various bit players and flunkies. They either didn’t know anything, or were too scared to say. One thing I’d learned in this business, though, was that there was one group that were usually unafraid. But, to speak to my contact there, I was going to need a few items. You had to make the correct offerings, or he wouldn’t say a word. The dead can be like that, but, they were a good source of information. “Ryan! How wonderful to see you! I take it this is more than just a social visit?” Anthony had been a playwright. He had died at the hands of some on leave Marines, who had taken offence to his sexuality. Although from a rich and respected family, only his mother and his lover had turned up to his funeral (and his mother had to lie and tell his family she was elsewhere). He refused to leave until his play was performed on Broadway, but, having read some of it, I got the feeling he was going to be here for a very long time. “Yeah, I got your stuff. One carton of cigarettes, 2 reams of paper and a bottle of cognac.” “Put them in the crypt, there’s a fellow.” He motioned towards the family crypt. Heaven only knew what would happen when the next of his family died - there was quite an office set up in there. “What on earth has happened to your face?” He ran a papery hand across my cheek. I shuddered involuntarily, but I knew he wouldn’t take offence. There was a certain stigma to being dead and he was well aware of it. “It has something to do with what I want to talk to you about.” I put the box on top of his desk (which I had also purchased - I think half of my fees had gone into this place). “I’m sure it has, I’m sure it has.” “It has something to do with a girl.” I passed him the picture. “No-one wants to talk.

Something’s got everyone scared.” “Ah, this one. I’m not surprised. She certainly fell in with the wrong crowd by all accounts.” “Who?” I grabbed at his sleeves and flinched as various creepy-crawlies fell out. “You’re not going to like this.” “Who is it?” “Joseph Cranham.” He was right. I didn’t like it. Cranham was a big deal in this town and crossing him would have unpleasant repercussions. “Oh fudge.” I’d given up swearing for my wife, and the habit had stayed even after she’d left me. “I thought he was just your average rich and powerful politician.” “Heh.” His laugh was as dry as autumn leaves. “Do you really think a no-account idiot like him got to power without a little help?” “I suppose I’d better get tooled up. Thanks for the information. Well, I’m sure I’ll see you soon, one way or another.” “You take care, Ryan.” I watched the house from my beat up Ford. I had a shotgun over my lap, two 1911s in shoulder holsters, a bowie knife, a bag full of juju and I still felt naked. Half a dozen assorted mooks patrolled the grounds of the house as far as I could see and there were probably others inside. I ratcheted the shotgun and got out of the car. For the first time in what seemed an age, I got lucky. A tree grew near one of the walls and I was able to climb it and jump down into the grounds. There were no dogs, which was ominous. Dogs were instinctively aware of the presence of evil and therefore never used as guards where such evil existed. I hoped it was just that Cranham hated dogs. I doubted it though. Keeping to the shadows, I made my way around the house, looking for a way in - a coalscuttle or an unlit room. I finally came to what appeared to be the kitchen. It seemed

“My Kind of Job” empty. I waited, silently, until I was sure that no guards were going to be passing near for a while and sprinted to the window. Using my knife I was able to pry the window slightly, until I was able to get my fingers under the frame. I was sure someone must hear as it groaned upwards, but soon I was inside, unnoticed. I sat there for a while, panting nervously. I needed to get a grip before proceeding. A light came on in the hallway outside. I slid behind the door and waited. Footsteps approached. My hand gripped the handle of my knife. I didn’t really want to kill anyone, but I would do if I had to. A girl’s life depended on it. The person who entered the room looked like a butler. The fair assumption was that he was an innocent party in all this. I stepped behind him, covering his mouth and holding my knife to his throat. Regardless of my intentions, he had to believe I would slit his throat in an instant. “OK Jeeves, you need to be silent now, got it?” He bobbed his head nervously to let me know he understood. A few moments later, he was trussed up with his sock in his mouth and carefully placed in the pantry. It wouldn’t be pleasant for him, but I couldn’t have him alerting anyone. Once this was done, I slowly crept down the hall. I’d studied the architects’ drawings and was able to find the cellar. I peered round the corner. There were two guards at the door. One, I would probably be able to sneak up on and deal with. Two would be a little trickier. I had two options. Try and do it quietly and risk being caught flat-footed by the second, or go in hard, fast and loud and risk alerting the people downstairs. I opted for the latter. The first heavy saw me moments before the butt of my pump-action splintered his nose. He dropped hard. The second was part of the way to drawing his pistol as I filled him with lead, throwing him across the hallway. I heard shouts of alarm below me. I kicked the door open,

sending some guy in hooded robes tumbling down the stairs. I lifted him up and smacked him hard in the face. I was about to ask him what was going on, when I became aware of my surroundings. The back of the cellar had been extended into a huge cavern. In alcoves around the walls, candles lit the place up, their flickering causing the shadows to dance. Half a dozen robed figures stood around a pit. Above the pit was hung the whimpering, writhing figure of Claudette Goodwin, tendrils of green flame licking her body. Her eyes stared back from some other place. Cranham screamed and pointed at me, before sprinting off down a side tunnel. My shoulders slumped and I raised my pump-action. The first cultist took a load of buckshot square in the chest, sending him screaming into the abyss. God only knew what eternity of torment awaited him down there, but for what they’d done to that girl, they deserved it. The others drew their pistols and I just managed to dive to cover as a hail of lead hit where I’d just been standing, stray bullets hitting their comrade who still lay there stunned. A bulky silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs. Before he could react I fired. I heard a grunt and the figure collapsed. A hail of gunfire shattered wine bottles around me and splintered the shelves. These guys were just rich playboys and usually got others to do the dirty work. I squeezed off the last three shells from my pump, felling two of the robed figures. As I drew my service revolver from it’s shoulder holster, a bullet hit the wooden shelf I was using for cover, sending splinters into my face. I took shelter for a moment to calm myself, before popping out of cover and plugging the last of the cultists. Now for Cranham. I ran into the tunnel I’d seen him disappear through. My luck was in. He was at the end of it, trying desperately to open a manhole cover at the top of a ladder. He turned, a look of fear in his eyes. “What do you want? Money? I have money.” I grabbed his leg and yanked him down.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Once he was on the floor, I stamped on his face, feeling something break. “You vile son of a bitch, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done to that poor girl.”

“No! Please! If you kill me before my work is done, my soul belongs to them!” I could only guess at who they were, and what they would do to his soul, but I knew it would be terrible

“My Kind of Job”

beyond belief. And he deserved it. “She was just a girl, and you sold her soul.” “She wanted me to! She practically begged for it! She wanted to experience the unimaginable.” He thought this might buy my mercy, but he was wrong. “Say hello to those bastards for me.” I knew I’d regret it as soon as I pulled the trigger, that I would be pulling down all kinds of trouble on myself. He squirmed briefly and died. His last words echoed in my mind after the sound of the gunshots had died. It was an all too familiar story. A hedonistic girl, starting out small, with liquor and parties. Moving on to the hard stuff, but still can’t satisfy that craving for experiences. When the natural, the mundane is tiresome, there was only one place to turn, the supernatural. She’d probably met Fitz at Sammy’s place and he’d probably passed her on to Cranham, for a price. Now she was a plaything of the underworld. Just another girl who’d strayed. I’d have to lie to her father, of course. Tell him I couldn’t find her and return his money. He didn’t need to know what had happened to his poor little girl. And I needed a night at Sammy’s, before getting ready for what was around the corner. Joanne Renaud is an illustrator who graduated in illustration from Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California. Before moving to Southern California, she studied graphic design at Central Washington University and art at the University of Ulster in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She presently lives in Los Angeles. Recent clients include Simon & Schuster, Random House, Harcourt Inc, Trillium Publishing, McGraw Hill, Zaner Bloser and Astonishing Adventures Magazine. Joanne is a member of the Society of Children’s Books Writers and Illustrators, and enjoys travel, history, costume design, classic movies, old musicals and cheesy fantasy art. Joanne Renaud neroville@yahoo.com http://www.joannerenaud.com

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“Terrible Tess” By Matthew P. Mayo

t is an old and weathered newspaper clipping, an account in the Johannesburg Star Gazette dated nearly twenty years ago. I have it here with me now. The fanciful illustration shows a starved man, dressed in the barest of rags, weeping and smiling, and supported by a pair of strong, young sailors. His relief at being rescued is writ large on his face. The accompanying story tells the fantastic tale of a man adrift in a lifeboat for many months, and of his dramatic rescue. It does not tell how I had come to be in that boat. Alone. Adrift. Terrified. Insane…. “What’s your name, man?” Something rapped me hard in the leg. It was the stunted little baboon of a man they called Bonn. The one who had found me in the alley but an hour before. His wide eyes and gritted teeth told me the question was directed at me. I had been busy since climbing aboard staring straight up at the four towering masts that seemed to poke the clouds high above Dublin Bay. All manner of ropes and horizontal poles hung away from them like vines on branches. For a farm boy, these sights were as foreign as the sensations and sufferings brought on by the drink of last night, now momentarily forgotten in favor of such awesome visual delights. I saw far down the deck men clad in little more than pantaloons and kerchiefs on their heads struggling up gangplanks under the weight of cargo, heaving great sacks of grains onto various

sloppy piles on the broad decks. “Pardon me … what did you say?” I asked. “Name, name! What’s your name?” “Corbin. Corbin Mc—.” “Corbin.” He cut me off, staring at me again as if he smelled something foul. “Right, we’ll call you Corey. Easier for the lads to remember.” His mouth smiled at me then, but not his eyes. “Why do you want to know my name?” Again he looked as if he’d been slapped. “Why, if you’re going to work on my ship—” Bonn snorted and turned the snort into a cough, his gaze directed at the deck. “If you’re going to work aboard the Tess then you had better have a name. Because anyone aboard the Tess without a name isn’t aboard the Tess. Do you understand me now?” I did not, to be truthful, but his fat face shook and wagged with the emphasis he placed on each phrase uttered. He rapped the sloped desktop just in front of the compass and mammoth ship’s wheel, a carved wood and brass wonder a full six feet across that overlooked the length of the ship’s deck. He went back to his papers and I expected him to write my name in what appeared to be a ledger book of some sort. He did not. He ran a gnarled and dirty fingertip down a column of numbers too fast to actually be reading them. My curiosity grabbed me then. It was not the first time I followed it to a dead-end of trouble. “Are you the captain of this ship?” I said. The man paused. His head was bowed over

“Terrible Tess” the book, a jaw muscle worked, and one creased eye-corner jumped. Bonn tugged on my pants leg and motioned with his head. “I’ll show him to the work,” he said to the big man. Ignoring him, the man said, “I am acting on the captain’s behalf. He is, ah, not well right now. He’ll be himself, I’m sure, before too long.” You couldn’t say he was really smiling at me, but I got the feeling that I’d heard everything he was to offer. Bonn tugged my pants again and said, “Work. Come, come.” The big man stood behind me and said, “No, no, Bonn. Corey is looking a bit under the weather. He should have food and something to drink before we can ask him to begin earning his keep.” He raised his hands to his mouth and bellowed, right by my ear, “Rosselli! Come here!” It was my turn to flinch. The voice tore through whatever meager resistance I had left and I am afraid I had to grab a brass railing to keep from losing my balance. “Oh, did that startle you? I am sorry. It’s the men. Have to shout at them or they don’t respond. Isn’t that right, Bonn?” The little man nodded, returned his gaze to the floor. “By the way, Bonn. You have work to do, I’m sure. We’ll get Corey here fixed up.” The little man looked up at me and didn’t even try smiling this time. But his eyes said it all. “Not down there! He can work, he can work.” Bonn pulled again on my clothes, a look of plain desperation on his face. I determined then and there to take my leave before this silly ruse could continue. Just then a swarthy fellow but a couple of years my senior came forward. He was well muscled, and he leapt the three steps up to where we stood at the rear of the ship. Half of his teeth were missing, the other half blackened stumps. They were ragged and ended in points. The sailor’s breath was equally troubled. “We need to show Corey here his way to the

galley. The same place you took the others last night.” The man named Rosselli stared at the large florid man beside me, his eyebrows raised in question, an expectant look on his face. Then some sort of understanding spread across his features. Now I’ve never claimed to be the sharpest knife in the pantry, but the veiled messages shifting back and forth between the two convinced me it was time to depart. “Gentlemen, you’ll excuse me, I’m sure. I have important business in the heart of the city. My father, ah, the Duke, is expecting me. I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time. Happy voyage to you, though.” As I spoke I edged around the swarthy man who remained unmoved, arms folded across his broad chest. He grinned at me with those hideous little teeth. Realizing my potential danger must have helped me regain an edge of clarity, for I hardly shook as I descended the three steps. I risked a quick backward glance at the bottom as I turned toward the gangplank and saw a dark blur before a large, foul-smelling armpit clamped about my head, my mouth and nose smothered. I struggled and had I not been troubled with the after effects of drink I would have posed a serious match for the swarthy man. But I was too weak to offer a quick defense other than to slap and swing wildly at my attacker. Then I received a punch to the side of my head and I remembered nothing until I awoke. And by then, of course, it was too late. We were far away from where a gangplank would do me any good. I was in the bowels of the Tess and judging from the lunges far down then up again, down and up, we were in the open ocean and crashing through high seas. I knew this even before I tried to sit up. I also knew, before I opened my eyes, from the sounds about me that I was not alone. But it was the smell that forced my eyes open. I

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

spent most of my life to that point, in and out of byres and paddocks knee deep in all manner of animal muck and mire. I knew the tang of waste when I smelled it. And the smell in that ship, in whatever rank compartment of the hold we were held in, ripped me from sleep harder and stronger than any strong draught might. “Where am I?” I said to the dark. My eyes focused on very little, so black was the inside of the compartment. I heard other voices nearby. There was a low laugh, dry and cackling, and someone sobbed. I was on my back and worked to lift myself to a sitting position, but within inches I was knocked back to my former pose. As I cursed and made to rub my head, only to find that my hand would not raise, the laughter began again. I fought down the urge to panic and felt around myself. I was on narrow planking with another plank scant inches from my face. Out to one side leaning from me was an upright of some sort. A ship’s rib? Off to my right was open air, then my knuckles rapped the stiff side of another plank. So I was on a bunk of some sort. I barely had time to comprehend this when the ship rose and dropped down crashing seconds later. The effect was dizzying, to say the least. Someone vomited, though in truth it sounded and smelled as though he had long since voided his belly. Hearing the wracking gags was almost as painful to me as the fresh wave of stench that washed over me. Others smelled it, too, judging from the groans and shiftings. I heard something else, then. A clanking sound that had been there in the dark before but my concentration was elsewhere. I slid my hands together atop my own delicate belly and felt my wrists. They were free. I pulled my legs up, hit the plank above, received a grumble from the soul above me, and shifted my legs out to the sides. My right leg was free. I maneuvered my left leg outward, the leg closest to the wall, and felt the weight of resistance and heard the unmistakable clink of chain settling back on

itself. By squirming I finally managed to touch the manacle about my ankle. And then I felt nothing but a bare foot beneath it. No knitted sock, no shoe. My hand dragged upward along my leg. It was bare to my waist. Here I was clothed in a ragged pair of shorts. Even from my nearly blind position I could tell they were stiff and greasy and not mine. My torso as well was bare, and of course my cap was as I—among the missing. I fought with no great degree of success to keep my tears from flowing but it was not to be. I cried in silence and let them wash down my cheeks. I was beyond miserable and fortuneless. As I lay there every scrap of time from the moment I left home until the moment the swarthy man pummeled me on deck came to me. I sagged in the bunk as the realization of where I was and what might be in store came over me. What did they want with me? With us? For surely the other pitiful souls in this cell were bound for the same fate as myself. “Where are we?” I said to whoever might hear me. Without awaiting an answer I asked, “How many of us are there here?” The laughter began again. The same cracked and hollow voice, then it said, “You are new to the Tess.” “And you are not?” I said, straining to reach my ankle shackle. “How many are in here?” “Alive? Perhaps a dozen, perhaps more.” The voice coughed and the cough became the strange laugh. “Why do you laugh so?” “Because we will all die here.” A wracking sob burst from the small voice in the corner. Other wearied voices moaned. “And that is funny?” “Yes,” said the weak voice, “because long before we reach our destination we will rob them of their prize. Ultimately, we will win.” I paused. This sounded like a course of action. “How do we go about robbing them?” Again, the laughter, though softer. “We will

“Terrible Tess” die.” I thought for a moment. “I don’t understand.” There was a lengthy pause before he responded. “We are the prize. They plan to sell us as slaves in Africa.” “How do you know this?” There was a pause, then in a low voice he said, “Because I am, or I was, the captain.” I could scarcely believe my ears. “The captain of this ship? Is it true?” I whispered it, as if to say it louder might betray the possibility. I realized how childish I sounded, and I expected him to laugh again, but he did not. “I was the captain. Strictly a commercial venture, but I hired additional crew in haste. They had worked together before. They are pirates.” “Pirates?” I said. “Pirates, yes. Thieves, scoundrels, and worse.” He spat the words. “And now, as sure as I am trussed and chained here in four directions, they will sell us as slaves.” “Why Africa?” I said, but in truth my head was aswim. I had so many questions, so many fears. What could I do but ask the first thing that occurred to me? “Because that is where the ship is expected. But she will never make it that far.” I shuddered at the thought of this mammoth vessel no longer able to stay above the water, far from land. So far that no land is visible. I doubted that was even possible but the thought stayed with me, chilled me to my core. Other than an occasional moan, the slow slide and dull clink of chain on wood, and the heaving and creaking of the Tess herself, the cell was quiet. “The Terrible Tess. That’s what she is. She betrayed me. And now, when I am of the mind to do the same to her in return, I cannot, chained as I am like a prisoner in a dungeon.” “Why will she not make it to Africa? Will she sink?” He laughed then, a harsh, rasping sound,

and said, “Tell me, boy, was Footley wearing an ill-fitting burgundy jacket?” “Who?” “The man purporting to be the captain.” My thoughts returned to the thick-faced fellow. “Yes, his coat looked rather poorly on him.” “Ha ha,” he said weakly. “That is my coat. And Footley is a fat man and I am not. He may have taken my commission and my identity. And the partners at the shippers, Browards and Connelly, may have believed him, dimwits that they are, but he can never fit my clothes.” The captain seemed to find this amusing, a fresh sputter of soft chuckles reaching me just when I thought he’d finished. “You said that we would rob them of their prize. That we would win. How would that be so?” There was no answer. “Captain?” I heard chain sliding on wood, then nothing. Another voice, smaller somehow, and thinner. A young boy’s voice said, “He is weak. Too weak to talk now. He is sleeping.” “What’s your name?” I asked. There was a pause, then he said, “That does not matter.” “Why? Surely one’s name matters most at a time such as this.” I waited for a reply but found none. I don’t blame him. I didn’t believe my own words. I was trying only to draw him out. “What caused you to be here?” I asked. Again, there was a silence, then he said, “I was on board.” “Bad luck,” I said. “Yes.” Though I had many questions, there seemed little else to say at present. My initial shock at having awakened in such a place was rapidly replaced by a mixture of nausea and hunger and overall weakness owing to a lack of water and food. I was already in a poorly way when the little man found me, robbed and sick, in the alley in Dublin, and my fortunes certainly had

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

declined since then. That little man. … “Boy,” I said. “Boy, do you recall a small man? Short, some sort of crippling disease of the legs. Rickets, I think he said it was, something like that.” “Bonn.” “Yes, that’s what they called him. Surely he can help us. He did not seem to be of their ilk.” Now he laughed, oddly reminiscent of the captain’s dry cackle. “Who brought you to the ship? I’ll be it was he.” I said nothing. Of course he was right. “Boy,” I finally said. “What did the captain mean when he said that we would rob them of their prize?” The captain spoke then, his voice slurring and barely audible. “I meant that this ship is infected … with disease. No one will reach Africa, or anywhere else, alive. Most of the men in this cell will not live to see the morning.” “Where did they all come from?” I asked. “Were they crew?” “Some were of my crew. Most were vagrants like yourself. From what I have overheard the scum above decks are paid handsomely for slaves. For healthy people, that is. Not for the sick or dead.” Once again I heard his hollow, spectral laugh. “Why?” “Greed. Footley reasoned that the more people they had on board the more money they would make. In theory it is a good plan, but a disease like the Ganting Pox cares little for plans and theories.” “How could this happen?” “It is my fault,” said the captain, but his voice was quieter, strained. I think that he was fighting tears. “In my haste to get my dear wife where the climate is arid, I hired too hastily against … her better judgment.” He wept, wracking and ragged sounds filled our close quarters. There is no sound so jarring to a man as that of another man sobbing openly and uncontrollably. “She is dead?” I finally said. “Yes, yes.” He coughed and seemed to

compose himself. “She is dead … and I killed her.” “That is not true,” said the boy again, panting and obviously in haggard condition. I pictured him chained in a corner, but in truth it was so dark in the chamber that I could make out little other than the dimmest of shapes. “I killed her just as I killed you, child.” “I tell you it’s not true, papa.” My very heart filled my throat. This boy was the captain’s son. Pieces came together and helped me to make sense of this situation. The captain and the boy were both in a weakened state. Fatigued from lack of food and water. Or worse, from disease. The others around us were like ghosts, offering only the slightest of noises, soft moans and coughs. The captain was distraught beyond consolation over the death of his wife. The boy, his son, was resolute but weak, and perhaps also resigned to die. And I? I was inconsequential. Naught but another soul, only the latest to be thrown into that chamber by one with an eye toward profit. “Surely they will give us food and water, if only to protect their damnable investment,” I said, indignation flowering again in my breast, if only for a moment. In truth it took too much effort to sustain. I wilted again when the only response I received was the shadow of the captain’s laugh. I yelled then, not caring about the people near me in their weakened states. Again I was met with laughs. “Why do you insist on mocking my efforts?” I said. “At least I am putting forth something toward gaining assistance.” “You think we have not? We’ve been kept here for some time now. How long precisely I cannot tell you. But they are keeping an eye on their investment, trust me. They give us just enough food and water to keep us alive, though not enough for us to rise against them. I am sure they do not care if some of us expire on the journey.”

“Terrible Tess” I began to see the futility of my hopes for help, for reasoning with our captors. They were pirates, nothing more, and we could die at their hands or live. It mattered not to them. I sank back, loose-limbed on my swaying plank in the dark, and lamented for the future I had planned for myself and the fact that it would not come to pass. The excitement of travel, of new experiences in an infinite future so full of promise, was reduced to a wall of grief about me, as high and as wide as forever on all sides. Since I could not see in the dark of the dank hold, I convinced myself it was nighttime. And despite the occasional shouts of a crewmember from somewhere above, it was an easy ruse to keep up for myself. It had been days since I heard movement of any sort other than that which was forced from the vessel herself through her constant wracking on the seemingly never-still seas. For the first time in what must be days I heard the clean sound of metal sliding on metal. Then the softer, duller thunk of wood clunking, a soft squeaking, and something touched me, prodded me. The irritation of it finally distracted me from my torpor and I slid my head toward whatever it was that offended me in such a manner. I was at home on the farm. No, it was still the ship and I was dying much sooner than I ever expected I would. I cried about this days ago. And no one cared. It had been days since I heard from any of them. The dead are beyond care. Still it prodded me. I squinted. There was light. I hadn’t experienced light since I was tossed in there. And when that was I cannot tell. Through the violent yellow and orange glare I saw a face that looked familiar. And then I knew the face. It was that smiling face that had first greeted me some time in the past. I didn’t know whether to hug him or kill him. Without his interference

I might now be at home. “Come, come,” he said. Was he mad? If I could have done that I would have budged from that hell long ago. He grunted and groaned and finally managed to free my shackled leg. He grabbed my bare legs with his claws and pulled me off the bunk. I flopped to the floor and it hurt. I banged against other bunks and elbows on the way down and all were stiff and hard. As he pulled me to my feet, the frayed light from the dim little lantern swung here and there revealing a madhouse of horrors. Limbs covered in boils, leering faces stiffened in the rictus of death. He pulled at me, dragging, helping me toward where I suspected the door lay. It was wood, thick, with inset ironwork and a padlock just beyond flicked into view, hanging like a small head and impaled by a skeleton key. “The others,” I said, forcing myself to look to each side of me. “The lamp, bring it here.” I forced out. “You must come with me.” “No, the others. … ” He swung the lamp around. I had forgotten his height. The lamp in his hand was barely raised off the floor. There were not so many of us as I had guessed in that little chamber. But those about me had long passed their last breath. Perhaps because I had been immersed in it, I did not suffer from the effects of overwhelming stench that a decaying body offers, though I did not dwell on the thought. I was too preoccupied with the very next sight I saw. It was the captain. It had to be. He was a youngish man, perhaps ten years my senior. And despite the growth of beard upon his face, it was apparent to me that this was the captain. He had a once-regal moustache, black hair parted in the middle, and a strong chin. But most striking of all, and most convincing me of this identity, was the expression of defiance and anger on his face. What happens in a man’s heart when his will is bested by four strong chains and shackles? To know that his wife was no doubt used in the

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

worst way somewhere on the very vessel he had captained, and what’s more, to know that it was his fault for hiring filthy rats of the sea that did this thing. I leaned close over him and saw that he was dead. His eyes were open but there was no light of life in them, just the strange dull film that only comes with cessation of life. I had seen it on few people—an aunt, my sister, but I had seen it on any number of animals about the farm. No matter the creature, we all share that same attribute at death. I shone the lantern on each of the bodies, but they were all the same. Unmarked but for bruising, some broken bones, but the most prominent of all was emaciation. The only one in worse shape was the captain. He had lesions, now dried and puckered, on his arms, cheeks, chest. Not many but enough to show he had suffered some additional horror. “Come, come.” The urgings of the little gimpy man pulled me from my reveries. He swung the light toward the door once more and my eyes fell on a hand smaller than that of a grown man. It was the soft hand of a boy no more than twelve. I had forgotten about the captain’s son. And here he was. I leaned against a wood post and lowered myself down to see the boy. “Light, bring the light closer here,” I said to Bonn. And as I did so I reached for the small face, still in shadow. Bonn’s hand grabbed my arm and wrenched it away. “No,” he said, I looked up and he was still smiling at me. The same smile he wore when I first met him. He looked down at the boy. “No, you do not touch.” “What?” I struggled against his grip but in my weakness I was no match for his strength. “She was sick, too.” I paused. This made no sense. “This boy? What do you mean?” He held up the lantern beside his face and smiled at me, but his eyes were not smiling. They stared straight at me. Into me. Through

me. He shook his head, side to side, but his eyes remained fixed. “The captain,” he looked quickly toward where the sad man lay. “The wife and the girl. All sick.” “But this is the captain’s son. I spoke with him.” Again he shook his head, his grip remained on my arm. I flinched. His grip tightened. “No, no. I make her a boy. Better for her here. But the wife, I could not help her.” I reached with my other hand and pulled down on the lantern, lowering it toward the dead child’s face. Bonn was correct. This was no boy. And the other hand that rested on her lap was delicate, as a young lady’s hand should be. She had short hair and smudges on her face. But there was no mistaking the light eyelashes and soft frowning mouth of a girl, the smooth cheeks, even in death. Smooth save for the lesions that, as with her father, plagued her until death, then seemed to have ceased their work upon her fine doll features. I noticed the visage of proud defiance, the same as that of her father, the captain of the Tess. Thankfully her eyes were closed. Her face, in the deepest of sleeps, put me in mind of my young sister, Margaret, long dead. And it was too much to bear, all at once. I cried, my shoulders convulsing in silence. I had no tears to soften my grief. I had nothing to give anyone but misery. I had already made that a bitter gift to my parents, they who had had more of it than most people should ever have in their lives. He tugged at me and with his help I rose. Before I left that chamber of evil I reached down and grasped the light wrist, lifting the flopped hand gently to her lap to rest in peace there with the other, as if joined in prayer or supplication. Or resigned relief. Bonn led me through dark passages, between barrels and sacks and all manner of hanging ropes swaying loosely with the slow rocking of the big ship. “Where is everyone?” I asked him. He just walked ahead of me, holding the lantern aloft in front of him. I staggered and

“Terrible Tess” finally had to stop, leaning into a tangle of ropes. “Water,” I said. “There must be water.” “On the deck,” he said, and motioned for me to follow him. The last time I followed him, I thought, I ended up in a very bad way. But this time I had no choice. At least I was free of that dungeon of death. The promise of water on the deck kept me moving forward. He waited and when I needed it he offered me a hand. Eventually I was forced to lean on his shoulder. By now we had risen two decks. We must have been imprisoned in the lowest part of the ship. It certainly felt as though we were quite far down below water level, of what I can recall of those days in the dank cell. We passed through another layer and I saw limbs all about me, some touching me, swaying in hammocks, and all were covered with sores not dissimilar to those on the captain’s body. These limbs, faces, were bluish gray and stiff, some hands balled into fists, as if rage were the last thing felt in this life. We stepped over a body, the face turned upward. It was the swarthy young man who had attacked me. His vicious little teeth bared as if in mid bite. He had lost much weight and beneath the lesions his once magnificent muscles were sagged and sunken. “What did this?” I said to my companion. He trudged with much effort, lifting his small, bent legs to attain the next step. And grunting near the top, he said, smiling, “She did,” and pointed to the naked corpse of a woman who had once been a beauty, now lashed to the massive wooden ship’s wheel. Her pale skin, covered in lesions, was yellow and splotched with the gray-blue of lifelessness. Her limbs spread wide as if welcoming the world home to a shameless maternal self. But this was not the case, I know. These savage pirates had plundered her beyond the worst of human imaginings and still she probably lived to think about it, if not to tell about it. But for how long? As I stared at her strange, sad body, sagged now despite the severity off her bindings, watching it

twitch and jerk with each motion transmitted to the wheel from the now slight seas, her husband’s words came back to me and the full horror of his grim speech doused me with shame and pity. They will be robbed of their prize. Ultimately we will win. I took that to mean that every last one of the evil crew was infected by the poor woman in the method most obvious. The captain knew his wife was ill. In fact he was probably less than forthright with his employers, the shipping company and owners of the ship, and was using them as a way to get her to a more temperate climate, though he must have known it would be of no use. Her disease was already too far gone. He had probably stowed her safely in his cabin along with his daughter and was eager to be away, both for the slim-to-none chance he had in saving his wife and also to be gone from the prying eyes of port authorities. In his haste he hired poorly and now both he and his evildoing crew had paid the price. With his wife paying the highest price of all. Bonn’s grip on my forearm startled me from staring at the remains of the woman. “What was her name?” His smiled faltered then and those eyes looked straight through mine. “Tess,” he said, though seemingly not to me. “Come.” Smiling once again he tugged me toward the rail. The day’s light was dour and pressed close about us in banks of gray clouds. “What are you doing?” I asked, too weak to protest. We got to the railing and he pointed down toward the water. Far below us, tethered to the side of the ship, a small rowing craft, a lifeboat, I believe they call them, jerked in violent reaction to the slight swells that lapped the Tess. Rolling in it was a small keg, filled with liquid, no doubt, and several rough-cloth sacks which must contain foodstuffs. He wished us to escape. It dawned on me that he was correct in his assumption. Any longer and this ship would give

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

over completely to disease. Perhaps it already had. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, as father had so often said at the outset of many a successful project. It was with great difficulty that I managed to climb down the webbed rope that hung to within a few feet above the edge of the bobbing lifeboat. Another minute and I regained what feeble stores of strength I had left. I looked up at Bonn. He just stood there, peeking over the railing, smiling down at me. “Come down now. Let’s make a start!” I beckoned to him. He smiled and shook his head. “Bonn! Come on, man!” He stood shaking his head, that damnable smile still on his face, looking at me as if I had said a most stupid thing. Then he lifted high a gleaming blade and with a bark he brought it down once, twice, I shouted, “No!,” and he hacked through the ropes that held the little boat fastened to its mother’s side. He smiled and shook his head as we drifted slowly apart. “It is not too late!” I protested. But he knew better. He knew something I did not. Something for which he was ashamed, perhaps? I choose to think otherwise. Perhaps some loyalty to the captain compelled him to stay with Tess, the terrible, terrible Tess, to whatever end. I watched them, and he me, until long after it was possible to see anything but the vast unbroken gray plain of the sea. I lived. As the newspaper clipping shows. Eventually, I made my way back to Ireland, but by then my mother had died away. No one I knew recognized me. The disease left me pocked and it chewed away years of my future. I was barely thirty years old, but in appearance and in spirit I was an old, old man. That I have lived another fourteen years beyond that, here in my little crofter’s cottage, is a wonder. I attribute it to Irish air and soil. I am inland. Far from the

sea. Alone with my thoughts. And I am sure the Tess will always be out there, forever drifting, picked clean by wind, by sun, by time, though never clean enough. Never found, but never sinking away. With each passing day and night these visions grow stronger and soon, I am sure, I will give over to them, be lost in them, and there will be an end to it.

“The Many Worlds of WOLD NEWTON”

“The Many Worlds of WOLD NEWTON” By Henry Covert

hilip Jose Farmer and the Genesis of Wold fiction as a genre to take the last painful steps Newton into adulthood. He crafted the first truly adult explicitly adult - genre tales. He was recognized Who is Philip Jose Farmer? And what is early on for this by winning a prestigious Nebula Wold Newton anyway? Award in 1953 as “most promising new writer” Philip Jose Farmer is a groundbreaking, for his story (later expanded to a novel) “The iconoclastic, award-winning, and endlessly Lovers” - a frank, graphic, and emotionally inventive author of science fiction and wrenching tale of an inter-species love affair related genres. Farmer’s work, in this age of on a distant planet. Farmer revolutionized all overnight literary phenoms driven by irony, science-fiction from then on - his heroes were deconstructivism, and endless multi-media fully human (even when non-human) - capable shilling, lacks the recognition and attention he of sensitivity, sexual passion, spiritual yearnings, should so richly be afforded. Philip Jose Farmer and unspeakable violence. was essentially the catalyst that forced science

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Farmer’s influence sent ripples through two generations of aspiring genre writers, opening or crashing - the floodgates to make way for the far-ranging, disparate likes of Harlan Ellison, JG Ballard, Michael Moorcock, Norman Spinrad, Philip K. Dick, and other mavericks of the form. These authors didn’t really coalesce into a brain trust as did the earlier “California Sorcerers” group (Bradbury, Serling, Beaumont, Matheson, Nolan, Johnson, et al.), but these were science fiction/ fantasy’s “New Wave” - and no one rode that wave faster, more furiously, or with such total abandon - as Philip Jose Farmer.

sandbox that was ultimately to become popularly known as the Wold Newton Universe. In this setting, Farmer employed crossovers between, pastiches of, and homages to, his most cherished literary icons. How he was able to do this will be explored shortly, as we examine his next major critically and commercially lauded book after the launch of Riverworld - a book inspired by the work of many other writers, but the likes of which had never quite been written before. For though it had its antecedents, Tarzan Alive would not be the book it is but for Philip Jose Farmer.

Farmer’s work reached its first massive peak with the Hugo Award-winning novel To Your Scattered Bodies Go, the first in an ambitious five-novel cycle that enthralled millions of readers with the idea of the Riverworld, a planet bounded by a vast river, along whose banks co-existed all of the Earth’s resurrected dead from the Stone Age until (interesting this) 2008 AD. Farmer here was able to construct stories of meetings between such well-known and legendary real-life figures as Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain), Sir Richard Francis Burton, Cyrano de Bergerac, Tom Mix, Hermann Goering, and scores more. To Your Scattered Bodies Go gave readers their first, most potent dose - after portentous tastes in earlier works of Farmer’s lifelong penchant for blending and blurring empirical reality with the realms of the imagination - and often, he erased the lines altogether.

But first, to answer the second query put forth for this essay: What is Wold Newton? This requires a much shorter answer than our first query. On December 13, 1795, a meteorite fell at 3 p.m. near the tiny hamlet of Wold Newton in Yorkshire, England. The Wold Newton meteorite was the first observed meteorite in Britain, and after scientific study, it was acquired by naturalist James Sowerby, who gave away fragments to some curious folk. Sowerby’s remaining fragments now reside at the Natural History Museum in London. In 2003, a local brewery, Wold Top, was founded in honor of the meteorite, and produces an ale called “Falling Stone”. In 2007 Wold Newton aficionado Paul Spiteri brought the first bottles of Falling Stone to America to distribute at an event in honor of Philip Jose Farmer.

If all of known history was the playground where he “crossed over” legendary characters who nonetheless truly lived - what if Farmer exercised the same conceit with all of the innumerable fictional characters he had ever loved or had a fascination with? If Riverworld was Philip Jose Farmer’s first major playground in which to weave a new reality from existing materials, what was to come was an even vaster metafictional

So, at what point does the life of this brilliant and influential author intersect with the fate of a meteorite that fell over three centuries ago? And how has Farmer’s use of the very name ‘Wold Newton’ (usually followed by the words ‘Family’, ‘Universe’ or some other epithet) come to denote a unique and ever-expanding take on crossover and shared universe/ world building? Dropping the phrase ‘Wold Newton’ in certain circles now provokes reactions from an entire subset of fandom - though those reactions vary

“The Many Worlds of WOLD NEWTON” wildly. Everyone engaging in “Woldnewtonry” (a term believed to have been coined by Dr. Peter Coogan) brings to it their own notions of just how to go about expanding this metafictional House That Farmer Built. Wold Newton studies (in the context of Farmer, not of the real-life meteorite) began in earnest in 1972, with the publication of Tarzan Alive (henceforth TA), a biography of the man Edgar Rice Burroughs variously called John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, and Tarzan of the Apes. In TA, Farmer asserts that Greystoke was a real person, and that Burroughs greatly exaggerated Greystoke’s exploits for his pulp adventure audience. In TA, Farmer establishes a template for all Wold Newton works to follow. He does this by employing three major tropes that formed the bedrock of Wold Newton studies.

group of street urchins that would at times assist Sherlock; they were introduced in Arthur Conan Doyle’s first Holmes novel, A Study in Scarlet (1886). It was Farmer’s induction into the Irregulars and his thorough study of Baring-Gould that surely planted the seed that was to, not so much bloom (as in Leopold?), as to burst, Athena-like, from Mr. Farmer’s formidable brainpan. Much as Baring-Gould and the Baker Street Irregulars scrutinized the Holmesian canon for lapses in continuity, Farmer analyzed Burroughs’ ‘fictionalized’ texts of Tarzan’s adventures and attempted to reconcile any conflicting information. Holmesian scholar Professor H.W. Starr was particularly influential on Farmer’s embrace of these methodologies.

Lastly, Farmer created the concept of the Wold Newton Family - a grouping of fictional characters that Farmer claims are blood related, including Tarzan, Holmes, Doc Savage, Nero First, as noted, he claimed that Tarzan, and a Wolfe, the Scarlet Pimpernel, A.J. Raffles, great number of other fictional characters, were Professor Challenger, the Shadow, Fitzwilliam in fact real people. Here he followed the lead of and Elizabeth Bennett Darcy, and many others. William S. Baring-Gould’s ‘biography’ Sherlock Farmer accounts for the prodigious talents of Holmes of Baker Street. A great number of these Holmes, Tarzan, etc. by revealing that they are co-called “fictional biographies” have appeared descended from a group of people traveling by in the decades since; Baring-Gould himself even coach in Wold Newton, Yorkshire, England in continued the trend with his Nero Wolfe of 1795 when a meteor struck a nearby cottage, 35th Street, where he contends that Nero Wolfe twenty yards from the coaches. The passengers was actually the son of Sherlock Holmes (this of those coaches were exposed to radiation from relationship link also undoubtedly influenced the the meteor, and all of the women in the coaches course Farmer would take with TA in conceiving were pregnant at the time. As Farmer says in the Wold Newton Family). The fictional TA, “they never guessed, being ignorant of biography conceit will be further explained ionization, that the fallen star had affected them below. and their unborn”. But it was indeed this event that has accounted for the benevolent mutations A second hallmark of Wold Newton of their offspring. The descendants of those studies concerns continuity among a character’s affected intermarried, strengthening the mutant published exploits. Farmer again followed gene pool, and the Wold Newton Family grew Baring-Gould’s example as the Holmes very complex... appreciation group, the Baker Street Irregulars, had devoted themselves to this minutiae for Farmer continued to explore all of the above decades. The Irregulars were named for a described concepts in his follow up to TA, Doc

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Savage: His Apocalyptic Life (henceforth DS: HAL), a ‘biography’ of the classic pulp hero. In DS:HAL, not only does Farmer further the conceit of the hero being a real person, but he adds many branches to his Wold Newton family tree. By the end of DS: HAL, we see a huge family of extraordinary folk taking shape, a family that includes classic pulp and adventure heroes (and villains) such as Professor Moriarty, the Spider, the Avenger, James Bond, Sam Spade, and Fu Manchu. It becomes a family that encompasses Jules Verne’s Phileas Fogg and Captain Nemo; Leopold Bloom from Ulysses; Kurt Vonnegut’s Kilgore Trout; and Farmer’s own hero Kickaha from his World of Tiers series - among many others. Farmer also adds extraordinary characters who were not descended from those at the meteor crash, but are either related to them or are their ancestors. Examples include Captain Blood, Solomon Kane, and Allan Quatermain. Farmer also adds more outre source texts (from Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos to the talking canine detective Ralph von Wau Wau) than in his previous work, and also doesn’t claim his source texts are fictionalized to the degree asserted in TA. Over the years, Farmer penned other novels and short stories set within the milieu he had thus created. The Other Log of Phileas Fogg, “After King Kong Fell”, The Adventure of the Peerless Peer (a Tarzan-Holmes crossover), Hadon of Ancient Opar, Escape from Loki (a Doc Savage novel), “The Freshman”, “Skinburn”, the Ralph von Wau Wau stories, and a good number of others. What is amazing is the sheer scope of Farmer’s accomplishments in establishing what longtime Wold Newton torchbearer Win Scott Eckert finally dubbed in 1997 ‘The Wold Newton Universe (or WNU)’. Eckert noted the vast range of fictional characters that Farmer had chosen to co-habitate within this marvelous new shared universe, and observed that obviously not all characters were necessarily

blood relatives, descendants, or ancestors of those present at the 1795 meteor strike, but may still exist within the same shared fictional universe as the Wold Newton Family proper. Hence Eckert’s choice of the title ‘Wold Newton Universe’. For instance, to use an oft-cited example, Farmer demonstrated in “After King Kong Fell” that King Kong co-exists in the same fictional reality as both Doc Savage and the Shadow. Obviously, however, Kong is not a blood relative of either hero (at least, not as far anyone has been able to discern...). Next Issue: The WNU: Farmer and PostFarmer (or, answers to more questions as to the nature of Wold Newton) Recommended Reading, Part One (all of these titles are currently in print):* Tarzan Alive by Philip Jose Farmer (1972; reprinted Bison Books 2006) Myths for the Modern Age: Philip José Farmer’s Wold Newton Universe (edited by Win Scott Eckert, MonkeyBrain Books, 2005) Farmerphile: The Magazine of Philip José Farmer (published by Michael Croteau, webmaster of the Official Philip José Farmer Home Page; authorized by Farmer; many WNUrelated essays and a WNU column by Win Scott Eckert each issue) Pearls from Peoria by Philip Jose Farmer (edited by Paul Spiteri, Subterranean Press, 2006; essential Farmer anthology; many rare stories set in the WNU) * Doc Savage: His Apocalyptic Life unfortunately, is not currently in print - but it is well worth a hunt on eBay, Amazon.com, or at your local used bookstore. It was my first Farmer, back in 1981, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. The Many Worlds of Wold Newton, its complete text are Copyright 2008 George Henry Smathers Jr.

“The Return of Mike Ashby”

“The Return of Mike Ashby” By Rachel Kadushin

effrey Sloane fanned out the boarding passes, picked out the one for the Salt Lake City leg of his trip, and put the others in the inside pocket of his brown corduroy jacket. He ran two fingers over the opposite arm’s vinyl elbow patch where some back-of-the-closet dust lingered. Boot heels echoed across the hard floors of the airport. Sloane tilted his head so he could see both directions of the thoroughfare. Was that a glimpse of overdone, over-dyed black hair he saw attached to a person rushing back out of view? Brenda had shiny black hair in an exploded punk style. She caught his eye, and saw him give her a baleful look as he adjusted his checkered cap. He tapped his watch, which he knew was the correct one by feel, and put his hand over his left pocket. Cigarette lighter. He had not forgotten it. Brenda had no obvious excuse for tracking him down. The rush of people through LAX kept any onlookers from discovering Sloane was her destination. She stood there for a moment, and then she darted into another gate area. Maybe she would go away after all. Brenda was not Sloane’s favorite person. However, she was a fair source of street information, and had a knack for bringing things that he might just need. Beside the fact that she should not know that he was here, he knew that there was the possibility that something was going down in her neighborhood, and did not want to face the dilemma of telling her why he was being so secretive about his vacation time. He had only

four days now before he was expected to check in and meet his new juvenile delinqu-- young looking partner. One who had not gone to ‘Nam, yet had an acceptable record: except that he had never worked Criminal Conspiracy before. Police procedure. He had argued that point with the new station Captain. Could be a moot topic. Once he arrived in New York, he knew he might not return by choice or other less savory reasons. Eight years as a detective held zero value to the people who knew him from his former career. He denied, even to himself at times, that he ever became a government spy, learning useful skills, but wanting to forget the events. He had no one to discuss the worst mistake of his life: leaving London Metro Police. Everyone he knew thought he was half-American and half-Canadian. Two minutes later Brenda returned her hair tied back and her leather and chain jacket gone. She approached at a moderate pace, face fidgeting with impatience while the rest of her body appeared calm. She was trying too hard to appear normal in her tank top, jeans and heavy boots. “What are you doing here?” Sloane spoke in a low irritated tone when she stood close enough to be intimate. Brenda refused to be flustered, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “For luck.” Very normal for an airport, she paused. “Really, Sloane, you’re going to need it. And I wouldn’t

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

have come here if you didn’t.” “What do you know that I don’t know?” Sloane asked, now looking at his ghoulish postmodern gypsy with cautious skepticism. She broke eye contact first. “A bad feeling.” Brenda demurred, and looked at one of her boot buckles. “One of the suits on the plane could be involved,” she added brightly, lifting her head. A hint of crocodile tears welled in her eyes. Sloane was nearly twenty years older than this kid, but he wondered at times if she had any government connections, and really was out there to watch over him. Over-adolescent Americans. He reminded himself that she was around twenty-five. “Brenda dear,” he said. “You have an overactive imagination. Besides, you never trust anyone in a suit.” She glared at him, hands on hips, her arms very taut. Her behavior amused him at less annoying times. Brenda’s “overactive imagination” tended to be uncannily accurate, perhaps fed information from Renee, the man who had supplied Sloane with the watch and cigarette lighter. A little more gently he asked, “What kind of suit?” Sloane’s lack of further argument seemed to surprise her. Her short description of the man had him at her own age to thirty-two, the “make” of his suit, and the kind of briefcase he was carrying. After a few more warnings she left without protest as quietly as a girl like her could. Sloane boarded the plane and watched the brown-haired gray-eyed “businessman” from the edge of his field of vision. The young exec sat one row back and one aisle over from Sloane. The vacant seat next to Sloane did not become an issue, as the plane was not too crowded. If necessary he would have revealed that he had reserved it along with the window one that he sat in.

After the flight took off, Sloane put his shoulder bag on the aisle seat and afforded a view of Brenda’s “suit”. Easily enough done, as the man was alone, and did not get off at any of the transfer points. The local flight allowed him the opportunity to make that kind of observation. Later, in New York, Sloane stopped his cab on East 65th Street in Manhattan. He was ready to walk the additional blocks to his midtown hotel, and leisurely discover if he was still being following or had picked up a new “tail”. It was evening, but store lights and streetlights of the city gave an electric glow to all but the most remote crevices between buildings. After three blocks Sloane stopped, turned around, and waved to the exec at the corner. Cautiously, the younger man walked up to Sloane. “What do you want,” Sloane demanded with a touch of annoyance in his voice to warn the other. “Well, uh -” Sloane cut him off. “Look, I’ll tell you up front that I’m not that kind of guy. If you want to seriously talk, I’ll have to see some identification.” The man complied. “I see, Mr. Brown, is it?” Sloane said after noting the home organization on the card. This satisfied Sloane that he was not being paranoid. If he wanted to keep the advantage, he could not ask why or which identity the younger man was following. “Yes. Well you see, sir, it was just a little regulation surveillance.” Sloane withdrew his spare charm, and emanated full bodied capacity of sudden death. “Someone in the office thought I might be interested, then?” “Yes, and now that we’re talking,” his voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat. “We could go over a few things.” They thought Sloane knew something, or had signaled his observation when the Ashby Business Schools hit American soil. He could not be certain if it was coincidence based on something he knew

“The Return of Mike Ashby” nothing about, and was not going to volunteer any information. “I will only talk to Nikolai,” Sloane said. Sloane gestured to Brown to enter an alcove between buildings before he would speak further. The name held more than recognition, but power over the young agent. “I’ll contact Nikolai,” Brown cooperated. “What else do you want me to do?” “Here, take my bags to this hotel.” He gave Brown his bags and a small white cardboard slip with some writing on it. “Register me under the name ‘John Kramer’, and tell the desk that I especially want the calls from Chicago. You think you can handle that, Brown?” Sloane had no connection with “The Office” now, and was glad that his bluff, or what New Yorkers would call “chutzpah” had worked. Well, Sloane could have killed him. Resigned to his fate, Brown agreed. Brown would first check in at The New York Office. Nikolai would understand his message. Perhaps, that particular diner would still be there. It boded well for Nikolai still being with the office, and also, Sloane surmised, having been promoted. After Brown left, Sloane walked to the coffee shop that held the fond memories of friendship and clandestine meeting nearly a decade ago. Within fifteen minutes Nikolai, a blond Slav in his late forties, sat down in Sloane’s booth. He wore a dark suit and tie. Sloane’s jacket and cap hung over the hook on the side of his booth in the greasy spoon diner. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to below his elbows. “Mike,” Nikolai Klymavesky said in a light Eastern European accent. “I can’t say that I am surprised to see you here,” he said. Sloane knit his brow and said, “What did you expect?” Sloane allowed his own finely articulate speaking voice to just hint South of London. “Was the New York Office just going to sit on it until this business school thing moved

out of their jurisdiction or went away entirely?” Nikolai had been the last person ever to call him “Mike”. There was a measure of trust between them; as much as both knew many things could not be said. “Can you tell me anything? Your company’s man was following me. I know I’m not in the loop...” Sloane’s coffee went untouched, but he did reach for a cigarette. Nikolai nodded. “I could not stop him, any more than I can stop you. I’m not here,” he said. Sloane lit his cigarette, another minute passed. “The school’s home branch in Manchester seems to have been unmolested by any possible interested parties.” Nikolai was one of the few who knew the details of Sloane’s particular experience when he joined The Office in ‘sixty-seven. Sloane needed to change who held his life-line. Transferring to an international organization with a unit based in New York had been his only alternative to get out. Then, a little less than two years later, Sloane had quietly mustered out of the International Alliance. “You seem to have some time off from... work,” Nikolai suggested, attempting to get a return of information from Sloane, who shifted in his seat. “Yes.” A grin tugged at the corners of Sloane’s lips, while he looked down at the hand that held his cigarette. “I do have a few days vacation.” “If Whittacker even finds out that I came to see you ...” Klymavesky paused with fake dramatics. “It might mean a leaky boat with no shore in sight.” Sloane let out a short laugh, and looked into the face of his old friend. Klymavesky hated sailing. If, like Sloane, he now became a man without a country, he would have nowhere to go anymore. Klymavesky’s face showed a lifetime of experience since they had last met. A few more moments of silence passed as Klymavesky

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

drank some of his coffee, and Sloane’s cigarette remained idle in his right hand. “Can you get me a mid-western sounding secretary at the Chicago office of Edwards and Kramer?” It was more of a flat statement than a question. Sloane kept his expression blank, non-expectant of any response. Nikolai nodded and gestured to the waitress for the check. “I’ll see what I can do. Give me a card with the number on it.” Klymavesky’s accent shifted to more neutral and undeterminable as they talked about business. Sloane reached into his inner jacket pocket and handed Nikolai a professional looking card. “O.K., my friend,” Nikolai said as he got up and out of the booth. “I’ll also have ‘your’ secretary check a couple of the programs on the net for you.” Klymavesky could not be more direct. His unit could or could not be concerned about the Ashby school at any level of alertness. If the “Office” had to be concerned about Sloane, or at least who he used to be, Klymavesky would now be watching out for it. It was late when Sloane left the diner, finally, to get to his hotel. He had to wait until the next morning to act on being “Mr. Kramer from Chicago.” In his room Sloane blanked his mind with his evening exercises, and then thought through his next steps during sit-ups, push-ups, and stretches. Tuesday afternoon Sloane got out of a cab in front of the Ashby Business School. The wide street had a few other office buildings, garish billboards, and white collar dives. Sloane glanced around, and gave himself a few more moments to establish his mental set. He wore glasses, a conservative dark suit, and carried a matching brief case. He was impeccably groomed and his face carried a “I’m here to please you” open blankness combined with a slight smile. Sloane walked down a short hall, and

opened a door that said “Ashby Business School” in gold letters. A receptionist behind a high formica counter was occupied with talking to an odd, tall woman with a camera bag and ready notebook pad. The brown haired woman was explaining, “Yes, I’m a freelance writer for the Financial Times - you know, the European business newspaper?” When she did not get a favorable response from the receptionist, she pulled out a piece of paper and shoved it at the receptionist. “You see,” the woman with bellbottom jeans said as she pointed to the correct lines, “I’ve been assigned to do an article on the great successes of the Ashby business school.” “Miss,” the receptionist said. “I don’t care what you’ve been assigned to. There is no Chelline Surrey on my list. Sit down, and if you’re nice and I feel like it, I’ll call the back for you. Now, sit down.” The reporter did not seem to know about New York receptionists. Sloane recalled one who had a man chop off part of his own hand with an ax when she did not let him enter. Sloane sat next to two other women dressed in business suits with skirts, and one man in a navy polyester suit on the orange vinyl sofa. The reporter reluctantly shifted her camera bag, sat down on a plastic chair near the fake wood magazine table, and adjusted her curly shoulder length hair so that it would not get caught behind the chair. “Next,” the receptionist said. One of the other women started to get up, but then seeming to think better, sat down again, and smoothed her skirt. Sloane approached the high countered desk. “Yes,” I believe I’m on your list,” he said like a bothered but soft business man. He took out a card. “I’m John Kramer with Edwards and Kramer Paper Products.” The woman lifted some sheets on a clip board. “Yes. Mr. Kramer, was it? You have been put on the list to go on the tour at two-thirty

“The Return of Mike Ashby” with the orientation leader, Mrs. Varquerez. She should be along any minute now, so just sit tight with the new recruits over there.” She pointed to the three nervous young people in suits. The receptionist looked up again, and attended to a U.P.S. delivery. As the terribly efficient receptionist had said, Mrs. Varquerez was just along. The four followed her through a swinging glass door. The woman reporter saw this as her invitation to join the group. In order to get in the elevator without tearing her clothes on the closing doors, she must have crouched under the reception desk, caught the glass door before it closed and locked, and barely squeezed in to join the tour group. There were seven people in the elevator, and Mrs. Varquerez did not seem to mind or notice the last minute addition. After all, the receptionist must have let the woman in or she would not have gotten in. Sloane impassively enjoyed the moment of corporate logic cutting its own blind spots. He followed with the tour quietly, not to miss any useful information about the Ashby business that Mrs. Varquerez could provide. They had already seen two kinds of classroom and a couple of offices. Sloane thought he saw a man he vaguely recognized at an intersection. Well, he would just, oops, drop his brief case and have to pick up the spilled papers. As Sloane bent over to pick up the papers and peer down a different hall, he could have sworn that reporter-woman peered at him wistfully. She went on with the tour reluctantly, and Sloane looked down that other hall. A few minutes later, going down the wrong hall of course, Sloane asked a young mail clerk about the locked elevator entrance he had discovered at the end of the hall. “Uh, that’s just the executive elevator,” the clerk replied. “And the portly man with the white mustaches?” Sloane asked without raising his

voice beyond the state of mild curiosity. “I saw him earlier going this way.” “Oh,” the clerk smiled. “That’s just Mr. Justeman.” The clerk laughed. “He’s the senior Vee Pee of the Ashby Business Schools. He’s just a little more uptight because, like, the home office is making him uproot everything to supervise the Los Angeles opening. You’d think the company would have, like, more than one man to do that kind of thing. But, like, Justeman gets picked every time. Well, that’s what they say in the mail room.” The clerk started to push his basket on. “Hey, you taking the empty office in three-seventeen? It’s that way.” Sloane thanked the clerk, and went back the direction he pointed. Who was Justeman working with. For himself? Never turn down a resource, was rule one. While he cautiously walked to room threeseventeen, he considered why British Intelligence might call the school a “sticky wicket.” Just as Sloane did not believe Intelligence had retired his code name, he did not believe that this was entirely Justeman’s retirement job. Before rejoining the tour Sloane quickly examined the room. A variety of opened and unopened boxes, piles of sorted yellowing newspapers, and scrap newspapers speckled with paint were scattered around the room. He waded over to the window, stepped between and over boxes and rolling chairs, pushed a stack of paint cans aside, and then sat on the desk that was pushed up to less than two feet from the window. The window was connected with minute wires to the building’s alarm system. Three-seventeen faced a small alley and the brick wall of the adjoining building. This made it an undesirable office for all purposes except his own. He pulled out the cigarette lighter from his jacket pocket, opened a small compartment on the bottom, and shook out two small plastic rods that had different screwdriver heads at each end. From a switch in his watch, Sloane extracted a gear-like metal wheel which

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

he attached to the end of one of the rods for leverage. Last, he extracted a carefully wrapped micro-pliers from his sock. At both sides of the window he reflowed the current from the alarm with plastic coated wire that had wrapped the pliers. He then took small strips of black tape from his briefcase and taped the wire underneath the window frame. Sloane opened and closed the window, adding a little oil to the chain works, and unscrewed the latch of the window lock. He pocketed the screw, swiped the lock with rubber cement, and laid the upper part of the catch back on top of it. The catch would stay in place under a maid’s feather duster. That night Sloane used climber’s caribiner clamps, and a dynamic kermantle rope to lower himself from a fourth floor window ledge of the adjacent building to the rigged window. The kermantle within the specially prepared line stretched and absorbed the physical shock of lowering himself down even this short distance, and was preferable to solid rope. Breaking into the building across from the window had not been easy, but had been done silently without setting off any of its alarms. Once he hung outside the target window at the Ashby School, even if the angle was bit precarious, it was just a question of applying enough leverage counteract the rubber cement on the lock. He waited a few moments, listened, and then drew himself into the small office. He glanced to his side to make sure that the handles of his small black carpet bag were secure on the loose caribiner at his left hip. Sloane closed the window on the line, and left the caribiners ready. There was no light between the buildings at this level; he could get out that way, and if he were in another part of the building when he exited, the equipment would pose a red herring to any guards who found it. He put the rock climbing harness in the bag, and then took out a penlight.

If he could safely pick the lock on the penthouse level of the building in the stairwell, he could get detailed plans for the building. Maybe some files would also tell him what the people behind Ashby wanted. In the fifth floor stairwell, Sloane ran into some trouble. Literally. They were both wearing black and moving fast when they collided. He got the other person in a head and shoulder hold. Promptly the other kicked him in the knee, elbowed out of Sloane’s hold, and flinged him over her body, slamming him against the wall. Breathing heavily, the woman tried to keep his shoulders pinned against the wall. Her head was above Sloane’s. His legs were bent, and he had the leverage against the wall. “Oh, it’s you,” she whispered. It was the ‘Times reporter, complete with a camera case that must have also banged into Sloane during the struggle. He neatly extracted himself from her loosened hold. While she did not wear any make-up, her black outfit was certainly more stylish than Sloane’s. A black cashmere tam hat matched her body hugging sweater. Her hair was tied back. Was Chelline Surrey an amateur... some counterpart of his least favorite informer and thorn Brenda Flynn? Sloane was about to find out. “Well, Miss Surrey, I did not think you were just admiring my posterior,” Sloane whispered as he forced his voice to sound amused. She looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh, in the hall. Yes, I guess.” Then she added, “But it’s not half bad.” Sloane let the “physics” of the matter be. “I presume you were already upstairs?” “I broke in at the roof,” she whispered smartly. Luck, or expertise? “And you found out?” Sloane tested.

“The Return of Mike Ashby” “There definitely is something going on in the basement sub-levels.” She looked into his eyes for a moment to emphasize her point, and then quickly turned her head up and down. Rather than looking up and down the stairs, she seemed to be listening in those directions. Using hand signals, they agreed to go down the stairs together. Sloane insisted that he was going to remain a step or two behind her. After a smile and a condescending nod of her head, Chelline Surrey complied. “Are you really after a story?” Sloane whispered. She was not his prisoner, and he could not know what her actions would be from moment to moment. He resisted the urge to grasp her upper arm and wrist for control, and glanced at the possible contact points that would immobilize her enough without throwing the two of them down the solid stone stairs. “A story,” she barely vocalized and nodded. “I can take care of myself. It’s too late to throw me out.” Sloane raised an eyebrow as they reached the second floor, and she stopped. Controlled taciturnity broken by exuberance- youthful? - in completing a mission. He couldn’t be sure if she was in the business, working for herself as a cat-burglar, or over-exuberantly working for a magazine. She had gotten this far, and he had no time to look at the building plans that she had seen. “The private elevator probably goes down there, but it will have the best security on it,” she said. All right for now. Sloane could wait a little longer to discover her story. “The other elevators are probably at rest on the first floor,” he said. “You know the schedule of guard’s rounds?” “I’m pretty sure that they just have one at the front desk with an electronic board to see if there are any breaks in the signals,” she said. “Pretty sure?” Sloane questioned. “Look. We could leave now, develop the

photographs I took, examine them and then come back tomorrow. But I don’t think this would work two nights in a row.” If they broke off, would she be foolish enough to come back on her own later tonight and risk being killed? “Miss Surrey, I’m not doubting your ‘work’, you seem to have done fine thus far. I doubt the circumstances.” As they cautiously entered the second floor hall she said, “That’s what I meant by ‘pretty sure’. There’s really nothing upstairs worth guarding, except for the private elevator. Some other operation must be going on in the basement.” “And you are pretty sure?” Sloane asked her as they pried open the elevator shaft. “Yes, three weeks of casing this place, tells me that I’m pretty sure,” she retorted. “Now, do you think that your old bones can take scaling down the lift cable past the mezzanine to the top of the lift on the first floor?” she asked. “Why Chelline,” Sloane remembered her first name. “My old bones are just fine, thank you.” Sloane retrieved some equipment from his carpet bag, and Chelline took a tensile line and a pulley from a small black backpack slung over her shoulder. She went down first. As they inched their way down, Sloane asked her, “What kind of story are you looking for?” Chelline looked up at Sloane, her brows knitted. “I would say it’s the story of my missing uncles and cousin.” “This is all to kidnap the Mike Ashbys? In my conceit, I thought it was a special trap for me.” What would her reaction be to what otherwise would be meaningless? He wasn’t breathing much more heavily than Chelline, but he was glad that his feet had almost reached a surface when she spoke. He put a hand on her left shoulder, resisting trying to grab her wrist again. Her right hand brushed lightly over his

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

hand on her shoulder. “I think they also have Solomon Ashby, unless that’s you.” Sloane nodded the negative. Chelline was not a clever thief. Earlier in the waiting room she made a gawky eccentric. Maybe this was the other option for a woman in the business, not plying with sexual favors. The bitter taste in his mouth accompanying his initial thoughts of female agents, also had become a form of self-disgust when the results of his own actions did not seem significant enough compared to the human violations of his former government section. Sloane had been the name of a man he had indirectly wronged in an investigation for a truth his country had needed to know. He could never let himself forget the connection between himself and that unfortunate man. He associated that bitter taste with smoking. It had been one of the reasons he’d quit a number of times. The two pried open the emergency hatch. They used pliers and wire with stripped ends to make sure no energy flow was broken. She was competent. They paused between cutting and replacing the wires, and looked up into each other’s faces to time the lifting of the panel. Most missing persons investigations are deemed useless, no results. Why was she here? Was she playing for or against the rules of the home organization to follow through to America? Was she somehow here for him? Klymavesky couldn’t be that fast. “You are here on your own,” Sloane whispered as a statement. She would probably deny it, if she was not. “I’ll make it through all right, if we get out of this... I’m clever enough,” she said, not looking at him as they continued their way. They dimmed their penlights. Chelline jumped to the bottom of the elevator, and then stepped aside for Sloane to follow. He did so, considering. Was it worth helping her get out of

organization complications when she eventually realized that no one could truly be clever enough when they were caught going against orders, no matter how righteous the case? Silently, without light to activate any cameras, they peeled the carpeting away from the bottom of the elevator. Sloane focused on the uncertainty of the now. Were they already spotted? When they opened the shaft doors at basement level, would that appear on an electronic board somewhere, despite careful jury rigging on the release? New York City regulation exit lights in the basement were enough to see by after a few seconds of adjustment. The building did not have an underground parking lot. This was a storeroom. Chelline led the direction. Sloane followed, and when they were far enough from the elevator he told her what he knew. “The city plans show access tunnels under this building on this side.” “I know. The basement should go on several meters to the left under the northwest corner of the building. Hopefully, if they have been using the proposed sub-basements for their operations, there will be some connection between the city tunnels, and their own compound.” “Good,” Sloane said. A way to run if necessary. Had they met earlier he would have asked Chelline Surrey who the “they” were other than Justeman. If they were government, then not the same department that produced Ashbys and Surreys. They looked at each other for the “let’s go” sign, and Sloane again followed Chelline; this time down a ladder built into a narrow, cylinder access tunnel. Before they reached the bottom Chelline had something to say. “You might not be wrong, I don’t know what Justeman has against you, he’s

“The Return of Mike Ashby” a surprise because he’s been missing for five years, but they have Ashbys before and after you.” Sloane understood. Before and after you? Clever- she was guessing based on his age. Her continued assertion of all knowing irked him somewhat. “I’ll be extra careful, mother,” he replied. They would both have to be extra careful. Chelline knew the general layout of the rooms below, but they could not be sure where the kidnap victims were, if they were alive, or if they were on the premises. The tunnel ended in a perfectly normal door. Not normal for maintenance shafts, but normal for the prewar building above them. Chelline put two fingers from her left hand over her right chest and pulled them towards herself in half a crossing motion. From a few rungs above, Sloane looked speculatively to Chelline and to the door. He stepped down beside her in the crowded space, put a glove on his right hand, and brushed the back of it against the doorknob. If it was electrified, his survival reaction would be to close his fist. He didn’t want someone’s precaution to do him in. No electricity. Nothing, not even static. Would this be a back entrance? A “stair” get-away point. Sloane raised three fingers to Chelline, made a fist and then put up one finger at a time in a syncopated beat. On three he opened the door and Chelline rushed in with her gun drawn to cover him. Sloane was in the doorway when he heard Chelline’s gun clatter on a hard tile floor. Low yellow emergency lighting brightened to full white light. “Do come in Ashby.” The man who addressed Sloane spoke with the unmistakable accent of an Oxford education. “You see,” he now spoke to another person in the room, “we have all of them now. This one didn’t even bother to change his face.” Floodlights were in Sloane’s and Chelline’s eyes. A semi-automatic rifle was

poised inches from Chelline’s head on her other side. The guard raised his weapon upward in attention to the man at the far side of the room, and Sloane pointed his straightened left arm at the flood lights. The sudden motion combined with quickly flicking up his wrist pump-fired two airgun bullets through a system built into his clothing, and blew out some of the the extrabright lights across the room. Now he could see the outline two guards who pointed weapons at Chelline and him. The one nearest to him held a handgun, and the one with the rifle stood ready to fire on Chelline. They were waiting for the order. There were two men across the tile floor in what looked to be a poolside changing room. Neither one was Justeman, and, Sloane noted, there was no smell of chlorine. The guard with the handgun stepped forward, and shoved the revolver into Sloane’s chest. Hand on the trigger, he reached into his pocket for a knife. He whipped open the butterfly knife close to Sloane’s face for emphasis, sliced across both shoulders of Sloane’s sweater, and ripped off the sleeves. Tubes and wiring glued to Sloane’s arms were torn off with some skin, and the guard returned to his station. Sloane kept his face as still as possible, during the otherwise silent moments. He may have winced, but he kept his eyes on the two men in charge while he had the chance. The man on the right was some rich man’s son or lordling. His cool, impetuously righteous expression revealed a man pandered into believing everything he thought was correct. Watch his eyes for weakness; that is, if Sloane got a chance to talk. Man on the left. Now, no matter what the man on the right thought, this man was the one in charge. Sloane would have to assume that he was utterly ruthless, and thus maintain a usefulness to this man or die. What did he truly want? Dammit! As Sloane’s guard stepped back and his vision cleared he realized he recognized

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

the man on the left. Chelline spoke first. “Do you really think that we would have come in without backup?” She sounded sincere, as she tried to keep an unblinking stare towards the remaining bright lights and the men. Tears began to form at her eyes to compensate. The richman’s son answered. “Take them into the room with the others.” So, he was not the man who had first spoken. Why, then, was the other one restraining himself? “I have a transmitter in my boot heel and I stamped it when we entered this room,” Chelline said. Out of the corner of his eye Sloane saw that she hoped that her guard would go for her foot and thus she would have... “It’s a pity then, that this room and the other ones on this level are totally shielded, isn’t it?” said the mastermind, the man on the left. How long had he been in charge? Or was he a renegade? Sloane would test. Both of them had their hands above their heads in logical surrender as they approached the doorway to the next room. He couldn’t look up, but he might be tall enough to grab the door frame as they passed under it. Bless New York prewar architecture. Sloane jauntily fed Chelline a line. “Tell me, Miss Surrey, do you know General Hoyt?” “Well, I know of him, but he retired before my time, Mr. Kramer.” Information. She was good at following a lead, and may have actually been in the same government unit as he. No way of telling if their exchange had the desired effect on the mastermind behind them. Now, the doorway. Sloane grasped the door molding and yelled, “Low!” Sloane swung off the floor, grabbed the opposite side molding, quickly spun back, and kicked his guard. Chelline kept her arms in the air, kicked the rifle guard in the groin, and brought both her hands down in a single fist to hit the man’s back when he bent over. Sloane landed on the ground, facing the

tiled room when a door sized guillotine blade was released in the entrance. He jumped back and was nearly hit in the head by the richman’s son behind him. Sloane’s means of dodging threw himself hardily into a plaster and brick wall. Without pause he lunged at the impeccably dressed man. Sloane tried to mentally shake richboy. “The Valet will kill you,” he hissed. His hands went to the younger man’s neck. Beyond, in the room, he saw and smelled that two of other the prisoners had been bled to death. “I think you should be more concerned that my associate will kill yours!” the rich man’s son said while gasping for breath. Good point, Sloane thought. How could Sloane explain to a man he did not know, that the mastermind of this project, whatever its goal, had been the seemingly loyal, efficiently killing, assistant and driver for General Hoyt in the years that Sloane knew him? The nameless valet had been an unobtrusive constant in his direct assignments from the General. The man had even been by the General’s side when Sloane’s transfer had come through. What had happened!? The guillotine door slid up again. Sloane’s brief struggle with the richboy had brought his view back towards the entrance. The guard that he had attacked had recovered well enough and walked through first, followed by Chelline with the mastermind/valet holding Chelline’s fallen pistol to her back. Damn! Was Chelline in on it? The gun might not be loaded. Damn! Sloane hated the spy business. “I suggest that you drop my associate,” the mastermind said. The richson stepped away from Sloane, stretched his neck and rubbed the sore spots. Good, Sloane thought sarcastically, we’ll be able to tell if the other prisoners are alive in time to become some! Sloane backed into the long room, prodded by the guard he had not hit hard

“The Return of Mike Ashby” enough minutes earlier. There had to be something he could grab and throw quickly enough, something that would allow Chelline Surrey’s training and reflexes to save her while making these men inactive threats. Conversation. Slow down. Calm... walking backward could be slow; he could trip on a table. He tried to reconjure a vision of the room’s layout - in reverse. “Was betraying the General particularly pleasurable?” Sloane took another step, and tried to visualize with his inner eye. Aside from a door, the far wall was curtained. Perhaps a twoway window to a cell. “You didn’t seem to like him very much, if I recall,” the mastermind and once-confidant replied. Another two steps backward. They were passing the two dead men, tied and taped to chairs. Think of the others later. Then there would be time. Angle back to the right- no. Now to his left. Sloane’s hands were still in the air. A guard’s table. They did not leave their prisoners alone. Chairs he could not reach from this side. A deck of playing cards. Ammunition clip. Another half step back. If anything was going to be useful on the table... a food setting. Tumblers with liquid. Filled? Would have to grab both! Sloane swerved to his left and picked up the two partially full glasses. The guard would be on him any second. Sloane ducked in anticipation, spinning on his heels to the right, and aimed the contents of both glasses to the wall electrical socket. He covered his face against the sparks with one hand, and rolled away from the wall. His right leg bumped the table leg. When he opened his eyes the lights had shorted out. He had sensed their flickering in his roll. The table leg was in his hands, he pulled and swung it into one- no, two of the men in the room. Wordlessly, he got to his feet. No guns had been fired in the dark. There were no emergency lights on this level. He was glad for

the electrical sockets in this multipurpose room. Sloane would have to trust that Chelline would stay back out of his range. Another one at him. He pushed the attacker off with the table fragment. Then silence except for breathing. “Chelline?” “I’m all right, except in this bloody darkness, it’s hard to tell who’s still up.” Then struggling noises. If Chelline were struggling with one of the men, he could locate them by sound. But, he could not randomly lash out. “Shit!, Oh my...” said the only feminine voice in the room. No other sound other than rustling of clothing for the duration. Really just a few seconds. She had been on the ground, perhaps in a clinch. “I’ve poisoned her,” the mastermind said in a weakened voice, trying to sound strong. “You will behave. The short-out will have summoned my other guards and Justeman. He has plans for you after the questioning.” Mastermind had poison? Or knockout drug? No time to wait for it to act, or to see if he was bluffing. A few long steps and Sloane would be at the far door. Light was not coming through it- it may have been on the same circuit breaker. He would have to move his head fast. If not- he was certain that the mastermind and once general’s valet had a gun pointed up and at the door. Ah, didn’t even have to test it! The pistol began firing even before he traversed the short distance to the door. Luck was his enemy as much as his friend. Graze, arm! Hit, leg! Through the door! To the side. Not a clean shot, it had been from a ricochet. It did not change his timescale. He had just as few minutes to survive as before. There was a glow to this room. Three glows for three containers- bed prison cubicles that were active. The men inside were not asleep. The room and the cubicles were not soundproof. They were trapped from the inside, looking at him, two pounding on the thick, clear plastic.

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

Sloane closed his eyes. No sound except for the mastermind looking for another gun clip in the dark. Sloane stood on his good leg and closed and locked the door behind him. The men looked out at him. He remembered what he said to Chelline Surrey less than an hour ago‘in my conceit I had thought it was a special trap for me.’ In protecting himself, Sloane realized he could do no less for these imprisoned men facing him who had all been ‘Mike Ashby’ in their time. He had to try, just try, and get them out. If Chelline had been casing the building for three weeks, then her research time had been the cause of death of the two blood-let men in the other room. He identified with “To Protect and To Serve”, the credo of his police career. Probably why he could stand being a police detective, albeit a specialize one, for his current career. He went over to one of the younger looking ones. There was a release control for the door in plain sight. Even the captives could see it, but not reach it. Main benefit was that the men were not tied up, and should be able to walk. Sloane smashed a fist down on the younger man’s release, and then bent over to tear his pants leg to attend to his bleeding leg wound. “Thank you,” the lanky sandy haired man said. Sandy went over to the older men’s cubicles and gladly pressed down their release buttons while Sloane made a temporary bandage. The older men were shaking themselves out. Each of the three, from the World War two veteran to the thirty year old, had darkened eyes, deep set from their trial. A muffled shot came from the other room. The three former prisoners went to unlock the door, Sloane limped behind. “She’s still in there, but she’s unconscious!” Someone touched on a light in the room. Upstairs, the circuit breaker must have been reset. “We’ll see who’s shooting at what then!”

the oldest man said, flinging the door open. Light from the prison room reflected off the guillotine door. Sloane got up to the doorway; the mastermind was not to be seen. “Michelline!” the fiftyish man exclaimed. ‘Chelline Surrey’ was unconscious, propped up against the wall, and her lap was covered in blood. Sandy-hair got to her, and lifted her right hand. “Chelline was Mike Ashby,” Sloane said coolly from the doorway more for himself than the others. He was beginning to feel run down. “Her ring finger!” Sandy exclaimed. It had been cut off. “Can you find it?” Sloane asked. “If we get out of here, and she was only given a slow poison... be worth saving to sew back on.” The fiftyish man with fading red hair, still tall and thin, went to Sloane’s side. The WW2 vet looked among the blood and unconscious bodies for Michelline’s finger. Sandy bandaged her finger as best as possible, picked her up, and carried her over his shoulders. “I can’t find it,” the war veteran said. “I could cut one off Crendis here.” He held up the arm of the rich man’s son. “But we better get out of here if we can and send someone back to take care of the garbage.” They spared a glance for the two men who had apparently been questioned to death, and turned back to the room that they had been held prisoner in. They were still in danger. “The executive lift?” Sloane asked as they went down a hall. “It’s the same way as the exit to the city tunnels,” Fiftyish said helping Sloane along. “I pray that we are fast enough to get there before Rudolfo gets men down there,” said the eldest. They passed the elevator entrance. It was going down, but was a few floors above them. They limped to the emergency exit, and the vet threw the door open. Yards away were six people in a uniform that Sloane did

“The Return of Mike Ashby” not recognize. The four men and two women had semi-automatic guns and rifles facing their direction. “It’s O.K.” said one in the middle of the formation to her group. “Radio central, and tell the guys in the lobby that they came out here.” The two people flanking the lieutenant dropped their weapons and the other three went around the Ashbys to check the way. “The elevator is coming down,” Sandy said as they passed them. “We might be able to get them in the lobby,” the lieutenant said. “But just in case!” She stepped forward. “Busby, Richards, stay with these guys until the stretchers come!” She strode passed them to join her men. The male soldier helped Sandy with ‘Chelline. “Am I going to regret asking you where you are from?” Sloane asked the female one. “I don’t know,” said she solemnly with a deep Australian accent as easily as she might have said ‘Kangaroo’. “Office Security?” she offered, made a fist and leaned her chin on it coyly. “Oh,” said Sloane. “You’ve got to trust someone.” He favored his wounded leg, and wondered how much and how soon he would be able to trust his new partner. He considered sending the kid a gorilla-gram to deflect the questions about the limp he would no doubt have. Maybe a gorilla-gram with a Western Union telegram? Yes!

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

“What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?” By Scott Harper

range flames crackled and snapped, their heat rising in nearly invisible shimmering waves to warm the hotdogs that hovered just above them, impaled long forks. Two young men sat in lawn chairs across the campfire from each other, alternately staring at the dancing flames and the deep, silent darkness of the pine forest around them. Both men were lightly dressed, a futile attempt at comfort in the summer humidity. Joel Katz peered across the incandescence of the flames at his companion, Raymond Clark, who was busy staring off into the thick masses of old pine trees that surrounded the small clearing they were camped in. “Man,” Joel said, “if nothing happens by tomorrow night I’m ready to pack it in and go home.” Raymond’s gaze shifted to his friend and he blinked. “We can’t, it’s only been five days. We told everyone that we know that we were going to spend two whole weeks in the hol-low looking for the creature.” “No,” Joel said with a laugh. “We said we’d spend two weeks in Twilight Hollow to prove to a bunch of superstitious people that there is no creature here.” Joel paused and stared at Raymond. Then he asked, “You’re not starting to believe the stories, are you?” Shaking his head, Raymond said, “No.” “Good.” “It’s just that if we leave before the two weeks are up everyone will think that we left because

we were afraid,” explained Raymond. He watched Joel as his friend thought the point over. After a few moments he nodded and said, “You’re right.” For the next few minutes they sat in silence and ate their hotdogs. Then Joel brought out a bag of marshmallows, a pack of graham crackers, and bars of chocolate. He divided the sweets with Raymond. As Raymond slid a marshmallow on the end of his fork and held it over the campfire he looked over at Joel again. “Remember,” he told Joel, “what happened about three weeks ago, though?” He paused until he knew that he had Joel’s attention before continuing. “Matt and Carrie and Char-lie and Mindy were here in the hollow? They claimed to have seen the monster.” Joel shrugged. “When they described it to me it sounded like they’d seen a bear.” “There haven’t been any bear sighted in this area for years,” replied Raymond. Joel shrugged that off, too. “Not many people venture into the hollow,” he said. “A bear, or even a small group of them, could probably live in here for quite a while without being seen.” Raymond shook his head. “They were all positive that what they saw wasn’t a bear.” Laughing, Joel said, “Maybe it was Sasquatch!” Raymond made a slightly disgusted face at his friend. “What they described didn’t sound like a Sasquatch, either.”

“What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?” Joel eyed Raymond carefully. “You are starting to believe in the monster. Aren’t you, Raymond?” “No, I’m not,” Raymond said firmly. “I just refuse to be totally close-minded about it, either. Anything is possible. You said it yourself, man. Not many people come into Twilight Hollow. Something could live here for quite a while without being seen. Something could be here.” Again, they lapsed into silence as they assembled their toasted marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers into small, sweet, sandwiches and ate them. Raymond began to stare intently off into the surrounding pine forest once more. “What’s wrong?” Joel asked. “Hear that?” Raymond answered. Joel seemed to listen for a moment. “No,” he said. “What is it?” “Nothing,” Raymond said. “That’s my point. Everything is quiet.” Joel made no reply. Together, they sat there in the fire lit darkness, listening to the suddenly eerie silence around them. It was dead quiet. Not even the nocturnal insects that had been singing, buzzing, and chirping only moments ago were now to be heard. Not even a breeze ruffled the needles of the shadowed pine trees around them. “Knock it off, man,” Joel said. “Quit trying to scare me.” Raymond spared him only a brief glance before turning his gaze back to the inky blackness of the darkened forest. “I’m not,” he whispered. “Something is wrong.” There were a few moments of silence, broken only by the soft crackling of their camp-fire. Raymond thought that he heard Joel start to say something else. Whatever his friend had intended to say was cut off very suddenly by a loud crashing sound in the woods beside them. Both of them whirled around to face the direction of the unexpected sound. More noises could be heard, branches snapping and small dry

shrubs cracking, but Raymond saw noth-ing. Beside him, Joel stared wide-eyed into the darkness. “I wish we had guns with us,” he muttered under his breath. Raymond quickly shushed him. From somewhere in the darkness before them the sounds continued unabated. Raymond held his breath. He wanted to turn and run for the relative safety of the pick-up truck he and Joel had driven into Twilight Hollow. Yet, at the same time, he was curious to know what was out there. He knew Joel Katz well enough to know that he, most likely, felt the same way. Then, from the darkness of the forest, there came a new sound. A scream. It was long and loud. The scream sounded as if it had been made by a completely terrified human being. Raymond jumped in fright at the sound of the scream. Beside him, he saw Joel do the same. Then, suddenly, Raymond began to laugh. Joel turned and looked at him, an expression of pure amazed disbelief on his face. “What’s so funny?” he asked. Confusion was evident in his voice. Raymond relaxed and pointed off into the pitch-blackness of the surrounding forest. “Didn’t you hear that?” Joel nodded his head. “Yes. What’s so funny about it?” As he spoke another scream split the night air along with the rampant crashing sounds. “It sounds just like Ernie Gredler,” Raymond said and saw the look of realization wash over Joel’s face. “He threatened to sneak down here and try to scare us away,” Joel said. Raymond nodded. “I thought he was only joking.” Raymond shrugged. “Apparently not.” Yet another scream, closer than the last two, sounded from the woods. Joel shook his head slowly. “If that’s Ernie then he’s doing a fine acting job. He real-ly sounds scared.”

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

A few seconds later a figure burst from the trees before them and raced into their camp. The newcomer was wide-eyed and stopped, shaking, before them. He then shouted their names in what sounded to Raymond like a combination of relief and fear as he staggered toward them. “Ernie!” Raymond shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?” “Knock it off, man!” Joel added. Ernie’s head whipped back and forth. He was shaking like a leaf caught in a strong wind. Raising a hand, he pointed back the way he had come. “The joke is over, Ernie,” Raymond said. “No joke!” Ernie blurted out. “Something’s out there!” Raymond stepped forward and placed his hands on Ernie’s shoulders in an attempt to stop his shaking. He was only partially successful. Ernie continued to quake. Joel took a step closer to Ernie and Raymond. When he spoke, Raymond heard the skepticism in his voice. “What’s out there?” Joel asked. Ernie cast frantic glances around himself, watching the night-shrouded forest that surrounded Raymond and Joel’s camp. Then he took a deep breath that seemed to be meant to calm him but utterly failed to do so. Then he began to speak. “Yes,” Ernie said with a fearful quiver in his voice, “I came into the hollow to try and scare you guys away.” He paused and glanced from Raymond to Joel and back again. “I thought it would be funny to see you guys run out of here, scared away by the monster of Twi-light Hollow.” “But…” Raymond prompted him. Taking another quick look around, Ernie said, “On my way here, to your camp, I ran into something in the woods. It came at me. I ran. It chased me…” He trailed off and broke his gaze from Raymond’s eyes. Ernie began to once more watch the darkened woods around the camp.

Joel said, “Ernie, man, you should have been an actor! That was once great perfor-mance!” With a suddenness that caught Raymond off guard, Ernie broke free of him and grabbed hold of the front of Joel’s shirt with both hands. As he shook Joel, Ernie cried out, “I’m not kidding, Joel! Something is out there! In the woods! I’m serious!” Raymond stepped in and helped Joel to disengage his shirt from Ernie’s clenched fists. Ernie took a step back and apologized. “What did you see?” Raymond asked. “What did it look like?” Still shaking with fear, Ernie was again casting quick glances around. Suddenly his eyes went even wider than they had been. His hand shot up and he pointed across the camp. “There!” he shouted. Raymond and Joel spun around. Raymond felt his own eyes go wide and his jaw drop open in shock as he saw it. Beside him, Joel made a little, inarticulate, gasping noise. The creature was standing upright just at the edge of camp where the firelight barely reached it. It was mostly illuminated by the soft pale glow of the full moon. It was roughly eight feet tall with short dark colored hair. A short muzzle protruded from its face. Elongated yellowed canine teeth, like those of a saber-toothed tiger, could be seen. The creature’s eyes had a cold, silver glow in the moonlight. Long tapered ears stretched up from the sides of its head. It held its large bear-like paws close to its massive barrel chest. The moonlight glinted on curved claws. As they watched it in muted awe, the creature turned its back to them and dropped down on all fours. It ran quickly back into the cover of the darkened forest. Branches and shrubs could be heard snapping and breaking as it made its way. Its speed was unusual for something so large. The trio stood in stunned silence for several more moments. Ernie quietly asked if Raymond and Joel now believed him, finally breaking the

“What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?” silence. “What was that thing?” Joel whispered. Raymond found that he could not tear his gaze away from the spot where the creature had vanished from his sight. Without looking away, he replied, “It looked like what the others described to us a few weeks ago.” “I don’t care what it is,” Ernie informed them. “I just want to get out of here. Now, before it comes back.” There were a few more moments of silence before Joel said, “We should follow it. You know, try to find out more about it.” “Are you crazy?” Ernie shouted. The pure shock in his voice overrode the fear it had held before. Raymond finally turned to face the others. “I agree with Joel,” he said. “I don’t think it wants to hurt us. I want to see it again. I want to find out more about it if we can.” He focused his attention on Ernie. “Ernie, you can come with us if you want.” Ernie shook his head violently. “No way.” Joel shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to us, Ernie. But, think about it, man, do you really want to walk back to your car alone?” Raymond saw Ernie’s face fall at Joel’s words. After a moment Ernie muttered, “Okay. I’ll go with you. Just make it quick, okay?” After retrieving flashlights from the pickup truck the trio left camp. They went in the same direction that the creature had gone. The trail was easy to follow. Freshly broken branches hung from trees here and there. The creature had trampled most of the small, dry, shrubs as it passed. Old, dead, pine needles had been stirred up, mixed with freshly churned earth that looked to have been plowed up by the creature’s claws. They moved as slowly and quietly as possible, playing the flashlight beams back and forth along the obvious trail. The trail cut an almost perfectly straight swath through the forest. After a while, Ernie began to beg Raymond and Joel to give up and just leave Twilight

Hollow. He wanted to go before the creature came back for them. “Ernie,” Raymond said quietly, “I don’t think it wants to hurt us. It’s big, it’s fast, and it has wicked looking teeth and claws. Plus, from the way it sneaked up on us in camp, we know that it can also move very quietly when it wants to. If it wanted to attack us it could have already done so. It didn’t.” “We weren’t following it around in the woods then, either,” Ernie reminded him. “I don’t want to give it a chance to change its mind about attacking.” Adding his own two cents worth, Joel said, “I have to go with Raymond on this. If it wanted to hurt us it already would have. Whatever it is, I don’t think it means us any harm.” “Then why did it chase me before?” Ernie asked. Raymond shrugged. “Have you ever heard of animals doing demonstration charges? You were probably in its territory and it just wanted you to leave.” “Okay,” Ernie said. “So then why are we following it right back into its territory? Why not simply respect its wishes and leave it alone?” He paused, then added, “And what if there are more than just the one creature in the hollow?” “Look,” Joel said. “Raymond and I came into Twilight Hollow to prove that the crea-ture isn’t real. Now, we know that it is real. I want to take back some kind of proof. Hair sam-ples or something.” “Right,” agreed Raymond. “We should at least try and get another good look at it. Then we can look it up later and try to find out what it is.” Ernie shook his head. “I still think we ought to just leave.” “So leave, then,” Joel told him. Ernie fell silent. Before long, the forest opened up around them, forming a very large clearing. All three of them stopped, freezing in their tracks, as they

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

stared at what lay before them. It was an old cemetery. The four-foot high wrought iron fence that surrounded it looked ancient - rusted and weatherworn and leaning in places. Vines wound their way up the iron bars. A lopsided gate hung open at an odd angle. A badly rusted and vine covered archway spanned the gated entrance. Time, weather, and clinging vine tendrils rendered the words there unreadable. The archway, like several other sections of the fence, leaned. It looked as if it might topple over at any moment. Beyond the fence, headstones sprouted from the pine needle covered earth. Several of them were broken, leaving their edges jagged and rough. All were cracked, weather-stained and covered with old vines. In the light of the full moon and dappled shadows of the forest, they looked to Raymond like a crop of nightmares growing in the field of some demented farmer. Joel stepped toward the open gate. Raymond followed him. “Do we have to do this?” Ernie asked. Raymond turned back to him and pointed at the ground, playing the beam of his flash-light over the indicated area. The path was well worn as if it were often used. Old brown pine needles littered the ground. They had been stirred up and mixed with bits of fresh earth. Here and there part of a large paw print was visible, mashed into the soft, moist ground. “The creature came this way,” Raymond explained to Ernie. “So do we if we want to find it.” Ernie stayed where he was. “But I don’t want to find it,” he griped. “Especially not if we have to go wandering through an old graveyard to do it.” Joel turned to Ernie as well. “You don’t have to come with us,” he said. “You can stay right here and wait for us to come back. It’s up to you.” With that, Joel turned and walked through the gate and under the teetering

archway. Raymond gave Ernie a last look and then followed Joel into the cemetery. He heard hurried footsteps behind him. A moment later Ernie was beside him. The trio walked for several yards. All three of them swung their flashlights around, the beams sweeping through the moonlit graveyard like miniature searchlights. Raymond saw nothing aside from the time ravaged grave markers. There were not even any fresh looking footprints imprinted into the moist and strangely barren ground of the cemetery. Whether that was because the creature was not there or if it had simply began to tread more carefully, Raymond did not know. A slight cracking sound, loud in the silence of the night, caused them all to spin around. Raymond heard Ernie gasp in fright and even felt his own eyes go wide at seeing the creature again. He froze where he was and saw Joel and Ernie do the same. It was several yards away from them, walking toward them on all fours, at the edge of the clearing. When it reached the dilapidated wrought iron fence the creature simply took a sin-gle hop, clearing it with no apparent difficulty at all. It landed on the soft ground inside the fence. Inside the cemetery. The creature took a few more slow steps, moving toward Raymond and his companions. Then it stopped and sat, squatting on its hindquarters. It sat beside a badly chipped headstone and just stared at them. Bright moonlight shone on the creature’s saber-teeth and claws and gleamed in its odd silver eyes. Ernie began to make little gasping noises. Raymond glanced at him and saw that Ernie was once more shaking with fright. His eyes had gone very wide and his mouth was open. “Don’t move,” Raymond whispered softly. He wanted to keep his voice as low as he could so as not to risk alarming the creature before them.

“What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?” Something new caught Raymond’s attention. He glanced toward Joel and saw that his friend was moving. J oel was steadily creeping forward, inching toward the creature. “Joel!” Raymond said, still keeping his voice as quiet. “Stay put!” With a quick glance at him, Joel whispered back, “I want to get closer.” “It’s too dangerous,” Raymond said. Ernie added, “Listen to him, Joel. Come back.” Raymond was surprised that Ernie was able to speak coherently. Joel ignored them both and continued to edge toward the massive creature. Beside Raymond, Ernie began to move backward, away from the creature and toward the open cemetery gate. Raymond reached out slowly, not wanting to make any sudden moves, and took hold of Ernie’s arm, holding him in place. He again whispered for Ernie not to move. Joel, out of Raymond’s reach, was still moving slowly and steadily toward where the creature squatted, watching them. The creature lowered its head slightly, almost as is it were trying to nod at Joel, and growled. The sound was deep and throaty. Joel instantly froze in his tracks. Before them, the creature opened its mouth wide and uttered a low, guttural, stuttering moan. Raymond felt a series of cold chills prance up and down his spine at the sound. He tightened his grip on Ernie’s arm. Whether it was to keep Ernie from running or to keep himself from doing so Raymond was not sure. The creature made the chilling, mournful sound once more. It then lurched forward, coming down on all four paws. It raced forward. Joel leaped to one side. Ernie tried to run but Raymond held onto his arm, pulling him back. The creature tore passed them, moving

through the cemetery gate, back along the path and out of sight. Raymond heaved a huge sigh of relief as soon as the creature was lost from view. He turned, looking at Joel, and saw his friend hurrying toward him. “Man!” crowed Joel. “That thing can move, can’t it?” Raymond simply nodded his head and asked Ernie if he was okay. “I will be,” Ernie told him. “As soon as we get out of here.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Can we go now?” “Hold on,” Joel told him. He moved to the place where the creature had been sitting. Raymond moved to join him, dragging Ernie along. Furrows of freshly churned earth, turned up, presumably, by the massive creature’s claws marked the spot. Brown pine needles, long since dead, were mixed in with the moist dirt. Aside from that, the area appeared to be undisturbed. Raymond turned his attention to the grave marker the creature had been squatting beside. The headstone was badly chipped and stained by years of rough treatment by the ele-ments. The lettering that was chiseled into it was worn and partially obscured by clinging vines. Raymond took hold of a handful of the vines and tugged, pulling them free. Tossing the offend-ing plants aside, he turned his flashlight on the gravestone. For some reason that he did not fully comprehend, a chill wiggled its way down his spine as he read the name. “Guys,” he said, calling to the others. “Check this out.” Joel turned from where he was inspecting another stone. “What is it?” “This headstone,” Raymond told him. “It says ‘Big Running Bear’.” Joel grunted and pointed to the marker before him. “This one has a Native American name, too.” Raymond moved to look at another

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

gravestone. It, too, bore the name of a deceased Native American. Joel pointed out similar names on several others. “So?” Ernie asked them. “What’s the big deal?” Raymond turned to face Ernie, angling his flashlight toward the ground so as not to blind Ernie with it. “Native Americans,” Raymond explained, “believed in a wide variety of spi-rit creatures and protectors. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what the creature that we saw is.” Ernie nodded his head slowly. “So, what you’re saying is that an old Native American spirit animal is haunting Twilight Hollow?” Raymond shrugged. “It’s possible.” Ernie suddenly burst out laughing. “You can’t seriously believe that?” Joel moved to Raymond’s side. “Maybe Raymond’s right,” he told Ernie. “Maybe it’s here to guard the hollow in general and this old graveyard in particular.” “Honestly,” said Ernie, “I don’t care what it is or why it’s here. I just want to leave before it comes back. Can we please go now?” Raymond nodded. “I think we should. If it is here to watch over this cemetery it might turn violent if we stay much longer.” “You want to take time to pack up camp?” Joel asked him. Again, Raymond nodded his head. “Yeah. I don’t want to just up and leave our stuff.” “Let’s go then!” Ernie said eagerly. They left the cemetery, retracing the trail that had led them to it in the first place. All three of them swung their flashlights around. Raymond kept careful watch for the creature and listened for any sign that it might be approaching. He knew that the others were, too. However, there was no sign of it to be seen or heard. As they entered the clearing where the camp was located Joel suddenly stopped short. Raymond and Ernie almost bumped into him. “Look,” Joel said. Raymond looked. He was astonished to see

the pickup truck lying on one side. He swung his flashlight over it. Bright metal gleamed where the paint looked to have been scraped off in several long swaths by claws. Looking at the rest of the camp, Raymond saw further evi-dence of the creature’s return visit. The campfire was gone. Its ashes, and the ring of large stones that had previously en-circled it, were scattered around. The tent, like the truck, had been tipped over. Raymond saw no obvious damage to it, however. One lawn chair, the one that Joel had been using, had been knocked aside. The other, surprisingly, was still sitting upright and did not look to have been touched. Joel stepped toward the overturned pickup truck. “With all three of us working to-gether,” he said, “we should be able to get it back on its wheels.” “Maybe we should just get my car and leave,” suggested Ernie. Raymond cast his gaze around the wrecked campsite. “Maybe you’re right,” he told Ernie. “We can come back later, during daylight hours and with more people, and get our stuff.” “Sounds like a good idea,” said Joel. He turned to Ernie. “Where’s your car?” Ernie pointed off into the darkened forest. “About a quarter of a mile over that way,” he said. “Let’s go, then,” Raymond said. They began to walk, making their way through the dense woods. Ernie led, sweeping his flashlight from side to side. Behind him, Raymond and Joel did the same. There was no sign of the creature to be seen. As they walked, Ernie asked, “So why didn’t the creature bother you guys when you first got here? Why did it wait until I came into the hollow?” Before Raymond could respond to the question, Joel said, “Maybe it’s because Raymond and I drove in, set up camp, and stayed right there. You, on the other hand, came into

“What Lurks In Twilight Hollow?” the hollow and immediately began to tromp through the woods. Maybe it didn’t like that.” “Or,” Raymond suggested, “maybe you just had the bad luck to run into it while it was foraging or something.” “We’ll probably never know for sure,” said Joel. They continued on in silence for a few more moments. Then Ernie again broke the si-lence by asking, “Do you guys really think that thing is some kind of Native American spirit creature?” “I can’t think of a better explanation,” Raymond said. “Can you, Joel?” Joel shook his head. “No. I don’t know what it is.” Changing tracks of inquiry, Ernie asked, “What do we do if it found my car and flipped it like it did your truck?” “Then we flip it back upright,” Raymond told him. “And then we get out of here.” “Right,” Joel agreed. “Just like we were going to do with the truck.” Ernie nodded, apparently liking the answer. “Okay. Just as long as we get of Twilight Hollow.” “What I want to know,” Joel said, “is why, if the creature wants us to leave, it flipped our truck over. Why not leave it upright for us to use?” Raymond shrugged. “Maybe it didn’t know what the truck was for,” he suggested. “Or, maybe, it thought that flipping the truck would scare us into leaving faster than anything else it could do.” “It worked,” Ernie told them. Before much longer they arrived at Ernie’s car. It was parked by the side of the single narrow dirt road that led down into Twilight Hollow. The car appeared to be undamaged. As the beams of their flashlights played over the vehicle Ernie said, “It looks okay. Let’s get out of here.” He pulled out his keys. Moments later all three of them were in the car. Ernie sat behind the wheel. Raymond sat

beside him, riding shotgun. Joel sat in the back seat. Ernie slid the key into the ignition and turned it. Just as the engine came to life Joel leaned forward between Ernie and Raymond. He was pointing out the front window. “Look!” Joel exclaimed. “I don’t see anything,” Ernie said. Raymond was about to answer that he saw nothing when something caught his atten-tion. “Turn on the headlights,” he told Ernie. Ernie pressed a button. Twin beams of light, brilliantly bright in the darkness, stabbed out from the front of the car, illuminating the landscape far better than the moonlight. Ernie gasped in shock at what was revealed. Standing upright on its hind legs was the creature. It was several yards away from them, in front of the car. It appeared to be watching them. It made no move even when the headlight beams hit it, their harsh artificial brightness catching it full on. Raymond sat still for several moments and just watched the creature. Its saber-teeth and long claws gleamed brightly in the light. Still, the creature did not move. It simply stood there and gazed at them with its eerie silver eyes. “Let’s go,” Raymond told Ernie. His voice was kept low partly out of fear and partly out of respect for the thing that stood before them. Ernie moved very slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement on his part might bring the huge beast charging at the car. He slipped the car into gear and turned the wheel. The car began to turn on the narrow dirt road. “Come on,” Joel urged him. Raymond felt the car lurch as Ernie stepped down on the gas pedal. The car turned more. The creature was now behind them. Raymond turned in his seat to look. He saw that Joel had done the same. The creature still stood in place. Its silver eyes blinked at them once. Then, as the car began to pull away from it and head up the

ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE

road, the creature dropped down to all fours. It watched the car for a moment more and then turned away, retreating back into the inner depths of Twilight Hollow.