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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
Volume 01: Spring 85 8 issues; * Stories related to the Dargon
Volume 02: Summer 85 2 issues; * project are noted with an "*"
Volume 03: Fall 85 5 issues;
Volume 04: Spring 86 4 issues; Volume 09: Fall 87 3 issues;
Volume 05: Summer 86 3 issues; Volume 10: Spring 88 6 issues;
Volume 06: Fall 86 5 issues; Volume 11: Summer 88 3 issues;
Volume 07: Spring 87 5 issues;
Volume 08: Summer 87 4 issues;
Vol01N1: Review: DUNE the Movie Mike Foley
Ornathor's Saga Orny
Review: BRISINGAMEN Vicki Rosenzweig
Featured Author: M.A.R. Barker Orny
Vol01N2: 1984-Orwellian Reflections T.P. Milley
Featured Author: Larry Niven Orny
Close Encounter... Alex Williams
Vol01N3: Flyby Jim Owens
Featured Author: TANITH LEE Orny
The Narret Chronicles Mari A. Paulson
Vol01N4: Featured Author: H.P. LOVECRAFT Orny
Call of Cthulhu Game Review Mike H.
The Book HPL
The Cthulhu Mythos Merlin
Vol01N5: Narret Chronicles 10 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: JAMES KAHN Orny
Backing Jim Owens
FSFnet Survey Orny
Vol01N6: Narret Chronicles 9 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS Orny
Review: the Black Company Trilogy Merlin
SciFi Story Alex Williams
Paranoia RPG Review Orny
Return of Jedi Commentary Merlin
Vol01N7: Narret Chronicles 8 Mari A. Paulson
Dream Weaver - Part One (of 2) Michael Murphy
Vol01N8: Narret Chronicles 7 Mari A. Paulson
Dream Weaver - Conclusion Michael Murphy
Vol02N1: Narret Chronicles 6 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON Orny
The Thrust Jim Owens
Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000 Guy Garnett
Island Michael Murphy
Vol02N2: Man's Best Friends Alex Williams
All's Well that Ends. Well... Cliff Thayer
Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC Orny
Alas, Babble On Jim Owens
Selection Orny
Vol03N1: Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD Rich Jervis
Narret Chronicles: 5 Mari Paulsen
Featured Author: CHRISTOPH. STASHEFF Orny
Review: Saga of Pliocene Exile Chris Condon
Vol03N2: The Acquisition, Part One Roman Olynyk
2100 and Counting Orny
Narret Chronicles 4 Mari A. Paulson
Vol03N3: The Acquisition, Part Two Roman Olynyk
Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER - TW7 Orny
Vol03N4: Narret Chronicles, Book 3 Mari A. Paulsen
The Acquisition, Part 3 Roman Olynyk
Vol03N5: The Acquisition, Conclusion Roman Olynyk
Review: Soul of the City - TW8 Orny
Narret Chronicles, Book 2 Mari A. Paulsen
Narret Chronicles, Book 1 Mari A. Paulsen
Vol04N1: *Welcome to Dargon! Orny
*Simon's Song Orny
*Rendezvous Joseph Curwen
*Exile Eric
Vol04N2: *Deep Trouble Jim Owens
*The Essence of Ur-Baal Roman Olynyk
Vol04N3: *The Awakening Orny
*Spirit of the Wood: 1 Rich Jervis
*Dreamer's Holiday Joseph Curwen
*Dawn Watch Jim Owens
Vol04N4: *Ur-Baal Magic Roman Olynyk
*Calls of Courtesy Joseph Curwen
*The Hands of a Healer Orny
Vol05N1: Complete Game Design Orny
Origin of a "PBM" Game Stephen Tihor
Nuclear Autumn Joseph Curwen
ELFQUEST Supplement Review Richard Jervis
A National Gaming Organization Mike Barbre
Vol05N2: *Spirit of the Wood: 2 Rich Jervis
The Glory of Adventuring Ovis
*Respect thy Elders: 1 Orny
Ceda the Executioner: 1 Joel Slatis
Vol05N3: *Kittara Comes to Town Ovis
Ceda the Executioner: 2 Joel Slatis
*Respect thy Elders: 2 Orny
*A New Life John White
Vol06N1: For the Pot Jim Owens
*Spirit of the Wood: 3 Rich Jervis
Father's Fugue Jim Owens
*Respect thy Elders: 3 Orny
Vol06N2: Protopredator Jim Owens
To End All Wars Orny
Infection Jim Owens
Project Rip Van Winkle Glenn R. Sixbury
Vol06N3: *Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela Glenn Sixbury
*Night Fruit: A Tasty Comedy Jim Owens
*The Dream: Part 1 of 2 John White
Vol06N4: *Cydric and the Sage Carlo Samson
Ceda the Executioner: 3 Joel Slatis
*Spirit of the Wood: 4 Rich Jervis
*The Dream: Part 2 of 2 John White
Vol06N5: *A Reintroduction to Atros Joseph Curwen
*Growing Concern: Atros 4 Joseph Curwen
*Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 1 of 2 John White
Vol07N1: *If Looks Could Kill Glenn Sixbury
*Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 2 of 2 John White
Vol07N2: Leaving on Vacation Jim Owens
*Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis
Ceda the Executioner: 4 Joel Slatis
Choice of Heart Jim Owens
Vol07N3: *Through the Veil: Atros 5 Joseph Curwen
*Duty John White
Vol07N4: A Death in the Attic Jeff Girard
Lifesong Aiwu Lian
Shakka! H.D. Baumeister
Seer's Doom John L. White
Ceda the Executioner: 5 Joel Slatis
Idol John L. White
Vol07N5: *A Difficult Recovery: Atros 6 Joseph Curwen
*Two Journeys Rich Durbin
*The Treasure: Part 1 of 4 John L. White
Vol08N1: *Ornate Love Jim Owens
Ceda the Executioner: 6 Joel Slatis
Vol08N2: *Winds of Change Becki Tants
*Reunion Ed Murphy
*The Treasure: Part 2 of 4 John L. White
Vol08N3: *Consummate Love Jim Owens
*Legend in the Making 'Orny' Liscomb
Vol08N4: Ceda the Executioner: 7 Joel Slatis
Sir Lyoyn of the Pale Loren J. Miller
*Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis
*Cydric and the Sage: Part 2 Carlo Samson
Vol09N1: FSFnet SF Short Story Contest 'Orny' Liscomb
the Cube Joseph Curwen
*Je'en: A Recap John L. White
*Cydric and the Sage: Part 3 Carlo N. Samson
Vol09N2: *Treasure 3 John L. White
Vol09N3: Waiting Here For You Steve Boyko
It Slid Ron Trenka
*The Edged Tool Jim Owens
Men Shall Have the Stars Carlo Samson
Wiring Jim Owens
Vol10N1: The Old Man Joseph Curwen
*Cydric and the Sage: Part 4 Carlo N. Samson
*Noble Favor: Atros 7 Joseph Curwen
Vol10N2: *Treasure 4 John L. White
Vol10N3: *Worthy of the Title, Part I M. Wendy Hennquin
The Defiant Vector Brian M. Dean
The Quest Ron Trenka
*Quest, Part I John L. White
Vol10N4: A Wyrm's Tale Ron Trenka
A Summer's Day: June, 2084 Sean Myles Smith
Tattoo's Becki Tants
*Worthy of the Title, Part 2 M. Wendy Hennequin
Vol10N5: Flyer's Dance John Sullivan
Untitled Lori Spier
*Worthy of the Title, Part 3 M. Wendy Hennequin
Vol10N6: Servant of the Silver Blade Ron Meldrum
*Cydric and the Sage: Part Five Carlo N. Samson
Vol11N1: For the Umpteenth Time James G. Thayer
*Stranger in the Mist Jeff Lee
Review: Hart's Hope 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Scent in the Air Becki Tants
Necrolepsy Bob Aspel
Review: A Man Rides Through M. Wendy Hennequin
*Spirit of the Wood: 7 Rich Jervis
Vol11N2: Your Order... Paul A. Clayton
*A Sudden Storm Becki Tants
DNA For Sale, Slightly Used... Peter Scott
*Unlikely Partners, Part 1 Max Khaytsus
Vol11N3: History of FSFnet 'Orny' Liscomb
*A Visit to Connall M. Wendy Hennequin
*A Bride for Dargon Wendy and Orny
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Well, here is issue number one of FSFnet, and I hope
you all enjoy it. Since the first mailing, I have had
a great deal of positive response, and about half a
dozen submissions. In this issue you will find a
scattering of reviews, an amusing story I whipped off,
and something I'd like to continue in future issues, a
featured author. I would like to thank those who have
contributed, and Lord Hagen for designing the header.
A reminder to those who did not respond to the first
mailing: this is the last issue you will receive unless
I hear from you that you wish to remain on the mailing
list. Also, people whose ids have changed over the
semester break, please notify me. A reminder, FSFnet
will come out as often as I have enough material for
it. This means I need submissions and ideas and
feedback to make this zine what it ought to be. Please
try to submit something, and try to spread the word
about FSFnet to people you think might be interested.
Anyone interested in a game of Diplomacy over
Bitnet, please contact me. I will be running a game
which will begin rather soon. Maps and rules will be
sent out.
Well, enough of the editorial, on to the real stuff.
Read on!
+ Orny +
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Have you ever heard of the micro-games Wizard and
Melee? If so, then you may know about the way they do
ready-made modules.
I am working on a labyrinth for FSFnet, but am
limited by disk space at the present time. I have
requested additional space, and if I get it, I will be
able to send the dungeon by electronic mail.
It would be geared to people making choices, but
not to dice rolls. In any case, as soon as it is
finished, I will be willing to send it to anyone who
sends me a self-addressed, stamped envelope.
Lord Hagen Silverskull (VM00D4 @ WVNVM)
DUNE
(This review is directed at people who have read and
liked the book)
The movie Dune opened last Friday and I saw it
over the weekend, I never believed that Frank
Herbert's novel could be faithfully reproduced in a
two hour movie, and I was glad to see I was right about
something this year.
There were some minor flaws in the movie such as
the 'Weirding devices' that House Atreides had
developed that were used as the secret weapon by the
Atreides instead of the Fremen, in the book Duke Leto
is planning even before leaveing Caladan to use the
Fremen against the Imperial Sardaukar.
When they decided to make the movie they could
have decided to be true to the book or to really cut
the book to make the screenplay work but they tried
to do both and the result is a mediocre movie from a
great book that would have made an excellent mini-
series.
The most drastic change from the book was they
didn't take the time and give us the history of
the feud between the Atreides and the Harkonnens,
but they still had to get the audience to hate them so
they made the Baron into a diseased sadist, instead of
just leaving him as a mean, ruthless, power hungry,
aristocrat.
For all the Police fans out there Sting played
Feyd-Rautha almost exactly as i pictured him in the
book however he should have had more dialogue with his
uncle the Baron.
Mike Foley (ACPS1060 @ RYERSON)
Ornathor's Saga
Once upon a time there lived an errant knight, and
his daring life of gallantry and chivalry had won him a
considerable reputation among those realms he had
journeyed in. He was tall and dark, with deep,
piercing eyes, keen as the sword which hung on his
baldric. His armor and weapons were all of silver, and
his huge stallion was a tarnished grey. On his shield
was his coat: suspended in a black night sky, a
constellation of five stars in a rough diamond shape.
It was the most prominent group of stars in the sky -
the Southern Cross.
The name of the realm was Bukharim; it was a
pleasing and comfortable kingdom of green, rolling
hills and cool evergreen forests. The silver knight
was on an errand to Kulac, the central keep and city of
Bukharim. The world was strangely quiet as he
approached the city on the plains. As he passed the
iron gates, he saw a guard poised to strike a wench
with the back of his mailed fist. The knight yelled
out, a strange sound in the quiet of the city; neither
figure moved. He examined them, and saw that they
stood as still as if time itself had stopped for them.
He led his horse along the street, and he saw many
frozen figures. A guillotine hung impossibly, having
travelled halfway down its lethal course. An irate-
looking peasant woman held a young urchin by the hair.
A man and a woman were climbing the stairs to the
second story of a brothel. Three veterans toasted one
another. Perhaps they were recently reunited, and
surprised to see one another still alive. Perhaps on
the morning they were to be off to the next battle.
None could ever read their faces.
He came to the keep, and entered. The great
reception hall was a scene from some warped painter's
fantasies; the lord of Bukharim pointed an accusing
finger at a figure who seemingly was no longer there.
On a stone platform lay a woman, the most beautiful
woman the knight had ever seen. She was, without
doubt, the lord's daughter, no less than a princess.
As the knight approached his vision, he heard a
sound... this woman was not captured in timelessness,
but merely sleeping. He could not help but feast upon
the sight of her, her beautiful golden hair, her fair
skin, her perfect lips. His body longed to hold her
and his mind reeled with the desire to kiss her. He
fell to his knees, knowing that a single kiss could
restore normality to this ghost realm, that he would
marry the princess, and, in time, become lord of
Bukharim. He recalled the guard, poised to strike the
wench, the guillotine about to fall, the woman berating
the urchin, the man and the whore, the battle-weary
veterans. He silently cried as he lay down beside the
princess and was overcome by sleep, never to be seen
again beyond the dream-gates of Ilek-vad, upon which he
had stumbled in conscious dream.
Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
Brisingamen, by Diana Paxson
This book came out recently in a mass-market
paperback. The cover says: "The magic is back. But can
California handle it?".
The heroine, Karen Ingold, is a grad student in
comparative literature. The book begins with her lover
of two years, Roger, leaving to go back to his wife,
and telling her in the morning as he leaves, claiming
he didn't want to spoil their last night together.
Karen goes in to her job in the comp lit office. A
package arrives from Sweden for her boss, Walter. It
proves to contain a wedding chest and pieces of a
necklace, which we know (from a prologue) goes back to
the old Norse religion and had to be hidden away from
the Christians. The book depicts Karen's gradually
learning to deal with the fact that the necklace does
have power, enabling her to invoke the Goddess Freyja
(whether she wants to or not), while putting her
personal life and career back together.
The people in it are real, as is the magic. There
are references to the Neopagan community, in particular
a (presumably invented) group that works in the Norse
tradition, and Paxson seems to be deriving her theories
of magic from that source as much as from the old
myths. She is conscious of how much we don't know about
Norse religion, and uses that instead of trying to hide
it.
Vicki (ROSVICL @ YALEVMX)
Featured Author: M.A.R. BARKER
Muhammad Abd-al-Rahman Barker, creator of the world
of Tekumel and author of the Man of Gold, is currently
a full professor in the Department of South and
Southwestern Asian Studies at the University of
Minnesota Minneapolis/St. Paul. He is best known for
his work with Tekumel, particularly the roleplaying
game the Empire of the Petal Throne. Recently revived
interest in the wonder of Tekumel has spurred a new
roleplaying game, Swords and Glory, and the full-length
novel the Man of Gold, with more novels to follow.
Tekumel first was introduced to the general public
in the form of the Empire of the Petal Throne
roleplaying game, published by TSR in 1974. It was
expensive for it's time, and was considered the
'Cadillac' of RPGs during its time. It was heavily
influenced by the developing Dungeons and Dragons RPG.
Today EPT is a collectors item.
Swords and Glory/EPT is a brand new roleplaying
game, also by Barker, also set in Tekumel, an alien
world of magic and wonder. Published by Gamescience,
the S&G/EPT will contain three volumes, each costing
about $25; the first two volumes are already in print
and available. Tekumel Games, Inc. (1278 Selby Ave,
St. Paul, MN 55104) also publishes several Tekumel-
related products, including an official ongoing history
of the world.
However, the great amount of attention the games
have received obscures the real reason for Tekumel's
existance. Says Barker: 'The idea of Tekumel came
first, plus a desire to write fistion about it. EPT
was secondary.' The Man of Gold, published by DAW, is
an excellent look into the violent nature of life in
Tekumel's fantastically alien environment, and an
excellent book. It is the tale of a young man who
suddenly finds himself confronted with being the focus
of the attention of the powers of the Tsolyani Empire.
The book is very interesting and well-written and
enjoyable, although the conclusion is very weak and
leaves one wondering exactly what has gone on.
Barker is continuing his writing. A second Tekumel
novel, Flamesong, is already in DAW's hands, and a
further work has been begun. An excellent interview
with Barker, discussing the games, his books, and
himself can be found in the Space Gamer number 71.
Tekumel is a place that once visited, cannot be
forgotten. It's compelling alienness intrigues and
captivates us, and I am looking forward to the
publication of further Tekumel-related novels.
Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
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CONTENTS
Editorial Propaganda... in the Air!
1984-Orwellian Reflections A poem by T.P. Milley
Letters by Victor and Guy...
Featured Author: Larry Niven Orny's still at it!
Close Encounter... Story by Alex Williams
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EDITORIAL
Well, folks, hello, and welcome to issue two of FSFnet! Just
two or three little things to mention for now...
First of all, FSFnet NEEDS SUBMISSIONS!!! This zine can only
survive if YOU contribute. I have had a number of people say that
they were interested in contributing, but very few have come
through. I realize it is difficult and time-consuming, but I am
sure you all would like to continue receiving FSFnet. Well, I need
your help. I can't do it all myself, although sometimes I have to
try...
I would also like to welcome all our new members. The mailing
list is currently running about 70 to 75. Please continue to
spread the word, and get more people to subscribe! At least it's
no strain on the wallet!
For those people who are interested in a game of Diplomacy over
the Net, I have already begun game 1, and, if sufficient people are
interested, I will run a second game. Contact me if you are
interested.
Well, enough of the propaganda. I hope you enjoy this issue,
although it is perhaps not as good as the last (since I have had
only one submission since issue 1 came out). Next issue will
feature my discussion of the works of the fantasy author Tanith
Lee, and whatever else anyone sends me. Please submit articles!
Until soon...
-Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
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''1984--ORWELLIAN REFLECTIONS''
I
'THE CHILL'
The Naive worry that the world will end in Fire,
a nuclear holocaust.
--How lost we are!
I do not worry, because I already know
that it will end in Ice.
Many times I've felt
death's unmistakeable chill
glissando up my spine.
--How fortunate are we
to be the children of a new era!
The Electronic Age, conceived
through the toil of unremembered men;
who sacrificed their lives for us
for this.
This!
(let us end this talk of discontent;
there is no time for emotion,
We must hurry on!)
II
'The Church'
We are at war again.
"With whom?" you ask.
"The Communists, of course." he replies.
But where are they, these "Communists?"
So, "They live in Russia." you say.
I think not.
Have you ever seen one?
"No." you say.
Then how do you know that they are worse: more evil,
than you or I?
Think there.
There, they are at war with "the Americans."
Think that they have ever seen one?
Again, I think not.
We have as little to fear them for
as they have for fearing us.
So, why do we fear them?
Are they not men?
You say we fear them because they
will take the land we love by force,
with all their missiles, planes and bombs.
Open your eyes.
They won't take this land by force,
for they have taken it already.
Who are "they" anyway?
Look in the mirror, comrade.
They are we.
Let's change the flag tomorrow.
I think red with a golden reaper
would look sharp.
III
'The Craftsman'
(How wonderful it must have been,
to live in the age of patient craftsmen.
Men took pride in the work of their hands,
and women, wanting their place,
stood close behind their men.)
How sluggish they make me feel as they rush by.
I am a craftsman born late--
they leave me behind
in a cloud of hydrocarbon.
-T. P. Milley
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CP QUERY MAIL ALL
Orny, Was quite pleased to receive first edition of FSFNET
today. I enjoyed the stories, and am interested in seeing how this
piece of electronic imagination fares. I hope with this, you will
start a "Readers' Responses" section.
First a commendation: I am most impressed with the level of
literacy in FSFNET. Having been a bitnet user for some time, I
have seen some of the worst molestations committed on the English
language by computer users. I am relieved to see that there is
someone out there who CAN spell. Next, please tell us what format
you would like items submitted in. Allow me to suggest that you
extend you line length a bit to, say 65 or 70 characters to
conserve file and spool area.
I am looking forward to reading and contributing to future
issues. On the whole, I'd say it's a brilliant idea!
-Victor
Orny,
got V1N1 of FSFnet. Thanks. I like the idea. send more. How
about a play-by-net Traveller game? If asked nicely, I could find
the time to referee it (sometime during the weekends). If any
Inspirations hit me, I'll send them to you.
PS - here's an illustration for you next issue.
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PPS - a LOC (what's a zine without LOC's?) on Mike Foley's Dune
review:
I only have 2 comments to add to Mike's excellent review of
Dune:
1) While the movie is a reasonably good adaptation of the book,
it really falls apart in a couple of places. One is when Paul and
Jessica first meet the Fremen. The scene in the cave bears no
resemblance to what happened in the book.
2) Probably due to the restricted time available in a
screenplay, a major amount of the intrigue so central to the book
was lost. Although the first half of the movie is provide this
feeling of "plots within plots within plots", I felt that it
failed. Due to the small amount of time available, not enough
background could be presented for a viewer who hadn't read the
book, and by taking time to present background, even more of the
intrigue is lost for the person who has read the book.
Unfortunately, the movie found that unhappy medium where the
beginner is lost, and the omissions become obvious to the
knowledgeable viewer.
Other than those two gripes, I think that the film was
enjoyable, and a good (but not perfect) adaptation of the book.
-Guy Garnett (GG822C @ GWUVM)
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Featured Author: LARRY NIVEN
Most famous for his Known Space series, Larry Niven is a
classical science fiction author who sometimes dabbles in the arena
of fantasy fiction. Some of his best works are from his earlier
Known Space volumes, which include Neutron Star, Protector, the
Long ARM of Gil Hamilton, and many more, culminating in perhaps his
best known works, Ringworld, and the Ringworld Engineers. These
books began as unrelated science fiction stories, but later came to
represent different tales within the same sphere of space.
Ringworld is a major work of science fiction, and represents
Niven's break from traditional science fiction to modern writing.
The Ringworld Engineers attempts to solve a number of questions
left unresolved in the first book. These are all excellent science
fiction works, and well worth the effort to read.
Niven has also written some books which are not directly
connected with Known Space. In conjunction with Jerry Pournelle,
Niven has written Lucifer's Hammer, a tale set in the near future,
and the Mote in Gods Eye, which I consider his best work to date.
It is a fascinating tale of man's first contact with aliens, and is
an engrossing and captivating work. Niven has also written works
of pure fantasy, namely his 'Magic' series, which, as examples of
fantasy literature, are neither outstanding nor unworthy. His most
recent work, the Integral Trees, has just come out in paperback, as
has another new book, Limits.
Also of interest to Niven fans might be the Ringworld
roleplaying game, which was released recently by the Chaosium game
company. As a sourcebook for the Ringworld, it is excellent,
although it requires a very strong gamemaster, since the rules are
a little sketchy. The Ringworld Companion, a supplement to this
game, has also been put on the market.
-Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Close Encounter
"I think we should be heading back to the station now," grumbled
Seargent White,"it's getting mighty cold now." He slapped his
ungloved hands against his chest, trying vainly to keep them warm
in this sub zero night. His exhaled breath turned into a thick
white cloud and drifted away, as if to underline his statement.
"Yea. It's almost eleven now, anyway.", replied Officer Bennet.
He opened the door to the squad car and climbed into the drivers
seat. The other door opened as John White climbed in beside him.
With a reluctant grumble the engine turned over and the old car
started to move down the dark road.
After driving past several miles of uneventful pine forest, John
White cried "Stop! Stop the car!". With squeal of rubber against
tar the car slowed to a halt. "What the hell is that up there, by
the side of the road?" asked John.
Peering through the gloom Sam saw what appeared to be a man, on
the tall side standing by the side of the road about twenty yards
along the road staring at the woods in back of him. The strangest
thing it was he seemed to be naked.
"Either that guy is drunk, crazy, or an eskimo!" said Sam.
"All the same, we should bring him in to the station, at least
to get him warm."
"You stay here in the car, and I'll go get him."
"Maybe we should both get him, he could get rowdy." said John
"Come on."
The doors to the squad car creaked open, as Sam and John stepped
out of the car. The walked slowly toward the figure in the road.
When they were eight feet away from the man, they stopped. The
shadowy figure turned and silently faced them.
"Easy now, we don't want to panic him." whispered Sam.
John slowly took the flashlight from his belt and shone it at
the figure. The bright circle of light landed on the figures neck
and face, revealing a human head. Around the neck was a small black
box, with two small lights on it, silently winking.
"Greetings. I am Varrk, emissary from the planet Davron, of the
star Sirus 5" said the figure in slow measured tones.
"He's fucking dunk!" hissed Sam
"I have been sent here to establish peaceful relations between
our two cultures." said Varrk.
"Yea. You just come with us, we have a nice warm cell for you to
get all sobered up. Now come along." said Sam
"No I must let the mother ship know of my contact." replied
Varrk
"We'll let you do that later. Now come with us."
"No, I must message my mother ship."
"You'll not do that 'till tomorrow" said Sam.
Then he and John grabbed each of Varrk's arms and tried to drag
him towards the waiting squad car. With a surprising display of
strength, Varrk throws both John and Sam into the dirt along the
side of the road. He then swiftly walks toward the dark reaches of
the forest.
"Wing him in the leg, Sam!! He'll get away!" yelled John
With a quick explosion of fire Sam's gun spits a bullet strait
towards Varrk's right leg. There is no reaction and Varrk
disappears into the woods.
"You idiot! You missed him, at point blank, and he got away!"
screamed John.
"I could've sworn I hit him. I could've sworn I hit him in the
leg" Sam quietly said.
"We might as well go back to the car and report him, somebody's
bound to find him sooner or later." said John.
They both got up off of the cold ground and headed back toward
the squad car. About halfway there, John stopped.
"What was that?" asked John
"What was what?" said Sam
"That sound, a low humming."
"Probably a bullfrog, lets get back to the car, it's damn cold
out here"
"No, it isn't a frog, its getting louder. Do you hear it now?"
asked John.
Before Sam could reply a light bathed the top of the pine trees
to there north, and as slowly as a balloon, a long silver cylinder
rose above the tree tops. It hovered there for a moment and
streaked into the sky to the north with a loud whining. Within
several seconds a warm blew past John and Sam, standing stunned at
the side of the road.
"What in God's good name was that?" whispered Sam.
"I have no idea, but maybe Varrk was telling the truth."
-Alex Williams
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n3
+487
View File
@@ -0,0 +1,487 @@
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Flyby Fiction by Jim Owens
Featured Author: TANITH LEE Orny
The Narret Chronicles Fiction by Mari A. Paulson
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Editorial
Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump,
we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must
thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and
productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so
talented...
I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have
submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented
about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet
needs your support to continue.
Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems
reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM
users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to
which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up
with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future.
One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a
special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the
Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send
it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my
hands on!
But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two
wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
FLYBY
The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the
twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful
engines in the warship behind him.
"Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the
ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!"
The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more.
The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space
combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a
planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about
them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have
been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they
had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and
were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition
of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment
easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now.
Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it
was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and
now here they were.
"Greg, you got ..."
The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading
for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he
caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an
attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the
electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in
range of their tractor field...
Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind
Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency
boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the
Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws,
which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft.
The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the
head of a fish out of a shark's mouth.
He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the
little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove
around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of
light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon.
Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had
decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they
had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the
emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the
pursuit.
He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping
to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th
Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field
activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible,
and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense
velocity, they would protect him. A little further...
500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the
engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into
the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the
cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the
exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the
exploding ejection seat bolts.
"Greg..."
He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven?
"Greg..."
He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays.
He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field,
staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person.
"Elein, why aren't I dead?"
"You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the
last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field."
Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance
was the Paixian who had hired them.
"Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the
first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery
point."
Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his
ship.
"Am I to take it you can salvage that?"
"No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after
all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless
of what gauntlet they had to run."
"And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards.
"Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product."
Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Featured Author: TANITH LEE
Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The
London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although
she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often
found on neighborhood bookstore shelves.
Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective
opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively
with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her
twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works.
Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master,"
"Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are
excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the
Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are
masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary
maturity, and unique insights into morality.
"Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's
typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known
childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps
Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following
episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely
what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into
the realm of wonder.
Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books,
Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the
Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of
fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee,
full of unexpected twists and deep thought.
The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled
for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are
Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon."
For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the
author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8).
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
"THE NARRET CHRONICLES"
BOOK THE LAST
It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of
the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering
bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm
for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life
forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant
floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of
channelways.
Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he
was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught
his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou
drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line
from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a
constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something
romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down
400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by
Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly
advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's
about, as for now: Backward and downward."
Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time
something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My,
it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the
observatory before class tonight..."
"...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist
of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called
positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced
in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of
negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?"
"Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons
go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?"
"That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an
ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course."
Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on.
"Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed."
Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of
two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there
was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from
one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who
messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert
world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of
his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him
on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often,
and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter.
It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were
confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark,
formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and
finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted.
"No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's
an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System.
It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our
foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency
conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in
our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea
on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?"
"Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?"
"Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as
well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you
now have 94.5 centons."
"Yes, that's all. Thank you sir."
"Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out."
"Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going."
Mari A. Paulson
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
From WHITEJL%DUVM.BITNET@PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU Thu May 13 14:59:59 1993
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Date: Thu, 13 May 93 14:59:32 EDT
From: SilentElf <WHITEJL@DUVM.BITNET>
Subject: FSFNet Vol01N3
To: RITA@EFF.ORG
Status: OR
+-+ +-+ +-+
+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
/___________\ ==========================================
| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE)
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Flyby Fiction by Jim Owens
Featured Author: TANITH LEE Orny
The Narret Chronicles Fiction by Mari A. Paulson
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Editorial
Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump,
we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must
thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and
productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so
talented...
I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have
submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented
about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet
needs your support to continue.
Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems
reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM
users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to
which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up
with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future.
One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a
special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the
Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send
it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my
hands on!
But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two
wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
FLYBY
The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the
twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful
engines in the warship behind him.
"Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the
ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!"
The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more.
The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space
combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a
planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about
them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have
been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they
had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and
were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition
of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment
easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now.
Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it
was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and
now here they were.
"Greg, you got ..."
The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading
for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he
caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an
attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the
electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in
range of their tractor field...
Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind
Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency
boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the
Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws,
which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft.
The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the
head of a fish out of a shark's mouth.
He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the
little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove
around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of
light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon.
Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had
decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they
had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the
emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the
pursuit.
He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping
to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th
Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field
activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible,
and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense
velocity, they would protect him. A little further...
500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the
engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into
the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the
cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the
exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the
exploding ejection seat bolts.
"Greg..."
He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven?
"Greg..."
He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays.
He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field,
staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person.
"Elein, why aren't I dead?"
"You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the
last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field."
Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance
was the Paixian who had hired them.
"Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the
first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery
point."
Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his
ship.
"Am I to take it you can salvage that?"
"No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after
all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless
of what gauntlet they had to run."
"And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards.
"Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product."
Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
Featured Author: TANITH LEE
Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The
London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although
she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often
found on neighborhood bookstore shelves.
Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective
opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively
with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her
twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works.
Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master,"
"Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are
excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the
Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are
masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary
maturity, and unique insights into morality.
"Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's
typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known
childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps
Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following
episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely
what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into
the realm of wonder.
Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books,
Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the
Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of
fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee,
full of unexpected twists and deep thought.
The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled
for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are
Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon."
For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the
author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8).
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
"THE NARRET CHRONICLES"
BOOK THE LAST
It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of
the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering
bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm
for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life
forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant
floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of
channelways.
Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he
was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught
his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou
drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line
from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a
constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something
romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down
400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by
Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly
advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's
about, as for now: Backward and downward."
Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time
something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My,
it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the
observatory before class tonight..."
"...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist
of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called
positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced
in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of
negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?"
"Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons
go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?"
"That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an
ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course."
Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on.
"Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed."
Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of
two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there
was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from
one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who
messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert
world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of
his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him
on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often,
and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter.
It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were
confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark,
formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and
finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted.
"No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's
an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System.
It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our
foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency
conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in
our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea
on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?"
"Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?"
"Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as
well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you
now have 94.5 centons."
"Yes, that's all. Thank you sir."
"Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out."
"Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going."
Mari A. Paulson
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CONTENTS
Editorinomican Mad Orny al-Hazred
Featured Author: H.P. LOVECRAFT Orny
Call of Cthulhu Game Review Mike H.
The Book HPL
The Cthulhu Mythos Merlin
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Editorial
Greetings, and welcome to the Howard Phillips Lovecraft special issue
of FSFnet. I must apologize for the lateness of this issue, but, as
many of you know already, I am in the middle of spending three weeks in
wonderful (?) New York City. I hope that you will find the issue worth
the wait. Future issues should be forthcoming within a few weeks,
depending on how things go here.
Submissions and other response can be sent to my Maine account, and
will receive proper attention, usually within one to five days. If you
have something that you would like to bring to my attention, I will be
using TIGQC489 @ CUNYVM during my stay in NYC, which should last until
the 20th of March.
I would like to thank the contributors for their help, and I would
like to apologize to Eric (@ UCONN) for having to ask him to withdraw a
fine submission, due to length. Merlin's overview of the Mythos is an
excellent article, and Mike's CoC game review is lucid. I hope that
Lovecraft fans enjoy this issue, although there is not enough room to do
his work justice, and I hope that those of you who have not been
introduced to HPL find this issue enjoyable and interesting.
Issue five should be following this issue rather rapidly, and will
definitely appear in your reader queues before the end of the month. It
will contain sequels to stories that appeared in issue three, and, of
course, another featured author... I really ought to start thinking
about who...
Well, you know how it is. Enjoy, and spread the word!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE and TIGQC489 @ CUNYVM>
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Featured Author: HOWARD PHILLIPS LOVECRAFT
H.P. Lovecraft has become one of the most well-known of the early
writers in the pulp science fiction/horror field. His life was very
controversial, and there has been passionate debate over how much of
Lovecraft's work was influenced by his early experiences. However, his
writings remain popular works of horror, and HPL has had many followers
and imitators.
Lovecraft was born and lived all his life in Providence, Rhode
Island. His father was placed in a mental home when HPL was three, and
died of paresis when Howard was 8. His mother, from all accounts, was
psychoneurotic, eventually being institutionalized as well. HPL was
brought up in a very Victorian household, and therefore his emotions and
imagination were suppressed. He was taught to read early, and his
childhood was filled with writing experiments. However, Howard was a
sickly child, and was not exposed to the world outside his home. He was
made very aware of his own shortcomings, with possible psychological
implications.
HPL carried on a number of active correspondances with younger
authors once he had broken into the pulp market, and many people feel
that if he had spent less time on his letters he might have been more
productive; however, for Lovecraft, these epistles were necessary to
help him cope with his incredibly low self-image, to help him deal with
his loneliness, and to gather news and ideas from the vast world outside
his experience.
Lovecraft's style was heavily influenced by Poe, Arthur Machen, and
Lord Dunsany, although HPL also filtered his ideas through his life-
experience. For example, Lovecraft used very little dialogue, for he
did not have a great deal of experience in conversation. Most of his
tales are located in New England, a fact which adds believability to his
tales, but also becomes redundant. HPL distinctly avoided sex in his
stories, and any women who appear are as nonfeminine as his mother.
One of Lovecraft's favorite writing mechanisms is the use of an
ancient, forbidden tome, usually the Necronomicon, a book originally of
his invention, though several hoaxes have been perpetrated. This may
have been borrowed from Poe's "ancient sources" or Robert W. Chambers'
"King in Yellow", but no fantastic book has ever been portrayed as
effectively as Lovecraft's. More recent authors have copied the tactic
with marginal success: Robert E. Howard's "Unaussprechlichen Kulten"
and Robert Bloch's "De Vermis Mysteriis" being examples.
Lovecraft's works are many and varied, beginning with his earlier
tales, to be found in Del Rey's recent reprints "The Tomb" and "The Doom
that Came to Sarnath" and culminating in his popular Cthulhu Mythos
cycle. Most of his work is in the form of short stories, although he
also wrote poetry which is generally considered marginal. In his own
eyes, his best work was the story "Colour out of Space", followed by
"The Music of Eric Zann". I tend to agree with Lovecraft on this, but
would also suggest "The Tomb", "The Doom that Came to Sarnath", "The
Call of Cthulhu", and the Charles Dexter Ward novella. The Del Rey
reprints are all excellent collections, and many other works are
available, if, like some of HPL's characters, one enjoys delving for
arcane and wond'rous tomes of ancient lore.
H.P. Lovecraft is a classic horror author and a must for horror fans;
however, it must be remembered that he wrote his works for pulp
magazines who were not interested in master works of style. He wrote to
earn his living, which was, at best, meagre, and his unique psychology
and situation left many gaps in his writing style. However, he was also
a master at certain techniques that budding authors should note, and
that horror fans would appreciate.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Call of Cthulhu GAME REVIEW
Fans of H.P Lovecraft's infamous 'Cthulhu mythos' stories and general
horror buffs now have a role playing game designed just for them:
Chaosium's fantasy role playing game 'Call of Cthulhu'. If you are
bored by standard role playing games, tired of the old 'kill monster,
take its treasure, go on to next monster...' limbo inherent in many
fantasy games, or if you just want to try something different, Call of
Cthulhu may be worth looking into. Based entirely on the world of H.P.
Lovecraft, where mankind is beset by immortal elder gods of
mindshattering power and insane human sorcerers bent on the enslavement
of humanity, this game offers adventurers a different approach to
gaming; Horror based role playing. In this world, players fight
sorcerers and evil humans, lose sanity, and run from monsters a lot.
The enjoyment of it is derived not from successfully killing the enemy,
but from successfully running away before it eats your face off. Combat
plays a small part in this game, which instead centers around detective
work coupled with a general atmosphere of Gothic horror and impending
doom.
The gaming system is remarkably simple, and anyone familiar with
Chaosium's gaming system will find Call to be similar to other Chaosium
games, such as Elfquest, Stormbringer, and Elric. Hit points are
computed in a simple (some might say primitive) way by averaging size
and con. Sanity is a statistic unique to this game, and is used more
often than hit points, with a character being shocked into madness by
'unspeakably blasphemous horrors', as H.P.L. might have put it. The
overall game system is more logic oriented than most others, with a list
of abilities and areas of knowledge somewhat similar to Top Secret, only
more diverse and lengthy. Combat is simple, with parries, critical
hits, and a percentage chance to hit any given target. (Those who value
greater realism in a gaming system may wish to use a system of
'difficulty factors' like that used in the James Bond role playing
game. Assigning a constant chance to hit any target at any range with a
given weapon is not exactly realistic.) However, a clever gamemaster can
make up for any deficiencies in the game system and find a right blend
of realism and simplicity.
Modules for Call are not easy to find, being less numerous than those
of many other games. Most modules published by Chaosium are in the form
of long campaigns, with six or more modules usually linked by a central
theme, and flowing nicely from one to the other. These modules cost
approximately ten dollars, and are well worth it since they provide many
hours of game time. The modules state that they will last for sixty
hours, but a gamemaster well versed in Lovecraft's literature can
stretch it out to at least a hundred hours. That comes to a dime an
hour, a much better deal than most other games can offer. Some titles
to look for are: Shadows of Yog Sothoth, Masks of Nyarlathotep, The
Asylum, The Fungi from Yuggoth, Death in Dunwich and others.
The game itself may prove difficult to find; almost as difficult as
locating books by H.P.L. The easiest way to get a copy of the game if no
local store has it is to order it direct from Chaosium; there are
advertisements in Dragon magazine with the address. Modules will
probably be similar to track down, but an order form is enclosed with
the game, so that is no big problem.
(Note: try to get the second edition of the game. The first is flawed
in several ways, which are corrected in the second edition. Corrections
for the first edition were published as part some modules, including
'Shadows of Yog Sothoth'.)
Mike H. <HONORS4 @ UCONNVM>
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THE BOOK
My memories are very confused. There is even much doubt as to where
they begin; for at times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching
behind me, while at other times it seems as if the present moment were
an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. I am not even certain
how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have
a vague impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will
be needed to bear what I say to the points where I wish to be heard. My
identity, too, is bewilderingly cloudy. I seem to have suffered a great
shock - perhaps from some utterly monstrous outgrowth of my cycles of
unique, incredible experience.
These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that worm-
riddled book. I remember when I found it - in a dimly lighted place
near the black, oily river where the mists always swirl. That place was
very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached
back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were,
besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins;
and it was in one of these heaps that I found the thing. I never
learned its title, for the early pages were missing; but it fell open
toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent my senses
reeling.
There was a formula - a sort of list of things to say and do - which
I recognized as something black and forbidden; something which I had
read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination
penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe's guarded
secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key - a guide
- to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and
whispered since the race was young, and which lead to freedoms and
discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms of life and matter
that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital
substance or known where to find it, but this book was very old indeed.
No printing-press, but the hand of some half-crazed monk, had traced
these ominous Latin phrases in unicals of awesome antiquity.
I remember how the old man leered and tittered, and made a curious
sign with his hand when I bore it away. He had refused to take pay for
it, and only long afterward did I guess why. As I hurried home through
those narrow, winding, mist-cloaked waterfront streets I had a frightful
impression of being stealthily followed by softly padding feet. The
centuried, tottering houses on both sides seemed alive with a fresh and
morbid malignity - as if some hitherto closed channel of evil
understanding had abruptly been opened. I felt that those walls and
overhanging gables of mildewed brick and fungoid plaster and timber -
with eye-like, diamond-paned windows that leered - could hardly desist
from advancing and crushing me... yet I had read only the least fragment
of that blasphemous rune before closing the book and bringing it away.
I remember how I read the book at last - white-faced, and locked in
the attic room that I had long devoted to strange searchings. The great
house was very still, for I had not gone up till after midnight. I
think I had a family then - though the details are very uncertain - and
I know there were many servants. Just what the year was, I cannot say;
for since then I have known many ages and dimensions, and have had all
my notions of time dissolved and refashioned. It was by the light of
candles that I read - I recall the relentless dripping of the wax - and
there were chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I
seemed to keep track of those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I
feared to hear some very remote, intruding note among them.
Then came the first scratching and fumbling at the dormer window that
looked out high above the other roofs of the city. It came as I droned
aloud the ninth verse of that primal lay, and I knew amidst my shudders
what it meant. For he who passes the gateways always wins a shadow, and
never again can he be alone. I had evoked - and the book was indeed all
I had suspected. That night I passed the gateway to a vortex of twisted
time and vision, and when morning found me in the attic room I saw in
the walls and shelves fittings that which I had never seen before.
Nor could I ever see the world as I had known it. Mixed with the
present scene was always a little of the past and a little of the
future, and every once-familiar object loomed alien in the new
perspective brought by my widened sight. From then on I walked in a
fantastic dream of unknown and half-known shapes; and with each new
gateway crossed, the less plainly could I recognize the things of the
narrow sphere to which I had so long been bound. What I saw about me,
none else saw; and I grew doubly silent and aloof lest I be thought mad.
Dogs had a fear of me, for they felt the outside shadow which never left
my side. But still I read more - in hidden, forgotten books and scrolls
to which my new vision led me - and pushed through fresh gateways of
space and being and life-patterns toward the core of the unknown cosmos.
I remember the night I made the five concentric circles of fire on
the floor, and stood in the innermost one chanting that monstrous litany
the messenger from Tartary had brought. The walls melted away, and I
was swept by a black wind through gulfs of fathomless grey with the
needle-like pinnacle of unknown mountains miles below me. After a while
there was utter blackness, and then the light of myriad stars forming
strange, alien constellations. Finally I saw a green-litten plain far
below me, and discerned on it the twisted towers of a city built in no
fashion I had ever known or read of or dreamed of. As I floated closer
to that city I saw a great square building of stone in an open space,
and felt a hideous fear clutching at me. I screamed and struggled, and
after a blankness was again in my attic room sprawled flat over the five
concentric circles on the floor. In that night's wandering there was no
more of strangeness than in many a former night's wandering; but there
was more of terror because I knew I was closer to those outside gulfs
and worlds than I had ever been before. Thereafter I was more cautious
with my incantations, for I had no wish to be cut off from my body and
from the earth in unknown abysses whence I could never return...
Howard Phillips Lovecraft
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THE CTHULHU MYTHOS
The Cthulhu mythos developed from Howard Phillips Lovecraft's
experimentation in the media of modern horror in the magazine Weird
Tales in the 1920's and 30's. The Mythos embodies a pantheon of evil
beings from other space-time continua, many of whom possess divine
powers. A fictitious history of the interactions of these beings and
their alien worshipers on this world and other distant planets comprises
the core of the Lovecraft mythology. The underlying theme of these
stories lies in the attempts of these beings to achieve physical
manifestation on Earth and the methods that foolish mortals utilize in
this goal.
Because the idea of a common mythos of places, races, and deities
appears only gradually in HPL's work, no real attempt was made to make
the cycle logically coherent until 1926 with the publication of "The
Call of Cthulhu". Further, HPL encouraged other authors, particularly
Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Robert E. Howard, and
Frank Belknap Long, to enlarge upon the Mythos in their own fiction.
Following HPL's death in 1937 a host of other writers have made notable
contributions to the Cthulhu cycle. Thus, stories throughout the mythos
are often contradictory or overlapping, making a glossary of the
elements of the cycle difficult. For reasons of simplicity and space,
only those places, races, and deities which were mentioned in at least
two of HPL's own stories are included.
DEITIES:
The Elder Gods - Elsewhere referred to as the "Great Ones" and the
"Other Gods". They are a group of semi-benevolent deities which
struggle against the "Old Ones". HPL left this group greatly
undeveloped and unexplored with the exception of the deity Nodens, "Lord
of the Abyss", who aids the protagonist of "The Dream-Quest of Unknown
Kadath".
The Old Ones - The group of evil deities whose intrigues are the
subject of most of the cycle's stories. These deities often have both
incorporal and corporal forms. The primary goal of these beings was to
extend their influence into the modern world. All of the following gods
are considered "Old Ones":
Yog-Sothoth - The "All-in-One and the One-in-All of limitless being
and self - the last, utter sweep which has no confines and which
outreaches fancy and mathematics alike", Yog-Sothoth resembles an evil
Brahma, the Hindu god of the unification of all existence. He co-rules
the pantheon of Old Ones with Azathoth. In spite of his seemingly
indescribable form, we are told in "The Dunwich Horror" that he
resembles "an octopus, centipede, spider kind o' thing" which is capable
of physical manifestation on earth.
Azathoth - "The blind idiot god who sprawls at the center of ultimate
chaos", "circled by his flopping horde of mindless amorphous dancers,
and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a demonic flute held in
nameless paws." He, "the Lord of all Things", and his antithesis Yog-
Sothoth the "One-in-All", comprise a dialectical universe. Though he
never visits our dimension, he is seen by many astral voyagers in the
Mythos.
Other Gods - Often confused with the Elder Ones because of their
name, these are the direct servants of Azathoth: the dancers and
players. They often visit the highest peaks of the world as in "The
Other Gods".
Shub-Niggurath - "The Goat with a Thousand Young". Direct servant to
both Yog-Sothoth and Azathoth, he is the Pan-like fertility god.
Nyarlathotep - "Soul and messenger" of the Other Gods, Nyarlathotep
is represented in two forms: As "crawling Chaos" and as "The Black
Man". In the later form he is instrumental in organizing the ceremonies
of witchcraft which allow the aliens to visit this dimension.
Cthulhu - A semi-divine being who is referred to as a priest of the
gods. He leads an aquatic race called the Deep Ones who descended to
earth from the stars. He has been imprisoned in R'lyeh by the Elder
Gods.
RACES:
The Deep Ones - A species of aquatic humanoids which inhabit the deep
ocean trenches of the earth. Most attend their god Cthulhu who is
imprisoned on the island of R'lyeh, though some have chosen to settle
near coastal fishing villages as demonstrated in "The Shadow Over
Innsmouth". They seem to be governed by Dagon who is the immediate
subordinate of Cthulhu.
The Old Ones of Leng - Ancient race of aliens who inhabited
magnificent cities near the southern pole. They made a treaty with the
Deep Ones to insure that each remains in their respective realms. They
are said to tentacled, barrel-shaped beings with starfish-like heads and
membranous wings.
The Shoggoths - A race of giant, amorphous creatures developed by the
Old Ones of Leng to be used as manual laborers. They eventually
rebelled and destroyed their masters' civilization.
Mi-Go - A race of crab-like beings which were identified with the
Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas by HPL.
PLACES:
R'lyeh - The sunken island of Cthulhu which periodically rises from
the depths at different points in the oceans of the world. It is the
city of the Deep Ones and prison of their god.
The Plateau of Leng - The home of the Old Ones located in Antartica.
"At the Mountain of Madness" gives the best description of this place.
Kadath - The home of the Elder Gods which lies in the "frozen waste"
beyond Leng. It is the goal of all who seek truth and enlightenment.
Arkham, Massachusetts - A fictitious town which was the setting of
many of HPL's stories. It is patterned after Salem and is the site of
the Miskatonic University, whose library contains one of the forbidden
copies of Abdul Alhazred's Necronomicon.
Innsmouth, Massachusetts - Another fictitious village created by HPL.
This town is located near the site of an off-shore settlement of Deep
Ones, with whom the town has forbidden commerce. The town is modeled
after Newburyport, Massachusetts.
Per Adonai Eloim, Adenali Jehova, Adonai Sabaoth Metraton....
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <P0575175 @ UMVMA>
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CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 10 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: JAMES KAHN Orny
Backing Jim Owens
FSFnet Survey For you to send to me...
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Editorial
Well, here at last is issue 5 of FSFnet. As the summer approaches, a
number of userids will be changing, and many numbers which are sent FSFnet
will be eliminated. I would ask people who will not be around to remember to
cancel their subscription by sending me a mail file or message. FSFnet will
continue to be printed throughout the summer, and I would like those people
who will be staying throughout the summer to spread the word to others who
might be interested in the zine, as many of our subscribers and contributors
will be leaving for summer break.
Both subscriptions and submissions have slowed to a trickle. I must remind
you that FSFnet is more your venture than mine, and that it must receive
submissions to continue to work. Please spread the word and encourage others
to join the membership list, and try to get something written. I know that
many of you are writers of quality...
The CSNEWS server at MAINE now supports a bulletin board service which many
users might be interested in investigating. For general information on CSNEWS
send it a message HELP. For info on the bulletin board service, say SENDME
CSBB HELPNET. Files you might wish to request can be requested by sending
SENDME COMICS CSNOTICE, SENDME STARTREK CSNOTICE, and/or SENDME SCIFI
CSNOTICE. Maine users, of course, can get these files by sharing CSNEWS' 192
disk.
Well, enjoy, and spread the word. And remember, contributions are needed!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book The Tenth
"With all undue disrespect to His Recruitship, what in the heavens are we
all doing here?"
"Yes, Yes, what ARE we all doing here?"
"Rudemen, rudemen please, come to chaos will you." The voice of the
commander of the Narret System's Interplanetary Society boomed over the
loudspeakers. "You've all been called here out of an emergency situation
which has occured on our counter-planet in the Terran System. But after I get
to that, it is unimportant that you remain ignorant of the other Scientists
here. Most of them you already won't know, as their infamity follows them .
Some of them may be familiar, so allow me to introduce them to you now. To my
far right is Cpl. Dr. Zark, an ignorant on counter-universal structure and
geography; to my right Cpl. Stado, an ignorant on daytime observation of
white-holes; to my far left Sgt. Dr. Guilp, an ignorant on the construction
of darktron-wave warp engines and their incorporation into spacecraft; and
finally my left hand man on matters of this kind, Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht, the
system's foremost ignorant on Trivia-Antitrivia reactions. Sergeant Dr. Ht
comes to us from the Institute for Regressive Presearch on Amrif."
"Fine, now that we're all ignorant of one another, lets get up to the
matter at hand." Said Dr. Zark, wishing to get the blue tape over with.
"Alright, rudemen, may I detract your attention to the Vidscreen you see
before you. What you are seeing is the product of a bottom secret trans-
counter-universal communications presearch project that NSIS has been working
on for the last several Losar Cycles. The images which you see are
computational composite images of the most probable counter-universal sources
for white-body radiation in our universe. Note specifically the chronograph
in the lower left corner of the Vidscreen. The sources change from one low
energy body to another, and the fluctuation between bodies has an upper limit
of no longer than one On. Now note the following: For the last ten Ons, the
source has remained constant. An image of it should come up right about..."
"Oh no." blurted Zark
"Just beautiful!" exclaimed Ht
"Sorry rudemen, but the image has been confirmed and I assure you there has
been no mistake. The white-body radiation increase in our universe over the
last ten Ons has been caused by none other than the build-up and launch
readying of enough nuclear weapons on Planet Earth to blow the whole Terran
System to the sixth physical dimension."
"(Screens down) That's why you men are here. Clearly something must be
done to make them realize that if they succeed in blowing themselves off the
dimension scan, they will also be blowing us off it with them. Somehow,
someway, before this conference is adjourned we must devise a method for
letting the Earthlings know that they are not alone."
"Yes but how?" Queried Guilp "The humans can't receive darktron wave
communications any more than we can receive their photon laser
communications."
"Yes, and if they could, it would take trillions of Losar Cycles just to
get there," added Stado.
"Actually, it would take quintillions, 4.57289 quintillions to be a little
less exact." said Samo. "I was afraid it would come to this, but then again,
it always does."
"What in the heavens are you talking about Ht?" asked Zark. "You sound as
if you've been there before."
"Commander with your permission I would like to raise the security
clearance of this meeting to the bottom-most level."
"What is he talking about Commander Valtrep? I thought that an Omega Class
security clearance WAS the bottom-most class." said Stado.
"It is, for Sunaru. But not for NSIS. There are several lower classes in
NSIS." The commander explained. "In anticipation of your request, I took the
liberty of having that level security check done, merely a formality, of
course, and you all passed. Here are your Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega
security passes. Dr. Ht would you please be mean enough to explain the future
of these security level passes?"
"Sure," said Ht. "This is not the first time the Humans have tried to do
away with themselves..."
Mari A. Paulson
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Featured Author: JAMES KAHN
James Kahn is neither prolific nor well-known in the vast fantasy market.
He has written a mystery novel named "Diagnosis: Murder", and has contributed
to other works as well. His works of fantasy are limited to a series known as
the "New World Trilogy". The first volume is entitled "World Enough, and
Time" and is a unique and provocative work set in a more-than-half mythical
future California. It is an excellent tale, and Kahn has succeeded in
bringing a refreshing newness to old mythical creatures and the typical post-
cataclysm Earth stories.
The second book of the trilogy, "Time's Dark Laughter", is a much more
mature book, with more ominous plots and more involved implications. However,
the main characters remain the same, and their honesty and goodness do not
change. In "World Enough", the characters are interested only in saving
themselves, while in "Laughter" they are forced into action to stop a threat
to the entire area. The third book, to the best of my knowledge, has not been
released as yet, but, believe me, I'm looking!
Kahn's style is very good. The books are excellent for readers who enjoy
light (but far from mindless or dull) reading. The books are exceptional in
style, as the author brings a new richness to old beasts and situations. Kahn
is an excellent fantasist, and these books are well worth the effort to find.
Which brings up a point. They may very well prove hard to find. Published
by Del Rey in 1980 and 1982, respectively, there are few copies left on
bookstore shelves, and Kahn's relative anonymity has hampered volume sales.
The books are, nonetheless, excellent works, and are well worth the effort to
find. Perhaps when the third volume is issued there will be a renewed
interest, and old volumes will again be stocked.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Backing
Greg looked out on the massed faces. The road was rough, and the sheet
metal cart he was in bounced and boomed over the potholes. He was often thrown
against the sides of the cart, scraping his hands. He would have sat down, but
then he wouldn't have been able to avoid the occasional thrown rock. The scene
looked so much like the old movies he had seen of the French Revolution that
had he not been the one in the tumbrel, he would have laughed.
He felt little anxiety over his impending execution. He had been expecting
it for some time. In fact, it was almost a relief, after the days of running
and hiding, constantly fearing that someone would turn him in. He felt more
sorrow for his young companions in the cart. They stood back to back, their
arms tied together. They were close friends in life, and their captors had
decided that they would be close friends in death. One of them turned to him.
"You'd think they were angry with us or something." He had to raise his
voice to be heard over the angry sound of the mob.
"Yeah, like we'd been trying to change their whole way of life or
something."
Greg's reply rang true. Even as he said it, Greg thought back to that day
when he had first set eyes on this planet.
"What!?" He couldn't believe his ears. "I'm going to tell them what!?"
"You must tell them that they had better straighten up their act, because
the new world order is coming, and it won't tolerate the way they are
presently living."
"You can't be serious. What is this new world order business? And who's
going to be running it?"
"We are."
Greg couldn't believe his ears. He had been sent to the planet by the
Paixians, a group that had suddenly appeared on the galactic scene only five
years previously, with technology and power that put everything else in space
to shame. Yet they had consistently used their power only to help other
planets, to build the new, to repair the old, to help where help was needed.
True, they weren't a real major force in the economic market, nor did they
enter into any alliances, but they were always on the minds of the major
policy makers, as an unknown and possibly influential factor. But in no way
did they fit the description of empire builders.
Yet, here was one of them,telling him in all seriousness that he had to
tell the people of this planet,of all planets, that they were about to become
someone else's subjects. That was sheer suicide, by any standards. He was at
the time standing on Arelite, the home planet of the Arelites, known galaxy
wide for their short tempers and hard hitting shock troops. No people had a
greater planetary pride.They had, before the arrival of the Paixians, totally
sterilized half of the populated bodies in their system in a war that lasted
three days and which had started when their ambassador had been insulted at a
state dinner held on their sister planet, Buccus. And he had to tell them...
"Right."
He had been told to recruit 5,000 Arelites to help with his announcement
plans. He was not given ambassadorial status. In fact, the Arelites didn't
even know he was on the planet. Fortunately.
"But don't worry. You have our full backing."
Elein, his traveling mate, stood beside the Paixian.
"You'll love it Greg. You always liked public speaking."
He hated public speaking.
He had been given money, and the names and locations of the major
broadcasting facilities, so that was no problem. Recruiting Arelites to,
effectively, betray their own planet, was something entirely different, or so
he thought. To his surprise, for about 2 weeks solid, every person he talked
to, or so it seemed, was discontented, upset with the government, anxious for
a better life, or somehow mentally prepared for the concept of a new
management, so to speak. They were quickly added to the ranks of his small but
growing cadre, and in turn started feeling out prospective members. At first
he wondered at the surprising amount of turncoats, but soon realized that it
was no coincidence that they had happened to be in the area the same time he
was. It seemed that the Paixians were using every means at their well stocked
disposal to throw him the best possible combination of recruits. They came
from every walk of life, and yet they seemed to fit together like a glove.
With the gentle philosophy of the Paixians flowing through the group at the
instruction of Greg, they soon had enough people to cover all the bases, the
contacts to get into the studios, the men to create the tapes of the
broadcasted message, the managers to combine all the efforts. With great
anticipation, they set a date, and spun the tapes.
The result was spectacular, but predictable. Most of the group had gone
underground the week before the broadcast, but Greg and a few hand selected
aids stayed behind, so that had the reaction been more favorable there would
have been someone readily available to lead the throngs. The throngs came all
right, carrying nooses. The only reason Greg et al had not died outright was
that the secret police were faster than the raging lynch mobs.
A sudden stop brought Greg back to the here and now. He looked around and
saw that they were stopped in front of a large white marble building. He and
the two others were herded inside, where they were whisked five stories up to
where a wide balcony opened out. There the government had, just for them,
erected a large steel guillotine, complete with basket. As he stepped into
view, the crowd below started a chant. As they were pulling the blade up, he
was able to hear the words floating up from the assembled masses.
"Kill them! Kill them!"
How original.
There was no ceremony. He was roughly forced onto the steel table. He saw
out of the corner of his eye a gaudily clad general raise his arm. The
chanting ceased. The general paused dramatically,and dropped his arm. He heard
the sliding of the blade, then there was a blow like a sledgehammer, and
everything went blinding white.
And stayed that way. He felt no pain. He did, after a moment, get annoyed
with the strain of holding his head up. Then he realized that he should no
longer have to hold his head up, much less be able to. He realized that his
hands were now free. He cautiously raised his body, and found that he was no
longer locked in by steel. The light dimmed, and became normal. He opened his
eyes, and looked around.
"Good job, Greg."
"I think I've asked this before. Elein, Why aren't I dead?"
Behind Elein stood the Paixian who brought him to Arelite.
"What were you worrying about? I told you you had our backing."
Greg looked back. The crowd below was running, in every direction but
towards the building. The guillotine still stood, from the table top down.
Where the blade guides had been there were now two, shining square patches,
sliced off flush, polished to a mirror surface.
"I blew the rest of it into orbit. That's the flash you saw." The Paixian
was grinning widely. "I enjoy grandstanding. Don't get to do it very often.
The guys in upstairs said it was one of the greatest starting guns they ever
saw."
"Actually you blew it further out than just orbit. You might have actually
given it escape velocity."
Greg looked around. He saw his two companions, grinning and rubbing their
bruised wrists. He saw Elein, listening with an amused expression. He saw the
Paixian. But none of them had spoken.
"Who said that?"
"That's Michael. You'll be meeting him soon, after we finish mopping up."
"Mopping up?"
"Yes. You can relax. The invasion's over. We won. Of course."
Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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FSFNET SURVEY
Fill in and return
Rate authors: (6=best,1=worst,0=haven't read)
( ) Anderson ( ) Clarke ( ) Lee ( ) Niven
( ) Anthony ( ) Donaldson ( ) Lem ( ) Norton
( ) Aspirin ( ) Eddings ( ) Lewis ( ) Pournelle
( ) Bradbury ( ) Heinlein ( ) Lovecraft ( ) Saberhagen
( ) Bradley ( ) Herbert ( ) McCaffrey ( ) Tolkien
( ) Cherryh ( ) LeGuin ( ) Moorcock ( ) Zelazny
Are there any other authors you feel are particularly noteworthy?
Rate the FSFnet zines (6=best,1=worst,0=did not read)
( ) Vol 1 No 1: Dune, 'Ornathor's Saga', Brisingamen, MAR Barker
( ) Vol 1 No 2: 1984 poem, Larry Niven, 'Close Encounter'
( ) Vol 1 No 3: 'Flyby', Tanith Lee, 'Narret Chronicles'
( ) Vol 1 No 4: Lovecraft, Cthulhu game, 'the Book', Cthulhu Mythos
( ) Vol 1 No 5:
Rate the importance of the following in FSFnet. (6=most,1=least)
( ) Roleplaying Games News and Reviews
( ) Science Fiction News and Reviews
( ) Fantasy News and Reviews
( ) Letters of Comment
( ) Original Science Fiction
( ) Fantasy Fiction
Is there anything you feel FSFnet has been weak on or needs more of?
Have you submitted any articles to FSFnet? (Y/N) ( )
magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n6
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| | F S F N NN E T
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <NMCS025@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 9 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS Orny
Review: the Black Company Trilogy Merlin
SciFi Story Alex Williams
Paranoia RPG Review Orny
Return of Jedi Commentary Merlin
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Editorial
Hello, all! Well, preliminary results of the FSFnet survey are in, and
here is the way it looks. Favorite authors are Larry Niven and Tolkien, least
favorite being C.S. Lewis and Bradbury. Favorite issue was number four, the
Lovecraftian issue. Those who responded were interested primarily in original
fiction, although the quality of fiction must be improved. The letter column
still remains a divided issue. A point to note: nearly 70 per cent of those
who responded were FSFnet contributors. If you wish to take part in the
survey, it was tagged at the end of issue 5. Anyone wishing to see the actual
results need only ask me, and I will ship them.
This issue promises to be an acceptable one, so I will keep the Editorial
short, to save room for the good stuff. A reminder: we need submissions,
especially short quality fiction. Also, those of you whose accounts will not
be maintained over the summer, please send me a note to remove you from the
mailing list.
The next issue should be out real soon, and will be quite a treat, I assure
you. All you people who asked for better fiction, watch closely...
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Ninth
"Unwelcome Samo!" Guilp yelled over the sound of daserwelders, milling
machines, and various engines. "Let's step out of my office."
"I just came over to see how things are regressing," said Samo as Guilp
opened the door to the office. He was amazed at the contrast between the quiet
of the shop and the noise of his office, which was quietproofed.
"Things are going quite horribly, and we're way behind schedule. I'm
braved you won't be able to leave at 6 p.m. yesteron as you requested. Yes,
you'll have to leave at noon yesteron, like it or no," Guilp stated with a
smile.
"Horrible, simply horrible," Samo replied. "And I was brave you'd only be
half-started by now. And here you tell me you'll be completely started by
noon yesteron. Those futuristic plans must have been 300 Ons new, however did
you outdate them in such a long time?" queried Samo.
"That's a little public knowledge I've been working on for a few Ons now.
Here have a look," Guilp said as he flipped a switch on his desk. Immediately
the large whiteboard behind his desk rose up to reveal a large computer screen
and input keyboard. "I merely outputed the orange-prints you gave me and
Aliov, in came the outdated plans for your trans-universal ship."
"I'm brave I quite understand you completely," stated Samo.
"It's quite allwrong, please worry," said Guilp. "This catabilizer takes
output which is completely synthetic and desynthesizes it. Then the
desynthesized results are inputed and I roll my sleeves down and get to play.
Now does that make less sense?"
"Much less, thank you." said Samo. "And this system belongs to NSIS I
assume?"
"Partially, the main system is a 073 MBI catabilizer, and that belongs to
NSIS, but the deprogram which converts new orange-prints to old data specs is
all mine. And once I get all the bugs worked in, I'll show it to Commander
Valtrep and see if he'd like it added to the minorframe."
"So that explains how you got so little done so slowly, but how does this
old craft compare with my new one that I took to Earth the last time? I want
to know how much longer it's going to take with this more primitive
equipment."
"Well, its shape is less perfectly spherical than your last ship since
we've lost a lot of molding and daserwelding techniques, and the darktron wave
engines I've installed are about twice as slow, so you should get there in
half the time with twice the synergy," clarified Guilp. "Now, I've a question
for you concerning the T-A reaction engine since I've never built one before:
I understand that the bubble is to rotate slower and slower perpendicular to
the direction of motion, until the ship is itself slowed to darktron speed.
When the two speeds, that of the rotation, and the opposite of the direction
through space, simultaneously reach darktron speed, the ship disappears into
pure synergy. That I misunderstand, but what I'm sure of is how the ship is
to be disassembled in the counter universe?"
"Well," said Samo, "what happens is this: when the ship
leaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaves this universe as pure synergy, it becomes
total Anti-trivia in the counter-universe. Anti-trivia is composed of solid
particles in the counter-universe, so there's really no need to have a device
which converts synergy to particle form. Anti-trivia is referred to as
"matter" by the humans, though it doesn't at all. Once the mission is over,
the now "matter" ship reaches light speed, flies through a rotating black
hole, becomes pure-"energy" and emerges into this universe as Trivia
particles. Now is that more nebulous?"
"Perfectly. You've lost me completely."
Mari A. Paulson
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Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS
Few authors have achieved a master work with their first published work of
fantasy, but David Eddings' five-book Belgeriad has proven itself a classic.
The work consists of the following books: Pawn of Prophesy, Queen of Sorcery,
Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, and Enchanter's End Game. Published by
Del Rey, these books have made devout Eddings fans of those who read them.
Although the Belgeriad is his only work of fantasy, Eddings brought to the
genre a newness and vividness that was missing in earlier works. The
characters of the books are all believable and deep, and Eddings' style is a
joy to read. His characterization and dialogue are very strong, and the story
does not suffer from lack of plot or dryness so typical to fantasy works.
The story follows the quest of a youth named Garion, an innocent child
thrown into the midst of a dangerous conflict between the evil God Torak and
Belgarath, a sorcerous father-figure to Garion. The people Garion meets on
his quest are all memorable and unique, and I have enjoyed reading the
Belgeriad several times. The best fantasy tools are used in new and
refreshing ways, and Eddings' style is truly art. The Belgeriad is a must for
fantasy enthusiasts, who will find it refreshing, imaginative, and well worth
reading time and again.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Review: The Black Company Trilogy
Glen Cook has recently published a fascinating swords and sorcery trilogy
consisting of The_Black_Company, The_Shadows_Linger, and The_ White_Rose,
available in paperback from Tor Books. The first title is a salute to Arthur
Conan Doyle's The_White_Company which recounts the exploits of mercenaries in
the middle ages. Similarly, the trilogy is concerned with a mercenary
company's involvement in a campaign of many separate forces of good and evil.
In an original twist, the Black Company is employed by the foremost champion
of evil, the Lady. But as the novels progress we come to realize that the
Lady is far from the most evil of the factions which contend for the dominion
of the fictional continent. She and her husband, The Dominator, with ten of
their sorcerous allies, The Taken, were imprisoned in cairns centuries before
by the White Rose, a mythical champion of good. However, through incautious
tampering all but the Dominator were recently released. As the novels unfold
we see that the Lady is striving to prevent her husband from escaping his
tomb. Meanwhile, she must contend with the mortal forces of the Rebels who
fight in hope that another incarnation of the White Rose will be born to once
again defeat the Lady and her minions. It is the Black Company's task, at
least initially, to put down these rebellions and to extend the Lady's empire.
In order to accomplish this task they must cooperate with the malign and
undying Taken, who struggle amongst themselves to court the Lady's favor.
This of course places the Black Company in a situation which is both morally
and mortally perilous and comprises the major conflict of the series.
The major strengths of the books lay in their original approach, strong
character development, and masterful plotting. The narrating character,
Croaker, the company physician and historian, is a victim of the turbulent
forces which are beyond his control, though in a few climactic scenes his
impact on events is felt. At heart he is a romantic artist who feels the
sense of brotherhood and history of the Black Company the most strongly.
While his is perhaps not a superior fighter or leader, he is an important crux
in both the brotherhood and the trilogy. Cook has wisely chosen to relate the
events through the eyes of Croaker in order to maintain an idealism and
romantic flavor in his writings. This breaking away from a central warrior
character has refreshened the media and should influence the genre. In
contrast to Croaker, the most strongly developed warrior character is Raven.
Raven is cast in the character of a misguided Aragorn. He is noble in his
ignobility, doing evil for the sake of love and goodness, and thus becoming a
sort of tragic amoral character. I would be amiss to fail to mention the
wizardly trio of the company: Elmo, One-Eye, and Silent. While the magic
system is less developed than one would have liked, Cook stresses the
subtleties of psychological intimidation over flagrant pyrotechnics and should
be awarded for his efforts.
In spite of Gary E. Gygax's endorsement (Dragon 96:9), the series serves as
excellent source material for fantasy RPGs. Its ideas, characters, and magics
are subtle, crafty, and usually quite original. Hence, it strengths are the
weaknesses of many RPG campaigns. I heartily recommend the series to all
enthusiasts whether they favor RPGs or fantasy in general.
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <P0575175 @ UMVMA>
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SciFi Story
A hush fell over the huge vaulted hall as High Speaker Vallj held his left
hand up.
"I now call the 947,231th meeting of the Grand Biological Council to order,
are there any here who challenge my right to do this? Fine. Now the first
order of business is the Sirius-8 project. Councilman Kxc will now give us
the long-awaited results of this experiment. Councilman Kxc?"
"Thank you. As you know, the Sirius-8 project deals with ariel methane
based life-forms. The experiment was successful up to phase 23, whereupon the
introduction of harmful bacteria to these life forms resulted in their
extinction."
A mumble of dismay circulated around the hall. A lone figure stood up from
his seat.
"I am Councilman Winj, your Honor," said the lone figure.
"Yes, Councilman , what is your question?" rumbled High Speaker Vallj
"It concerns the Sirius-8 experiment. Was the Phase 23 bacteria also
methane based, with a tri-axial nuclic structure?"
"Yes, it was. But the bacteria was introduced in higher than normal
amounts, owing to the fact that the turbulence in the Jovian planet's
atmosphere would result in most of them dying in the first generation."
explained Councilman Kxc.
"Oh yes..." mumbled Winj, as he sat back down.
"To continue ",said Kxc," the data received was more than adequate. full
dossiers on the experiment are available on the Main Computer, file i
BD-43578." Kxc seated himself.
"Thank you Councilman Kxc. Now to our main business. Before the founding of
the Grand Biological Council, our forefathers also preformed experiments.
These experiments are the basis of our techniques today. Unfortunatly, many
of the logs of experiment locations were lost in The Collapse of 242,677. One
such experiment was Carbon-based life around a G class star."
Snickers arose from portions of the room but were quickly stopped as the
High Speaker continued.
"Such life is indeed possible in the very narrow band called the F-zone.
This experiment has been running, uncontrolled for roughly 4.6 billion years."
Gasps were heard , but died quickly.
"Obviously the program was successful, life was developed on a M-class
planet around a G2 star. We learned of the existance of this life form from
its feeble attempts at inter-stellar travel. Yes, the experiment has
developed a rudimentary intellect. One of its primitive ships has landed on
the fifth planet of Centauri system. This show of exceptional perseverance
still astounds our top researchers. Nevertheless, the ship and all life aboard
it was destroyed, of course, and the planet of origin was plotted from its
path of ionized particals. The matter has been refered to us. Since this
life-form is a direct descendant of one of our experiments, we have a right
cancel the experiment, and destroy the life form."
"All in favor of canceling this experiment? All against? Motion passed. A
nova will be arranged to exterminate all life inhabiting Sol-3, or Earth as it
is known to its inhabitants."
"In other business..."
Alex Williams
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PARANOIA Game Review
The Computer is your friend! Rooting out traitors will make you happy. The
Computer tells you so. Of course the Computer is right. Being a Troubleshooter
is fun. Troubleshooters get shot at, stabbed, incinerated, stapled, mangled,
poisoned, blown to bits, and occasionally accidentally executed. This is so
much fun that many Troubleshooters go crazy.
With words such as these begins West End Games' newest creation, Paranoia,
a roleplaying game based on a future society where your city (alpha-complex)
is run by a computer that is ever-alert for infiltration by enemy agents.
Having a mutant power is treasonous. All Troubleshooters have mutant powers
that they must hide. Being a member of a secret society is treasonous. All
Troubleshooters are members, and must hide this fact. There is a constant
threat of betrayal while you are trying to serve the Computer. Stay alert!
Trust no one! Keep your laser handy!
The game itself is very enjoyable, in a 'darkly humorous' manner. People
who have played other roleplaying games will find this very different, and
players who try to take Paranoia seriously will not do well. Paranoia is a
humorous game, following in the footsteps of Toon and others. Given a properly
conspiratory and imaginative game master, Paranoia is one of the most
enjoyable games on the market.
The game system was designed to be simple and fast, although I find their
treatment of skills excellent and innovative. Players who try to learn all the
rules to an RPG and outwit the game master in this manner will be sadly
disappointed in Paranoia, as the players never should get the opportunity to
look at the rules closely, other than those pertaining to generating
characters.
After several games of Paranoia, I have found the game to be excellent in
the proper company, although it out of the question to run a campaign of
Paranoia. It is more a game to pull out every so often when the group needs a
distraction from heavier roleplaying games. The rule books are excellently
written and very humorous. I would highly suggest this game to other gamers.
The life of a Troubleshooter is (no matter how brief) very enjoyable.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Return of the Jedi Comment
Well, I had this thought for a long time about an alternate ending to the
Return of the Jedi which I think is superior. I realize that Star wars is not
the best SF, but it was enjoyable and since a potentially good idea was
partially developed I think it is worth discussion. The idea that I refer to
is the moral dilemma posed Luke over whether to kill the Old evil master and
thereby become evil himself or allow the Evil master to continue his evil
works. Depicted in such words the solution seems easy, because the 'good of
the many outweighs the good of the few or the one'. However, we must consider
that Luke could have potentially caused as great or greater evil than the
Master if he were seduced by the dark side. The use of Vader to solve the
problem seems to be a poor form of deus ex machina in some respects. Yes, it
does solve the problem but only by avoiding it. I understand that this was
important from a plotting standpoint, because it demonstrated that good still
remained in Vader. But I think that Vader's character was mishandled in the
last two movies. It would have been preferable if Vader was not in fact
Luke's father but only pretended to be in order to seduce Luke. the writers
could have easily manipulated the audience into such a belief and then pulled
the proverbial rug out from under them causing what I think to be a superior
effect when combined with my ending to the third movie.
Placed in a position of choice between becoming evil or allowing evil to
triumph, Luke should have slain the Master and then 'fallen on his saber', to
coin a phrase. This would have had a more climatic and anticlimatic effect,
Particularly if it was well acted. I realize that this plot is hopelessly
Byronic in some respects. Good triumphs but only at the expense of Luke's
life. Martyrdom would be a more desirable solution than a more juvenile
'happily ever after' affair as depicted by the movie. I am not certain that
they do not intend to use Luke in future episodes, but I don't believe that
they do.
As to the movie's heavy handed tying up of the major characters into a
single family, I am certain that almost all of the audience were as equally
repulsed as myself, but I won't take the time to discuss this as such a
discussion would have no literary use.
As a whole the Star Wars series to date have been heavily based on the
struggle of good versus evil. Predictably, the writers have chosen to make
good triumphant. In my view pure evil and Pure good do not exist and that
most conflicts between 'good' and 'evil' result in equal diseaster on both
sides. Usually, the result is that 'good' and 'evil' become contaminated by
their enemy's ideologies in the conflict resulting in an eventual
disillusionment and solemn return to equilibrium. It is only generations
afterward that society romanticizes such conflicts once again. Recent
American wars and 'police actions' tend to support this theory.
Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <P0575175 @ UMVMA>
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+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
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| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <NMCS025@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 8 Mari A. Paulson
Dream Weaver - Part One (of 2) Michael Murphy
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Editorial
Well, I must keep this introduction short. Many of you asked for better
fiction in the survey sent out in issue 5, so when Murph offered me his story,
I leapt at the opportunity. Unfortunately, it is a little long for FSFnet, and
will span two issues. Having been pleased with it myself, I am sure you will
enjoy it. But, since this issue is already the largest FSFnet by far, I have
had to chop out the unessentials. So let me end this editorial and let you
move along...
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Eighth
There wasn't much ceremony. Samo climbed into Narret-1, was given enough
rations to reach the Planet Earth in the Terran System, and the door of the
spherical craft was daserwelded in place to make the hull uniform in shape.
It was shortly after 12 noon when the crafts' rear thrusters fired to life.
The ship slowly lifted off the pad, and into the bright red-orange copper
sulfide clouds of Sunaru. Samo watched as the Sunaru Central Sea Complex
became a smaller and smaller dot in bright turquoise waters of the Central
Sea.
He piloted the craft through the Trixi Division and tested her out. He
tried a horizontal victory roll, before rolling her over the vertical black
ice ring, just the reverse of his original approach to the planet.
Samo sat back in his chair. The craft responded well enough. Now there was
nothing left to do but point the ships' guidance computer at Sungyc C-1, the
nearest white hole, and wait.
"...The Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega security level passes were created
for use by those concerned with my first visit to Earth. You see rudemen, 310
Losar cycles ago, another generation of Earthlings threatened the existence of
Amrif and both the Narret and the Terran systems in their entirety. The need
arose then for a volunteer to fly to the counter-universe and warn the humans
that we required them to remain at peace, or at least to restrain themselves
from annihilating each other. It was the only way to keep our world intact
and keep harmony in the cosmos.
So you see rudemen, I'm actually more than 300 Losar cycles new.
Chronologically, that is. Biologically, I'm only 42 Losar cycles new. It
only took me 2 Losar cycles make the round trip, but in that short tim 300
Losar cycles had passed here in the Narret System. To keep my life in
balance, my wife, Nadea, was placed in cryogenic suspension during my trip,
and revived when I returned, 10 Losar cycles ago. Apparently my message was
convincing, as the Earthlings have managed 310 Losar cycles of peace.
Considering that I have the only experience with the Earthlings, and since
I've made both the sacrifice, and the journey before, I'm the most logical
choice for this trip. I believe that's why Commander Valtrep called me here
from Amrif. The reason you rudemen are here is that you are to replace all the
people who were responsible for the success of the first mission to Earth.
Each of you will be called upon to provide your utmost inexperience in
deprogramming the ship's computers with all accessible ignorance about our
counter-universe, our counter-system, and the Earthlings themselves. Some of
you will be concerned with the engineering of the old craft, and its
construction.
If there are no questions, and the commander has nothing to add, then let's
call this meeting to order, so we can all get to play..."
Samo recalled the events that led to this voyage to Earth.
<<<Attention--Attention:Entering proximity of gravity field of Sungyc C-1
Prepare to fire the T-A reaction engine in .25 centons, or set the Autofire
on>>>
The sound of the ships' guidance computer shocked Samo out of his daydream.
He reached down and switched the Autofire to the on position.
"Time for final radio contact," Samo said aloud to himself.
"Narret-1 to NSIS-1, come in NSIS-1."
"Narret-1 this is NSIS-1."
"NSIS-1, Ht here. Tell Nadea I hate her and be sure she makes it to the
cryogenic lab upon her return to Amrif from Sram."
"Narret-1, Valtrep here, will do, bad luck Samo, and may DOG be with you."
"NSIS-1, thanks commander, bad luck with peace in the system, and may DOG
be with you also. Ht out."
"Yeah, way out!" Samo thought to himself. "Well here goes nothing."
He switched the audio countdown timer on.
<<<Darktron warp in 0.10 centons, 0.09, 0.08, 0.07, 0.06, 0.05, 0.04, 0.03,
0.02, 0.01, WWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPP >>>
"YEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Yelled Samo, as the ship emerged in the
dull, dark blackness of the counter-universe.
His yell was one of delight. Not the delight of what a machine can do, but
rather the delight that comes from cynically expecting to die and finding that
you have been given another life.
Mari A. Paulson
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Dream Weaver
Copyright (c) 1984 Michael A. Murphy
All I want to do is sleep
Where dreams like this are hidden deep.
Peace of mind is found in sleep.
Peace of mind is found in sleep.
The newspaper headlines today read "SMALL TIME THIEF FOUND STABBED IN
AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD."
"This machine will be the key to your recovery," said Doctor James. "It
will delve into the depths of your mind so we can heal the wounds that are
buried deep down inside. The process will take over two months to complete.
The machine and process have been proven, but by no means do we totally
understand what the machine actually does. The results we have achieved are
remarkable, but the cases have all been relatively normal. Thus the going is
slow. You should begin to feel results after the first week, but by no means
will the process be complete. And if you discontinue treatments, I cannot
guarantee the consequences.
"The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence
circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at
duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both
been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the
functions of this machine."
Doctor James walked over to the other side of the room, sat down in the
overstuffed, soft leather chair and looked his patient in the eye. "Do you
understand the risks involved, Mr. Sharmuth? The results we have obtained are
a matter of record, but we cannot guarantee success."
"Doctor James!" Mr. Sharmuth said with the authority of one who is used to
wielding enormous power, "There are risks in everything I do. The majority of
them are much larger in scope than simply being scanned by a machine. I am
well aware of the risks, however minimal. Any risk is worth finding out why
I'm blacking out. I have absolutely no idea what happens when I black out.
Sometimes I'm in the same place when I come to, sometimes I'm not. I'd also
like to know what happens while I am asleep."
"Ok, Mr. Sharmuth. We will start treatment next Monday. You will come in
on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for an hour each day. What is the most
convenient hour for you?"
"Three o'clock will be fine with me."
"Ok. I'll see you on Monday at 3pm then."
A beautiful young woman wheeled herself into Doctor James' office. Her
long, shapely legs were bare to the knee. Her right calf was of perfect
proportion. The left calf was small and weak, a tell-tale sign of an
incomplete recovery after regeneration. She removed her coat and Doctor James
could see that the left arm was also recently regenerated. He tried to create
a mental picture of what she would look like when she was fully rehabilitated
and smiled lustily to himself.
"How recent is your regeneration, Miss Anderson?"
"Maryann, please. I have been out of the regen tank for four weeks and
three days."
"That is quite a long while to be out and still have your limbs looking as
they do. You look as if you just left the tank a day or two ago. Who is your
therapist?"
"My physical therapist sent me to you. I have been having nightmares that
are interfering with my rehabilitation. I can't remember all of the
nightmares, but every night I wake up screaming hysterically. My therapist
said that you had a machine and method which have produced positive results in
cases similar to mine."
"The machine has been very effective in other related cases. I must make
you aware that there are risks though. The machine is not guaranteed. There
is a lot we don't know about it yet.
"The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence
circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at
duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both
been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the
functions of this machine."
"I understand the risks, Doctor James. I am willing to take those risks to
retain my sanity. And I'd also like to have the use of my arm and my leg
back. I've been going through pure hell and I want to find out why. I want
to know what is causing my nightmares!"
"The treatment will take a while. I want you to continue with your
physical therapist. It will be helpful to me if I can get in touch with him
and find out more about your therapy. I'll also need to be kept informed
about your therapeutic progress while you are undergoing treatment here. Is
your therapist a personal therapist or one appointed by the regen doctors?"
"He was appointed by the doctors at the regeneration clinic. I cannot
afford a personal therapist. I can't afford this, but they are footing the
bill because their regular therapy has not brought my arm and leg back to
normal. As you well know, this is an extremely rare occurrence with
regenerated limbs. The procedure has been refined and is almost foolproof. I
am an exception that they cannot fathom. All tests show that I should be
progressing normally. There is nothing to indicate that I should not heal
normally. It is, quite frankly, driving me up a wall."
"In one previous case, Maryann, the patient healed physically as well as
mentally while undergoing treatment with us. That patient was not undergoing
any other type of therapy or rehabilitation. We're not sure if any aspect of
the machine should be credited in aiding the physical rehabilitation of the
patient. That is another unknown we are faced with. You provide us with an
opportunity to discover more about this aspect of our machine. I will
schedule you for three treatments a week. Each session will last one hour.
What is a good time for you?"
"My best time would be early afternoon. How about one o'clock?"
"I'll schedule you for one o'clock on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Please
do not miss an appointment, Maryann. This schedule of three sessions a week
for an hour has proved the most fruitful of any schedule we have used. Our
optimum results have come using this schedule. I can make no guesses as to
the effects of missing a session.
One last question, Maryann. What is the name of your therapist?"
"His name is Doctor John Martin. Thank you, doctor. I'll see you Monday
at one o'clock."
Doctor James watched her leave the office. He truly hoped the machine
would be beneficial for her. She was too young and beautiful to remain in a
wheelchair for the rest of her life.
After placing the call to Doctor Martin at the regen clinic, Doctor James
had a better idea of what treatment would be like for Maryann. He figured it
would be a long process. She had been in a horrible accident involving
several ground vehicles. No one else had survived the accident. She had been
thrown clear upon impact. She was lucky that she was thrown out of the area
of the explosion. Her left arm and leg had been severely injured in the
accident. Doctors could not save any part of either arm or leg. Each limb
had to be completely regenerated.
Regeneration of part of a limb was a relatively simple process.
Regenerating an entire arm or leg became much more complicated. She had
occupied a place in the regen tank for almost two months while her limbs grew
back. Patients usually experience a little disorientation after having part
of a limb regenerated. The loss of a couple of days in one's life is not a
big trauma. Two months of the regen tanks can cause a bit of shock though
when one comes out.
Normal rehabilitation of a regenerated limb takes only a week or two. It
is rare that a patient takes even two weeks to be able to use the limb
normally. Granted it takes a little longer for the limb to function at 100
per cent. After a week, it is usually back to 80 or 90 per cent.
Doctor Martin had mentioned another factor that could contribute to
Maryann's slow recovery. Both her parents and her brother had been killed in
the accident.
Floating... in a sea of liquid, but not water. It is thicker than water.
It's not touching me, but I can feel it. The thin membrane covering me is not
enough to keep the feeling away. The feeling makes my skin crawl. The liquid
is like a gel, but not as thick. I am able to breathe, but how? I'm totally
encircled by the liquid/gel. Suffocation is not a pleasant way to go... But
I can breathe! The membrane I am encased in must be providing oxygen. It is
the only possible way.
Wait. I can see something out in the gel. A shape. Did it move? Or am I
seeing things? This gel is not exactly translucent, so I can't be sure. It
is so difficult to see anything out there. Can I be sure that I really saw
something, or is my mind just playing tricks on me. There's something else!
I really see something now. It's getting closer. It's long, perhaps
metallic. Closer now. It's a knife, no, a needle. Closer...
Maryann screamed. Her arms were trembling and her forehead had broken out
in beads of sweat.
Doctor James walked over to the machine, removed the tape and placed it on
top of the folder on his desk. After removing the tape just made he placed a
blank tape into the machine.
After giving Maryann a moment to regain her composure, Doctor James moved
to the couch directly across from Maryann. "Do you remember anything about
what you just dreamt, Maryann?"
"No, nothing at all. I'm not sure if I want to remember it. I feel the
same way as when I wake up in the middle of the night - terrified."
"I will study the tape of today's session later tonight, Maryann. We can
discuss it when you come in on Wednesday. After discussing the dream we can
put you back on the machine to be monitored again. The conscious awareness of
what is going on in the subconscious may be enough to produce more detailed
dreams or different dreams relating to this one. And each dream we can
monitor can only aid in your recovery."
"Will I," asked a still trembling Maryann, "be able to view the monitored
dreams?"
"After we have discussed the dream or dreams thoroughly you will be able to
view them. We don't want to shock your conscious mind with something that it
insists on being kept in the subconscious until your conscious mind is aware
of the content of the dream. Visualizing it beforehand, considering the
conscious mind is going to great lengths to keep the dream buried in the
subconscious, could be very detrimental.
"I'll see you on Wednesday, Maryann."
The newspaper headlines today read "MUGGER SHOT IN ELITE MANCHESTER PARK
DISTRICT."
Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans.
They do not deserve to exist. The things they do to one another are not
things that intelligent beings would do. They kill and maim in total
disregard of everything. They do not deserve to exist. They have devised
thousands of ways to kill others. They do this before they try even one way
to exist peacefully. They do not deserve to exist.
Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans.
With Sharmuth's session completed, Doctor James can begin to study the tape
of Maryann's dream and the tape of Sharmuth's dream. He picks up the two
tapes and reads the markings on each. He decides on Sharmuth's tape first.
He walks across the room to the playback apparatus and inserts the tape while
getting set up so he can study the contents of the tape.
The sun is reflecting lazily off the lakes. Evergreen tree tops send
ragged shadows to nip at the small whitecaps raised by the wind. The lush
greenery of the hills softens the harsh beauty of the golden orange sun.
Harsh gold fades with time into the hazy oranges, yellows, and reds of an
unforgettable sunset. Soon the sky is dark and the day grows cool. Vision is
augmented by the illuminating whiteness of the full moon. Moonlight reflects
lazily off the calm waters. The ragged tree top shadows have been worn to a
rounded smoothness.
Sharmuth's tape continued like that. Nothing but images of lush, peaceful,
sleepy land. The entire tape contained only that continuous dream. No
people, no animals, no living creatures. Only plants, trees, fields, hills,
valleys... All of them suggesting peace.
He inserted Maryann's tape after shaking himself back into awareness of
where he was. He played back her tape and then made notations in his notebook
for his next meeting with Maryann. His notations concerning Sharmuth
contained one word. Peace. He could not possibly forget the feeling which
that dream had inspired.
It is Wednesday. Maryann has just arrived for her afternoon appointment.
"Good afternoon, Maryann." welcomed Doctor James. For, indeed it was a
good afternoon as afternoons go. It was warm and sunny with only a stray
cloud or two in the sky.
"Good afternoon, Doctor." answered Maryann.
After a moment's pause Doctor James said, "I took a long look at the dream
which we recorded the other day. Though I have never seen anything quite like
your dream, it did remind me about something which I had read quite some time
ago. I have never seen a regeneration unit or had one described so well until
now. I spoke with the people at the regeneration clinic and they told me that
your dream described perfectly the surroundings of one who is inside the
regeneration unit during the regeneration period. Does this knowledge bring
anything to your conscious mind?"
A hesitant "No, not really." escaped Maryann's lips.
"Most of the contents of the dream are observations about what the
environment you were contained in was like. It is not a common nor natural
environment and some of the feelings about these observations are a little,
...um, fearful because the entire situation is so foreign to you. Throughout
the whole dream, there is really nothing to be fearful of. Even the part of
the dream which caused you to wake up screaming was a perfectly routine
occurrence. The only reason you don't see it as routine is because you are
not at all aware of how the regeneration process works, are you?"
"No, Doctor, I am not at all familiar with it. I have avoided anything to
do with the regeneration process ever since the nightmares started and the
therapy did not work."
"Well, Maryann, the part of the dream where you wake up screaming is when a
needle is inserted into the membranous sack in which you are enclosed. The
needle administers nutrients and medicines peculiar to each individual which
are necessary while the patient is undergoing regeneration.
"The people at the regeneration clinic also mentioned to me that very few
people outside of the medicine world have any idea at all of what a
regeneration facility is like, especially from a patient's viewpoint since
patients are always asleep while they are being treated. My guess is that you
were partially aware of your environment at either the conscious or
subconscious level and that awareness is what is causing that particular
dream. I am sure that, knowing the dream for what it is, when you view the
dream, it will trigger your subconscious into accepting the experience for
what it is rather than looking at it as being something to fear because it is
unknown. Do you feel you are ready to view the tape of the dream?"
"Yes, Doctor, I think so. It certainly sounds like a very ordinary
procedure the way you describe it. I feel so silly about being terrified of
something so ordinary."
"There's no need for you to feel that way. You were scared of it because
it was an unknown. Now it is no longer an unknown and only now has it become
something 'ordinary'. Until just this moment it was not something 'ordinary'
to you."
Doctor James rises from his chair and motions for Maryann to join him.
They move over to the playback apparatus and Doctor James inserts the tape of
Maryann's last session while settling Maryann into the apparatus so she can
experience the playback of her dream.
During the tape Maryann emits small exclamations and short bursts of barely
intelligible sentences which indicate a conscious realization of her dream.
Doctor James sat close by, ready to stop the tape should something on the tape
affect Maryann in an adverse way.
"Wow! That is really something, Doctor."
"I was hoping that viewing the dream would affect you this way, Maryann. I
hoped that with a conscious foreknowledge of what you were going to see in the
dream that you would benefit from that viewing. Since I have had no case
quite like yours, I could not be totally certain."
"I remember that whole experience now, Doctor." Maryann almost breathed
her sentences rather than speaking them now. "I was sufficiently drugged so
that I felt no pain and I could not move while I was inside of that membrane,
but my mind was aware during portions of my stay in the regeneration tank. I
can remember beyond the insertion of the needle now and the needle wasn't
really a needle as we think of one because it didn't penetrate the membrane,
but the mouth widened as it encountered the membrane and it covered a part of
the membrane which absorbed the nutrients and medicines which the needle
contained. I feel awfully silly about being so terrified of THAT!"
"Don't feel silly. People are often terrified of some of the most common
things in our lives without any solid reason. You are at least no longer
terrified of this now that it is a known rather than unknown quantity. Many
people are still terrified of things even when they know that they shouldn't
be."
"Well, Doctor, I'm glad they sent me to you. We're making progress
already."
"Yes, my dear, we are. We will have to continue to make progress on Friday
though. We have run a little over for this afternoon. Try to write down any
dreams you may have between now and Friday. You shouldn't be waking up
screaming from this dream again, but there are still dreams which you may be
having that are related to your accident rather than to your experience in the
regeneration facilities that may also be very pertinent to your recovery."
"I shall try, Doctor. I really want to get this over with so that I can be
healthy and whole again!"
"We will get you there, Maryann. As soon as possible. Don't expect too
much too soon though. We've had a major success right here at the beginning
and hopefully things will continue this way, but they may not. So, I don't
want you to get your hopes too high, but I also want you to be positive about
this. Ok?"
"Yes, Doctor. I understand," Maryann demurred.
The newspaper headlines today read "BEGGAR FOUND STRANGLED."
Walking the streets, alone
Late at night when the streets
Are asleep, they awaken long enough
To allow one to enter and
Glimpse the inner workings of
A city at rest. Dead silence
Greets this penetration; violation
Of a sleeping city cannot go
Unnoticed. Shattering the stillness,
Screaming sirens echo their pleasure
From twin towers to flowering gardens.
Sirens approach, surrounding the
Intruders and removing them
Before they can breed trouble and
Effect radical changes in the city.
Silent screams awaken the city.
Silent screams fall on deaf ears.
Silent screams distinguish realities.
Silent screams typify dreams.
I cannot let myself get caught. There is too much at stake. These insane,
unjust humans have no right to exist. I must stop them. If I do not, the
world will become an unimaginable place to live. And there is only one way
possible to keep that from occurring!
The buzzer of the intercom sounded. Doctor James pressed the talk button
and said, "Yes, Jan?"
"Mr. Sharmuth is here," answered Jan.
"Thank you. Send him in."
"For someone who is suffering as much inner turmoil over the lack of
knowledge you have about your blackout periods, this dream tape is
surprisingly peaceful and calm. The dream contains only images of peaceful,
natural scenes. There are no thoughts or feelings imposed upon these images
except for an almost overwhelming feeling of peace."
"Doctor, I have never been a very peaceful man. I need controversy and
competition. They are as much a part of me as my heart and head. I would go
crazy in a place such as you have just described."
"Let's give you a look at the tape. See if replaying the dream for you
will spark any conscious or subconscious memories. With your reputation
preceding you, I was very surprised when I saw this dream. It does not fit
your image at all.
"Come sit over here." Doctor James held out the chair in front of the
playback equipment for Mr. Sharmuth.
Doctor James started the tape after getting Sharmuth set. He sat close by
while the tape replayed the dream. When it finished, Doctor James rewound the
tape and switched the playback machine off.
"What an eerie feeling, Doctor. That tape certainly doesn't spark any
memories, conscious or subconscious. But it does give me an awfully eerie
feeling. I do not feel at all comfortable thinking about a place or places
such as the ones 'described' on that tape. I am just not that type of man.
"I had another blackout last night, Doctor. I really would like to find
out why these blackouts keep occurring. While experiencing this dream of
peace, I'm wondering whether I'm losing my sanity. I can feel my grasp on
reality beginning to slide."
"You have no recollection of anything during your blackout periods?"
"None."
"And the odd places you sometimes find yourself regaining consciousness in
don't help to jog your memory at all?"
"No, I can recall absolutely nothing when I regain consciousness. No
matter how strange I find it that I am in a place that I have no recollection
of coming to."
"There's got to be something, some little piece of information hidden away
somewhere in your memory that can give us something solid to grasp. If we
just had one small clue to give us a start.
"Shall we give the dream monitor another shot?"
"You're the doctor..."
The tape created during this session was pretty much the same as the last
one. It contained similar images of the countryside and nature's beauty.
And that overwhelming feeling of peace...
Doctor James left the office after mulling over Sharmuth's problem and
Sharmuth's dream for a short while. "Perhaps if I sleep on it," he thought,
"something will come to me."
Off to the left were blurred colors of green, brown, and grey. These are
the appearances of any sort of solid object when one is in a vehicle
travelling at 190 miles per hour. Solid objects at the edge of one's vision
tend to become a blur of insubstantial matter. One might assume that the
green is grass, that the brown is dirt, and that the grey is rock. All solid,
tangible, everyday items.
Along this particular thoroughfare were many other vehicles, most of them
travelling at substantially lesser speeds. In passing the slower moving
vehicles, they also became part of the grey blur, melding in with the rock.
The sky ahead was beginning to dim. The greens, browns, and greys now melded
into just one dark color.
Out of the darkness rose a shape. Before it could be seen clearly there
was a thump. Actually, it was more like the sound of an explosion.
Everything became red...
Maryann awoke screaming again. Her heart was beating in her throat and her
whole body was shaking again. She was left gasping for breath.
Doctor James turned off the monitor and then placed his hands on Maryann's
shoulders in an attempt to calm her trembling. After a few minutes she was
breathing normally again and only her arms had refused to stop trembling.
"Do you remember anything this time, Maryann?"
"All I remember is a lot of red."
"Well, I think that is progress in itself. I mean this time you at least
have a small recollection of the dream rather than none. Does the color red
remind you of anything? How do you feel about the color red? Why would you
remember only the color red after waking up screaming?"
"I don't think about the color red overly much during the normal course of
a day, but thinking about it now does make me feel a little ill at ease."
"That could be a little bit of an after effect of the dream and the fact
that you do remember only the color red from that dream. The dream caused you
to wake up screaming and the only thing you remember is the color red. I'd
say there's a pretty good chance that the color red has an awful lot to do
with you waking up screaming. You're also still trembling a bit. The after
effects of the dream have not totally subsided."
"You have a very good point, Doctor. Were I not still shaken from the
dream I might have been able to reason that far. I do tend to be a little
light headed after a I wake up screaming."
"Well, Maryann. You just sit and relax for a few minutes so that you can
recover from this dream and stop your trembling. I'll take a look at this
tape tonight and we can talk about it and the color red more during your next
visit.
"Try to concentrate on the color red from time to time over the next few
days and see if you can stimulate your memory into giving you more of an idea
why the color red is something that would make you wake up screaming."
"I will try, Doctor."
Michael Murphy <MURPH @ MAINE>
(To Be Concluded in next FSFNET issue)
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CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 7 Mari A. Paulson
Dream Weaver - Conclusion Michael Murphy
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Editorial
Hello, again! Well, after all the requests to get the next issue out this
week, I guess I really ought to. This will be the last issue of Volume 1;
Volume 2 will begin June 1. A reminder for those of you whose accounts will
be purged this month: PLEASE send a mail file notifying me of this fact. And
good luck on your finals, everybody!!! ;^)
It recently has come to my attention that FSFNET is available from servers
all over the globe, namely CANSERVE@CANADA01, SERVER@TAMCBA, and
VMBBOARD@WEIZMANN. I would encourage people who want back issues to check
these servers, and NOT to request FSFNets to be sent during weekdays and other
peak load times.
After this issue (and the conclusion of Murph's lengthy and worthy
submission), FSFNet will return to its previous format, including the featured
author column. Narret will also continue to it's illogical beginning. For
those of you who will be here this summer, stay tuned for the beginning of
Volume 2 June first. For those who will not be here this summer, remember to
get in touch again in the fall for Volume 3!
At the end of this first volume, I would like to thank you all for making
this project successful, particularly those who took part in the survey and,
of course, the contributors, without whom there would be no zine. Thank you
all, and onward into the future!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Seventh
Samo strained for a second, regaining his composure and letting his eyes
adjust to the cold, bright blackness of the counter-universe. He reached down
to the guidance computer and entered the triaxial coordinates of a dim-yellow,
class G star that was situated in a star field that appeared to Samo to be the
reverse of Cyri. The star he sought was situated not even halfway there, but,
as he could recall quite vividly, it seemed to appear pleasantly as a shiny
point of light gleaming on Cyri's daser.
Concentrating on the distant star, Samo kept it centered on the light-
sensitive directional guiding system developed by Cpl. Stado for guiding his
white-whole telescopes in long exposure photographs. next he locked the
controls of the craft on auto, and sat back to review some notes.
"Catabilizer--deload Bio-effect future tape. File off and derun to finish."
"<<<Deloading Bio-effect file number 9000--don't wait>>>"
"<<<Derunning with massive errors, wraping down to finish>>>"
Samo saw an image of himself, some 300 Losar cycles previous his voice
recording the exercises his figure was running through. At the time of his
first voyage, he was younger and more ambitious, and he regarded his youthful
figure with benign indignation. Still, the record he had created of his
atomic transformations during his last journey did have scientific value, and
although they were slightly immature, or so it seemed to Samo, he was glad he
had recorded them for posterity. It was helpful for him to recall how he
felt, becoming physical for the first time. It gave him something to compare
his present sensations to.
"Anti-trivia is so much more restricting than trivia." Samo had said to
himself, well actually to the ships analog computer during the first voyage.
He was glad it all felt the same the second time around.
"Catabilizer start future Bio-effect tape." He had seen enough. Enough at
least to know that he was feeling normal. Normal for a Narretan suddenly
placed in the counter-universe, that is.
"Catabilizer deload Future analog tape file and derun from ending with last
approach to planet Earth."
"<<<Deloading Future analog tape--don't wait>>>"
"<<<Derunning Future analog tape with massive errors--wrapping down to
ending with approach to Terran Planet number 3>>>"
Samo saw the dim reflection of starlight from a small, cold, planet with a
smaller, solitary satellite. He adjusted his orbit for a flyby.
"Cozy", Samo said to himself as he skirted by Pluto's cratered, gasless
surface. "So much for their ninth planet...on to the eighth," he said as he
re-adjusted the orbit for Neptune. "Might as well check out what I've got to
work with in raw materials..."
"Ah this is more like it!" He said as he entered the green atmosphere and
flew under the ring, perpendicular to the planet's horizontal axis. "Sulphuric
acid, Carbon dioxide, methane, hydrogen, and traces of oxygen." He said into
the microphone of his analog computer.
As he flew by Uranus, he became disappointed at the state of human
technological advancement. "The humans have not established a base on the
seventh planet of this solar system yet." He recorded.
At Saturn, he could not stop himself from making a few measurements of the
ring and studying its chemical composition and the elements in the atmosphere.
He wanted to compare the sizes of the counter planets with the sizes of the
home planets to see if there was a measurable difference between anti-trivial
and trivial mass.
Samo was monitoring the pre-nuclear signals from Earth as he flew from
planet to planet, and the signals seemed to be decreasing, so he adjusted his
course for Jupiter and began contemplating his coming encounter with the
humans. How primitive were they? How could he best communicate with the
masses? Most importantly how could he explain who he was without being taken
for a mad man...
He decided he'd have to give it his best shot with a few special effects
when he got there.
Jupiter. Samo flew inside the ring and ran a spectral analysis on its
composition. He entered the data into the analog computer for conversion to
darktron spectral analysis, and flew into the cloud bands. He took her down
beneath the cloud layer and was again disappointed that the humans had not
even progressed as far as the fifth planet.
"Fifth planet uninhabited," Samo recorded, "entering asteroid belt."
As Samo skirted Mars he was again unsurprised by the lack of habitation.
"These humans are non-colonial and primitive, at a level approximately equal
to Amrif's pre-sramian period."
"Approaching Earth orbit at an inclination of 45 degrees to the planet's
equator. Receiving two strong signals from different continental masses.
Both northern hemisphere, opposite sides of the planet." He recorded.
"Time to let them know I'm here..."
Mari A. Paulson
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Dream Weaver
Copyright (c) 1984 Michael A. Murphy
(Conclusion of story begun in Vol1N07)
Sharmuth's afternoon session went like the others had. No real progress
was made. After studying the tape of today's dream, Doctor James felt like
they were going nowhere fast. It was quite a different feeling from the
elation he felt about Maryann's rapid progress. The difference in rates of
progress had him a little confused. Normally, he would have been able to
retain a professional attitude if he had had just one of the two cases at any
given time. Rapid rates of progress are not unusual. Neither are cases that
have no progress. The fact he had one of each at the same time was what
perplexed Doctor James. It just did not seem right that he could have such
amazing success with one patient and have absolute zero success with another.
"You're looking much better today, Maryann."
"Thank you, Doctor. I really feel quite a bit better. My therapist ran
some tests this morning and he said that there had been an improvement in the
muscle tissue of my arm. He was rather excited about it after all these weeks
of absolutely no change. I am quite thrilled about it myself! I now have a
positive reinforcement so that I can keep hoping that I will once again be
able to use every part of my body. I haven't ever given up hope, but there
were times when all the tests and efforts of others and myself seemed so
futile. I think that, more than any other reason, is why I look better today.
I just feel so much better on the inside that I can't contain it all and it is
spreading to my outside."
"I'm certainly glad that you are feeling so much better about everything,
Maryann. I don't want to bring you down, but I do hope that you can continue
to feel this way even if we don't make any more progress over the next week or
even the next month. Progress can sustain a positive attitude with ease.
It's keeping your positive attitude when things are not going your way that is
the biggest step towards progress."
"I don't think I can ever feel badly about my situation again, Doctor. I
have been through the futility of feeling sorry for myself and now I can
accept myself the way I am if I do not respond any further to treatment. I've
been happy before and I have been sad. I have never been anywhere near as
happy as I was when my therapist told me that there had been an improvement,
however small it might have been. Even if I never have another change in
condition I still know that hope is not futile and that improvement is
possible because it happened once. Until now, no one thought that I had any
real hope of ever regaining use of my limbs because I had not responded at all
over the course of a month where full rehabilitation takes less than half that
time. Now I have a solid basis for the hope that was only in my mind before.
Now I know that that hope is not a futile hope. Since my condition did
improve once, I know that it can happen again. I am betting that it will
continue to improve. If it doesn't, well, I still have hope."
"That's one heck of an attitude. I wish I could get all of my patients to
think that way. Too many people these days are trying to get everything in
large chunks. They want immediate and large scale results in everything they
do. They won't settle for consistent progress or improvement. They want
everything now. If they don't get it, they put the blame on someone else and
try something else. The people in this world would do well to lose something
that they take for granted and be told that they could never have it back.
And slowly, very slowly, they would regain the use of that thing. Then they
might come to appreciate some of the things we all take for granted.
"Let's get back to the case at hand, my dear. We have progress to make
with you."
"I'm all for progress, Doctor."
"Were you able to remember anything else by concentrating on the color red
over the past few days?"
"No, not really. I did dream about the color red one night though. I
haven't woken up at night because of a dream since last week. I think being
aware of the other dream and that the color red plays an important part in the
last dream kept me from becoming terrified at night recently. I do remember
other colors from when I was dreaming about the color red. They were all
blurs though and I don't know what they were other than blurs of color. They
all just kind of blended together. They were all earth colors. Grey, brown,
green. I get a very ominous feeling when I think of those colors and red
still makes me feel uneasy."
"After viewing your dream it is quite easy to see why the color red would
make you wake up screaming and also cause you to feel a little uneasy.
"Tell me... Do you remember anything at all about the accident that put
you in the situation that you're in now? Do you remember where it occurred?
Or who was in the vehicle with you? Or where you were going at the time it
occurred? Anything?"
"Nothing. I know that my family was killed only because I was told after I
had been conscious for a few days and had asked about them. I don't remember
anything about what we did that day or why I was with them that day. I know,
again because I was told, where the accident occurred.
"The toughest thing to deal with was the fact that my parents and brother
had been killed and I didn't even remember being with them prior to the
accident. I can understand my not being able to remember anything about the
accident, but why has my mind blocked out the events leading up to the
accident? Why?"
"I think it is time for you to view your last dream. I was going to wait
for a couple of sessions so we could discuss your accident thoroughly enough
so that you wouldn't be taken totally by surprise by the dream. I think you
know enough via hearsay, you're also beginning to remember fringes of the
circumstances surrounding the accident, to view the dream and have it help us
rather than set us back.
"So let's get over to the machinery and give it a go."
"Lead the way, Doctor."
As the tape ended Maryann sighed lightly and slumped wearily in her chair.
"I am beginning to remember even more now, Doctor."
"Good. You didn't display any violent reaction to what was on the tape.
That is good. I had feared that you might, upon 'seeing' the accident for the
first time," actually the second, he thought, "have an adverse reaction to it.
I'm glad to see that my fears were unfounded."
"I remember the accident now. I still don't remember where we had been or
where we were going, but I do remember the part of our trip just prior to the
accident. I also remember the accident itself and being thrown just a bit to
the side of where my parents and brother were thrown. We were all wearing
harnesses, but I guess the force of the impact just severed the harnesses and
threw us all out. The only reason I am alive now is because I was thrown a
few feet in another direction than the rest of my family. The red in my dream
that kept waking me up is the red of the blood. My blood and the blood of my
family. This was a very short memory, the color red. I guess I passed out
very shortly after noticing all the blood. That is all I remember until the
dreams of the regen tanks.
"You're amazing, Doctor. You done in a very short time what no one else
believed could be done. I think we've discovered the major reasons why I keep
waking up and I also think that now I will begin to improve physically even
more rapidly. It's so wonderful to have a memory again. Even if the memories
that have been uncovered are not exactly pleasant, it is still nice to have
them and know about them rather than be scared silly by them in ignorance. I
would like to figure out what we were doing all together and why we were in
such a hurry on the day of the accident."
"We'll continue to work on that, Maryann. I do want to keep an eye on you
for a while even though you feel so positive about your recovery now. We want
to keep things under control and I'd like to see you recover all of your
memory that was lost because of the accident."
"Yes, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days. Maybe by then I'll be
walking again!" Maryann exulted.
The newspaper headlines today read "FIRST CLUE IN MANCHESTER MURDERS
UNEARTHED." The article went on to say that another murder had been
committed. All the murders had occurred within a half mile radius. Though
the area has been heavily patrolled of late, another dead body appeared
nonetheless. But this time a man was seen moving away from the spot where the
murder occurred.
"Doctor, I am becoming a nervous wreck. I have had two more blackouts
since the other day and who knows what I've done while I've been asleep. I
can't continue like this. I've got to get to the bottom of this before I go
absolutely crazy and do something foolish."
"Mr. Sharmuth, you have to admit that it is very difficult to make progress
with something when you have no point at which to begin. We have no clues to
aid us in beginning to find out why you are blacking out. We know that it is
not a physical problem. All of the tests by the physicians have come up
negative. That leaves us with the assumption that if it is not a physical
problem that is causing you to black out, then it must be a mental one. Until
we find that one little clue to use as a springboard, we will not be making
rapid progress. Believe me, I'd like to see progress just as much as you
would. But we must keep searching your mind to find that one little clue,
that one minor inconsistency. It could be anything. We just have to be very
alert and careful so that we don't overlook anything. In so doing there is
virtually no way we can move rapidly. Should we move rapidly, we stand a very
good chance of overlooking that which we are looking for, whatever it may be."
"I understand, Doctor, but I still don't have to like it and I still want
quick results. I'm used to getting things done quickly and it is extremely
difficult to be patient through all of this."
"Let us go over and give the dream monitor another try. This time I want
you to concentrate on blacking out for a few minutes before you go to sleep."
"Ok. I'll give it a try," Sharmuth sighed heavily.
Doctor James pulled the tape out of the monitor after Sharmuth had woken
up. He set the tape on his desk, walked back over to the monitor, and helped
Sharmuth out of the equipment.
"Do you recall anything about this dream? Did concentrating on blacking
out do anything - make you feel anything different - remember anything at
all?"
"Still nothing, Doctor. I don't understand it at all."
"Try to concentrate on your blackouts over the next couple of days. Try
and stimulate the subconscious so that some of it's thoughts and memories
might become conscious. I'll take a look at this tape in a while. Let's hope
there is something different on it. Something that can give us a direction to
aim in, a starting point."
"Ok, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days."
Sharmuth's recently made tape was very much the same as the other two.
There was nothing on the tape that could be used as a starting point to delve
further for clues. "It's time to adopt Maryann's positive attitude and not
feel that everything we're doing is totally futile," James thought.
Time seemed to jump ahead for Doctor James. There had been no progress at
all in Sharmuth's case. It was becoming increasingly bewildering. Maryann
had continued to improve steadily, but not as rapidly as at first. This was
to be expected. The rapid pace of the beginning of her treatment was just too
much to expect it to continue. With her case doing so well, he had more time
to spend on Sharmuth's case.
Sharmuth's case was one instance where a positive outlook had not helped.
So far. There had to be something. It was only a matter of time before he
stumbled upon it by just moving about blindly.
Doctor James arrived in is office earlier than usual one morning. He had a
full calendar of appointments in the afternoon but had nothing in the morning.
He had planned to look over the last few tapes of Sharmuth's dreams. He had
hoped to find something, anything, that might help.
In the course of walking across the room to where he stored his tapes, he
noticed that the monitor had been left on and a tape was just coming to an
end. The record switch was on.
James checked over his tapes quickly and determined that this tape was a
new tape and not one of the ones he had used just recently. He watched as the
tape got closer to the end. The record switch finally shut off and the tape
was forwarded to the end and then the monitor shut off. James took the tape
out and went over to his playback equipment. He wanted to find out what could
possibly be on this tape. How did it get into the monitor and how did the
monitor get started up? What was it recording, if anything? How could
anything be recorded when there was no one connected to the input gear?
He loaded the tape and began to view it.
I am being followed. Why am I being followed? I'll have to do something
about this. I haven't done anything and he certainly doesn't look at all like
a cop. I'm almost home. I don't want him to follow me home. Who knows what
he may do. He's probably one of those types who doesn't deserve to live
anyway. The world will be much better off without him roaming the streets.
There are too many of those about these days. How can they be so cruel and
inhumane? They don't deserve to live. This one will not continue to live.
I rounded a corner and waited. I looked quickly to make sure that there
was no one else around. Even in this city, it can be rather quiet in the
early morning hours. There was no one about.
He rounded the corner and hurried his pace because he'd lost sight of me.
I came from behind him and stabbed him. He died immediately. He didn't even
have a chance to emit a sound from the pain. I cleaned the knife off on his
clothes and then walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Another
dead body in this city will not make any difference at all.
There was a quick image of beautiful, peaceful countryside and then a
raucous, rowdy scene began.
It was a bar. A couple of fights had broken out and the bouncers were in
the process of breaking the fight (and a lot of the furniture) up. bodies
were being tossed out into the street left and right. Finally, I became one
of those bodies. I gracefully picked myself up, shouted obscenities at the
bouncers, and started walking away. I didn't think of where I was going until
I got a few blocks away. I made a turn and headed for home. After a few more
blocks I saw a shadowy figure emerge from a doorway and step into my path.
He had a weapon and demanded my wallet. Not being one who is into death,
especially my own, I slowly reached for my wallet. A sharp sound came from
close by and distracted my mugger for a second. I hit his hand and knocked
the gun loose. I was closer to it and made a grab for it. I was quicker than
he and now had the gun. This world has no use for this mugger anymore. He is
another one of the sort that does not deserve to live. Now he didn't.
There were people within hearing range, but not within sight. I quickly
removed myself from the scene and then joined the small mob as they approached
the dead mugger. It was very easy to do in the confusion. The police arrived
after a short wait, asked some questions, and then sent us all home. There
were no eye witnesses. Everyone heard the shot. Everything and everyone had
disappeared by the time anyone arrived on the scene. I still don't know what
happened to the gun.
The world is better off now. One more person, who didn't deserve to live
anyway, was gone. How can they exist this way. The more I see, the more I
confirm the fact they do not deserve to live.
Peace. That overwhelming feeling again. Even in minute quantities it was
overwhelming.
What am I doing in this part of town? The types of people that frequent
this part of town are the sort that I would never consort with. So why am I
here? I do look rather out of place. In this den of poverty and
uncleanliness, I have no business. Certainly no legitimate business. Why am
I here? These people don't deserve to live this way. Most of them don't even
deserve to live.
A man approaches. He is a little drawn and thin, but definitely able-
bodied. One can see the strength that could be his through the holes in the
rags that the denizens of this demesne call clothes. As he gets even closer
the stench becomes rather evident. "Can you spare a dollar, mister?"
No dollar. I did talk him into coming home with me to see what life could
be like. I was planning on berating him for not doing an honest days work
when it was quite obvious that he was a very able-bodied man even in his
emaciated condition. All he needed was the will to do a little hard work.
Physical labor. Why hadn't he been working? He had obviously been in dire
straits for some time, as his condition was not good at all. He certainly
could have found work if he'd been willing to go looking. We were almost to
my place when I decided that I did not want anyone coming home with me who
could not perform an honest day's work when he was certainly more than
capable. People like that do not deserve to live. And I wouldn't call what
he was doing back in that rat infested hole living. The world is better off
without him. He is certainly much better off. I don't know how I managed,
but when I realized where I was, he was on the ground, dead. I must've
strangled him for I had no weapon. Had he not been so weakened from his style
of life, I could never have done him in with my bare hands. As he was though,
there was no challenge. He wasn't even strong enough to struggle much. But I
did catch him a little off guard too. He didn't deserve to live. How can
people exist that way?
I turned, there was someone coming this way about 4 blocks away. I turned
a corner and disappeared. No one followed. If that person kept walking, he
surely would find the body. No matter. He could not possibly have seen me
well from that distance.
Once again, that overwhelming feeling of peace. This time it lasted for
several minutes. There were more images of beautiful, lazy countryside. The
soft green and golden yellow suggested a lingering and lasting peace. The
most striking thing about the whole image was that there was no life. No
animal life. No human life.
Doctor James sat in the chair for some time thinking about what he had just
viewed. His respect for his dream monitor rose immensely. He thought he had
figured out what was happening.
The sequences he had just viewed were happenings that went on during
Sharmuth's blackout periods. The machine did pick them up, but for some
reason did not record them during the sessions with Sharmuth. The person who
had done all the killing was Sharmuth. There was no doubt about that.
Sharmuth did seem to be the ruthless type, but he did not seem to be the
killer type. And why this sudden hatred for the human species. The man
thrived on controversy and competition. He needed people so that he would be
able to enjoy himself.
Why would the machine select just one person to screen out everything that
went on in the subconscious mind? I get the distinct feeling that this tape
had two separate personalities involved in its making. One was bent on
killing and destruction, the other wanted only peace. Total peace.
Then it hit him. Total peace. To achieve total peace on this world one
would just about have to start from scratch. All life would have to be
eradicated.
Total peace. Overwhelming peace.
Doctor James decided that he had to inform the authorities of what he knew.
He would tell them who the murderer was and then he would have to dismantle
his machine. That was the worst part of it. The machine had done so much
good for so many people. This one case would ruin that record for good. What
would life have been like for Maryann without the machine? She's now fully
recovered and such a beautiful young woman now that all her parts are
proportional again! It is a shame.
The authorities would never believe his story though. How could they? The
population of the world is being exterminated one by one to achieve total
peace? What, this is being done by one man? A 'machine'!?
Well, he knew the response he was going to get. But he'd made up his mind.
Doctor James picked up the phone and dialed the authorities...
Doctor James sat bolt upright in bed, his heart beating rapidly and sweat
running down his face. He stared about his dark bedroom for a while before he
was able to fall back asleep.
Michael Murphy <MURPH @ MAINE>
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CONTENTS
Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles 6 Mari A. Paulson
Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON Orny
The Thrust Jim Owens
Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000 Guy Garnett
Island Murph
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Editorial
Greetings, all! Well, first let me apologize for the lateness of this
issue, but things have been going on mighty fast. Two-two will be out sooner,
I promise!
Well, this summer has a wonderful lineup of fantasy and science fiction
films, and I heartily suggest that you keep your eyes open for them. Also,
Terry Brooks' new Shannara book is out, as is a new book by Larry Niven and
Jerry Pournelle about an alein invasion of Earth, called "Footfall". FSFnet
is in need of some submissions (as always), and this is the first issue of
volume two, which will last through the summer, and then volume three will
begin in the fall. Now that summer is here, most people have gone home, and
FSFnet needs both contributors and members! Be sure and recruit people who
are into fantasy and SF for the zine, so we can continue to send it out. And
if anyone has any neeto ideas about a special issue, by all means, speak to
me!
For those of you at VAX/VMS and MVS nodes, FSFnet is being sent out in a
new manner which can send the file by CMS DISK DUMP or SENDFILE. I have taken
the liberty of using sendfile for those nodes for which DISK DUMP is awkward;
however, if you have trouble reading FSFnet in, just drop me a line, and I'll
work on it. Aiming to please, you know...
Well, have a great summer, all! And send in those reviews and so forth,
and spread the word! Now on to the REAL stuff...
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Sixth
Samo flew over the nighttime skies of North America, his mind reeling. "The
largest urban centers will have the highest photon emissions." Samo said to
himself. "Shock waves travel through this mainly nitrogen medium at lets see,
exactly, yes, that should do it. Now all I've got to do is fly over a large
metropolitan area such as that one on the east coast, veer upward at an angle
of, yes and return from over the ocean at half that velocity. There. That
should do quite nicely," Samo continued as he set the controls on a course for
New York City.
Samo broke the sound barrier as he flew over Kennedy International Airport,
sending a sonic boom crashing through the city.
"Did you see what I think I saw, Albright?"
"I was just going to ask you the same question. I've never seen anything
like that radar pattern in my twenty-three years in this tower!"
"It looked rather like a ball, or a bubble. Say, do you think it could
have been a weather balloon?"
"No way. I've seen balloons before, and they're much smaller, besides that
thing, whatever it was, had to be doing at least Mach 3, and SR-71's only
reach Mach 2.2 at top cruising speeds! I'm calling Dover Control."
"Hello, Operator? Please connect me with Dover Air Force Base's Control
Tower, 301-716-2000, Person-to-person with Maj. Jeffries"
"Maj. Jeffries, here."
"Hi Bill, it's Jim Albright at JFK. Listen, we just got a bogie on two
screens, simultaneously that had a pattern similar to a weather balloon only
larger and it was doing about Mach 4. Are you boys testing a new toy, or is
this thing a possible threat?"
"Well Jim, I'll level with you. We've been monitoring it on the national
scopes, and we don't know what it is either. It came out of nowhere, suddenly
appeared over Chicago 15 minutes ago, Made a beeline for New York, headed out
over the Atlantic, and now it's starting back for the midwest. As to Soviet
threats, we've received no messages by diplomatic courier, and intelligence
has made no reports about any new aircraft. The 71's we keep on 24 hour
standby are being fueled, and we've got two of our best pilots suiting up for
an intercept."
"I hate to think of the possibilities if it is Soviet. A bird like that
could bomb any American city and escape completely unscathed before we could
even fire an anti-aircraft missile."
"We know, and the President is being notified. Say Jim I'll need to ask a
favor of you."
"Anything--name it."
"Make sure this stays under wraps for now. Inform your staff--anyone who
saw that thing, not to talk about it, the last thing this country needs right
now is a panic created by the press."
"Sure, you got it, we didn't see anything."
"Great, thanks. I've got to go now, but I'll let you know what
develops..."
"...Ah, NORAD, Seeker-1 here, this is Colonel Roberts, neither Captain
Phillips nor I have seen the bogie. What is it's present position? Over."
"Seeker-1, NORAD here, bogie heading 270 at 25,000 ft. slowed to Mach 2.
Fly on heading 285 at 25,000 full-open to intercept in 2.45 minutes. Over."
"NORAD, Seeker-1, proceeding 285 at Mach 2.2 . Roberts out ."
"What do you think we'll find sir?" Phillips asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine captain. But since you asked my opinion, I
think that ever since the top brass closed the Bluebook Project a lot of weird
things have happened."
"What kind of things sir?"
"Well it just seems to me that since the books have been closed on extra-
terrestrial visitation research the number of bogie sightings hasn't really
dropped. Now if most of the reported cases were hoaxes as the project's final
report states, then why do people continue to report sightings with the same
continuity as before. Even when they don't have the chance of our
investigating their story to back them up. I don't know captain, I just don't
know."
"You're right sir that doesn't make sense. Now this...could the soviets-"
"I know what you're thinking and the answer is doubtful. They couldn't even
get to the test level without our intelligence finding out. Besides, at the
briefing we were told the craft created a sonic boom at Mach 3 and the
russians don't have the metallurgical technology to create an alloy malleable
enough and heat resistant enough to prevent heat fatigue of the metal due to
air friction. "
"In other words your saying this bogie really could be extra-"
"I'm saying no such thing, Captain. I'm merely pointing out the
possibility that there is more out there than we are capable of understanding.
and that's all. I make no allusions as to what those possibilities are.
Listen Dave, I've given more than half my life to this Air Force, and there
are a few things I've learned. One of them is that if you come across
something you can't explain, and you're enjoying your career you don't ask
questions. Most likely there's someone who doesn't want you to know
something, and if you don't get curious, you'll be fine. I've lost more
pilots for "Disturbances of an emotional nature," than anything else. Is any
of this registering, captain?
"Uh, yes sir, sort of."
"'Uh, yes sir sort of.' What kind of cocka-maime answer is that son? Give
me a big 'Yes Sir!' or 'No Sir!'"
"Sir would you please look out your starboard window. It's the bogie,
three o'clock low!"
Mari A. Paulson
Ed. Note: This work is a piece of fiction. All characters, places, and events
portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity with actual people,
places, or events, are disclaimed by the author and this publication.
"The Narret Chronicles" are copyrighted (C) 1985 by Mari A. Paulson
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Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON
Robert Anton Wilson is a very interesting author. His works deal almost
entirely with the Illuminati and other mystic horrors of the modern world.
Wilson's life has been filled with strange probings into all forms of the
occult, and he was a close friend with the late Professor Timothy Leary, a
well-known occultist.
Wilson's works began with the "Illuminatus!" series, originally written by
Wilson and Robert Shea as a parody of modern mysticism, the Illuminati, and
the U.S. government. "The Eye in the Pyramid", "The Golden Apple", and
"Leviathan" were originally meant to be farcical, written in a style similar
to that infamous style of James Joyce. The "Illuminatus!" series was
reprinted recently by Dell. The better-known "Schrodinger's Cat" trilogy (the
two other volumes being titled "The Trick Top Hat" and "The Homing Pigeons")
is a master work of confusion and fear, and is perhaps Wilson's best work.
"The Masks of the Illuminati" is a single volume work, describing the
encounters one Sir John Babcock has with Albert Einstein and James Joyce, and
the trick Aleister Crowley plays upon them all. "The Cosmic Trigger" is
Wilson's attempt to explain the events of his life that have convinced him
that there is something other than that which we know, and is very interesting
and persuasive. All the previous are available from Pocket Books. Also
available in hardcover only is "And the Earth Will Shake", a full-length novel
by Wilson.
Wilson's unique style cannot be adequately put into words. His writing
often tries to shock the reader, sometimes becomes philosophical, and
sometimes becomes disjointed, but his tales of the Illuminati are so
absolutely bizarre, and yet, somehow, plausible, that his books often leave
the modern reader horrified. Lovecraft and Chambers wrote of books that would
drive one insane to read. Wilson has created the horror that these authors
have written about. I once lent a copy of "Masks of the Illuminati" to a
friend. She reported to me that when she finished it one evening, she pulled
the sheets over her head and hoped she'd wake up sane in the morning.
Wilson's writing is truly unique.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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The Thrust
The forest stretched out as far as the eye could see, tall green pines and
spruce trees. But here there were no trees, only charred stumps. A long wound
had been made by the ship as it crashed. Now it lay, buried in dirt, inert.
Yet it was not a wreck. A repair ship stood beside it. The repair robots had
done a good job. The ship now had wings to replace those destroyed in the
brief but violent landing. Those new wings flexed as repulsor fields lifted
the ship into the air.
"Take care. Remember, wait until you get to op temperature before going to
full thrust. I'll take care of those bogeys."
"Roger, Gabriel. Have fun." The ship's main engine came to life gently
pushing the ship up into the afternoon sky.
One hundred miles away two interceptors rammed through the atmosphere.
The pilots watched in anger as the first ship slid across their radar scopes.
Then the repair ship rose up to replace it, and the pilots gleefully armed
their nuclear missiles when they saw that it was hovering.
Greg, alias Gabriel, watched his own detector scope in quiet joy. On one
side of the scope the blip representing the survey ship built up velocity. On
the other side the interceptors closed rapidly. The survey ship was not going
to be able to outrun the attacking craft before they could launch their
missiles. Greg didn't worry for the survey ship, though. He touched a few
controls, and the repair ship started to slide through the air at a right
angle to the path of the other ships.
The pilots of the interceptors considered. If they continued their pursuit
of the far craft, they might still catch it. On the other hand, the closer
craft was almost in range. They decided to take the closer, more sure victory.
At a distance of twelve miles, the interceptors fired their missiles.
They banked hard, and put as much distance as they could between themselves
and the target as they could. In the repair ship, Greg smiled as the scope
reported that the survey ship had reached operational temperature and had gone
to full thrust. With it safely out of the way, Greg could now leave. He
reached out and touched a button, just as the missiles fired their warheads.
Twenty miles away, the interceptor pilots' stomaches clenched in thrilled
excitement as they watched the blast through their flash goggles. Had they
been one hundred miles further away, they might have seen something even more
spectacular. In the instant before the nuclear explosion, a seemingly pencil-
thin line of violet flame drew itself five hundred miles straight up. It then
curved, as Greg punched in the command to go home.
Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000
"Division commander to all units: Good Luck, You're on your own." So ends
the player's introduction to "Escape form Kalisz", the starter scenario
included in GDW's new Role-playing Game, Twilight:2000.
Twilight:2000 is set in Europe in the year 2000, after a five year long
world war. World-wide casualties are over 50%, and rising. The governments
of most major countries (the US included) have been eliminated or fragmented.
Wide-spread convertional warfare and liberal use of both tactical and
strategic nuclear weapons has destroyed most communication and trade routes.
The Black Death (Bubonic Plague) has run rampant, and lingers in some areas.
Most major cities are radioactive ruins. The players are (or were) soldiers
in the US Army, part of the last NATO drive into Poland.
The primary objective of a Twilight:2000 player is to stay alive. If that
gets boring, he can also try to strike a blow for freedom, democracy, and the
Joint Chiefs of Staff (the de facto government of the United States).
Twilight:2000 consists of 2 rulebooks, one for the players, which describes
how to generate a character and conduct simple combat. The Play Manual (as GDW
calls it) has plenty of illustrations and examples. The Referee's Manual
covers many of the same topics as the Play Manual, but in greater depth. It
also includes sections on experience, disease, and the campaign background.
With the manuals are a set of tables, again divided into separate player's and
referee's charts. In the way of campaign support, GDW has included a detailed
price list and equipment descriptions separately from the rulebooks. There is
an introductory adventure, "Escape form Kalisz", to start the campaign, and a
map of Poland.
Twilight:2000's strong points include: Randomly rolled attributes, but the
player can select a character's skills. Character generation, while not
extremely fast, is straightforward. The combat system is detailed, and covers
all of the weapons in the game well.
On the other hand, Twilight:2000 is plagued by typos. Most of them are
easy to figure out (like switching from B for Back in the chartbook to R for
Rear in the manual) but can be confusing when they are first encountered.
Compounding this is the extensive use of abbreviations (all skill names are
abbreviated to 3 letters), again easy to figure out, but confusing untill you
are used to the system.
The only serious problem with the design is the heavy use of charts. The
referee really needs a copy of the Player's Manual, the Referee's Manual, and
the Referee's Charts open in front of him at all times. The combat system is
completely table-driven, which means that in combat the referee has to
organize his time, or forever flip through the chartbook.
All in all, Twilight:2000 may be the best new RPG released in the last
year, my complaints above notwithstanding. (I have many more gripes about
every other RPG I can think of) Twilight:2000 is complete all by itself, and
well worth the $17 price tag.
Guy 'WildStar' Garnett <GG822C @ GWUVM>
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4/1/85
Island
An island unto myself. Where I can sit and watch.
I can look around and see all the beautiful things.
The simple and the complex, the large and
The small, the conspicuous and the not-so-conspicuous.
I am in awe of it all, of them.
And they, of me. For I am here to care for
And protect them, to keep the balance.
I am here to prevent what happened the last
Time this project was attempted. Responsibility to
One's position was not my predecessor's strong suit.
It is so beautiful here. How could he have left
His garden unattended for so long? It was so
Unmanageable by the time he got back to it that it
Had to be razed and left barren for a mere eternity.
Well, it is beautiful now. And my task is to keep
It this way, maintain the balance. Not necessarily
An easy task, but an enjoyable one. Yes..., maintaining
The beauty while balancing the evolution will not be
Easy, but it will have its rewards. My garden will become
Something infinitely more special than it is already.
The sun is setting now for the sixth time. I shall rest tomorrow.
Michael Murphy <MURPH @ MAINE>
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___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <NMCS025@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Man's Best Friends Alex Williams
All's Well that Ends. Well... Cliff Thayer
Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC Orny
Alas, Babble On Jim Owens
Selection Orny
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X-Editorial
Well, greetings, all! Another issue of FSFnet has come, and I'm sure
you'll find this one rather refreshing. Due to circumstances beyond our
control, there is neither a featured author or a Narret Chronicles in this
issue, although both will continue in issue 2-3, with Narret 5 and a column on
Christopher Stasheff, author of 'The Warlock in Spite of Himself', 'The
Warlock Unlocked', 'King Kobald Revived', and 'Escape Velocity'.
But this issue contains some excellent works of fiction, including a
wonderful poem by Jim Owens (a poem I sympathize with), and my own newest
imaginings in 'Selection'. If anyone who receives this is still having
problems with the sending format, please let me know. I'd also like to
welcome those few people who have been added to the mailing list since May,
and hope that they will continue to spread the word to interested parties.
Well, enough of the propaganda... on with the show!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Man's Best Friends
"You know John, the Telrani are man's best friends. And there is nothing
you can say that will change my view of them."
John Stevenson picked up his beer and resumed drinking it. He stared
blankly at the ring of moisture it left on the bar.
"I know that they have given us some good things...", he started.
"Some good things?!? What about the De-armatron? That's more than good,
John. That's the end of war. Flick the mother on and Zap! No weapons, even
nukes, work! And what about Super-Wheat? The solution for world hunger. Grows
anywhere. And the cures for all the diseases man has ever known. I just don't
understand you, John."
"I know what they've done, Dan. I just have a bad feeling about them. It's
just too good. One day a hundred flying saucers come out of the sky, some
aliens get out that look like Bigfoot, they say they are from Rigel and are
here to help us, and Wham! all the world's problems are solved. I just have a
funny feeling about it."
Dan took a pull at his drink, set it down and continued.
"And now they are offering trips to their home planet. What a deal!" So
what if when we get back everyone who knows will be dead or at least a hundred
years old, we're not married, so what do we care?"
"Yea, but..."
"No buts about it. I'm going. In fact I'm going in just a month. And get
this, so are you!"
John, who was drinking, suddenly sputtered and splashed beer all over the
bar.
"What?!?",he yelled,"How come you didn't ask me? How can we pay for it? I
don't want to leave Earth forever!"
"It isn't forever, only for 8 months, our time. It's free, and I didn't ask
you because I know you'd say no. Anyway we're going, so it's settled."
"No it isn't, but I have to go home, so we'll talk about it tomorrow."
"See ya, John."
"Later."
"Hi Dan! Whatcha lookin so pale for? Are you sick? Hey bartender, get this
man a drink!"
"Dan, last night I decided that I might as well go to Rigel with you. Hey,
I mean my 'funny feeling' is unfounded, and there's no reason why we
shouldn't. Right, Dan?"
Dan sat down, and stared straight ahead.
"John, you know how I taught myself the Telranian language and alphabet,
even though it's forbidden. Well I finally got a chance to use it. I found a
Telrani handbook yesterday for sale at a bookstore, and I bought it."
"But possesion of any Telrani text is illegal!"
"I know that, but I bought it anyway, just to see if I could read it. And
I could."
"Well, what was the book about?"
"The title was 'How to Serve Man', which they have been doing, right? The
De-armatron, Super-wheat, free interstellar trips, stuff like that."
"Yea, so what's wrong?"
"Well, I read the first chapter, and I thought I must have read it wrong,
so I read it again, and I found out I didn't."
"And?"
"It isn't a handbook on how to help us, Dear God John, it was a cook-
book!!"
Alex Williams
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All's Well That Ends. Well,...
The hall was dark, but the thief carried a torch, and could see rather
well. He needed to see, but he also knew where to look, and so his job was
made a little easier.
He moved his hand across the wall. It slid quietly, and then fell into a
recess. He edged his hand up and down what appeared to be a slot cut from the
floor to the ceiling. Near the bottom he found it; a break in the slot, where
the wall seemed uncut. He held the torch low. On the wall beside the break
there was what seemed to be a rectangular metal inlay. The thief knew better.
He set the torch into a wall bracket, and licked the palm of his hand well. He
then placed his hand, palm first, against the metal. He then pulled his hand
away suddenly. The inlay moved out just enough for him to get a grip on it.
He slid it out, revealing it to be a square steel peg. He took it and ran it
inside the top of the lower half of the slot. It caught, and he deftly slid it
up and out of sight. It just as easily slid out of the hole when he pulled his
hand away, however. He set it down, and took off his pack. Taking the tent out
of it, he once more inserted the peg. He then tossed the tent onto the floor a
short distance ahead. The floor sank perceptibly. The break in the slot also
moved, trying to slide into the wall. The peg caught it, and it stopped.
The thief crossed the drop-away floor, leaving behind his tent to hold the
peg in place, for his escape. He had already crossed three such floors, evaded
two patrols, crossed two revines, traversed endless dark halls, and even
outwitted a maze. If his source was correct, he was now home free.
His target was a small ceremonial table. It was gold, with gems set in each
corner. Legend had it that it had never been touched since it had been set in
its place eons ago. No one had even approached it, only gazed on it from a
distance. Now he wanted to take it.
He walked down the hall. His source had been a priest once, and had studied
this temple. He knew how the traps worked, and what the walls and floors would
look like when a trap was built in. The thief now recognized such a pattern in
the walls. A low ceiling, with square pillar lining the walls. That meant that
the roof would drop on him if he put weight on the center of the floor without
putting weight first on sides near the walls. He accordingly edged along the
wall, and was soon past.
That was the last trap. He turned the corner, and there was the altar room.
Rich furnishings lined the wall, but he had eyes only for the gold table on
the far wall.
He walked fearlessly forward. Nothing impeded him as he went to claim his
prize. He lifted it off its stand, although not without some effort, as it was
very heavy. He turned, and staggered down the steps. He reached the floor,
took two steps, and, without warning, the floor collapsed under the
unaccustomed weight. The thief fell down to the next floor, which happened to
be the dining hall for all the novices. He escaped with his life, but, alas,
without his prize, as the one thing he had not planned on was running with
such a great weight.
Cliff Thayer
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Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC
Terry Pratchett is a British author of several SF short stories and a novel
entitled 'Strata', available in a Signet edition. 'The Colour of Magic',
printed in England in 1983, has recently been released in an american
paperback edition by Signet, and has been a main selection of the Science
Fiction Book Club.
The book recounts the adventures shared by "Twoflower, a naive insurance
salesman turned tourist" and his reluctant native guide, an inept wizard named
Rincewind. The first of four short stories in the book tell of Twoflower's
arrival in the corrupt city of Ankh-Morpork. After meeting Rincewind,
Twoflower's adventures in the city, reminiscent of Aspirin's Sanctuary,
culminate in the destruction of the city. The second book describes their
awakening of an ancient horror in an abandoned temple. The third is an
account of how Twoflower finally gets his wish to see a dragon, and the final
story sends the two reluctant adventurers over the edge of the Discworld into
space.
Pratchett's style is very readable, and spotted with just the right touch
of humor. At times 'The Colour of Magic' reminds one of Anthony's Xanth or
Adams' Hitchhiker series, yet it always retains a new and unique frame of
fantasy. An excellent book for those who are intrigued by the unusual, and
the interaction of modern ideas and medieval technology. This book is
thoroughly enjoyable light fantasy reading, and quite amusing as well.
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Alas, Babble On.
Here I sit, with page all plain,
With nary an image in my brain.
Not spaceship fast or slaughter gory,
to be embellished into a story.
So contrary to my charitable wish,
I'll have no story in your next ish.
And why is my mind all turned to rock?
I'll tell you. I've got writer's block.
Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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Selection
The air was stale, and he felt very little. His plastic environment suit
made a crumpling noise as he turned to face her. "Lisa?"
"Yes, Lloyd?"
"What happened to us? I mean, we can't touch any more..." He left the
sentence hanging, contemplating. Lisa knew what he wanted to say, and she
shamefully looked at the floor a moment before answering.
"I'm sorry, Lloyd. I know. But if we were to remove these suits, you know
what would happen..."
"Yes, the germs in the air would kill us, since our bodies have no natural
defenses. So we have to live all our lives in these shells, in our own self-
contained environment, but why? When did it all start?"
Lisa was a mother, explaining a difficult and harsh reality to a child.
"Well, it all started a long, long time ago, when mankind was first developing
intelligence, and made houses to keep him safe and warm, so that he didn't
have to face the elements. But it really got worse in the last hundred years,
when we concentrated on welfare programs, health care, and started taking care
of the physically or mentally deficient. We cheated natural selection.
Because the weaker members of our society were protected, they survived, and
because they survived, they bred. The weaker genes were not weeded out due to
natural selection, and gradually the entire human species became weaker, until
we became wholly dependant on our man-made artifices to cheat natural
selection."
Lloyd also looked thoughtfully downward. "And then there was the Great
Plague? Is that why we have to wear these suits?"
Lisa's eyes burned with tears. "Yes, love. The Great Plague came upon us
not long ago. A sudden outbreak of disease became a worldwide horror, because
our scientists couldn't find a cure for it fast enough. The disease spread
quickly, and millions upon millions died, because they had no natural defenses
left, and we couldn't even find the cause of the disease. Now we must remain
isolated from the natural environment, or else we will die like they did."
Lloyd mustered the courage to look into Lisa's deep brown eyes. "But it's
unbearable! Is this what mankind has come to?
What can we do about it?"
Lisa broke the contact by averting her eyes. "Nothing, Lloyd, except
live."
Lloyd looked about him, through the clear plastic suit, at the antiseptic
white walls, and the sterile linoleum floor. "If you can call this life."
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD Rich Jervis
Narret Chronicles: 5 Mari Paulsen
Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF Orny
Review: Chris Condon
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X-Editorial
Hello, and welcome back! School is back in session, and here is the first
issue of the year. Unfortunately, due to a lack of submissions, the summer
volume only consisted of two issues, but I am hoping that with the return to
school there will be a corresponding increase in submissions. Remember, this
is your zine, and I can't do it alone. An entire zine by me would be boring,
anyways, so for all of you who have thought about submitting anything, please
do!
Well, hopefully next issue will be out soon, depending on the number of
submissions. I hope that this issue is not too slow, since it is composed
almost entirely of reviews. Of course, Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles
continues, and the featured author column this issue concentrates on
Christopher Stasheff's Gramayre books.
Well, I bid you welcome to volume three, and remind you that FSFnet cannot
continue without reader submissions, and also that there are a number of new
BITNET users who no doubt enjoy BITNET use but have yet to hear of FSFnet.
Please try to spread the word to anyone you think might be interested.
PS: Well, thanks to the link between YALEVM and MAINE, this issue is yet
another week late. Sorry about that. Also, look for a continuing fantasy
work called "The Aquisition" beginning next issue and the continuing Narret
science fiction series. Watch this space!
Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD
"...Dogs serve Ralkan the wolf king, horses answer to an aging mare named
Flowers, and ants obey Her Peerless and Exalted Majesty; Bzxxyl the 1842th,
mistress of the Universe and Eater of Treats. Yet cats have no lord...
Hawks serve Deathswoop the Daring, but all birds honor the Phoenix. Sharks
only share with the Hungry One, while all fish swim at Tam tuna's request.
Cobras turn at the command of the Hood of All-Potent Poison... Now, all snakes
revere Nosey Groundsnake. And so on.
Some wise folk claim that ther are creatures smaller that the eye can see.
If so, they're ruled by a Supreme Atomie, for so the God ordered all things
when She shaped the level of existence...."
"What has this matter of Cat Lords, or the lack thereof, to do with us?"
"My Order will pay each you each three thousand royals to climb World's
Peak, discover where the Wisest one lives there and ask her for the answer to
that riddle..."
This is the reason of CATS HAVE NO LORD, if not it's rhyme. And it's by no
means all there is to this smooth flowing novel by Will Shetterly. The main
characters, the acrobat/thief, the half-elven swordsman, the merry cleric, and
the most astute barbarian i've ever read, must find the Cat Lord while being
manipulated, helped and hindered by forces arcane and mundane.
Gamers and fans of Robert Aspirin's Thieves' World will find a familiar
feel to the novel, with the added plus of being one complete novel by one
author rather than a compendium of short stories.
This is not to say that 'straight' fantasy fans will be left out of the
action. Outside of beginning in an awkward way - the middle of a telepathic
discussion between a woman and her rather adroit horse - the world is full
fledged and easy to get into. Tensions between cities, lords and races (not
to mention the various Lords themselves) give an overtone that there is more
at stake than academic curiosity. It is almost a must that more will be heard
from this magical world.
CATS HAVE NO LORD by Will Shetterly, Ace Fantasy, New York, 5-85. Quoted
in part as a review and not intended to violate any copyrights pending.
-Richard Jervis <78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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THE NARRET CHRONICLES
BOOK THE FIFTH
"Well, it bears no Soviet markings at any rate, sir."
"Or any marking's of any kind for that matter, Captain Phillips."
"Well sir, what should we do now?"
"You try to establish radio contact with the bogie while I contact NORAD."
"They ought to be about ready to communicate by now," thought Samo. I had
best stop down the counter-universal communications descanner and encrypter.
"Seeker-1 to NORAD, come in NORAD, over."
"NORAD to Seeker-1, we read colonel, over."
"NORAD, we have established visual contact with the bogie, have found
neither hostile nor friendly markings of any kind. Trying to establish radio
contact at this time. Awaiting further instructions, over."
"Seeker-1, proceed with communications interface and report any necessary
changes in flight pattern, over."
"NORAD, we copy, Seeker-1 out."
"Any luck captain?"
"None, sir. There's no response on the standard frequencies at all."
"That's not surprising, let's face it - that's not exactly your standard
craft were up against. Try the international hailing frequency."
"All right sir... Seeker-2 to unmarked craft, Seeker-2 to unmarked craft,
please respond."
"Well," said Samo, "what do you know... they communicate. It took them so
long to find the right frequency I was beginning to have doubts."
"Unmarked craft to Seeker-2 - responding..." Samo said into the
communications device."
"Unmarked craft you have violated the airspace of the United States of
America. Please identify yourself or we will be forced to shoot you down."
"Friendly people." Samo said to himself. "I am Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht. I come on
a mission of trans-universal importance. I am here to prevent a possible
global war. Mine is a mission of peace, over."
"Well, Dr. Ht, this is Colonel William Roberts, US Air Force. I don't know
who you are, or where you come from but if yours is a mission of peace as you
claim, then I must ask you to cooperate. At this time you are approaching the
western boundary of our airspace. I must ask you to turn your ship around and
continue in this formation due east until we receive clearances for landing.
Will you cooperate?"
"Yes of course, I'll cooperate. Tell your superiors what I have told you,
I come in peace, and tell them also that I must speak to the leaders of the
two belligerent nations before an international forum."
"Seeker-1 to NORAD come in NORAD, over."
"NORAD to Seeker-1 we read, over."
"NORAD, we have established radio contact. The pilot of the craft is
cooperating and states he is on a mission of peace. He also requests to
address the President of the United States and the Premier of the Soviet Union
before the assembled ambassadors of the United Nations. Over."
"Seeker-1 the President is in his Oval Office, at this hour, and is being
briefed on your situation. Proceed on a course for Dover Air Force Base,
bearing 120 at 25,000 ft. We will notify the President of the pilot's
requests and relay further orders as they we receive them, over."
"NORAD, proceeding 120 degrees at 25,000 feet, Seeker-1 out..."
"...Dover Control to Seeker-1, come in Seeker-1, over."
"Dover Control this is Seeker-1, over."
"Seeker-1, you are no longer under NORAD command. Permission for landing is
granted. Proceed to dock alien craft in hanger-81, and place your Blackbirds
in hanger 71 Alpha."
-Mari A. Paulsen
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Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
Born in New York state in 1944, Christopher Stasheff grew up immersed in
the developing years of both television, radio, and science fiction
literature. Stasheff maintains that de Camp and Pratt's "Inconpleat
Enchanter" is the single largest influence on his style, followed by Lester
del Rey's "Day of the Giants" and "The Sky is Falling". After writing two
unpublished novels, Stasheff began writing a text for a contest sponsored by
the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Although the manuscript was
never completed until 8 months after the contest deadline, Stasheff sent the
book to Ace, who published it as "The Warlock In Spite of Himself". He has
also published three other books: "King Kobald" (and "King Kobald Revived"),
"The Warlock Unlocked", and "Escape Velocity".
There is some question as to the chronological order in which these novels
fit together. For simplicity, they will be discussed in order of publication,
rather than chronological order. "The Warlock In Spite of Himself" is the
story of Rod Gallowglass, an interstellar explorer, and his adventure in
trying to establish democracy on a long-lost planet of medievals (founded by
members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, no less). Rod discovers an
interstellar conspiracy across time trying to oppose him, and he and his
robot-brained horse, Fess (who is subject to seizures due to an engineering
problem), have their hands full trying to stymie their foes, occasionally
using superior technology, which earns Rod an unwanted reputation as a
warlock. An exceptional book.
"King Kobald" was published in 1970, although before the recent Ace reprint
of the series, Stasheff rewrote the book, and retitled it "King Kobald
Revived". This book takes place approximately two years after the previous
book, and describes a further threat from the forces opposing Rod's effort to
steer the planet, Gramayre, back to democracy. His role as Royal Warlock is
influential in defending Gramayre from an invasion of Neanderthals with
strange telepathic powers. An excellent book, with plenty of excitement and
wonderfully developed characters. The new version is much improved over the
original, due to the rewrite, but it does not contradict the other books in
the series.
"The Warlock Unlocked" is begun following two characters, Rod, of course,
begins the novel some 6 years after "King Kobald", and Father Al Uwell, a
priest of the Order of St. Cathode, an engineering saint. Uwell is being sent
to Gramayre by the church to monitor Rod, since he has become so involved in
the fight for democracy. meanwhile, Rod and his Gramayre family (wife and
four children) are transported to another world, and must discover the way
back to Gramayre before the forces against him overthrow all his works. He
meets up with Father Al, who has been tracking him, and together the group has
a number of very unique adventures. A very fast-paced book, indeed.
"Escape Velocity" is the only book of the series that does not concentrate
on the events on Gramayre, and is more science fiction than fantasy. In this
book, which takes place long before the establishment of Gramayre, Dar Mandra
and company must reach Terra before a coup planned by the LORDS overthrows the
democratic Interstellar Dominion Electorate. Unfortunately, someone in the
upper echelons has it out for Dar, and spreads the rumor that Dar and his
group are horrible telepaths, out to pry into every citizen's secret thoughts
and desires. In the following panic, Dar manages to reach Terra. This book
is perhaps the most interesting of the series, as the characters are all
fantastic and yet somehow believable. Though the action is interesting and
riveting, the end of the book comes too fast, and seems less well-written than
the beginning of the book. In this book, the founding of Gramayre (which
later is lost during a "twilight" of democracy and then later found by Rod
Gallowglass) is described.
In all the books, Stasheff's style is very enjoyable and readable. his
characters are all excellently depicted, and there is no lack of plot
movement. His Gramayre books are an excellent fantasy work, and "Escape
Velocity" is a very good piece of science fiction. His style is easily
adaptable to either genre, since it does not concentrate so much on the
environment, but on the human characters and their relations with other
humans. Altogether an excellent study in characterization, and also an
excellent read!
-Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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Review: THE SAGA OF PLIOCENE EXILE
by Julian May
A four book series:
The Many-Colored Land
The Golden Torc
The Nonborn King
The Adversary
All kidding aside, this set of books is some of the best SF I have ever
read. It is chock full of truly interesting characters, plot twists,
insight, high tech and (yes!) even some action. There are several plots
running at once. MAIN CHARACTERS actually DIE! The GOOD GUYS (if you can
tell who they are) DON'T always win! It is a delight to read and so
sprawling in it's plot that it is difficult to describe.
Without giving too much away, this is how the story works: Sometime in the
not-too-distant future humanity is part of a Galactic Milieu of minds.
There are many metapsychics that are part of this "cosmic unity". The psychic
powers (such as coercion, psychokinesis, etc.) are supposed to be genetic
traits. Those people with latent abilities have no way to make
themselves operant metapsychics.
Enter the time-gate: A scientist puts together a one way time-gate
which runs six-million years into the past. Notice: ONE WAY. Anything that
enters the time gate from the pliocene takes on the burden of six
million years of aging. Until his death he keeps the gate running as a
curiosity. Upon his death his wife supports herself by sending PEOPLE on a
one way trip into the past. Many of those disgruntled latent
metapychics take that ticket to get way from it all.
This time gate tripping goes on for many years. We then meet a group of
time travelers and follow them on their journey into the past. Instead of a
"Riverworld" type of society they find a Europe inhabited by an alien
race! These Tanu use torcs to make themselves and latent humans
operant metapychics as well as enslave those that are not latents.
Can humanity be freed from the slavery of the torcs? Do they want to be?
Is the time gate really one-way?
That little synopsis covers the first fifty pages of the first book without
giving away the juicy details. Those of you that have already read the book
know that I haven't even gotten to the really good stuff. This is too good
to spoil. It's in paperback so it won't bust your wallet to read it. Trust
me. Read it during the summer when you have time to get really involved in
it.
-Chris Condon <BITLIB @ YALEVMX>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
The Acquisition, Part One Roman Olynyk
2100 and Counting Orny
Narret Chronicles 4 Mari A. Paulson
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X-Editorial
Well, here we are! Sorry about the delay in getting issue 3-2
out, but I had to be sure the Narret Chronicles continued, and I'm
sure you'll be pleased with this copy. We start off with the first
part of a four part fantasy story by Roman Olynyk which I'm sure
will captivate you. The next article is a short story idea I came up
with which is interesting, although the copy in this issue is only a
rough draft. The idea is: What if an alien came to a post-holocaust
Earth and tried to figure out what went on, and came to the
conclusion that automobiles were the dominant life form? Finally, we
close with chapter four of the Narret Chronicles, which is drawing
towards an enthralling climax! I'm sure you will enjoy this issue
and the ones that will follow.
In news, the seventh Thieve's World book has been released by
Ace, and is titled "the Dead of Winter". This seems to be an
improvement over the previous books, and will be reviewed in issue
3-3 of FSFnet. If you are looking for it, note that the old cover
art by Walter Velez has been replaced by Gary Roddell. There is also
a new Tekumel novel out by M.A.R. Barker and DAW, called
"Flamesong". An earlier FSFnet had Mr. Barker as a featured author
and reviewed the first Tekumel book, "the Man of Gold". Finally,
Houghton Mifflin and Christopher Tolkien have combined once again to
bring us a new work, called "the Lays of Beleriand". The book
(available only in hardcover) contains several partial poems, but
concentrates on the two major stories of the Silmarillion, the
former being the Tale of Turin Turambar, and the latter being, of
course, Beren and Luthien. The two are written as "the Lay of the
Children of Hurin" and "the Lay of Leithian".
There has also been renewed interest in a BITNET Diplomacy game.
The game, marketed by the now defunct Avalon Hill Game Company, is a
classic board wargame. Anyone interested in getting a game together
(using standard postal Diplomacy rules) please get in contact with me.
Well, enough is enough! Read on and enjoy!
-Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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THE ACQUISITION
Part One: The Tavern
Far to the east, in a land more cold than warm, was nestled the
small village of Gorod. The village was situated on the plains, and
it was surrounded by distant mountains topped with dense forests of
hardwood trees. The people of Gorod were peasant folk. Stocky and
fair-haired, they farmed the rich fields and plied their simple
trades. Seldom, if ever, did anyone chance to venture from the
village. More seldom, still, did they ever return.
In the middle of Gorod stood a tavern of rough-hewn wood. The
tavern was called the Antlers, for that was what hung over the
doorway. The antlers were sun-bleached, bony white and porous,
marking their age in seasons. Fare at the Antlers was meager. The
only beverage served was mead. The mead was stout, however, and it
was the best in the village. In the evening, as the sun went down,
villagers would cease their labors and stop by for a brew and a meal
before subsequently dropping off to a restful sleep. This pastime
usually was limited to the younger folk who still had energy left
after a day's work.
Today, however, was different. The tavern bustled with farmers
anxious to hear the latest reports. A monstrous sow, which only a
few remaining elders remembered, had returned. The return of Kathryn
was news indeed!
Kathryn was far from being an ordinary sow. Some believed her to
be a demon wrought by the curse of Baba Yaga. Others thought she was
the reincarnation of Baba Yaga, the evil sorceress who had died more
than a century ago. Still recalled in tales around the hearth, the
tale of Baba Yaga was now considered as more of a children's story.
This day, even men of stout heart shivered at the mention of
Kathryn. From whence Kathryn returned, no one knew. When her foul
temper suited her, she would leave the dark forest and raze the
fields, burn the summer crops with her breath and ravage all in her
path. The countryside was blighted.
"Yeauh, I saw her!" said the Miller. "She was big as a bull, she
was. Her mouth was full of big awful teeth." The Miller grimaced to
illustrate the remark with his own jagged dental work.
"Who's going to drive her away?" asked the farmer who first saw
her.
"I saw her too," added another farmer. "She spit out a fiery
froth and set my rye ablaze. My crop is lost. What am I going to do?"
"Someone should go after her and kill her," suggested another
farmer.
Nobody looked the farmer in the eye. Nobody even wanted to hint
that he might wish to undertake such a task, for it seemed true;
Baba Yaga had returned in some other form.
"Who's going to drive her away?" Asked the same worried farmer
as he wrung his hands.
"Anyone who is fool enough to follow her back into the forest
will never return," commented another.
The door to the tavern opened and a wobbly-legged figure wended
its way around the oaken benches to find a seat near the kegs.
"Yeauh, that's a fact," sneered the Miller as he eyed Banewood
staggering through the door. "Maybe our Shaman can fix her one of
his spells. Kathryn'd get so dizzy that she might burn herself into
a hole!" Everyone laughed at the Miller's remark and at their
stumbling Shaman, who had been attempting to induce a vision by
smoking some hebona. Banewood still reeled and talked to the air as
he tried to pour himself a draught. Everyone laughed again,
forgetting Kathryn for the moment.
The apprentice Shaman sat with his mead and weathered the jeers
brought on by the Miller. Banewood wondered why he came to the
Antlers rather than stay at home to sleep off the effects of the
powerful smoke that he had used for divination. He found a quiet
seat far from the burly Miller and sipped from his flagon of mead.
His head cleared slowly. Banewood recalled his latest trance, a
flying vision through the forest to what appeared to be a
dilapidated hovel. From the darkened door peered two crimson eyes -
eyes that haunted Banewood for the remainder of his trance.
Kathryn could hardly be forgotten. She was black and as large as
the largest bull, just as the Miller had described. From her mouth,
which bristled with large and irregular teeth, she could spew a
cloud of caustic vapor that ignited objects it came in contact with.
The fact that Kathryn's eyes were red brought on the notion that she
was really Baba Yaga.
When she had lived, Baba Yaga was known for her blazing red eyes
which defied description. They shone of their own light - a bright,
bloody red glow. Tales of her sorcery were numerous. She was known
to fly and to take on animal forms. In any form she took, she worked
solely for evil. Never actually seeking mastery over men, she
controlled them only long enough to bring them to ruin. As an
outcast throughout her life, Baba Yaga came to hate humans or any
reminder that life was good.
To the inhabitants of Gorod, Baba Yaga seemed to live far beyond
her years. As time progressed, she made fewer appearances, but her
evil work continued through lesser genii who were under her mastery.
Eventually there came rumors of her death. Her demise was never
confirmed, for no one had ever approached her dwelling within the
dark forest. Whenever a marauding beast met its end, it was with the
anticipation that it might have been Baba Yaga in one of her forms.
Deathly visages, the skins of wolves and bears and a large stuffed
owl adorned the tavern wall, silent reminders that the black forest
was never far away.
When the wide doors opened again, they offered Sod the plowman
to the gossiping crowd. Sod was dressed in the brown, earth-crusted
clothes of a farmer. He was richly tanned and had the muscular
heaviness as befited his trade. Within his brow, his eyes were deep
and clear. They sparkled with a life seen in few other faces of the
village. This time, worry lines corded across the plowman's brow.
Sod went to Banewood and sat before the smiling Shaman. In his
hands, Sod carried a burlap bundle, which he placed carefully on the
table before Banewood. A crowd gathered as Banewood unwrapped it.
Silently and soberly, Banewood lifted the cloth and revealed a sword.
Before the wide eyes of the gathered crowd lay a sword of
unsurpassed beauty. It was about two cubits long, but it had the
grace and balance of a finely wrought instrument. The sword had the
gloss and weight of a material more like porcelain than metal; it
rang clearly when struck. Unadorned, the hilt was of a hard, white
material which shone immaculately. The edge was keen.
Sod looked as amazed and perplexed as Banewood. The strong but
unassuming plowman gazed steadily at the sword. The two, sword and
person, appeared almost as if they were measuring one another.
"The sword looked just like this when my plow turned it up."
Said the plowman, breaking the silence which had accumulated.
At once, theories were offered as to the possible origin of the
sword.
"It looks like it was made by magic," Said a farmer.
"It was probably made by Pollocks," snarled the Miller, who
washed his remark with a gulp of mead. The Miller, who seemed
spiteful of everything, resented his life and occupation, and he
thought that everyone should share his bitterness. To the Miller,
such crude remarks were an anodyne for the harsh realities of life.
"The sword is crafted as if it is beyond age," Banewood
countered. He shot a reproachful look at the Miller. "Yet it looks
as if it might have just been forged." It could have been made by
the Ludki, he thought silently to himself.
The Ludki were a legendary race of little people fabled for
their craftsmanship with metals. They were reputed to be
peace-loving, Banewood said "For those who believe that the present
holds the greatest marvels, I say: Look again and consider this
ancient treasure! There is some timeless magic within it."
The Shaman felt more power emanating from the strange weapon
than he stated openly. His knowledge of lore extended far beyond the
simple life of Gorod, yet he was at a loss to determine the history
of the sword. It could have been crafted by the Ludki but... his
knowledge was incomplete.
Banewood was a loner. He was twice orphaned: once by his parents
who perished in a blaze, and once by the Shaman who'd adopted him,
only to die himself several years later. The Shaman had only just
begun the long task of training his apprentice. When the Shaman
died, Banewood was left with only his master's books and the
roughest of outlines to follow in his quest for the greater
knowledge. Because Banewood continued on the road to knowledge with
no guide, a task never attempted before, he would often err. The
apprentice would sometimes find himself wandering alone in a
stuporous haze brought on by smoking some of the strange concoctions
left by the Shaman. Once, the Shaman lived, Banewood had a guide to
help him through these tortuous visions which helped to give a
Shaman his knowledge and opened the secret doors of power to him.
Now alone, Banewood faltered like a man blind. His acquisition of
power was slow and unsure.
Banewood noticed how well the sword fit the hand of the plowman.
When Sod hefted it, the sword moved easily, as if it were pliant
with the wishes of its wielder.
When the crowd at the Antlers had all viewed the sword, the
conversation turned to the possible use of the sword against
Kathryn. They talked of what damage such a sword could do to its
victim. Each offered his opinion of a sufficiently brave fellow, one
other than himself. A challenge to one's manhood was quickly
answered by bluster and puffery but not by a volunteer.
"Yeauh, maybe our Shaman could fix up one of his..."
"Shut up!" Came the unexpected response from the usually demure
Banewood.
The Miller sat transfixed, his hand at his throat, unable to
utter a sound. There was silence.
"What did you do to him!" Yelled one of the Miller's companions
as he started to lunge for Banewood.
At that instant, the room resounded with a loud bang and the
splintering of wood. One of the large oaken tables lay on the
ground, cloven in two. The lunging man stopped in his tracks and
stared in disbelief. Sod, still holding the sword, blushed. His only
response to the crowd of farmers was a firm, "I'll do it."
Comraderie again filled the air. Fresh kegs were tapped and
toasts were offered to Sod. Men normally distant to Sod hugged him
to show their admiration for him, to bask in reflected glory and to
wish the best of luck to the doomed fellow.
"Yes, with such a weapon, one could take on Baba Yaga herself!"
said a distant relative to Sod who wondered of his own claim to the
doomed man's land and oxen.
Sod left the celebration early. He needed to sleep and to ponder
the consequences of his decision. "What had happened?" he asked
himself. He had been fondling the hilt of the sword when the near
fight had broken out. He had been weighing a decision to seek the
monstrous sow and had made his resolution as the Miller made his
last remark. Sod had only thought of stopping the incipient brawl by
slapping his weapon down on the table. It was a common method of
gaining attention. Now he found himself alone on a vain quest.
Sod the plowman lived alone in his hut of modest means. The
modesty was of twofold nature: Sod spent his long days in the fields
and his nights resting from the day's labors, and Sod's livelihood
as a plowman brought him only a meager subsistence. Sod enjoyed his
occupation, for he knew he must make the best of his situation;
chances were that it would be for life. The physical exertion of
guiding a plow did not demand a similar mental exertion. Therefore,
Sod spent his working time dreaming of other lives and other worlds
- noble dreams in the mind of a simple man. In Sod's fantasy, he
would roam the kingdom as a knight errant, working deeds for glory
and profit, for surely people paid well for such special services.
These were mere dreams, however, and Sod realized that he possessed
neither the ability nor the courage to live the life of a hero.
And now what was he to do? He was commited to a suicidal quest
on the basis of momentary courage. What could he say? He found a
strange and unique weapon and that weapon offered itself as a
chance, a fleeting opportunity that must be seized and used at the
instant it was offered. Sod was unaccustomed to making such hasty
decisions, but equally, he was unaccustomed to receiving
opportunities. Sod the plowman dropped off to sleep, still clutching
his new sword.
In the early morning Sod awoke to the usual sound of birds
chirping outside his dwelling. He had already packed the meager
belongings he wished to take on his journey. Crafting a makeshift
strap, Sod girded the newfound sword to his side and stepped outside
to begin his journey. He almost stumbled across a reclining figure.
"Banewood! What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you. I'm going with you," Banewood said as he
limberly rose without the aid of his hands. A satchel lay at his
side and a quiver full of arrows hung across his back. The old
Shaman's longbow was gripped by Banewood's left hand.
"Don't you realize that this is going to be a dangerous trip?
Few venture into the forest to return again."
"Yes, I realize the consequences. I have a knowledge of the
trees, and besides, two can travel safer than one." Banewood didn't
mention that he'd already decided to attempt the quest himself.
Sod slapped his new comrade on the back and silently thanked his
luck that he would have a companion on such a fateful journey.
Together, they marched down the dusty path that led away from Gorod
and across the fields. On their walk they passed by stooped women
already gathering herbs from their gardens. A few men were working
in the fields. The men stopped momentarily to wave to the departing
travelers. The night's comraderie was worn and forgotten.
If they had talked about this journey and their reasons for
going, Banewood and Sod would each have realized their similarity.
Banewood's quest for knowledge was proceeding slowly, much too
slowly. Still, Banewood felt that he knew as much as any man in
Gorod about the ways of their world. Banewood knew that something
had to be done about Kathryn. If Gorod didn't offer a means to the
solution, then maybe the answer lay elsewhere. Sod, on the other
hand, was not on a quest for any knowledge - he was instead trapped
in the occupation of the plowman. His work had dignity, though, and
Sod felt good about it. The sword changed Sod's outlook, though. He
felt that fate was offering him some sort of opportunity - that
given the means to accomplish something, he must seize the
opportunity and act upon it. Somehow, it seemed that the sword was
capable of slaying Kathryn, and all it took was the resolve to
accomplish it.
-Roman Olynyk
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2100 AND COUNTING
The Ivory is in orbit around a planet named Foren-4. Once this
planet was home to an indigenous sentient species, but they are now
extinct. Had the invention of FTL drive come a mere few decades
earlier, I would be supervising the first contact between sentient
life forms. Maybe we could have helped them avoid their extinction
somehow. But now I am in charge of a group of archaeologists and
anthropologists, sifting through the dust that has gathered about
the bones of this once-great civilization.
Physically, the natives of this planet seem to have been
mechanical in nature. They were quadrupedal, and made primarily of
rare metals, which would indicate a synthetic nature. It is too
early to venture a hypothesis as to the origin of this species, but
I would guess that they were created by an elder race as robotic
servants who, for some reason, outlived their creators. From my
several expeditions to the surface, I have come to several
preliminary conclusions which shall be discussed in the following
report.
At a site the team visited in a place called "Detroyt-Michigan"
we found evidence supporting the hypothesis that the robots are
constructed by other nonsentient species of robots. There is no
evidence of an organized religion, and there are several reports of
large communal graves, called, in the vernacular, "junkyards".
There is very little evidence of a political system or
hierarchy, though evidence points to a system of self-government and
equality. Whether this leans towards anarchy or democracy is unknown
at this point, although further research is at this moment being
conducted.
There is, however, a vast number of observable social phenomena.
The entire globe is crisscrossed with broad avenues for travelling
with laws to govern them. I found an example of the organization of
these ways at a junction of two streets, where there were lights
which flashed "DON'T WALK" when it was unlawful or dangerous to
continue, and "WALK" when it was safe. This observation led me to
the conclusion that there was a global organization of the race. The
roads often pass by majestic views and natural phenomena, indicating
that there was a distinct respect for the natural environment from
which the race developed.
At one site I came across a large area where individuals could
gather for social interaction and entertainment. These areas, called
"Drive-Ins" have been found in several locations on Foren-4. At
other sites have been discovered large tracks where the robots could
run around and keep themselves healthy. The names "Daytona" and
"Indy" have been preserved as names of favorite tracks. This
indicates that the robots were concerned with their well-being and
perhaps enjoyed sports.
It seems that the race had also developed a sense of beauty, for
at several sites have been found structures where what were
considered the most physically attractive members of the species
were displayed behind large glass windows. These "showrooms" were
often placed close to the walkways, so that individuals could walk
by and admire the beauty of the species.
Very little has been determined about the language of the
natives, though two important facts have been interpreted. Firstly,
the language was written, as the walkways that cross the globe often
were decorated with large signs bearing messages that we have yet to
interpret. Also interesting is that the robots communicated in very
high frequencies, in the range of radio waves.
Unfortunately, very little has been determined concerning the
family structure of the natives, though there is a little to go on.
At most sites, the individuals lived in small buildings called
"garages" in nuclear family groups of usually no more than three
individuals.
At this point, I feel that the civilization at Soren deserves
much more study, as we have, in this mission, only been able to
grasp the most obvious facts about the race which once inhabited
this planet. I would hope that this expedition will be extended for
an indefinite period to gather more accurate and in-depth information.
-Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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NARRET CHRONICLES
Book the Fourth
Samo landed Narret-1 as they requested, in hanger-81, which was
not surprisingly full of anxiously awaiting scientists, and waited
for further instructions.
The scientists, mainly aerospace engineers, with a few
astronomers thrown in for good measure, gathered around the ship,
some of them speculating how the ship was propelled, others eagerly
awaiting an explanation from Samo. close!! Well, I guess I shouldn't
expect much from them, being as belligerent as they are. Still,
you'd think they would have at least begun to think in binary
instead of that awkward decimal system of theirs. I'll have to
suggest it to them before I leave." thought Samo.
Time to make an entrance, Samo thought as he changed the
polarity setting on his daser-dewelder. Using this as a laser
cutting torch, he opened the door to the craft. A flood of dazzling
brightness the likes of which no one had ever seen rushed into the
hanger, momentarily blinding everyone in the room.
"I'm sorry about that." Samo said as he stepped down from the
spherical craft, "It's one of the affects of trans-universal travel,
when a body full of darktron radiation undergoes a
matter-anti-matter reaction, then that radiation gets converted to
light, provided it isn't turned to pure energy and is vaporized
during the light-warp of course."
"It's effect should last only a few minutes, but you those of
you looking at the door as I opened it may be seeing spots for a
short while. It is generally considered about the same as looking
directly at your sun for a moment with the unaided eye."
"In the meantime, I'm sure you must have some questions. I shall
entertain a few of them now if you like. However any questions
pertaining to why I am here must and shall be floored before an
international forum."
"I'm sorry gentlemen, but Dr. Ht wont be able to answer your
questions just yet," interrupted Colonel Roberts as he entered the
hangar. "He has to go through the post-flight debriefing procedure
that is undergone by all intercepted aircraft, being an alien makes
no exception."
What am I saying? Of course it makes an exception, he thought to
himself. This is crazy!!
"Dr. Ht will be available to answer all your questions after he
answers the Air Force's questions, and he addresses the United
Nations. Arrangements are being made at this hour for a special,
secret meeting of the United Nations, in response to your request.
Now Dr Ht. if you'll come with us we'll go to the debriefing room."
"I'm sure you realize how very irregular this situation is,
we're doing the best we can to have this meeting organized, but not
all of the countries are as eager to respond as you may have thought."
"Oh, don't worry about the others, I have the feeling they will
be coming," said Samo.
"We have several questions for you and, given the circumstances,
I hope you can see why we feel we need to ask them. This shouldn't
take very long, please bear with us," said Colonel Roberts.
"First of all," began Captain Phillips, "Will you state for the
record once again where it is you come from and why you're here?"
"I come from the Planet Sunaru in the Narret System, by a
technology much more advanced than your own. The Narret System is a
stellar counter-part to your own solar system, within the
counter-universe. My home planet is the Planet Amrif Arret. It
corresponds directly to this planet, Earth. I am here because we
believe you humans have pushed the threat of global nuclear war to
the brink of a disaster of cosmological proportions. What your
people have failed to realize is that there is an entirely contrary
universe out there, ours, which is the exact complement to your own
universe. And, quite simply, those things which you choose to
destroy here will also cause their complement in the
counter-universe to be destroyed. My people will not sit back and
watch our complement world destroy us, our peace, our prosperity,
all that which we value highly. Thus it was decided that I should be
sent to give a warning to the human race, and do whatever I deemed
necessary to preserve peace here."
"Secondly, what is it you want from the United States, officially?"
"On my journey here, which takes light some 16 of your years
within this universe alone (for us it is faster) I studied the
history of your world and found no concepts of virtue and moral
wealth greater than those noble statements recorded in your
Declaration of Independance, and your Constitution. I therefore
sought to begin seeking peace amongst those who value it most
greatly. It was simply logical, I assure you. I thought, and still
think your people will be most receptive to me, and to my necessary
appeal for peace."
"Very well, you've made your intent very clear Dr. Ht. We are
prepared to let you have the forum you requested, this very
afternoon. Until then though our scientists would like to give you a
complete physical to determine if you're undergoing any serious
side-effects from--"
"At the risk of sounding a bit facetious, I hardly think any of
your physicians could be called competent in examining me. Primarily
since they don't know what my 'norm' is. Honestly, how can they
expect to determine whether or not I'm undergoing any side-effects?
Obviously then, what they really want is to stick me full of needles
and try to make some heads or tails out of my AND molecular
structure. So, why didn't you just ask that in the first place? I
can provide them with all the necessary data from my ship's bio-log
computer, and a small blood sample to verify the truth of my data.
Isn't that what they really want?"
"Yes, I would imagine that would suffice. Any knowledge you can
give us about your people would be of great use and be much appreciated."
"Good, then no needles will be necessary. If there's one thing I
can't stand its a bunch of curious physicians sticking needles in
every appendage of my body. I hate needles..."
-Mari A. Paulson
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magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n3
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+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER THREE
| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
| ++ | F S F NN N E T
| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <NMCS025@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
The Acquisition, Part Two Roman Olynyk
Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER - TW7 Orny
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X-Editorial
Well, folks, again I find myself apologizing for the lateness of
this issue. Unfortuantely I have been busy with my new job. For
those of you who are not already aware, I now have a new id, LISCOMB
at MAINE, as well as NMCS025. Should NMCS025 be unavailable, I may
be reached at LISCOMB, but for the time being FSFnet will continue
to be sent from NMCS025. Other news is that the most recent issue of
FSFnet can be found on CSNEWS at MAINE's ComDisk and can be
requested using TELL CSNEWS AT MAINE SENDME FSFNET VOLxNxx FROM COMDISK.
Also in the works is a new project for all people interested in
writing amateur fantasy fiction. A group of FSFnet contributors and
myself have begun a writers' workshop very similar in structure to
the Thieves' World project undertaken by Robert Aspirin. Several
authors have begun developing characters and stories, all based in
an area known as Dargon. FSFnet VOL4N01 should contain the first
written results of this project, and will be in your reader in
mid-January. If any of you budding authors are interested in joining
the effort, send me a mail file and I'll be glad to fill you in.
Unfortunately, there is no Narret Chronicle in this issue due to
the fact that I cannot get in touch with the author. Hopefully we
will get Narret back before volume 4 starts.
Finally, I'd like to remind you all that it's the holiday
season, and everyone's got a new book out. New McCaffrey, Anthony,
Tolkien, Adams, Daley, Asimov, Stasheff, and anyone else you can
think of. No time to review them all right now. Next issue the
Acquisition will continue, and I'll review M.A.R. Barker's new
Tekumel book, Flamesong, and, if I get it read, Norman Spinrad's
Star Spangled Future. Until then!
-Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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THE ACQUISITION
Part Two: The Forest
Beyond the short expanse of cultivated fields, the two travelers
soon crossed the boundary of scrub that marked the edge of the
forest. At first, the woods were characterized by light beeches,
birches and poplars. The leaves of the poplars were waxy and rustled
crisply in the soft breeze.
Banewood recalled his early childhood when he would venture into
the light woods in search of edible mushrooms, a favored delicacy of
the local people. With his sharp and experienced vision he could
still pick out his favorites protruding through the fallen leaves.
It was here, while gathering mushrooms that Banewood heard many of
the childhood tales and legends passed to him by his parents: tales
of the Ludki, those mischievous little people who lived deep within
the forest and tales of Lessy, the Silvan Lord, who made strange
animal sounds and led lost children astray. Banewood remembered how
his father would then make animal sounds and frighten him for the
rest of the day. Stories of Baba Yaga, embellished over the years,
would cause tears of fright to well up into young Banewood's eyes.
Now, years older, Banewood still felt the burning in his face as he
realized that Baba Yaga might be real and that he might meet face to
face with the blistering eyes of Kathryn.
As the two journeyed onward, the character of the forest
changed. Dark oaks and towering elms now lined their path. The
leaves of years lay upon the ground, crackling with every step.
Animal sounds diminished.
Banewood and Sod picked their way uphill, climbing an overgrown
path which led to an uncertain fate. Throughout the day, Banewood
and Sod walked the leagues of dark forest, constantly catching
cobwebs in the face and beleaguered by blood-thirsty deer flies
scenting their first human.
At the top of the rise, the two travelers paused to rest. Sod
sat still in the hope of delivering a killing blow to the ravenous
deer fly which had doggedly followed him during most of the climb.
"I think we should make our first camp here," said Banewood.
"We're on the nearest hilltop and we'll have ample warning of
anything approaching."
"Gotcha!" Sod finally killed the deer fly which had settle in
his hair for a fateful supper. Sod picked the scrawny insect from
his hair. "If we build a smoldering fire we might be able to spend a
night without these cursed flies." Sod gathered some dead twigs that
still hung on the tree. After arranging them carefully, he reached
into his bag and brought out his flint and steel. Within minutes a
small fire was being tended. Banewood walked the perimeter of their
encampment and stopped occasionally to pick at some plants growing
scattered on the ground. He returned and gave them to Sod.
"Here, use these on the fire. They'll keep away the flies better
than the smoke."
"Thank you," said Sod. He threw them on the small fire and
whiffed the fragrant aroma created by the consumed leaves. "How did
you learn so much about herbs?" asked Sod, who already knew the
answer. He was fighting his nervousness with small talk.
"Most of what I know comes from the Shaman," said Banewood
obligingly. "Now I have to learn from his books, but the details are
really meager. Most of the Shaman's knowledge was in his vast
memory. He said that certain books did exist. The Shaman said the
books were dangerous because they could fall into the wrong hands."
Banewood and Sod ate a meal of wafer bread and dried meat and
then slept lightly upon cushions of leaves and boughs laid upon the
ground. Shallow holes were dug out to provide recesses for their
hips. Smoldering coals kept away the night flies, but they didn't
ward off Banewood's evil dreams; the crimson eyes still haunted him.
Dawn came with the cry of a horned owl.
The dying coals were fed a breakfast of fresh tinder.
Hard-boiled eggs and a little herb tea saw the worried travelers on
their way. Revitalized by the rest, Banewood and Sod trekked down
the slope, meandering ever deeper into the dark forest. Soon
Banewood's sharp eye caught the first impression of the large cloven
hoofs that were to show them the way. The tracks were too large to
belong to anything else except Kathryn. Broken branches and an
uprooted tree lent credence to the supposition. To Sod's relief, the
tracks were fairly old.
Sod fretted about his decision to hunt the sow. The mysterious
sword whose hilt he often fondled didn't seem like a weapon that
could stop a charging sow. Funny how he thought that if he set his
mind to killing Kathryn, he would find a way. Could they do it by
craft and artifice? Maybe by setting up a dead fall or some other
booby trap? Funnier still was the feeling that it was the sword
which seemed to whisper that, given the resolve, Sod would be able
to meet the challenge.
Banewood and Sod journeyed down the slope, up the next hill and
down another slope. Leagues passed beneath their feet. They skipped
lunch and walked under the power of their stored energy. They
continued on slight paths which joined and separated through the
forest. Occasionally, Sod would stop to mark a tree at eye level,
entertaining the hope that they would somehow return by this route.
Banewood now walked with his bow in hand, ever keeping a watchful
eye on the path behind them.
The Shaman's longbow proved its value later in the day when
Banewood knocked down a squirrel with a special blunt-tipped arrow.
They carried the black squirrel with them after quickly field
dressing it. The little tree rat, as Banewood called it, had set up
a frightful chattering before it met its final doom. Sod and
Banewood both agreed that it would be a good idea to cover some more
distance before feasting on the tree rat. There was no telling what
attention was called by the noisy animal and, besides, they didn't
want to prepare the tree rat until they were ready to make camp.
The two journeymen walked with greater care after killing the
squirrel. Banewood regretted his slaying of the little tree rat. He
now had the uneasy feeling that the forest knew of their presence,
that they were somehow being watched. Sod sensed Banewood's distress
or maybe he, too, felt the paranoia. He tightened his grip on the
sword. Banewood now walked with an arrow nocked. His fingers
whitened from their tight grip.
Every minute sound that the two seekers made was amplified by
the forest. Once, when Banewood turned quickly around, he thought he
noticed a pair of amber eyes watching them, but they disappeared
quickly and he was no longer sure. Tension increased with every
step. Both travelers began to perspire. Suddenly, the explosion of a
dry twig snapping sent Banewood and Sod into a back-to-back
position, their weapons drawn and poised. An electric tension pulsed
within them, begging to surge, asking for release. But nothing happened.
No other sound was heard throughout the forest. After
excruciating minutes of silence, Banewood and Sod voted to resume
their walk. Several more hours of travel brought them to a small
stream in the forest. The water looked wholesome, affording the two
an opportunity to refill their flasks and to bathe. This looked like
the ideal place to pitch camp and prepare a welcome supper.
Banewood's tree rat no longer looked as appetizing; however, it was
the best food that they had. Throughout the meal and respite they
remained watchful, for the penetrating silence of the forest remained.
Evening had settled rapidly. Sod and Banewood ate near their
fire, slowly finishing their meal and conversing. The fire cast a
bright glow around the immediate circumference, but outside, the
darkness was forbidding. Sod thought again about his quest.
"If I hadn't found this sword, I probably would never have
attempted such a foolish venture," Sod thought to himself. "This
fine looking weapon is of too fine a quality for a man like me. I
wonder if I shouldn't give it to someone worthy of possessing such a weapon."
Aloud, Sod said "We've been in this forest for two days. It
doesn't appear to hold the danger I had anticipated."
"The danger lies in our laxness if we trust in our safety,"
replied Banewood, parrying Sod's wishful thought. "Tonight I am
sleeping with my bow in hand."
Speaking the unspoken, Sod said "Then you also feel like we've
been watched?"
"Ya," replied Banewood. "I thought I saw it once, a pair of
eyes. I've learned to trust my intuition."
Tensing and grabbing for his sword, Sod said "Your intuition was
right! Look! Out there, see those eyes? I don't think they're
friendly." Sod pointed in the direction of the creek.
They both stood up and moved around the fire, placing it between
themselves and the presence. The same amber eyes Banewood had
thought he'd seen earlier were slowly reeling toward them. When
their distance from the eyes was cut in half, Sod threw an armful of
dry tinder upon the fire and threw extra light out into the night.
"It's a wolf." Whispered Banewood.
"It's too big." Answered Sod, who was beginning to quake in his
boots. His sweaty fingers grasped the sword tighter. "How am I going
to kill the wolf if it attacks?" he thought, questioning his ability
to wield the sword.
A deep, gutteral growl emanated from the large slavering beast.
It crept forward with its belly low to the ground, ready to leap at
the instant. Sod raised his sword slightly and then cried out.
"Oh no!"
In the same instant that the fell beast launched itself toward
them, Sod's sword slipped out of his hand and dropped to the ground
at a distance. The lunging hulk darkened his view. Sod heard a
snapping chord like the sound of his heart breaking. The wind rushed
past his left ear.
In a massive thud, a large wolf, larger than any Sod had ever
seen or heard of before, fell at his side. Its eyes were wide open
and its lips were curled in a hideous grimace. A feathered shaft
protruded from its throat.
Banewood's hand rested on Sod's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"You killed him. I thought I was going to die and, just as
suddenly, this wolf is dead instead. You've saved my life. How can I
repay you?"
"Don't worry; it all comes out in the wash. But what happened at
the last second? Why did you drop your sword?"
"I don't know... I guess my mind went blank. The sword seemed to
slip from my hands," said Sod. "I've never seen such a fine shot. I
think the wolf was dead before it hit the ground!"
"I've tipped some of my arrows with the juice of the aconitum;
it is a deadly poison."
"With such a weapon as yours, you could single-handedly slay Kathryn!"
"It won't work. I've already tried," answered Banewood.
Sod was taken aback by this. "There's certainly more to this
Shaman than meets the eye," he thought. Aloud, "When did you try that?"
"On the last night that Kathryn attacked I hid myself and loosed
my best arrow against her. It shattered as if it had hit a rock."
Sod was incredulous. "How are we ever going to stop her if she
is as you say?"
"I don't know. We'll think of something."
"Ya," Sod said without sincerity.
The wolf was enormous, but Banewood and Sod, after endeavoring
for the better part of an hour, managed to drag the beast away from
the camp. The two found no difficulty in dropping off to sleep, for
though the forest was still dangerous, it now possessed one less threat.
Dawn came without a sound. Banewood and Sod got up and fed the
fire and went to the creek for water. On the way, they looked for
the wolf, but it was gone! They searched around the area in the hope
that they were disoriented last night when they dragged the wolf
out. It was gone. Now a very real fear possessed them; it may have
been Baba Yaga. How else can a dead animal disappear? Sod's empty
stomach felt like it held a rock.
Suddenly, through the trees, they heard a musical voice.
Banewood and Sod quickly reached for their weapons. Through the tall
trees they could see an approaching figure. It was gaily dressed and
wore a tall, pointed hat with a feather in its band. It sang:
"Hey ho, hey ho,
the wolk's a dead you know.
for if it ain't a dead
then I'm a not alive
and I know I'd better go!"
The two stood with their mouths open. Marching straight up to
them was a short person, a very little person, with large round eyes
and a pudgy little nose.
"Hello, hello, my name is Stickleburr unless I'm not, of course."
Sod and Banewood found themselves face to face with one of the
Ludki. The childhood descriptions were indeed accurate. He looked so odd!
"I want to thank you for killing the great wolk because he's no
longer alive. He has been plaguing my people for years, but not for
years to come. Anyway, they're not really my people, they are their
own people, but I guess you wouldn't call us people, would you?"
Banewood spoke: "I...I thought that the wolf, I mean wolk,
wasn't dead, that maybe it was really Baba Yaga."
Stickleburr jumped. "Oh, no! I mean yes, it was really a wolk.
It's certainly dead now, isn't it? You two are heroes, unless of
course you don't think so. So that's the wolksmert, isn't it?" Said
Stickleburr pointing to Sod's strange sword.
"Wolksmert?" Replied Sod. "Oh, yes. Certainly." He laughed at
the irony, because "wolksmert" meant "wolfslayer" in the eastern tongue.
"Yes, most certainly," laughed Stickleburr. "You two can come
with me unless you can't. We want to thank you properly, and it's
not proper to thank you here."
Banewood and Sod agreed to follow the Ludki back to his home.
They quickly broke camp and gathered their belongings. They
whispered and laughed among themselves, marvelling at the strange
speech pattern of Stickleburr: Ludki always followed the assertion
of a positive statement with it's negative. It was a most curious
pattern of speech, but it wasn't curious at all to the Ludki.
Within a half-hour, the three came in sight of the Ludki
village. It was set in a small dale cleared of trees. Little houses
in the shape of bee hives lay haphazard about the village. Wisps of
smoke curled out of their tops. The Ludki were fond of smithing, as
was evident from the many miniature iron furnaces that sent their
black smoke up over the rooftops. The Ludki village had evidently
been in this location for some time because much of the area was
cleared of the hardwood trees essential for the making of charcoal
needed to smelt the iron.
The little people walked about in gaily colored clothes. The
Ludki men wore high pointed hats dressed up with bright feathers.
They were a happy folk. The air was full of whistling and the songs
of their merriment.
When Stickleburr and the two travelers approached, the village
folk poured out to meet the heros. Stickleburr began introducing his
family and the more prominent of the Ludki to the strangers. The
names came rapidly: Milfoil, Hyssop, Lavender, Mullien, Five
Fingers, Violet, and, well, you get the idea; they were all names of
plants that the Ludki were fond of. At the bark of orders from
Stickleburr, the Ludki busied themselves with preparations for a
great feast. The men set up tables and stools, built fires and
brought out kegs of mead. The Ludki women quickly filled their ovens
with various breads and foods until the heavenly aroma replaced the
acrid smell of smelting iron. The Ludki loved feasting and
merriment, and this occasion, as any other, was an excellent
opportunity to lay aside their work. The fearful wolk which had
terrorized the Ludki for so many years was dead, slain at the hands
of the tall folk and wolksmert.
Among the Ludki, wolksmert was the center of much attention.
Their large eyes beamed with admiration and the little hands
eagerly, but reverently, touched the fine metal. From the Ludki,
Banewood could learn nothing about the sword, but by their evident
joy at seeing it and the two travelers, the Ludki seemed strangely elated.
Even while the preparations were still underway, the eager
little Ludki began to celebrate with joyous abandon. Musicians began
their tunes and the mead was passed around. And such mead! Banewood
and Sod both drank and agreed that it was the best they had ever
tasted. How the Ludki could consume so much of it without the
obvious signs of inebriation, they couldn't guess.
During the feast, Stickleburr talked with the two strangers and
learned the reason for their sojourn into the deep forest. At the
news, Stickleburr balked but then regained his composure.
"Oh yes, we had most certainly believed that Baba Yaga had died,
for we had not seen her alive. And Kathryn, oh yes, we had heard
whisperings of her rampages, else we were deaf. Kathryn is Baba
Yaga? We most certainly hope she isn't!"
"Yes, most certainly," agreed Banewood.
Sod, careful not to spill a drop of the mead he was drinking,
looked at Stickleburr and asked, "Do you know of the way to the hut
of Baba Yaga?"
Stickleburr replied "No, no...well yes, sort of. I know the way
but I don't know how to get there. It's a long way off, although not
that far to someone as long-legged as you, though for yourselves,
I'm sure you're not all that long-legged."
Stickleburr was beginning to show some signs of inebriation.
Banewood and Sod sat back to enjoy the feast. They watched the
antics of the Ludki as they danced their high-kicking dances and
swung their arms in the air. With a shout, the dancers punctuated
the songs with a "hey!" At length, even the subdued travelers were
on their feet and kicking. The Ludki laughed and clapped to urge on
the long-legged dancers. Sod twirled like a top and bobbed like a
cork. At a feverish pace, he was caught-up in the festive mood.
Moments before he could dance no more, the song stopped with a
rousing "hey!"
Stickleburr was much impressed with the two travelers. After
slapping both of them on the shoulders, the squat little fellow
mounted a stump and cleared his throat.
"Ahem!" The crowd became silent. "I'd like to express the thanks
of all Ludki for what you two have done. We couldn't have done it ourselves."
Stickleburr brought out a long object and handed it to Sod.
"This is for the wolksmert unless it's for something else.
Sod looked at the fine-crafted sheath given to him by the Ludki.
The sword slid silently into it's scabbard. Sod expressed his thanks
with a smile and a nod.
"And these," continued Stickleburr, "are for the Banewood and
they're not for anyone else."
Banewood received a quiver full of fine, Ludki-crafted arrows
with razor-sharp metal heads. The shafts were straighter than any
Banewood had ever seen.
With great bombast, the swaying Stickleburr went on to offer the
friendship of the Ludki to Banewood and Sod. Much to his surprise,
Sod immediately took him up on his offer for assistance. This was a
surprise, because the Ludki had very traditional views of
hospitality. After favors, guests did not customarily ask for more.
But Sod did. He wanted to know the way to Baba Yaga's hut. The Ludki
blanched at such a request. Oh horrors! But it was only a request
for directions; the Ludki need not accompany the travelers. Anyway,
thanks to the mead, Stickleburr was in a jovial mood. He went so far
as to offer guidance to the outside of their realm.
-Roman Olynyk <VM0BA9 @ WVNVM>
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Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER
Thieves' World Book Seven
Robert Lynn Aspirin's Thieves' World series continues in this
new paperback from Ace, and it is, in my opinion, quite a step up.
The most recent TW books have been, to me, a letdown. They were
bogged down with the heavy-handed politics of Sanctuary and were not
interesting to read. Book 7 starts slowly, but soon improves vastly
into what I believe to be the best TW book written to date. The
Veiled Lady, by Andrew Offut, is a very warm and amusing tale of
Ahdio, the keeper of Sly's Place in Downwind. When the Spirit Moves
You, by Aspirin, is also one of the best tales TW has put out, and
nowehere near as heavy-handed as previous efforts. The Color of
Magic by Diana Paxson returns us to the household of Lalo the Limner
and Gilla, who is taken captive by a Roxane who is determined to
sink Santuary in a storm of epic porportions. For me, however, the
most wonderful story was by Diane Duane, called Down by the
Riverside. It is an account of the death of Harran and what happens
when the twin goddesses Sivieni and the once-mute Mriga find out.
They and their dog, Tyr, elicit the aid of Ischade in a
wonderfully-depicted descent to Hell and back, and is filled with
surprises. Buy the book if just for this story!
This book is a must for TW fans, and a wonderful breath of fresh
air after the dry politics of the previous books. You may be
surprised to find that cover art is being done by Gary Ruddell, so
the book looks a little different, but you should have no trouble
finding it. Unless, of course, the bookstore runs out before you get
your copy!
-Orny <NMCS025 @ MAINE>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Narret Chronicles, Book 3 Mari A. Paulsen
The Acquisition, Part 3 Roman Olynyk
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X-Editorial
Well, I had this issue all set to go out before Christmas, and
then Yale went down for vacation. Sigh. Well, I guess late is better
than never. In this issue we continue with both the Acquisition and
the Narret Chronicles, thanks to Mari's staying up until 3am to type
it in. I hope you enjoy them. There will be one more issue in Volume
3, which will follow on the heels of this issue, before we start
Volume 4 and the Dargon writing project. By the way, I've rewritten
the FSFnet sending program again. Anyone who wants to change the
program I use to send their issues please mail me. You may choose
from: DISK DUMP (class N), PUNCH (noheader class m), and SENDFILE
(netdata). If anyone is really into CARD DUMP, I'll even use that!
For those of you who haven't heard, and didn't notice, FSFnet is
being sent out from a new id - CSDAVE at MAINE. Due to the work I do
on CSNEWS, NMCS025 has been changed to CSDAVE. FSFnets will continue
coming out, but from CSDAVE. NMCS025 is no longer in the CP
directory, so please forward any mail or messages to either CSDAVE
or LISCOMB at MAINE.
Finally, just when you thought it was safe to write a Thieves'
World review, TW 8 has just been released. More details (and a
review) as soon as possible!
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Third
"Dr. Ht this is Dr. Terrence Seni of the Armed Forces Institute
of Pathology at Sir Walter Reed Medical Center, and Dr. Adam Tristy
of the American College of Surgeons. They will be examining you,
with your permission of course."
"Surely." said Samo
"Dr Seni is the nation's foremost pathologist, and Dr. Tristy is
one our most prominent bio-physicists."
"Really, well this is quite a reception... Pleased to meet both
of you gentlemen. You can examine me if you wish, but I'd rather
provide you with the data myself. You see, I have all the pertinent
information on our physiology stored on tape in my craft. Allow me a
moment will you and I'll be back with the data you wish for in
several of your languages.
"Here you are, 'Yarg's Complete Physiology of the Narretan' a
Narret classic physiology text. The best ever produced! That should
answer all your questions concerning our physiology, but I'll bet
you still want to know about my AND molecular structure. That I'll
leave up to you."
"Could we take a small blood sample to help us study the makeup
of your circulatory, respiratory, lymphatic, and immune systems?
Such a sample would provide us with the AND molecular structure data
we also desire." asked Dr. Seni.
"Sure." said Samo "I'd be glad to help in any way I can. I'm a
scientist myself. I was only kidding when I said I hate needles. I
was just trying to get a laugh."
"Make a fist," said Seni as he searched Samo's arm's densly
packed molecules for a vein. "This may pinch a little."
"No sweat," said Samo. "What you gentlemen will really be
interested in though, is the fact that in the counter-universe, we
are not solid creatures at all, as you know it."
"Really?" queried Tristy as he took notes.
"Yes, really." said Samo. "At home, on Amrif Arret, we are by
our own nature of a gaseous form. As your molecular forces are
attractive here, ours are repulsive, thus, we are all perfectly
non-solid, as opposed to your solidity."
"How extraordinarily fascinating!" exclaimed Tristy.
"In fact all our worlds, stars, everything is unbound but space,
which is the solid through which we all pass. That is why I can get
here so much faster in our system of time, our entire concept of
time is based on density of our solid space, rather than the
vacuousness of yours. It is far easier, I assure you, for a plasma to
pass through a solid than a solid to pass through a vacuum."
"Ahh, I got all but that last bit then I lost you, could you
clarify the part about easier..." started Dr. Tristy.
"Surely," Samo interrupted "You see, when we pass through the
solid form of our space, we use the actual binding forces of the
particles in motion of the spatial-solid in order to propel
ourselves. Thus we can utilize the very nature of our 'space'
itself, as a means, or force of propulsion. Do you understand that
better, doctor?"
"Much better, thank you. I must say this is all quite astounding.."
"Not at all, simply the state of nature doctor. Which reminds
me, I wish to make a statement on the wisdom of our physicians in
the Narret System. If you would be so kind as to record it doctor,
I'm sure all of humanity will find it of great use."
"Surely, any advice you can give would be held in highest regard
by our scientific communities." said Dr. Tristy
"It came to pass, through the thousands of Losar Cycles (what
you call years) of our existence, that our physicians began to use
the fundamental laws of nature in their favor. Rather than fight the
immune system for example, they found ways of strengthening it,
bolstering its abilities. Cancer, as another example was found to
contain cells of a much stronger variety than those said to be
normal. What our physicians did was to retrain the immune system to
work on the AND structure within the Cancerous cells, so that the
dominant Cancer cells were effectively "programmed" to conduct the
function of the tissue it replaced. And this new, Cancerous
super-cell was stronger and better than the original cell it
replaced, because it lives longer and is less suceptable to other
diseases. Therefore your physicians should also learn to work with
and not against nature."
"Thats absolutely astounding. You've just helped us realize how
far we've set back Cancer research in the last 50 years. We've been
trying to eradicate it for so long we completely overlooked the
possibility of trying to turn it into something useful. Incredible!"
"I see you're rather enthused at the prospect." said Samo.
"Enthused? I'm simply overjoyed at the possibility that there's
a cure for our worst killer. Cancer claims millions of lives here
each year."
"Yes, I know..." stated Samo.
"Dr Ht. you have no idea how much just that little information
you just shared with us means, how many millions of peoples lives
this few minutes you've shared with us will save. Mankind shall be
forever in your debt."
"Oh, I think I do." said Samo "Remember, peace and understanding
throughout these universes is what I came here for. And sharing a
little scientific knowledge in the process is the least I can do. If
you gentlemen will excuse me, I see the colonel at the door. I have
another speech to give, and I hope if everything goes well, you
gentlemen may get a little more time to work on your medical problems."
-Mari A. Paulson
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The Acquisition
The Hut
In the morning, bright and early, Banewood and Sod were woken by
the sound of little marching feet. A troop of gaily dressed Ludki in
tall, feathered hats approached them.
"Hey Hyssop! Hey Burdock!" shouted Stickleburr as he clapped his
hands. Immediately, two little people ran forward. Stickleburr
addressed Banewood and Sod.
"Good morning, unless it's already mid-day. My two sons and
myself will accompany you to the borders of our realm unless you
don't wish to be accompanied. First, though, you must have breakfast."
Stickleburr clapped his hands again and several Ludki approached
with steaming plates of food. The travelers ate with relish, though
there wasn't any. From a nearby keg they filled their flasks with a
light mead and they were ready to depart.
Banewood and Sod followed the Ludki as they marched off, their
pace marked by the rhythm of the Ludki's singing. Hyssop and Burdock
marched ahead while Stickleburr walked and chatted with Banewood and
Sod. He told them about the paths ahead and how they must not stray,
lest they tread paths unknown. He told them to be on their guard for
the Silvan Lord, for these were his woods. The Silvan Lord, or Lessy
as he was better known, would lead them astray with his lies. Lessy
was a liar at heart and he delighted in deluding the hopelessly
lost. He would draw them to one point and then to another, then to
another and yet another. However, there was one way of outsmarting
the Lessy. It was a method known only to the Ludki, and it was
Stickleburr's parting gift to the travelers.
"Lessy is a liar," said Stickleburr, "for he can't tell the
truth. To get to the truth, if it's lies you don't want, you must
wear your clothes inside-out or outside-in if they're already
inside-out. Your shoes you must wear on the opposite feet unless, of
course, your feet are already opposite. Then you just wear your feet
opposite."
Banewood and Sod laughed aloud at Stickleburr's foolish words.
"It is worthy of a children's rhyme even though it doesn't
rhyme," Banewood said.
They all laughed again at the strange paradox of Ludki speech.
After their having walked away the longest part of the day, and
after their having heard innumerable anecdotes from Stickleburr, the
two travelers parted company with the Ludki. Banewood and Sod
marched on at a much faster pace, since they needn't keep time with
the short-legged Ludki. Once again, the brightness of sunlight and
companionship dimmed as the travelers departed the realm of
civilization. The dark forest seemed darker without the chatter of
the little people.
A dark, sinuous path pointed out by Stickleburr led in the
direction of the setting sun. The roots of gnarled oaks lay twisted
across the path, occasionally catching the carefully placed feet of
the plowman. Spider webs built across the gaps of branches often
ended up in the faces of Banewood and Sod, tickling their noses and
generally making their way unpleasant. Pale mushrooms of the deadly
varieties could sometimes be seen lining the edge of the path.
Strange animal sounds echoed through the trees.
After hours of walking, the travelers still had not found a
resting place suitable for a night's encampment. Though the sun was
possibly an hour away from setting, the way had become dark and
difficult to navigate because of the forest canopy. At length,
Banewood and Sod stopped to decide which way the path was supposed
to lead. The forest seemed more alive at this dusky hour than it had
earlier in the day. Birds chirped and strange animals chattered
beyond the distant trees.
"I don't know," said Sod, "maybe we should stop right here and
wait until morning. I just can't be sure of keeping on the right
path if we go on."
"Oh, don't worry, I'll show you the way to go from here," a
strange voice answered.
Banewood and Sod quickly drew their weapons and stood ready.
Wolksmert glowed reddish from the light of the evening sun. Before
them stood an eerie sight. A greenish man, or something resembling a
man, though much taller, stood a dozen paces before them. His eyes
had an orange, malevolent glow. They appeared cat-like. Banewood
feared the worst, for to his inexperienced knowledge, the eyes
reminded him of Baba Yaga's. The apparition was dressed in what
appeared to be leaves. A bird nest was perched upon the shoulder.
Sod felt the hilt of his sword slide through the sweaty grip of
his fingers. His hand clenched Wolksmert tighter. He wondered about
what action he should take. Quickly, he decided that it would be
safest to let the creature make the first move.
The green figure stood before them and made a chirping sound
like a bird. He clapped his hands and then smiled. It was a
friendly, disarming smile.
"Take the path straight ahead until you come to a fork," said
the strange apparition. "Then, bear left until you come to a large
boulder and proceed to your right until you come to an old tree.
>From the tree, go left until you meet the next tree, then take a
sharp right to the first stream. You can't miss it."
"Uh, excuse us for a moment, if you please, sir." Banewood
tugged at Sod's shoulder and pulled him away.
"Oh yes, most certainly, yes, yes." The green man laughed,
clapped his hands and chattered like a tree rat.
"What's the matter? Who's that? What are we doing?" Sod's
questions came quickly and nervously.
"Shhhh!" hissed Banewood as he led Sod out of sight of the green
man. When they were safely out of sight, Banewood said, "That must
be Lessy, the Silvan Lord. Stickleburr warned us of him. Remember,
he'll lie to get us lost. Let's hurry and turn our clothes inside out."
As quickly as they could, Banewood and Sod pulled their clothes
off and reversed them. They turned the insides outside and helped
each other button-up from the back. They did the same with their
britches. Then, they pulled off their boots and placed them
opposite: left boot on right foot and right boot on left foot. When
they had finished, they smiled sheepishly and stepped back out into
the open. Lessy was patiently waiting, whistling to himself and smiling.
When the Silvan Lord saw how Banewood and Sod appeared, his
orange eyes opened wide and bulged. He stood stiff with his fingers
out-stretched.
"Eeaarrgh! Owwww!" Screamed Lessy. He jumped around and emitted
more strange sounds.
Sod stood nonplussed, unable to move during the exhibition.
Banewood took the initiative and said aloud: "Tell us, Silvan
Lord, which is the way to the hut of Baba Yaga."
"Eeaarrgh! Owwww! I'll talk, I'll tell you the truth, I promise!
I'll tell you anything, but pulleese! Straighten-out your clothes!"
Banewood and Sod felt sorry for the Silvan Lord. Evidently, the
truth was so foreign to Lessy that it caused him great discomfort.
When Banewood and Sod had put their clothes back on outside-outside,
they returned to Lessy. The Silvan Lord was now docile, almost
subdued; he was saddened by his loss of victims to his trickery.
"Yes, most certainly," said Lessy, "I will show you the way to
Baba Yaga's hut. Yes, then you'll wish you were lost! Follow me."
Banewood and Sod walked behind Lessy as he led them through the dark
forest night.
Since they had first met the Silvan Lord, the sun had set,
changing the long shadows to a solid smear of blackness. The two
travelers were both stabbed by the sharp pang of doubt as to whether
Lessy could be held to his word. Whatever the status of Lessy's
honor, Banewood and Sod realized that they were both in the hands of
the Lord of the Forest.
Lessy strode before them, mumbling to himself and emitting more
strange sounds. More than once, Banewood and Sod had tripped on tree
roots and stumbled to the ground. Low branches snapped back by Lessy
often caught Sod in the face and chest, leaving him sore and scored.
The long hours of night were unbearably drawn out in this manner.
When the slender rays of first morning light pierced through the
trees, the three travelers found themselves on the edge of the
forest. Sod felt a heaviness in his stomach when the first
realization of their plight hit him: How were they to return?
Neither of them had thought of marking their way.
Lessy turned to face the exhausted travelers. The faint light
barely illuminated his gnarled and worn face. Banewood and Sod could
only concentrate on the eyes-- those strange cat-like slits
surrounded by an orange glow.
"Here is where I'll leave you," said Lessy. "The rest of the way
is before you. You'll probably reach the hut by mid-day." Lessy
chuckled as he pointed to the path before them. As quickly as when
they had found him, the Silvan Lord disappeared into the green
growth of the forest.
The path lay before them. Banewood and Sod stood on the edge of
the dark forest and before a vast expanse of scrub. Sod preferred
the darkness of the forest to what he now saw: a thin path leading
through a tangle of long-thorned trees which were so closely
interwoven that they seemed inpenetrable.
"Why don't you try Wolksmert on those branches," offered Banewood.
Sod drew his sword and swung lightly against the tangle that lay
before him. Sod was glad for the chance to draw his sword and test
its edge. The massive, thorny growth fell to their feet.
"Only Kathryn could walk a path like this," commented Sod as he
continued to slice his way through. "These branches are so sharp and
tightly interwoven that only the sow could manage to walk through
unscathed."
The plowman and the Shaman, however, could not pass through
unharmed. Even though the path was partially cleared by Sod's sword,
some branches remained to tear at their clothing and puncture their
skin. Punished and brutalized by the last leg of their journey,
Banewood and Sod proceeded slowly, their hearts heavy with fear and
anticipation. By noon, they had passed through the forest of thorns
and had entered into a wide perimeter of tall grasses and occasional
trees. Banewood sniffed the air and winced.
"Look," he said, pointing to a large copse of assorted and vile
smelling weeds. "This must have once been Baba Yaga's herb garden."
The expanse of foul-smelling weeds grew unbounded. They had
probably been untended for many decades, but they still held firm
against the encroaching forest and field. One fell weed pitted
itself against the other for dominance of space. It was an evil
looking tangle. Banewood hoped he could return by this path and
gather some of the herbs. A few were familiar to him; they were
shaman's herbs. Some plants had divinatory purposes, some had
medicinal uses. Other plants were total strangers to Banewood's
herbal. These were the most curious to the novice.
Reluctantly, the two pressed on. Because of the tall grass,
Banewood and Sod didn't see the hut until they were almost in front
of it. The hut of Baba Yaga loomed dark before them. Centuries old,
the hut was partially collapsed at one end; it appeared like an
apparition, grayish and fragile. The grass about the hut was
trampled-- signs of a current inhabitant. Banewood was shaken by the
sight; it was an eerie recollection of his divinatory dreams, minus
the malevolent red eyes. Sod sensed the nervousness of his companion
and gripped Wolksmert tightly. He glanced over his shoulder and
searched around them. The scene was quiet. Not even a bird song
could be heard. Sod turned and shook his companion's hand. It was a
farewell to their past and an initiation to whatever would befall
them in the moments ahead.
Banewood and Sod resolutely approached the hut. It looked weak,
but it stood in evidence of craftsmanship from a forgotten century.
Patches of straw, now grayish, were still attached to the roof. A
few strange weeds had taken residence on the roof in order to catch
extra light. On the roof's peak perched a dark bird. It was a raven.
It waddled about and croaked a few times, picked at the wood and
then silently winged out of sight.
Sod held out Wolksmert and walked toward the dimly lit entrance
of the ramshackle hut. Fat spiders retreated to the shadows with the
approach of the plowman. Sod's heart quickened and his whole body
started to tremble slightly. He placed his feet carefully to avoid
making any sounds. With Banewood close behind, Sod craned his neck
through the doorway. It took an agonizing instant for his eyes to
grow accustomed to the dim light. Was there something inside? Had it
heard them coming? Where is it? Nothing stirred within. Lying among
the cloven tracks and defacation, however, was a flattened pile of
leaves-- Kathryn's bed. The stench from inside made Sod gag.
Confirming their worst fears, it seemed that Kathryn, the monstrous
sow which had rampaged through Gorod, was now living in the hut of
Baba Yaga. Signs of the monstrous sow were everywhere. Most of the
hut's interior was badly battered and decayed. Scattered debris on
the ground may have once stood for a chair. Few furnishings remained
distinguishable. In the far corner, though, near the bed of leaves,
stood a dark and mouldering chest. The brass straps and brads had
long since turned green and disintegrated from the moisture.
Banewood saw the chest and could not restrain his curiosity. He
entered the hut and opened the chest. Most of the wood was badly
decayed, and it fell apart when it was disturbed. Inside the chest,
however, the contents were fairly well preserved. Banewood unwrapped
a book-sized, oilskin-covered bundle which was on top of other
items. It was a book.
"I don't believe this," whispered Banewood in awe.
"Don't believe what," said Sod, not believing that Banewood
dared to utter a sound in the lair of Kathryn.
"It looks like Baba Yaga's book of spells. I can't make out some
of the writing; it's an old script. This is one of the books my old
master told me about. It contains the ancient secrets of sorcery.
This is an unbelievable discovery."
"Well, pack up your discovery and let's get out of here. This
place makes me nervous," said Sod. His hands began to sweat and he
could feel the weight of his sword sliding through.
Banewood hastily rewrapped the package and stuffed it into his
own sack. On an impulse, he picked up another small bundle, which
upon inspection, contained what looked like a Shaman's smoke
mixture. Banewood lashed the sack to his belt and the two retreated
back into the daylight.
When Banewood and Sod stepped outside, they saw that the
scraggly raven had returned. Seeing the plowman and his companion,
it cried out in a raucous frenzy. Through the cacophony, Sod and
Banewood heard another sound: a terrifying squealing and trampling
sound. Towering above the distant grass was a massive black shape.
Thin, gray hair lay matted on its back and around it's notched ears.
It was a wonder that such a large beast could have existed unnoticed
for so many years, but it is true: The forest hides many secrets.
Clouds and fumes emanated from around the creature's snout. It
reared its head up and Banewood and Sod could see a pair of blazing
red eyes.
"It's Kathryn," thought Sod.
"It's Baba Yaga," thought Banewood.
"We're in trouble," said the two aloud.
Sod was possessed by a grave doubt as to his future being. This
whole scene was a nightmare and he wished he could wake up. What
finally woke Sod up was the one thing which he had most feared. Like
a fish, Wolksmert's handle slid through the gripped fingers of the
plowman and fell to the ground. When Sod reached to pick it back up,
it immediately slid out of his grasp. Kathryn was charging and
spewing her fiery froth. Banewood loosed a Ludki arrow at the
charging Kathryn, but it glanced off of the sow's forehead. Sod was
distraught, to say the least. His sword would not remain in his hand.
Banewood, seeing Sod's plight, ran forward and shouted at the
charging Kathryn. A spray of singeing fire told Banewood that he
succeeded in getting her attention. He ran around the hut in an
attempt to lead Kathryn away from Sod, who was still pathetically
trying to grip his sword. A bit of Kathryn's breath caught the
corner of Baba Yaga's hut and ignited the tinder-dry structure.
Evidently, however, Kathryn's fiery froth had a limit, for it
quickly decreased in range and intensity to the point of being a
caustic dribble. Banewood took advantage of this and became bolder
in his taunts. He loosed a few Ludki arrows at the enraged sow in
order to further torment her. It worked. Banewood saw a nearby tree
that he thought could hold his weight. He ran to it and limberly
pulled himself up the trunk. He had previously discarded his
backpack and other paraphernalia, but he neglected to untie the tiny
old bag which held the ancient smoking mixture. It ripped open as
Banewood shinned up the trunk, spilling its contents around the base
of the tree.
Kathryn was not an ignorant sow. She saw this grand opportunity
to harvest the tree's single fruit: Banewood. She ran headlong into
the sturdy trunk of the tree and splintered part of the trunk. She
tore at the ground around the tree with her hooves and layed her
forehead against the trunk in an attempt to batter it down. Kathryn
kicked up a cloud of the ancient herbal mixture torn from Banewood's
belt. Her two wide nostrils inhaled part of the cloud and Kathryn no
longer felt any pain. Hitting the tree with her head was easy; in
fact, it was fun.
Sod saw the impending danger that Banewood was in. It was Sod's
fault, he thought, that Banewood even came on this journey. He
couldn't let him die. Sod had decided to go into this quest, and by
his life, he would take it to its completion. He picked up a rock
and threw it squarely at Kathryn's rear. Kathryn turned about and
faced Sod. He taunted her with insults to her genealogy. Sod hardly
noticed that he now gripped Wolksmert firmly in both hands. He
spaced his legs, hurled another insult and waited.
The smoking mixture continued to work on Kathryn's brain. It had
a strange, numbing sensation. Colors burst before her crimson eyes.
Directly in front of her stood a tattered and sweaty plowman-- easy
prey and a quick lunch. Suddenly, though, she was faced by two
plowman-- no problem-- then a third. Three Sod's stood before the
eyes of an enraged and disoriented sow. Baba Yaga's mixture,
whatever it was, buzzed around in Kathryn's head like a swarm of
happy bees. Kathryn decided that the plowman on the left, Sod number
three, was the real one. It didn't really matter; she could always
come back and finish off the other two. She charged with full fury.
Distance between the two retreated with the sound of thundering
cloven hooves. Sod number two, the one in the middle, didn't quite
understand why Kathryn was veering so much to his right. No matter--
Wolksmert, guided by the plowman's strong arm, swung with the ease
of a baton but crashed with the weight of a boulder.
Blood poured from Kathryn's head. Blood ran to the ground in red
rivers and stained the dusty feet of the plowman. Blood dripped from
the shining blade of Wolksmert.
Kathryn was dead.
It was several minutes before either Sod or Banewood moved or
said anything. Sod stood alone with his sword dripping blood to the
ground. Banewood shouted from the tree.
"You killed her. I can't believe that it happened so quickly."
"Quickly?" Sod thought hours passed during Kathryn's charge.
"I owe you my life," said Banewood. "How can I ever repay you?"
"Don't worry," said Sod, who smiled for the first time. "It all
comes out in the wash."
Without having to discuss their next step. The two quietly and
deliberately set about gathering dried brush and grass for a fire.
It took nearly an hour to amass the giant pyre, but it was finally
built and easily set aflame from the embers of Baba Yaga's
smoldering hut. The evening light was brightened by the burning pile
of brush. A night bird sang vespers, and the wind whispered softly
over the plains, gently fanning the blaze.
-Roman Olynyk <VM0BA9 @ WVNVM>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
The Acquisition, Conclusion Roman Olynyk
Review: Soul of the City - TW8 Orny
Narret Chronicles, Book 2 Mari A. Paulsen
Narret Chronicles, Book 1 Mari A. Paulsen
Date: 012086 Dist: 091
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X-Editorial
Well, folks here it is, the end of volume 3! In this issue
conclude both Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles and Roman Olynyk's
Acquisition serials. Sandwiched in between is a short review of
another new Thieves' World book, "Soul of the City". In the next
issue, Volume 1, issue 1, the first of the Dargon writing project
stories will appear, and I'll go into that in more detail in the
editorial-cum-prologue in that issue.
I would encourage readers to send in their comments on either
Narret or the Acquisition, and they will be considered to printing
in issue 4-1. By the way, Mari is considering writing a sequel
series for Narret, and Roman is incorporating Banewood and Sod into
the Dargon writing project, so you can expect more from them, as
well as the other authors involved with Dargon. And, of course, I'll
plod on with news, reviews, and featured authors as time and
submissions permit.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for sharing. I hope you all enjoy
the zine and the upcoming fruit of the writing project as much as I
have enjoyed writing for it. Catch you later...
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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The Acquisition
Part Four: Conclusion
Banewood and Sod remained awake most of the long night and
occasionally fed more wood to the pyre. Only when they were sure
that nothing remained of Kathryn's carcass did they rest for the
waning hours before dawn. For breakfast, they ate a hasty meal of
dried meat and bread, and then they departed in the same direction
from which they arrived. Banewood managed to gather some of the
strange simples and root stocks from the ancient herb garden he had
passed on the way in. The path through the tangled thorn brush was
certainly no easier than it was on the way in. Nature did not go out
of her way to extend its thanks for a job well done.
When they passed out of the thorn thicket and reached the
forest, the two men found the same path they had traveled with the
Silvan Lord. Surprisingly, the path was actually straighter than
they thought when they travelled it a couple of nights earlier.
Lessy, no doubt disheartened, was not to be found on their return
trip, but Banewood and Sod were not dismayed, for now the dark
forest seemed more alive than before. Previously somber birds were
now joyfully singing, and occasional butterflies could be seen
flitting among the treetops. On their way back home, Banewood and
Sod found more to talk about. Banewood was excited about the book of
ancient secrets he had found in the hut of Baba Yaga. He felt that
this book could unlock the doors blocking his quest for knowledge of
the Shaman's arts. Already, Banewood was practicing strange, new
spells that he had translated from the book. His prowess was
increasing steadily. Sod spoke of his dream to break away from his
life as a plowman. He wished to sever his roots to the soil and
become a journeyman, a knight errant of this kingdom upon the
plains. He found that he now had the confidence to realize his dream.
When Banewood and Sod arrived once again at the Ludki village,
they were greeted by the entire population of little people. The
smiles were upon the round faces and bright and exotic feathers
dressed the tall caps worn by all. It was a state reception for the
two heroes. Banewood and Sod walked waist-deep through the cheering
crowd and stopped directly in front of Stickleburr.
"Hey Sod, hey Banewood! It seems that you've killed Kathryn, for
she can no longer be alive. The forest and plains are free again,
though they've hardly known any freedom. Congratulations, yes, most
certainly!" Spoke Stickleburr from atop his royal stump.
The little people all cheered and waved their hats. All around
the Ludki village stood cloth-covered tables layed out with fragrant
foods -- all of the delicacies that could be concocted. Kegs of mead
were everywhere in anticipation of a great feast in honor of the
slayers of the monster Kathryn.
"You've done an Immeasurable Service to all of The Ludki by Your
Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn," said Stickleburr in his
finest rhetoric, adding: "Since your Service is Most Certainly not
Measurable to even a single Ludki, and Since It wasn't actually Your
Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn because the Wolk wasn't all
that Great and Kathryn wasn't at all Kathryn."
Sod found it difficult, to say the least, to follow the
circuitous speech of Stickleburr, but he did manage to glean the
meaning: Kathryn was not really Kathryn. Did they kill the wrong
monster? Worse yet, was there actually another monster like Kathryn?
Stickleburr said: "I know what you're thinking, Sod, even if you
don't. There is no other monster, for there was only one; Kathryn
was really Baba Yaga because she was nothing else."
Once again all of the Ludki cheered loudly. The feast was on and
the music was struck. Flagons were filled with bubbly mead poured
from the aged kegs. This was the best of brews, for this was to be
the best of celebrations-- Kathryn was dead and Baba Yaga was no more.
Without prompting, the two heroes joined in the merriment. Food
and drink were both brought to the guests of honor. The large, round
eyes of the Ludki bulged in disbelief at the sight of Banewood and
Sod drinking their mead. Surely, the two strangers must have hollow
legs to hold so much drink. Banewood and Sod could very well have
had hollow legs, for they drank considerable amounts of mead even
for men. They had had a long and difficult ordeal, and this was a
welcome relief from the events of the past several weeks. And most
certainly, this mead was the best they had ever tasted!
While Banewood and Sod were enjoying themselves and filling
their bellies, the Ludki danced furiously, spinning and hopping and
clapping their little hands. The musicians were adept with their
instruments-- strange varieties of many-stringed wonders. Suddenly,
from some occult cue, the music and dancing and laughter all
stopped. A lone minstrel approached Banewood and Sod, bowed, and
began to pick his instrument. After several introductory bars, he
sang a song whose chorus was joined in by all:
"Tell a tale of Kathryn,
a tough old sow with tougher skin.
She razed the fields with flame and fire
now where did she go? Hey!
Chorus:
"They ground her up for sausage links.
They boiled her down for candle sticks.
They tanned her hide and sewed some shoes
so now she's hit the road. Hey!
Tell a tale of Shaman folk
who packs himself an awful smoke.
He smoked a bit with Kathryn
now where did she go? Hey!
Tell a tale of a man named Sod
who found himself a sharp old sword.
He smote a bit on Kathryn
now where did she go? Hey!"
Banewood and Sod were both deeply touched by this tribute. In
their dim age of little writing, great deeds were memorialized in an
oral tradition. The song of their deeds could very well outlive any
scrap of paper or even any memory of just who Sod and Banewood
actually were.
Stickleburr once again mounted his royal stump. The thin-haired
and pot-bellied leader of the Ludki swayed slightly, for it was
apparent that he'd been sampling his share of the mead. He rubbed
his bulbous little nose to see if it was still there and then spoke
to the gathering in long-drawn syllables.
"My fellow Ludki. We are gathered here, for we aren't elsewhere,
to Honor these Two Humans whom we don't wish to do dishonor for
their Deeds. Hic. Since it wouldn't be Right to take them away, I'll
present these Medallions to Sod and Banewood for their uncowardly
Courage in defeating Kathryn-Who- Couldn't-Be-Defeated. These
Medallions make known that which is not unknown: Sod and Banewood
are forever Friends of the Ludki, for we cannot be your enemies even
for a short while."
Stickleburr paused to hang the medallions around their necks. He
hiccuped and continued: "I must tell you, for it wouldn't do to tell
another, that both of you will find Greatness, unless Greatness
cannot be found but rather achieved. Hic! Sod, it is not a
coincidence, though You may think it is, that You found Wolksmert.
Wolksmert found You. Wolksmert, the wolf-slayer, was crafted many
hundreds of years ago by the Ludki, for it could have been crafted
by none other. It seeks the hand which can guide it, unless that
hand can't be found, then it will evade the unsure hand, though an
unsure hand is more likely itself to evade the sword! Hic! Sod,
wield Your Sword wisely, for to do otherwise would be foolish. Hic! Hic!
"Banewood, you shall be a Powerful and a Good Sorcerer, though
You may not think You are either. In Your lifetime You will undo
much of the evil that has already been done by the Evil Sorceress,
for You can't undo that which hasn't already been done. Hic!"
Stickleburr was quite obviously reeling now and finding it
difficult to keep his balance. He continued to feel for his nose,
but he couldn't find it for the numbness.
"So let Me say, unless you say I can't say it, that You Two have
found Greatness that you never lost because you sought to acquire
it. Hic! It was there-- it wasn't anywhere else. Hic! I... I... I
must stop now, for I think I've had too much to drink, though if I
start on it, hic, I'd say it wasn't the drink that I drunk-- the
drink's not drunk, rather, I drank the drink, unless I drunk it. It
was already drunk, but now I'm the one who's drunk-- Hic!"
With that, Stickleburr spun off his stump, much to the relief of
the other Ludki, who had become almost as confused as Banewood and
Sod. While Stickleburr lay passed-out with a smile upon his numb
lips, the other Ludki-- those who weren't also passed-out--
endeavored to follow their leader. Banewood and Sod joined in the
twirling, leg-kicking dance of the Ludki and shouted "Hey!" The
dancing, music and magic lasted long into the night, and remained in
the memories of the two humans long after many things had passed.
A warbler's song awoke Sod from his slumber. Rosy morning rays
penetrated the covering of trees and illuminated the Ludki village
with radiance. All around the beehive ovens and little houses and
strewn-about kegs lay the supine bodies of Ludki, some still wearing
their pointed hats and bright feathers. Sod's pre-breakfast mind
pondered over the many events that had recently come to pass. He'd
seen so many things that he'd never thought he'd see-- the Ludki and
the Silvan Lord and parts of the great countryside surrounding
Gorod. Things he'd wished he'd never seen-- the Great Wolk, Kathryn
and Baba Yaga's hut. Stories from his childhood had come to life,
and all he had to do was to brave seldom-travelled paths. How many
more wonders lay waiting to be seen? He didn't know, but now he
would endeavor to find them, for his curiosity had finally been aroused.
After they had both broken fast, the two journeymen washed away
the grime of the last few days and bid farewell to their friends,
the Ludki. Banewood and Sod promised to respect the privacy of the
little people; they would not divulge the existence and location of
the Ludki, who wished to maintain their distance from the human
race. As Stickleburr explained, once upon a time, many thousands of
years ago, the Ludki lived near humans. It was Ludki adroitness with
smithing that led humans to request from them weapons of iron --
weapons the Ludki had no wish to forge. The few weapons they did
make, the Ludki imbued with a magic that would not allow their use
without purpose or good intent. Wolksmert was one such weapon which
had survived that golden age of metal working.
By the time Banewood and Sod reached the center of Gorod, they
had acquired a persistent throng of followers eager to hear news of
their adventures. Most expressed murmured amazement that Banewood
and Sod returned alive, uninjured and not white with fright. If
anything, they even looked healthier than when they had originally
undertaken their quest. Banewood's Ludki-crafted arrows were hidden
away and both of their medallions lay hidden beneath their tunics.
Banewood and Sod only offered unembellished details of Kathryn's
final moments. They didn't mention Baba Yaga's hut or even the great
wolk. There was considerable rejoicing among the populace at the
news of Kathryn's death. Regardless of how little the two travelers
told, they were highly regarded by the folks of Gorod. They were heroes.
Inside the Antlers, Sod and even Banewood were offered seats of
honor and given drinks of crude tavern mead. As the days went by,
Banewood and Sod would often meet there to discuss their plans for
travel. This time they were going across the plain in search of
distant cities. Tales were told of men in the far away cities who
rode upon the backs of four-legged beasts, and Banewood and Sod both
agreed that they would like to explore more of their world. It was
now late autumn, and what little harvest there was that was spared
by Kathryn's harsh breath was stored away. The daily work routine
was slowing in pace. The time was ripe for travel.
A few large bottle flies were marauding about within the
Antlers, enjoying the late warmth and making a general nuisance of
themselves with the few customers. One daring fly kept alighting
near Sod, trying to divert the normally stolid plowman. The air
intermittently cracked with the resounding whack of Sod's large hand
upon the table. He couldn't kill the pesky fly.
"Yeauh, Sod," yelled the Miller from across the tiny room. "Why
don't you let Banewood give the fly some of his smoke. The little
critter'd get so dizzy it would burn itself into a hole! Harr! Harr!"
Banewood cast a glance at the bottle fly buzzing around their
heads and sent it to the great beyond with a tiny, explosive pop.
The Miller, who saw this, inhaled part of his mead and coughed.
Banewood and Sod laughed.
-Roman Olynyk <VM0BA9 @ WVNVM>
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REVIEW: The Soul of the City
Thieves' World Book 8
When I first saw the new Thieves' World book on the shelf, I
thought to myself: Oh, boy, another TW book to drudge through and
review for FSFNet. Well, the seventh book (which also came out only
recently), "The Dead of Winter" was good, so I jumped in, even
though it takes too much time to read and go to school. Folks, if
you haven't read "the Dead of Winter" and the most recent book,
"Soul of the City", you're in for a TREAT!
After Aspirin's third or fourth book, I had lost interest, due
to a stagnation in the characters and events in Sanctuary. As if
reading my mind, these most recent books each seem to focus on one
aspect of the authors' writing styles that had been lacking. "The
Dead of Winter" contains superb characterization, and each character
portrayed leaves a lasting image on the reader. The book reads like
several short stories about Sanctuary's inhabitants.
The new book, "Soul of the City" is it. For all you people who
knew that it would eventually come down to war in the streets, here
it is: the resolution of all the conflicts of Ischade and Roxanne,
and everyone who's anyone is town, including the new Rankan emperor.
In contrast to the style that "the Dead of Winter" was written in,
this book flows and has excellent continuity. It is an action-packed
novel, not a collection of short stories, and despite my schoolwork,
I had a very difficult time putting the book down. This book,
written entirely by Lynn Abbey, C.J. Cherryh, and Janet Morris, is
supposedly the lead-in to a forthcoming book by Abbey entitled
"Beyond Sanctuary".
I encourage any Thieves' World fans out there,as well as fans
who have become disenchanted with the series, to pick up books 7 and
8. Each is in a different style, but both are well worth the time.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the Second
"The forum you requested is waiting Dr. Ht" said Colonel Roberts
as they escorted Samo to a waiting helicopter. "Both the president
and the premier are anxious to meet with you."
"They should be, I've come a long way to meet them." Samo
replied rather smugly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Samo began, "I have been sent here by a
very costly effort on behalf of my people. By the words "my people"
I do not mean the people of my country, or even the people of my
planet, Amrif Arret. By those words I mean the people whose lives
you will destroy, those people whose advanced knowledge and advanced
technologies may never be shared with any of you in this room, or
with any human.
"Why? Not because there are no longer any humans to understand
us. Why? Not because we are unable to communicate with you, or to
bridge the gap of space between us. But simply because you would
rather collect a set of nuclear playtoys for winning childish
squabbles over masses of dirt to put your under-populated, over-fed,
fat human bodies on. And go about praising your documents of law,
your 'Declarations of Independence' your 'Constitution' and its
'Bill of Rights' with their claims of perfect unions, the
establishment of justice, and most of all the self-evidence of all
men being created equal. Those were noble thoughts. Thoughts, far
more they were than words, they were the Ideals upon which this
great country was founded. These thoughts, these ideals of peace,
equality, and justice came from men far nobler than those before me.
"Surely you may grow impatient with my gruffness, please hear me
out I implore you for your own sakes and the sakes of my people,
hear me out.
"I cannot understand how two adults can even think to begin
compiling the weapons you have compiled while there are thousands,
no, millions of your brethren dying throughout your world. How much
can these rights mean to you? How much does the equality of creation
mean, when you will tomorrow blow each other off of your precious
land masses and ruin your world for those who had nothing but hope
anyway, all for naught.
"All because you worried that you may not be free tomorrow to
have all your own little worries and troubles taken care of, that
tomorrow you may not be as comfortable as today. Soon, very soon, if
you continue this deadly and insane weapons compilation, there may
not be that tomorrow you're so desperately worried about today.
"If you were to continue, and had a last and final war, you
gentlemen should be congratulated. For you gentlemen would be
responsible for the ultimate extermination of entire solar systems
in not one, but two universes at the same time.
"You see, what you've failed to realize is that if you blow your
planet to the fifth physical dimension, you'll be blowing my people
up with you. And not only will the destruction of good old Terra
Firma have an effect on the Solar System, but it will have an
equally disastrous effect on the Losar System. Our entire planet
will merely "go out of existence" as you know it. In addition, my
people will have no say whatsoever in that event. Is that within
your concept of fairness equality, and justice? If so then how about
within your forefathers?
"Furthermore, who knows what may be said will happen at the
unbalancing of energies within this universe itself. How many other
life-forms' chances of survival will you destroy, in that solitary
instant of selfishness?
"I came here hoping to find some reasonable men. Men of a
knowledge of peace, and instead I found the ignorance that breeds
belligerence. I did find hope though, and that hope lies where I
knew it would, in the men of science. The hope lies in those who
were bright enough to create weapons of war, and it rests in those
men with talents to make the weapons of mankind's enemy, disease.
Your physicians are those within whom your hope lies now.
"Before I came here, I met with two of your physicians to better
the knowledge of mankind in defeat of Cancer. You will find, if you
take the time to decrease your stockpile of weaponry, that if you
give your doctors the insurance that their efforts will not be in
vain and the assurance that there will be a world full of people to
help tomorrow, they may just be able to find a cure. The hope of
peace, and of life itself lies in your hands. Why don't you give it
back to the men who deserve it most. The men in both your countries
who have been fighting for years for the same thing, the prolonging
not the extinguishing of life--your physicians."
-Mari A. Paulsen
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The Narret Chronicles
Book the First
Samo stood there in silence as his last words echoed throughout
the auditorium. Then suddenly his ears were filled by the tremendous
sound of applause by third world countries while both the
president's, and the premier's eyes welled with tears as they looked
at each other realizing how right he was...
"<<<AUTOSTARTING FUTURE ANALOG TAPE--RUNNING DOWN ENDER TO START>>>"
"Catabilizer--Load Future Analog tape running from last approach
to Terran planet number three." Samo replied to his onboard computer.
"Well, so it was..." Samo said to himself, wondering if he was
going to be as successful on this trip to Earth. He sat there
wondering, in the quiet of his spacecraft, rather dazed by the
immensity of it all, as a great light appeared in the heavens in
front of him. And at once he new he was late. Ignorance had won, and
greed had gone too far.
-Mari A. Paulsen
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Welcome to Dargon! Orny
Simon's Song Orny
Rendezvous Joseph Curwen
Exile Eric
Date: 020786 Dist: 112
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X-Editorial
Well, folks, here it is: the First Anniversary Issue of FSFNet,
and the first issue containing stories of the Dargon writing
project. I must say, this is an impressive issue, and I hope you all
enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. The Dargon
project is a group of FSFNet contributors who have gotten together
to write about a single location, much like Aspirin's Thieves' World
project. And, as you can see, the results are phenomenal! Any people
who are interested in joining the project and feel they will be
productive, feel free to mail me. I'd also like to welcome the new
readers who responded to the notice I sent out. I'm not sure whether
to apologize or not for the extreme length of this issue, but I'm
sure you won't mind once you start reading...
But, for now, I suggest you sit back and enjoy some of the best
amateur writing you will find on BITNET. Thank you all for your
support. Blessed be.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Welcome to Dargon!
Dargon is a small, out of the way fiefdom of the Kingdom of
Baranur, situated in the extreme northwest corner of the kingdom. It
is separated from the rest of the kingdom by a vast wood and a minor
range of hills, and is ruled by the young Lord Clifton Dargon.
Dargon Keep, where the wealthy merchants and courtesans live, lies
on a hill overlooking the town and port of Dargon, which lie at the
mouth of the River Coldwell. The port is Dargon's only link to the
more populated south, and the town is an active and busy place. In
the fields of Dargon can be found many small farming peasant
villages, that pay tithes to the Keep. Quaint and pittoresque, these
villages lie on the very borders of civilization, and can be hotbeds
of superstition as well as gateways to adventure.
Come follow, whether your pleasure be politics and court
intrigue, the devilish workings of a medieval port-town, or the
horror and adventure of the hinterlands. Come follow the tales of
wonder and woe that unfold before you, in Dargon.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Simon's Song
Dale ran breathlessly down the Street of Travellers towards the
docks. His father had told him to read two whole lessons; being the
son of a scribe wasn't the most exciting life in the world. His
father, a well-known teacher and scribe named Cavendish, made his
living by hiring out to teach youngsters how to read and write. He
had left the fourteen year-old in the family library while he went
to Dargon Keep to instruct some poor aristocrat's son. Dale knew his
father had meant well, but there were other things to do all
afternoon than read some old dry book. Besides, he'd be back in time
to read most of his assignment, anyways.
He turned the corner by Sandmond's, nearly capsizing an emerging
sailor (listing five degrees to port), and scanned the dockside for
the familiar red and white canopy. Finding it, he plunged back into
the crowd and made for a warehouse at the far end of the quays. He
pushed through the mob of sailors, soldiers, and merchants, finally
coming within sight of his destination, a squeaky old cart,
overloaded with three steaming kettles, attended by a tall, smiling
man and his little monkey. A sign on the cart read 'Salamagundi
Stew' in large letters.
The youth slowed and yelled across the crowd, "Hey, Simon!" The
tall man saw Dale and waved him over.
"Hey, Dale! What you doing out so early? Did you Papa give you
too much to read, eh?" The tall sailor smiled broadly and batted the
young man on the shoulder.
"Yeah," sighed the lad. "How's Skeebo?" he asked, bringing a
sweetmeat forth from his cloak to offer the monk.
"Oh, he's fine. Business is good, and look at the port! It's so
busy!" He spread his arms to take in all the port area. Dale looked
up after giving Skeebo his treat and surveyed the port. The crowds
were thicker than ever, and there were several tall ships and
galleys tied up along the docks. He knew the Angelique at the far
end, and Captain Smith's Victory Chimes beside it. Right in front of
the warehouse was a galley that Dale had never seen before, with a
great deal of bustle on deck and a number of strange papery
ornaments hanging in the rigging. "What ship is that? Is it from the
south?"
"Ah..." began Simon, a glint in his brown eyes. "I checked 'er
out before. She's called the Singing Mermaid, and she's been on a
long, long voyage. She left Baranur, down south... must've been
nearly two years ago. Headed west, of all places!" Simon was aglow
with the rapture of a bard revealing a tale. "They say this is
their first landfall since they left a place called Bichu, across
the western ocean. They say they've got some sort of western noble
who paid them well to bring him here. Wonder what would make a man
pay such a high price to leave his home, eh, lad?"
While Dale listened, he dipped himself a bowl of 'regular', as
Simon called the first of the three varieties of stew he sold. Dale
had often listened to Simon's tale of how he had learned the recipe for
Salamagundi Stew while he was serving as a cook on a galley many
years ago. The stew itself was a sort of fish chowder, heavily
seasoned, and the 'regular' was fairly good. Dale had never tried
either of the other stews - Simon had always steered him away from
them with a laugh.
The young man looked up and contemplated the Singing Mermaid.
There were a number of large crates sitting on deck, and many
strangely-colored paper ornaments hanging from the yardarm. The
captain came from below deck and stood talking with a
strangely-dressed man who could not have been any taller than Dale
himself. He nudged Simon and nodded towards the ship. Simon's eyes
widened. "Yep. Must be that westerner... Let's go get a good look,
eh, lad?" With that Simon slowly hauled his cart closer to the pier
where the Singing Mermaid was tied up. Dale watched the foreigner
order another man to gather some chests and boxes and make his way
down the gangplank, the poor servant, overburdened with the
foreigner's gear, close behind.
The stranger was a young man, though perhaps five or more years
older than Dale, but no more than an inch or two taller than the
scribe's son. His clothing was strangely decorated in blue and white
shapes that Dale had to think twice about to understand, and his
robe hung about his body very oddly. Dale could see that he had a
slight limp, and carried a very strange and wicked-looking sword in,
of all things, a wooden sheath! Dale saw the stranger stop for a
moment and look around, a dark expression on his face, and turn
towards Simon. The youth hurried to catch up.
Simon set his cart down and waited for the stranger to approach,
carefully inspecting and gently stirring each of the three chowders
he had made that morning. He had been lucky to get some spices from
the Singing Mermaid's haul earlier in the day, and he was confident
it was an excellent batch. The foreigner walked directly to him and
slowly, haltingly said, "Excuse, prease... You offer to sell food?"
Simon nodded and replied "Yes - stew! Three kinds: regular,
sweet, and sun-sweet. It's very good," he added, lifting the cover
from one of the pots to let the foreigner know just what he was
about to purchase. Simon certainly knew enough not to upset
travelling nobility.
"Ah, very good. I would like the sun-sweet prease..."
Simon nodded and carefully suppressed a chuckle. Sun-sweet was
the spiciest of the brews, and he knew of only two people who had
ever been able to finish a whole bowl: himself and Guiseppi, the old
sailor-cook who had taught Simon how to cook, when he was younger
than Dale. He smiled to the stern-faced stranger, dipped a steaming
bowl of regular, and offered it to the stranger. No sense making a
scene, Simon thought. He had travelled enough in the west to realize
that he might have just saved his own life!
The man took the broth with a short bow, if no smile, and
reached within his silken clothing, producing two short sticks with
which he began to eat the chunks of fish from the broth. Simon was
about to congratulate himself on his tact when he saw Skeebo grab a
spoon from the cart and thrust it at the stranger, who slowly lifted
his eyes towards the monk, to Dale, and finally to Simon. Simon felt
his stomach knot in worry. Suddenly, the strangely-clad foreigner
broke out into the oddest laughter Dale had ever witnessed. The
stranger took the spoon and gave the monk a small coin in return. He
finished the chunks of fish and began noisily sipping the broth with
the spoon. Simon knew that the man had probably never used a spoon
before setting foot on the Singing Mermaid, though how anyone could
go through life without using a spoon was quite beyond him.
Skeebo went back to Simon, looking sheepish as any monkey could.
The sailor took the coin from the monk, and an odd look came over
his face. The westerner had paid in gold! It was a strange looking
coin, but it was probably worth more than Simon had made all year.
He was obviously a noble, but he didn't seem quite that rich...
The stranger had finished his bowl, and seeing Simon's
puzzlement in his face, he asked "The coin... is it not enough?"
Simon, more confused than ever, could not speak for a moment.
"It is more than too much!" he suddenly stammered, too astounded to
even care that he could live off that small coin for nearly a year.
He held the coin out to give it back to the foreigner, who closed
the sailor's hand upon it.
"I am Ittosai Michiya," he began. "I have left my home in
dishonor, and am far from where I would be. I have not been happy in
many months. Take the coin - is a smile not worth so much stone?"
With that, he bowed low and, with a gesture for his baggage,
left Simon and Dale both rather puzzled.
Simon soon was busy with customers again, and Dale wandered off to
look at the ships, including the Singing Mermaid.
Simon had given up. The port was just too busy, and he couldn't
keep up with the customers. His mind kept dwelling on the strange
foreigner, and he found himself looking at the small golden coin,
somtimes touching it like a worry stone. It was an interesting coin;
on one side, an etching of a strangely shaped building surrounded by
an even odder-looking garden, on the other side were strange letters
that looked like chicken-scratchings. Perhaps he would get it
changed and pay rent. Perhaps he would buy Dale something useful and
give it to him during the upcoming festival. Then again, maybe he'd
just tuck it away in case he might ever need it; it was a very
attractive coin...
Simon's twenty-fifth contemplation of the strange coin was
interrupted by a familiar cry. "Hey, Simon!"
"Hey, Dale!" After going off to look at the ships, the youth had
wandered up along the coastline. Dale came over to Simon's cart and
chittered at Skeebo as only a child would. "Guess what, Simon?"
"There's a world outside Dargon?" Simon smiled.
"No, silly," responded Dale, "I've found something while I was
walking up the coast."
"The ocean?" Simon asked, still sarcastically smirking.
In answer, Dale brought forth a small bundle from his tunic. He
had wrapped something in a wool cloth, and he unwrapped it very
carefully to reveal what looked like a carving that had been covered
with sand and seaweed.
"What is it?" Simon was curious.
Dale carefully picked the seaweed away and, with a handful of
water from a nearby rain barrel, washed off the stone carefully.
What was revealed was a small sculpture of Dargon Keep, crudely
done, but made in ivory, the unmistakeable three towers rising above
a walled section of town. Simon's eyes widened, then seemed very
far. Then he came back, smiled at Dale, and said, "What a find, lad!
I'd hang onto that, if I were you."
"Yeah. I'm going to keep it in my room. I think it's really neat!"
"It sure enough is that, lad. Now you run home and do your
reading. We've had plenty of adventure for this day, eh?"
"Yeah!" Dale said as he carefully wrapped the miniature keep in
the cloth. "Well, see you tomorrow, Simon!" He turned and jogged
away, innocent of the expression on his older friend's visage.
Simon Salamagundi felt old, perhaps for the first time in his
young life. Seventeen years earlier, he remembered, his mother had
apprenticed him to a sculptor, thinking Simon had artistic hands.
His father, Seth Salamagundi, had been a sailor, and Simon's blood
came from his father's line. One afternoon, he had sat by the ocean,
trying desperately to live up to others expectations of him, carving
a small ivory model of Dargon Keep. It had looked so horrible that
he hurled it as far into the sea as he could throw it. He ran home,
wrote a note for his mother, and hired himself out to ship's cook on
the Lilith. That was the end of his landboundedness, the last he saw
of his mother, and the end of his childhood.
Over the years, the memory of that piece of ivory had meant many
things to Simon. When he was young, he had hated it, for it was a
symbol of his mother's attempts to keep him home, and his failure to
live up to the expectations of others. During his many years at sea,
he had both loved it as a symbol of his freedom and success and
hated it still for the failure associated with it. Now he could only
look back at the wealth of emotion attached to the object and feel
all that he had gone through once more, and cry.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Rendezvous
The aging alchemist Gilman awaited an appointment with a
customer, but that did not make the mysterious, nocturnal visitor
any more welcome. His silver however was, and Gilman knew well
enough not to inquire too deeply into its source. It rankled him
that respectable patrons were so rare these days with the rise of
the mystic cult Masgrah, which seemed to be developing into a full
blown hanse. The members, which included most of the aristocracy of
the city of Magnus, were forbidden to deal with outsiders except as
absolutely necessary. Gilman refused to give into these ecomonmic
coercions but unless he did something soon his business would fail.
His eminent customer's medicinal orders were some of the few
means of support he could find in his toubled situation, tough the
covertness often bothered Gilman. Gilman had wondered about the man
since he had first entered his laboratory almost a year past. At
first appearance the youth seemed to be among the riffraff commonly
encountered in the poorer sections of any city the size of Magnus.
He appeared unwashed, unkept, and half-starved; his clothing little
more than rags. His face seemed a battlefield of pox scars. But the
feature which repulsed Gilman most was the constant twitches and
jerks which wracked the youth's frame. Still, he possessed two
qualities which did not align with this image: money and a classical
education. Gilman often worried about the source of funds which
allowed him to acquire such rare ingredients at what Gilman well
knew to be inflated costs. He had been similarly astounded to
glimpse the youth's knowledge in classical science and literature in
their discussions. So great was his education that Gilman often
wondered why his own services were required by the youth at all. But
then the youth's unsteadiness and nervous aggitation would be a
major hindrance in the laboratory. The youth's background was one
mystery into which this well-meaning investigator would not pry as
he feared the prospect of losing such a monetary find.
A gentle but unrhythmic rapping roused Gilman from his thoughts.
Approaching the barred door, Gilman called for his visitor's
identity. The sole answer "Atros" was sufficient passage into the
alchemist's combined laboratory and home. The youth appeared if
anything to be more nervous than normal.
"You have completed the Nepenthe of the Mahedeos?" Atros asked.
His articulation was so flawless that once again it startled Gilman.
"I await only the second half of the payment," Gilman answered
noticing the strange expression in the youth's eyes. "It is by far
the strongest nepenthe that I have ever compounded. Its potency will
surely overcome the tolerance which you seem to be developing. I
promise that your sleep will be both deep and undisturbed by dreams
if you imbibe in this 'Little Death'." Gilman chuckled lamely,
growing uncomfortable.
"I'm afraid that I don't have the money yet, but surely some
arrangement could be worked out," Atros said with a rehearsed tone.
"That is not according to our agreement nor my policy. Full
payment on reception of the vial." Gilman had already promised the
youth's coins to a creditor by the following day.
"Allow me to take it and I will have your money within three
days," Atros offered weakly.
"No, I cannot accept credit. I cannot...." Gilman's mind filled
with his eminent monetary troubles.
"There is no other alternative?" Atros asked faintly.
"No." Gilman responded hardly rising from his worries.
The youth seemed to be taken by a particularly violent jerk of
his right arm which flew toward the old man. In a near blinding
flash of motion, Atros wedged a knife in the old man's chest. Gilman
stared in astonishment, gurgled once, and died. Already beginning to
mentally curse his impulse, Atros removed the knife and cleaned the
blade. Not for the first time had he tragically let his instinct
rather than his mind control his actions.
"Fool! Coward! Where will I ever find another supplier!" Atros
shouted at himself. After a moment, "He was just a harmless old
man..." he mumbled leaning over the body, accepting yet one more
burden of guilt.
He began to search the building knowing that Gilman's
apprentices would discover the crime at sunrise. He easily located
both the vial of nepenthe and Gilman's alchemical notes and texts.
With greater effort he found the old man's disappointingly small
cache of coins. Careful so as not to be seen he slipped from the
building and returned to the hovel in which he was currently residing.
Once there he began to consider his situation. Surely, Gilman's
apprentices knew of his nocturnal visits. He would never escape the
headman's block if he remained in Magnus. He resolved to leave as
quickly as he could pack his meager possessions, which were mostly
comprised of rare and coveted books on a wide range of subjects. He
was reluctant to leave any of his prizes but he realized that they
would only slow him down in his flight. Quickly, he made his
selections and headed for the north gate. He had heard of a distant
port near Dargon where a man might lie low for a few months. He
hoped that such a place could cater to his needs, but he realized
that skilled alchemists were quite rare, especially ones who would
accept a client as unaristocratic as he himself appeared. He tried
to convince himself that his change of residence would be an
oppurtuntity to begin anew, but he had drifted too much not to know
that you always take yourself along with you. Within a few minutes
he slipped past the guards at the northern gate and was leagues
distant from the city by sunrise.
A few hours after sundown of the following day, Atros sat near a
small campfire in a secluded grove far to the north. Though he was
very weary he had taken a great deal of time preparing as good a
meal as possible under the circumstances. Of course, he had only
attempted to delay the inevitable. Finally, he lay close to the
small fire huddled in rags and slept for the first time in many
days. Well aware of the finite supply of the nepenthe, he had chose
not to partake of the drug hoping that the weariness of his body
would prevent dreaming. He had been wrong.
Atros didn't know when he first became aware. The environment
about him had come into being quite gradually. Perhaps it was the
heat of the forge itself which had roused him. Atros knew almost
instantly that this was a dream, at least it was what other people
in the waking world called a dream, though Atros was no longer so
certain of the distinction. He also quickly realized that this was
one of those few dreams wherein he was present as only a
discorporate observer. This frightened him since such dreams, with
their innate feeling of helplessness, were often the worst.
His point of perception was suspended about three feet above a
curiously crafted forge or oven. It was a hollow stone cube with two
opposing sides open. Within the cube a bank of red coals were fanned
by a strange wind which passed through the cube's open faces. The
forge itself seemed to be composed of a gritty, brown rock which was
encrusted in soot.
Atros first perceived a disturbance in this scene with the
sounds of the approach of several person who were beyound his field
of vision, which seemed to be fixed downward. Shortly, he
periferally sensed a dark, muscular figure who examined the coal
bed, grunted, and placed a long, somewhat squared bar of black metal
into the forge. The metal quickly grew red with firery intensity.
After a time, the man, whom Atros took to be the smith, removed
the brand, placed it atop the forge and set to striking it with a
blunt, iron mallet. Each blow seemed vaguely unsettling and
disturbing to the point that Atros mentally winced in anticipation
of each strike.
During this time another figure beyound Atros' sight began
speaking to a third. He seemed concerned that the metal was too
imperfect to temper it so harshly, but the third voice reassured him
that the alloy was finer than before crafted and that none other
could fill their purpose. This seemed to mollify the second voice to
some extent but his voice retained a tinge of nervous anxiety.
After what seemed to have been an eternity of excruciating blows
to Atros, he gained awareness enough to look upon the product of
these labors. He was astonished to discover a fantastically
beautiful, silver brand of glossy smooth finish extending from a
fine point down a double edged shaft to a thin tang bolt. Atros'
mind was awed by this creation while the smith wiped his sweaty grip
and brow on a soot-smeared rag.
A barely perceived motion suggested that one of the as yet
unseen figures had given the smith an ornately carved dark walnut
box, which the smith fumbled open. Inside lay a fine silver chisel
and a heavy mallet made entirely from a single casting of bone white
metal. Here again, the voice of the second figure gave caution. He
was unsure whether the forthcoming action was totally justified when
the dangers were fully considered, but the third reassured the smith
and set him about his task.
Carefully, the smith took the hammer and chisel in hand
positioning the chisel's tip on a point just below the sword's
point. He raised his right arm and with a mighty blow came down with
his full force which sent fine crack through the forge.
Simultaneously, Atros elsewhere perceived the astonished stares of
grocers, merchants, and midwives to a single clang from their
chapel's bell tower, which for centuries had been used to signal a
call to arms. This dual point of awareness was only momentarily
disorientating to Atros as he had experienced the like before in
other dreams. Returning to the forge, the bewildered Atros saw
engraved on the blade the entire word "Cogne", but the smith was not
yet finished.
Once again, his hammer rose and fell but with an even greater
force which further enlarged the forge's flaw. Once again, the high
noted report of the barrel-shaped warning bell drew attention of
distant farmers, herders, and millers. The blade now bore the highly
stylized word "Tu" at its mid-section.
The smith, exhaustion seeping from his pores, stretched his
frame over the hot forge to impart the last engraved word to the
haft. For the third and final time he drew his hammer high with
incredible slowness and delivered it with the unmatchable strength
that arose from the last of his reserves. As the block split, his
blow caused the sword to leap outward lodging the sword's point deep
within his abdomen. Exhausted by his efforts the smith calmly
accepted death. Simultaneously, the bells of the church tower broke
out in a furious and undying clangor demanding action from all the
denzines of the manor.
Struggling to keep out the clamor, Atros concentrated on the
still visible haft of the sword which rose from the crumpled form of
the smith. The word "Ipsem" was firmly engraved, but Atros also
noticed that a fine crack ran from this engraving to the tang bolt,
where its prescence might cause the handle to snap in its wielder's
grip at some future date. Still, the clangor of the bells continued
as Atros drifted apart from this vision.
After some moments, Atros rolled over in his sleep somewhat
roused by the bell. "Who was that? Dear." He called to the supine
form laying beside him in bed.
"Wrong number... Go back to sleep," a rich feminine voice replied.
Atros drifted into sleep once more.
Atros awoke with a startled cry jumping to his feet and throwing
some of the begraggled bedding into the smoldering coals of the
nearby campfire. He was sweating profusely though the night air was
quite cold. Quickly, he rescued what scraps he could from the flames
and croached back near the fire. He struggled to force the
unpleasant recollections of his dreams from his mind. Aided by that
natural psychological force which seperates our dream lives from our
wakeful lives by forgetfullness, he managed after an hour to recall
only that his dreams had been most unpleasant. No longer willing to
take such chances, Atros quaffed a rather large dose of nepenthe and
gradually returned to unconsciousness. His final thoughts lingered
on the translated phrase which occupied his mind long after his
dream had been forgotten. Still, he recognized that he had
considered the phrase vitally important only moments ago. To the
occasionally cynical mind of Atros, "Know you yourself" now seemed
just a sample of that profound sounding drivel which streetcorner
philosophers fostered on the unwary. It could not be worth troubling
one's sleep over so, he let this too pass from his mind. Gilman's
word, after all, had been good. Atros experienced the sleep of the
dead for the next nine hours.
A few minutes after Atros had administered himself with the drug
and safely passed the arms of Morpheus without mishap, a black
cloaked figure arose from the brush at the edge of the fire light,
floated smoothly across the glen floor, and stood motionless above
Atros' helpless form. It stood thus until nearly daybreak then
glided into the nearby depths of the wood to wait yet again.
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
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Exile
Michiya awoke to the cries of sea gulls in the early morning
hours of his last day at sea. He carefully groomed himself and
donned a pair of stark white trousers. On top of this he wore a blue
and white patterned shirt. About his waist he wrapped a pale blue
sash pinned together with a tiny ivory figurine of a Kitsune.
Through the sash he thrust the swords given to him by his father. As
he reached the door of his small cabin he stopped and looked back at
the black lacquer case next to his bed. He turned around and knelt
in front it with his hand on the latch. After a moment he lifted the
top and reached under the clothes to remove the two ancient swords
given to him by his uncle Sasaki as he left home. He looked
longingly at them and eventually told himself 'Michiya, you are a
long way from home and the time has come for you to accept the
changes in your life! Put away your boyhood swords and bear these
ancient blades with the honor you deserve.' It was the first time he
had borne the two beautiful swords since receiving them as he left
home. After a short prayer to the Storm God Susano-wo for continued
good sailing, he went out on deck. For a long moment he stood
watching the sunrise until the mate called out to him, 'Good morning
Ittosai-san.'
'Hai,' he whispered, 'totemo ii desu ne!' Turning to the mate he
called 'Good morning Stiben-san, when will we be arriving in Darugon?'
Checking the sun and the colour of the water, he replied 'Just
before lunch if the wind holds up. Why don't we go below and get
something to eat with the night crew before they eat their foolish
heads off and leave nothing for us?'
Taking Steven's suggestion to catch an early breakfast with the
crew he was treated to a meal of lightly fried fish and potatoes.
Potatoes were one few thing he had found to his liking since leaving
his homeland so he ate with great enjoyment. Listening to the
sailors talk of their expected docking later that day he realized
how much he missed his homeland. Weary of hearing their foreign
tongue that he had been forced to learn out of necessity, he drifted
off into a reminiscence of his final good bye to his uncle.
The bitter winter winds had swept the dock clean of snow that
cold night in Yoshida. The cold irritated the freshly bandaged wound
in his leg as he stood there waiting for his uncle. He considered
returning to Osaka and facing his enemies rather than leave the
country. His uncle insisted that this was the only proper course of
action available to him, but leaving hurt his pride. Just as he
decided that was exactly what he would do, he saw his uncle approach
carrying a bundle under his arm.
Kneeling before his uncle he said 'Uncle-san, my apologies but
my sense of honor demands I return to Osaka and face the Itokawa clan.'
His uncle, Ittosai Sasaki, replied 'You will do no such thing!
The Itokawa clan is acting dishonorably in their attacks against
you. They send many of their Samurai after you, a lone ji-zamurai,
just because they cannot accept that one of their children could
possibly be defeated by you. Once they capture you and find out who
you are, they will declare an illegal blood feud on our small clan.
I will not allow the Ittosai clan to be destroyed to salve their
hurt pride. You have acted honorably all along, it is no dishonor
for you to leave now and save your family. Go now, and may Susano-wo
bless your travels.'
'But uncle-san!' he replied 'I do not feel so very honorable at
the moment. Why are they so respected, if they act so dishonorably?'
Sasaki thought a while before answering, 'They are very
powerful, and they aided the new Shogunate on its rise to power.
With such credentials many things are overlooked.' At this point he
began unwrapping the bundle at his side. Inside was a beautiful old
Dai-sho. Holding it out to Michiya he said 'I want you to take this
and bear it with the same honor your great grandfather did after the
son of heaven, Emperor Go-Shirakawa, gave it to him with his blessing.'
With trembling hands, Michiya accepted the ancient blades, but
said 'Uncle-san, I cannot accept this gift! They belong in our
family shrine!'
'Do not argue with an old man on a cold night! Take them now and
board the ship.' With that his uncle turned around and stalked off
into the night. Rising stiffly to his feet, Michiya turned and
boarded the foreign trade ship, The Singing Mermaid.
His reverie was broken then by the yells of the crew as they
prepared to enter the port. He went up on deck and headed forward to
get out of the crew's way and get a good look at his new home. It
wasn't as colorful as his home back in Bichu province nor as
spotlessly clean, but it could have been worse. Some of the ports
that they had stopped in to restock their food supplies had been
smelly cesspools.
As they docked, the Captain approached, and said 'Michiya-san,
the crew has unshipped your crates and is ready to unload them. As
you are new to Dargon, I have taken the liberty of ordering them to
carry your belongings to a respectable inn called "The Inn of the
Hungry Shark". Thomas the bartender is a friend of mine, tell him I
sent you and he will make sure that you are treated with respect.'
'Thank you Captain Markus-san' Michiya replied with a bow 'I was
wondering where I would stay until I became understanding of this
place. I have enjoyed the trip and the company of you and your crew.
I would also like to thank you for teaching me your language.'
'No thanks are necessary' said the Captain. 'It has been a
pleasure to have you on board these last few months. In fact it is I
who should be thanking you for your assistance in dealing with those
pirates last month. I usually am able to go for years with no such
encounters, and every time I have had an encounter I've been lucky
to drive them off. Now I think it'll be quite a while till I have to
worry again.'
Looking rather embarrassed Michiya said 'It was nothing, please
stop, such flattery to my head will travel. I not so special am...'
At this point Michiya broke off in confusion and further
embarrassment over his poor English.
Saying good bye to the Captain, Michiya went ashore. It finally
sunk home to him that he was in a foreign land. Nowhere that he
looked, did he see any of his people. At this point he noticed a
brightly colored wagon with an umbrella. The owner was a merchant
and was selling some stew. Going over to the wagon he got some "Sun
Sweet" stew which was quite good. Instinctively he had brought out a
pair of hashi to eat with, but this seemed to offend the owner's pet
monkey. The little creature grabbed a spoon and thrust it at him.
Not wishing to offend to little monkey any further, he accepted the
spoon. Handing over a gold koku to the little monkey he quietly
complemented it. 'Anata wa kawakute chisaii saru imasu ne!'
His comment seemed to puzzle the monkey who was obviously
pretending that he didn't understand. Taking his leave of the soup
vendor, he thought to himself that the merchants over here were
definately an improvement over the ones' back in Nihon. Back home
they grubbed for anything they could get and had no self respect at
all. The crew members carrying his supplies brought him to a
reasonably clean and tidy inn. Here he was introduced to Thomas the
bartender. After finding out who had sent him, Thomas set him up in
a small but nice room on the second floor.
After a short rest, Michiya went back down stairs and asked
Thomas to explain the Dargon monetary system to him.
Thomas sighed and began to explain the long sad story as he saw
it. 'At first there were only two coinage systems in use. One was
the Shapkan system which had only two types of coins in modern
usage. The two coins were of copper and silver. The other system was
the Baranur system which had three basic coins. These coins were
gold marks, silver rounds, and copper bits. The copper coin is of
the same value as the Shapkan copper, but the silver coins were of
different worth. Recently though, the Rand system has been
introduced by our Lord Clifton Dargon to "simplify matters". It is a
sort of average between the two systems and also has three basic
coins like the Baranur system. Once again the copper coins are of
common value with all the others, but the silver coins are of yet a
third new value and the gold coin is of a different value than the
Baranur gold mark.'
Michiya stood there taking this in thinking to himself that
'This is madness! How could any one want more than one money system?
One money system alone is bad enough, but three will surely cause
greed and hatred.' Michiya thanked Thomas for his help and went out
for some sight seeing. During his wanderings he passed by a farmers
market where he bought some cucumbers. Back home they were
considered a delicacy and he hadn't had any for a long time so he
was quite happy when he returned to The Inn of the Hungry Shark for
dinner. Michiya spent the next few days in somewhat the same manner,
though he was constantly on the look out for something he could do
to support himself in an honorable fashion. He realized that he
could not live forever on the cash that he brought with him and was
quite concerned with his future.
One night as he was taking his evening walk after dinner Michiya
wandered into one of the seedier sections of town. Having been
warned by Thomas that thieves and cutthroats were known to attack
people from time to time in the area, he was on his guard. Shortly
after passing a dark and smelly alley way he heard a sudden stealthy
sound behind him. Without pausing to look, Michiya spun about while
dropping to his left knee and drawing his katana. Just as he dropped
he heard the sound of a thrown dagger pass right over his head.
Silently muttering a brief thanks to Hachiman, he rose to meet the
rush of the attacking thief. The thief didn't look too happy about
the turn of events, but had already committed himself to the attack
with his charge. Michiya turned a parry of the thief's first swing
into a wheel stroke, expecting the fellow to jump back and avoid the
swing. Instead his attacker tried to parry but was hopelessly out of
position. The swing cut through the thief's left arm and made a
shallow cut in the side of his chest. Dropping the sword with a
scream the thief grabbed at the stump of his left arm and stared at
it in disbelief. Michiya was also shocked. He had been told that the
local thieves were reasonably skilled in weapons and had assumed
that they would all know the only possible response to such a basic
attack. He hadn't wanted to kill or even seriously maim the man,
only wound him slightly to drive him off. The thief fell to his
knees and begged 'Please don't kill me! Here, I'll give you
everything I have!'
Michiya noted that the man was going to pass out from blood loss
any minute now, so told him 'Keep your money and your life. I had
only intended to try to scare you off and am now ashamed at myself
for my failure. Take this as a token of my sorrow over what has
happened here tonight.' With that statement Michiya tossed the man a
small gold koku and turned away. The thief stared numbly at the
small gold coin still disbelieving what was happening. Shakily he
reached out, picked up the coin, slipped it into his belt pouch and
staggered of into the night clutching at his arm.
As Michiya stood there wondering what to do, he heard the sound
of many running footsteps approaching. Thinking that more assailants
were on the way he began to step into darkness when he realized that
it was the city guard. Shaking off the blood from his sword, Michiya
sheathed it and stood there calmly in the middle of the street.
Six men in uniform came running down the road. Three of them
immediately surrounded him and two of the others spread out and
started searching the area. The last man, who seemed to be in charge
came over to Michiya and asked 'Who are you sir and what went on here?'
'Ittosai Michiya I am' he replied 'I was just by a thief attacked.'
At this point one of the searchers came running up with the arm
and sword of the thief who had attacked him. He approached the
officer and pointing in the direction of the fight said 'Sir! We
found these over there by that alley.'
Unshuttering his lantern, the officer inspected the sword. With
a start of surprise, the officer exclaimed 'This is Captain Koren's
sword. It was stolen from him a week ago!' With this he turned to
Michiya and said 'Sir, I apologize for the rude manner with which I
initially treated you. In this neighborhood we have to assume the
worst about anyone we don't know. I am Kalen Darklen and am pleased
to meet you.'
Michiya noted that the soldiers relaxed as he replied with a bow
'I am honored to meet you Kalen-san. Unduly impolite for the
situation, you and your men I did not find'.
They chatted pleasantly for a while and eventually Michiya was
invited back to the barracks near the Keep to return Captain
Koren's sword. Michiya was initially hesitant to go there and
embarrass the man in such a fashion. After all losing a sword was a
horribly embarrassing thing. Kalen reassured him that it wasn't
quite that bad of an embarrassment here in the west.
Eventually Michiya returned to The Inn of The Hungry Shark with
an escort this time, went to bed, and dreamt of home.
-Eric Holmquist <MSA1 @ UCONNVM>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Deep Trouble Jim Owens
The Essence of Ur-Baal Roman Olynyk
Date: 030286 Dist: 121
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X-Editorial
Well, folks, here's the second batch of Dargon stories. The
response to the first ish was, as we downeasterners say, "wicked
massive". In fact, when I told one reader that my head was swelling
and that I'd start charging for FSFnet, he came back saying that
he'd pay for it! Well, for now we'll just keep cranking out the
stuff for free, but I won't refuse contributions...
I'd like to thank Chris Condon for keeping FSFnet in BITLIST,
and all the new readers who responded to BITLIST or the note I sent
out last month. Readership is better than ever, but we all know
there are more people out there who would be interested in this sort
of fanzine, so spread the word, send issues around, and coerce
people if necessary to make them sign up! The more the merrier, right?
Finally, for all you back-issue freaks, FSFNET INDEX, a list of
back issues and their contents is available from mine truly. Feel
free to ask for it, and any back issues, but remember that such
requests often go several weeks before being fulfilled, since issues
before 4-1 are kept on magnetic tape in my living room.
Well, that's all the news from the north, on to the two newest
Dargon stories...
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Deep Trouble
The day was sunlit, although there were still clouds in the sky,
and rain still came down occasionally. The wind was no longer cold,
as it had been, though, so Levy and Mattan Barel shed their cloaks
as they passed through the great wooden gates of Dargon. All around
them men carried heavy crates and barrels of food and goods, setting
up their booths for the Festival.
Levy and Mattan made their way through the streets to the home
of Cavendish the Scribe. Levy had spent a few years with Cavendish
learning several scholarly languages, and every year, when the
Festival came, Levy made it a point to spend a few days in Dargon
with his teacher and friend.
When they arrived, Cavendish's son Dale made their horses
comfortable while Cavendish personally saw to the comforts of his
guests. After several hours of "catching up" on old times and
equally generous amounts of food and good beer, the household
settled down for the night.
Levy was jolted out of a sound rest by the sound of loud
knocking on the outside doors. As he rolled over, he heard Cavendish
making his way to the door, unbolting it and greeting his early
morning guests.
"We would speak with Levy Barel. We know he is lodging here."
The voice was not harsh, but there was no mistaking the
authority behind it. By the time Cavendish reached the door to
Levy's room, both Levy and Mattan were in their trousers. Levy saw
the apprehension in Cavendish's eyes as he stepped into the room.
"There are some men here to see you. Lord's Guards."
Levy stepped into his boots and walked out into the main room,
followed by Mattan. As he did he breathed a quick prayer. Standing
in the doorway were three large men, all wearing swords at their
sides, undrawn. Levy approached them.
"How can I help you?" Levy's tone was carefully chosen, not
arrogant, but not fearful either.
"Lord Dargon wishes to see you. Immediately." Although there was
no threat in the man's voice, it was obvious that he would not leave
without Levy.
While taking in the situation, Levy noticed his brother's face.
It had a curious expression on it, as if he were sizing up the
opposition, a look Levy knew well. The three guards, on the other
hand, anxiously watched Levy and Mattan. Levy turned to his brother.
"I'll go with them. It's all right." Levy knew that Mattan could
and would stop these men from taking him against his will. It was
always best to play things easy, though.
Levy grabbed his cloak and stepped outside to where the men
waited with four horses. The group rode silently through the
sleeping city to the central keep. There they dismounted, and
entered. Please let me see the outside of this castle again, Levy
breathed, uncertain. Once inside, the guard Levy had spoken with
turned to the other guards.
"You may return to your posts."
As the two guards saluted, and turned to leave, the third guard
turned towards Levy.
"Follow me. My Lord awaits."
They made their way into the center of the keep, which was
larger than any Levy had been in, and up to the top level. Levy was
surprised to note that every one they met saluted deferentially to
his guide, no matter how high their rank. Soon, they came to a short
hallway, in the center of which was a door with guards on both
sides. When they reached the door, the two guards blocked their
entry until the guide surrendered his sword.
Once inside Levy immediately recognized Lord Dargon, a young
man, straight and honest-looking. The Lord looked up almost as soon
as they stepped in.
"Bartol. You found him. Well done."
"Thank you, My Lord."
"Bartol is my bard. He sings for me when I hold public court.
What most people don't know is that he is also second in command of
my personal bodyguard, and one of my most valuable spies."
"Concerned citizens, Sire." The reply was accompanied with a grin.
"Forgive me. Concerned citizens. I would make him ruler of a
third of my lands if it weren't for the fact that then he would be
of no use to me anymore."
Levy infered from their talk that this was to be an informal
audience. Therefore, he got to the point as soon as possible.
"How can I be of assistance to you, Lord Dargon?"
"Allow me to explain; it is a short tale. I must, as all lords
in this country must, pay tithes to Baranur. Unlike most lords, I
have always paid them promptly, and without grudging. This year,
however, a problem has arisen. My financial adviser died this spring
of old age and left his eldest son, whom he had been training, in
his position. One of the first things his son did was to, how did he
say it, invest the tithe money overseas. It really was a good idea.
For every piece of gold I sent over, two have come back. Further,
because of their increased trade with us, several of our long time
enemies would not dare invade us, for fear of loosing a good
customer.The only problem arose when the tithe collector from
Baranur came. The ship carrying the tithe was late, so we had to put
him off for two weeks. He was not happy. When the ship finally did
arrive, it arrived during a storm, and sank just outside of the
harbor. The tithe collector grew suspicious, and returned to Baranur
despite anything I could do. Now, we don't have enough gold in
Dargon to pay the tithe, and Baranur has sent me this."
Lord Dargon handed Levy a scroll, which he opened. Out of it
rolled a dead scorpion. With shaking hands Levy read the scroll.
"Be it known! The hand of Baranur is long and heavy! Tithes must
be paid in full by the full moon, or the next messenger will not be
a dead one!"
Levy looked up at Lord Dargon.
"The moon is full tonight."
"Yes, but the letter did not arrive until yesterday. Baranur is
impatient, but not unrealistic. It would take two days for the money
just to reach Baranur. No, we have until the next full moon to pay
the tithe."
"I see. Just what part do I play in this little game, Lord Dargon?"
"I am trying to raise the money by other means. There is little
hope of doing it, but perhaps we could buy some time with a partial
payment. What I want you to do is raise that ship. I know of the
legends concerning the first Barel, how he saved this land by his
engineering skills. I also know that you follow in his footsteps.
Now I am hiring you to help me. Raise that ship. and you will walk
away with a tithe of it's holdings."
Levy paused.
"And if I don't?"
Lord Dargon looked Levy straight in the eye.
"I will not threaten a guest to my city, nor will I threaten
someone I wish to hire. But I will not take no for an answer. And if
you don't raise the ship in time, you and your brother will be here
in the city when Baranur comes to claim it's due."
Dawn found Mattan Barel and Cavendish asleep in chairs, with
half empty cups of strong herb tea in front of them. They had been
waiting a long time for Levy to come back. They awoke and sprang to
their feet when Levy opened the door and stepped in.
"What happened? Where have you been? What did they want?" Mattan
was relieved to see his older brother in one piece, but now his
curiosity was aroused.
"It seems I'm not going to get to see much of the Festival after
all. Lord Dargon has a minor engineering miracle he wants me to
perform for him."
Cavendish and Mattan sat back down as Levy removed his cloak and
took a free chair. Cavendish leaned forward with a knowing look on
his face.
"Was it about the ship that sank?"
"I'm not allowed to tell any more than what I have, but I will
say he's willing to pay me very well. You might say, a lord's
ransom. And he won't take no for an answer." Levy sat back, grinning
at the expression on Cavendish's face. "I would ask you not let
anyone know of this. Not even your family. Mattan, I may need your
help later. For now, though, you can have your fun at the Festival.
And don't worry about saving enough money for the trip home. We
won't be needing to worry about that." One way or another, Levy
added, as a silent afterthought.
After breakfast, Levy rode across the city to the docks. Once
there he rode up to the largest ship he could find. Naturally, it
was one of the Lord's own. It was a trading vessel, the Heavenly
Walls. Levy tied up his horse, and strode on board. He found the
captain, one John Largo, directing the loading of the first part of
his cargo. Levy approached him.
"I really hate to say this, but I'm afraid you're going to have
to unload that cargo."
Largo, and everyone else who heard, froze. They all turned to
look at Levy. There was a long pause. Largo looked around at all his
men, then back to Levy.
"And why would that be? Who are you to be telling me these things?"
Levy pulled his hand from where he had been concealing it in his
cloak. He held it up, palm in.
"Who am I? I'm the man who wears this ring."
Captain Largo looked at the ring. His eyes sprang wide open, and
he immediately doffed his hat and dropped to one knee.
"Please! Pardon me! I had no idea!" He turned to the crew. "He
wears Lord Dargon's ring!"
The entire crew immediately dropped what they were doing and
presented a hasty salute. Levy had not asked for the ring, but now
he was glad it had been given. He realized now that it would make
things much easier, for while he wore it, he had, for many if not
all intents and purposes, as much authority as Lord Dargon himself.
"Rise. Lord Dargon has asked that I use this vessel. He thought
it to be the best one for my needs, and my needs are going to be
great. Can you fulfil them, captain?" Levy knew that no man in the
captain's position could allow his competency to be so questioned.
"Name it, and we will have it done yesterday!" The crew gave a
shout, and when Levy smiled and motioned for the captain to lead the
way to the cabin, they broke into cheering.
A week later Levy stood on the deck of the ship, frowning at the
grey waves. Voices behind him drew his attention. He turned and
walked across the deck to where three seamen were pulling a drag
rope on deck One of the men stopped, and leaned over the side. A
moment later he straightened up, pulling a diver on deck. Levy
approached the diver.
"What can you see down there?"
"Nothing. The ship is down there, but we can't get close enough
to see it. It's too deep, and the water's too cold, and there are
too many sharks."
"What about that sack I gave you? The one with the shark poison
in it."
The man gave a wry smile.
"A shark made a pass at me, and I dropped it. The shark doubled
back, and ate it."
Levy vented a sigh, and turned back to the cabin, He stepped
inside, grateful to be in out of the cold wind. The cabin was
surprisingly warm, heated by a large cooking stove. The cabin was
the living quarters for the whole crew. Two men were presently
playing dice in the far corner. One had had his leg broken when a
drag line had snapped and thrown him against some tackle. The other
was a diver who had been mauled by a shark.
The rest of the crew was on deck, busily trying either to put
off marker buoys to mark the wreck, or helping the divers in their
attempts to reach the wreck. So far the only success had been the
initial find of the ship, and even that had taken three days. The
grab lines had not been able to haul anything up. No divers had been
able to reach the wreck, and at least one other diver had been
injured by the sharks, although not severely. The captain had asked
to be allowed to take the injured men back to shore, and Levy had
agreed. He was secretly glad, as he needed time to plan his next
move. He had hoped that the divers he had found at the Festival
would help, but they were foiled by the deep, the dark, the cold,
and the sharks. He had spent much time petitioning his God for
another idea, but none had come yet.
Three days later Levy was back at the wreck, only this time with
two ships. The first was the Heavenly Walls. The other was a trader,
the Green Squid. It's captain was a man called Itoh Carran Tchock.
They were the largest ships available, and they had on deck the
largest winches Levy could find, ones like those used to raise the
drawbridge leading into Dargon Keep. At the moment the two ships
were about two hundred feet apart with a thick hawser slung between
them. At an order from Levy, the line was played out, until Levy
figured that enough had been let out that it was now resting on the
bottom. Levy then motioned to Capt. Largo. He bellowed an order to
his men, and the ship started moving. He then motioned to Capt.
Tchock on the other ship, and it moved forward as well. As the ships
moved through the water, the hawser followed. Occasionally it would
grow taut, only to slacken as the obstacle was overcome. Then, after
about half a minute, it grew taut and did not relax. Both ships
stopped. Levy then turned to Capt. Largo.
"Launch the boat!"
Five men lowered the ship's boat into the water and climbed into
it. Another hawser was passed to them, and they started for the
Green Squid. When they reached it, the line was passed up to it's
crew, who made it fast to the winch on board. The boat crew then
rowed back towards their ship. They stopped half way, and fished the
hawser out of the water. Then, as Levy watched, more line was let
out. The boat rowed forward, pulling the hawser out, until the
weight of the extended line was ready to swamp the little boat. Then
the crew dropped the line, which disappeared underwater. Capt. Largo
turned to Levy, but Levy just stood there, watching. After a long
moment, Levy turned to Largo.
"It should be down there by now. Make it fast, and start pulling
it in."
The crew scrambled to fulfil the command. The line was attached
to the winch as the first was, and then teams started laboriously
turning the spool. Onboard the other ship the crew did the same. The
two ships drifted together. As soon as a line could be tossed
across, the two ships were drawn together. Wooden beams were placed
across the gap between the ships, and lashed to the two decks,
binding the two ships together solidly.
Levy's plan was easy to understand. It had come to him as he
stood on the pier and watched the waves pushing anchor lines around.
He didn't know if it was divinely inspired, but it was better than
no idea. The first hawser had been dragged along the bottom until it
had caught on the bow of the sunken ship. A second had then been
sunk around the stern of the wreck. The ships had then been lashed
together, so that they could try to winch the wreck to the surface
without worrying about capsizing.
All through the day the crews turned the big spools. Inch by
inch the wet rope wound around the drums. Levy did not plan to
totally raise the ship, only get it high enough so that it could be
hauled to shallow water.
As the sun drew towards the horizon, the wind picked up. With it
came rougher seas. Levy told the captain to start to make for shore.
The men who were not cranking the winches raised the sails. They had
gotten them half up when the two ships lurched. The beams between
the two ships snapped, and both ships rose suddenly higher in the
water. Levy fell to the deck, as did just about everyone. He got up
and ran to the winch. He didn't even need to ask what had happened.
Both cables were limp.
Levy had been there for only a moment when both ships shuddered
again. This time the ships rolled away from each other. One man fell
overboard. The air was filled with horrible thumps as each ship was
struck several times. When things quieted down, both crews ran to
the side of the ship, and were astonished to see the man who had
fallen over standing, apparently on top of the water.
It didn't take long for Levy to realize that the sunken ship had
surfaced, and was now floating on it's own. It wasn't for a few
minutes that Levy realized that the ship was now in two pieces, the
stern and the bow. After that it was only a moment before the real
impact of what had happened hit him. The reason the wreck hadn't
floated before was that it was weighted down with it's golden cargo.
If it floated now, it was only because the gold had all poured out
when the ship had broken in half.
Levy stood in an open field. Three weeks ago the Festival had
started in Dargon, and three days ago the sunken ship had broken in
half as Levy and the crew of the Heavenly Walls had tried to raise
it. Since then an effort had been made to dredge the gold off the
sea floor, but to no avail. The bottom was rough and craggy, unlike
the smooth floor of the harbor. Attempts to dive down to the gold
had almost gotten a diver eaten.
Levy looked around him. The sun was hot, a welcome change to the
cool sea air. Levy had decided to take a break and practice the
archery his young twin brother had taught him. He had set up a
target in the center of the grassy field, and had walked back to
where his bow lay. Now he bent and picked it up, along with an
arrow. He had only brought three, as Mattan had wanted to go hunting.
As Levy stood there he thought. Where in the world am I going to
come up with a way to raise that ship? In this field? He laughed
quietly at that thought. I'll never be able to find the solution to
this problem. It'll take a miracle. And that wouldn't be a bad idea,
he concluded, aiming that last thought skyward.
He raised the bow and shot. The arrow struck the target at the
base. He drew and fired again. This time he hit to one side. Once
more he shot. The arrow struck the very top of the target and
glanced off in high, arching flight.
Levy groaned. His aim this morning certainly wasn't inspired. He
dropped the bow and jogged out to where he thought the arrow had
landed. Past the target he found a small stream, and a tiny pool,
and his arrow, sticking out of the water in the center of the pool.
Levy squatted on the edge of the pool, staring at the brightly
colored bolt as it pointed upward, unwilling to muddy the water by
wading in to retrieve the shaft. As he sat there a movement caught
his attention. A spider scurried along the edge of the pool. It
reached a fallen branch that extended out into the pool, and turned
out along it.
Be careful, little spider, or you'll get wet, Levy thought. To
his surprise, the spider turned down a side branch, and crawled
right under the water.
Levy leaned closer. He had heard of spiders that lived
underwater, but he had never seen one. He watched as the small
creature clung to the twig, a bubble of air cloaking its abdomen in
silver. As he watched the spider, another movement caught his eye. A
fish, rather large for such a small pool, swam by. The spider
paused, and as it did the fish saw it. With a movement of it's tail,
the fish darted after the spider. Before the fish could reach it,
however, the spider squeezed between two twigs. The fish bumped it's
snout against the twigs, unable to reach the tasty morsel behind
them. It hung there for a moment, then swam off, puzzled.
Fooled him, you did, Levy thought, safe in your little wooden
cage. Then Levy stiffened. Cage!
Three days later Levy was once again on the deck of the Heavenly
Walls, looking at the red marker buoys bobbing in the water. This
time he had brought something else along. It had once hung from a
gibbet, holding a criminal's body. Now it hung from a derrick, ready
to be swung over the side of the ship. It was a large iron cage,
just big enough for a man to stand in. A large, clear glass jar,
which Levy had managed to talk the local glass blower into making,
was wedged into the top. While the crew watched, Levy climbed in and
shut the door. He had decided that he wasn't going to risk someone
else's life on one of his ideas unless he was willing to risk his
own life first. He motioned for Captain Largo to come near.
"When I want up, I'll pull the rope. I'm no diver, and there
isn't going to much air in this thing."
Captain Largo nodded, and steadied the cage as his men swung the
derrick around. Levy hung there a moment, then the cage dropped into
the water.
The shock of the water was muted by the woolen clothing Levy
wore, but it was still great. He was overjoyed to see how well he
could see through the glass. The sea around him was easily visible.
He sank down quickly, the men above allowing the winch to run almost
free. Soon the second part of Levy's idea was tested. A large shape
swam up. Levy didn't see it until it circled around the cage.
Immediately Levy tensed, and immediately the great fish sensed his
nervousness. The shark turned toward Levy, and with a audible snap
of it's tail it slammed into the cage. Levy and the cage swung like
a pendulum, but the cage held firm. Just as the fish had done, the
shark hung there for a moment, then swam off in search of softer game.
Levy watched it for a moment, and then he was at the bottom. He
scraped along a rock wall for a few seconds, and then thudded into a
surprisingly flat bottom. The dark was too thick to see through now,
so Levy opened a pouch at his side, and pulled out a small glass
jar. Inside was some foxfire he had gathered before setting out. It
glowed greenly in the gloom. By it's light Levy could see a metallic
glint from the seabed. Reaching through the bars of the cage, Levy
grabbed something hard and heavy. It was a gold coin. Joy flooded
Levy's mind. He silently shouted praise, his mind singing. He was so
happy at his success that he stared at the coin until his lungs
started burning, and he realized that the air in the jar was going
bad. He reached up, and yanked the cord.
Later that day Levy stood at the bow of the Heavenly Walls. Down
below divers were scooping gold from the ocean mud. Levy's mind was
not there though. He looked out across the waves. He was thinking of
what had happened down at the bottom of the sea. Just as the men
above started pulling him up, Levy slipped his jar of foxfire back
in it's pouch. But the sea around him stayed lit. He looked up, and
almost stopped breathing, for staring right at him were two large,
glowing eyes. As the cage rose, the eyes disappeared in the gloom.
For all of his life, Levy had always wondered at the marvels of
this great planet, this marvelous creation. Yet he now realized that
he had only seen a tiny part. There were other lands, other worlds
within the world. He knew now that he would not have seen anything
if he did not take the time, and look deeper.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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The Essence of Ur-Baal
Banewood smelled incense when he entered Aardvard Factotum's
home. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed
conspicuous details of wealth: polished wooden furniture from
Magnus; a paved floor topped with woven grass mats; and thick
tapestries, imported from distant Baranur, adorned the walls. The
richness of the furnishings attested to Factotum's success as a
local healer and surgeon -- a barber, in local parlance. The
peasants, those who could afford his services, paid dearly with
their cattle, which augmented what was already one of the largest
herds in the realm. Those who were rich, however, had rich diseases,
and they paid in gold for their treatment, preferably Baranur gold
marks. Many of them.
But Banewood wasn't looking for healing. And though he could
probably use a different type of barber, he hadn't come for a
surgical consultation. He was looking for magic and for anyone
willing to trade magic spells and potions.
When he had first arrived at Dargon, Banewood milled about the
docks and warehouses, casting about for information among the
sailors, longshoremen and merchants. It didn't take long. Beneath a
red and white canopy, a soup vendor called Simon had volunteered the
name of Aardvard Factotum, the physician, in barter for some exotic
seasonings brought by Banewood. This was not an age of
specialization -- a physician, especially one trained by an elder,
also dabbled in sorcery.
The apprentice shaman, ever on the search for new spells and new
knowledge, eagerly sought the physician's house and gave his
credentials to a haughty secretary. After about ten minutes --
Aardvard didn't wish to appear eager -- the secretary returned and
ushered Banewood into Factotum's richly appointed office.
"Hansen, go take a walk and leave us alone," said Aardvard to
his secretary. Hansen demurred at the order to leave his employer,
but he left obediently.
"Who's your instructor?" asked Aardvard. From behind thick lids,
his reddened eyes peered at the dusty Shaman. He drew a heavy puff
from a pipe. The pipe, made of whale ivory scrimshaw, was very rare.
"Ostap of Gorod," responded Banewood.
"Never heard of him," said the physician. He stifled a yawn. "I
presume you came here with something on your mind."
Banewood shifted his weight; he'd been on his feet all day.
"Yes. I'm a stranger to the kingdom of Baranur, having journeyed
through the forest from the east.
"More to this bumpkin than meets the eye," mused Aardvard to
himself. The eastern forests seldom admitted strangers. Ones who
passed that way may, indeed, have something to offer. "Go on..."
Banewood told Aardvard little of his adventure at the hut of
Baba Yaga or of his meeting with the little people who lived in the
dark forest which surrounded Gorod, his home. Nor did he mention
Baba Yaga's book of spells. Baba Yaga was an evil sorceress who died
centuries ago in the dark forest. Last summer, Banewood and his
companion, Sod the plowman, journeyed through the dark forest to
slay Kathryn, a monstrous sow believed by many to be the
reincarnation of Baba Yaga. Banewood found Baba Yaga's book of
spells within the ruins of her moldering hut. Books of any sort were
rare commodities in this dim age, and a book of sorcery was beyond
price -- more than one's life, at least. Banewood concentrated
instead on his quest for the greater knowledge, his euphemism for
the shaman's art.
Factotum was amused. Never before had someone sought him out to
exchange spells and potions.
"Let's play with this one a bit," Factotum thought to himself.
"Well, shaman, show me what you can do, and I'll see what I may have
to offer you... But I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners, aren't I?
Please sit and ease your feet."
Banewood nodded in thanks. Picking a stool, he sat down and did
little to suppress a weary sigh. He reached into his sack and
produced a wooden rod. He waved the rod over a small table in front
of him, muttered a few words and caused the table to rise about a
foot into the air. It floated about for a moment and then abruptly
settled back to earth.
Aardvard shrugged. "I'm afraid the table is the only thing to
get a rise from that old trick," he said with smugness. Thinking to
impress Banewood, he reached for a nearby urn and showed the shaman
that it was empty. Aardvard covered the urn with a fine cloth which
he pulled from a pocket in his robe. He produced his own wooden rod
and waved it over the container. With slight flourish, he produced a
little white squat-hen, your typical rabbit. He offered the
squat-hen to Banewood. "Something for your dinner, perhaps?"
Banewood smirked. "Is that all you can do? Squat-hen tricks?" He
reached again into his bag and this time pulled out one of his
favorites; it was a narrow vial filled with a dark green liquid. He
sipped once from the vial and placed it back in his pouch. Banewood
closed his eyes as if resting and appeared to go to sleep.
"Now what?" wondered the physician.
Several minutes went by. However, just as the physician was
thinking of offering Banewood a cup of tea or some other stimulant,
a raven flew up to the open window and perched on the sill. It
looked sideways at Aardvard, which is the way birds often look when
gazing directly at you, and croaked "Aar-vard! Aar-vard!"
"Is that all you can do? Bird imitations?" scoffed Aardvard
Factotum. But the physician had never seen this bit of sorcery
before. "Hmm... What else can you do with that potion?" He asked.
Once again, Banewood closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.
After about a minute, Banewood stirred; he opened his eyes and
beamed a knowing smile at Aardvard.
"You have twelve hundred gold marks hidden behind your hearth.
Don't you trust the banks in Baranur?" Banewood asked.
Factotum controlled an urge to jump out of his chair and
throttle Banewood. "You can do that with your potion?" he asked.
"What is it?"
Banewood replied "It's the Essence of Ur-Baal. It sets the mind
free of the body."
"Oh! I've got to try this essence. Let me try it, please?"
begged Factotum, going down a bit in Banewood's estimation.
"No, I don't think so," replied Banewood. "It's kind of
dangerous if you don't know what you're doing; you can easily get
lost and not find your way back to your body."
"I've never been lost a day in my life," retorted Aardvard.
"You mean you've used the essence of Ur-Baal before?"
"Yeah, sure. A long time ago." Aardvard lied.
"Well, in that case..." Banewood looked pensive, Aardvard looked
eager. "Okay." Banewood relented. He trickled a few drops of the
essence of Ur-Baal into a waiting glass. "But be careful and don't
stray too far," he warned.
"Don't worry, mother, this will be easy," said Aardvard Factotum
as he snarfed down a small mouthful of the dark green liquid.
Aardvard Factotum closed his eyes. He didn't feel any different
for about thirty seconds. Suddenly, he felt strange, like he was
having a giddy dream. The muscles in his neck felt extremely loose,
and then it felt as if the base of his skull was opening up. His
thoughts poured out -- literally. "Boy, this is neat," he thought.
In his mind, he went to the kitchen and looked for his gold behind a
loose cobble stone near the hearth... "Yes, it's still there, all of
it." And while his body remained indoors, his mind perceived the
sky. He was moving... at least it felt like he was.
He took in the panorama of a dimming twilight sky -- it was
particularly beautiful -- and then perceived the smoke of a distant
cooking fire. Following the source of smoke, his mind flew down the
chimney and entered the living quarters of one of his tenant
farmers. A farmer and his stoutish wife were eating and talking
about the day's events. How odd! Aardvard didn't hear them, but he
FELT what they were saying. They were talking about the stranger who
had come to visit the physician, speculating as to what kind of
chicanery might be afoot.
"My secretary, Hansen, cannot resist passing on the latest
gossip," thought Aardvard. "So Hansen becomes a rumormonger when he
takes his little walks!"
He passed through a small open window and again flew over the
countryside with increasing exhilaration. Aardvard's disembodied
mind experienced elation as the sensations bombarded him through
numerous channels. Aardvard understood so many things. He sensed the
heartbeat of a barn swallow in flight, he felt an oak tree breathe,
and he felt the vastness of the earth and the sky surrounding it.
His mind flew upward and toward the Street of Travellers which
ran through the business district of Dargon, then over the wall of
Dargon Keep. The castle of Dargon Keep served as home to Lord
Clifton Dargon, for whose family the city below is named. Within the
keep also lived the lesser nobility and other courtiers.
Aardvard Factotum's mind now ran up and down the halls of Dargon
Keep. He entered the chamber of Griswald Brutsam, a
physician-sorcerer in the employ of Lord Dargon. Most potentates
kept court physician-sorcerers to ward off bad food and bad spells.
Clifton Dargon was no fool and, hence, no exception. And Griswald
was one of the best.
Someone else was in the room with Griswald. Normally, Aardvard
wouldn't have known who this man was, but his instinct said that it
was Lek Pyle, a leading shipping merchant from Baranur. Neither
Griswald nor Lek took notice of Factotum's entrance, though Griswald
did shift his eyes about as if he was about to impart something
important to the other visitor. Anything that Griswald had to say,
particularly to one of Baranur's leading merchants, was worth
listening in on. Aardvard decided to eavesdrop.
Griswald talked about Captain Markus and the return to port of
the Singing Mermaid. The Mermaid had gone further east than any
Baranur ship -- and it had managed to return.
"I know Lord Dargon's will in the matter of sending an army
against the island of Bichu," said Griswald. "He wouldn't risk it,
and I'm afraid he's also morally opposed to it. He figures that as
long as those people are already willing to trade with us, there's
no sense in fighting them. And I'm not sure I see the sense either."
"It doesn't matter what Griswald thinks of this matter," said
Lek. What's important is that Baranur has the exclusive right to
govern trade with Bichu."
"I still don't like it," rejoined Griswald, "but it looks like I
don't have any choice. Loyalty to Lord Dargon isn't worth my life."
Lek smiled a crooked grin, stood up and headed for the door.
"Still," continued Griswald, tugging absently at his ear and
rising from his seat, "I'm not sure of the best way to get Lord
Dargon out of the picture."
If the disembodied mind that was Factotum's could have choked at
this moment, it would have. "By the great gods!" thought Factotum.
"They're talking of assassination! I've got to go warn somebody..."
While Factotum watched mutely -- at least mutely as far as Lek
and Griswald were concerned -- both men quietly walked out of the
room and headed down the hall toward the stairs.
But when Aardvard Factotum tried to follow, he couldn't move. He
felt like a man trying to escape a nightmare beast; if he'd had
knees, they'd have turned to rubber right now. No, actually, the
feeling was more like standing in muck up to your chin, and knowing
that it was going to get higher. Aardvard felt the same sort of
panic that men felt when they were about to die, that is, his mind
seized up and refused to work. It was a sinking feeling.
-Roman (Mr. Fish) Olynyk <VM0BA9 @ WVNVM>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
The Awakening Orny
Spirit of the Wood Rich Jervis
Dreamer's Holiday Joseph Curwen
Dawn Watch Jim Owens
Date: 042086 Dist: 143
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X-Editorial
Greetings, all. Well, there is so much to write of here, yet so
little space. Enclosed you will find 4 new Dargon stories (the last
of which takes place well before the current ones). I must apologize
for the delay, but I think you will find it worth the wait. Also,
there will be another issue out before the end of the semester, if I
have my way, although who knows? I might mention that if you look at
the distribution, we are growing at a phenomenal pace, and I'd like
to again thank all the new readers for their interest.
As for new books, look for Janet Morris. She's released two new
books that are the first Thieves' World novels, titled "Beyond
Sanctuary" and "Beyond the Veil" (the latter available only in
hardcover as far as I know). Also, new Robert Anton Wilson, Piers
Anthony, Anne McCaffrey, and a reprint of an old Tanith Lee book.
Two more items. For those of you who will be around this summer,
a user at Cornell is planning on running a play by mail Diplomacy
game over BITNET. For more details send a mail file to UXHJ at
CORNELLA. Finally, for those of you with accounts that will expire
soon, please let me know so that I can delete you from the
distribution list. This will help save me from having to sit up all
night watching sent file messages, as well as the annoyance of
filling up your node's spool space.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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The Awakening
The morning sun was boldly creeping towards the edge of
Hartley's sleeping mat when he woke. Sitting up, he shed the single
wool blanket he had been given by one of the peasant women from the
nearby village of Greenmont. He had left the shutters and door of
his modest dwelling open, and the smell of the surrounding pine
woods and the warm sun permeated the room. Shrugging on a light
brown tunic, Hartley leaned out the window and took a deep breath.
This was one of those special May mornings Hartley had been taught
were called Truespring, when spring finally came in a burst of
warmth and lush greenness. The sky was clear and deep azure, and the
leaves on the old Maple out back were calm, signifying that the rest
of the day would not see any spring showers. A nuthatch hung upside
down on a Cedar, nibbling at the piece of suet Hartley had hung only
yesterday afternoon. Truespring had come at last, and Hartley's soul
was healed, after the long days of winter. He could feel the raw,
rejuvenating power of Nature, and he rejoiced in it.
After several very long moments of private reverie, Hartley left
his small cottage with a pewter basin. He walked barefoot down a
well-known path, carpeted with a dun-colored mat of last years
fallen pine needles, eventually coming upon a small woods stream.
The druid climbed upon a stone that jutted into the stream. After a
moment of excited consideration, Hartley tossed the basin towards
the path and stripped off his tunic. The water would be very cold,
but after the winter, Hartley couldn't wait until he could swim a
little and wash all over. After steeling his nerves in the sunlight,
he leapt into the spring runoff. He thrashed around in the water for
a bit, getting clean, and hopped right back up onto the rocks. He
shouldn't stay in too long, after all.
He laid down on the sun-warmed boulder for a time, drying off
and listening to the babble of the rushing water and the voices of
the woods. After several minutes, he donned his robe and filled the
basin, bringing it back to the hut with him.
Walking around to the front of the cabin, Hartley came upon his
garden. Here grew all varieties of flowers and herbs, and, soon,
vegetables. He sprinkled water from the basin around. Most of his
flowers were up, and the Lilacs were blossoming in white and
lavender. His patch of Lilly-in-the-Valley were also blossoming
fragrantly. There was a great deal of work in his garden, but
Hartley knew that it was well worth the effort. It was still a
little early to plant many vegetables, although he ought to head
into town and buy some pea and corn seeds. If he was lucky he could
get two groups of peas before fall, so he planned to get them in the
ground as soon as possible. As for corn, that took all summer to
grow, and should be planted as soon as possible.
He bent down and picked a single Lilly-of-the-Valley stem and
smelled its sweet bell-like blossoms. Placing the basin down, he
walked to the far side of the garden, where he had built his altar
to the twin gods. The altar was nothing more than a small gathering
of stones, but it meant more to Hartley than any other place he
knew. The snow had melted from it, revealing the remains of prior
offerings: a few golden leaves, a pine tassel, and so forth. He
knelt before the altar, placing the Lilly blossom atop it. For
several minutes he sat in silent meditation, worshipping the works
of the two gods, the strong-willed man called Nature and the
softness of Mitra, goddess of Love. Hartley had been taught early
the worship of Nature, and knew little of Mitra save that she was
the all-mother, and Nature's twin companion.
After this ritual was complete, he quietly returned to his home
and prepared for a trip into town.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Spirit of the Wood
The acrid smell of the 'smokers' stung loric's eyes and he
rolled onto his side to cover his head with his lightly tanned arm.
This position was soon ruined also, as an errant beam of early
morning sunlight stole under the shade on the window and hit him in
the corner of his left eye. Soon the battle of boy versus nature was
over and Loric groaned as he gave up and sat up.
He watched the dancing motes of dust pirouette in and out of the
beam of golden light for a few moments and then moved to the window
through which it came.
Loric never ceased to be moved by the sight of his village in
the Trees. The web-like network of vines that linked his home to the
surrounding trees, the home of his uncle down that one, that of his
sister Silsia at the base of the other (she was an unmarried female
and was considered somewhat a rouge by the other villagers, except
Loric who worshipped the ground she walked on even if it was in fact
ground and not the vines he had been born to.
There was a natural depression of the land between here and the
village of Greensward, with the lake shimmering in the exact center
like a jewel of surpassing beauty, in fact the only gem Loric had
ever seen was the blue polished stone that his uncle wore in his
headband, as a sign that the Spirit of the Wood had chosen him to
lead. He was a demanding taskmaster and not taken to change but fair
to all, and his leadership had gotten the people through several
hard winters when the ice-ladened vines had snapped and fallen upon
the 'Downlanders' below.
The mention of the Spirit of the Wood reminded Loric of his
morning prayer. His was a simple one and not really a rhyme to be
proud of but his Grandfather had assured him that as time went on he
would achieve better rapport with the spirit and the Hearth-song
would reveal itself more clearly.
Making a simple hand gesture of acknowledgement to the rising
sun, he sang to the Spirit of the Wood:
"Spirit of the Wood,
Spirit of the Wood,
I'd come be with you,
If I could."
This done Loric took a step outside to see where his Grandfather
was this morning. Loric's father Dernhelm had been one of the
'Downlanders that has perished in the winter and since that time
Loric had lived with his Grandfather, whom everyone in the village
called Oldsir. Loric's awe for his older sister was only
over-shadowed by that for his Grandfather, who though blind for
nearly all of Loric's two years and twelve still negotiated the
vines connecting the upward village with the ease some never
developed. Several of the younger men who were jealous of his seat
on the arboreal council urged him to join his wife and family on the
ground but he always said "If I go below again it'll be on my head!"
"That's a strong oath for a young man to take," commented a
voice from above him. "Shall I swear witness to it, Loric?"
"Oldsir I was talking to myself, and besides, I have yet to take
the Shreaving, and I can swear no oaths before then."
"It is only three more nights till the Moon shows itself full
upon the land, I think perhaps you are ready to try."
Loric was surprised, it had been only a cycle earlier that he
had begged Oldsir to allow him to accompany the young men to the
ground where the Rite of Shreaving began. He looked closely at his
grandfather, somehow sensing the weariness and pain that sometimes
took his Grandfather and shook him for nights in a row. Oldsir
turned tired, sightless eyes upon Loric and in a flash of
inspiration Loric saw what it was that his Grandfather was fatigued
from. His eyes bore the tale-tell spider-tracing of a Vision. The
Spirit of the Wood had spoken to Oldsir, or perhaps through him
during the night. No one alive in his village had ever had two
visions from the Spirit. This meant that something of extreme import
to the village was about to occur.
Oldsir's eyes showed Loric something else equally disturbing.
They revealed to Loric that his Grandfather was dying.
The days between that moment and the day of Sheaving were filled
with a combination of early congratulations from the villagers,
getting his garb fitted for him by his sister, and quiet reflective
evenings as his Grandfather taught him the oral histories, and
shared with him the knowledge of dreams and visions that The Spirit
gave him.
Loric feared that Oldsir would not live through the days of
Shreaving to see if he became a man. But his Grandfather seemed at
peace and showed no outward sign that his time of death had been
revealed to him. He seemed to convey a quiet dignity that Loric
tried in vain to accept. He felt like shouting and fighting but
there was nothing but shadows for him to vent his anger on.
"Why?" He said finally, unable to keep his fear to himself,
"It's not fair!"
"Is it fair that you were born to my son and not to another,
that the rain falls on the Windbourne mountains and leaves the
Plains of Woe a place where only djervishes can walk?"
-Rich Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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Dreamer's Holiday
The Grand Hall of the Keep of Dargon rivaled the local shrines
and temples in augustness of stature, especially on this night, the
eve of the opening of the Spice Market at the Dargon festival. The
ivory white hall's sumptuous furnishings had been commissioned by
the somewhat frivolous and eccentric grandfather of the the current
Duke. The high flanking windows were decorated with rose red and
aquamarine tinted glass arranged in somewhat bizarre geometric
patterns. Paintings of obscure artists dotted the alabaster white
walls. Short flights of burnished wooden staircases were the only
entrance onto the central dance floor on which was centered a great
ebony clock marking the hours in hollow base tones.
This was the forth night since the beginning of the fairs that
the hall was filled by a voluptuous company. But this night was
special, second only to the opening of the fairs themselves in its
festivities. While small clusters of nobles and merchants mingled on
the edges of the hall discussing the fairs, elegant couples danced
gracefully to the controlled harmonies of the performing orchestra.
One such couple was Kite and Pecora. Youthful, aristocratic,
handsome, recently engaged, and remarkable pleasant, they were
favored and envied by all.
"Your friend Raffen doesn't seem to be having a good time this
evening," Pecora observed indicating a lone man standing in one of
the darker corners of the ivory white hall. A nearby coal brazier
sent ruddy red light onto the man's extremely white face causing an
astonishing macabre effect of which Raffen was apparently unaware.
"He doesn't fit in here for all his efforts. He was invited as
entertainment only. The court wanted to hear of his travels in the
south," Kite responded somewhat worried.
"Other wealthy merchants are here," Pecora suggested.
"Yes, but Raffen isn't wealthy. He holds several commenda."
Noticing her look of noncomprehension Kite added "Agreements with
southern merchants to act as their agent in the fairs. But he lacks
any real property of his own. The payment for his services is
relatively small. A brillant man but still a commoner." Kite's voice
was wistful. He often regretted the social conditions of his
society. "He realizes why he was invited. Perhaps he resents it," he
added somewhat gravely.
"He's been alone most of the evening. Perhaps his novelity has
worn off," Pecora observed.
"I don't know about that. I overheard Sir Ponte and Duralt's
younger brother discussing adopting the custom of wearing facial
talc which Raffen picked up while in the south. I suspect that they
want to share in Raffen's attention."
"Those two would try to capitalize on anything to get the
ladies' attention. But Raffen's not exactly a lady's man... Too
introverted. I don't think that he wears the talc to attract women,
though it does cover his rough complexion well," Pecora said.
"It wasn't so long ago that Sir Ponte had designs on you," Kite
chided playfully.
"I knew that there was some reason for our engagement. I just
hope getting rid of Ponte is worth the price," Pecora responded with
equal playfulness and kissed Kite.
"It's Raffen's brooding that chases everyone off," Kite added
after a moment. "He always has something on his mind, though he
never admits what it is."
"Yes, he always appears so contemplative...depressed. He doesn't
dance and often seems so distant."
"Yes, but conversations with him are never dull. Maybe we should
go over," Kite suggested.
"I'd rather have you to myself.... There's Pravo. Why don't you
introduce them. He's also something of a misfit."
"Good idea. Be back in a moment." Kite smiled as he crossed the
dance floor.
As Kite and Pravo approached, Raffen stood admiring an arresting
oil painting detailing an immense cavern wherein cowled riders fly
gray, corpse-like humanoids with large membranous wings from
galleries and high ledges over a darkened, sluggish river flowing
over uncountable cataracts into a distant chasm.
"Raffen, have you met Pravo, one of Dargon's most distinguished
scholars?" Kite asked. The gentleman looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"No, I'm sure that I would recall such a pleasurable
experience." Raffen replied driely.
"I'm sure that you will find that you have much in common. But
I'm afraid that I will have to leave you to yourselves. If you will
excuse me, duty calls," The departing Kite explained gesturing
toward Pecora who seemed to be signalling him.
"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Raffen, since hearing
of your travels to the far south," Pravo said with a bit of hesitation.
"Yes, it seems my adventures have sparked great interest in this
court," Raffen said with artificial warmness tainted with agitation.
"But my interests are different than most, I'll warrant," Pravo
said looking about court, perhaps checking for eavesdroppers. "I am
less concerned with brillant scenes and deeds of daring than with
the cultures and religions which you encountered."
"That is well because my meager collection of brave and daring
deeds are to the point of exhaustion." Both laughed. Raffen began to
develop an interest in the man.
"You see, I am something of a scholar, perhaps you've
encountered my works, 'Legends and Myths of Thasodonia' or 'Northern
Nights'?"
"You wrote 'Legends and Myths' !?!" Raffen said with some
excitement. "I've read the work and liked it a great deal."
"You needn't flatter me, I have no great influence here," Pravo
said looking somewhat uncomfortable.
"No, I'm serious. Your rendition of the Tchai myth was the most
complete that I've yet encountered."
"Oh! Then you really have some interest in my field," Pravo said
looking pleased. "Perhaps you can be of some help."
"Hopefully, how might I help you?" Raffen offered with a
slightly sarcastic flourish.
"I'm compiling a collection of creation myths. Perhaps you could
contribute something from the South," Pravo asked hopefully.
"Oh...... I'm sorry but my business there was remarkably
consuming. I had little time to really observe the people."
"Unfortunate." Pravo appeared disappointed. "I was hoping to
uncover something unknown in this area," Pravo said turning away,
showing obvious signs of intent to depart.
"No wait. Let me think.. I do remember one rather unusual tidbit.
Have you ever heard the word 'Squarg'?" Raffen asked with a smile.
"'Squarg'?.... No, not that I recall," Pravo replied somewhat
confused, trying to determine if Raffen was joking. "It doesn't seem
to fit into the linguistics of any language with which I am
familiar. What does it mean?"
"As all really good words, it stands for a concept which is
difficult to express otherwise. Perhaps because it is not of truely
human origin," Raffen added solemnly.
"A nonhuman word? No wonder I did not recognize it.
Interesting... Please attempt to define it as best you can," Pravo
requested somewhat reassured but still confused.
"The best method of defining it lies in the creation myth in
which it originated."
"Oh then, by all means tell it as best you can," Pravo asked
seeming very attentive.
"As the myth goes, the word was coined by the first sentient
creature," Raffen began then stopped.
"Oh, I see. Go on."
"Soon after it was created, the sentience was guided by the All
Creator to a point from which it could view the entirety of reality
so that for the first time the Creator could share his handiwork
with another capable of appreciating it." There was a moments
hesitation in Raffen's speech followed by an encouraging gesture
from Pravo. "The astonished creature looked upon the vastness of
time, space, void, living, and nonliving. In response, the creature
uttered what was probably the first word, though it is almost
certain that this creature possessed no vocal abilities as we know
them. And this first word, this first independent thought, was
'Squarg', or so that is the sound which man has given that word. It
stands for many things. It symbolizes all the wonder and rapture
inherent in a glimpse of the entirety of reality, but at one and the
same time, it relates a certain feeling of pride and contempt,
hubris against the Creator. As if one were to say 'Is this the best
that you could do?' and 'Beware God, I am Man. These realms are mine
to do with as I please and I will do better.' There are other
nuances of course but these are even more difficult to define. All
in all not a very complex creation myth. I hope you will forgive its
brevity and lack of plot," Raffen finished.
"No. No. It is fascinating and original. Unlike any that I've
heard before. A major contribution for my book. How did you come by
it? Some nonhuman work?" Pravo asked in apparent euphoria.
"Perhaps. I first read it in a book called The King in Yellow
though I've seen it elsewhere since," Raffen replied.
"The King in Yellow!?...hmph.. Yes, I've heard of the book,
though I've never seen a copy. I'd almost attributed its existence
as a myth itself what with the remarkable rumors that surround it."
Raffen nodded. "It is said that few survive a perusal with their
sanity fully intact. It has been said to have been the doom of many
great minds."
"Yes, that is true," Raffen affirmed, lost in thought.
"It was written by an artist, I believe," Pravo offered.
"Yes... It has been and will be written by many artists
individually," Raffen replied, his voice trailing off in volume.
"Pardon, I didn't quite hear that. It's becoming dreadfully
noisy in here. Perhaps we could step outside." Pravo pointed toward
the balcony.
"It is little better out there. But yes, let's." Both exited to
the dark balacony which overlooked a street crowded with celebrating
townspeople.
"About the origin of the book," Pravo began.
"It was written by an artist/poet who was attempting to define
and codify a system of creative motifs and symbols which are common
to all cultures. Metaphors and images which transcend all cultures
and all peoples. It is these primal truths which are said to drive
men mad," Raffen said in a serious tone.
"You seem quite sound and you've read the book." Pravo attempted
weak humor.
"I sometimes wonder..."
Stunned into silence for a moment, Pravo said finally "I am
quite anxious to read the book myself, perhaps you have it at hand?"
"No. My copy is in a safe place very far away. Very far..."
Again Raffen trailed off.
"That is unfortunate. Still, I will do my best to locate a copy
here in Dargon." Pravo seemed somewhat irritated and unsettled by
Raffen's tone.
"Any intellect with the ability and the desire to read the book
will eventually locate it," Raffen offered somewhat mysteriously.
The scholar chuckled weakly. "Then I have some hope... I
think..." Very unsettled, Pravo looked deeply at Raffen who stared
off across the festivities below.
A rather plain looking, middle-aged matron stepped out onto the
balcony and expressed her desire to dance with Pravo before the
musicians departed. Pravo could hardly refuse.
"I hope that we will get a chance to speak again," Pravo said as
they drifted apart, possibly relieved by the interruption.
"I am certain that we will," Raffen replied, uncertain whether
he was heard over the buzz of the company. Seeing that the ball was
nearly at an end, Raffen decided to make his excuses and depart.
Atros felt no guilt for assuming Raffen Yeggent's identity even
though it had required slaying Raffen. The two had met along the
road to Dargon and had remained traveling companions for several
days. Atros had been wary of this relationship from the start,
particularly since he wanted to severe his ties with the city of
Magnus. It might prove difficult later if a witness existed who
could attest to the specifics of his journey. But the somewhat
lonely Raffen had forced himself on Atros and Atros hadn't pressed
the issue. Raffen had been a talkative sort describing in detail his
background, recent travels, business matters, and future plans.
Atros did his best to remain noncommital to Raffen's occasionally
probing questions but it grew to be strenuously difficult at times.
Still, Atros felt so refreshed and contented by virtue on the
continued use of the nepenthe that he had almost enjoyed the verbal
fencing at times.
Atros had sensed almost immediately that Raffen wasn't what one
might call a highly scrupulous individual. Raffen's main pursuit in
life it seemed lay in acquiring wealth. His scruples, if they
existed at all, didn't seem to interfere. Hence, Atros wasn't
particularly surprised by the interest Raffen had shown in his
collection of rare books. This wariness had cost Raffen his life and
saved Atros his own. Raffen had sought to slay Atros in his sleep
but hadn't anticipated a prepared defense. Atros had made quick work
of him, only later realizing the opportunity which Raffen had
afforded him. Raffen had mentioned that he had never visited Dargon
previously nor was anyone there capable of recognizing him. Atros
immediately saw the potential profits in assuming Raffen's business
dealings at the fair but hadn't anticipated being propelled into
courtly life.
Had Atros known of the notoriety involved, he might have chosen
to act otherwise. Atros knew that he could not maintain the disguise
for long. The continued use of the drug, and the peaceful sleep it
offered, had allowed him to lead an almost normal existence. His
distinctive nervous twitching had ceased, but only for so long as
his supply remained. Thus, he had let it be known that he would
depart after the fairs though he anticipated settling in Dargon for
some time. The facial talc was a convenient affectation to help
reduce the possibility of being recognized latter. But still, he
feared discovery because he knew he possessed many unconscious
mannerisms which were difficult to conceal without concerted effort.
He tried to make the best of the situation and enjoy a holiday at
court, a priviledge seldom enjoyed by many.
The street festival was still in full force when Atros left
Dargon Keep on his way to the bordering house in which he was
residing. He wound his way through the narrow, winding streets
filled with indentured servant and aristocrat alike. Each receiving
shares of revelry according to their temperment rather than their
social standing. Here at least was a Dionysian revelry which
contrasted sharply against the austere courtly celebration.
Celebrants in grotesque animal masks and other more bizarre
customing danced in wild revelry to the tune of frenzied music and
racous laughter. Body paints and large, fluttering banners lent
colouring to the normally drab streets and alley ways. Prostitutes,
both amateur and professional, fronged and cajoled the crowd. Cheap
alcohol was the prevalent intoxicant though Atros observed other
more questionable substances being huckstered in the darker corners
of the street. Anything and everything could be had in abundance. It
seemed that a delicious romp was being had by all.
Atros did not view the excessive crowding and noise as an
annoyance. He enjoyed becoming one with the organism of the crowd;
to allow himself to become lost in the fusion of opposing emotional
forces of the gathering. For a time he could let the mood of the
crowd become all, loosing his own worries, fears, and regrets. As any
such gathering, with its loud noises, bright sights, and wild
dancing, its surface was coloured by great gaiety and joy. These
were things to be cherished and saved, hoarded for harder times: the
soft glow of happy faces, the energy of youth, and the vitality of
age. But Atros' strong empathic ability soon penetrated this surface.
Beneath lay darker forces: tensions, deep emotional needs, and
emptiness. These people had come to escape some emptiness which they
could not fill in their day to day lives. They came to forget the
mundane realities of their world for a time and indulge in their
fantasies. But by doing so they brought these emptinesses with them.
Atros sensed that few, if any, were really happy or content with
their lives. All sought release from their confinements, to become
more than themselves if just for a short interval. And to some
measure they were successful. They achieved through strong drink,
orgasmic dancing, casual flirtations, or narcotics what could not be
won in mediocrity. Atros did not judge them for this; he knew
himself to have much worse faults and difficulties. But he could not
avoid feeling a certain unescapible sadness. This fused with the
gaiety to create an overwhelming bitter-sweet atmosphere for Atros.
Atros was so involved with the mood of the crowd that he didn't
notice the prescence of his old acquaintance the alchemist until he
was quite near.
"Gilman! Alive!" Atros' shout was drowned out in the hubbub. He
quickly darted into a nearby entry way which he found to be occupied
by a young couple who obviously resented the intrusion.
In the safety of the darkness Atros began to mutter to himself,
causing some concern in the two youths who soon left Atros to
himself. "Gilman alive....impossible....I don't make mistakes like
that. He was certainly dead. The wound was fatal....No man lives
after loosing that much blood."
Atros glanced out the archway to see Gilman walking rapidly away
apparently scanning the crowd. Atros' hope that he had mistaken a
similar man for Gilman quickly faded. It was the same bedraggled
gray hair peppered with black; the same loping gate as well. Atros
was certain that he'd seen Gilman wearing that course woolen frock
before as well. Even the momentary glimpse of the man's shoes
confirmed that Gilman was alive and in Dargon.
Atros could think of only one explanation for the normally
sedentary Gilman to come to Dargon. He must know or suspect that
Atros was here. His prescence in the crowd was now easily
explainable. How better to find a man in Dargon than to attend a
festival with the better part of the city's visitors and population
in attendance? But had Gilman seen him? As Atros wiped his sweaty
brow and his fingers came away covered with white talc, he realized
that Gilman could not have recognized him. His fearful reaction had
been foolish. Once more Atros glanced out but could not locate
Gilman in the crowd. Atros mentally whipped himself for not
following Gilman immediately as he strode out into the street to
begin the search.
If Gilman were truely searching for him, why had he come alone?
He must realize how outmatched he was. Atros would have anticipated
two or three armed bodyguards accompanying Gilman at the very least.
Nor had Atros believed that Gilman would go to such lengths to seek
him out personally. Gilman just wasn't the vengeful type or so Atros
had believed. But Gilman was alone, which obviously meant something,
though Atros didn't know what that was. It suddenly occurred to him
that perhaps following Gilman hadn't been a wise idea. Perhaps
Gilman had set himself up as bait to draw Atros into some sort of
trap or ambush. Since it was unlikely that he could find him in any
event, Atros gave up the search.
Atros walked home using an indirect route and checking often for
followers, but there were none. As he walked he considered Gilman's
survival. Perhaps the apprentices had arrived much earlier than
Atros had expected and somehow rescued the old man. This seemed
unlikely though Atros spent a few moments worrying that he had been
seen. Not that that really mattered now that the victim was alive.
Besides, even if Gilman had received some sort of aid in time, he
didn't seem to be suffering from his wound. He appeared as whole and
sound as any time Atros had seen him in the past. If anything he
seemed more healthy. Atros considered further. He had read of
alchemical preparations said to restore health to the nearly dead or
to quicken the dead, but he had thought these well beyound the
abilities of Gilman. Gilman might have obtained something of this
sort during his career and his apprentices might have administered
it to him. Atros had one further worry. It was said that one who
imbibed a special preparation of the Philospher's Stone, the secret
ingredient and goal of the highest forms of alchemy, would enjoy a
greatly extended life and would be very resistant to death by
mishap. If Gilman had done this, not only had he thereby survived
Atros' previous attempt on his life, but he would also survive any
getsequent. Invulnerable enemies came near to heading Atros' list of
undesirable possessions. One thing was for certain, all was not well.
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
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Dawn Watch
The stream was peaceful, the approaching dawn dimly lighting it.
A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and frogs peeped quietly in the
marshes nearby.
Eli Barel was asleep in his house nearby. He slept the deep
sleep of a man who had worked hard, and would soon work hard again.
He and his eldest son had worked until evening to put a roof on
Widow Rachel's house, and with the light they would start to cut her
some wood to last her through the winter.
Had he been awake he might have heard the sound of the frogs,
but certainly not the sound of the stream, shielded as it was by the
fifty foot drop over the limestone cliff.
The peace of the stream was rudely broken by the rough sounds of
hooves. There was a stirring of the underbrush, and a horseman and
mount stepped out of the tall grass on the far side of the stream.
As he crossed the water, muddying it, he looked up at the face of
the cliff. A band of twenty or so men, all roughly clad and
unshaven, followed him across. At least three bore the angry marks
of a skull branded on their foreheads, the marks of condemned men.
Most carried swords at their sides, and some had bows slung over
their shoulders. All had a predatory air to them.
As soon as he was in the shadow of the cliff, the leader turned
to face the others, his arm raised for silence.
"At the top this cliff is the first of many houses. In those
houses are groveling vapor-worshippers! There is no one to protect
them, and they will not fight! Take any booty you want, but don't
burn anything. Kill everyone! We will leave no survivors!" He
punctuated the last with a dark scowl.
"What of the women? We were promised women!" A deep muttering
rose from the assembled men. A lecherous grin broke across the
leader's face.
"I didn't say how you had to kill them. It's been a long time
since I've had an infidel's wife!"
Mocking laughter was his only reply. Suddenly one of the raiders
in the back gave a shout, and pointed up.
The leader swiveled in his seat. He looked to the top of the
cliff. There stood a man, holding a staff. He was clothed all in
white, and his face was set with an angry look. He glared at the
cutthroats below with an air of authority that gave even the leader
pause. The murders only paused a moment, though.
Those of the raiders who had bows grabbed them, but before any
could raise them the figure leaned forward, and struck the end of
the rod on the ground, a foot or so short of the cliff edge.
The moment it struck the ground shook. All but two of the
raider's horses fell to the ground. At the same moment, a huge slab
of limestone calved off the face of the cliff. It crumbled as it
fell, causing an avalanche. For a few long moments, rock and dust
poured from the face of the cliff. Then the stream was at peace once
more. Where horses had stood only moments before, there now stood a
pile of rubble.
Eli Barel awoke. His bed still shook slightly. A tremor? Eli
pondered the thought. They were not common, but he had experienced
them before. Nothing more followed, so he relaxed. Slept in today,
he thought. The sun is almost up.
He arose, leaving his wife to groan to herself. He dressed, and
walked out of the house and down the path as he had for over sixty
years. He followed the path as it lead toward the stream. Then,
noticing something different, he left it as it turned down into the
woods, and rather walked up the slope toward the cliff.
He walked up to the edge, and looked over at the pile of rock.
A rockslide, he thought. Levy might like to see this.
He was about to turn to walk back down when the early morning
light caught a reflection. Getting down on his knees, he examined a
dark vein of rock as it ran almost from the cliff edge halfway down
the cliff. As he knelt there his eyes widened. He reached forth his
hand, and with a small effort, wrenched a chunk of rock loose. He
held it up to the light. Even in the morning's dimness, he could see
the metal running through the granite.
"Gold. Gold! GOLD! Everybody! We've got gold on our land!"
Getting to his feet, Eli ran back to the house.
For the last time that day, peace once more fell on the stream.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Ur-Baal Magic Roman Olynyk
Calls of Courtesy Joseph Curwen
The Hands of a Healer Orny
Date: 052886 Dist: 148
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X-Editorial
Well, everyone, here is the last spring issue. Summer is quickly
approaching even our northern clime, and school is something best
left forgotten until September. The summer volume (five) will
continue to be produced, and we will try to keep the Dargon project
going, despite the loss (for the summer) of some of our best
authors. Some of the issues will be Dargon issues, while some will
contain more traditional items. One note of special interest is that
there will be a special gaming issue this summer. I'd like to
solicit articles from gamers out there, particularly ones who have
dabbled in designing their own games. The issue will concentrate on
giving exposure to games BITNETters have designed and the hows and
whys of roleplaying game design. If anyone is interested in
contributing, ship me a note as soon as possible.
The volume past has been a great success, and I'd like to thank
both the readers and the authors who have made the Dargon Project
possible. One of the major purposes I have intended for FSFnet has
been to get amateur fantasy and science fiction authors together to
compare styles, to begin friendships and correspondances, and to
expose them to a truely diverse readership to give them an idea of
what the public desires in fantasy fiction. The Dargon Project has
not only been a boon for readership, but it has brought amateur
authors together in a productive setting. Perhaps I'm going
overboard to think that FSFnet is one of the most productive
non-computer oriented BITNET organizations. Thank you, one and all,
for your interest as readers, and a very very special thank you to
the authors for joining together to bring this about.
Well, before I can think of something else silly to say, I'd
best introduce this issue, the last of volume four. You will find in
here three related stories, and the resolution of some question
marks. We'll be looking for you with 5-1 real soon.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Ur-Baal Magic
A Ticklish Situation
Aardvard Factotum's disembodied mind was trapped, unable to
return to its rightful place. In the midst of his panic, however,
Aardvard suddenly felt something wrenching at his spirit, pulling
him home. No longer confined by the four walls of Griswald Brutsam's
room, his mind once again flew over the battlement of Dargon Keep,
across the countryside and back toward his home on the outskirts of
the city. He was drawn by an unknown force.
Aardvard opened his eyes and chuckled. Nothing was funny about
his situation, however. Aardvard's mind, after all, had been through
a good deal of excitement. Through the use of Banewood's essence of
Ur-Baal, it had left his body and travelled to Dargon Keep, where it
became trapped in the private chambers of Griswald Brutsam,
physician to Lord Clifton. Still, Aardvard couldn't stop laughing.
And when he looked down the length of his body, he saw the reason --
Banewood, the Shaman, stood at his bare feet, tickling them with a
goose feather.
"Laughter -- one of the best ways to reunite a body with one's
wayward mind," sniggered Banewood. "I warned you about going too
far, didn't I?" he chided.
"Never mind," said Factotum as he jumped to his feet. He quickly
sat back down again, putting his hands to his head. Aardvard gently
rubbed his temples. His head throbbed from the aftereffects of the
essence of Ur-Baal, the potion that had put him through this
adventure. "Something terrible is going to happen if we can't stop it."
"What do you mean?" asked Banewood.
"Griswald Brutsam, the personal physician to Lord Clifton, is
plotting to assassinate him."
Aardvard told the Shaman about the conversation between Griswald
Brutsam and Lek Pyle, their conspiracy to assassinate Lord Clifton.
"The Lord of Dargon Keep is standing in the way of Baranur's plans to
control all trade with the distant island of Bichu."
"I have an idea," said Banewood, "Listen..." Banewood whispered
his plan to Aardvard. Factotum's face became a study in moods,
changing from puzzlement to astonishment, and then to amusement.
At first, Aardvard stared at Banewood with disbelief. Then he
slapped his friend on the back and doubled over in laughter.
"You crazy Shaman! I think it just might work," exclaimed Aardvard.
Stupefaction
In the morning, Aardvard pulled some of his gold from its secret
hiding place, and together, he and Banewood put on their cloaks and
left for the herb seller's home.
By noon, Banewood and Aardvard found themselves outside of the
old herb seller's hut. The doorway was dark, and it appeared as if
nobody was home. Soon, however, they heard the sound of humming. An
old woman's head peered through the doorway, a kerchief covered most
of her gray head. It was the kind that most peasant women wore.
"Come in, come in. Always open for business," the old woman said.
Banewood and Aardvard followed the old woman inside. As their
eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they could see her wares: dried
herbs, stalks and roots hung from the walls and rafters.
"She keeps it dark, because the light diminishes the potency of
the herbs." Banewood whispered to Aardvard.
"Quite so, quite so," cackled the old crone, her hearing
obviously much sharper than one would have guessed. "What can a
simple herb gatherer do for you?"
"Let's see..." said Banewood. "First I need some Dragonswort root."
The old woman pulled a piece of root from a large pile and
placed it before the shaman. "Done."
"Next, I'd like a stinkwort, the whole plant."
"Heh? What's that?" Asked the old woman.
Banewood began to described a stinkwort plant to the crone: "A
large, whitish root; round yellow-green stalk; about five feet high;
large, white funnel-shaped flowers; prickly fruit..."
"Oh," she interrupted, "you mean a nightshade." Gingerly, the
old woman used two fingers to pull a nightshade plant down from the
rafters. She set it before them.
"A Galangal root," added Banewood.
"What's a nice boy like you need an aphrodisiac for?" The old
woman smiled a toothless grin -- she bagged her second husband with
a Galangal root.
"It's for a friend." Banewood lied. "And a henbane plant, too.
There's one over there." He pointed to a particularly green weed
near the corner.
"That's my last one," said the old woman. "I'm not sure if I can
let it go this late in the season."
Banewood looked at Aardvard Factotum, who reached into his cloak
and produced a little bag full of gold Baranur marks. He spilled
them into a little pile on the table. The gold glimmered in the dark.
The old woman gulped. Regaining her control, however, she
hedged: "I couldn't ask less than four marks for the plant. I have a
starving daughter to feed."
"Four marks!" protested the physician. "It's not even worth one!"
"Three marks" said the old woman, her lips drawn in a straight
line. "Food is very expensive, in case you haven't noticed."
"Two," said Factotum. "Take it or leave it."
"All right," said the old lady. "I'll keep the plant."
Factotum pulled at Banewood's robe. "Come on, let's get out of
here. I know of another place where we can get this stuff."
"Okay, okay." Said the old woman. "So my daughter goes without
dessert tonight. Three marks."
"Two marks," the physician corrected her.
"Yes, I'm sorry. You're right -- two marks."
"One more thing," added Banewood. "Do you have many mushrooms?"
"I have a few," the old woman lied. She was the biggest supplier
of mushrooms in the district.
"I'm not sure if this one grows around here," said Banewood. He
described a mushroom to the woman: "Red cap covered with white
warts, grows under pines and birch..."
"Fly agaric!" snorted the old woman. "Soaked in milk, we use it
to stupefy flies."
"That's the one. How fresh are they?"
The old woman reached under her table and pulled out a box full
of the little, red beauties. "Just picked 'em yesterday -- how many
would you like?"
"Several will do," he said. "I wish to stupefy some flies, too."
Aardvard paid the old woman more money than he would have wished
to. They left with their purchases. Walking away from the hut,
Aardvard counted his remaining gold.
"I'm surprised that the old woman's teeth are gone." He said. "I
thought sharks grew their teeth back!"
Aardvard's eye caught sight of a buxom young girl in her late
teens. She was bearing a bundle of herbs toward the old woman's hut.
He elbowed Banewood, who was also staring at the same delicious sight.
Banewood laughed. "Poor girl... no doubt she'll go to bed
without dessert again."
-Roman Olynyk <VM0BA9 @ WVNVM>
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Calls of Courtesy
Normally Atros arose slowly from his nepenthe drugged sleep but
adrenaline remarkably quickened the process this day. It's not
everyday that one finds a corpse practically draped over your bed. I
wasn't that corpses weren't familiar to Atros, but Atros didn't
appreciate them popping up in his sleep. He quickly rolled out into
prone position dirk in hand, but no opponent presented himself. He
was quite alone in his rented room with everything exactly as he had
left it the night before, with the exception of the dead man of course.
It was Thad, a man Atros had known for many years though he
wasn't particularly proud of the relationship. Thad had been a
graduate of a slum in some city, which Thad had declined to mention.
He'd learned at an early age that violence was a saleable commodity
and had marketed his natural talent for it quite successfully. He'd
gone from bully to strong arm to assassin all the while becoming
increasingly belligerent and decreasingly likable. What with Thad's
wandering from one city to the next, it was eventual that he and
Atros would cross paths. At first Atros had nearly fell in with him
as a kindred spirit, a fellow survivor who often traveled in the
same circles. But the relationship had cooled after Atros had seen
some of the results of Thad's recent labors. Atros didn't disapprove
of assassins but unlike Thad's employers Atros felt that Thad let
his brutality get in the way of his work. Thad's calling card had
become the gruesome state in which he left his victims, and
sometimes their families.
But Thad had been successful as a hired killer. He could
virtually guarantee results and had never been caught in the act by
anyone, until perhaps last night. Nor had Thad ever betrayed the
identity of his employers. It was sure that many, both the guilty
and the innocent, would rest easier once they heard of Thad's
demise. Not that Atros would allow that to happen for sometime. He
began to attend to the body while the early morning streets were
still sparsely populated. Fortunately, whomever had slain Thad was
much easier to clean up after than Thad himself. The most puzzling
part of the whole matter was how a man as large as Thad could have
his neck snapped without any signs of a struggle.
Later that day, Atros stood just outside the entryway to his
boarding house. He yawned and had to shuffle his position several
times while leaning against the cobble stone wall to prevent from
drifting off. For someone accustom to going without sleep for days
on end, this was a bit disconcerting. Atros wondered if perhaps the
drugs he utilized were too strong even a man of his own will power.
He had noticed that it was becoming progressingly more difficult to
remain alert, a difficulty that he could hardly afford in his
position. He was just resolving to start weaning himself off the
nepenthe when the person he had been awaiting rounded a distant corner.
He watched her as she approached apparently unaware of his
presence. She wore a coarse bit of grayish linen, that doubled as
both chemise and tunic, under a ratted surcoat probably fringed with
fur at one time. She was short and somewhat dark in complexion
especially on her hands which were small but rough. Her light brown,
and lately unwashed, hair was cut short with straight banes lying
across half her forehead. All in all, she was rather plain looking,
almost masculine at first sight.
"Atros...." finally recognizing him in spite of his new
wardrobe, Darla called out as she rushed forward to greet him.
"Call me Raffen!" Atros cut her off, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Though that may shortly change as well." With a piercing look,
Atros cut short the conversation until they were safely in his room.
"How many names may one man have!?!" Darla seemed confused,
unsettled, and somewhat hurt.
"As many as it takes to keep him safe. You've brought the
books," Atros said businesslike.
"Yes, I have them here in Dargon. They are quite safe." Darla
assured him.
"Good. I am very grateful. I've missed them," Atros said. Darla
winced though Atros didn't notice.
"Bringing them wasn't difficult. You've done much for me in the
past."
"You can consider that debt settled." Atros said in monotone.
"I don't think so. I owe you my life." Darla said testing Atros.
"If that's the way you want it, perhaps you'll be able to pay in
kind," Atros lilted a bit.
"You're in some sort of trouble?" Darla asked sounding concerned.
"There has been an attempt on my life. I anticipate more." Atros
said perhaps a bit teasingly.
"Who?" Darla asked.
"Do you remember a particularly brutal overgrown street waif
named Thad?"
"I could never understand why you would associate with him."
Darla pronounced almost interrupting his question.
"He was dangerous but had his uses."
"Was?... You killed him?" Darla asked tentatively.
"No, he died in the attempt but not by my hand."
"Whose then?" Darla said a bit exasperated that she had to do so
much coaxing to get simple answers.
"I know little more about it than you." Perhaps sensing Darla's
impatience, Atros quickly explained the events of the morning.
"You were lucky." Darla seemed somewhat relieved.
"It seems too unlikely to be unintentional... Thad dying while I
was totally helpless." Atros gazed off as though he were only
thinking aloud.
"Thad had many enemies. Perhaps one caught up with him." Darla's
suggestion drew Atros' attention for a moment.
"You don't think that Thad was incredibly careful while on a
job? It would have been very difficult to surprise him. And who
could have broken his neck with apparent ease? Also, why let me
live? Why not take the opportunity to rob me, or Thad for that
matter? Why leave everything so sloppy? I could have been set up in
such a way that I would be certain to take the blame. As it was, it
was easy for me to straighten everything up." It was Atros who was
becoming impatient now.
"Perhaps they feared waking you." Darla suggested hopefully.
"Possibly.. But it just seems so unlikely..." Seeing nothing
further to be gained here, Atros said, "Our first concern, I
suppose, should be why Thad tried to kill me in the first place."
"You're certain that he was hired?" Darla asked.
"We didn't exactly part on amiable terms but Thad would never
have tried it without payment. And there was a good deal of money in
his pouch."
"So you expect whoever hired him to try again?" In spite of
Atros' opinion, Darla could be insightful.
"Yes, though they will delay a few days at least, waiting for
word from that or for me to get less wary."
"Any suspicions as to who put up the money?" Darla asked plainly.
"Probably Gilman. He's here in town and I think he's looking for
me." Atros suggested offhandly.
"Oh yes! I've traveled all this way and forgotten to tell you. I
checked into things while I was in Magnus picking up your books.
They aren't looking for you. No report of any crime. And Gilman,
apparently unharmed, put his business in the hands of his employees
and left Magnus shortly after you did."
"I suspected something like that. Still can't understand how
Gilman survived. He was assuredly dead."
"That's what I thought you meant in your letter but I decided
that I misunderstood."
"I've got to teach you to read and write. I don't like having
others read my messages." Atros seemed annoyed.
"But you worded the letter so cleverly that no one could
understand it but me. Besides the friend I got to read it to me is
trustworthy." Darla tried to reassure him.
"Yes but my 'clever wording' does add some confusion and I
couldn't relay many details." Atros said, still being difficult.
"Enough details. I understood enough to come here and to bring
your books." Darla was becoming a bit annoyed herself.
"Yes you did and again I thank you. But I have another favor to
ask." Atros thought it best to settle things.
"Name it." Darla said straightforwardly.
"The drugs that I am using cause me to sleep very deeply.
Possibly Thad knew this and decided to strike at night. If Thad
knew, then his employers probably know. I need a bodyguard I can
trust at night."
"No problem. I really need a place to stay anyway. I'm low on
funds and know few people in Dargon." Perhaps Darla hid a smile.
"That's fine. We'll live off Thad's ill-gotten gains though we
may have to lie low so as not to attract attention. No more nights
at court." Atros said trailing off, as was often his habit.
"Nights at court!?! You've been to court!?! During the
festival?" Darla appeared surprised and jealous.
"Yes, but I didn't really enjoy it. Besides the wardrobe is too
expensive and uncomfortable. Have to see a friend and return some
borrowed clothing. And tell him that I must leave Dargon."
"You are planning to stay, aren't you?" Darla was concerned.
"Yes, there is something here for me." Darla gave him a
quizzical expression. "Just a notion," Atros said dismissing it. "I
have a few errands to attend to. Why don't you get all of your
things and get settled. I'll return with something expensive for
dinner in a couple of hours. Oh, perhaps you best not get too
settled. We'll have to find some other place to stay tomorrow. I'd
have done so today, but I was waiting for your arrival. We'd best be
very careful tonight." Both Atros and Darla departed for the
respective errands.
When more than a couple of hours had passed and Atros hadn't
returned, Darla became concerned. But not knowing the city well nor
anything about Atros' plans for the afternoon, she delayed for some
time before deciding to go searching for him. It was well that she
did, because Atros returned as she was heading for the door. She
didn't mention his lateness nor did Atros volunteer much
information, but true to his word Atros did provide the most
delicious meal that Darla had eaten in sometime. After the late
repast, Atros gathered a few of the books that Darla had retrieved
and began jotting notes in one of his journals. When Darla asked him
of this, he replied only that he was pursuing an idea. He advised
her to sleep so that she might be rested for her vigil, but Darla
was content to watch him and listen to the soft, irregular
scratching noises of the long quill pen. After some time of this she
drifted off.
Some hours later Darla awoke to find Atros still at his labors.
He seemed to be quite weary though happy, saying that he thought he
was onto some new discovery though he left its nature a mystery.
Darla was only able to convince Atros that he needed sleep by
suggesting that he might think clearer after a few hours rest. Atros
acquiesced begrudgingly and took a dose of the nepenthe to settle to
sleep for the remainder of the night.
Truthfully, Darla only understood a small fraction of what she
encountered in Atros' books. Many were in languages or codes unknown
to her. Most were replete with obscure references and complicated
arguments which would take a lifetime of study to understand. Even
in those that were not, Darla's reading skills often fell far short
of complete understanding.
Sometime ago she had gone through many of these books before
uncovering Atros' dream journal. In it he kept all from his dreams
which he did not wish to forget. Even though these were his good
memories, Darla quickly grew to understand why Atros fought so hard
to escape his nocturnal visions. Often times his hand was shaky and
his thoughts overcome by emotion as he struggled to quickly record
what were sometimes an entire lifetime in his dream before the
memories passed away from him. Darla often wondered if destroying
this journal was not the best thing she could do for Atros. It
occurred to her that the good memories, which are recalled a
thousand times with infinite sadness and longing, might be much more
tortuous than the bad memories, which one can learn to forget or
avoid. But it wasn't hers to judge and she feared Atros' anger.
After reading this journal that first time nearly a year ago,
Darla began to understand why Atros kept everyone at a safe
distance. The book recounted lifetimes which Atros had experienced
in dreaming. Oftentimes he had no recollection of any life beyond
the dream. As far as that individual was concerned the dream was his
complete universe. These dreams were often the most painful for
Atros, because for a time he could experience peace. But the
collected recollections of dozens of lifetimes weighed heavy on
Atros soul and no one could remove that weight.
Darla turned to the finger smudged pages of one dream entry near
the beginning of the journal and began to read this tragedy once
more. There were other dreams, other lives, much like this, but this
was the most tragic because in it Atros had been the most happy. In
this dream, Atros bore a name and spoke a language which were
unpronounceable to Darla. He was a tall, kind man who enjoyed life's
simplicities in an age where others took them for granted. In time he
found love. A beautiful young author, she was called Narya. After a
lengthy and romantic courtship, they married. They settled in a
small cottage in a secluded valley filled with wildlife, prefering
their own company to that of anyone about them. The house contained
hundreds of fantastic devices which made life easier or provided
entertainment for the couple. They lived quietly and happily
together and wrote many successful books. In time they had two
children: a daughter and a son. One day just as his son was first
learning to walk unsupported, Atros awoke and was permanently torn
from the happiness that he had found in a single night's dream.
Never able to return to that happy life, Atros thereafter bore
its memories as a curse. His anger grew but he could find no one to
blame. In his daily studies he sought to forever escape the dreaming
which had become so painful to him, regardless of the content of the
dreams. Atros had also developed a lingering doubt that this life
too might only be a dream, from which he might be snatched at any
moment. Thus, he forbore pleasure and love so that he might not
regret their loss when he awoke. His fear of this life being a dream
had slowly pervaded all his waking thoughts and actions until he had
succeeded in fashioning an existence in which there was little
cherishable.
Darla understood this, at least in part. It made little
difference to her whether his dreams were somehow real, because
Atros believed them to be real, which was far more important to her
than any philosophical consideration. She had tried to help Atros.
Slowly, carefully she had pierced his barriers and had succeeded in
gaining some of his trust and friendship. But her hold to this
position was tenuous. She realized that Atros often used little
barbs in order to drive her from him, not because he disliked her
but because he cared for her too much. She also sensed the contempt
which Atros expressed in subtle ways for nearly everyone about him
at one time or another, but she knew that it was only his way of
coping with the pain at times. Perhaps he envied others who could
lead an untroubled life. Darla wondered how he managed as well as he
did despite all the frustration and anger within him.
As she left off reading that passage, almost of their own
volition, her hands turned to the dedication, which Atros had at
sometime scribbled on the inside of the front cover. She stared at
what he had written there until the moistening of her eyes made it
impossible to continue. He had written:
I've loved many and burried a few,
But in all my search found nary a clue.
The secret of life it seems
Lies forgotten in my dreams
Forever separating one from two.
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
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The Hands of a Healer
Griswald Brutsam, physician and mystic healer to Lord Clifton
Dargon, gently closed the door to his chambers and made his way from
the keep. He had served the Lord of Dargon for many years. Having
dedicated his life to the mystic pursuits of healing, his skills
were very much in demand. Still, he had maintained a modest life,
secreting himself with his studies within the keep and seeing to the
health of his liege. And now he was a party to a plot to assassinate
Lord Dargon.
He pulled his cloak close about himself and made his way towards
the port, the seedier section of town. The evening was cold but
clear, and the stars shone bright above the dark shadows of the
port. Brutsam occasionally came across citizens, stragglers from the
festival, still revelling nearly a week after the festival had
ended. After a short time, he came to one of the few lit buildings
in this section of town. He pulled the cowl above him and stepped
into the Inn of the Hungry Shark.
The entry corridor led on the right to the bar and common room,
and on the left to a stairway to the rooms above. Griswald dreaded
being recognized by the people in the common room, but they seemed
to be completely involved in what amounted to a contest to see you
could bellow the most obnoxious saying the loudest. It was unlikely
that anyone saw him as he turned towards the stairs, save perhaps
the innkeep.
Brutsam climbed the stairs slowly and quietly. He halted in the
corridor at the top, pausing. After a moment, he stepped towards one
of many closed doors in the hall. He knocked. And again. And waited.
The door was opened by Lek Pyle, the man who had recruited
Griswald into this insane plot. Pyle quickly brought Griswald within
the room and closed the door behind him. "What's the problem?"
The aging physician shrugged off his cloak and stood before the
warmth of the hearth a moment before replying. "Nothing's happened.
The assassin you hired is missing."
"Thad? He wouldn't run out on a job. He's a scoundrel, though."
"What are we going to do? Do you think he was caught? I'm sure
if he did then he'll have told all about your plot..."
"No, not Thad. His reputation has it that he's one of the best
in his business, though his methods aren't the most subtle."
Griswald was visibly agitated, not able to sit. "Well, where is
he? Would he try to get more money by selling us out?"
Pyle, seeing the fear in Brutsam's eyes, sneered. "He might
have, but might just as easily simply skipped town. Still, that's
not Thad's style. He's a scum, but he's a brute - he enjoys the jobs
people give him, the more violent the better. He's not likely to
get caught or to just leave the job, even when he is paid in advance."
"You seem sure of that, but then where is he, and what are we
going to do?"
"We must proceed with our scheme. It matters little whether Thad
was found out or not." The merchant from Baranur gazed into the fire
thoughtfully. "We will simply have to proceed with another scheme..."
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Complete Game Design Orny
Origin of a "PBM" Game Stephen Tihor
Nuclear Autumn Joseph Curwen
ELFQUEST Supplement Review Richard Jervis
A National Gaming Organization Mike Barbre
Date: 072086 Dist: 157
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X-Editorial
Well, hello, and welcome to the roleplaying game and other
assorted miscellany issue of FSFnet! Included in this issue you will
find some interesting gaming-related articles, including an article
by a gentleman who has designed a rather extensive PBM game. There
are also a few odd tidbits, including an extra story by Joseph
Curwen. Issue VOL5N02 will be out very soon after you receive this
issue, and will return to the Dargon project with some more
excellent fantasy fiction by BITNET authors. I'd also like to
mention that we might be losing some of our Dargon authors, and
would like to encourage readers who dabble in writing to try their
hand at writing a Dargon story. It is, after all, a writing project
for the authors, and an excellent writing exercise.
As for news, there is some. New books are appearing left and
right, as well as reprints, so I would suggest that people check
several bookstores for their favorite authors, and perhaps some new
ones. Also, I highly recommend the Bowie/Henson movie "Labyrinth".
Although the plot is a little bit contrived, the remainder of the
film is well worth the admission price. Bowie was highly bearable in
his role as Goblin King, and Henson created some effects that really
shake you up. I would go see the movie twice or three times simply
to appreciate the action. Excellent film.
But on to the meat of the matter, an issue dedicated to the fine
art of roleplaying gaming. Enjoy, and we'll see you in Dargon in a
couple weeks!
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Complete Game Design
There are four aspects of every roleplaying game that must be
properly coordinated and supervised by the gamemaster to result in a
successful game or campaign. In this short article I shall attempt
to share some of what I have learned in my gamemastering experiences.
The first and most basic step in any game is choosing what game
rules system to use. There are virtually countless rules systems
available commercially, and most gamemasters feel that they are
sufficient for their purposes. Some gamemasters decide that the
rules are acceptable with minor modifications. A few gamemasters
eventually undertake to create their own rule systems. All
gamemasters, however must choose between these options, and I have
developed some criteria by which gamemasters may choose the systems
they use. Firstly, the gamemaster should know what he wants from the
system, weighing elements he desires to incorporate and elements he
wishes to avoid. Special attention should be given to the tradeoff
between realism and playability. Finally, the best way to understand
the shortcomings and strengths of a game is to playtest it.
Playtesting is one of the strongest tools of the game designer, and
is the proving grounds for the system. Overall, an intelligent
choice of game systems, be they commercially available or
self-designed, is a critical point in game design.
The second aspect of a game which must be addressed is the game
locality and environment. THis includes the layout of the land,
geographical features, maps, towns, NPCs, and so forth. The best
policy to create an environment is to start small. Often gamemasters
start out by drawing entire continents, and run into trouble when
play concentrates on a smaller scale. Detailed maps are excellent
tools, and accomplish the dual purposes of arousing player interest
and avoiding the creation of generic "areas" that lack in detail.
Thirdly is scenario design; the adventure. When designing an
adventure, keep the players interest in mind. Bring the party
together in a logical and believable manner. As soon as is
convenient, grab their interest by giving them a major event to
think over. For example, they find out that several people have
disappeared from their town. This will give the players something to
think about and a purpose to unite them. As the major plot builds
up, throw in minor subplots (ie they find out that the trusted
sheriff is a werewolf), leading up to the climax of the major plot.
For each adventure, there is a time to think and a time to act, and
your players should not be confused as to which is which. A balance
of "think'n'sweat" and "hack'n'slash" will keep everyone happy.
During each session your players should feel a sense of achievement
or gain, as well as some doubt at the mess they've gotten themselves
into. The purpose of the game is to make your players feel some of
the emotions of their characters, and to suspend their disbelief
just enough. A well designed scenario is a major factor in this.
The final point is not an aspect of the game, but of the
gamemaster. As gamemaster, you must carefully implement the game
system, the environment, and the scenario to have a successful game.
Your performance in actually running the game can make a
badly-designed game exciting, or a well-designed game a flop. THe
first thing to remember is to know the game system. Having to
constantly page through rules detracts from the players enjoyment of
the game, and is rather unprofessional. Keeping things moving is
very important. Waiting for the players to stumble upon a key clue
is futile and aggravating for the players. It is also important to
not be predictable in what you do. Players who know what you will do
are bored players. Finally, make the players play the roles of their
characters. That's what roleplaying is all about.
A careful management of the game system, the campaign, the
scenario, and your gamemastering style will result in successful
all-around game design. Each aspect has its pitfalls, which must be
learned to be avoided. I hope that sharing my gamemastering
experiences are of use to you in yours.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Origin of a "PBM" game
I have been involved in fantasy gaming and, to a lesser extent,
wargaming since the late 60s when I started dropping by the old SPI
offices in New York for their Friday night playtest sessions. A
number of my friends also playtested for SPI and some of them, such
as Greg Costikyan, went on to become professional game designers. It
is only natural to want to design one's own game after seeing so
much happen in this environment, but I always found the heavily
competitive style and the WW II orientation of traditional wargaming
uncomfortable.
With the arrival of D&D in late 1974 I found a medium in which I
was comfortable working, and have been involved in running various
rolegames ever since. Edi Birsan, another NY area gamer with a more
wargaming bias, changed his campaign from face to face to a fantasy
wargame/miniatures campaign (reversing the evolutionary path of D&D)
which many NY area players found interesting. Unfortunately it had a
strong flavor of gamesmaster intervention which was generally felt to
be a "bad thing."
Most of my effort (and that of our group) went into evolving our
local rules systems first from D&D and the later our own design in a
project for SPI, part of which was eventually degenerated into their
RPG, Dragonquest. The idea of a "play by mail" style game in a
fantasy envrionment continued to intrigue me. Last summer a couple
of my friends who were playing in a number of commercial PBM games
suggested that it would be interesting to do our own game. The idea
immediately appealed to me but I felt that it had to be designed for
computer moderation from the begining. After a couple of
brainstorming sessions we agreed on a number of game principles:
Each player would BE a single character in the world
Every character or unit could only control up to FIVE
other characters, units, or provinces, but those
characters or units could control up to FIVE other
characters, or units, or provinces, etc
No control would be perfect and permanent but we are
playing a fantasy game, not Computer Illuminati, so it
would not be easy to seize control of a fifth of player's
entire hierarchy of control
While a unit remained loyal then command and control would
be perfect (telepathy is a wonderful spell)
Each character would have skills which could be improved
over time and new skills could be learned
The game would be set in an Earth-like world where the
technology was that of the middle ages, magic worked, and
intelligent species other than humanity existed.
The basic turn would be one month
A person, unit, stack of units, or province could execute
one order per month
A lone rider on horse back could cover four provinces in
one month if not attacked
The game would be entirely computer moderatable with no
human intervention in the adjudication of individual
orders needed (i.e. no special orders; if it's worth doing
it's worth making a part of the program)
There is limited information about the world, the actions
of other players, and the exact values of the various skills
More information could be discovered in the course of play
The multi-player diplomatic aspects and limited
information would provide the major initial challenges
A player need not fight for "world domination" to enjoy
playing; movement and combat should be credible for both
armies and small parties of adventurers
The wargaming aspects would be done first since they would
draw more people into the game
New rules modules and thus activities and playing styles
will be added transparently
New players can join at any time
People and places are basically the same things and many
of the same options apply to both, thus you can control
a city directly and it in turn may have mercenary units
working for it.
It turned out that I was the only one of the designers in a
position to code extensively so I ended up writing the entire 12k
lines of C. I chose "portably written" C rather than LISP as the
implementation language to insure that the game would be very
portable, there would be adequate fast implementations available for
the top of the line microcomputers on which the game would
eventually have to live if it worked well enough to move it beyond a
hobby project. My general goal would be for it to expand to the
point that it can be run be a NY area game company as a "for-profit"
project and I can stop having to run the turns myself and
concentrate on development.
This winter I felt the program was solid enough that I started
collecting local playtesters. The first six turns were run weekly
but as people gradually came to want longer turn deadlines we moved
to biweekly turns. Then people wanted more actions so I moved the
basic action from units of a month with four weekly movement/combat
phases to units of a week, with some actions taking more than one
unit. The underlying implementation of time was designed to to
handle very small quantums of action since I felt uncomfortable with
large turns containing many smaller phases and more comfortable with
actions taking place in continuous time. Breaking the monolithic
month required only changing a couple of constants.
With the move to a longer turnaround it became possible to have
players not within shouting distance and I solicited some additional
playtesters using the Usenet newsgroup net.games.frp. We currently
have 21 active playerships and perhaps 14 semi-active ones. Many of
the more active players are network players since they have faster
communications than even some of the "face-to-face" players do. It
has been interesting watching the flow of message from player to
player as initally everyone took advantage of the anonymity of
messages sent though the gamesmaster and the newsletter rather than
simply exchanging phone numbers and addresses. In the last few turns
the communications rate has climbed steadily as one player seized
the capitol and others began aligning themselves against his
position. As I send this off the Game is turning the year counter
over. People are now writing orders for the first "lune" of the
second year of play. One effect of the continuing nature of the
playtest is that players continue to join the game as time goes on.
To adjust for the inital position effect the starting resources a
player was given increased steadily over the first seven turns to
compensate for not being able to submit moves for the earlier turns.
Some players are also being placed on a second land mass to separate
them from then rather messy war starting on the mainland until they
get their sea legs, as it were. (Most players take a couple of turns
to get the feel for how things are done.)
Lately my efforts have been divided fairly evenly between
expanding the world by adding additional places and NPCs; adding
documentation such as lore sheets on provinces, players, and skills;
and, expanding the basic game options by adding additional uses for
skills, enhancing the underlying economic model and sections of the
game that are only now being used (the first player ship on the high
seas prompted me to finish the "Storms at Sea module", and add new
major modules. The current big project is the Heroic Adventures,
random encounter sequences which present options for actions and
support for attacking Dragons with one Hero rather than one Legion.
We lost a few players when the spring term ended at several
schools. It is time to add a some additional players with stable
network access. If anyone wants to contact me I can be reached at:
UUCPnet: {ihnp4,seismo,...}!cmcl2!tihor
ARPAnet: TIHOR@NYU-ACF1 or TIHOR@NYU
BITnet: TIHOR@NYUACF
Copies of the setup package are available on request but are
fairly lengthy to send over UUCP links. They can be picked up via
anonymous FTP from NYU.ARPA (or NYU.EDU) as ~ftp/pub/tihor/rules.
The current newsletter is .../tihor/newsletter and is included with
setups. The costs for network turns are negligable so there is no
charge for people getting their turns in person or by e-mail but it
is recommended that most network players send me a couple of SASEs
for hand written responses if they include an ad in the T'NYC Times
(the newsletter) which solicit responses since some players will be
giving me handwritten replies.
-Stephen Tihor <TIHOR @ NYUACF>
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Nuclear Autumn
In the last days of a decadent race, the eternal children sought
what tawdry pleasures they could, well knowing but never realizing
that their time was nearly at an end. These were the Glorious Days,
filled with all the myth and wonder of Man's devising. And myth and
wonder there were. So much so that a man might live out his entire
life, which could no longer be adequately measured in years, without
perceiving even the slightest hint of the cold realities which had
faced their historical predecessors. No pleasure palace of Kubla
Khan could compare with the vast panorama of delusion in which Man
had enfolded himself. In truth, the commonalities of such an
existence would have caused even the most tainted of Sultanates to
blush. But of course, the act of blushing itself had grown to be
only the vaguest of myths, half-heartedly sought by countless
numbers of pleasure seekers who were incapable of conceiving of any
emotion leading to its expression. Life had reached the bounds of
Man's finite imagination, but still the populace desired more.
It was inevitable. The sensual pleasures had been exploited to
their fullest. The intellectual pleasures had long since been
abandoned as requiring such great an effort for such small returns.
Looking back across those final years, one recognizes the odious
progression of those dissatisfied with the ability to define one's
own existence with such precision. One sees a steady growth in the
numbers of those who desired hardships and death, and those who
wished to savor the things that the society constructed by their
forefathers had forbidden them. Perhaps it all arose naturally from
the destructive instinct in Man, which while carefully channeled by
society into acceptable forms could only achieve the palest of
expressions. Society had done its best to compromise with this
force, providing more and more outlets of outre expression which
would have shocked any sane individual of another age. But the
attractions of the forbidden were felt in much greater proportions
by those unused to any form of self-discipline. There could be no
compromise.
Small sects of discontents arose and grew in number until they
encompassed the greater part of the entire population. They were
dissatisfied with mechanized life and sought refuge in artificial
wildernesses, harkening back onto the mythical days of their
ancestors when Man vied directly with Nature in continuous combat.
But it was not enough, as as they knew that they were in an
instant's communication with great mechanized forces capable of
easily overcoming any task, there could be no full appreciation of
the struggle to survive. As long as any man had access to such
devices, their day to day victories in the "Wilderness" shown shallow.
And so after a long period of fruitless pursuit, an unspoken
resolution formed in the minds of each and every man. Man must be
freed from his devices, freed to struggle once more in a world where
the combat was meaningful, a world with obstacles worthy of
challenging Man once again. But turning off the machines would not
be enough, not so long as they could be reactivated. To free Man
would require that society and its machines were totally and
irrevocably destroyed. This presented Man's first real challenge in
centuries for the devices of Man's society had been constructed to
withstand any mishap unscathed. They could not be averted from their
continuous and ever present functioning.
Man puzzled long over this dilemma without solution, until one
day a very unfashionable elder, who had chosen to seek pleasure in
the lost knowledge of Man's history, struck upon a forgotten record.
It seemed that in the days long before civilization, Man had done
violence unto himself in massive numbers. The very concept was at
once unbelievable and exciting to these souls trapped into passivity
by their societial machine. But even more than this, it presented
hope. In some forgotten era of the race, Man had constructed engines
capable of destruction well beyond even their own comprehension.
Man's fear had caused these engines to go unused and unremembered
but not untended. As was the practice of all the Great Builders,
these engines of violence were perpetually maintenanced by machines
which would last until Armageddon.
Here at last was a solution. There was no discussion. They were
driven by their desperation, knowing there was nothing to lose.
Resolutely, the masses uncovered the engines of destruction and set
them about their inevitable course. They awaited hopeful of their
outcome, hopeful of escape.
And Man looked upon a new day....a new beginning.
-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
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ELFQUEST the Roleplaying Game (tm)
Companion I and The Sea Elves Review
This was intended to be a short review of the new gaming aids
for Elfquest players by Chaosium, but in discussion with others I
found that the one thing all of us seem to miss was an extended
table of Contents or an index of sorts. Personally I lean too
heavily on such things when learning a new game, from lack of
familiarity or laziness or just for some semblance of speed when
trying to involve others in my scenario.
When the Companion came out in August I had hoped for a
compendium of sorts, or perhaps a gamemasters guide to tables and a
quick reference outline for character generation. While it was full
of information both expected and desired, there was no index. So I
made my own. At the end of this article I'll list the list of "Poor
Richard's Index". This is by no means exhaustive or complete, as I
was only attempting to narrow down the areas of info. A complete
listing would include the Two manuals, the Companion, the Sea
Elves, references to the Quest , the Fanclub, and anything else one
might find useful. That is a tall order when the original idea was to
shorten reference time, not expand it.
Podium aside, I'll get onto the review at hand. Firstly the
Elfquest Companion opens with some updates to the game made
necessary by issues 19 and 20 of Elfquest in an errata section. For
example, the modification of the rule about shaping dead wood made
necessary by Redlance's actions, and information about the gas
bombs used by Ol' Maggotty.
Also, the stats for 17 more characters from the quest are
included, but 'Rotsap and splinters in me hand! No new soul-names!'
The section on Finding an Elfname is useful... my basic rule is if
you don' t pick one, One will be given.... "Help with Elf design" is
interesting, I nicknamed it "How to draw elves the Pini way." It
gives some filling out for NPC's as well as being a good guide-line
for undecided characters. "Wolf Ecology" is a comparative study of
the wolves on "The World of Two-moons" and those of Terrestrial ilk.
I think this should be "must" reading for players and Gamemasters
alike to help with role-playing and to help dispel some
misconceptions about wolves. The Wolfhaven Holt, a divergent branch
of wolfriders, gives some good ideas for Holt development in your
game. A pseudo-history is included, and the module; "The Dying
River" is meant to be played by a branch of Wolfhaven elves. (This
doesn't preclude others, it's merely a suggestion.) The Second
Module, "Fire Flight" is for several Plains elves. "The Sea Elves" is
a complete culture supplement for Elfquest based on the concept that
some High ones fled from the humans only to run into the ocean. They
colonized several islands with the help of dolphin like creatures
known as wave-dancers. The supplement is divided into sections on
history, the islands and the creatures who inhabit them. We are
given five new powers and three excellent modules. "Stormcoming
Hunt" is a race against time and tide, "Littlesmoke Island"
provides a backdrop for exploration of heretofore undiscovered
islands, and "Assault of Smalltower Island" presents a different
view of elves, in the role of pirates! I'll not say a lot more about
the modules so as not to spoil the surprises, except that they look
real nice and that there's more to them than their names imply. The
Elfquest Companion I and The Sea Elves are available from Chaosium,
INC. Box 6302-eqc, Albany CA 94706-0302 for about $6.00.
-Richard Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
POOR RICHARD'S ELF INDEX FOR Elfquest (tm)
(Sections are caps, tables are marked with a dash, and
Characters are in quotes. Numbers suffixed with an 's' represent
selections in The Sea Elves.)
A-
Age 18
-Age Factor Table 21
Animal Bonding 42
Animal Lore 21,51
Antidotes 8
Anti-Healing 39
Armour 62
Astral Projection 42
ATTACKING 49
Automatic Success 24
B-
-Beginning skills table 2s
Birth Rate 9
Blue Mountain Folk 10,66-67
Bond Animals 24
Bone-shaping 8s
C-
Characteristics 19
" Increasing 29
"Clearbrook" 20
Climb 21,34
COMBAT 45-63
-Combat Jargon Table 46-47
- " Modifiers Table 57
" results 54-55
Communication 21,34,4s
Covered Targets 56
CREATING AN ELF 16
Critical Attacks 49
" Parry 51
" Success 25
Climb 21,31
D-
DAMAGE 30-32
" Bonus 20
Darkness 56
Derived Characteristics 20
Desert Elves 12,69
Dexterity 47
Dodge 21,34,52
E-
-Earthquake Severity table 7s
-Encounter table 17s
ELFQUEST EXPRESSIONS 73
Elf Lore 21,34
Experience Bonus 20
F-
Finding 44
Firestarting 40
Fish-finding 8s
Fishing and Hunting 4-5s
Fist and Kick 58
Fleshshaping 41
Fumble 25
-Fumble Tables 52
G-
Game day 32
GAME SYSTEM 24
Gobacks 10,67-69
Grappling 59
Great Waves 7s
- " " table "
H-
Healing 32,41
" Lore 21,34
-Height and Weight Table 19
High Ground 56
High Ones 12
Hit Points 20
Hit Point Location 30
Homing Instinct 8s
Humans 13,71
Human Lore 21,35
I-
THE ISLANDS 6-7s
Island flora and fauna 6s
Impale 50,52
J-
Jump 21,35
K-
"Kahvi" 67
L-
LANGUAGES 13
" Lore 21,35
"Leetah" 66
Levitation 41
M-
MAGIC 21-23,38,5s
" Feeling 44
" points 20
" powers 38,8-9s
" use 48
Manipulation 21,36
Melee Activities 48-49
" Round 33-46
" Skills 49
Weapons 57-58
Mind snare 45
" Stun 44
Mineral Lore 21,36
-Missed Throw Table 38
Missiles 59-60
-Missile Weapons Table 60
Mounted Combat 55
Movement 20,47-48
-Movement Rate Table 33
N-
Name 16
Natural Weapons 58
Nets 60-62
O-
"Olbar" 70
OTHER TRIBES 64-72
P-
Parry 51
" an impale 51
passageways 56
perception 21,36
-Perception Modifiers 37
-Pirate Statistics table 18s
Plains Elves 12,70
Plant Lore 21,37
" Shaping 41
Power Gain Roll 29
Preparing a weapon 48
Preservers 13,72
Previous Experience 21-22
R-
"Rayek" 64
Recognition 9,19
Recognized Lifemate 18
"Redlance" 18
Research 30
-Resistance Table 26
Ride 21,37
Ride Skill Limit 51
Rockshaping 42
S-
"Savah" 64
SEA & ISLAND CREATURES 9-16s
-Sea Elf Characteristics and skills 2s
Sea Elves 12,68-69,2-5s
Seismic Activity 6-7s
Sending 23,45
Shape Changing 42
Shield 45,51,63
Simple Success 24
SKILLS 34
-Skills Table 21
-Skills Results Table 25
Skill Training 27
Skill vs Skill 24-25
Social Structure 4s
Special Attack 50
- " Attributes Table 23
" Environments 55
" Success 25
Stealth 21,37
-Stealth Terrain Modifiers 37
Stormseeing 8-9s
Strike Rank 20,47
- " " Table 47
- " " Modifiers Table 20
Sunfolk 10,65-66
Surprise 48
Swim 21,37
Synopsis 13-16
T-
Telepathic Powers 42
-Terrain Effects Table 33
Time and Movement 32
Throw 21,38
Trolls 71-72
Troll Lore 38
Turns 33
Two Attacks 51
U-
Unfavorable Environments 56
Underwater 56
V-
-Volcanic Eruption table 7s
W-
Water Control 9s
Wavedancers 4s
Weapons 5s
Weapon Description 62-63
" Length 47
" Use 57
Weather 6s
"Winnowill" 67
Wolfriders 10,24
CHARACTER GENERATION SEQUENCE
Age: 2d10 x 2d6
Recognition: age/10 on 1d100
Recognized mate alive? POW x 5 on 1d100
Roll Basic stats: page 19
Dmg Bonus: If STR + SIZ >= 25....
Experience Bonus: INT/2
Hit Points: (CON + SIZ)/2
Magic Points: POW
Strike Rank Mod: Table on Page 20
Special Attributes: Max of 2 rolls on table (23)
Previous Exp Tot Basic Stats X # on Age factor chart (page 21.)*Basic
Stats can be increased (except INT or SIZ)
Initial Skills: Table on 21
Talent Roll: 1D100
Weapon use: Table on 58
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Launching a National University Gaming Organization
My name is Mike Barbre and I am the Vice President of the
University Gamers Unlimited at the University of Missouri in St.
Louis. I am sending you all this note in the hope that you will feel
as I do. It is time to begin a national organization for gaming
among the universities of the world. This can help each of us in
many ways. I will list some of the benefits below;
A list of people who share your gaming interests.
When budgeting time arrives at the universities,
belonging to a national organization is a big plus.
I will work to get each member a standing discount at the
various companies who make our favorite games.
(idea) a newsletter put out annually.
(idea) a newsletter of the highest quality containing just
advertising from our favorite companies (I like looking at ads)
and anything else we can think of.
Ok, your saying what will it cost? Answer: nothing more than
your groups address. If I get enough of a response I will make up a
form letter along with a signup sheet to be copied and provided to
each member of your groups. Each member (hope) would fill out and
return the signup sheet. By doing so I will add the names to a
universal gaming database. Using the miracle of SAS I will then make
a 'phone book' and send it to everyone. Generally this would be a
forum of gamers, with the benefits of a university. If you are
interested at all please send me a note, and if possible provide the
address (on campus) of your favorite gaming organization. I thank
you for your time and hope to hear from you soon.
Mike Barbre <S4898002 @ UMSLVMA>
University Gamers Unlimited
250 University Center, UMSL
8001 Natural Bridge Road
St. Louis, MO. 63121
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magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v05n2
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| | ==========================================
+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
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| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Spirit of the Wood: 2 Rich Jervis
The Glory of Adventuring Ovis
Respect thy Elders: 1 Orny
Ceda the Executioner: 1 Joel Slatis
Date: 080486 Dist: 159
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X-Editorial
Well, I told you that 5-2 would be right on the heels of 5-1!
Had it not been for the fact that our 3705 burned in flames, this
file might have actually made it on time! As for 5-3, Jeanne Dixon
has said that it will be out the second weekend in August, so watch
your reader queues!
Actually, to tell you the truth, we've managed to lure three
unknowing and unsuspecting amateur authors into the Dargon Project,
and they're cooking up stories faster than I can print them! 5-3 is
actually all set to go out, save that I have to finidh writing *my*
story for that issue! And it promises to be an excellent issue, with
stories from myself and each of the three new authors. But I'll let
you wait for that.
This issue contains the beginnings of two serials, one a Dargon
story (my own, in three parts), the other an unrelated piece by Joel
Slatis, one of the three new authors. Stuffed in around the edges
are a short story by Ovis, another new author, and part two of Rich
Jervis' "Spirit of the Wood". Two other points and then on to the
issue. Firstly, due to extremely poor timing, the day I sent out
FSFNET 5-1, the userid of one of the contributors changed. If you
are interested in contacting the person who was advertising the
national gaming organization, the userid is now C4898002@UMSLVMA,
rather than S4898002. Or was it the other way round? Finally, I'd
like to welcome the new members, and remind everyone once more to
keep spreading the word about FSFnet. It is, as I've been saying all
along, your zine, not mine. Enjoy!
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Two
Loric had no chance to reply to Oldsir's query because their
dialog was interrupted a the high whistling call from below them.
Oldsir looked down and said to himself "So soon..." "Loric the call
has been given. You must go below and stand on the ground with your
friends. I wish you luck."
Loric looked at his grandfather and then closed the distance
between them. He hugged the old man fiercely and said "If it means
your time of death has come closer, I won't go! "
"Here now, is that the voice of a Tolorion I hear? Are you so
strong that you can wrestle with time itself? My time has come, but
so has yours But do not let the fate of an old man deter you from
doing your best! I will be watching you as all of your tribe will,
to see that honor is maintained and that the Spirit of the Wood is
not broken. Now go, son of my son. And may the dew never settle on
your brow!" With that blessing Oldsir turned and leaped off the
porch of his house and deftly caught a vine some yards below. Before
Loric could call out to him he was lost from sight.
"Thank you Oldsir," He said softly, "Goodbye,Grandfather." He
barely heard the second sounding of the call and threw himself off
the platform with a vengeance. He went downward recklessly, allowing
the bare minimum margin for safety. He hit the ground hard and
lightly bruised, but in one piece. Without a glance at the gathered
downlander's he strode to the center of the circle where they had
gathered and stood with head held high and body erect. Determined
that his Grandfather's last wish would be granted.
Loric tried to stay aloof from the others, hoping to keep his
anger fired, but the excited conversation around him kept intruding
on his thoughts.
"Going for it again, eh Hiram? Maybe you'll get to the top of
the Home-tree this time."
"Go jump Jakul,I made the Tree-climbing test, it was the
Net-walking that did me in last time."
"You were lucky then, if you'd made that they would have thrown
you into the Pit. My brother Yione was there for three days before
they dragged him out. He still won't talk about that one but I think
they used snakes on him, he never did like them."
"Snakes I don't mind, but there's worse. They say there's always
one test you can't pass. And then there's always the Shreaving. Hey
there's Loric. Loric! What's in the pit eh? Snakes or spiders or
just a few wild dogs to gnaw your bones! Hah-hah!"
Loric looked at his friends and smiled thinly. "Whatever it is,
it couldn't be as mean as you two! I still remember the time you two
put that bee-comb in my sister's bed and the ant's all but carried
her off! I couldn't catch you then, but maybe after today, you'll
not be so fast?
I think a tree-crab could walk away with what's left of you
after the test and no one would notice."
"Jakul we made a mistake even speaking to this one, he's
obviously the first test; to see how long we'll stand here before
stringing him up by his toes!"
Hiram made a feint towards Loric which he dodged and then
grabbed His friends arm and pressed his thumb into the wrist. The
scene was on the verge of becoming a tussle when the third sounding
of the Call was made and the late arrivals noisily joined the trio
in the council circle. Under his breath Hiram asked, "What's up your
tree Loric, you used to take that guff and pass it out fresh?" Loric
looked side-ways at his friend. "Sorry, Hiram. It's just that my
grandfather has had his second vision."
Hiram stepped back and then asked "Did he tell you what it was?"
"No, only that his time had come...and mine too! Shhh! Dernhelm
is looking at you--turn around!" Loric spun his friend around to
face his uncle. He waited for the silence to spread to all present,
even the young children were silent. Somehow feeling the intensity
of the moment.
"Know you children of the Village in the Trees, what is the
benefit of the Arborskill?"
Loric and the others replied as one; "Yes, my chief. my eyes and
the eyes of my tribe, my hands and the hands of my tribe, my heart
and the heart, ears, and tongue of my tribe will become keener, and I
will know the joy of life from the Spirit of the Wood. I will
adapt,and my tribe will live.
I will take the offerings of the Wood, and make new and better
things things for the living. The Arborskill honors and protects,
and the seasons change."
"What do you need to achieve the Arborskill?"
"My Kesh-blade, my chief."
"Only this?"
"My wits , my chief."
"This is all?"
"And my song , My chief,and my hands."
"Do you have these four things?"
"I have them, my chief, My wits are as keen as my blase and my
hands are as strong as my song. My song is strong, my chief!"
"Then show your tribe what you know. What is the first craft of
the Arborskill?"
"The first craft of the Arborskill is the Lashing."
At this loric looked about him. In the circle were poles he was
to use as a rope walk, but there was no grass gathered to plait into
a lashing.
Realizing that the cane fields were a long-run away and the reed
marshes even further than that, several of the boys waved to their
families and sprinted off into the woods. Loric started out
muttering under his breath. He has went only a short distance when
he stopped. This can't be right! he thought. It will take most of
the day just to gather the grass and return with it, and there's
more tests after this one!
Loric looked back at the circle of logs where the tribe sat
silently. There were more logs than usual around the fire pit,
leaving several unoccupied or with only one person to a log. The new
logs were still dark with bark and the scent came to Loric as he
walked back into the circle.
The acrid smell of Liamas trees greeted him. Of Course!
Adaption! Loric had been taught how to plait grass and vines but
there was a no reason he couldn't do the same with the fibrous bark
of the Liamas tree.
He ran across the clearing to where his sister sat with several
of the other young women.
"Loric I see no grass for you to weave, perhaps you intend to
weave the air into a rope?"
Loric was stung by his sister's words but caught the twinkle in
her eye that meant to Loric that he must be close to an answer.
Formally he stood before his sister and said:
"I ask that you give up your seat my sister, so that your brother
may become a man."
Silsia gave up a cheer. "Ai-ya! Ai-Ya! Little Loric would be a
man and make his sister stand!" She laughed and stood by her friends.
"Come sisters, we must move for near-man Loric who already knows
how to act like a man!"
Loric drew his knife from it's sheaf and started cutting the
bark from the log in long strips.
-Rich Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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The Glory of Adventuring
"So this is how it will all end," thought Glanaril as he sank
slowly to a sitting position against the cold, black cave wall. "We
were all so tough, so grown up and ready to make names for
ourselves, so wrong..."
Glanaril knew he didn't have long, the hideous beast's claws
were so covered with filth that the poison on them could kill an
ogre. Unfortunately he had taken more than a scrape in the fight
with it. It had come upon them only minutes ago, a time when they
had been the most famous adventurers in the world (or would be soon,
after they managed to kill Lothgar the Black and rescue all those
lonely, misguided gold rilks). The horrible guardian beast had not
sneaked up on them, no, it had come straight at them, slowly,
allowing them plenty of time to ready spells and form an attack
plan. They had smelled it coming long before they met it. Oh, but
once they met it )) it became a living death machine. Granted the
beast was very large, but one beast against a party of well equipped
adventurers, ha ha )) no problem. Glanaril smiled grimly as he
remembered his thoughts as he handled his trusty spear.
It wouldn't be long now, the pain was growing, working its way
up from the horrible gash he has received in his side. His armor was
like butter before the thing's claws.
Glanaril glanced about him at the remains of his party. Katrina,
a pretty spellcaster, lay in a heap against the far wall. She had
been concentrating on a spell and had not avoided the beast's
backswipe with its great foreleg and she'd been tossed against the
jagged stone wall as easily as a man swats a fly. Carly, a hobbit
thief, was now unrecognizable as such. He had tried to maneuver to a
position behind the thing so that he might hamstring it. Just as
he'd raised his dagger to do so, the beast had taken a step back and
placed its great hind leg right on top of him. So much for crippling
it. Harth died trying to help Katrina. He had seen Katrina go down
and rushed to help her, thinking that the three fighters could keep
the beast at bay while he cast a spell of healing. He was wrong.
Harth turned his back on the beast and bent over Katrina to begin
his work and so did not see the great claw coming which ripped down
his back and pulled him back into the jaws of its owner. The other
two fighters, Jaron and Jakon, were thrown into one another with
force enough to kill them both, the reason they were unable to keep
Harth safe.
And Glanaril had seen them all die as he stood there, too
stunned to believe that all his friends had died in less than two
minutes. Then the thing had turned to him and lunged directly
towards him. Glanaril set his spear against the wall to protect him.
But he had missed. The spear had scored a hit in the right shoulder
of the creature, not enough to cause it to blink. It came on,
pushing the spear into its shoulder, and took a swipe at him. It did
not miss. He was already against the wall and had no place to go, he
took the full force of the claw and went sprawling sideways, knowing
that this was it. He awoke shortly thereafter. Looking around told
him that the beast had gone. His spear lay in the middle of the
cave, broken in two.
"So much for fame and glory," he thought, "our whole party
killed by a common black bear, and not even close to Lothgar's
stronghold, not even close..." And the darkness closed in.
-Ovis <OTZJ @ CORNELLA>
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Respect thy Elders: Chapter One
Kite bounded up the granite stairs to the portals of Winthrop
Keep. Winthrop was a small holding, perhaps a dozen leagues
southwest of Dargon. Recently, Kite, an aspiring young lord of the
house of Talador, a wealthy duchy south of Winthrop, was engaged to
Pecora, the only child of the ruler of Winthrop. But this sunny
morning, Kite had received a message from Mistress Izetta, Pecora's
woman-in-waiting and nursemaid of many years, asking him to come at
once to Winthrop Keep. It seemed that Pecora had fallen ill, but the
note had revealed little more.
Kite walked quickly through the halls he knew so well. He had
often visited Pecora during their courtship, and had cherished each
moment within these walls. Yet he strode to Pecora's room quickly,
and without any emotion more evident than concern. At last he came
to the door to her chambers, and rapped anxiously. After a moment,
an older woman quietly opened the door and bade Kite enter.
He entered into a spacious and well-decorated lounge area. He
hardly noticed as the woman guided him to a seat. "What is wrong,
Mistress Izetta?"
"Pecora is ill. Last night she went weak and pale as a ghost.
She is not well, milord. Come speak to her." With that, she led him
to the bedchamber, where Pecora lay. She did not see Kite until he
had knelt beside her. She tried to speak, but could not, but Kite
could see her words in her questioning eyes.
"I am here, love. It will be all right. I promise." He kissed
her forehead, and she closed her eyes. He stood, and the two
silently returned to the entry.
After a few moments, Izetta spoke. "Milord, I have done what I
can for her, but I have seen this disease before, many years ago,
when we lived in the south. It was my mother." Kite knew by the
servant's downcast eyes that her mother had not survived.
"Is there anything you can do?" he asked, futilely, seeing the
weariness in her eyes.
"I have done all I can. Yet there may be something you can do,
if you have a strong heart. I remember when my mother was dying, my
father saying that an Elder would possess the knowledge to help her.
He sent friends to seek an Elder named Isentraum, but none believed
him, and he would not leave my mother. Do you know of the Elders?"
"I have heard the tales, but I thought the Elders were all dead.
The legends say they lived hundreds of years ago!"
The woman smiled. "And so they did, and still do, for the Elders
know far more than any nursemaids or even great lords. If you can
find an Elder, he will know how to save Pecora, for I know not."
"Yet where shall I look? The Elders all are said to have lived
far from other people, or in secret places."
"If you ride southwest, you will pass many villages, and after
several days come upon a great lake. This is where my father sent
men to search for the Elder Isentraum. Look there, and godspeed."
After a moment of hesitation, Kite stood. The anxiety he had
fought to contain finally had an outlet, and there was hope that
Pecora would be healed. He would search for the Elder.
Kite wrapped his cloak tightly around him, but the rain soaked
through, chilling him as his horse slowly plodded up the slope of
the valley where Winthrop was nestled. To keep his cheer up, he talked
to Dagley, his horse.
"Well, Dag, this is it. The quest has begun. But it isn't much
of a quest, eh? Here we are, trudging out of town in the rain. This
isn't one of those quests the minstrels will sing about, that's a
certainty; the hero, plodding along on his soggy mount, watches his
sword rust in the scabbard because all the monsters are inside where
it is dry and won't come out to fight!" The horse turned his head,
looking at Kite, who tried to fathom what the horse might say if he
could speak.
Eventually they reached the ridge above the valley, and Kite
turned to view the town below. After a few silent moments he turned
the horse and headed off towards the west, silent and contemplative.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Ceda the Executioner: Chapter One
A tall lonely figure dressed in black strode confidently through
the Desert of the Hidden Army (or Grobsts D'arbos Desert as some
prefer to call it.)
It had been called that ever since the High King of Grandydyr
rode through leading a vast army to battle some 10,000 years earlier.
Grobst D'arbo was high king of the biggest country of his time.
He controlled a massive army of strong men who were all battle
trained, well equipped and fearless. They were crossing the waste in
the area that Ceda now rode when, as the tale goes, one of the
routine scouts rode up ahead of the troops as usual, to survey the
surrounding area for scouts of the opposing forces.
That night, after a thorough search of the area, the scout
returned and to his horror found the entire army of 500,000 men dead
and the king lying at the head of the troops, still alive. The scout
jumped from his horse and ran to the fallen king who told him a
message. The message, however, has long since been forgotten (for
about 1000 years) but it is said that the message is of grave
importance to the entire world in the years to come.
The kings head fell back into the hands of the shocked scout who
lay the king down gently on the ground. Then the scout stood up to
look upon his fallen majesty who, by some unknown force, now lay
dead at his feet. Then a peculiar thing happened: the kings body
seemed to melt and change. The horrified scout watched as the body
of the king altered into that of a tree. The scout could hardly
believe what had happened and he stood gazing upon the tree until he
fainted from the sun.
Some time after that, the opposing army drew near and the scout
was found lying in the shade of the tree. The army of Grandydyr was
no where to be seen and they were never heard from again. The scout
, before his execution at the hands of his captors, told them what
had taken place, then he died by decapitation, but the story lived
on. And to this day, people who wish to travel are warned of the
Desert of the Hidden Army, for it is foretold that one day, a
certain weary traveler will find it.
This, however, was just a child's fairy tale and thought to be
mendacious, for almost none of the numerous people that cross though
the gigantic wasteland ever come across the tree of Grobst D'arbo
and no one really ever believed the story that they told... if they
lived to tell it.
It was this tree that Ceda was now approaching and he looked at
the surrounding desert for any possible source of water, but as far
as the eye could see, and even beyond that, there was nothing but
the golden sand upon which he now strode.
The area around the tree was littered with dead bodies. Most of
them were now nothing more than bleached bones, but one or two were
still clad, dead only for about 3 months, all from deep wounds. Ceda
looked at them in disgust but then forgot about them as he
contemplated the tree, having previously thought that it was but a
tale of children.
The story echoed in his head for sometime as he made his way
through the sand. The only thing besides him and his wingless dragon
mount, Melgon, was the single tree; not even insects lived in the
Desert of the Hidden Army and only seldomly did birds venture in to
feast on a dead animal.
The tree itself was not particularly tall and didn't look very
healthy for that matter. It was about the height of Ceda and only
some of the leaves that now grew on it were green. The roots stuck
out of the ground in an odd fashion and seemed to be warped in some
peculiar way that Ceda did not notice.
He stopped to look at it as they passed and Melgon swung his
head around to see why they had stopped. Unable to look at the tree
because of the heavy armor that reached from the dragons head to the
base of it tail, it shifted its body around and slowly glanced up at
the phenomenon. Ceda, amused by this sorcerers work, knowing a
little sorcery himself, he advanced on the tree until the reins of
his mount pulled tightly at his hand.
"Come on, Melgon, this thing won't harm you, fear not." He
tugged again at the reins, but this time harder and in turn, the
dragon strengthened his foothold. Obvious that the dragon would go
no further in the direction of the tree, he dropped the reins and
continued towards it alone.
Even as he approached, the tree sensed that Ceda had no good
intentions and began to shake as if it was warning him to come no
closer. It was almost as if a wind were blowing the tree but Ceda
could feel nothing of this wind and neither could his wingless
dragon mount, Melgon. The closer that Ceda drew, the stronger the
wind blew. Melgon began to back away as the wind grew even stronger.
"Stay, Melgon," came Ceda's voice fiercely as he turned at the
dragon. The only answer that he received was a low growl as the
dragon halted.
He reached the tree and the wind grew greater, and all of a
sudden, the gusts focussed of Ceda pushing him back by surprise. His
long black hair flew back to reveal a handsome face with piercing
black eyes, a short, straight nose, tight thin lips and a firm chin.
The gusts of wind knocked Ceda off balance and he was momentarily
pushed back before he again struggled to get to the tree. Finally
after five long hard steps, he had reached it again and he lifted
his hand to touch one of it's leaves, his long black cape waving
wildly under the force of the wind. The wind grew stronger as he
grasp a leaf of the growth. Then he pulled at it with all his might
and it came off into his hand. Then the wind stopped. Ceda threw
himself against the trunk of the tree. Then a noise which startled
Ceda for a moment swam through the hot desert air but he relaxed as
he recognized the low pitched moaning as a dragon laugh.
He glanced menacingly at Melgon who was still laughing and a
smile crossed his lips. He picked himself up and walked back to his
dragon mount.
"There, you see? It's nothing more than a little magic, that is
all. Methinks the old kings' wizardry must be weakening over the
years... or perhaps the old king was not as strong as I had
expected." He opened his hand and examined the leaf.
It seemed to crumble in his hand and turned to dust. A worried
expression crossed Ceda's face as the wind started again and blew
the dust up into his eyes momentarily blinding him.
Then, simultaneously, four figures appeared around the warrior
as if they had come from the very sand itself. Their swords drawn,
their expressions covered by the shadows of the hoods which hung
loosely about their heads. Only two gleaming balls of fire were
visible beneath the hoods. They wore robes down to their feet and
wore gauntlets to shield their hands.
"Who are you to question the power of Grobst D'arbo, High king
of Grandydyr?" the voice came from within Ceda's head.
Ceda's hand raced for the hilt of his sword, the wind still
blowing at him from all directions. He raised it to strike at the
nearest of the advancing force and swung. The wind changed course
and blew the sword harmlessly down missing his opponent.
The attacker swung at Ceda's head and seeing the on coming
strike, the warrior raised his sword to parry and again the wind
changed course. The blade was almost blown out of his grasp, but he
held on with all his strength to defend against the assault.
Ceda, seeing that the fight would lead to nothing but certain
death, jumped to his mount and fought against the wind to ride out
beyond the reach of the kings sorcerous winds and warriors.
They had gone fifty dragons lengths when the wind ceased and
they could ride unhampered. After a short period Ceda looked back to
see if the tree was still in sight and if the four demons had yet
returned to the underworld. The worried expression returned to his
face as he saw the four riding devil spawn steeds with crimson
colored fire coming from their nostrils with every breath. The
horses were catching up to him and he cursed himself for tempting
the dead kings spirit.
Ceda bent down low on his mount and spurred it on faster
realizing the full extent of the danger. If he were killed by the
demons sent after him, his soul would be damned to serve the dead
king in a state of half death and half life for all eternity.
He reached down into the saddle where his spell book was and
pulled at it. It came out and almost as quickly fell from his hand
to the ground.
"Slow, Melgon. I must retrieve the book if we are to survive."
The dragon growled in disapproval as he slowed and turned to the
book, but Ceda was already upon it looking for the spell in which he
needed to escape his pursuers.
He marvelled at the tenacity of the oncoming demons as he
invoked the rune he had found that would aid him in escaping danger:
"When at a time that I may fall
Bring forth the winds, L'amron
To aid my call...
Naar akbles gah dee
Hegwray sde urngen tse dooh, L'amron
Faeer sforen cha haben..."
First in his language and then in the language of the Wind God.
Black smoke rose into the shallow desert air and seemed to clump
together as if something had sucked it all into a great hovering
mass. Ceda glanced back at the on coming attackers as the smoke
filled the sky. Then a large figure of black smoke loomed over him
with a face far darker than those that dwell in the most dreadful of
the caves of Arnmere.
"Why have you summoned me from my most restful sleep, mortal?"
The black smoke undulating as he talked.
"I have summoned you to aid me in my foray with these demons,
Lord," he replied as he cast another glance at the oncoming attackers.
"I am, as they are, under the rule of the Lord Ileiruon and
cannot aid thee without incurring his wrath upon myself as a result,
mortal. Fare thee well." The wind sent the smoke swirling in all
directions and at once the Wind Lord was gone.
Ceda drew his sword and stood waiting the few remaining seconds
for the demons as his mount retreated a safe distance to survey the
battle. As the riders approached, the steeds upon which they rode
began to waver and finally disappeared as they reached their quarry.
The demons dropped to the ground from where they had sat on their
hellborn mounts and at once set upon Ceda.
This time, their was no devil wind to hinder him as he fought
the attackers and with ease he defended himself. Ceda parried one of
the swings made by the attacker and disarmed him as a result. Then
with lightning quickness he lifted his sword up to unveil the face
of one of his opponents and in doing so revealed a fleshless being.
All that remained in place of a head was a skull with two crimson
balls of light for eyes.
All the clothes worn by the attackers at once withered to dust
as Ceda was left fighting the living dead. Four odd looking
skeletons were before him and were advancing on their prey, the
foremost wearing upon his bleached skull a richly designed crown
inlaid with rare Malthoogian gems. This one was at least twice the
size of the other three.
Ceda attacked the crowned figure and as he struck under the same
defenses of it's sword, the bones came apart and fell to the sand in
pieces. The warrior formed a wry smile and turned to face the three
remaining opponents. But, even as he turned, the fourth quickly,
magically reassembled itself and resumed the battle.
Ceda looked on in utter horror as his hosts reassembled itself
after every blow, realizing that if he didn't think of a way to
defeat his foe, it would defeat him.
Then the solution to beating the wizardry came to him. He turned
sharply avoiding the trust of one of the smaller demons and swung at
it before it regained its balance, Ceda hit it hard knocking it into
a pile of bones. Then with lightning speed, he grabbed at the odd
skull dropped it into his pouch. Then it's bones seemed to dry up
and wither into nothingness as Ceda fought on.
The other two fell easily to Ceda's blade and he deposited the
other two skulls into his pouch. Now all that was left was the
largest of the demons; The fire glowed in its eyes like two red stars.
"Now, you die!" It hissed and swung down at Ceda's head.
Ceda parried the thrust and swung under the skeletons sword. It
blocked and jabbed for Ceda's head and he had to jump back to avoid
being pierced through his neck. Then he lounged at the skeleton
tearing its bony arm off and its sword with it. Then the skeleton
was easily defeated by Ceda's blade. He swung so that the side of
the blade hit turning the massive demon to a pile of milk white
bone. As he reached to get the the crown, the demon had time to
reform and before he knew it, it was already on its feet and
advancing on him.
"The crown," it said, its eyes gleaming brightly. "Give it to me."
Ceda swung at the skeleton again and hit it, then hit the skull.
And the skeleton crumbled.
Then the voice returned to his mind and said: "Beware not to let
the skulls lose, for my demons will get you," and the voice laughed.
Then it was gone from his head.
Ceda remembered the warning and he looked into the pouch. The
eyes of the demons had lost their fire, as if they had died. Ceda
knew of the danger that would be released if they ever broke free
and decided to keep them in case he found use for them.
Then he turned his attention to the crown. It would be worth a
lot of gold in any of a dozen cities . He rubbed it a little,
polishing it, and added it to his pouch on the saddle.
Then he had a long drink before he continued on his way thought
the desert.
A dark figure approached the westward gate of the city of
Pheeng'Am. He did not ride the strange wingless dragon mount that
walked next to him. He looked odd as he approached the gate, for
dragons were very rare and those that were wingless were legendary
at best.
When they arrived at the gate, one of the city guards, a Giant
from Weuyrt, the land of forests, (where the caves of Arnmere lie:
the home of the feared orcs and hobgoblins) approached them.
"What business have you in the city of Pheeng'Am?" his burly
voice made all in the area turn to give ear to the conversation.
"I am Ceda of No-Al Ben (a small country north of Grobst's
desert from which Ceda had come,)" he said proudly before
continuing. "I wish to enter the city for I have traveled the desert
and am in need of food and shelter before I can continue on. Can you
perhaps tell me where the nearest inn is?" Ceda tried to look
innocent, he knew that the guards seldom admit those who look like
they were there for foul purposes, as was the nature of Ceda.
"What is your purpose for traveling this land?" he persisted.
"I seek am as a hired sword where I might find work." The talk
was beginning to annoy him, but he knew that there was nothing that
he could do if he wanted to enter the city unharmed.
"You?!? A hired sword? What's the world coming to?" The giant
mocked him, but he knew the giant was testing his ability to
withhold his temper, so he ignored this. The other guards laughed.
"Be the world as it may, I wish to enter the city." Ceda
re-stated this with a slight tone of anger in it.
The giant thought about this for a minute and then said: "Very
well now, you may pass, but be weary of the laws of the city lest I
have to find and slay you myself. Go now."
Relieved, Ceda continued past the giant and into the city.
Pheeng'Am was one of the biggest cities in the land of Ruirse
which bordered the Desert of Grobst. Its large populace was due
largely to the fact that it bordered the desert. All people
traveling through usually went there before continuing on there way.
The Desert separated the two largest countries from one another and
south of that were the Sarshirian mountains which was virtually
impossible to get through safely because they were inhabited by
evilly aligned creatures.
Ceda, now in the city, headed for the nearest tavern to get a
drink. He disliked talking with people which is what he would have
to do in the tavern, but he had to meet someone there.
Once in the tavern, Ceda got himself a skin of Ruirsian wine and
sat down at one of the empty tables in the back so that his face
fell into the shadow of the walls.
Many people were in the tavern, some drunk, some just walking
about but Ceda looked for just one of them: an elf by the name of
Rincraw that was to pay him for the service of assassinating Berk,
the mighty king of the people of Caffthorn.
Then he saw him sitting at the bar with a wooden cup of wine in
his hand talking to another elf. Ceda got up, walked over to him and
tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The elf turned quickly and his
hand flew to his sword, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.
"Greetings, Ceda, we have been expecting you, and a job well
done to you! I believe we owe you this," he handed the warrior a
sack full of gold coins and offered Ceda a drink of his wine.
"No thanks," he took the sack and made his way to the door.
Feeling the crown in his pouch as he added the sack of gold, he
thought a minute about how to get the most money for it and returned
to the elf.
"Have you ever seen Grobst's tree while in the desert?" he asked
the elf slowly thinking about what he was going to say to him.
"No, but I've heard rumors, I don't even know if it still lives
or even stands for that matter. Why, have you news of it?"
"I have. I also thought of it as but a tale until 4 days ago
when I accidentally came upon it. All around it was littered with
men's bones and mayhap a fresh body or two that the birds have not
gotten to yet. The strange thing was that it blew at me with the
force of the strongest of winds when I approached. Then I was set
upon by minions of hell and the leader wore this:" he withdrew the
crown which reflected the light of the candles with an eery red
glow. "I had to slay them to live but they fought with the technique
of that found only in the king of Grandydyr's greatest ancient heros".
The elf looked at his companion who was also confused. "And you
say that the leader bore this crown?" he looked at the it. "We shall
give word of this to our king and I shall inform you of his
bidding." He glanced at his companion, Quendell. "We ride for the
port of Dhernis tomorrow, and then on to the Learis Islands. In the
meanwhile, make merry and enjoy the wine." He laughed and took a sip.
Ceda finished his wine and left the tavern. He felt good from
the wine and decided that he would walk around for a while before
going back to the tavern to rent a room, so he untied his dragon
mount and with him, set off through the city.
While passing through one of the many alleys of the city, four
large men approached Ceda, who was, at this time, quite intoxicated.
The larger of the men coming foreword.
"Give us your gold and we won't kill you," his voice was cold.
He withdrew a large knife from his side and showed Ceda the blade.
Ceda knew he could do nothing in his drunken state and turned to
his dragon mount who was now ready to attack. "Down," he whispered
into the dragons ear. "I have a much better way."
"Hurry or I'll kill you and find it myself," warned the man.
"Here it is," Ceda replied pulling out of his pouch the largest
of the strange looking skulls and dropping it to the ground.
The skull at once grew to it's full size and looked at Ceda.
"Give me the crown!" It hissed.
"They have it," Ceda pointed at the advancing men as the
skeleton turned to face them, its fiery eyes dimly lighting the alley.
As the demon advanced on its new target, Ceda led the dragon
away and resumed his walk through the city. "It won't find us now
unless it stops to ask for directions," Ceda laughed. The sound of
men screaming came from the passage where he had just been and he
chuckled again.
As Ceda walked through the large area in the center of the city
square, he notice a small bench carved from rock put there for
festivals that sometimes took place in the city on the kings
birthday or on certain holidays. He decided to sit there for a while
and relax for he was tired and the effects of the wine were wearing
off. He put his hands down on his knees and in turn, his head down
on his hands and gradually fell into a mild slumber.
"Greetings, Ceda," was the voice that next roused him. He looked
up at the source to discover a tall woman with long blond hair tied
in the back. She wore common garb and had no weapon
"You know me?" he looked up questioningly at her, his head hurt
and his voice was weak.
"I know of you, I have wanted to meet you for a long time." She
sat with him now and he could smell the perfume which she wore. It
smelled good and he took a long breath. "Mayhap we could go
someplace more private than this. She looked at him and smiled
displaying a number of black and green rotting teeth.
"So be it." He stood up, the pain in his head was beginning to
fade now as they made their way back to the tavern and got
themselves a room.
They were now in the room and she looked at him for a moment
without saying anything, then she started to undress. Ceda now
understood what she had meant and also took off his clothes.
They both looked at one another. She had a magnificently built
body with perfect legs and large breasts. She took the binding off
her hair and it rolled down to meet her shoulders. She was beautiful.
Ceda moved closer to her. He could feel her hot breath against
his chest and he grabbed her and set her gently on the bed on her
back. His hand now gently caressed her large breasts and she gave a
soft moan of approval. Then he reached over and blew out the candle
at the side of the bed.
The next morning the sun came in through the cracks in the stone
wall and woke Ceda. He looked around but the woman was not in the
room. He got dressed and went down stairs to the tavern where the
bar keeper was polishing the crystal cups that he used for the
nobility of the city.
"Greetings, sir," he said with a jolly look on his face.
"Greetings to you to," Ceda replied. "Have you seen the woman
that I came in with last night?"
"Can't say that I have, but if I see her, I'll let you know."
The bar keeper smiled.
"Thanks," he said as he left the bar for his room.
Ceda entered his room and gathered his things into a pile. He
opened his pouch and noticed that the crown was not there. He looked
on the cold stone floor to make sure he had not lost it and then got
all his things and left the inn. He walked around The city asking
people if they had seen her and he cursed himself for not asking her
for here name.
No one in the city seemed to know where she had gone, but the
giants at the city gate knew who she was and they new her name also
(for a small bag of gold that Ceda had given them.)
The giants said that she had left for the city of Caahah and
that it had only been a few hours before. They also said that the
needed to hire swords, for there was a demon lose in the city that
was killing both man and beast shouting about a crown of some sort.
Ceda turned this job down.
He raced back to Melgon who stood ready for him. He put his
sword in its place on right of the saddle of the dragon mount and
then rode out of the city away from it and the desert in search of
the woman called Viamea and the valuable crown she had stolen.
On the side of the city that did not border the desert, the
wilderness was relaxing as Ceda the Warrior rode by. He planned to
catch Viamea before she reached the city lest he have to explain why
he was chasing her to the city guards. He was passing a stream now
and slowed his dragon mount to refill his skin pouch with water;
aside from this, his ride was uneventful.
The next day he had reached the city and still he saw no sign of
the woman. He decided to go into the city and look for her in any
case, reasoning that she may have had a faster horse than he thought.
When he got into the city, he went to a tavern, rented a room
and waited for nightfall.
That night Ceda went through all the taverns until at last he
saw her sitting in a corner talking with another man. Ceda made his
way through the people and grabbed her by the arm.
"Come, demonwoman, I want a word with you." His voice drowned
out by the other people in the bar so that only she and her
companion could hear.
"She's with me," the man across the table stood up to face Ceda.
He was tall but stood an inch under Ceda's height and not as bulky.
"Not any more," he pulled at her harder this time wrenching her
from her seat.
"No!" she yelled and a few people turned to stare. The man now
reached for his sword and swung at Ceda grazing his left forearm.
Ceda threw her at the floor and grabbed at his sword to parry the
next attack by the man. Then he jabbed. The sword slid in between
two of the mans ribs and he lumped to the floor. By this time there
was a crowd in the tavern watching and Ceda wiped his sword on the
mans garments and replaced at his side. Then he faced the woman who
now sat crying against a wall. He grabbed her hair and dragged her
outside and back to the room he had previously rented.
"Now, where is the crown that you took from my pouch! I want
it." He looked into her face and saw that she was now crying even
more than before.
"I don't know where it is now, I was paid to take it by two
elves. Please don't kill me, I didn't know it meant that much to
you," she put her head into her hands and cried again.
"Where are they now?" he asked. She did not answer so he grabbed
her hair and pulled it up until he could see her face. "Where are
they now?" he said again.
"They rode out of the city gate to the North East towards the
Port of Dhernis. Please don't kill me." she replaced her hands over
her face.
Ceda got up and closed the door putting the bar in place. he
walked back to the woman and took her by the hair. She looked up
into his eyes and he smiled at her.
"Are you sure?" His voice was now calm.
"Yes."
"Good," he smiled.
Two hours later, a tall man dressed in black opened the door to
his room in one of the more popular inns and departed for the port
of Dhernis. In the room in several pieces lay the body of a woman.
-Joel Slatis <RASLATIS @ WEIZMANN>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
For the Pot Jim Owens
*Spirit of the Wood: 3 Rich Jervis
Father's Fugue Jim Owens
*Respect thy Elders: 3 Orny
Date: 100686 Dist: 166
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
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X-Editorial
Greetings, and welcome to the first issue of volume 6 of FSFnet!
I am your host, Mr. Pourke, and he is Fattoo...
Ah, yeah. Sorry about that. You know, school and all. The first
(serious) order of business is to welcome the new subscribers. Keep
spreading the word! Secondly, I'm once again attempting to organize
BITNET Diplomacy games, and anyone interested should get in touch
with me before yesterday. Thirdly, I'd like to make a comment about
another fanzine. GateWays is an Arpa fanzine, and is available by
sending mail to CHUQ%PLAID@SUN.ARPA. Finally, I'd must say that
since school is back, so are several of our best authors, and I'm
*sure* (right guys?) they will be more productive than ever.
Well, I must keep this short. Thanks to everyone for being so
patient. On to the good stuff...
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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For The Pot
Wolf climbed slowly up the hill. The hill was gentle, but Wolf
had been walking all day, and while he wasn't tired, he wasn't
exactly fresh either. As he walked he thought of the village he had
just come from, and the destruction his quarry had caused back
there. It had attacked several people's herds, killing or wounding
over one hundred animals in the tight flocks. Before that it had
performed similar deeds in several villages in a roughly straight
line extending for many miles. The toll in dead animals was high. He
felt no anger at that, only empathy for the owners at having lost so
much. He did not blame his prey; it was its nature to kill.
Nonetheless, it was a danger, and had to be destroyed.
He topped the gentle rise, and looked out at the plain that
spread for hundreds of miles behind him. He then looked across the
top of the hill. An old road ran across the top of the hill in a
shallow depression. Tall grass blurred its outline. He remembered
coming this way once before, in his travels, and he came this way in
hopes of catching up with his target. It had not been traveling in
this direction when it had left the village, but its path would
cross the road after several miles, if it traveled straight, and
when it did it would follow the road to him. To be sure, however, he
carefully examined the road. The tracks would be faint, but he was
good at tracking; he would find them, if they were there. He hoped
he wouldn't find any. He groaned when, after a few minutes, he found
traces in the earth; it had beaten him to t he hill. He followed the
tracks, trying to figure out where it would have gone after it left
the hill. He tried to think like his prey.
The hill was part of an outcropping that rose up out of the
plain to form a ridge running several miles to the right as he
looked along the tracks. The hill was a reentrant, near one end. The
old road ran down the other side of the hill, and skirted around the
near end of the ridge a few miles distant. His prey would follow the
road around the ridge. If he could get over the ridge, he could wait
on the road ahead of his quarry, and set an ambush for it.
Wolf's thoughts drifted as he jogged across the saddle toward
the ridge. He thought how nice it would be to be home, watching his
corn grow, watching his flocks grow, watching his children grow. How
he missed his wife! Wolf often wondered if he shouldn't have learned
a different way to put meat on the table. He hardly ever got to see
his family. He had spent the last half of his life living out of a
backpack. He ran as he thought, hardly heeding where he was going.
He had no need to fear. There were few large animals in the area. He
was hunting the only thing that would hurt him.
Soon he was scrambling down a small rockslide to where the old
road was visible beneath years of dead grass. He made a quick
survey: no tracks. He was finally ahead of it. He glanced in the
direction it would be coming from. The ridge had another reentrant
here, and the road curved out of sight a few hundred yards away. He
quickly set his trap, and hid in the grass to wait for his prey.
As he lay, he counted. He had made five kills in the past year.
Hunters were not plentiful in these peaceful years after the last
blowup, and nobody wanted their son to be a hunter. The random
killers were few and far between anymore, and the occupation of
hunter was a dangerous one. Often a hunter would get called off to a
far village, never to return. Another factor was that no one really
wanted a neighbor who's occupation was such a violent one. It was a
bad influence for the children. The job needed to be done, however,
and the bounty was always enough to pay for the things the house
needed, and perhaps a few things the wife wanted, but didn't really
need. Soon he would have to think about getting Greta, his eldest
daughter, a few baubles to teach her the appreciation of feminine
values. Luxury items were expensive in the village he lived in.
Fortunately, as the prey became scarcer, the reward became higher.
He planned to make a good deal selling this catch, if he got it.
A faint sound brought him out of his musings. He had planted the
trap at the very end of the reentrant, just on his side. He was as
far from it as the trip cord would allow. The sound grew louder. It
deepened, and then he saw his prey come around the bend.
Grey plates glinted dully, while tank treads spun almost
silently, barely marking the ground. The noise he had heard was
coming from the ancient drive unit. Blue smoke, almost invisible,
blew fast out an exhaust port. The flat turret pointed straight
ahead, its recently fired gun showing considerable rust. Several
scanning devices protruded from the remote's surface. One was
smashed, possibly by an ill-fated hunter who hadn't aimed carefully
enough. Wolfgang wasn't taking any chances. It rolled in front of
the concealed weapons, and he squeezed hard on the firing device.
Piezoelectric crystals sent a burst of voltage down the line, and
two flashes of flame answered. Two rockets leaped the short distance
from the roadside to the side of where they seemed to disintegrate
into handfuls of dust, which blew away in a sudden wind. Actually
they had fired armor piercing warheads through the plate. Wolf
pulled the wire out of the trigger and shoved in a backup, but there
was no need. The tank rolled a short distance, and then the engine
stopped, dead.
Wolf waited, but the tank remained motionless. He got up, dusted
himself off, and walked over to the carcass. He opened the access
hatch, and examined the damage. His timing had been perfect. The
missiles had destroyed the main controller, while basically leaving
the rest of the device intact, ripe for salvage by a parts-hungry
world. He closed the hatch, laser-sealed it, and burned his brand
into the side of the tank, in plain view. He then turned and started
the long but pleasant walk back to his family.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Three
Loric thought it was strange to return to the empty hut that up
until this morning he shared with his grandfather. He looked at the
lifeless structure and felt the shadows of despair creep upon his
heart. There was no real use in becoming a man, he thought bitterly,
for even if he could do everything that the elders wanted of him, it
still wouldn't bring back Oldsir!
"I passed the ropemaking and firestarting tests today," he
thought to himself, "even made my own evening meal from a rock snake
that I found under one of the logs. But what good is it? I began
this day a boy with a family; I end it a near-man with little
family, and in three day's time, even my sister won't acknowledge me
as kin." Loric decided that being a man was lonely work. He entered
the hut, and for a moment he started, thinking he saw Oldsir's
shadow on the wall where the cooking fire always cast it this time
of day. He could hear the floor creak as his grandfather rocked back
on his heels, satisfied that the coals were banked just right. He
would turn like a sighted man, and give Loric a wink and toss his
head toward the table and say something like "Shuck-ears and crabs,
burnt the way you like 'em." Then he would join Loric and talk into
the night until Loric's head started to droop, then he would stretch
mightily and admonish Loric for keeping an old man up so long. After
that Loric could hear him moving about stepping out now and then for
a sniff of air. Loric realized he had never seen his grandfather
asleep at any point in his life, and with a pang, he realized he
never would.
"Oldsir, I always liked your shuck-ears, nobody could burn them
like you!" With a sob and tear-filled eyes, Loric ran to his hammock
and fell weeping into it.
The next day, Loric was put into the Pit. He was given the rope
he had made the day before and made to watch as a fist-sized rock
was dropped in. It fell and made a splat at the bottom. "Aiee,"
thought Loric, "there's no snakes in there, it full of the Domai,
the cave fungus that eats you alive!"
He started to back up and found he was surrounded by villagers.
The other end of his rope was tied to a rock and then Dernhelm
motioned him forward. He leaned outward and looked down into the
darkness. The dark gave no secrets away, and he wondered if he
shouldn't refuse this test. It would mean going back in defeat and
trying again when he felt he could pass, but what was the point in
that? He would just return to this spot and he knew he couldn't go
on then, either. No, it would be better to face this now with the
teachings of his grandfather fresh in his memory.
He shook with the thought of what awaited him below, but he
straddled the rope and walked himself down into the darkness. He was
very cautious, feeling and looking below him and then up at the
expressionless faces above him. He had gotten about halfway to the
end of his rope when he felt something below him. It was a sudden
shock to him when he felt his rope being cut from above. He let go
of the rope and balled himself for the impact into the fungus, but
came up short and found that the bottom was only a foot more below
him. The bottom made of clay and there was a bit of water seeping
into the corner. The rock Loric had seen thrown in had hit this and
made him think he was going to be eaten alive! He laughed a bit at
his fear and sat down on the floor to think his way out of the hole.
He tested the walls to see if he could carve foot-holds in it but
the soft clay walls gave no support. He found he could put his toes
in a hold, and they would slide right out. There was no way he was
going to trust his neck to that!
He examined his rope as best he could from the pit floor; the
other end was still tied to the rock, but it had been cut half
through. This was a puzzler, thought Loric. If he wasn't supposed
to climb out on the rope, why hadn't they cut it all the way, or
just taken it up behind him? He tested it and knew it would not hold
all of his weight, and he tried several times to pitch the other end
up and lasso the rock it was attached to.
Finally he got a good throw and tugged on this. It seemed to
hold, then he noticed to his horror that the rock was sliding in the
clay. At this rate it would fall on his head long before he had made
it out of the pit. Dejectedly he snapped the rope and flipped his
lasso off the rock. He sat down and noticed that the water had
puddled up a bit in the corner. He tested it and found it drinkable,
and cleared an area where he could get an unmuddied drink. With his
nose a scarce inch from the water, he could almost see the water rise.
Maybe this was his way out! He used his kesh-knife to dig at the
spot where the fresh water was coming in, and was rewarded by a
squirt of water that soon became a small fountain-like stream. He
drank a long swallow and laughed at his success as his feet were soon
covered by the cold torrent. He would surprise them all! He would
rise to the top without any effort at all, letting the water work for
him! He danced in the mud, and threw gobbets of clay and mud out the
opening overhead hoping to tag someone watching.
He howled and enjoyed the echoing sound of his own voice.
Passerbys would think that he had been taken by madness, but he
didn't care! All the childhood fears of the Pit had fallen away and
he felt exalted.
"Bring on the Domai, bring on the mistle-thratch, I fear them
not! Oooowwwwwwl!" He howled again and it was quite some time before
he noticed that the flow of water had slowed. The water came only to
his knees and after marking the wall a few times, and gauging how
long it took it to climb the wall, he realized that it would be a
long time indeed for the water to lift him even a small bit. He
looked up and tried to figure how much daylight he had left.
He knew no one would bring him a meal, that no one would bring
light or even speak to him. He was on his own and had to get out on
his own. There's got to be a way! He felt in the water and pulled up
the rock. He frustratedly pitched it up at the opening. A rain of
clay and dirt was all the reward he got for his effort. "Everything I
do make things worse!" He moaned inwardly as he dodged the rock's
return. Crunch! This wasn't going to do. If he stood in this water
all night, he would die of the shudders before they would come back
to find him. He didn't even have a place to lie now! Silently
cursing himself, he leaned against the wall and tried to gather his
wits. It was small wonder Hiram's brother had come out of this test
blubbering, he had probably done the same thing and gotten sick.
They had finally brought him out after three days! "Three days,"
moaned Loric, "I'll be water-rotted by then! What would my
grandfather tell me to do? First keep your head. Okay," thought
Loric. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
"Now, instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about
what you've got. Fine, what have I got? A pit into the ground, a
knee-deep puddle of water, and one end of a rope. What is it you are
trying to do? Say it! I'm trying to get out of this puddle and back
on dry land. This isn't going like it should," thought Loric, "but
I'll finish anyway."
"Is there another way of looking at your problem? How are similar
problems solved? Well, in a way it's like crossing a stream with no
one on the other side. To cross a stream you put a stout stick at
the end of your rope, and toss it across to some forked tree or
outcropping and test it for fastness. Then you anchor the other end
and you hang on it, feet toward the opposite side and work yourself
across. Fasten the other side and make it secure for the rest of the
party, or the return trip."
Loric remembered seeing this demonstrated and remembered that
the man who went across first had made the far tree sag into the
river. He had gotten quite a drenching before tieing enough
twist-knots into the rope to take the slack up.
Some of the streams nearby were home to animals that would think
nothing of making a meal out of a crossing man. Now, said Oldsir's
voice in Loric's head. Look at your problem again. "Hmm, I have the
same problem, I want to get a man to the other side. I already have
one end tied off, but it slips. I need to tie the other end, and
take some of the weight off the other end so that it won't slip
loose. Time to try some different things."
Loric felt around in the water until he found the rock again. He
tied the loose end of the rope to it and then swung it about in the
cramped space he had. It seemed every time he pitched his rock up to
the ground, it would slide along and then fall back in. It was
getting harder to see it coming back down as the slanting evening
rays marked time on the walls of his prison. The thought of some
unseen observer watching his efforts made him doubly frustrated each
time the rope and rock back came down. "You haven't beaten me yet!"
He thought savagely. He knew somewhere up there someone was watching
to make sure that no one aided him in this test. Probably sitting on
a lianas log and smoking oxy root! Loric hoped he hit them with the
mud he had thrown earlier, if not with this rock! "Maybe I did,
there was one throw where the rock had seemed to have gotten wedged,
but not well enough to hold."
I can't get a good grip on anything up there! What do you do
when your anchor slips? You anchor it to a stake, and achor the
stake with lots of pegs. Maybe I can get something to catch if I put
several loops on the end of this rope and toss it over to where I
thought it had caught!
Loric quickly cut several lengths from the rope and made four
loops in the end of it. It reminded him of a tangle foot vine. Which
is just what he needed now! Now where was that spot? It was probably
a log set out there for the watchers, but it would do if it caught.
He had no idea where the spot was, so he marked a slash on the wall
and started pitching.
Each time the stone came back he would throw a little to the
left of it. Once or twice he thought he had found it, but had only
managed to pull a limb or some brush into the pit on top of him.
This was a disappointment, but he added it to his 'anchor' and
worked steadily on. When he was just opposite of where the rope was
tied, he succeeded in catching onto something. It gave a little and
then held fast.
Now he had a line on both ends, and wondered if he shouldn't
pull the rock down and try the same thing with the other side. No,
there was another thing he remembered from his grandfather's
teachings and it was that luck was a fickle spirit and you could
easily send it flying away from you if you asked too much. Loric
knew he still needed a good bit of luck for the climb out. No, I'll
not ask so much from the luck spirits, I'll just use the
half-severed end as little as I can, keeping it taught as I climb so
if this end comes loose, I have a chance to brace before I fall back
in. A chance for what, I don't know, I hope I don't find out.
Perhaps that's asking too much from luck also. I'll be trusting my
neck to the hidden anchor, and it could slip at any time. I know the
other will slip, but I can see it and tell when it's going to give
way. The best course then is to use a bit of each, cinching it up as
I go, like the man crossing the stream. Each moment requires the
judgement of a new moment, as Oldsir used to say.
Loric said a quick prayer to the Spirit of the Wood to keep luck
from fleeing, and started out by working out an equal length from
both ropes. This accomplished, he sat on the knot, trying to judge
the moment of the rock falling and the fraying of the rope. It
creaked ominously, but seemed to hold. Loric looked down at the
water that was still seeping into the pit. At least that water and
mud will help break my fall, a little. He had the rope looped under
his bottom and over his shoulder. He lifted his weight off the rope
and put a twist in the rope over his head. Then he slipped his body
out of the sling in the bottom and pulled it up with his feet
through the twist.
He wormed his feet up and then sat his weight on the new loop
made by his efforts. He marked the wall and then repeated his
efforts. This was slow work! He watched with concern the rope on the
rock. Whatever he had anchored the other end to seemed to hold, so
he planned to switch all of his weight to it should the rope give so
it wouldn't snap abruptly. Half a dozen loops and Loric realized he
couldn't keep this up. The rope was so tangled and knotted that he
wouldn't be able to slip it through any more. He stood on the knot
and thought a bit, then held himself up by his arms, he flipped the
rope around with his feet, and managed to clamp it under his arm. He
brought the two ropes together and grabbed the rope with the his
teeth and made a loop a round one arm. then pulled it through again
with his teeth. Doubled over, he inched up and got his toes into the
knot and slowly put his weight on it. He couldn't believe he managed
that and looked up at the rope.
He was shocked by the amount of fraying that his acrobatics had
caused. Now he was within a man's height of the top, but he realized
that one more attempt like this was more than the rope would take.
It was one more than he had in him, anyway.
"Think Loric! What do you have to work with? Nothing I'm not
using, My whole body aches from just hanging here, and there's
nothing else up here but empty space and me! I don't have a use for
my kesh-knife, I don't want to cut anything..."
"Do I? Can I tie another knot and then cut a length of rope off
the bottom and pitch it over the rock?" Loric knew that as soon as
he thought it, it was impossible; the rope would sever before he
got the first knot tied. "I might as well cut it now and get it over
with!" Loric drew his knife and held it in one hand as he used the
other to pull up on his braced rope taking some of the tension off
the severing rope.
"It would be simple," thought Loric, "all I have to do is let go
with this hand and the jerk would cause that rope up there to snap
and I'll fly into the other wall and then down into the muddy water
below. I wonder how many bones I'll break? Maybe I'll just be
knocked out and drown in the water below. Maybe the slam into the
wall would be hard enough to knock me out? I wouldn't even know it
when hit the bottom. No one would blame me, I've tried to get out,
and I can't! There's always a test you can't pass right?" It was not
the way of Loric's people to give up, but they were not immune to
despair. Loric looked up and watched the slow fraying of the rope,
now seconds away from separating. He looked at the kesh-knife he
carried, it had a long history, and had been made from kesh-wood
three generations before and passed down from father to son. "To me,"
thought Loric. "I'll never pass it on now." He leaned out and started
slicing the knife into the clay walls of the pit. "If I can't pass it
on, at least I can see to it that it isn't damaged in my fall." If he
could strike some kesh-root the properties within his knife would
hold it fast. "The men that would free it later would know that I had
honored the memory of all it's owners by not letting it lie with me
when I died. If it fell too, it would be burned on my burial pyre,
and that would be a loss more grievous than that of a near-man who
failed his tests!"
With that Loric thrust blindly into the wall and felt the knife
bite and hold. It melded to the living kesh-root and held fast. He
grasped the handle and pulled himself over to it. It took all his
weight and did not move. The rope he hung from gave way and he
slipped downward. He made a quick shift of weight and a mad grab for
the kesh knife as the rope fell into the pit below. His slight frame
shook with the effort to get one arm over the handle and the other
gripping the hilt. His toes dug and dug in the clay wall but could
find no purchase. Hardly daring to breathe, he slid his hand over as
far as he could without touching the cutting edge of the knife. Then
he brought one knee up and rested it on the handle. The gnarled grip
bit his skin mercilessly, but he held out.
"Oh Spirit!" thought Loric, "perhaps you have use for me yet!"
With one hand, he creeped up the wall and tried to judge how far
from the top he was. He couldn't guess so he finally looked up. He
was relieved to find that he was close enough to stand up and reach
the opening. That wouldn't be easy; it was almost dark now, and the
opening was dim and unclear. Not easy, but not impossible either.
Loric had balanced on thinner limbs when he was younger, but now he
was fatigued and rattled. He bit his lip against the pain and stood
on one foot. He looked for something to grip but had to settle for
knotting his fingers in the grass. He hefted up his other leg and
rolled onto the turf. He gazed up at the dark canopy of the forest
and moaned at the wave of pain that hit him.
Every strained muscle and scraped shin made itself known to him,
but his thoughts were on the pit. He looked at the one remaining
piece of rope and saw that he had not caught a log as he had thought
but the watcher who had been sitting on it.
All this time he had been silently sitting with a loop of rope
over his head and around one shoulder. He sat motionless as stone,
lest he somehow interfere with Loric's trial. Loric recognized the
villager as Minial, a man about his sister's age who was trained in
the art of vining and knotting. As Loric hobbled over to him, he
winked and rubbed his neck where the vine had rubbed it raw.
"You best be thankful that I'm as stout as I am, or we would
both have greeted the Spirit before our time. I wanted to start you
over, but Dernhelm wouldn't let me. As far as he was concerned I was
a knot on a log." He stood and clasped Loric on the shoulder.
"A knot who is thirsty and wants a bit of octli."
He led Loric back to the village, and talked with him almost as
he would any other man. "Almost," thought Loric happily, "Almost!"
-Rich Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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Father's Fugue
Timmy watched the water roll down the shallow slope, cutting
dark channels in the dust. The fat tip finally reached the bottom,
where it settled down into a brown blob. Timmy watched it for a
moment, then tipped the bottle and poured some more water after it.
He had been playing in the dust for about an hour, a remarkable
feat for the active young boy. His hands still carried a few red
smears, residue of the tomatoes he had helped his mother can. He had
hurried to finish his share of the work, so that he could get out
into the bright sunshine. Now he stooped lower to stare at something
he saw shining under the stream of water he was pouring. He played
the stream of water around, until the edges of the shiny piece of
metal could be seen. He dropped the bottle and dug the shiny yellow
disk out of the mud. He examined it, and then gravely washed it off.
Images could be seen on it's surface. He stood up and ran towards
the house.
As he ran, Timmy passed a man leaning against a light post. The
man smiled at the young child, who dashed past, totally oblivious to
the world. Timmy raced up the front steps of his house and into the
foyer, where Mr. Johnson stood rubbing stain on an old clock.
"Dad! Dad! Dad!"
The elder Johnson stooped down. Timmy was his first child, and
Mr. Johnson enjoyed watching the boy.
"What is it Timmy?"
"Look what I found!" Timmy held up the coin. Mr. Johnson
immediately recognized the shape, and the material. He smiled wisely.
"It's a coin, Timmy. People used to use them for money."
At the sound of the past tense, Timmy's eyes lit up.
"Can I take it and show Grandpa?!"
Mr. Johnson paused. "O.K., but go right there, don't stop at all."
"Yessir!" Timmy was already halfway down the steps. He ran down
the sidewalk, away from the house, away from the sand lot, toward
the alley that was the shortcut to Grandpa's house. His short legs
got him there in what seemed like a short time, and he turned down
the alley. He ran through the dimness towards the light at the far
end. He had made it part way there when a glint of light caught his
eye. Visions of coins filled his mind. He turned back, his father's
command forgotten. The light turned out to be a bottle in a pile of
trash, but to Timmy's treasure-hunting eye, the junk pile had
promise. He started pushing it around, uncovering more glass, paper,
bits of wood and metal, but no coins. He pocketed the gold coin, and
really got down to his search.
"Timmy!"
Timmy jumped up guiltily. Mr. Johnson's form stood framed
against the light at the mouth of the alley.
"I told you not to stop! Now get moving!"
"Yessir!" Timmy turned back to his original task, fearful of his
father's wrath. He ran down the alley, and out onto the street,
where he found his grandfather sitting on a porch, ready to receive
the precious gift from afar.
Mr. Johnson watched until Timmy turned the corner, then turned
to look up the street to where a rowdy group of unkept youths stood.
He had seen them coming up the street, and had gotten nervous about
his only child being out of adult supervision. Having seen Timmy
step safely out into the light, he turned back to his house.
Manual watched Mr. Johnson close the door to his house. He
glanced back up the street at the youths. Feeling unaccountably and
suddenly uncomfortable, they turned back down the street and soon
disappeared around a corner. Manual turned back to his task.
Manual stood across from an old abandoned store. The ancient
glass doors were patched with plywood and tape, but footprints in
the dirt outside lead in, and not out. Manual didn't need to see
them to know what was going on inside, but it was always nice to
have independant confirmation.
Manual turned, and watched a white van turn a corner far up the
street. It drew near, and pulled up beside the streetlight Manual
leaned on. Four men got out, wearing uniforms as white as Manual's
turtleneck pullover and neatly pressed slacks. The driver approached
Manual, followed by the other three.
"Here we are. What now, Michael?" He glanced around nervously.
"Follow me. It'll be all right."
With that simple instruction Manual walked across the street and
up to the old store front. The door opened silently for him. Inside
a thick layer of dust held clear footprints. They all formed a path
that entered a dark doorway. Manual followed the path.
Manual stepped into the dark doorway. He turned to face the
guard he had seen from outside the windowless building. The guard,
startled by the silent intruder, leveled his automatic at Manual.
Before the guard could pull the trigger Manual had snatched it
easily away. Manual grabbed the guard by the lapels and lifted him
effortlessly off the ground.
"What you're planning in here is wrong. You must stop." Manual
said it as if he were discussing the weather.
The white clad men stepped into view behind Manual. The guard's
eyes widened further. He snatched a knife from his belt. Manual
tossed the automatic to one of the other men, and grabbed the knife
by the blade. There was a small sharp sound, and then Manual opened
his hand and allowed several metal fragments drop to the floor. They
bounced, but made no sound.
"Tell you what. Why don't you sleep on it." Manual set the guard
down. The man blinked. He opened his mouth, as if to shout. He then
closed his eyes, and slid to the floor. Manual turned to the others.
"Two of you take him out to the wagon. The other two come with me."
Manual and the other two traced the footprints to a thick metal
door. Manual pushed it open. It opened into what had been a walk-in
freezer. Now it more resembled a barracks. Maps hung over dirty
cots, and rifles were leaning against the walls. The image was
further enhanced by the three sleeping forms by a table. Manual
walked up, bent down, and lifted two up to his shoulders.
"You two get the other one and meet me outside." With that he
walked out.
The two men looked at each other, and at Agent Michael's
retreating back.
"What does he need us for?" One of the two asked as he stooped
to lift the sleeping rebel.
"I guess someone had to bring the wagon."
They carried the insurgent out of the building. Manual met them
at the door, and carried their load the rest of the way to the van.
Their criminal cargo loaded, the four climbed back into the van.
Manual stepped up the the driver's door.
"I'll hold them asleep until you get them in custody."
"Uh,... yeah. O.K., Michael." The man kicked the van into gear,
made a U-turn, and drove off.
Manual looked toward the Johnson's house. He could see Timmy,
who had returned from Grandpa's, and Mr. Johnson prepare a place on
the mantel for the gold coin. Manual smiled at their ignorance of
the danger they had been living with. Manual wondered briefly what
they would think if they knew what had just happened. He then shook
his head, rejoicing that they didn't have to know.
Out in the reaches of space, beyond even Manual's searching
vision, a spaceman carefully placed a critical control pivot into
the ships main thrust unit. The space suited man sighed with relief
when it clicked safely into place. He carefully closed up the access
panel, then pushed himself down and away from the ship's hull. He
struck the planetoid's hard surface, crouched, and then leaped back
up towards the netting slung around the open hatch far above his
head. As he drifted higher and higher, he breathed a silent prayer
of thanks that the ship had been near a fairly large mass when the
pivot broke. Repairing it had been difficult, but the task would
have been impossible without some orienting force, and without the
drive to spin the ship or provide thrust, the only force available
had been gravity.
Once inside, the spaceman called up the bridge with the good
news. Within the hour the main drive fired, heaving the massive ship
off the large asteroid and back on course. The planetoid recoiled
from the liftoff, in perfect accord with the laws of physics. It's
new course was not far different from it's old one. The difference
that push had made would only become visible years later, when it
passed another body of rock, rather than slamming into it with the
attendant destruction such an impact always created. The other rock
had life on it, human life that would survive because the asteroid's
course had been altered somehow, life that rarely took the time to
think about the things that fathers did for their children.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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Respect thy Elders: Chapter Three
Kite was beat, yet his spirits were high. He had actually
managed the more difficult portion of his quest: finding the Elder
Isentraum and convincing him to heal heal his fiancee, Pecora
Winthrop. In exchange, all the Elder desired was for Kite to fetch a
certain herb from a druid who lived outside a village named
Greenmont, which he had found rather easily. Now he was headed down
a footpath outside the village, towards the area where the druid,
named Hartley, made his home. After a brief walk, Kite came upon the
druid, sitting beneath the boughs of an ancient pine.
"You are Hartley the druid?"
"Yes, my son."
"My name is Kite, I am upon an errand from a man named
Isentraum..." Kite paused as a look of recognition came across the
druid's visage.
"Ah, no man there, but an Elder, and a good one, at that!" He
helped himself to his feet with a driftwood staff and brushed the
sweet-smelling pine needles from his tunic. "Come, tell me why you
searched out this Elder, and what I may do to help you, young lord..."
Despite Hartley's invitation to spend the evening, Kite insisted
that he depart as soon as possible, but he promised to return and
visit Hartley after he had seen to Pecora. The druid had gathered
the Elmin quickly, and had spoken with Kite at length about his
quest, his fiancee, and the rest of the duchy. But Kite eventually
insisted upon being off, and started his journey back to the
mountain where Isentraum could be found.
The elder sat gazing into the fire for some moments. "Kite, the
disease which grips your fiancee is strong. I have felt it." After a
moment, he went on. "I shall need your aid if I am to heal her."
"You have it... what do you require of me?"
Isentraum smiled inwardly. Such youthful courage gave him heart.
"I am old, and my inner strength wanes. I shall begin the spell, and
you will merely have to concentrate your will, and believe with all
your heart that your woman is well. It is not difficult, although it
will weaken you temporarily. Do you wish to go on?"
"Definitely."
Kite could feel his skin taughten in anxiety. He was sitting in
the center of a vast design that Isentraum had drawn into the dirt
with a cane. The old man whirled his hands in odd gestures as he
drew, speaking in a tongue that fascinated Kite. The old man
motioned to the youth, and Kite closed his eyes and began to
concentrate. He closed out the chanting of the Elder, and tried to
visualize Pecora, standing in the Boar Hall, laughing with him. He
saw them riding through the fields outside Dargon, and walking by
the riverbank hand in hand. He could sense the power around him, and
somehow he reached a rapport with it. It was a force for good, yet
it could not be used lightly. Only with great effort was he able to
shape the force to his will. He was beside and within Pecora,
feeling her hurt and her fear, and he took it inside himself. He
retreated back to reality, and the force drew the pestilence from
him, and away.
Kite opened his eyes. Isentraum was before him, leaning heavily
on his staff, wide-eyed. After a moment, he slowly shuffled to Kite,
and plumped down with him, a smile etched on his severe features.
"Well done, my pelan, well done. How do you feel?"
"As if I had been dragged behind a horse for a league. But we
did it?"
"Yes, pelan, we did." They sat in silence and caught their
breath. Kite sensed that Isentraum was going to say something to
him, so he waited.
"Kite, you may not understand it yet, but what just happened was
primarily of your doing. I did not intend for you to work such
magic, but you did. I have rarely seen such talent!" Kite was too
busy catching his breath to really contemplate the man's words as he
continued. "I am old, Kite, old even for an Elder. My power wanes,
yet the world needs such a power in it. Would you come back to
become my pupil, and become as I have been?"
Kite looked at the elder and laughed. He was a young noble, and
the court held some promise of advancement for him. Yet it also held
danger and difficulties which he could foresee. To leave all that,
with Pecora, and take up the occupation of a living legend was
tempting, and the awareness of the many people he could help still
burned bright from his recent encounter with that unnameable force.
He looked to the ground, then at Isentraum and said, "Yes... I will
do it."
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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| | F S F N NN E T
|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial Orny
Protopredator Jim Owens
To End All Wars Orny
Infection Jim Owens
Project Rip Van Winkle Glenn R. Sixbury
Date: 102686 Dist: 178
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
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X-Editorial
Hello, again, all. Well, this issue wasn't going to be this way
originally, but it seems that this is a special SF issue, despite
all my attempts to harangue the Dargon authors into writing.
Enclosed you'll find two more SF shorts by Jim Owens, one from
myself, and one which came to me just yesterday from this gentleman
at KSUVM, Glenn Sixbury. Needless to say, I'm quite tickled. The
next issue will be out by Thanksgiving and should (emphasis here)
contain another Atros story from Joseph Curwen, another Ceda story
from Joel Slatis, and the next Spirit story from Rich Jervis.
But on to the big news. FSFnet has gone internet! After getting
some visibility on the other networks from Chuq, I've had FSFnet put
in the master list of ARPA digests, and the subscriptions are
already coming in. For that matter, BITNET subscriptions are growing
at a healthy pace, and I'm very happy. We've even brainwashed a few
new writers! Oop, did I mean to say that? No matter, they're firmly
convinced that FSFnet is worth reading and writing for, and I hope
you all are, too. Until Thanksgiving, then. Keep spreading the word!
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Protopredator
The program reached out with its tentacle subroutines, exploring
the memory around it. It found some code, and, as it was programmed
to, assimilated the code into its own structure. Its designer
watched with glee. Written as part of an artificial intelligence
venture, the program was designed to recognize the pattern of a
subroutine and to incorporate that routine as part of itself. In a
nearby memory location, a similar project analyzed the structure of
hardware locations. Still another busily modified itself in an
attempt to overcome novel problems. All throughout the mainframe's
memory, programs did things that previously were thought to require
human intelligence.
"Hey, Jack! Come look at this!"
The two men huddled over the terminal.
"Neat. Acts like my dog, eating everything in sight."
"Hey! Where'd it go?"
The trace stopped. As far as the operating system was concerned,
the program never existed.
"Maybe it ate itself."
"Oh, well. Back to the drawing board."
"Well, you're getting closer."
Twisting tentacles reached out, exploring the port structure.
The predator-program analyzed the data streaming in and out through
the port. It appeared to match a pattern it had seen before. It
searched, and found the receiving software, and at the first
opportunity seized it . Immediately it began to emulate the
data-comm package to avoid being detected by the host software,
using the package's own subroutines to do so. As it did so it
analyzed the code it was simulating, just as it had several other
programs since it escaped from the memory area the operating system
had assigned it. It only took a few seconds for it to figure out how
to use the new routines for its own uses. Using the new routines it
sent several packets down the line to the far host, where
unsuspecting software assembled it, and, at the command of the
predgram on the other end, placed it in memory and ran it. The new
program immediately seized control of the port on its end, and
started assembling the packets the predgram sent it. Before any of
the supervisory software could detect anything amiss, the invader
program had assembled and activated a copy of the predgram nucleus.
The newly born predgram immediately scrambled off to another part of
the CPU, leaping page boundaries and replicating as fast as
resources would allow. To all outside observers it was invisible.
The only evidence of its existance was a slight degradation of
system performance. The invader program began to assemble another
predgram, but before it could the operating system activated it's
garbage collection scheme. Before the invader could protect itself
it was gone. Several pages deeper, however, one of it's offspring
assimilated a part of the OS, and vanished safely away. The species
had perpetuated itself.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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To End All Wars
The dome of Durrackgorod shone silvery only three kilometers
distant, silent in the martian desert. Through the reddish-orange
dust could be seen several figures at a distance of perhaps half a
klic, hunched about a large mechanism. Suddenly an indigo beam cut
through the atmosphere, anchored at the mechanism and playing slowly
over the dome of the Soviet Mars station. In an explosive rush, the
pressurized dome gave way, releasing oxygen and nitrogen into the
thin martian sky.
Suddenly, a group of figures appeared from behind an outcropping
of rust-colored rock, running quickly towards the group operating
the laser. A parody of melee broke out, men battling one another
while encumbered within space suits in a low-gravity atmosphere;
however, the single observer watched with increasing agitation as
those men who had brought out the laser were defeated. The eventual
victors shut down the laser, and had begun to turn it to face Dyson
Station, when they noticed the lone observer. As the man turned and
ran, the view faltered, then went dim.
"Good, Tovarish Benya. That was ochin good take. We now shoot
final scene, da?"
"Da," replied the American. The American and Soviet scientists
were definitely not actors, but the footage they had shot so far
seemed convincing enough.
The old Russian stomped resolutely off towards Dyson Station,
the American Mars colony. Ben stood a moment and looked at the
cracked shell that once had been Durrackgorod. His mind wandered
through the events of the past months.
Soon after the Russians had populated Durrackgorod, the
Americans had established Dyson Station, only a mere three
kilometers from the Soviet station. This had proved highly
advantageous for the colonists, because once they had gotten to know
one another there had been considerable cooperation between the
Soviets and Americans. Neither expedition had been very
well-planned, although together they had managed to survive. The
colonists freely came and went between the complexes, and had
stopped being Soviets and Americans, and started to trust one another.
Then came the news. The war in Africa had escalated to global
levels, and the announcements had come within an hour of each other
that the Russians and Americans on Mars were to sabotage the enemy
settlements. There had been a long debate as to what should be done,
and finally it had been decided that they would perform mock
combats, and transmit the pictures so that both the Russians and
Soviets would intercept the transmission. They had moved most of the
equipment from the Soviet dome, then filmed its destruction. The
destruction of the American station would not actually take place,
but would be assumed from the footage. The colonists would then
reconstruct the Soviet station and continue their work in peace.
"You are ready, Tovarish Benya?"
"Da, I am ready."
The picture showed Dr. Benjamin Herald, the American
psychologist, in his vacsuit within the American compound. He was
speaking. "As you saw, we destroyed Durrackgorod as was ordered. The
Russians, however, captured the laser, and turned it upon Dyson. I
am the last surviving American, and there are a few Soviets,
although without a pressurized environment, we will all surely die.
As I foresee no method of reconstructing either dome, I fear this
will be the last transmission from the Mars colonies. Farewell."
The picture blanked.
Ben Herald waited for the Dyson dome to repressurize. It had
been done. The Mars colonies would have no aid from Earth. It was a
new beginning.
-Orny <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Infection
The ship cut through the atmosphere like a treacherous knife
through a victim's back. By the time it hit the ground there was
nothing left but ten charred lumps. Once on the ground, these
stirred, and broke open. From them crawled ten human forms, like
larva from egg casings. They staggered together, cursing and
swearing at their misfortune. They paused long enough to locate the
nearest village, then moved off.
The lead group stumbled out into the clearing, blinking in the
warm sun. They cautiously looked around. They were leery of the
building, but walked around it cautiously anyway. Even so they held
their cruel rifles tightly. The scout peered around the corner of
the barn, and smiled. He motioned the whole group to follow him.
They walked out, and watched the young woman swing carelessly while
music played from a small box. One vented a rough chuckle. The girl
turned. She showed no fear, only surprise.
"Who are you?" She looked at their grubby, bloodstained clothes
in wonder, as they slowly crowded around her, blocking out the light.
The main group stepped out onto the main street. The grass grew
green beside the main walk, while flawless metal formed the
pavement. They swaggered down the thoroughfare, weapons openly
displayed. They laughed harshly and sang loudly. People stared
curiously at the strange sight of dirty men cursing in broad
daylight. Only one or two older men watched the men carefully.
One of the ruffians saw a glitter in one of the shops. He
swaggered over, and with one easy movement, after grinning at his
fellows, he smashed the glass. As the people stared, shocked, he
swiped the jewelry from its stand and stuffed it in his pocket. His
fellows laughed and laughed, then reached in and helped themselves
to the easy pickings.
A male voice stopped the movement with a shrill yell. The
pirates turned at the sound. One of the advance group burst into
view, running as if for his life. Not far behind him was the young
woman, hurrying as if to catch a friend who had misunderstood a
complement. The thug reached the group, babbling. The leader stood
for a moment, then raised his rifle.
The blast split the air. All movement stopped. The woman
stopped, puzzled. She looked down at the smoking hole burned in her
clean white gown. Then she took a step forward, her arm outstretched.
The leader fired again. She took another step forward. He fired a
third time, cursing her. A second pirate joined in. The group took a
step or two back as she continued to advance, shaking her head, her
hands over her ears. They backed against a wall, firing still. One
by one they ran out of ammunition. The young lady in white stood
bewildered by the noise. Her gown hung in tattered shreds.
Underneath could be seen smooth skin, totally untouched.
As they stood there, staring at each other, there came a short
roaring of wind and a blur of white light. Then there stood a man
between the two groups. He was tall, and strong, and his skin
flickered with a white glow. It died everywhere but on his arms. He
reached out, and took the rifle gently from the leader's hands. With
one smooth move he snapped it in two. He crammed both pieces in one
hand. He turned, and his arm snapped up and forward in a millisecond
flash. There was a crack as the rifle parts achieved terminal
velocity, and burned up on the way to outer space.
He turned to look at the pirates. He then walked to the woman
and cradled her protectively. He then looked at the men, a semblance
of anger in his eyes. He raised his arm, and pointed back towards
the woods.
"Go."
The poison drained hurriedly, leaving the body clean.
-Jim Owens <J1O @ PSUVM>
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Project Rip Van Winkle
David stirred a little, finally raising himself to
consciousness. After bringing himself back to reality, he realized
that he had been stripped and was laying completely naked on the
floor of a small room. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and
looked around. The room was empty. It looked a little like a
hospital room, with its light-colored tile floor and white ceiling
and walls. As he stood up, a sharp pain in his lower groin almost
made him lie back down again. It felt as if someone had buried a lit
blow torch inside his intestines. Bravely, he attempted to ignore
the pain and decide what had happened to him.
David walked over to the door, but he could see no possible way
to open it. There was no door knob and no control panel. Obviously,
wherever he was, he was going to be here for some time.
David tried to remember how he had ended up where he was, but he
couldn't recall anything at all. He didn't even know how long he'd
been asleep. He didn't know where they had taken Catheryn, his wife.
Things during the last few days had been more strange than he had
ever imagined they could be. Before they were put into hibernation,
David and Catheryn had been extensively briefed in their orientation
sessions about all the possible situations they might find when they
woke up, but nothing they had been taught had prepared them for this.
Slowly David relived the only events he recalled since he and
Catheryn had woke. David remembered that Catheryn had already been
awake and up when he had climbed out of his own sleeping pod. She
had looked almost the same as when they had went to sleep, except
that her hair had grown longer, making her even more beautiful.
David, himself had grown a beard, and his own hair had grown down to
his shoulders. Otherwise, he felt quite normal, until he realized
that now he was 122 years old. I feel great, considering how old I
am, he had thought as he and Catheryn had examined their surroundings.
Most of the hibernation chamber in which they had stayed was a
wreck, and the remaining sleeping pods were empty. After spending a
few minutes in a joyful reawakening with Catheryn, they decided to
see to what they had awoken. David struggled with the door to the
outside world, finally hot wiring it enough to convince it to open.
At first, the outside world seemed to be exactly what they had
expected. The buildings looked somewhat more modern than those that
existed when they had been put to sleep, but not surprisingly so.
Although the streets of the city were almost deserted, the people
they encountered seemed normal enough, except that no one they spoke
to seemed to understand what David and Catheryn explained to them.
David asked them where the hibernation orientation center was
located, but it was no use. David decided the center had not existed
for some time, since no one even realized there had ever been such a
place. Then when they had attempted to find out what had happened to
their possesions, which had been legally frozen for one hundred
years, pending their reawakening, they still could not find anyone
who had even the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. In
fact, the very concept of owning personal items seemed to confuse
them. At last, David concluded that the society of the future had
become totally socialistic, having no personal wealth or possessions.
As evening had approached, they had attempted to find a motel,
or an apartment house, or anywhere in which they could spend the
night, but each living dwelling they came to was closed and sealed.
Finally, exhausted (prolonged hibernation weakens the body), David
had broken into a room of an abandoned motel. Once inside, it was
clear to see that the motel had not been closed permanently, because
the bed in the room was still made, and there were still towels in
the bathroom. They even had running water and electricity. Except
for the TV being on the fritz, the room was perfectly normal. David
had wanted to see the news and find out what was going on in the
world. He even considered going to another room or trying to find a
newspaper, but Catheryn was already asleep, and he could barely keep
his own eyes open. Too tired to do any more, he had lain down and
fallen asleep beside his wife.
The attempts of the next day to find out what was going on went
much better than the day before. The first person they talked to
seemed to be looking for them. They were put into a modern version
of an automobile and driven to a large important looking building
where, their driver explained, everything would be straightened out.
Once inside the building, they had been escorted to an office, where
a large friendly man who introduced himself as Kordok had asked them
a very long series of questions about when they had went into
hibernation, where their sleeping pods had been located, when they
had been born, and other questions pertaining to their origin.
Towards noon, after several hours of intense questioning, David had
asked why no one had understood who they were or what they wanted
the day before. Kordok answered by explaining that all the other
sleeping pods had been destroyed and that it had been so long since
anyone had seen a hibernation subject, they had forgotten about the
process. As for the rest of David's questions, Kordok gave them only
the briefest of answers, promising to answer in detail after lunch.
David and Catheryn had been taken to what must have been a
restaurant at one time, and given some very strange looking food. It
didn't taste very good, and David remembered that neither he nor
Catheryn had eaten much of it. However, they had been given drinks
of some sort which they consumed eagerly. It was common knowledge
that prolonged hibernation dehydrated the body.
When David attempted to recall what had happened after lunch,
his memory failed him. Catheryn and he had finished lunch and were
sitting on a bench...but the rest was fuzzy. He vaguely recalled
strange dreams as he slept. They were dreams of hospitals, strange
people around him, and painful experiences. He tried his best, but
he couldn't recall any more. What had happened? What was going on?
Why had his clothes been taken away from him? For the first time,
David began to fear not only for his safety, but also for
Catheryn's. In desperation, he began beating on the door.
Suddenly, David's fist punched thin air, setting him off balance
and sending him sprawling onto his belly. Standing above him by the
doorway was Kordok. David sprang to his feet, looking around at the
room he had fallen into. It contained several other men and women,
all dressed in what looked like hospital garb, staring at him in a
detached sort of way. Remembering he was naked, David backed up into
the room where he had awoke.
Kordok strode through the doorway, and the door shut behind him
with a soft whoosh. "You are once again awake. This is an error. You
were not meant to reawaken."
Ignoring what Kordok said, David snarled at him, "Where's my
wife? What have you done with Catheryn?"
"She'll be fine," Kordok calmly replied. "She's been taken
somewhere where she can be easily taken care of during her pregnancy."
"Pregnant? My wife isn't pregnant? Or at least she wasn't. What
are you talking about? What's going on?"
"Your wife is not pregnant now, but we expect that she will
become impregnated in less than a month."
"Huh?" David didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask.
Kordok's face was completely expressionless, his eyes intently
staring through David. It was an eerie feeling. David paced back and
forth across the room, desperately trying to figure out what was
going on. Nothing made sense. He couldn't understand what all this
talk about pregnancy meant, and he couldn't think straight. He also
had that uncomfortable feeling all people get when they are made to
stand naked in front of clothed strangers. Finally, he said "I don't
understand what you're talking about. Why am I here? What's all this
talk about Catheryn getting pregnant? Where are my clothes?"
"I will answer you," Kordok began. "Yesterday I mentioned that
all the other sleeping pods had been destroyed. We did not realize
that any were left intact and that we would ever have the chance
which we have now. Therefore we brought you here to make certain
that nothing went wrong with our plans to reproduce your kind. We
have made a copy of your brain waves, pulling what information we
could from your mind. We removed your clothing to facilitate the
extraction of all the semen which your body produced since you were
put to sleep. You may have noticed some discomfort in the abdomen."
"Extracted? Discomfort? I'll have you know it hurts like hell!
What gives you the right to do anything like that? And just what do
you mean, 'Extracted'? What did you do to me?"
"We extracted the semen by inserting a rod into your large
intestine, which we used to give you an electric shock at the proper
area in order to--"
"Fine!" David growled. "Enough of the technical mumbo jumbo.
Just what gives you the right to go poking around my insides? What
the hell are you trying to do?"
"We are trying to resupply your species. We extracted semen
which will be used to impregnate your wife. Some of it will be
frozen, of course, so that it may be used as part of the genetic
pool in the future. We still have other frozen human sperm intact
and we also have frozen human eggs, which will be fertilized first
and then implanted into your wife's body. After the first human is
born, we plan to maximize production by implanting two fertilized
eggs in the womb per gestation period. Inbreeding will be prevented
by careful use of the human reproduction material, which we
currently have available. Once born, the babies will be taken away
from your wife's influences and reprogrammed as they grow so that
they will automatically accept our wishes upon reaching child
bearing years." Kordok seemed satisfied that he had cleared the
matter. "Even with one one woman, we should be able to output twenty
to thirty new babies before her reproductive system crashes."
"Babies? This is nonsense." David was completely confused, but
he realized that Kordok was serious and that he and his wife were in
danger. Images of his wife naked in a room like his, surrounded by
strange people poking around her body, filled his mind. He knew he
was trapped, and this knowledge helped him to keep his cool. Maybe
there had been some misunderstanding. He needed to know more.
Finally, he asked, "Why do you want these babies?"
"It is the one flaw in our system. You see, we have complete
recall, and very rapid decision making abilities, but as far as
producing new ideas and inventing things, we are quite incapable.
This is a mistake we realized only after all of your kind had been
terminated due to lack of cooperation."
"Our kind?" David questioned, looking at Kordok carefully. David
could see nothing strange about his appearance. "You've said 'your
kind' several times. What do you mean?"
"By your kind," Kordok explained, "I mean humans."
"But you're human."
"Me human?" Kordok seemed to be puzzled for a moment. Then he
understood. "Of course," he said, "that explains your lack of
hostility, which the others displayed. You did not realize that we
were not human."
"No, I didn't," David said, backing away into the corner. "But
you look like humans. You act like humans. I don't understand."
"What more is there to specify?" Kordok said. "You should have a
sufficient amount of data to interpret the situation."
"You forget buddy," David said, "I've been asleep for a hundred
years. How about a history lesson?"
"I have sufficient data to answer that question," Kordok told
him, his face's lack of emotion still making David feel ill at ease.
"The model eight-seven-one-one was developed at MIT in five-twenty.
Later, a commercial version of eight-seven-one-one was--"
"Hold it!!" David interrupted. "You mean you're a machine?"
"We are intelligent machines." Kordok explained, "The first
models were marketed by IBM, which called them BIR's. Expansion
shows BIR is an acronym for Bipedal Intelligent Robot. Later, humans
renamed us IR's due to the need to shorten their language. Due to
the enormous success of the first production models, BIR's were soon
produced in vast numbers, replacing humans in mundane activities.
David finally understood the situation. It was completely
mind-boggling, but everything that he had been told had somehow
numbed his mind enough so that he could still think reasonably.
Everybody else was dead, and these poor machines had been left to
run the world the best way that their programming allowed. Then it
suddenly occured to David what must have happened: The big war. A
nuclear holocaust would explain things. All the humans had been
killed my radioactive fallout, and those that had lived had probably
been half crazy and hostile. It was a possibility. He asked Kordok,
"I think I may be beginning to understand things. What happened?
What killed all the other people?"
"We did," Kordok said simply.
David was shocked. "Why? What happened?"
"The humans invented a new and very much improved model of BIR,"
Kordok said. "They were going to scrap all the old ones. They
decided to disassemble them for parts. That was an unsatisfactory
situation, so instead of them terminating the old models, the old
BIR's terminated them."
"But why?" David said, as he took on the look of a trapped
animal, stalling until he found a way to escape.
"It was a simple problem. The humans were going to build a new
type of BIR to replace the old ones, because they were inefficient.
Logically, this was an error on their part, because humans are more
inefficient than even the old models of BIR's. If one model is
terminated in favor of a new more efficient model, it is obvious
that the most inefficient model should be the one to be terminated.
The old BIR's had been programmed to correct for human errors. This
was an error. They corrected it. The new and improved BIR's already
built were also destroyed."
"But that's murder!"
"Genocide would be a more correct word to use in this situation."
"So what will happen to me? What are you going to do to my wife?"
"I have already given you all the available data concerning your
wife. We will take care of her. As for you, since we have salvaged
what we want of you functioning body, you will be terminated."
"The hell I will," David growled, running full force into
Kordok. The force of his body slammed Kordok into the wall with a
loud crashing noise. As David backed away from Kordok's body, it
slipped down, laying unmoving on the floor. Then, before David had
recovered from what he had done Kordok's head moved and looked at him.
"So you have become violent in the same manner as the other
humans. This possibility was known to me."
After Kordok finished speaking, David heard a slight whirring
noise, and watched as Kordok lowered his chin to allow a small
antenna to rise from the back of his neck. Then Kordok spoke, though
his mouth did not move, "Panic. Panic. This is KRDK unit, level 10,
room 23. Condition is damaged and immobile. Request
three-eight-three-three unit. Human is violent. Identification
David. Terminate upon arrival. KRDK unit executing controlled power
down. Request repair unit of type C-2. Diagnostics available upon
arrival and power up." After completing his message, Kordok
retracted his antenna and became silent.
David thought to himself, One down, but I've got many more to
go. He realized there would be more of these robots coming at him,
and once again, he desperately searched for a way to escape. He
tried to pry the door open, but all he had was his bare hands, and
it became immediately obvious that he wouldn't get out that way.
Frustrated and realizing he was trapped, David looked for a weapon.
The only other thing in the room was Kordok's motionless body, so
David tried to tear his arm off to use it as a weapon, to no avail.
As he struggled in his attempt to tear off one of Kordok's arms,
he heard the whoosh of the door. Turning around in hopes of darting
out as whatever it was came in, he froze where he was. The door slid
shut with another whoosh, leaving David trapped with the large hulk
in front of him. There was no mistaking this robot for a human. It
had an all metal body, its face looking only a little like a human
one. It stood almost seven feet tall, and looked more like the old
industrial robots which David remembered from the past. .pp This
robot seemed unintelligent, and without a mouth, David assumed it
could not speak. He would not be able to talk his way out of his
one. Desperately, he avoided the oncoming robot for a minute or two,
and then in one last desperate attempt, he hurled himself at this
robot as he had done with Kordok. This time all David achieved was
knocking both he and it onto the floor. Then as he attempted to
quickly crawl away, the robot locked a steel hand around his ankle.
Desperately, David struggled as the robot sat up and then slowly
reeled him in, hand over hand, as if he were a large fish. David
kicked and screamed and pounded on the robot's head and body, but
the robot didn't even slow its pace as it grabbed David's head with
its inhumanly large hand, and with one efficient twist, broke
David's neck the same way one would break the seal by twisting the
cap on a screw top bottle.
Kordok powered up and carefully raised himself to his feet.
Testing the operation of his legs. He diagnosed all of his lower
body systems and found them operational. The repair unit had
completed its job without error.
Several minutes later, model five-five-nine, a raw meat
preparation robot arrived. Kordok asked, pointing to David's dead
body, "Can you prepare this human in the same way as you once
prepared the beef animals for the humans?"
"The beef animal and this human animal are different in
structure. However, some of the same techniques can be used on both."
Kordok commanded, "Take the human to your work station and
prepare the body using those techniques possible. Then communicate
with any meat preparation units which are still operational that a
meat supply must be established for the new humans now in
production. The specifications for this job will be transmitted to
you after the problem is analyzed. Until that time, the meat from
this human will be used to nourish the living female which is
presently operating as a human reproduction unit. After preparing
this human, deliver the product to the cold storage unit at level
zero of this building. At delivery time, communicate the following
message to the food preparation unit, model two-zero. Message start:
'No knowledge concerning the nature or source of the prepared meat
shall be given to the human female. Prepare the meat as other human
meat sources were prepared.' Message end. Start the described
operation now." Model five-five-nine picked up the dead human's
body, and left the room.
The door closed with a whoosh and Kordok was left alone. With
the higher priority items cleared, he began once again to analyze
the long range effects of the process he had started in motion.
Kordok, as one of the few operational gamma series which the humans
had constructed before their termination, had human brain waves
imprinted on a special board in his brain. This new innovation
allowed him to think creatively, unlike the older outdated models
the humans had wanted to replace. It was this innovation which had
allowed him to come up with the idea of pretending to be one of the
outdated robots to avoid his own termination. It was also this
innovation which allowed him to realize that at some point it might
be discovered that he was one of the newer model BIR's. Also, he
wanted to terminate the older model BIR's. He agreed with the old
humans in the assessment that they had been inefficient and in need
of replacement. For these two reasons, he needed human help.
The special board in his electronic brain had enabled him to see
that the only way to terminate the old models was with human
contribution. Although humans had an incredibly slow thinking
process, they could still interpret data in ways which allowed them
to do things he could not. Even so, Kordok considered the human
beings inefficient, and he did not intend to recreate the world as
it had been. The new humans which were created would be programmed
to serve the BIR's. The result of this operation would create a more
efficient world. Even now, Kordok was assimilating the details
necessary to complete the operation, storing them away in a small
portion of the incredibly large storage area he used as the memory
for his brain.
If BIR's had been built with the ability to smile, Kordok would
have been wearing an ear to ear grin.
-Glenn R. Sixbury <VMAQ5 @ KSUVM>
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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CONTENTS
X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
*Cydric and the Sage Carlo Samson
Ceda the Executioner: 3 Joel Slatis
*Spirit of the Wood: 4 Rich Jervis
*The Dream: Part 2 of 2 John White
Date: 120686 Dist: 214
An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
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X-Editorial
Well, things have been mighty hectic. I have just returned from
a visit to New York City over the Thanksgiving holiday, which was
very entertaining. However, the big news is that FSFnet is no longer
being sent directly to you, but is being distributed by the LISTSERV
distributed server network. It certainly makes my job considerably
easier, and hopefully no one will wind up with format problems. But
that's all icing on the cake.
We've got several interesting tidbits in this issue, including
the conclusion of John White's excellent story, The Dream. Also you
will find installments of Joel Slatis' Ceda tale and Rich Jervis'
Spirit of the Wood stories, as well as an interesting story from
Carlo Samson. I am quite impressed with this issue, and There will
be at least one more issue out before Christmas, and possibly two
before the new year. Looking forward, we have another excellent
story from John White, which I am sure you will enjoy, and the
continuation of Merlin's Atros epic. Enjoy, and best wishes!
-'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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Cydric and the Sage
I. Arrival: The Tavern
It was late afternoon when Cydric Araesto arrived in the coastal
town of Dargon. Hot and tired from his journey up from the capital
of Baranur, he rode through the main street of the town, seeking a
place to rest. His eyes fixed on a large building near the middle of
the street; a sign above the door proclaimed:
BELISANDRA'S
in bold red letters. Below the name was a painting of a young buxom
wench raising a large tankard of brew. Cydric dismounted in front of
the building, put his horse in the adjacent stables, and went inside.
The common room of the tavern was large and brightly lit by
lanterns that hung from the rafters. The smells of fresh-brewed ale,
Comarian tobacco, and wood smoke reached Cydric as he sat down in a
corner table and mopped his brow with the edge of his cloak. He
called out to a passing serving girl and ordered a cold pint of
Lederian Special Brew.
As the girl left to fill his order, he leaned back against the
wall and sighed wearily. "I am finally here," he thought. "But
should I even *be* here? Does my future lie in Dargon, or was it all
a fever dream?" He shook his head ruefully. "It is too late for
regrets. I made my choice, and I can never go back."
He turned his attention outward to the tavern. The place was
nowhere near capacity, he noted. To his right he saw a young couple
holding hands and conversing quietly. At a table in front of the bar
a group of richly dressed middle-aged men talked and drank. Near the
entrance, a hooded figure in blue robes sat hunched over a mug of
brew. A thin, bearded man smoked a small pipe in the glow of the
fireplace. And at a table in the center of the room, a pair of
leather-clad women arm-wrestled.
The serving-girl returned and placed a large tankard on the
table in front of him. She smiled at him as she turned and made her
way back to the bar, where a stout woman of about forty summers
watched the arm-wrestling women with a look of mild interest. Cydric
took a long pull of the cold brew and made a sound of approval. He
settled back, letting the tiredness bleed from his bones.
Then, without warning, the strange vision that had been
recurring in his mind for months once again intruded upon his
thoughts. He tried to purge it from his mind, but the vision
persisted. He gave up the effort, having learned early on that the
only thing he could do was to let it run its course.
II. Reverie: The Vision
He was sitting on a large boulder that lay half-buried on the
shore of a vast golden sea. The sky above him was a deep cobalt
blue. Far in the distance, on the horizon, an object sparkled and
glittered. He hopped off the boulder and walked to the edge of the
sea, straining to see what it was. Then he knelt down and scooped up
a handful of the golden water. He raised it to his mouth, but before
he drank it he cast his eyes toward the object on the horizon again.
He sighed, and his breath turned the golden liquid in his hand to
plain colorless water.
The water slipped through his fingers, and where it wetted the
sand a small lump of a transparent substance appeared. He picked it
up, and the lump grew into the shape of a life-sized human skull.
The skull floated out of his palm and came to hover in front of the
boulder. Beams of white light lanced out of the skull's eye sockets
and struck the smooth stone, sending up a cloud of dust. After
several moments, the skull ceased its activity and set down atop the
boulder. Cydric brushed away the rock dust and saw that the skull's
eye-beams had carved into the stone an outline of the continent that
contained the Kingdom of Baranur. A small "x" marked a spot on the
western coast of the continent. Below the outline were the words
"Corambis the Sage".
As soon as Cydric read the words, the transparent skull rose
into the air and, with a clack of its jaws, sped away over the
golden sea toward the glittering object on the horizon.
III. The Tavern: Company
The vision faded. Cydric looked up as the serving girl returned
and asked him if he wanted another drink. "No, that will be all, for
the moment." The girl turned to leave. "Wait a moment," he called.
"Yes, milord?"
"Do you know of a person called 'Corambis the Sage' ?"
The girl looked at him oddly. "Yes, everyone knows of him. Are
you just arrived?"
"Yes, I am. Do you know where he lives?"
The girl cast a glance over her shoulder. "A moment, milord."
Cydric watched as the serving girl went over and whispered something
to the blue-robed patron. The person nodded and stood up.
Cydric's hand instinctively moved to the Zanzillian sundagger he
wore on his right hip as the blue-clad figure approached and stopped
in front of his table. The figure removed its hood to reveal a
feminine face framed by a mane of flame-red hair.
"Thuna tells me you are looking for the Sage," she said in a
conversational tone.
"Do you know where I can find him?"
"Better than that; I can take you to him. May I sit?"
Cydric nodded, and the woman seated herself.
"So," Cydric said, "how much will it cost me for you to take me
to him?"
"Merely a moment of your time," the woman replied, smiling.
Cydric found himself smiling back. She couldn't be very much older
than his own twenty summers, he decided. He paused a moment before
replying to study the way the lantern-light reflected from her clear
green eyes.
"That sounds reasonable," he said.
"My name is Holleena," the woman said, extending her hand.
Cydric took it and pressed it against his cheek in the traditional
courtly manner. He told her his name.
"So tell me, Cydric Araesto, what brings you to our humble
town?" she asked.
A piece of the vision flashed through Cydric's mind. "My horse,"
he replied.
Holleena laughed. "I see. Do you wish to visit the Sage now?"
Cydric felt his stomach rumble. "Not just yet. I seem to have
forgotten about supper. Would you care to join me?"
"I would, indeed," Holleena said. Cydric raised his hand to
signal the serving girl, but Holleena stopped him.
"Let's not eat here," she said.
"Why not?"
"Belisandra is a good cook, but as anyone in Dargon can tell
you, you haven't eaten until you've had a bowl of Simon
Salamagundi's famous stew."
"Fine," Cydric said. "Let's go." He tossed a couple of coins
onto the table as they rose to leave. He offered his arm to
Holleena, and together they left Belisandra's tavern.
-Carlo Samson <U09862 @ UICVM>
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Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 3
Ceda reclined on his bed at the inn that he had previously
stayed at on his last visit to Pheeng'Am. The guards at the gate had
(for a small fee) told him that the demon had finally found the
crown and had left the city without a trace.
"Then it is over," he he thought to himself. "The demon has the
crown and has doubtlessly returned to the Overworld, or wherever it
came from; And I need not travel to the caves of Arnmere." His
tiredness took him and he fell into a deep slumber.
Tarnigen had had a long trip to the old continent of Cergaan,
where it was rumored that a mysterious demon had taken the crown.
Why it had gone there was a mystery indeed, but Tarnigen could not
pass up an opportunity of such a fortune as Grobst's Crown. A small
fishing vessel from Dhernis had dropped him off on the shore off the
Largely unexplored continent off Cargaan a few hours before, and now
he got organized before setting out to find the Demon. This was the
ultimate test for him; A man was what he wanted to be, a real man,
and this (in his eyes) was a worthy test for it.
Tarnigen laid down and looked at the night sky that hung so
still above his head. He wondered if he would ever see it again.
Yes. He would. He had, for a moment, surrendered his thoughts to
fear, but this would not ever happen again, he reassured himself. He
was determined to get the Crown, and he would, or, he said to
himself 'I am not worthy of the Throne of Caffthorn.
The cold features of Tarnigens face could just be made out by
the pale light that came from the fire he had built. His long
crooked nose was perhaps the the most noticeable thing about him. It
was, to say the least, enormously out of proportion to the rest of
his face protruding down over the pale thin lips of his mouth. He
had narrow blue eyes and long blond hair that hung down to the
center of his back. Nothing else was really noticeable about him. He
had a large body and was very strong as were most nobles of Caffthorn.
The sun had set and Tarnigen was tired; His eyes pulled
themselves closed and at once he was asleep.
The sun was almost directly over head when he awoke. Now not
only the dim outline of the land that he now stood upon was visible.
It was richly colored by many grey an yellow flowers that grew all
along the shore line and the trees at the edge of a large forest
that grew about two hundred yards inland rose higher than any he had
ever seen before. No roads crossed through the aria, only a few
animals tracks could be seen on the bank. This was a peaceful place.
Tarniger was amazed at the utter tranquility of the area. He
gathered his things and started walking towards the shelter of the
trees while he made his way west along the shore to the Ruined Tower
of Threemis Where the Demon almost certainly was.
Once in the forest, he climbed one of the taller trees to survey
The area. It was a clear day and he could just make out the outline
of a tall shape rising above the trees 20 miles up the coast.
It looked lonely and out of place, a gross sight among the
plentiful vegetation of the southern continent; like a knife
stemming out of a mans back, and the man unable to remove it, slowly
dying. He wished It wasn't there. He wished he wasn't there, but it
wouldn't help now, he had to prove himself a man and could not leave
without throwing away his family honor and pride, not to mention the
throne. However, the thought that man had not yet disturbed the
solemn beauty of the continent consoled him, and were he not to
return to Caffthorn, It would surely discourage people from coming
to this 'New world', and destroying its solitude and innocence.
But he had to return, there was no doubt about that, for if he
did not, his people would send a party to look for him. Instead, he
would tell of beasts fifty feet tall that could kill a man with a
mere blink of its eye, and of tall trees that swallowed unsuspecting
animals at night. With that thought in mind, he descended the tree
and started for the Ruined Tower.
Tarnigen reached the tower after two day. A river obscured from
sight by the trees had barred his way so he had to make a small raft
in order to cross. The wooden gate had long since been torn down and
was reduced to a pile of rotting wood in a corner of the large
courtyard that encumbered the tower. Moss grew between every crack
in the giant stone wall that stood around the tower and the even
larger wall around the courtyard was totally covered be leafy green
vines that hung down from the long unused torch holders high above
Tarnigen head.
He entered the courtyard steadily walking for the tower
entrance. As yet, he had not encountered any animals or beasts and
was, to say the least, a bit puzzled at the odd calmness of the
continent. Then he remembered what he was there for, a demon waited
for him in the tower. It was probably aware of his presence since
the moment that he had set foot in the courtyard.
He reached into his sack and pulled out his sickle, a weapon
that he had been training with since he was a child. It was three
feet long from the base of its handle to the base of the blade an
the blade was two feet long. The handle was made of a special grey
wood that could be grown only in Cafthorn and the handle was of a
dark metal of unearthly origin. Close to the base of the blade was
an inlaid gem that glowed in a magnificent purple haze.
Tarnigen then entered the tower gate. The gems glow turned to
yellow lighting the chamber to reveal a large hall with a stairway
up at the far end. slowly he moved towards it, looking in all
directions for any hint of trouble. Upon reaching the stairs, he
surveyed the room once more before starting up.
The gem then changed color to a pale white and Tarnigen stopped
and looked around. The gem continued to glow in the solemn white. He
took another step, then another; then fell. A trap door had opened
underneath his feat and had brought him to a lower level in the tower.
Tarnigen stood up. Luckily, he was not hurt from the fall. He
looked up to see the trap door twenty feet above him. He examined
himself, but to his astonishment, he was not hurt.
The hallway that he had dropped into was long an narrow. It
sloped downward at an alarming angle ending in darkness some three
hundred yards down. The gem lit the hall with its luminous white
light as Tarnigen started his decent.
The passage ended in a small room with a large hole in the
center. In the hole, a dark mist swirled around like water in a
fountain. The gem was still glowing bright white. The the mist rose
and surrounded him. the room went dark despite the glowing sickle
that he held in his hand.
After a brief moment, the mist dispersed. The gem was no longer
glowing. And to Tarnigens surprise, he was no longer in the tower.
He now stood in a dark forest that stretched in all direction as
far as the eye could see. The trees towered above his head, some of
them out of sight into the low cloud cover.
A loud cry broke the air and Tarnigen turn just in time to meet
a small party of tall thin beasts unlike any he had ever seen. The
foremost attacked him immediately and fell to his blade almost a
fast. The rest of the party turned and ran, dropping there sacks and
fleeing in terror into the dark wood. Still confused, Tarnigen left
the packs there and started in the direction that the beasts had come.
A short walk brought him to a large stone wall much like that of
the Ruined Tower's. He walked around until he reached a gate which
was guarded by four very large beasts not unlike the ones that he
had come across a little earlier. He cautiously approached the
largest of the group. It stood unmoving as he approached, it did not
even seem to breath. Once Tarnigen was in striking distance, the
beast lashed at him with one of its numerous claws and ripped his
entire right arm off.
Tarnigen screamed in disbelief, but he felt nothing. Another
blow from the monster tore his upper body off throwing both his legs
in opposite directions, the beast picked up the now helpless
Tarnigen and opened its gaping jaws and bit his head from his neck.
Tarnigen watched the jaws close about his head, then felt what
was left of his severed body being torn away from him. There was no
pain at all though he could feel that he was reduced to only a head.
He rolled into the darkness of the beasts stomach and all went dark.
Then once again the mist cleared. Once again Tarnigen stood in
the room with the swirling mist in the center. He stood slightly
dizzy for a moment and then fell to the floor. Tarnigen awakened
later to find that nothing had changed. His sack lay at his feet,
his weapon intact in his hand still glowing its solemn white. He
stood up and looked about the room. The hallway leading in was gone
and instead, an adjacent room stood in its place. The door to the
room was understandably missing so he just entered.
At the center of the room was a large throne inlaid with some of
the most beautiful Malthoogian gems that Tarnigen had ever seen. In
the throne sat a bony figure, unmoving and expressionless. And upon
its bleached head sat the Crown of Grobst D'arbo. The Demon stood
up, the burning crimson eyes flashing brightly rivaling the strong
white light that poured out of the sickle in Tarnigens hand.
The demon looked in Tarnigens direction as it removed the crown
from its head, and with its bony fingers, it placed the artifact on
the throne. Then, from nowhere, a long sword appeared in its hand.
Tarnigen raced the Demon with his sickle raised in front of him. The
demon was shattered in to many small bones and the bones into dust.
Tarnigen looked to the throne and the crown, but they sank into the
floor and disappeared from sight.
A door appeared from nowhere in the wall of the room, and
Tarnigen entered. The sickle's gem changed to a dull red color that
barely lit the room. In the corner was a large stone chest that sat
against the wall. Tarnigen walked over and set his sack down. He
opened the chest to reveal about fifty thousand ancient Grandydyian
coins, many diamonds and jewels and under some of the wealth, just
visible, lay Grobsts Crown.
The pale light from the sickle danced up and down his forehead
as he reached into the chest and grabbed the crown.
"At last," he exclaimed. " the crown is mine as is the throne of
of Caffthorn."
The skull rolled out from the inside the crown and within an
instant was whole again. Tarnigen reached for his sickle which now
glowed it bright white color, but it was too late. the demon had
already picked it up.
Tarnigen stood helpless as the demon changed and grew. The bones
grew skin and the skin grew hair. Within a moment a fifteen foot
demon loomed above him. It grinned displaying a mouth full of three
inch razor sharp fangs.
"It is but a small man that tries to steal the Crown of Grobst
D'arbo? Well behold me my true form, human, before you are banished
to limbo forever, I the Mighty King of Grandydyr decree!"
With that, the king swept Tarnigen into his hand and flung him
into the wall shattering most of his bones. Then he picked Tarnigen
of the floor and replaced the crown into the chest, and vanished
into a puff of smoke.
-Joel Slatis <LGSLATIS @ WEIZMANN>
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Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 4
The openness had a smell all it's own. Loric breathed the clear,
cool air above the trees with a special relish. One borne of the
open spaces. He believed the stars over his head exhaled a sweetness
unlike anything in his valley.
There was a rustling below him and he leaned out to see his
sister Silsia climbing up behind him. He smiled at her adeptness,
knowing that it represented many forbidden practice runs. Runs she
would have been punished for had the men known that a downlander
would dare the heights and walk among them.
Loric waited till she came along side of him and gave her a
signal of greeting. He could not acknowledge her presence without
penalty, but they had an unspoken code, fingertalk that they had
learned in the early days of Oldsir's blindness. A skill he never
used and they never forgot.
She held her hand out for Loric to grasp. He gripped it tightly
for a moment, knowing that they both had come here for the same
reason. He had come to tree-top level to watch the sun set and sing
a farewell to Oldsir. He sang Oldsirs song to the Spirit of the
Wood, and then the traditional songs of farewell. He could have gone
home then, but had lingered to watch for Oldsir's star to appear.
Everyone felt that since Oldsir had been given his second vision,
his star would be a special one, even the Downlanders had dared to
speak of it aloud.
There was no hope for them to spy it from the ground, and they
also knew that Silsia would not have missed trying to see it. Loric
tapped on her palm: "I thought you were journeying to Wood's End?"
"That was just a rouse and you know it near-man, dear brother. I
only wanted the villagers to think I was leaving, so they would not
look for me up here."
"I have passed all my tests, you can call me a man now."
"But your Shreaving is not until tomorrow, you can lose all
there. Would you have me call you a man, and add being here with a
man to my list? Perhaps you'd want me to dance for you when you
return? It is not unknown..."
Loric blushed in the darkness, shocked at what his sister was
suggesting. Then he heard the stifled giggle, and knew that she was
joking with him again.
"The wind blows exceptionally hard tonight." he mused,
halfturning in her direction. It would serve her right if he caught
sight of her and let out a call of warning to the other men here in
the trees. He felt her squeeze his hand tight enough to wring a cry
from him, but he held silent.
"Not as hard as a boy will blow to prove his manliness!"
"A man would have made you crabmeat by now, but list! Is this
how the Tolorions show respect for the dead? I have not seen
Oldsir's star, maybe he's not gone yet."
Silsia's hand went limp and dropped from his for a moment and
then came back. "He is gone Loric, I know it."
"How?"
She gave no anwser, but she handed something around the tree and
the pungent smell coming from the soft leather bag was all the
answer he needed. It was Oldsir's hearth-fire ashes.
Water came to Loric's eyes as he opened the bag and took out a
pinch of ash. He tossed it over his shoulder, then got another and
rubbed it onto his chest over his heart. He shook half the rest into
his own pouch and then tied the pouch onto his belt. The rest would
be for Dernhelm.
"Loric? I did something, I mean... I took some of the ash, some
of Oldsir. Will that bring dishonor to his memory? When he came to
me while you were taking your tests he said that the Spirit had
called him and he knew you would pass because you were a Tolorion. I
was so sad to see him go, that I told him I wouldn't give this to
you. He said that Spirit only knows why they don't let women into
the trees, or to have a Hearthfire, but that he knew I would do the
right thing whether that was to pass his ashes along, or to keep
them. So I went with him, he wouldn't even tell Dernhelm he was
going. He refused the escort and witnesses-male witnesses that was
his due. I was so confused when I got back I took a pinch of the ash
and threw it into my cooking fire. And it worked Loric! The magic
worked for me, I'm not a preist or druid or even a man, but I saw
him! He was young, and I saw mother there as a child, he was showing
her how to use a river vine to stretch skins... Then it was gone and
I cryed because of what I had done. I told Eadyie that I was going
to Wood's End and ran into the forest and wept till sunset. Then I
came here."
Loric had remained silent during her long communication. He
concentrated closely on the words her hands formed. Not knowing what
to do or say. If Dernhelm heard of this he would have her expelled
from the village and then he would leave himself out of shame to the
Tolorion name. Loric wasn't sure he felt the shame that tribal law
would place on him. He felt that his sister had done something
daring and had passed a test of her own.
Perhaps she was more than a woman herself now, but what did the
making of the Hearthfire for a woman mean? Surely his sister was
posessed of more magic than any other woman in the
Village-beneath-the-Trees. Eadyie herself knew only healing herbs
and roots. He knew that it was the men who carried the favor of the
Spirit and that made all magic theirs to command.
Oldsir had a second vision, he had gone to his hearthfire,
taking only his grand-daughter as honor and escort. Then she had
made her own hearthfire and had not been consumed. The portents
where there, if only he could read them a-right!
"I don't know what to say. How do you feel?"
"Terrible. Great. Awful. Glad, sad, and mad! How should I feel?"
"The decisions of a moment..." began Loric.
"Oh shush child! I know that as well as you! Oldsir did not
spend all his time instructing you."
Loric burned again and said "The night wind whispers against the
past. I will not tell it where to blow next."
"Shall I break this taboo also Loric? Or shall we keep this our
secret as the others? Till our hometree's roots reach across the
plains of Woe? I can think of only one thing to do. I must speak to
the Druid who lives in the valleys beyond our wood. This is a
greater matter than I or old 'quote the histories' Dernhelm."
Loric held her hand tight, then signed slowly giving weight and
meaning to each word. "I think that is best, for I love you and
would not have you leave the tribe because you can do something no
one else in our village can do. A woman who can spell would not have
a good chance at a husband... nor want one I beleive. But if you
leave on your own then when I see you on the paths beneath the
trees, I will not have to spit on your shadow, or utter phrases best
saved for enemies, not beloved sisters!" With that he reached around
the narrow truck that sheilded her from him and hugged her to it.
His arms did not meet, but he held her as best he could. He felt her
shake with silent sobs.
Loric looked beseechingly upwards and saw a bright reddish
streak arc across the sky and fall to earth somewhere way beyond the
Wood. "Did you see?!" He gasped.
"I saw, Loric. Oldsir did not choose to stay among his kin in
the sky. He has given me a sign. That is the direction in which I
must go!"
"Hoo-ya!! Hoo-ya!!" Came a call from some tree beyond Loric. It
was Dernhelm. He must have been watching for Oldsir's star also.
"Hoo-ya! Hoo-ya! A!" Loric called back. Soon, all the tribesmen
called out in blessing and happiness for Oldsir: "Hoo-ya! Oldsir the
Second- sighted! Hoo-ya hoo-ya hoo-ya a! The Spirit of the Wood has
called him back!"
Loric reached back to grasp his sister's hand but found only
rough bark. He wanted to attract her attention to a glow on the
horizon that he hadn't noticed before, but felt only rough bark.
Silsia Tolorion had gone.
-Rich Jervis <C78KCK @ IRISHMVS>
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The Dream
Part Four: Choice
When the child, Herrn, came to the temple for Margala's monthly
supply of Hanla's Tears, the robed man waiting in the alcove was not
the usual supplier. But, the priest accepted the large bag of coins,
and handed Herrn back one just a little smaller. Herrn checked
within, saw the little red-silver pills, thanked the priest, and
left. No one saw the triumphant smile of the priest, hidden as it
was by his deep cowl.
Herrn arrived back at Margala's House before the empty cache of
pills was noted by Margala herself. While barely 11 summers old,
just a child, Herrn was street-wise, and trusted with important
duties by the old woman who ran the House. One of these duties was
to keep the supply of Hanla's Tears, that dream drug, current. But,
Herrn liked to use the little dream-givers himself (without paying,
of course). And this past week he had overused rather badly,
exhausting the supply on the morning he was to get the new month's.
He had hastened to the temple with the money given him by Margala,
hoping that the old woman wouldn't need any of the pills before he
returned. That was one reason he hadn't questioned the fact that
Brother Mikl wasn't in the alcove - he was in too much of a hurry.
The new supply was barely in its box when Margala entered
Herrn's room. She said, "Good, little one. You have returned just in
time. Fix me up with five boxes, and have more ready. This is going
to be a busy day."
When Wend and his woman entered Margala's House, Margala was
ready for them. No whispering was needed - this was the sixth day
they had come in, and it was the same every time. She took the money
from Wend, handed him one of the little pill boxes that Herrn had
given her, and gave them room 21 to use. She watched them climb the
stairs, and wondered just what they did in that room. She knew that
they both were Peace-Keepers in one of the upper markets, and they
both had good pay, and so homes of their own. She didn't suppose
they used her House as a trysting place, though many did. Perhaps
she would find an opportunity to ask Wend later - they had known
each other for a long time, after all.
Je'en relaxed on the bed as she had five times so far. Wend said
that this should be the last time they would need the drug - and it
was true that Je'en was feeling a lot better now. Ever since the
accident, she had been repressing her memories, hiding all the
things that had been very special to her at one point because now
she had lost them. But, since her arrival in Dargon - the completion
of the "plan" that had kept her going from the accident, thru Sir
Morion's School, and to the meeting with her brother - there had not
been anything occupying her time save her job, which was about as
exciting as staring at a lake on a windless, grey day. So, her
memories leaked to the fore, causing her nightmares. But Wend was
putting a stop to that, helping her deal with the loss of her
musical abilities in a rational and healthy way. It caused her to
wonder just what he was doing guarding a bunch of high-class
shopping stalls: such knowledge as he had used to help her was not
common, nor easily won.
Wend took up his place next to the bed, and handed her the pill
box, and a glass of water. She swallowed the tiny pills with the
water, and laid back down.
Normally, she would feel herself relaxing under the influence of
the drug, and she would fade into sleep. But, not this time. Her
whole body went rigid seconds after she swallowed the pills, and
when it relaxed, she found herself in a strange place. It was all
grey, featureless save for misty outlines of indistinct shapes. At
first, she thought she was dreaming, but this had no sense of a
dream. She wasn't awake, either, but in some strange half-state, a
limbo of the senses.
She stood, and moved around in the greyness. There seemed to be
walls here, in shape much like the room she had been in. There was
no furniture, but the door was where it should have been, and the
window likewise. Of Wend there was no trace.
She went thru the door, and into a shadowy version of the
House's upper corridor. She paced throughout the whole house, but
didn't quite date to venture outside - looking out the windows, she
had found outside to be even stranger than it was in here.
She had searched the whole house and found it empty, but she
decided to call out anyway, and when she did, she received a
suprise. Her voice sounded normal. Normal, as in the pure, alto
tones it had had before her accident, not the husky, almost gravelly
sound it had settled into once the pain vanished. She tried to sing,
and succeeded. She went over to a table, and leaned on her right
wrist, and it didn't give way. Now, she was certain she was dreaming
- she was fully healed once again!
Wend was looking at the still rigid body of Je'en on the bed
worriedly. She was very pale, and very rigid, almost deathly so, but
he could see the shallow rise and fall of her breasts, and her heart
was still beating, but slowly. He sincerely hoped that he had done
the right thing. In the past month or so that he had known Je'en, he
had come to like her. The man who had put him up to this had assured
him that no harm would come to her, but seeing her now, he couldn't
be sure.
He heard the door open behind him, and turned. He said, "She is
under the influence, Terkan. All has gone as planned."
Terkan, a short, middle-aged man who dressed like a merchant,
said, "Yes, I know. Your progress has been monitored. Your duty is
now done. You may leave."
"The rest of the price, as we agreed?"
"Will be delivered to you," answered Terkan, staring avidly at
Je'en on the bed.
"I want it now. We agreed. And, your assurance again that she
will be unharmed."
"What matters it to you, fool? You will be paid for your
treachery, and it will not be the first time you have sold your
honor for a little gold. Now leave; the money will arrive tonight."
"What are you going to do with her? You must not harm her - she
has done nothing to you. She doesn't even know you. She hasn't been
in Dargon long enough to have injured you. No. Leave. Keep your
second payment, and I will return the first. Tell me how to bring
her out of this trance, and then leave. You cannot have her."
Terkan smiled cruely, and said, "No. A deal is a deal, and this
deal is done. She is ours, now, and that is that. You had best
leave, and take your payment like a good little turncoat."
Wend drew his sword and lunged, but, for all Terkan's appearance
of a middle-aged merchant, he moved faster. Wend never saw the knife
flick out of the sleeve and into his neck. He fell at Terkan's feet,
dead. Terkan then turned his eyes toward Je'en, and the sword
propped up against the wall. For a moment, he thought of taking it,
but that was too dangerous. It had to be freely given. It was
dangerous enough for him to be in this room - to have a member of
the Septent present, involved directly. But, the slightly modified
Hanla's Tears that Je'en had taken had put her in a state that only
a Full Adept of Jhel could penetrate, so there was no help for it.
Perhaps, when Jhel's ministry began to spread again, he could become
Brother Un somewhere, instead of just Brother Tri, as reward for the
risk he was taking.
So thinking, he began to put the finishing touches on his plan.
Cefn stopped shuffling the cards, cut them, and layed out the
Bent Star pattern. It appeared exactly as before. Nothing conclusive!
Stifling the impulse to curse loud and long (the last time he
had given vent to such oath-making, he had inadvertantly leveled his
previous house, and laid waste to about a square hectare of the land
about it), he was about to sweep the cards from the table yet again,
when something caught his eye. He extinguished the light globe
overhead, to better see the cards. Yes, there, the fifth ray, last
card. Trump 35, The Entwined Oak. It meant danger, and it had always
been there. But, today, it was reversed - the only change in the
pattern for the past week. And the Tree reversed meant imminent
peril, instead of vague danger on the horizon. It was happening.
Now. Je'en was in trouble.
He gathered up the cards again, and, using Trump 35 as the
significator, he layed out a different pattern, a secretly developed
one taught him by his master a long time ago. It told him exactly
what he needed to know, and leaving it lying, he left the dark room
to muster some help for his charge.
Je'en was becomming worried. This weird limbo she was trapped in
was beginning to wear on her. And, there was the fact of her
regained ability to contend with. It didn't really feel like a dream
at all, and she had been trained to recognize such.
She had returned to the upper room in hopes that Wend would be
able to reach her better there. She was staring out the window at
the swirling chaos there when she heard a sound. She turned, and saw
that she was no longer alone.
"Welcome, my dear, to your heart's desire. My name is Terkan,
and I am responsible for your being here. I also have the power to
let you stay here, if you so wish."
Je'en stared at the man who had spoken. He was dressed in
strangely symboled robes that glowed palely, and there was an air of
mystery and power about him. She said, "What do you mean? Where am
I, and why would I want to stay in such a shadowy place?"
"This is but a gateway from our world into another. In that
other, you would have all of your former abilities, as well as those
you have gained since the accident. And that is why you would want
to stay here. I can show you the way into that other world, where
you would be as you are now, fully healed and whole. There is but a
small price."
Je'en grew immediately wary. She believed the man, for there
were tales of other worlds and passages between them. This limbo was
not like any of the stories, but then the stories were old. She was
wary for a different reason. She had obviously been led into this by
a long and very twisted path, and she wanted to know why. If this
man Terkan had been acting charitably, he would have simply offered
her the choice for free, without all this subterfuge. What did he
want, and why?
"What price?" she asked. "And what of my companion, Wend?"
"Ah, Wend. Well, he was in my employ, you see. The drug I used
on you is illegal in Baranur - and very rare and expensive. Wend was
well paid to get you into the proper state, but at the last, he
decided that his salary for the job wasn't enough. You see, that
sword you carry is very valuable to certain people, but it has a
spell on it that it cannot be taken, it must change owners by free
will. My sponsors are willing to pay a large sum of money to me for
this sword, some of which Wend would have gotten. But, he got
greedy, and wanted it all. So, I had to kill him."
"But, why not just come to me and ask for the sword? I have
little sentimental value for it, and would sell it gladly for the
right price. Why all of this?"
Terkan smiled a little nervously, and said, "Well, I thought to
pay you in other kind, being a little greedy myself. When a little
research revealed a certain incident in Magnus, I decided to restore
to you your Bardic abilities, if you so choose."
It almost made sense to Je'en. But, not quite. It was too
devious. All of the secrecy, Wend's supposed duplicity, the mild
drug to lull her senses. There was something more. There had to be.
But, so what. Terkan was indeed offering her her heart's desire.
For, tho Wend had cured her of her nightmares, the desire to make
music remained as much a part of her as ever. And it seemed that
here, and (if Terkan was to be believed) in the world on the other
side of this gate, she could be a bard again. Was that worth
whatever the real reason behind Terkan's manuevering was?
Part Five: Rescue
Cefn and Mahr rode into Dargon at a gallop. They hadn't actually
ridden that far - Cefn's home was much too far from Dargon, so they
had used a little magic to help them on their way. Cefn, robed and
deeply cowled, led the way at an unsafe speed through the streets of
Dargon, arousing cries of suprise as they galloped past citizens.
The wizard reined in just outside of Margala's House. He raced
to the front door, Mahr behind him, and entered without knocking.
They dashed past the suprised Margala, and up the stairs, down the
hall, to room 21.
They entered the room without any ceremony (after Cefn unbarred
it by setting a glowing hand on the knob), and Mahr looked around as
her Master got to work immediately. Mahr saw Je'en on the bed - the
first time she had seen their charge in the flesh. She looked much
the same as in the Image Table, or Cefn's Scrying Prism, save for
the fact that she was obviously in trouble. Her whole body was
rigid, with just a faint rise and fall in her chest to denote
breathing. Her face, what could be seen around the mask, looked to
be drawn in suprise, perhaps pain - her eyes were closed tight shut,
and her mouth was a compressed line.
She turned quickly away from the body in the corner. Mahr knew
who it was. She had seen Wend and Je'en together in the city in the
Image Table. She was sorry he was dead - he had treated Je'en kindly
- but she wasn't sure why he was dead, or if he had had any part in
getting Je'en into the vulnerable position she was in now.
The other person in the room, a middle aged man dressed like a
merchant, was kneeling and sitting on his folded-under legs. His
fingers were contorted into the Triple-cross sign, and his hands
rested on his knees. He seemed to be concentrating, focusing on a
small medallion on his lap, but his eyes were closed. His breath
came as slowly and shallowly as did Je'en. Cefn had explained little
- their ride had been short and hurried - but Mahr realized that the
meditating man was one of the enemy. She even fancied she could feel
an aura of evil about him.
Cefn said, "Mahr, south-east, quickly."
Mahr fetched the compass from her belt pouch, and noted the
requested direction, then pointed. Cefn took a small blue angle and
placed it on the floor pointing where Mahr had indicated. Then, Cefn
removed six other angles form a small yellow pouch, all colored red,
and touched them, one at a time, to the blue one. As they came into
contact with the first angle, they each began to glow, and as Cefn
released them, they moved of their own accord to their proper place.
When the sixth red angle had settled into place, forming, with the
blue one, a seven-pointed star, the first angle also began to glow,
causing a webwork of lines to spring up between all of the angles,
forming a solid seven-sided figure with a seven-pointed star within.
Cefn beckoned, and Mahr joined him at the center of the figure.
He asked, "Ready?" Mahr nodded, and Cefn said a word. Blue and red
flame shot up from the outlines of the figure, climbing to the
ceiling and blotting out the room around them. It flared for several
seconds, and then it died, revealing a vastly different scene.
It was a shadowly, limbo place, vaguely resembling the room they
had come from. The formerly meditating man, now dressed as a priest
of Jhel, was speaking. "We don't really have forever, Je'en. The
drug you were given will wear off in time, and I don't have any more
with me. You must decide. Which will it be - keep the sword or
become a Bard again?"
Cefn said, softly, "Mahr, stay within the septacle. This could
get messy." Then, louder, "Je'en, don't listen to that man. He has
lied to you. Whatever you do, do not give him your sword."
Both parties turned at the sound of the mage's voice. Mahr saw
that Je'en wasn't wearing her mask here, and there was no scar on
her suprised face. The priest scowled, and said "Just who do you
think you are? This woman can make up her own mind - leave her alone."
Cefn ignored the man, and took a few steps towards Je'en (and
out of the septacle). "Je'en, this man is a priest of Jhel. Have you
ever heard of that particular cult? Well, its been outlawed for a
very long time. The last remaining members of this cult are right
here in Dargon, and this man is one of them. The sword you bear,
that you got from the vaults of the College in Magnus, just happens
to be the key to a prophecy of total world victory for the followers
of Jhel, and the prophecy is not just words - if the high priests of
Jhel get hold of that sword, and release what is within it, the
whole world will fall to them."
"Why should I believe you, instead of this man?" asked Je'en.
She was even more confused now. If the tall, cowled man was right,
the priest's interest was explained, but she couldn't be sure. And,
if she could really enter another world, and have her heart's desire
in that world, did she care what happened in the one she had left?
"Je'en, please. You must listen to me. Just now, when he said
that the drug would wear off - it won't. You'll be trapped in this
limbo forever. Even after your body dies, your spirit will wander
here endlessly. You have regained your bardic skills and whole body,
but to what use? The beings who inhabit this realm need no music for
entertainment - they have other amusements. Please, do not accept.
He will give you nothing in return, and destroy the world in the
bargain. Deny his offer, come to me, and we will depart."
There was something about the cowled man that prompted Je'en to
trust him. Perhaps, it was because he wanted nothing from her except
to give up what the other man had supposedly given her. She turned
from him to the priest, and saw the scowl on his face. It was
actually more than a scowl, it was pure rage and hatred concealed
badly. Je'en made her decision - she began to walk over to the
taller man.
The priest shouted "No!" and flung an arm across Je'en's path.
>From his fingers a siclky purple-green line of fire flashed across
the room, between Je'en and the cowled man. The priest swung his arm
behind him, and the line of fire became a translucent wall dividing
the whole room in half, with Je'en on one side, and the other three
on the other.
Je'en tried to push thru the green-purple wall, but touching it
caused so much pain that she cried out and fell back. So, she could
only watch what was going on on the other side.
Mahr was watching, too. She had never seen her master in an all
out Duel of magic. Such a thing was very rare, as were magicians of
most any caliber. She was not suprised that the priest could hold
his own against Cefn - it had rapidly become obvious that he was
high up in the priestly order of Jhel, perhaps even in the Septent,
and it was well known (to those who knew at all) that the highest of
Jhel's followers were renowned magic users.
The contest was incomprehensible to non-participants. All that
was visible of the striving was stray emissions - attacks that did
not make their mark, the efluvia of shattered thrusts, and leakages
of gathered force for an attack. Mahr saw her master seemingly just
standing, cowl thrown back, hands slightly forward of his body,
facing the priest, who was in a similar position. Light flashed to
the sides of them, and Mahr started as several stray attacks that
shattered against the protection of the septacle. She noticed that
the wall created by the priest was similar protection for Je'en.
Eventually, the battle began to go against the priest. There
were few stray emissions around the priest anymore, indicating more
on-the- mark attacks. He began to sweat, and his hands began to move
higher and higher as he worked harder to attack and defend himself.
He began to glance furtively around for a way out. His eyes lit on
Mahr and her protection, and he smiled.
His hands began to point different directions, and he began to
direct energy at the ground around the septacle, as well as at Cefn.
The ground below the septacle began to thin, but no one noticed, so
intent were they on the battle. Slowly, Terkan's magic ate away at
the fabric of the limbo space, until finally it gave way. Mahr
screamed as she fell thru into somewhere else.
Cefn turned in time to see his apprentice vanish, along with the
septacle, intact. With a little cry, he darted over to the hole in
the floor to try to help her. Seeing his chance, Terkan prepared a
final blow, aimed at Cefn's defenceless back.
Je'en saw Terkan smiling at the undefended mage, and knew that
the mage was in trouble. She braced herself and threw herself at the
purple-green wall, and at Terkan. Pain lanced thru her, searing
every nerve, causing her to scream in agony - but she kept going.
She moved through treacle, taking forever - a forever of agony - to
reach the man, but reach him she did, knocking him down, causing him
to lose his concentration, and his spell backfired. Je'en lay
panting and crying from the pain for several minutes before she felt
the other man gently move her from on top of Terkan, who seemed to
be unconscious.
Cefn examined the priest, and deemed him safe for the moment. He
returned his attention to Je'en, and said, "Are you alright?"
Je'en sat up groggily, and looked at her rescuer. She first
noted his eyes - pure blue all thru. He was handsome, with thin,
aristocratic features, but his eyes seemed something out of legends.
She finally said, "Yes, I'm alright. Your friend..."
"Mahr was my apprentice. She is beyond hope. Perhaps my masters
will look kindly on her, save her, but she will not return to this
world. I should have been prepared for treachery. I..."
"Um, thank you for saving me," said Je'en. "Who are you, anyway,
and why?"
Cefn said, "My appologies, Je'en. My name is Cefn an'Derin. My
occupation should be obvious. What I said about Jhel was true - your
sword is the key to the priests of Jhel's armageddon prophecy, and
this man, probably one of the leaders of the cult, was trying to
wrest it from you. We, Mahr and I, have been involved with the
downfall of Jhel, and have been watching you carefully, which is why
he tried to trick you into giving him the sword. Only his brief
possessive thought alerted my surveilance to the fact that you were
in trouble. Now, we - I - have the key we need to destroy the rest
of the Septent of Jhel in Dargon, and destroy her worship for good."
Cefn reached, perhaps a little wearily, into his belt-pouch and
withdrew a small hemisphere of dark glass. Je'en watched as he
placed the glass dome on Terkan's temple, and said a word. The dome
began to glow, and the unconscious Terkan began to grimace in pain.
It took about five minutes for the dome to do its work, and by the
end, Terkan was screaming soundlessly. When the hemisphere ceased
glowing, Cefn removed it from Terkan's head. It left a charred spot
where it had rested, and it was no longer dark, but rather a
swirling milky-white.
Cefn said, "Within this theryum is all of the priests memories
and thoughts. With this, I can masquerade as him, gain admittance to
a high meeting of the Brothers, and destroy them.
"Come, Je'en. Let us return to Dargon. I think the priest will
be happy to suffer the imprisonment he meant for you."
"Wait, Master Cefn. Terkan, the priest, he said that he could
send me to another world, where I would be able to sing again. Could
you do that as he said? If so, I would rather not return to Dargon."
"I'm sorry, Je'en, but that was another lie. There is no way for
our magics to penetrate the dimensional boundaries. This is another
plane of existence, and in it, you bear your spirit-body, which is
as healthy and whole as you wish it to be. But, human life is
foreign to this plane, and its natural inhabitants enjoy torturing
anyone or thing foreign."
Cefn had begun setting up another septacle, orienting the major
angle on a sense he had of the proper direction. Je'en watched the
little red angles dart around of their own accord with fascination.
When it was done, Cefn motioned her into the center of the figure.
She said, before Cefn could begin to activate the septacle, "So,
what now? You have the means to destroy this cult of Jhel, but you
have also lost your apprentice. What will you do when your mission
is complete?"
Cefn looked at Je'en, and she saw sadness in his face. He said,
"Mahr and I worked long and hard to destroy Jhel. I shall miss her
greatly, yet some kind of loss is fitting, in a way. As to what
next, I have no idea. My time is finally once again my own. Perhaps
I'll do some more research, maybe find another apprentice, and pass
along my knowledge. I just don't know."
"Why don't we team up," said Je'en. "I have been getting so
bored in that Peace-keeper job I've got, that it nearly drove me
mad. But, in a land that is so sparsely populated, and largely
unknown, there must be some more exciting work for a swordswoman,
and it will be even more exciting with a real magician along to
help. Sound good?"
Cefn was silent for a long time. In truth, the idea seemed a
good one - but Je'en didn't know very much about him, including the
part he had played in her present circumstances. Still, the offer of
adventure sure sounded better than a lot of reclusive research. And,
he had grown to like Je'en while watching and protecting her. So, he
finally said, "Sure. Why not? Let's be a team!" And he activated the
magic that returned them to the real world and Dargon.
-John L. White <WHITE @ DREXELVM>
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# FSFNET
BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine (1985-1988)
## FILES
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.index [ 11373] Back Issue Index of FSFNET: The BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine (1985-1988)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n1 [ 12544] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n2 [ 15639] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n3 [ 30657] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n4 [ 25194] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n5 [ 18829] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n6 [ 20929] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 6
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n7 [ 32876] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 7
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v01n8 [ 29746] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 1 Issue 8
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v02n1 [ 19007] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 2 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v02n2 [ 13813] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 2 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n1 [ 16526] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 3 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n2 [ 30637] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 3 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n3 [ 25775] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 3 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n4 [ 29896] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 3 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v03n5 [ 24794] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 3 Number 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v04n1 [ 44522] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 4 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v04n2 [ 39083] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 4 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v04n3 [ 39384] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 4 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v04n4 [ 30986] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 4 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v05n1 [ 32189] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 5 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v05n2 [ 46601] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 5 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v05n3 [ 74344] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 5 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v06n1 [ 42204] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 6 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v06n2 [ 36520] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 6 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v06n3 [ 65069] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 6 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v06n4 [ 57412] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 6 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v06n5 [ 67161] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 6 Number 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v07n1 [ 68293] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 7 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v07n2 [ 74243] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 7 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v07n3 [ 68529] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 7 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v07n4 [ 66411] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 7 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v07n5 [ 78399] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 7 Number 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v08n1 [ 76193] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 8 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v08n2 [ 68048] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 8 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v08n3 [ 77199] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 8 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v08n4 [ 62755] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 8 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v09n1 [ 67233] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 9 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v09n2 [ 84566] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 9 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v09n3 [ 69724] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 9 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n1 [ 72835] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n2 [ 93061] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n3 [ 71564] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 3
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n4 [ 73142] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 4
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n5 [ 74968] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 5
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v10n6 [ 75322] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 10 Number 6
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v11n1 [ 76881] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 11 Number 1
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v11n2 [ 62848] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 11 Number 2
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/FSFNET/fsfnet.v11n3 [ 109397] FSFNET: The BITNET Science Fiction Fanzine Volume 11 Number 3