Steampunk Adventures Issue 5

STEAMPUNK ADVENTURES! JANUARY 23, 2011

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Staff List

PublisherCathyWyo1 Haystack

Chief EditorKitsuko Pelazzi

Assistant EditorGordon Soliel

StaffTehanu MarenwolfZebrati MerricksAlana SteamweaverDakk McDunnough

Steampunk adventuresISSN 2159-5127

Welcome to Issue 5!Changes abound.

Hello all and welcome to a new issue of Steampunk Adventures!This is the Winter issue (a combined issue) due to many people having

traveled during the winter holidays. We apologize for the delay, but now we’re back!

We also have now an ISSN, as you can see to the right. We are official!Please send any submissions, suggestions, etc. to Kitsuko Pelazzi (or

email: kit.pelazzi@gmail.com) You can also check the Steampunk Adventures blog:http://steampunkadventuressl.wordpress.com/

A NOTE CONCERNING STEAMPUNK ADVENTURESWe will be shifting focus to provide more

opportunity for writers within Steampunk Adventures - essentially becoming more of a literary magazine with a steampunk aesthetic.

As mentioned in the previous issue, we have offices in Steelhead Nevermoor; the main office building is still under construction, but if you want

to drop by 745 Steelhead Nevermoor and talk with Kitsuko Pelazzi, you are welcome to do so and talk about tea, literature, or anything you find particularly interesting.

Cathy also has a discussion group on her sim Kalki, and the topics range quite a bit!

STEAMPUNK ADVENTURES! JANUARY 23, 2011

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A NOTE FROM CATHY

One thing I am certain of is that for the most part those you meet in Second Life are the creative visionary types and the team at Steampunk Adventures exceeds that reputation. Not only do they; Kitsuko Pelazi, Gordon Soleil, Stereo Nacht, Dakk McDunnough, Onyx Plutonian and many others who weave in and out of our venture, inspire and motivate me and as a result they have stretched Steampunk Adventures to new adventures.

We started out with a plan to do a nice little online and Second Life magazine that would promote the Steampunk Adventures store in Second Life. But with this team  that narrow of a focus would be, in my opinion, a waste of some really great talent. 

Before starting the magazine I knew that some of my friends in Second Life were really good writers, had a passion for writing, and would be an asset to the magazine, that is how our new focus started.  This change meant that we would expand our vision beyond the boundaries of Second Life, that we would encourage and support new writers who just needed a venue to promote their work, and that we would need to put into place a

long term plan for sustaining Steampunk Adventures.

We started to explore all the various avenues to promote what we were doing, and learn what is required of being a full fledged literary magazine - for example, writing competitions - and reorganizing the focus and organization of the magazine. This new focus allowed me to realize that I could achieve a long time goal and that is to publish a book.  With the help and collaboration of the people I work with on Steampunk Adventures we can possibly publish an anthology by the end of this year! I have had the good fortune to have been able to put together a team who have been as committed to Steampunk Adventures as I am and who have pushed this magazine forward in spite of the various personal live challenges and changes I have faced over the last six months. I think we are through the worst of those and we can work together to realize this vision. I want to express my special appreciation to Kitsuko Pelazzi for her steady focus and diligent work on Steampunk Adventures.

We are encouraging submissions of participant’s best work in various writing competitions. The winners will see their work published in the anthology and  

receive a free copy of the anthology.

We currently have a writing competition in place in which writers are encouraged to give a Steampunk twist to their favorite Grimm Brothers tale, submissions are due March 1. See the website for complete details:  http://steampunkadventuressl.wordpress.com/2011/01/04/steampunk-writing-competition/

Complete Guidelines

1. Submit one previously unpublished story of up to 8,000 words or three (3) previously unpublished poems to Steampunk Adventures. Please send each entry separately and clearly mark whether it is a poetry or fiction

entry.

Email entries to:

steampunkadventurers@gmail.com

Be sure and use a coversheet with the following information:

Your name/pen name

STEAMPUNK ADVENTURES! JANUARY 23, 2011

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Name of Story (which should also be on each page of your story/poetry submissions)

How to contact you: at least an email address

Entries will not be accepted until February 1, 2011. Final Deadline for Entries will be July 31, 2011.  Submissions will be electronic via email to steampunkadventurers@gmail.com

Winners will be announced in October 2011 and winning entries including honorable mentions and the “best of” staff writing with plans to publish in the December/January issue, a chapbook and/or ebook in December/January. This anthology will also include the “Best of” Steampunk Adventures for the year.

Writers associated with the judges of Steampunk Adventures are not eligible to submit work to the contest.

Prizes and categories will be awarded as follows:

Short Stories:

First Prize Short Story:                  50.00 USD

Second Prize Short Story:                  35.00 USD

Third Prize Short Story:                  15.00 USD

Honorable Mention:

No dollar prize but possible publication in the anthology.

Poetry:

First Prize Poetry:                         50.00 USD

Second Prize Poetry:                        35.00 USD

Third Prize Poetry:                15.00 USD

Honorable Mention:

No dollar prize but possible publication in the anthology.

All entries must be the original creation of the submitting author. All rights to the entries must be owned by the author and shall remain the property of the author. The author gives permission to Steampunk Adventures/Cathy Anderson. to publish and display the entry on the Web and/or eBook form if the entry is selected as a winner or finalist. Winners

will be contacted within 45 days of the deadline date.

Copyright

Authors retain all rights to their story but grant Steampunk Adventures/Cathy Anderson the right to compile their story into an anthology. Steampunk Adventures is then responsible for the distribution of the anthology.  Steampunk Adventures is granted the right to publish the winning stories on its websites and post the names of contest winners as well as the titles to the stories. Author warrants that the story is completely theirs and does not infringe on the rights of any other entity and is responsible for any plagiarism or other unauthorized use.

Simultaneous Submission

Authors may submit stories that have been submitted elsewhere at other times. Author should ensure that their submissions elsewhere will not jeopardize Steampunk Adventures’ right to publish the story in an anthology if it is the winning story. (Ensure that other contests also allow the authors to retain full rights to their story and allow simultaneous submission.)

Multiple Submissions

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Authors may submit more than one story or poetry submission.

The submissions will be judged by the Steampunk Adventures Team. Staff submissions are not allowed to the competition.

For further information on submissions to the magazine please see the Steampunk Adventures Blog:

http://steampunkadventuressl.wordpress.com/submission-guidelines/

As usual we are pleased to offer you the poetry of Stereo Nacht, in this issue’s Poetry Corner:

Finding Homeby Stereo Nacht

Across the land, across the sea and through the airI’ve travelled far to find a place to call my own.

The voidness burned my lonely heart searching his pairYet through the years I’ve kept my course: further I’ve flown.

And when the silence grew more heavy I could bearA mooring point I’d seek to fill, refit (and moan)Yes, offer too a passage for all those who’d care.

As many leagues rushed under us, by the wind blownI’d talk and share and get to know all ‘bout my fare

Thus slowly came to accept what I’ve always known:It ain’t on earth I’d find the place for my sweet lair

Among the clouds I would at last find my quaint throne!(As far as friends and lovers go, to you I swear:

It’s with the airmen, air women my heart’s best shone!)

INTERVIEW WITH SEVEN SHIKAMI - ANACHRONAUTS

By Kitsuko Pelazzi

I had the great fortune to contact Seven Shikami (Stefan Gagne) regarding providing us with an interview about his web fiction series anachronauts.

The series is designed for the web, and can be accessed here:

http://pixelscapes.com/anachronauts/There is also a retail printed book available for

order: https://www.createspace.com/3466731

I posed some questions to Seven, which he happily answered.

Q: First: when did you start writing anachronauts, and what inspired you to write it?

I started writing in Spring 2009. It's been roughly a year and a half since then, with quite a few chapters under my belt, including one furious stint through NaNoWriMo 2009 (which I accomplished, woohoo!).

The main reason I started the project was to return to writing itself. For ten years, I've been more focused on indie video games and Second Life projects like Insert Coin Arcade and the 7Seas Fishing Game. It was high time to get back on the writin' horse.

Of course, just saying "It's time to write a story!" doesn't make it happen. I needed a concept. So, I turned to the things that held my interest at the time for inspiration: urban/unorthodox fantasy, specifically the Dresden Files and Terry Pratchett's Tiffany Aching series. And if you're going to include Past and Present... why not future, as well? Jetpack-punk, if you will.

I also wanted the story to be post-apocalyptic... sort of. I call it more post-post-apocalyptic. The crisis has passed, and the survivors have settled down into a new and different world. The scars are there, but now it's time to heal, to find a way forward alongside hostile new neighbors.

I love the idea of smashing genres head on into each other -- modern

day drama and ye olde fantasye and golden age sci-fi. It lets you explore the tropes without falling directly into cliche, because one side examines the other from a distance. You can blend and twist magic with science, use modern slang to contrast ancient traditions and futurist visions, etc.

Q: As the series can seem rather complicated to fo"ow at first glance, is there a particular way you wish to introduce the anachronauts series for new readers? Where should they start?

I'll admit this is one of the problems with the series -- it's not until you've finished the first "series," the First Age, that it's even made clear that this is a massive genre mash-up world that includes more than Faeries vs. Humans! So, to help people hit the ground running, I came up with a "pitch page" that describes the series and how it works:

http://pixelscapes.com/anachronauts/start.html

The website itself, located at http://pixelscapes.com/anachronauts , has a lot of features to help you through, too:

* You can see what chapter I'm currently working on, and when I last added scenes to it.

* Every chapter of every series in the saga is neatly laid out so you can read it in order.

* Prev and Next buttons on every story page will carry you through from start to finish.

* My twitter and blog (for feedback on current drafts) are right there on the home page, so you can know what's going on lately.

Q: In what ways, if any, have your virtual-world experiences been reflected in the elements of your writing (in general)?

Second Life is very much a genre mash-up world as well. Teleport to any random social hangout and you're gonna see ordinary folks alongside angels, demons, faeries, steampunkers, robots, giant talking fish, etc.

The conflicts and the harmonies of all these wildly different people echo in anachronauts. It's a struggle to find common ground as well as define what makes you different. Sometimes that leads to strife, sometimes it leads to a wonderful collaboration. Ultimately, the world of anachronauts is about trying to come together against the problems you face, using your differences to come at a problem from every angle. The differences should be cherished.

Q: Unusual melodic cha"enges and DJ battles - it's clear that music has played a large part in your work, both present and past.

What (if any) particular genres do you favor? Do you have any particular music you listen to while writing?

Not a day goes by where I'm not listening to a few hours of music, piping away in the background while I write, or playing it in video games like Rock Band. I've even composed  soundtracks for my indie video games. Music is integral to my life.

My tastes are spread across a lot of genres. Rock, alternative, indie, pop, electronica, prog, hiphop, turntablism, classic jazz, even some straight up classical music. I tend to go for a particular SOUND more than a particular genre... something which grabs you and doesn't let go. I categorize my music by those feelings. "Soaring/Awesome." "Creepy." "Chillout." "Contemplation." Needless to say, I get a lot of use out of Pandora.com's ability to pick songs by FEEL rather than definition.

For anachronauts, we haven't had too many stories focusing SPECIFICALLY on music, but the one I'm tackling right now certainly does. London's Fog 03 is focused on a Neo-Victorian version of Ibiza, and a steampunk-flavored DJ battle. I had to do a lot of research here, since there's a stark difference between club DJs (who present a smooth and flowing set for hours and hours of dancing) and battle DJs

(who go fast and furious at a simple pair of turntables for two minutes and are done). On top of that, it all has to make sense using the strange steam-powered analog technology of the world. It's gonna be either a smashing success or a glorious disaster of a story, once I'm done, I suspect...

Q: What do you like best about the anachronauts series?

For starters, it's my first published work. Thanks to modern technology, I've got a self-published, actually-on-paper

version of the First Age (the first series in the anachronauts saga) which you can buy for real monies and put on a real bookshelf. It's got a bonus chapter in it that you can't get anywhere else, too. More books are planned. I'm not exactly a bestselling author (I've sold maybe 60 copies total) but it feels NICE to know it's out there.

Overall, the itch this project scratches for me the most is providing me a way to express my love for blended genres. The tropes and standards of straight genre fiction are great, but being able to approach it from a modern mindset with characters that don't need to speak in Ye Olde is very liberating. It lets you play and explore without feeling limited. Anything is possible.

Q: The anachronauts series seems to incorporate reader comments - what ways can readers provide input? How have the comments been incorporated?

Almost every Wednesday and Sunday, I post a story update. This consists of one or more scenes for the latest draft in progress. These updates are announced on my Twitter and Facebook fan page as well as in an RSS feed immediately after posting.

So, the reward for "catching up" on the entire series is that you get to read stories AS THEY ARE WRITTEN... and at that stage, your feedback can be incorporated into the series.

Obviously things like "You spelled that wrong" or "This sentence wasn't clear," basic editorial stuff, is encouraged. But I also love to hear how you feel

about a character, what part of this world you want to see more of, and so on. Often when I'm not sure exactly where to go, I throw it open to the floor, setting out the options of what I COULD tackle next.

Even beyond specifically asking for input, spontaneous reader comments have helped as well... like "I kind of miss character X." combined with someone else saying "You know, we haven't seen X and Y together yet, have we?" and me going "PERFECT! Hadn't thought of that. I'm doing that next!"

Finally, I have a 'reward' program for helping me gather new readers for the stories. Anybody who talks the series up, by social network or just word of mouth, gets a mini-story written about their 'character' in the anachronauts world.

http://pixelscapes.com/anachronauts/spreadtheword.html

Q (and last): What words do you have to say to any aspiring writers (if any)?

Have a day job. Write not because you want to feed yourself, but because you HAVE to write. I make this recommendation of any independent creative folks... SL builders and coders, musicians, artists, etc. Get educated and have a solid day job with good health care, and in your spare time, do what you love. Sure, it means less time for writing than devoting your whole life to it, but you'll have a better quality of life overall.

It's not all doom and gloom, though. The Internet is providing a fertile new ground for authors. The deadtree system, shopping a book around to publishers and getting rejection notices, dealing with royalties and contracts... a lot of that is going away, in face of open-access online publishing. Right now anybody can write for free and set out a tip jar. It won't make much, but it's still WRITING and it's still legitimate. Recently, the ability to self-publish on paper has rolled out... and it's all upward from here. As new structures emerge to support

independent authors, take hold of them, and don't let go.

In the end... write because you love to write, regardless of circumstance. If writing is who you are, be who you are.

FIN

THE PUPPETEER WAR - CHAPTER TWO

A Serial Adventure Novel

By Gordon Soleil

Chapter II: Liftoff

Nathaniel Wi"is' Diary

Location Unknown, Colorado

April 3, 1881

Patterson and his band of goons arrived earlier today, apparently successful in their attempt to recruit some old army captain to command this airship. They're as wild and aimless as they always are, with Patterson the least controllable of them, even if he does affect a veneer of charm and gentility. Apparently they brought that captain's daughter along with them to force his compliance. I hope she's more the weep-and-lament type; I'm sick of having to deal with ill-thought-out escape attempts from the men, let alone someone who actually knows what freedom is like.

That reminds me: a few dozen of the men escaped today. Apparently they took advantage of that Ute trader's presence to slip away. Good for them, but I wish Mr. Beauregard would stop calling me to the carpet every time it happens. Then again, he's not exactly a brain trust in and of himself. He actually asked me if I knew how to keep it from happening. When I told him that perhaps freedom, wages, and cessation of the daily whipping might stop at least a few from running away, he dismissed out of hand.

“Nonsense!” he said. “Paying them will only make the drapetomania worse! No, give 'em a taste of the lash; that'll drive that devil out of them.”

I rolled my eyes as I turned for the door. “Yes, Sir; I'm sure beating them even more will improve their desire to run away.”

He nodded, pouring himself another snifter of brandy as I left, having apparently not caught the double meaning. I swear, being able to mock him to his face is half the reason I stayed with him when he fled to Argentina before the war ended.

As I was heading to my quarters, I saw Mr. Engel talking to Mr. Smith. They're the representatives for the people bankrolling the airship, I think, and they've been taking a personal interest as the maiden flight nears. They were talking about plans to re-institute slavery across the whole of the country when the next war is won, and a few other things I didn't have enough context for to understand.

They've always frightened me a little, but for different reasons. Smith is a stone-cold killer; I've seen it in his eyes, even underneath the “proper British gentleman” facade he always has; he'd slit his own mother's throat if he saw some advancement in it. Engel, though...I swear, there's something wrong with him. He blinks too seldom, his belly's just slightly out of proportion to the rest of him, and I swear I saw something twitching underneath his skin a month ago at the bath house.

I'd best go attend to that daughter in her stateroom. She's probably starving, so I'll bring her some food. Maybe help her out or something. She looked like the kind of girl who couldn't plan a breakout if her life depended on it.

Miss Jennifer Stone's Diary

Location Unknown -Colorado

April 3, 1881

Well, this just keeps getting stranger and stranger. After I was thrown in here by Patterson with  orders to keep quiet and not move, I began looking around the room for something to help me get out. The window was shut, but the glass looked fragile and there were any number of things in there to help smash it after I was done tying the bedsheets together. Thank goodness I read so much adventure fiction; I might not know what to do in this situation otherwise.

As I was working on the bedsheet rope, I heard someone approaching. Panicking, I grabbed the nearest blunt object – a disused spittoon – and headed for the door, ready to defend myself. Imagine my surprised when the door was opened to reveal a Negro in livery, holding a tray of food. When he came in, I was so surprised to see a Negro aboard what is clearly a Confederate vessel that I nearly forgot to hit him over the head with the spittoon. Fortunately for both of us, I'm not very muscular, so it

didn't hurt him that badly. After I apologized profusely and we made our introductions, we got to talking. He apparently fled to Argentina with his owner after the war, mostly because the other slaves resented him and the rest of the household staff for not having to work the fields, and because his owner, a Mr. Thaddeus J. Beauregard, made him beat the disobedient slaves himself. He sympathized with my plight, and I persuaded him to look around the ship to help Father and I plan an escape route.

Just then, as I was convincing him to try to open the window so we might have an alternate escape route, we heard a low electric whine, and the floor began to shake. This thing – whatever it was – was starting to fly. As we watched, the ground dropped further and further away. My ears started to ache as we rose higher and higher, and soon we were above the clouds and starting to move. I started panicking, hyperventilating and muttering about my Mr. Willis – the man who had come in with the food – put his arm around me and held tight. While I wouldn't normally let anyone touch me like that, since even at the best of times I'm not good with other people touching me, it calmed me down somewhat.

After a few seconds, we both agreed that it would take a little more planning to get Father and I off the ship at this point, and Mr. Willis told me he would find a way off. In the meantime, I'm going to look around the room to see if there's anything besides the spittoon I can use.

Letter +om Alistair Smith to “W” (real name unknown)

Postmarked April 3, 1881

W,

Construction on the CAS Monitor has just been completed, and we should be testing the flight systems in a few hours. The balancing problem I mentioned in my previous letter has been corrected, so the guns should be operable without flipping the ship over on its side as we had previously feared. If the full test goes well, we should be able to take Washington and dictate terms to President Garfield within the week.

I've already told you my misgivings about Patterson and his gaggle of ruffians, but I don't think we've talked too much about

Beauregard. Frankly, if he hadn't approached us with the plan, I would have picked someone else to head the new government. He's quite affable most of the time, but, if I may be frank, the man's an absolute tit.  He never seems to see anything that might interrupt his view of the world, to the point that his manservant seems to make a game of seeing how openly he can insult him. Ah well, one must play the hand one is dealt.

Engel is as stoic as he ever is. I swear, the man's had his feelings removed at some point. The only time I ever saw any emotion on his face was immediately after he did whatever it was to that girl in that New Orleans brothel. I won't go into the details here, since I know you dislike indelicate subjects, but I would not be surprised if the poor girl still bore scars, literal or metaphorical.

I shall endeavour to write again next time we land, and I hope to see you in person inside the month.

Your most obedient servant,

        Alistair Smith.

Telegram +om Z (real name unknown) to a Mr. A. Macheath, New York City

Location Unknown

April 3, 1881

MR MACHEATH STOP

HAVE LOCATED PROJECT MONITOR AND FRANKLIN STONE STOP 

HAVE BOARDED AND WILL ATTEMPT TO SABOTAGE STOP

STONE DAUGHTER ABOARD TO ENSURE COOPERATION STOP

WILL RESCUE IF AT ALL POSSIBLE STOP

Z STOP

-

How will Miss Stone and her father escape the Monitor a thousand feet in the air? What diabolical plans does Alistair Smith have for the New Confederacy, and will it result in a second Civil War? Who is Z, and why does he keep telling Mr. Macheath to stop? Find the answer to these questions and more in the third chapter of The Puppeteer War, available only within the pages of Steampunk Adventures. Don't miss it!

MANUFACTURED POPa Jane Ramirez story

    Y’know, the music industry is a strange thing when you think about it.  I mean, music execs are given incredible power over what we listen to, even in the age of the electronic format. Every day, they’re given the chance to support new artists that can inspire millions and introduce new innovations into the field. And yet, most of the time, they choose to hire songwriters to churn out formulaic crap that’s shoved into the hands of the idol of the moment and sold by the millions to people who don’t know any better. It’s almost like they’re running a factory instead of a creative industry. And that tortured analogy brings me to one of the cases in the New Williamsburg Weird File, where some bright company tried to streamline the process even more.     This particular case started when I was in the middle of slowly drowning my boredom in G&J’s Booze Palace. (Don’t look at me; I didn’t name the place.) It was a friendly, relatively high-rent place just off Armistead Avenue, open to anyone who could pay the modest prices for their drinks and could tolerate the place’s long list of eccentricities, where you can usually find a sympathetic ear for your troubles.  In this specific case, the sympathetic ear happened to belong to one of the place’s co-owners, Gordon Indike. He scrubbed at a dirty tumbler as I unloaded my frustration with the day’s job.

    “Then Councilman Reeves tells Cipriani to shut his fat cakehole, ‘cause they’ve already decided what the city’s gonna do, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. Not so bluntly of course; can’t have anything interesting happen at city council meetings.” I took a sip from my rum and Coke, and listened to the overly-perky Sharon Supernova tune someone had called up on the music system. The pixie-like pop star had come out of nowhere and was being hyped up by Sound Machine Records across every medium they could buy airtime on, and her omnipresence was starting to get on my nerves. “I dunno why they even meet in the first place. All the important stuff gets decided off in Richmond, anyway.”     Gordon nodded. “I guess everything’s gotta have its farm leagues, even politics.” He was a nice-looking guy – broad shoulders, decent frame, a face you just knew would keep a boyish twinkle in its eye well into its owner’s 90s – and was a hell of a conversationalist, which made it a shame that he and the co-owner of the bar, Joseph De Luca, were partners in more than business. It’s not like I don’t like gay people or anything, despite my grandpa’s insistence that they were the scum of the earth for ending their gene lines; it’s just that I’d like to meet a guy who isn’t either psychotic, obsessed with upgrading themselves, or batting for the opposite team.

I nodded vaguely, finishing my drink and toying with the idea of flirting with Gordon just to keep in practice, when someone tapped on my shoulder. Turning, I saw it was a tall, craggy-

looking guy in a dull grey suit holding a briefcase. “Ms. Ramirez? The note on your door said you’d be here,” he said stiffly.

I nodded, brushing a strand of blond hair out of my face and turning on the stool to face him. “Is this about a job or something? If it’s urgent, you might want to find someone else; I’m kind of off the clock at the moment,” I said, as if the guy hadn’t had to find me in the freaking bar below my apartment/office.

He shook his head. “No, not urgent just yet. My name is Mark Smith, and I’ve been contracted to solicit your services in retrieving some genetic data that was stolen from my client’s database.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Wait, why me? I’m no hacker; I’m just a licensed snoop.”

“The data was stolen from a network that wasn’t connected to the Internet. My clients are currently figuring out how it was done; we need you to track down the data and retrieve it from the thief.”

I nodded. “Alright. Here, let me get the standard contract. Anything about this thief I need to be worried about?” I said, grabbing my Agent – for those of you who grew up in a neo-Luddite enclave, it’s a handheld device with a foldable screen that had all but replaced the desktop computer and cell phone in the lives of most non-technical people –  and pulling up my standard four-hundred-a-day contract. That thing’s saved my bacon more than once, since buried in it is Clause 37, which specifies that I get to ignore the

non-disclosure clause, report them to the police and my newsblog, and get my earned fee if it turns out the contractee’s using me to cover up something illegal.  

As we waited for one of the city’s notaries to contact us for the signing, Smith shook his head. “No, but we do think that he’s planning on selling it. The files he stole are too unique to be transmitted over the Internet without our picking up on it, so the thief will likely try for a physical hand-off if and when he does sell it.”

I nodded, and was about to ask something else when the notary came through. Smith signed the contract, and shook my hand. “Thank you for your time, Miss Ramirez. I’ll be on my way. You can expect to hear from me again if we find anything pertinent to your search.” With that, he walked stiffly out the door.  I sat back down, folding the Agent back into my pocket with a practiced motion and ordering another rum and Coke to celebrate getting what sounded like an interesting job for once.

The next day, I woke up the next day in my crappy apartment/office above the bar, my head aching. Thankfully I’d held off on drinking myself into my usual post-civic-politics stupor, so all I needed to do was get some aspirin in me and check my messages from last night.

Surprisingly, the guy had gotten back to me later that same night, sending me some videos of the guy, who’d apparently gotten hired by the company six months ago as an information security consultant. He’d used one of the

most literal cases of identity theft I’d ever seen – ID, SS number, synth-muscle mask of a scrawny-looking Seattle programmer who’d been killed and had all this stolen from him - to get hired as a data entry clerk, get into the database, and make off with the genetic data.

I leaned back and sighed. Whatever this was, it had been planned out long in advance. Synth-muscle masks go for thousands of bucks for the cheap, cartoon-y ones, and this was one that could pass for being someone’s actual face. That meant a whole lot of money and effort was being poured into this. Whoever was behind this had a hell of a lot of resources to burn, which meant that whatever this genetic data turned out to be, it was worth burning that much money trying to get at it.

That fact, however, could cut both ways. If this data really was that important, then it’d be very hard to fence without attracting attention. The thief would have to find somewhere capable of discretion and silence to be able to actually do something with it, and that usually meant one thing: the underground auction sites.

Underground auction sites had become something of a growth industry in recent years. All you needed was a random URL, a bunch of computers loaded with a warezed copy of eBay’s server-side software, and a country that either already had lax extradition laws or could be bribed to have them loosened. For example, SomaliAuction, based out of the Mogadishu Free State, had a reputation for being willing

to buy and sell anything, from drugs to slaves to bootleg concert recordings to, yes, genetic data.

I decided to check the email from my client again as I surfed over to the SomaliAuction site, to have some idea what to look for. Apparently the guy had left behind an old notebook – an actual notebook made out of wood-pulp paper, not just a palmtop or something – which had referred to the thing he was about to steal as “doll plans.” Having snagged that lead, I started looking for things related to dolls.

Thirty minutes later, after having slogged through every possible variation on ‘dolls’ (including three instances of what appeared to be heavily modified people, which I made note of for a possible blogpost and to report to the cops), I found what sounded like what I was looking for:

DO IT YOURSELF SHARON SUPERNOVA DOLL KIT

YOU TOO CAN HAVE A PERFECT REPRODUCTION OF THE WORLD’S MOST POPULAR

SINGING SENSATION IN

YOUR OWN HOME!

SHOW HER OFF TO YOUR

FRIENDS!

POSE HER AND PLAY WITH HER HOWEVER

YOU WANT!ACT NOW! THIS OFFER

WILL NOT BE REPEATED!FACE-TO-FACE

TRANSFERS ONLY

    It was definitely an unusual ad, even for someone trying to keep people from suspecting it was stolen merchandise. I checked the details. Apparently the guy was only willing to do a handover face-to-face, and the bidding was…    Holy crap. The bidding was already up to thirty million dollars, and it was only the second day of the auction.     Thankfully, it didn’t have a buy-it-now option, most likely so the guy could milk the thing for all it was worth, so I had a few days to either find where he had the data hidden, or to worm my way into the SomaliAuction system to find the drop-off point.     Thinking it over for a couple of minutes, I decided to contact my friend Mouse. Mouse was an IT guy for a network security firm, and had used the expertise he’d gotten from his job to pull off some incredibly subtle pieces of computer intrusion over the years. I’m halfway decent at it, especially since sending a tracking virus into some vapid party girl’s Agent makes it much easier to keep tabs on them for their parents, but Mouse was practically a ninja on the net.     I dialed his landline number and waited a bit. He wasn’t used to getting up before 10 in the morning. Finally, on the tenth ring, he picked up, and said blearily, “Mmf…h’llo?”

    “Hey Mouse, it’s me, Jane. Did I wake you up?”      “Mmhmm…hadda fix a denial-of-service attack at 3 this mornin’…”     “Gah, I’m sorry. I was just calling to ask you to break into something.    “Nuu…wanna sleep…”     “It’s SomaliAuction,” I said in a singsong voice.    That stopped him for a bit. Mouse, in addition to being a damned good white-hat, was something of an adrenaline junkie. The main reason he risked his job, jail time, and the attention of corp data security was because he loved putting everything on the line as much as he enjoyed finding out what other people didn’t want him to know. Going up against the firewalls of SomaliAuction, who tended to protect their clients’ privacy with bullets instead of subpoenas, would be the ultimate adrenaline rush for him.     “Lemme see if I've got this straight,” he said, all traces of sleepiness gone from his voice. “You want me to try to break into one of the most heavily defended servers on the planet, on the other side of the world where the latency is going to be through the roof, run by people who’d make the Red Mafiya look merciful, for…how much?”     “’bout fifty dollars a day.”     The line was silent for a little bit. Then: “Awriiiight!  I’ve been looking for an excuse to break into that place for months! Just tell me what I’m looking for, and I’ll get right on it.”     I grinned. Same old Mouse. “I’m trying to figure out where this guy’s hiding a cache of genetic data. I’ll work on finding it first,

but it’s being auctioned off, so I need you to hack the place to see where the handoff point is before it actually happens.”    “Awesome. Just lemme get some caffeine in me, and we’ll see what’s what.”     “Alright then. Here's the address...”

    Investigation went slowly over the next few days. Mouse sent me reports every six hours, documenting what he was doing, what programs he was putting on the servers, and how many bottles of Tentacle Grape soda he'd consumed in doing so. For my part, I was checking out the information my client had emailed me, cross-checking it with Interpol's criminal database, and doing a little independent poking around. The perp turned out to be one Katerina Ivanchuk, a professional thief who did half her jobs out of some complex personal code of justice based around punishing the exploitation of others, particularly genetically-engineered transapients. She was also one of the most successful thieves in the world, having taken part in more than a few national-bank heists, which confirmed my suspicions about the resources being brought to bear on the thing. Judging from the thefts that she was suspected of over the past few years, she was apparently getting tired of the job and was building a nest egg so she could retire.     In between reading Mouse's reports on how well the infiltration was going and finding out the identity of the thief, I also did a little poking around into my client's background; in this

business, knowing exactly who you're looking for can save you a world of grief. As it turned out, Mr. Mark Smith was working for a cutout company, one of those odd little businesses that make their money by acting as middlemen and making sure no one can track the money back to their clients. The company, an embarrassingly generic-sounding outfit called Global Solutions LLC, had a publicly-available list of its employees along with the branch offices they were associated with. It took me all of three minutes on their site to find his name, the office he worked at (in Old Town, in the ninth floor of the Minelli Tower next to the courthouse), and his office number. It didn't mention who his clients were, which was to be expected, since disguising their clients' business was what they were being paid to do. If I wanted to know about who was paying me through the cutout, I'd have to go to the office and poke around personally.     Now technically, I could just keep plugging away at the job, not questioning who I'd been hired by through Smith, but something was bugging me about the secrecy surrounding this whole thing. A few years ago, when I was starting out, I'd been hired to track down an ex-employee for a bio-tech company. That ex-employee had turned out to be an escaped test subject for their new batch of chemical soldier enhancements, and I'd been intended to find him for their pet killteams to assassinate. Ever since that whole disaster, I'd been fairly adamant about knowing exactly why I was being hired, just in case they try to force me to cross a line.

    Unfortunately, a woman barging into the office wearing an old duster, jeans, and a shoulder holster and demanding to see the personal terminal of a specific person would likely raise eyebrows, questions, and (most importantly) my chances of not getting paid. That meant I'd have to go in undercover. And that meant – sigh – that I'd have to get my one business outfit out of the closet to go see what was what.

    At ten the next day, I headed into the Global Solutions offices wearing a variation on the standard office-bunny outfit that had been in style for centuries: white blouse, a black pair of culottes that zipped together to look like a pencil skirt, pantyhose, and (since I'm already nearly six feet tall) flats. I could've chosen the power suit I'd used during my brief, embarrassing stint in corporate security, which would've let me take my bike to the place, but in my experience people tend not to think with the heads on their shoulders when their attention is otherwise engaged. Besides, I still haven't been able to get the bloodstains out.     Striding toward the guy at the front desk, I smiled and said in a low, breathy voice, “Hi there; I'm looking for Mark Smith; I'm here about a job he offered me a few days ago.” Which was technically true.     Judging from the reaction of the receptionist, I'd apparently chosen the right tactic. The guy blushed as I spoke to him and nodded, stammering out, “Oh, um, sure. He's, uh...” He tore his eyes away from me to check the terminal in front of him. “He's

sort of out at the moment; dealing with one of his clients. Um, you can wait here, if you like.”     I grinned. “Thank you, but no; I think I'll just leave a note or something on his desk. Where's his office?”     The receptionist gestured down a hallway, saying “Right down there. Turn right, and it'll be the sixth door on the left.”    “Thanks!” I said, heading down the hall, feeling his eyes on my rear as I went. I hoped he was enjoying the show; his bosses would likely find out he'd let me in without having me sign in eventually, meaning he was going to be in deep, deep caca. The least I could give him for dropping him into that is a nice butt to look at for a few seconds.     I reached the office almost immediately and headed in. The place was immaculately clean, furnished in the latest styles, with not a speck of dust to be seen. I headed to his computer and looked at the monitor; it was one of the new flat-sheet models, about a millimeter thick, with webcams the size of a pinhead integrated throughout the whole thing to avoid the “looking down during teleconferencing” problem. Finding an available port in the computer it was attached to, I plugged my Agent in and ran an intrusion program that Mouse had given me awhile back. It cracked the password almost immediately, which wasn't a surprise; most people's passwords are ludicrously simple. Browsing around in his Documents folder, I downloaded everything less than a month old to my Agent, then disconnected, signed out, and headed back out onto the street.

    I was almost out when the receptionist called out, “Hey, you were in there for kind of a long time.”     Turning back, I said, “Yeah. I was looking for the bathroom, and couldn't find it.”     The guy nodded. “Yeah, it is kind of hard to find. The closest one is just outside, just beside the stairs.”     I nodded, smiling and waving him goodbye as I headed out. Snagging a cup of cappuccino from one of the nearby coffee carts, I started paging through the documents I'd snagged from Smith's desktop. It didn't take me long to find my name in one document, as a consultant for an account with...Sound Machine Records?     Okay, that was weird. Sound Machine was responsible for some of the biggest (and blandest, in my opinion) pop and rock acts of the century. They were huge, the titans of the recording industry. Why on earth would they hire Global Solutions to get me to track down stolen genetic data? Maybe...

Just then, as I was starting to piece things together, my Agent rang. Shaking my head to get myself back to reality, I raised it to my head. “Hello, Ramirez Investigations.”

“Hey Jane, it's me,” said Mouse on the other end. “I just got through, and they just sold it. Someone bought it in the city; the handoff 's gonna be behind the big stage at the Music Festival tomorrow at noon!”

I nodded. “Thanks for the info, Mouse. Can you get me the details on the guy who bought it?

“Oh yeah, sure.” The Agent beeped as he sent it to me.

“Thanks a lot, Mouse. I really owe you for this one.”

“Thanks, but I'd have done this one for free. It was fun! See you 'round, Jane!” He hung up.

I headed back to my apartment to get some rest. No matter what happened tomorrow, it was going to be one crowded day.

The New Williamsburg Music and Art Festival was one of the biggest events in the city's calendar. Folks from all around the world come every year to put their works on display, to hear the latest music from the hottest bands, and to fall all over themselves to out-art-snob each other and say that this year is the worst festival they've ever put on. Me, I love it, mostly because I could snark at the art snots and listen to my favorite electrofunk band, The Brownouts, who made the last day of the festival every year.

I got to Rendell Plaza two hours before the handoff, mostly because I wanted to check out the art displays and listen to the no-name bands warm everyone up for the second day. By the time I gave up on finding a good parking spot and just set my motorbike to pay attention to my vital sign monitor and drive itself around for awhile, the place was already packed, filled with people of every description. As I got my usual can of Coke, a bunch of guys wearing shirts with synthesizers woven into the sleeves joined the guy who showed up every year to drum on a bunch of trashcans and plastic buckets, jamming with him, making up the song as they played.

I passed a foggy – someone who'd uploaded their mind into a cloud of self-sustaining nanomachines – arguing with a black-clad roadie setting up amps over whether Audiotype's copying the baseline to their latest single from Red White and Blueblood's “We're Better Than You”  counted as theft or homage. Someone had set up a grid of holoprojectors and plugged in a program to turn the ambient noise throughout the entire festival into 3D sculptures, flowing, merging, and flying around just above the attendee's heads.

It was around when I was looking at an elaborate sculpture made out of a vat of ferrofluid formed into odd shapes by precisely aligned magnetic fields, wondering exactly how much spare time the guy must have had on his hands to put the thing together, when the alarm in my Agent went off, warning me that the handoff was in thirty minutes. Thankfully, the stage was pretty close, so I got to walk there instead of having to run.

The rear of the stage was traditionally a good place to relax if you'd gotten tired wandering through the festival proper; even more so since the festival organizers had sprung for the deluxe speakers that focused the sound of the bands onstage to the audience in front. The festival hadn't been going on long enough for the place to have accumulated more than two people back there: a huge fat guy apparently taking a nap in the shade of the trees, and a tired-looking Eastern European woman in her mid fifties, wearing an Athas Wastelander t-shirt and sweatpants, holding a metal

suitcase on her lap. It took me a second to realize, but the lady was Ivanchuk, and the suitcase likely the information I'd been hired to retrieve.

Deciding to wait until the buyer showed up to make a move on the case, I screwed some earbuds into my ears and, keeping half an eye on Ivanchuk, sat down on the wall, tuning my Agent to the local public-radio live feed. Radio broadcasts had mostly gone the way of the crossbow, the maglev train, and the paper book, but the name had stuck around. As I watched Ivanchuk futz around with her own Agent – an Eastern European model, it looked like, looking like it was forged out of cast iron and capable of stopping a sniper bullet – the smooth voice of Mort Fallon slowly read off a list of news items, reacting to having to read about Sharon Supernova's new album being released as if he'd just been handed a dead rat. It was understandable; he was the host for the classical program later that night, and always referred to mainstream pop music as 'Extruded Music Product' in his blog.

Finally, after about thirty minutes, three Beethoven songs on the radio feed, and observing the spectacle of the fat guy picking his nose and eating it, a weedy-looking figure in a gray suit approached Ivanchuk. He walked toward her too quickly, too directly, to be a professional; most likely he was an errand boy for the real buyer. Exchanging a few words in Russian, Ivanchuk handed over the briefcase and took what looked like a stack of single-use debit cards from the guy, with money loaded onto them

and ready to be transferred into someone's real account with no one the wiser.

As the two nodded and went their separate ways, I slouched my way off the wall and followed the guy, trying not to think about how I was walking. The guy I was tailing, on the other hand, used a walk so excessively casual that it that screamed “I'm doing something illegal!” to everyone nearby. A street mime started following him, mimicking his walk exactly. The guy started walking faster at that, trying to lose him, which only made the mime follow him more. Finally, he stopped at a bus stop, which made the mime lose interest, moving on to a businessman, aping his stiff, pompous gait all the way to the bank across the street.

I got to the stop just as a bus arrived and boarded just behind him. He sat down and put the case on his lap, drumming his fingers nervously on the side. The few people on the bus reacted by ignoring him. I sat down beside him, pulling my Agent out and opening up a few webcomics I found last month.

I'd barely managed to get through a month's worth of Maidboy Joey when the bus slammed to a halt. Looking up from the screen, I saw out the window that someone had gotten into a wreck in front of us, and we'd just barely managed to avoid it.

Errand Boy had freaked out at the near crash, bolting to his feet and dropping the case on the ground. He pulled a bag out of his pocket and began breathing into it, apparently trying to calm down. Noticing his eyes were

closed, I decided to make my move. Muttering something about the bus service in this city, I stood up, scooped up the case in one hand, and walked out the door onto the street.

Traffic was at a standstill, thanks to the wreck, so I maneuvered to the sidewalk and began heading back to Rendell Plaza. The wrecker drones were already on their way, but a few people had apparently decided to make the best of their afternoon commute being interrupted. A few people were already throwing a ball around.

As I passed a few people playing some arcane card game on top of an old van, I became aware of someone following me. Turning down a side road, I caught sight of Errand Boy tailing me, a panicked look on his face.

Great. Just great. I knew I could lose him – he didn't exactly look experienced at this business – but it'd take awhile, and I wanted to get this over with. Waiting for him to turn the corner, I ducked into an alley as soon as I was sure he saw me, rehearsing what I was going to say in my head.

I wasn't disappointed. A minute or so later, he came around the corner, stumbling over a chunk of garbage, now wild-eyed with panic. Perfect.

“Hey, your part in the job's over. Go home already,” I said, projecting all the self-assurance I could into those ten words.

“Look, you give that thing back, or I swear I'll...” he began, then stopped as his brain caught up with his ears. “What?”

“You're part's done. Get your money and go. I'll get it to the boss.”

He looked incredulous. “But I was supposed to get the package to- “

I cut him off. “There's been a change of plans. Didn't they tell you?”

“No...”I rolled my eyes.

“Typical. They never bother telling the new guy anything. This your first courier job?”

“Yeah...” He sighed. “I never even wanted to take this; I just got fired from Astromathics, and this guy said he'd pay me fifty grand to deliver whatever's in that thing.”

Crap. I didn't have a problem leaving some punk hanging out to dry, but this was just some guy who was down on his luck. “You already get paid for it?”

He nodded. “Yeah...”“Alright then. You might

wanna get out of town for a few days. What's in this briefcase is gonna get a few people killed, and you don't wanna get caught on the crossfire, okay?”

He swallowed. “R-right....how far out?”

“I hear Baltimore is nice this time of year. Get going.”

He eeped and headed out, not even trying to disguise his panic anymore.

I called my bike in to get it to stop running down pigeons and come pick me up. While I was waiting for that two-wheeled psychotic to show up, I finally let myself think that train of thought I'd been keeping on hold ever since I left the Global Solutions building.

Why on Earth was Sound Machine dealing with genetic data? They were a music industry titan, but they'd always kept themselves in that one field, having escaped the consolidation frenzy of the past few years. There was no reason to...

Suddenly, all the little pieces started falling into place. The cut-out keeping the case at arms reach from them. The listing on SomaliAuction for a “doll kit” of Sharon Supernova. Sharon's meteoric rise from nowhere, and the fact that no one – no one – knew where she'd come from. Ivanchuk's sense of justice regarding big lumbering organizations and her concern for the genegineered. It all fit into a picture that I didn't want to believe, but which was staring me right in the face.

As my bike drove up, its electric motor whining softly, I took my Agent out and called Smith, letting him know the thing was ready for pickup, and to meet me in the lobby of the Wilson Tower at 3. When he hung up, I climbed on and made a call.

“This is Detective Mulligan.”

“Hey Frank, it's Jane. I've got a tip on something that's about to go down uptown...”

Wilson Tower is a marvel of power-generating architecture. Built after Hurricane Hobbes did a number on the East Coast's power infrastructure a few years back, it incorporates every power-generation technology its investors could persuade the city council to let them cram into the thing. Solar panels on every surface that wasn't a window,

multiple small wind turbines across the roof and sticking out the sides, a system for turning the swaying of the building in the wind into electricity that I still don't understand...the building's owners make almost as much money selling electricity to the power company as they do renting out the hundred or so floors of the place.

I chose the place for two reasons. First, it's both public and very expensive. If Smith was going to try something when he got the case, we'd both be surrounded by a small army of rent-a-cops, and they're a lot more on the ball than their reputation really lets on. Second, there's a coffee shop that does a delicious grape smoothie they make out of real grapes, and I wasn't going to go thirsty as I waited for him.    I was lucky I had decided to get there ahead of schedule; he came in fifteen minutes before the meeting time, heading right to my stool in the coffee shop.     “Miss Ramirez,” he said in greeting. Nodding to the suitcase, he said “Is that it?”     I nodded. “Yeah, it is. Before you pay my fee and get out of here, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”    He sat down nonchalantly next to me. “Why? You've already got the data back.”     I sighed. “Well, there's one thing I just can't quite figure out. Why did Sound Machine feel the need to build themselves a pop star from the genes up? I mean, couldn't they just hold auditions or something?”     Smith was quiet for a few seconds. Then: “So you figured

that out, hm?” He sounded less stiff, more relaxed now.     I nodded. “Yeah. Funny thing about detectives: they like figuring things out. So, why?”     He shrugged, ordering a cappuccino. “I'll be damned if I know. I will, of course, expect you to keep this to yourself.”    I shrugged. “Depends; have you paid me yet?”     He nodded, tapping a few buttons on his Agent and picking the case up. “It's being deposited into your account as we speak. Good day, Miss Ramirez.”     He managed to get a few steps from the stool when two men in shorts and t-shirts stood up, and said, “Mr. Smith, you're under arrest for conspiracy to cover up illegal genetic experiments. Please come with us.”     To his credit, Smith didn't try to run. He just put his hands on his head and listened mutely as the two cops took the case and cuffed him. As they led him away, Detective Mulligan, my friend on the force ever since I got out of the Army, nodded at me. “Thanks for the tip, Jane.”     I shrugged. “No problem. You gonna need me to testify at the trial?”     He nodded. “Yeah, but that's months away. The guys in forensic are good, but they're not gonna sort through this mess in a hurry.”     I stood, finishing my smoothie and tossing the cup away. “I always wanted to be part of a trial of the century. I'll see you around.”     “See ya.” He turned and began reading Smith his rights as he was led to the squad car.    I walked out of the tower into the warm afternoon sun, deciding to walk my way back to the arts festival. A case closed, a bunch of crooked music-industry execs about to be put away for life, I got paid, and my favorite band was going to perform later tonight.     All in all, it was a good day.

STAFF SPOTLIGHT - ALANA STEAMWEAVER (AOI)

Aoi is a regular lurker down at the docksides of Steelhead's Shanghai district. She can be recognized by her startling blue-black wings, kimono, and habit of extorting docking fees out of cargo ships. When she's not busy plaguing the law enforcement of Steelhead she can be found snapping photos and writing little works of fiction about a certain misfortunate maid.

Her typist is a graduate student attempting desperately to finish up a thesis so as to complete a degree in Communication. When not busy freaking out about research subjects or complaining about the Communicative Action Theory of Jurgen Habermas, one can usually find the typist lurking about the vaguely unsavory corners of the internet reading web comics.

Both are terribly addicted to terrible wordplay.

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