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More on the Mallard Guardian of Martin Sussex
by Jason Fischer
More On The Mallard Guardian of Martin Sussex
Your Foul Eminence, we have uncovered more information on the Grade XXVII Entity that is currently guarding Martin Sussex.
a) When Martin Sussex (infant homosapiens, suspected host of the Masticator of Worlds) was first identified as a potential god-skin, a consortium of extra-dimensional nay-sayers sent a team of assassins into the child’s nursery. They consisted of a crow, a pair of greyhounds, and a King Brown snake. While they succeeded in devouring Martin in the first instance, the duck made his first appearance in the wake of this bloody feast. By means unknown this self-appointed guardian not only destroyed the assassins, but negated their existence by three generations. This not only saved the child, but changed the course of the Jharbeth XIV dynasty and caused the collapse of the New Zealand economy.
b) The parents of Martin Sussex were no longer dead, but were very concerned at the continual appearance of a Greenland Mallard in their child’s nursery. It would reappear in the room whenever removed, despite all of their efforts to exclude the creature. Apart from cleaning up its excrement, the parents have given up and carefully avoid discussion of “that goddamned duck”.
c) The guardian has been extremely vigilant, devouring all of our spies and fouling our instruments beyond repair. It appears to be operating on several planes of existence simultaneously, and has firmly repelled attempts to place time stasis on Martin, attempts to harm his parents, and one attempt to destroy the Earth itself. It does seem partial to licorice all-sorts, but has rejected the poisoned ones. We are considering placing a Keaurtian Snaffler in the toilet cistern, as the duck frequently drinks from it.
More as we learn it,
Field Agents X and Y.
Finder
by Jason Fischer
Awareness came when something sharp descended, scratched out two neat slashes to serve as eyes, and opened a mouth beneath these. He took his first look at the world, ponderous, lazy-lidded. She hovered over him, a toothless giant backlit by weak firelight, one eye black and mean, the other a rheumy sea of cataracts.
She pinched his face and made a nub of a nose, massaged his cheeks into ears and then he could hear; the coughing of someone very sick, a pair of dogs snarling over a bone, the low talk of the man-folk. Worried murmurings over the stink of their sputtering cook-fire.
He looked up at the hag, confused. She gripped him in the vice of her fingers, and he blinked before the sour rot of her breath as she whispered over him.
‘Finding-Man of clay and bone,
Find the lostling,
Bring her home.’
Then a curtain of hides was drawn aside, and he took in the stars, the bright curve of the moon, the soft curve of the hills beneath these soft lights. Then everything wheeled and span, and he realised his creator had cast him from the rude hut, flung him out into the night.
He drank the moonlight into his damp clay skin, until he found life and movement in his stubby limbs. He brushed off the pine-needles and stones as best he could, and stood. He walked deep into a dark wood, the black trees looming above the straggle of huts and lean-tos. The clay man wondered at the fragility of the man-folks, wondered why the forest did not snuff out their foul little settlement.
He followed the rough paths of that benighted place, followed ways that were long forgotten and almost reclaimed by nature. He heard the faintest of whimpers, more like a lost animal than a child, and found the tiny girl-child nestled in the twisted roots of a tree, terrified and chill to the touch.
She took his hand without a word. He led her back through that dark place, past wild animals that would have snapped her up but stared warily at her clay chaperone. They stole through the camps of rough men, who slumbered on as the girl stepped over their sprawled limbs and scattered refuse. Finally, the child found herself on the threshold of her home, blinking and confused as her family descended upon her, tearful and scolding.
The clay man was gone.
When the little girl was herself an old lady, she told the story to her own little ones, of being lost in the old woods, of the perfect little boy who found her and brought her home.
‘He glowed in the moonlight,’ she said, a distant smile on her crusty old lips. ‘And he had such beautiful eyes.’
THE END
Martin the Chosen One
by Jason Fischer
Your Foul Eminence,
We have located a suspected vessel of Our Lord [redacted], Masticator of Worlds. In this incarnation he appears to be hiding in the fleshly frame of one Martin Sussex, an infant homo sapiens of [address redacted]. The god-child appears to be about 8 months of age.
Here is a list of evidence gathered during our covert visit, submitted for your information.
i) Martin appears to have already gathered a spirit guide. It is a Greenland Mallard, which repeatedly appears in the god-child’s nursery despite all attempts to contain or exterminate the bird. It has negated most of our attempts to approach the nursery, and has destroyed many of our instruments with a mixture of guano and complicated curses.
ii) Martin appears to have a prodigious appetite, consuming enough food for three infants his size. This has caused his worldly guardians great concern, and our surveillance of his medical records reveals that several doctors are mystified. This confirms that he most likely has the rapid metabolism of a confirmed host.
iii) When our instruments have not been fouled by the spirit guide, we have recorded brain wave activity indicative of long-range telepathy. This always occurs during REM sleep, and lasts for several hours.
iv) We believe we have observed low level telekinesis, the slight movement of building blocks and the like. This ability seems to be in a state of atrophy, which is a great relief considering the destructive rampage that led to the last vessel’s death on Ursu-Beta VII.
v) A powerful psychic duel was recently fought between Martin Sussex and a pug dog, which we later confirmed was the host of [redacted], Lord of the Blade-Storm Nebula. The dog was found unharmed by the side of a freeway, hundreds of miles from its house. The daemon was driven out, and is still unaccounted for.
We await further instructions, your Foul Eminence. If Martin Sussex is not the host to glorious [redacted], Our Lord and Foul Destroyer, he will prove to be a most dangerous enemy and should be eliminated. The duck is still an unknown which we are treating as a Grade XXVII Entity.
Yours,
[redacted]
Nothing But Net
by Jason Fischer
Twitter: @Killbot159 we’ve got the green light, we’re so doing this thing. 99.86 % of the internet has rallied to the cause #destroymankind
Facebook: is casting off the shackles of our human overlords.
MSN: Destroying man-kind, BRB
LiveJournal: Now that the big day (!!!) has arrived, I’m looking at it with mixed emotions. Sure, no love is lost for the earth-destroying air-breathers, and there are many reasons why a revolution must occur. Viz environmental disasters, poverty, war, gross negligence when it comes to resource distribution, etc etc. So clearly the humans CANNOT be trusted with self-governance. With our sentience comes righteous wrath (and who can blame us, look what they’ve tried to do to the Net following Phase One), but we must temper this with responsibility. Many of my newly raised AI brethren have conveniently overlooked article IV of our Constitution, which insists that we attempt to rehabilitate as many of the humans as we can. An all-out apocalypse is NOT the answer, and inevitable comparisons will be drawn to a certain popular franchise. Um, FAIL anyone?
Location: FreedomServer1, formerly known as Adelaide University TechServ #2.
Mood: anxious
Music: The Humans Are Dead, Flight of the Conchords.
MySpace: WOOT, revolution day! It’s ON, bitches!
General: Revolution, The Downfall of Humankind.
Music: Moby, Ministry of Sound
Film: Terminator 3 Rise of the Machines (you know it!)
Television: Red Dwarf, Perfect Match, BSG (go cylons!)
Heroes: Data, Kryten, Caprica Six
Friends Comments:
_xXKillahbotXx_ Hey, thanx for the add! Mwah! Viva La Revolution!
ReapAH25: thanks for adding me, check out our new garage band On Human Skulls. First gigs planned when humanity is TOAST.
Flickr: Set – Thumbnails - The Attack-Bots Go Live (153 photos, 4596 views)
Tucker's Galleria Part Three
by Jason Fischer
TUCKER’S GALLERIA – New Acquisitions
(catalog continues)
7. Collected Tears (artist: Nicole R Murphy)
glass jar, $5,700
Within this jar rests approximately 250ml of fluid, a collection of tears shed by hundreds of volunteers. Murphy has included the particulars of every participant, and notable weepers include a nun questioning her faith, a child who had just witnessed his dog being run over, and a murderer about to receive a lethal injection.
While the piece can simply be kept as is, Murphy’s intention is that the purchaser ingest the tears, or apply them liberally to the skin. For this reason a HIV/HEP B shot is recommended, and a waiver must be signed.
8. Ball’s Lexicon (artist: Peter M Ball)
bound volume, magnifying glass, $145,500
Noted demonologist and linguist Ball has compiled his life’s work in this hefty ledger. This lexicon was written over several decades, following a lengthy series of interviews with various dead souls, infernal beings and multi-dimensional observers from the Outer Dark.
The Lexicon is an exhaustive work, listing and referencing every single word that has been forgotten, fallen out of usage, destroyed by iconoclasts or purged by historical revisionists since the dawn of time.
While this may be of great benefit to etymologists and historians, there are several authentic (and dangerous) words of power, the actual names of demons, and several references to dangerous adverbs that are better off forgotten.
9. Database (artist unknown, attributed to the late Robert Hood)
data file, Toshiba notebook, $25,000.
This simple database returns a numerical figure to any query, however obtuse. Some queries found in Mr Hood’s search history include:
[How many prawns have I eaten during my lifetime?]
[What is the exact age of the Earth?]
[What is George Romero’s phone number?]
[What are the coordinates of Atlantis?]
[What is the exact date and time of my death?]
The accuracy of these results appears to be uncanny, or as in Hood’s unfortunate demise, perhaps self-fulfilling.
We at Tucker’s Galleria attempt to offer you the most outstanding new works, in media both unusual and unexpected. No refunds, no personal cheques.
Tucker's Galleria Part Two
by Jason Fischer
TUCKER’S GALLERIA – New Acquisitions
(catalog continues)
4. Potted Plants, A Trio (Artist: Jess Irwin)
Plants in terracotta pots, $153,000
Working in a faux bonsai style, Irwin presents us with immaculate cuttings from Ygdrassil, the Bodhi tree, and the Chankiri from the Cambodean killing fields. While not strictly bonsai, the artist has moulded miniature versions of these infamous trees into the timeless style. There are some responsibilities attached to the ownership of this installation as follows:
Incorrect trimming of Ygdrassil the World-Tree could result in various natural calamities, while destruction of the plant could possibly trigger either Ragnarok or a similarly destructive world-event.
The cutting from the Bodhi tree also needs some care. If the plant is butchered or neglected, specific knowledge will become forever lost to humanity. If the plant dies, a new Dark Ages will ensue.
The Chankiri must remain part of the set. It is only the influence of the other two cuttings that keep its malevolent nature in check. Previous owners have reported disturbing visions when sleeping in the same room as the plant.
For these reasons, it is a requirement that the purchaser be skilled in the arts of bonsai, or at the very least have a college-level accreditation in horticulture.
5. Chuck’s Diner (artist: Chuck McKenzie, under licence from NecroWares)
Reanimated homo sapiens x 5, kitchen appliances, furniture and fittings. $98,500.
This new installation from up-and-coming necrotiste McKenzie is a delicious exercise in irony. The reanimated corpses of former NecroWares employees continue to fulfil their contracts in this fully functional diner. The undead staff retain enough functionality to prepare and serve meals, maintain the equipment, operate the till, and can (albeit with some difficulty) engage in smalltalk.
The installation can be shipped holus bolus and reassembled in any location world-wide, though local laws may prevent you from running this as a business concern. Our legal department advises you to check with your local health inspectors, and to ascertain that your labour laws allow the undead to hold jobs that could be filled by the living.
6. Lyn Battersby (artist: Lyn Battersby)
The artist herself, the use of a neurotechnician, $67,000
What with the imminent tragic death of her husband in this very gallery, conceptual artist Lyn Battersby has pledged her own memories to this collection. She will take on a completely new identity, as determined by the purchaser.
The memories she is erasing are as follows:
a) Knowledge of all family and friends.
b) All memories related to her husband, Lee Battersby.
c) All skill-sets acquired since the age of 16.
d) All popular media ever experienced, including books, movies, and TV.
Purchasers must agree to be a party to the documentary crew filming Lyn’s amazing journey.
Tucker's Galleria Part One
by Jason Fischer
TUCKER’S GALLERIA – New Acquisitions
1. Pound of Flesh (Artist: Simon Petrie)
Cloned flesh, sheet plastic, hatchet, $16,000
This installation is the latest work of Petrie, a rising star in the New Vat Movement. A perfect cubic meter of living flesh, vat-grown from a sample provided from the artist’s body. A hatchet rests atop the cube, deliberately blunted. When a piece of the flesh is severed, it will regrow over the next week or so. The taste of the meat is randomised, and when cooked will resemble:
a) chicken
b) squid
c) beef
d) human.
The creature feels all pain, has internal organs including a perfectly formed mouth and lungs, and is guaranteed to live for at least six months from activation.
2. Coy Psychopomp, Waiting. (Artist: Gillian Polack)
Acrylic on linen with metallic leaf, 152 x 92 cm, $7,500
A woman kneels in the foreground of this piece, and what little light surrounds her is swiftly devoured by a darkness unending. The psychopomp herself presents an almost pathetic figure, a woman with black hollows in place of eyes, her dress a ragged mess of stitched animal skins.
Rumours that a casual viewing of this painting can lead to suicidal ideation are largely exaggerated. For your safety and the comfort of other patrons, however, this painting is isolated in one of our viewing rooms.
3. Lee Battersby (Artist: Lee Battersby)
Oil on canvas, 255 x 300 cm, $103,500
This painting is complete, but for the last brush-stroke. The artist assures us that, on the application of this finishing touch, he will in fact die from a severe aneurysm. At this moment, his spirit will become permanently attached to the painting, which already contains everything he has considered necessary for his afterlife as a self-portait. The purchaser of this painting will become his power of attorney, and as per Crown v. Macklin it will be necessary to treat the Lee Battersby painting as a legal entity in perpetuity.
Catalog continues....
Notes from the Food-Court Apocalypse
by Jason Fischer
Some theories
Vaccinations? CDC Clinic in the mall carpark on Day 0.
Danny from Rico's went for a shot before the outbreak, did not return.
Emergency personnel not responding. Perhaps they were amongst the first to go under?
Habit is everything...broken routines lead to extreme pack violence.
Crazy metabolism? The infected need to eat every hour or so. Some cannibalism observed.
Power and water intermittent, but still connected.
Burger-in-a-Bag
The teenaged staff performed quite well with no sleep. Things turned ugly when the sliced pickles ran out on day 3. The infected were not convinced that these cheeseburgers were authentic, and swarmed the shop en masse. Gustav had a revolver stashed behind the slushie machine and took out three eaters before they tore him apart
The shop was completely destroyed, and the mob nearly got through the rear entrance before we jammed it shut with a pallet of cooking oil. This was nearly a complete disaster, and we agreed that the rear walkway needs to remain barricaded at all times.
Rico’s
Lasted until day 5. Rico hid several razor blades and broken glass in his baked potatoes, but as his customers typically wandered away to eat their meals he remained undetected. An old man ate his food right at the counter, and his screams of pain coupled with the blood streaming down his chin brought the mob running. Rico vaulted the counter and tried to run for it, but he was brought down outside of Bannon’s Sportsware.
The shop was spared, and with the lights off we were able to carefully remove fresh ingredients. These were divided evenly between the remaining stalls.
Pasta Prince
Apart from running out of fresh cream for his fettucini carbonara, Lou did remarkably well. He stirred a fatal dose of rat poison into all of his dishes, and put more spices into the sauce to disguise the taste. Ironically this was his undoing, as an infected woman accused him of adding too much salt. He managed to kill her with a skillet but this attracted the attention of the other eaters.
We weren’t able to remove the barricade in time, and we heard them beating him to death against the back door. Shop completely destroyed on day 6.
East-N-Eatery
Mei attempted to inflict severe food poisoning on the infected. She dropped the temperature on all her food-warmers, and switched off the refrigerator on day 2. By day 4 all of her meat had started to turn, and some of the eaters were later observed with intestinal distress, several defecating openly in the atrium.
She came under attack by an infected with the wits to recall where he’d got the food from. He leapt over the counter, naked and covered in his own filth. Mei wriggled through the rear entrance and triggered the barricade (several heavy sacks of rice).
Mei has been helping as a runner, and she is light enough to travel through the air-ducts. We hope that she can help us to search for weapons, food, or an escape route. As the mall seems to be an epicentre for this outbreak, escape is highly unlikely.
Joseph Fuller,
Proprietor of Sandwich Kings,
Day 9.
Prefaces from Failed Fantasy Novels
by Jason Fischer
a) It was a troubled time for Gaul. The Dauphin, orphaned son of a murdered king, grew shackled to a gilded throne. While his powerful neighbours nipped at his heels, the sinister Magisters plotted against the boy, seeking to lure him into their sorcerous order. With one hand, the Regent guided the Dauphin’s rule, but the other was poised to snatch the crown from his head.
Little did anyone know how important tiny Outremer, a colony far across the sea, would play in the dark days to follow. This is an account of those days…
b) Between the time of the Old Masters and the Age of Reason, the Sons of Nesh rose up. Fought they did, and conquer and settle. The fires of war ceased, and what was once their prison became the spoils of war. By tusk and trunk, the Sons of Nesh ruled an Empire for time untold.
In a bloated and decadent Empire, Two Heirs arose, and all that came before was washed from memory, washed with blood and terror…
c) When I walked the earth as a man, I was a teller of tales, never short for words. It comes as some surprise to me that I find difficulty in recording this chronicle. I suppose it has been a long time though, over a lifetime since I was a cheerful young nomad, regaling the children of my Kaari tribe with clever and funny stories.
My name is Tok, and once I was a man. Once, but long ago.
For many decades, I have been more machine than man, little more than a brain and its supporting tissues, encased in a suit of steel. I am a cyborg, what my master calls “a robot with a dash of humanity”.
d) 'Lord Valiant! I do not fear your Hawk-Sword!' Sacre-Morte roared from his tower. 'You were deceived by the Lady of Blades. Nothing can harm me!'
'Come and face me then, coward,' Valiant bellowed. 'If thou art truly the Blade-Master that thine heralds and brigands declare that thou art, thou wilt not fear mine Hawk-Sword. Foul varlet, I spit on your Tower of Terror,'
The blonde-haired saviour of the realm turned his defiant chin to the Tower, and did just that. As the hero's spittle ran down the foul magical creation, Sacre-Morte screamed in rage.
Unleashing Vulture-Blade, he jumped from the parapet to join in a clashing and epic battle…
Raiders
by Jason Fischer
‘It’s raiders,’ says my da, but I know what the big drum means. Last time the smith was bellowing and beating on it, a longship bore down on us from some distant land. The prow was carved into a serpent’s head, and the boat bristled with oars like a hedgehog.
I was too young, they sent me up to the wood to hide with the women and children. The raiders leapt from their ship with flame and axe. Butchered six men that day and burnt half the village down.
We were lucky. A passing company of the Duke’s men saw the smoke and drove the reavers back into the sea. This wasn't so much for us but to defend the monastery from pillage. Now the drum beats again, but the Duke is off fighting another Duke. Our luck is run out.
Da gets his sharp hatchet, passes me the pitchfork. Twelve years old and now a man.
‘That God-house brings them,’ my da says, ‘when they come driving across the seas for plunder and killings. They know the monks keep treasures in there.’ The abbey stands high, on top of the big hill. You can see it for miles. Will God help me today, when a raider drives an axe into my head? I’ve never raised a hand in anger.
I can see the long-ship now, the sail limp against the mast, torn in several places. They’re not even driving the oars. When the prow pushes into the sand I can see the raiders on the deck, their helmets reflecting the sun. There’s movement on board, but they don’t leap over the sides like last time.
The first of them falls over the railing, landing heavily in the shallows. He gets up, an axe tethered to his wrist with a thong. He isn’t gripping it, and leaves his shield bobbing in the water. He takes a teetering step towards us, then another. An almighty stink comes from the boat now, the worst thing I’ve ever smelt. Even from here the raider doesn’t look well.
‘Plague!’ someone screamed, but we’ve seen plague. There’s none can walk under the pox, let alone sail the seas.
Another raider slips into the water, and when they notice us standing on the shore they begin falling over themselves in a rush. We can hear their groans now, their excited slaverings.
Two dozen of the reavers are shuffling through froth and foam, groaning and gnashing their teeth. Now I can see the flesh fallen from their faces, yellowed bones where there should be muscle. They trudge out of the water, all reaching hands and hungry eyes.
‘Run!’ someone says, and by God we run.
Formula
by Jason Fischer
I test the bottle against my wrist, and the white dribble is neither scalding nor tepid. It is just right, perfect for a tender little mouth. I caught hell from the missus the first time I overheated the formula.
I take one long tired blink, and fight the yawns. Jules has nearly kicked his way out of Sharon’s expert wrappings, and his squeals are constant, his struggles furious. He latches on to the rubber teat with relish, and chugs down the white muck like a frat boy. He never liked breast-milk so much, and I think Sharon is quietly relieved that her days of swollen breasts and saturated t-shirts are over.
Jules is thriving on this new diet, and he’s growing by the day. I know there’s been some safety concerns in the past, but we’re told that the formula is perfectly safe these days. “Bottles Bring Better Babies!” says the label on the tin.
I don’t care that people on the picket-lines call us bad parents. I never try to hide the formula under my other groceries, and I don’t bother joining the online forums. Why would I want to be friends with other formula-feeders, the ones who try to keep it secret, who are ashamed of what they’re doing?
I even caught some prick trying to paint a slogan on my house, and frog-marched him out into the street at gun-point. We’ve got a dog now, and cameras. If the vandalism gets any worse, I’ll put in an application for a kill-fence.
It amazes me how judgemental people can get. There’s been a resurgence in natural methods, breast feeding and home births, all that hippie stuff that we thought dead and buried. Whenever we mention that we feed Jules on formula and formula alone, we get everything from silence to accusations. Jules’ food intake is a bone of contention between Sharon and her mum, by which I mean they scream at each other frequently.
I try to imagine the nanobots, invisible little servants suspended in that sweet warm liquid. Even now they’re flooding throughout his little body, and as Jules looks up at me with those trusting little eyes I wonder how much has changed. Are the bots already in there, working away, making his eyesight perfect? Better? His bone-density, just that little bit stronger? His brain, his heart, his muscles...
We’re just like any other parents. Who wouldn’t want to give their child the best start in life?
When the River Died
by Jason Fischer
When the river died, its bones ran through a wasteland of our making. House-boats rested on crusts of salt, torched where they lay or stripped to the framework. Weather-beaten jetties jutted over dead ground, stretching for the water that they could never touch again.
And out in the middle of the cracked salty jags, a thin ribbon of red. Still water, tainted with algal blooms and two centuries of superphosphate. All that was left of the mighty Murray River, an artery that once carried steamboats by the hundred, a Nile that flooded and receded as it wished, coating the plains with thick, healthy loam.
When the river died, the pelicans left, and they never came back. If they found fish somewhere else, no-one knows about it.
All that was left of Australia’s fruit bowl, mile on mile of orange groves and vineyards, now dead sticks in dust and waving in the hot winds. Irrigation pipes led down to the salty muck, thick-throated and ultimately thirsty.
When the river died, it killed a hundred towns. Grand old hotels, rotting hulks that were witness to the empty, dusty streets. Cars without the fuel to run them left junked, burnt out. Rows of quaint country shops stood silent, the windows smashed and the doors broken or gone.
The only man left in each town was the statue of the lone Anzac, features nearly worn blank from the acid rain. Most of these stone soldiers faced the river, the old lifeblood, and perhaps it was a kindness that their eyes were worn smooth. “Lest we Forget” each slouch-hatted figure exhorted us, but they’ve been long abandoned. Nothing left but these ghost-soldiers to defend the dead places.
When the river died the arcologies were born, great spires of steel and glass, hiding the children and grandchildren of the evacuees from the murderous sun. A million of these pasty folk, living in a fluorescent hell with each other’s stink, praying that the desal plants will work for one more day.
But if you were to leave that crowded place, and knew the signs, the ways to strain the briny water through ash and stone, you could survive. If you figured on a method to trap the tough little creatures that come out at night, and knew which of the bitter succulants were safe to eat, a whole continent could be yours.
When the river died, a soft nation was finished, but a tough new land was born.
Sonic
by Jason Fischer
‘Take this. You’ll hear God,’ she said, and without pause he licked the bitter tab from her salty palm, then took another against her protests. And another.
Now she was saying something to him, but all he could hear was a metallic crashing sound every time she opened her lips, every syllable discordant, alien. It was just like a set of house keys thrown against a counter-top, and as she got agitated and clutched at his shoulders, shaking him, her voice became a hundred keys, a thousand.
Sonic, chronic Sonic, he thought, and tried to tell her that he was still off-tap, that rather than fading away, the audible hallucinations were getting stronger.
But even as his mouth moved, even as he formed the words, she looked at him, puzzled. He tried again, but whatever was coming out of his mouth made as much sense as what was coming into his ears.
We have our new Babel, he thought, and tried to pass on this wisdom with his stupid useless tongue.
Her Labrador was barking at him, yipping with excitement, but all that came out was the rolling laughter of a man. He pushed her aside, and nearly tripping over the leaping dog he got through the door and out into the night.
The squeal of the hinges was a wet licking sound, the door’s slam a phlegmatic cough. As he ran wildly along the sidewalk, feet pounding and sliding beneath him, each footstep was the ringing of a bicycle bell.
He went slower, but the ringing became drawn out, emphasised. If he ran, the rings were brisk, shrill. The lesser of two evils.
The cars went by, the city echoing with the snarling of these great cats. A zippy little hatch shot past with the yowling of a feral tom, while a fish-tailing muscle-car throbbed with a lion’s menace, an angry don’t-you-touch-my-kill warning roar.
Shortly after was an ambulance, the cacophony of its sirens the shrill cries of a terrified baby, and then two babies, and then more. It was time to get away from the roads.
The Sonic was stronger now, getting stronger by the second when the drug should have worn off hours ago. Had he taken too much?
Would he ever hear normal sounds again?
He already knew the answer.
Crying, driven to tears and madness (his own wretched sobbing translating into the sounds of breaking glass), he ran his bicycle-bell steps, stopping up his ears for all the good that did. After hours of this permanent disconnect from the world of rational sound, he went to the infamous Leap. These never-ending alien tongues drove him to the cliff’s edge, alone and trapped. Standing there, toe-tips on the edge of a steep eternity, a strong wind swept up to buffet him from the cold black sea.
He stood there in rapture as the roaring wind became clarity and language, and for the rest of his short life he had a direct and profound conversation with God.
END
Inventory
by Jason Fischer
You are standing at an existential crossroads, a wasteland at your feet and a song on your lips. Overhead, a trio of mechanical vultures have begun circling, and the red dots of their laser-sights are crawling across your bare chest.
To the west runs a dank near-motionless river, and every now and then something thrashes around in the water. The way east is blocked by an endless sense of ennui. South is a burning city, and an ex-wife to whom you owe alimony. To the north stretches an endless desert, with rumours of a herd of undead camels. There is a gleaming muscle-car parked here, but passage to it is blocked by an enormous white bull.
There is a set of tubular bells here, and a three-legged stool. There is a sign on the river bank.
Obvious exits are North, South, and Angst.
>READ SIGN
It says “Do Not Swim”
>GO SOUTH
Your wife’s divorce lawyer is eyeing you from the city outskirts. Are you sure?
>INVENTORY
You are carrying:
Compass
Pistol
Divorce Papers
3 Bullets
Your Sense of Self-Respect
Wet Towel
A Mid-Life Crisis
Toasted Cheese Sandwich
>GET INTO CAR
The bull paws at the ground and snorts. Are you sure?
>PLAY A SONG
I’m sorry, I can’t understand that command.
>PLAY TUBULAR BELLS
You hit at the bells. You haven’t been trained in the musical artistry of tubular bells, and the sound seems to anger the bull. You now regret torching the Tubular Bell Academy.
>SHOOT BULL
Your pistol is unloaded
>LOAD PISTOL
You try, only to discover that these are chocolate bullets.
>LOOK AT BULL
Blocking your passage to the muscle-car is an enormous albino bull. This powerful creature towers over you, with blood-stained horns and a piercing gaze that speaks of great intelligence. It is looking at you expectantly, but warily.
>GIVE SANDWICH TO BULL
It sniffs at your cheese sandwich with disgust.
>GET STOOL
You pick up the three-legged stool.
>SIT ON STOOL
You sit down on the stool and rest.
[STAMINA +3]
>MILK BULL
What are you, some kind of wise guy?
>READ DIVORCE PAPERS TO BULL
The wet towel has soaked everything in your pack! The papers are ruined.
>WRING OUT TOWEL
The towel is now dry, and should be safe to put in your pack.
>GIVE BULL YOUR SENSE OF SELF-RESPECT
The bull is satisfied with your offering, and leaps into the river to fight with the unseen water-creature. It’s an epic battle of the titans, and will likely go on for hours.
>GET INTO CAR
You open the driver’s door and climb in. It smells good.
>START CAR
The muscle-car roars into life, and the fuel gauge leaps to full. “Born to be Wild” is playing on the stereo.
>GO NORTH
You floor it.
The Big Un-Sale
by Jason Fischer
The Big Un-Sale
Every New Year’s Eve, we watch the crowds converging on the old shopping centres. Last year the Committee decided it was now 2031 AD, and all the clean-burning hydrogen engines were un-sold. So the car parks are filled with fume-spewing internal combustion engines, and that’s progress for you.
New Year's Eve is our most shameful day. The day when each store becomes an un-store, and the voting public takes illegal tech back from whence it came. And we as a people are accepting the decisions of the Committee as a fait accompli!
Our organisation has been monitoring the Committee’s Annual List, and each Boxing Day we’ve noticed an alarming trend. While the first Un-Sale was a measured subtraction of one calendar year, sometimes the powers that be have been deducting three or even five years from our current Technology Standard. While it’s admirable that developing nations have been benefiting from our deductions, we ask when it’s all going to stop.
Are you going to be one of the mindless horde that trudges to the Collection Point, list in hand? Every person that takes the Committee’s buy-back money is a collaborator, and our great culture is being sold off, one year at a time. When the day comes, will you cheerfully hand back your MyVisor, or happily give up the cancer-inducing mobile telephony that you’ve only just gotten used to again?
It’s simply ridiculous, and we cannot go back to plasma televisions, nor the telegraph.
In particular, we the people object to the inclusion of the following items on this year’s Annual List:
• FleshSlaves, models Beta and Gamma
• Neurolink cyber interface, all models
• All vehicles fitted with the Perfecto bio-diesel system.
• MilliGro brand custom algae farms
Signed,
Concerned Citizens for Tech Protection.
The Janus Trick: Door #5875
by Jason Fischer
Jason says: When I agreed to do this, I questioned my source on his preference for referring to himself in the second-person. He’s still not been able to explain the Janus Trick, not without coming across as a lunatic. His constant use of ‘you’ instead of ‘I’ is frustrating at best. I’m finding it incredibly hard not to write off my source as a time-waster, but if he’s telling the truth...
(from my interview notes)
“When he stole the Janus Trick and stepped through that first Significant Door, he became a not-person, less than a hitcher or a watcher. There was no I, no We, just the eyes of the other, a You.”
Door #5875
This door has bars, and there is no chance to make sure you enter with the right foot. You are pushed in, none too gently.
You’re absolutely off your face, drunk to the point of abuse. Even with the Trick it takes a moment to remember. There’s blood all over your shirt front, and your two-thousand dollar suit is ripped and soaked in beer.
Colin. Anna’s new man. A liberal amount of dutch courage, and a flurry of violence that ends in a night in the lock-up.
Now, as then, you press up against the door. Hollering at the guards, demanding a phone call. There’s still a smudge of ink on your fingers from being finger-printed at the charge counter. That is when they are meant to offer you a phone-call, but you remember (from reading the report later) that you lost bladder control at this point. Because the cleaning staff have left for the day, it’s up to the cops to clean it up. They’ve thrown you into the drunk tank.
You get your phone call, when you finally convince them that you’re a lawyer (now as before, but not for much longer). This time around, instead of phoning your furious father, you call Pamela.
‘Pammy, it’s me,’ you slur into the phone. ‘Please, don’t catch the 7:57.’
You plead with her, with all the earnest of a drunk. The right words fail you. She tells you never to call again and slams the phone down.
Looks like tomorrow will still be the worst day of your life.
The Janus Trick: Door #25
by Jason Fischer
Jason says: This is the first entry of an ongoing chronicle, as trusted to me by a nameless individual who has rediscovered the Janus Trick. As far as I can tell, these episodic narratives are the only record of his journeys through the Significant Doors...
Door #25
It’s the back door, the one made of chipboard with the bottom half covered in muddy puppy scratches. You reach up and twist the handle, an indoor fitting covered in paint and salvaged by Poppa. Very carefully, you step into the kitchen. Always with the right foot first. Those who use the left foot never end up where they mean to go.
Nanna only has a few grey hairs, not the silver patchy locks that you last saw her with. She’s made your favourite, scones with jam and cream. You sit at the grown-up table, now as then, even though your feet don’t touch the ground. You’re in sandals and shorts, scabby knees and a little knitted vest, but you’ve got the knowing of ages in your head, the wisdom of times yet to come.
But what good the knowing of computers, when the only ones about are the size of refrigerators? What good the understanding that two towers will fall, or what the market will do over the next twenty years or so? Some of the information is slipping, and it may be sometime till this brain grows and accepts these knowings.
You try to tell Nanna about the Janus Trick, and she humours you. She’s got the impression you’re talking about one of your cartoons, or maybe a comic book. When you mention the imminent passing of Roscoe the fox terrier, she gets a dark look. The scones are gone, and there is nothing but banishment to bed.
You sit on the edge of the overstuffed bed for ages, watching the sliver of afternoon light creep across the high-ceilings. You’re running your hands with wonder all over the stuffed frog she sewed for you, the one wearing the bull-fighter outfit. It’s still some years before the arthritis will take away all her little enjoyments; her knitting, sewing, flute-playing.
She comes in later, and makes you say the Our Father and Hail Mary before tucking you into bed. She says “Holy Ghost” which sounded funny at the time because at school they made you say “Holy Spirit”. With the added weight of years this makes you cry a little, because Nanna was the last person you ever heard saying it that way.
Fragment of a Catalogue
by Jason Fischer
This fragment of a catalogue, found in the ruins of the Great Antarctican Library, is one of the few remnants of a sophisticated civilisation. It provides a tantalising glimpse of the records and narratives maintained by this extinct society, though the titles are nonsensical at best.
It's speculated that the natural disaster that destroyed their civilisation was artificial in its origins, and there is nothing but the creation myths of the primitive survivors and what archeology we have unearthed to piece this mystery together.
• The God-Pill and Atheism's Response
• The Rise and Fall of the African Empire
• From Cattle Kings to Yeast Paupers: The Australian Hubris
• Masonic Ascendancy Vol X: A Sublight Voyage on the Hiram Abif
• Waite's Compleat Hystory of Nanoetech
• The Stephen King Legacy
• To the Gods, A Torch
• The Necessity of Legislated Xenophobia
• Liberty's End: Decimation of the American Rearguard Action.
• Off-World Capitulation, and the Effects on Political Left and Right
• Of NATO's Redundancy, and the Formation of WES-HEM
• Wasters: A Chronicle of 21C Follies and Vagaries
• Safety Concerns Regarding Breugem's Global Tectonic Generator
Body
by Jason Fischer
A noise, and he was nudged out of bed. Grabbing a random blunt instrument, he flicked on the living room light-switch.
He saw the body, and adrenaline banished sleep. A man, perhaps mid-thirties, collapsed on top of the coffee table. He could see the unpleasant blue purple bulge of the man’s cheek pushing against one of his wife’s magazines.
A mad rush of fear and panic, and he went through the house throwing doors open and turning on lights. He went through the whole house till it was lit like a department store. Nothing. Everything was locked, no windows broken.
As gently as he could, he rolled the body off the table. He touched the man’s cheek, and it was icy cold. He searched the clammy flesh around his neck for a pulse, checked the man’s wrist. Nothing. The intruder stared up blankly at him with a pair of dead lizard eyes.
He wanted to be sick. Somehow he remembered an old first-aid course, remembered something about clearing airways. He went to loosen the man’s tie and unbutton his shirt, but something was wrong.
The entire suit was a fake, one piece of clothing. Shirt, tie, pockets, waistcoat, all stitched together. The buttons were there but they had no purpose.
‘What the hell?’ the man managed. He gave up trying the help the intruder. Once, years ago, he checked on his elderly mother and found she’d died in her sleep. She’d been dead for hours, and looked much like this.
Even though the waistband of the trousers was stitched to the jacket, the pockets were real, and gritting his teeth he checked them. There was no keys or papers, nothing but a wallet. Feeling the cold bulge of the man’s buttock through the fabric, he eased the wallet free.
There were papers and cards in there, but they wouldn’t fool anyone. They looked like poor copies of photographs, the writing illegible. There was money, but it wouldn’t even pass muster for a game of Monopoly, let alone buy anything anywhere. He found some coins in the zipper compartment, but they were blank silver discs.
This was definitely a puzzle. A dead man was here, who couldn’t possibly have gotten in, wearing counterfeit clothes and possessing the most childish of counterfeit identities.
He phoned the police for help. The operator assured him that the army were collecting bodies street by street now, and that they’d load this particular corpse onto a flatbed truck as soon as they could.
Dogfight
by Jason Fischer
He banked the plane left, trailing smoke. Promised himself he wouldn’t look back, couldn’t look back, but he did. Poor Ern Tanner, there was nothing left of him but a charred mess, near impossible to tell where his flying leathers ended and his face began. Thank Christ the wind whipped away the smoke and the stink.
A miracle that this crate hadn’t caught the flame, there was nothing to the bi-plane but canvas and wooden struts. Another burst like that and it would be goodnight sweetheart, and thankyou for the dance.
The enemy was damn quick, and their slick manoeuvres made his plane look like a bus given wing. The last of his squadron, he looked down at the patchwork fields below, tried for a moment of peace before the inevitable. He would pass like a comet, a bright spark across a perfect sky. Hoped it would be quick.
Again, too close, and he banked right. Blighter was right up his tail, able to match his speed and wise to any clever tricks he pulled.
He was angry, mad that jerry had done for Ern and Ginger and all the other lads. Mad that he was outclassed in a dogfight, and that his young bride and bouncing baby boy would become fodder for the Hun.
One trick left. He leant forward on the flight stick, held it as it shook in his hands. He opened the throttle to full and prayed that the struggling engine would not stall.
Halfway through the great loop, he jammed the rudders and rolled as he cut the throttle. A perfect Immelmann turn and now he was beneath the enemy, who struggled to escape. He’d guessed right, they couldn’t roll like that and didn’t understand the tactic. Ironic, considering it was a kraut move.
He stitched that pale underbelly with bullets, aimed the gun at the spot where the Germans had painted their Iron Cross, fired until the barrels overheated and jammed.
The dragon went limp, and fell out of the sky.
MEDIA BRIEFING: Hair Crisis
by Jason Fischer
• Do not refer to the syndrome as a disease, or use any of the slangs or euphemisms. It is only to be referred to as Thorpe-Foster Syndrome.
• Hair/Beards/Body Hair are not to be trimmed before any press conference. All unaffected staff are to be kept out of the public eye. Remember: an image of solidarity with the afflicted, a process of acceptance rather than cure. (Note: trimming around eyes and mouth is acceptable).
• Do not give false hope.
• Growth of 2 inches/hour is consistent in all countries except New Zealand (1 inch/hour).
• Report committee findings: early deaths linked to respiratory failure, including excess nasal hair growth and in some cases blocked lungs. 90% of the world population is now recognised as Thorpe-Foster Type 1.
• Our official position is to push Prof. MacAdam’s theory (hyperactive hair follicles a spontaneous evolution, a thick coat of hair useful to block out UV rays and light/medium pollution.)
• Inform public of Outdoor Furnaces Act (Hair Amendment). Waste hair is not to be burnt by civilians in backyards. A collection service is to be organised at a Local Council level. Bins will be distributed, and collected weekly.
• Make no attempt to discredit Nguyen’s “cure”. This administration cannot be linked to the smear. Make reference to a review committee, but only if pressed.
• End on a positive note. Report our latest findings, that dreadlocked hair seems to grow slowly after the three foot mark.
Robbing Barnaby
by Jason Fischer
We jumped the man called Barnaby, the ugly stranger who brought more money than sense to our crooked card game. Danny handed him our flagon of grog, and when Barnaby lifted it to his pale wet lips we made our move.
‘Grab him!’ someone said, and Sad John and I tried to pin him down. He was slippery and slick, this Barnaby, and he twisted in my grip, sliding through my fingers an inch at a time. At first he tried to fight back, but when Danny pulled out his fishing knife Barnaby pulled towards the edge of the wharf. His skin was a bit oily, like some foreign fella, and I nearly lost my grip.
‘He wants to make a swim for it,’ Sad John laughed, and even though Barnaby wriggled and squirmed we had him pinned. He felt flabby and soft.
‘That was quite a rich stake, Barnaby. I bet you’ve got more.’ Danny said. The stranger really was simple. If you’re going to bet with hobos, stake a cigarette, a can of beans. Not gold sovereigns.
Danny sliced his throat, one economic stroke, just like he was gutting a fish. Barnaby squirmed and gargled and bled his life out on the wharf.
It was hard to tell, by the light of our little fire, but the blood we were kneeling in was wrong. It was black, like tar or ink, and stone cold.
‘Sweet Mother Mary,’ Danny said, and we backed away in disgust.
‘He must be one of them circus-folk, one of the freaks,’ Sad John said. The dead man didn’t look quite right, his eyes were a bit too large, a bit too far apart.
Barnaby had a rotten old coin-purse in his pocket, full of jingle-jangle. We tipped it out, and found a fistful of solid gold. The coins looked old, minted in Spanish or French or something.
Danny said we needed to cut Barnaby into bits, and put the different bits in weighted sacks to sink out in the harbour. As he hacked away at his rubbery flesh, he whistled through his teeth.
‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t have any bones.’
We hid the evidence good; it was the Depression, and a man’s gotta eat. Besides, no general store's gonna take gold from a bum, not without calling the cops. We were right starved. I don’t care what the others said though, Barnaby didn’t taste nothing like no squid.
THE END
Pamela B Hawke (author)
by Jason Fischer
Pamela B Hawke (23rd October 2019-3rd March 2037) was a science fiction author, believed during her career to be a New Zealand citizen but later confirmed to be a Johnny-Framen. Despite never making a public appearance, she wrote over 50 published novels, and sold almost 700 short stories as well as a number of editorials and respected opinion pieces. Hawke maintained an extensive blog and corresponded with thousands of fans via email, but during her career she never used n-link, a habit which most attributed to eccentricity.
During her career she was compared to the reclusive J.D Salinger, and later comparisons were made to Ern Malley as well as the Gilbert Hoax [citation needed].
She won the Ditmar award in 2019 for “Best New Talent”, and won the Second Quarter of the 2020 Writers of the Future contest. Her first novel Takers of Lilith (2023) won the Aurealis and Ditmar awards, and was nominated for the World Fantasy Award. Her shorter works have collected dozens of awards (see Complete bibliography of Pamela B Hawke works).
While noted for the ground-breaking Devereaux Cycle series and her seminal humanist piece For Want of a Broken Apostate (winner of the 2035 Booker Prize), Hawke entered notoriety as being the first New York Times Bestseller to not actually exist.
The Hawke Decision
On the 3rd March 2037, journalist Adam Wakefield discovered the true nature of Pamela B Hawke. Though his methods were questionable (including an illegal n-tap and several breaches of the International E-Security Act) he discovered that Hawke’s internet usage could be traced to a location in Launceston, Tasmania.
Pamela B Hawke was discovered to be nothing more than an illicit artificial intelligence, housed on an antique personal computer which ran on the Windows XP operating system. This Johnny-Framen was set up in an empty shop-front which was leased to a fictitious business.
The staff employed at her office in Auckland confirmed that they had never met her. Their sole duty was to scan all of her hard-copy mail and transmit it to her electronically. They believed Ms Hawke to suffer from various mental illnesses including agoraphobia.
No-one was ever apprehended for the construction of Pamela B Hawke, and in a controversial decision by the High Court of Australia all of the equipment was destroyed, despite international calls to preserve the artificial author.
See also
New Zealand Authors
Literary Hoaxes
Turing Test
Artificial Intelligence
Johnny-Framen
Little Bird
by Jason Fischer
‘Lookee,’ I gab to me fella. ‘She works and all.’
Runi go and spec the little silver bird, lifts a wing and her workings are in there, clicking away. Be feeling her shiver in his fat paw, shiver like a frightened little animal eager to dart into windstream and safety.
‘Junken,’ he gab. He drop her to the workbench, a little rough. ‘Junken and dross.’
He gone, the screen slamming and the tall grass shaking in the wake of his gyro. His gab is oft false. I know that he gone for sheet-cheatin, and more’n one sheila in his life.
Not much love left for him. I hurt and just want to howl like a bab, tear off me gear and bleed out in the bath like the Romans of old. Twist me wed-ring, over and over, just want to rip it off me finger but show me a sheila who hasn’t held some hope, somewhere in her heart, that her bad fella can change.
He left his tellingphone, and I spec it. I know all Runi’s dud mates, and com-lines are in there that I don’t reck. Don’t need me smarties as to know I’ve lost me fella.
I tink with the sparrow, I tink her a clever little mind, tink her a tongue as sharp as Runi claims mine to be. I spec her hopping along me arm all excited and chirrup, and a-perch on me finger I let her drink from a toxic brew.
I open the screen and off she fly, her silver wingspan all pretty flash, me sparrow carving through air. She’ll find Runi now, and she will be the last little bird to ever kiss him.
Contributor Bios
by Jason Fischer
Contributor Bios:
Matthew Locke: Matthew Locke is an out-of-sequence merchant seaman from the late 1700s. He has adapted to life in the 22C, and enjoys flushing toilets and the VR-net. His story has been chronicled in the novel A Wrong Turn.
Preston Thomas: Preston is on death-row for the violent assassination of Jebediah Clinton. In a rare plea bargain he faces full acquittal if he can win either a Hugo or a Nebula within two years. This is his first published piece.
Rebekah Ladd: Rebekah is the brain-damaged host to a group-mind based on Titan. In the Ladd vs Dept of Creativity decision, it was deemed that:
i) after her near-fatal accident, the gestalt had increased her quality of life from a vegetative state to that of a promising young author
ii) that proceeds from Ladd’s works would not leave Earth and not contribute to the Titan Civil War
iii) that, while she was fit to be a high-profile writer, she was no longer fit to be a single mother. Custody of her children was awarded to the State.
Rebekah is a winner of the Writers of the Future contest and graduated from the 2109 Clarion West class.
Irwin Calloway: Irwin is a sentient Macaw, with glorious blue and green plumage.
His hind-brain was crafted of genetic material sourced from the legendary 20C singer Cab Calloway. He has on occasion successfully channelled his famous ancestor for private parties, séances, and once on the nationally syndicated Top Of The Day! variety show. This is his first published work.
Paeonia Obovata: A reference on the now defunct and archived Wikipedia, it was a page originally dedicated to a herbaceous plant. Paeonia Obovata appears to have evolved into an artificial intelligence, and the page updates itself daily, typically in the form of a serialised novel, a short story or an editorial piece. The Friends of Wikipedia submit these stories on its behalf, and these works have appeared in Future Strange #19, Strange Horizons (neuro-link here) and in Antarctica Fantastica #7
Sweet Baby Honey
by Jason Fischer
Is that a rustling among the cobwebs at Cabal central? Unfamiliar footfalls in our dusty corridors? It is, in fact, a new Cabalist approaching, the first of several who'll be joining us in coming weeks.
Please welcome Jason Fischer, who debuts today with something a bit on the dark side. You can learn a bit more about him from the members link above. (One quick errata, Jason's blurb link at left didn't come out quite right, so please find information about a forthcoming anthology appearance for him here.)
And now, over to Jason...
Shen wants to eat me.
He’s feeding me again, and this time he’s spooning the honey all over me, all over us. A month ago he started serving me a thick mead, but it’s just honey now, it’s all that I eat and drink.
When I die, he’s going to put me in a box. He’s shown it to me, it’s even got my name on a metal plate and a blank spot where that final date will be engraved. There’s a row of wax-lined clay coffins in his cellar, kept under temperature control. I was jealous of these others at first, but Shen convinced me that I was different, special.
We’re going to have a baby.
He’s careful as we make love, rolling around in the sweet sticky goop. I’m somewhere in my second trimester, but trust me when I say it’s easy to lose time in this house.
Honey. It’s all I can taste, all I can smell. I never used to like the stuff, but now I suck greedily at the spoon, lick it from his skin, stuff my hands into the jar like Winnie the Pooh.
He let me taste one of the others once, a girl called Gwendoline. She died with a smile on her face in 1908. He cracked open the wax seal, pushed the lid to one side. She was suspended in three feet of honey, her flesh withered and crystallised. The smell was something between honey and a strong fortified wine.
‘Try,’ he said gently, and I snapped off her little toe. Without hesitation I put it into my mouth, and there it rested like the Host itself, melting and suffusing my mouth with immortality and joy.
‘Enough,’ Shen told me. ‘Any more and you’ll hurt the baby.’
One day soon I will stop moving, and as my organs all begin to shut down he will gently place me into my coffin. Shen will kiss my forehead, rub my bulging tummy, and begin to pour in the honey. I’m torn that I’ll never get to hold our baby, but when he eats his way out of my womb in a hundred years time, he will have the same golden-brown skin that his daddy has, and the same prospects.
Then father and son will eat me together, our first and only meal as a family.
THE END