w w w . n t h z i n e . c o m

8D e c em b e r 2 0 0 3

MEAT BAGJames R. Stratton

THE ANNALS OF VOLUSIUSClaudio Salvucci &Paolo Belzoni

THE TOUCH OFHANDS BEYONDTHE MAZEMichail Velichansky

DEMONSMatt McIrvin

Plus…

ALL GROWN UP

BOB THE ANGRYFLOWER

THE LAST STRAW

PARTIALLYCLIPS

REALITY GLITCH!

And…

TORCON

DRAGON*CON

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December 2003 1

FEATURES

The Editor’s Rant by Michael D. Pederson........................................................................2

Conventions .........................................................................................................................4

Spine Bender by Michael D. Pederson..............................................................................8

Faces of Fandom by Catherine E. Pederson .................................................................12

Comics ................................................................................................................................30

FICTION

Demons by Matt McIrvin .................................................................................................14

The Annals of Volusius, Part VI by Claudio Salvucci and Paolo Belzoni .................18

The Touch of Hands Beyond the Maze by Michail Velichansky .............................24

Meat Bag by James R. Stratton........................................................................................28

POETRY/FILKS

Wizards by Rochelle Mitchell ..........................................................................................17

Warning by Rochelle Mitchell .........................................................................................17

Apple Juice by Monique Moate ......................................................................................23

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Planet by Talisman............................................................32

Cover Illustration for “Demons” by Bob Snare

CONTENTS

December 2003, Issue #8

Nth Degree is a free semi-pro fanzine. We encourage you to submit your manuscripts, illustrations, or photographs,but cannot guarantee the return of any unsolicited materials. All contributors retain individual rights to theircontributions. Six-issue subscriptions are available by sending $15 to: Nth Degree; 77 Algrace Blvd.; Stafford, VA22556; 540-720-6061; Fax 540-720-7050; email editor@nthzine.com. Nth Degree #8 is ™ and © by Big BlindProductions, December 2003.

PUBLISHER/EDITOR

Michael D. Pederson

MANAGING EDITOR

Catherine E. Pederson

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Robert Balder

WEB DEVELOPMENT

Brandon Blackmoor

GRAPHIC DESIGN

Michael D. Pederson

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Phill AshSusan BlackmoorErik Cotton

Christopher J. GarciaCatherine HardingJennifer HarmonLloyd MontgomeryJames S. ReichertAndy World

BIG BLIND PRODUCTIONS, INC.77 Algrace Blvd.

Stafford, VA 22556540-720-6061

Send $15.00 to the above address to receive a 6-issue subscription.

Nth Degree is a semi-pro fanzine.

www.nthzine.com

STAFFRantM i c h a e l D . P e d e r s o n , P u b l i s h e r / E d i t o r

t h e e d i t o r ’s

2 Nth Degree

The truth is out. I’m a fraud. A sham, fake, and poseur. No, I did not just geta new thesaurus. I’ve just came from a convention where I was scheduled for an openautograph session with all of the other guests. There I was sitting between DarrellSchweitzer and Bud Sparhawk, feeling quite overwhelmed. Also at the table wereWilliam Tenn, Alexis Gilliland, John G. Hemry, David Hartwell, and Nancy JaneMoore. All major talents. All very nice people. I could tell that they were nice becausenot one of them spit in my direction and asked, “Hey, who’s the hack with the ’zine?”Bless them. And thanks to all the fans that stopped to talk while they waited in linefor William Tenn’s autograph. The hour wasn’t a total loss though. I did sign a maga-zine or two and I learned that Darrell Schweitzer has a talent for forging celebrity auto-graphs (his Asimov is fantastic). By the end of the hour he had nearly added mine tohis repertoire.

The convention is over now; my dignity is still intact and the hangover has faded. It’stime to move on to other business…

Looking at the calendar I notice two things: 1) I’m WAY behind schedule getting thisissue out and 2) Today is almost exactly two years to the day since I started putting this ’zinetogether. The first item is the result of a rather time-consuming wedding and honeymoon(note that there is a new Pederson in the masthead now) so please forgive my tardiness. Thesecond item is cause for celebration (Cate would argue that the first is also). Two years! Itfeels like it’s only been 24 months.

What’s changed in two years? We’ve doubled our page count, increased our fandom cov-erage, and cleaned up our cover design. But I think that the biggest change has been in howwe’re greeted at conventions. Last year the first question people would ask was, “So, what’sNth Degree?” Now it’s, “When’s the next issue coming out?” Name recognition has pickedup wonderfully in the last six months or so—the magazines’, not mine. (I’ve added extrafacial hair in the last two years to help protect my anonymity. Oops, shouldn’t have said that,now I have to shave.) I suspect that’s the result of our getting to more conventions than Ihad thought humanly possible.

What hasn’t changed in two years? The fall issue is still late (last year’s was slowed downby the purchase of a new house). People outside of fandom still mistake our title for NorthDegree or sometimes Ninth Degree.George Lucas is still making really bad movies. And I stillhave a hard time coming up with good topics for my Rant.

What’s in store for the future? Plans are afoot to expand to 48 pages. When that happenswe’ll be bringing in guest columnists and adding a letters page. I’m also planning a majorillness for fall 2004 just to keep up the trend of late fall issues. I haven’t decided on the ail-ment yet though… Perhaps a nice bout of malaria or maybe a good old fashioned case ofconsumption. Until then… Stay away from me, I may be contagious.

December 2003 3

SheVaCon 12Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Convention

February 27-29, 2004

Artist Guest of Honor: Charles KeeganWriter Guest of Honor: Jim Butcher

Appearances By:David B. Coe � David Drake � Eric Flint

Mark Rainey � John Ringo DNA Publications � Meisha Merlin Publishing

Gaming:LARP–World of Darkness � RPGABattletech � Warhammer and more

Location:Holiday Inn Tanglewood

4468 Starkey Road • Roanoke, VA 24014Phone: (540) 774-4400

Log on to www.shevacon.org for more information.

Torcon 3, August 28 - September 1Toronto, OntarioToronto, eh? It was the 61st annual World ScienceFiction Convention—Torcon 3—and all we can say is“Toronto, eh?” Well, in deference to our friends upnorth, that’s all they could say, as well. To be honest, thesense of “world” was missing from this year’s Worldcon.So much of the convention schedule was filled with ses-sions on Canada—Canadian history, Canadian anime,Canadian costuming—that we went looking for some Canadian Club hoping everyonewould just move on.

The location was excellent though (Toronto’s Convention Center) and close to hotels,restaurants, and general touristy things like the CN Tower. The accommodations were lovely;we stayed at the beautiful Royal York Hotel, and we found several fantastic restaurants with-in a block or two of the hotel and Convention Center.

Operationally, the convention could have been tighter. The pocket program wouldn’thave fit in a pool table pocket and, unfortunately, the printers printed an outdated file, ren-dering the entire book pretty much useless. Updated schedules were available every morning(if you were quick enough to get them before they ran out) but, sadly, these too turned outto be wrong a good percentage of the time. Pre-con information books were well-laboredover yet were either never received or sent very late. We wished that the last update—whicharrived the day we got on the plane—had arrived a week earlier; it contained importantinformation about clearing customs. Without that info we spent eight hours on the phonewith Canadian customs and had to bribe local shippers to get our ’zines into the city. In theend we had to chalk it up as a lesson learned.

Content-wise Torcon 3 was strong and with GoHs George R.R. Martin (Pro) and MikeGlyer (Fan) and Toastmaster Spider Robinson, the general sessions were entertaining and

purposeful. Unfortunately, FrankKelly Freas (Artist GoH) was illand unable to attend. However,even death didn’t stop RobertBloch (GoHst of Honour) frommaking an “appearance.” Be sureto visit the con’s website to getthe complete rundown on HugoAward and Masquerade winners(www.torcon3.on.ca) but inbrief: Robert Sawyer took home

the Best Novel Hugo for Hominids and an amazing Trumps of Amber presentation won Bestin Class Masters Division and Best in Show at the Masquerade.

Despite the confusing program updates we still found several great panels to attend…There were some good panels on small press publishing, an unusual Photoshop panel (mostpeople on the panel preferred to talk about how they could do special effects without

CONVENT IONS

CONVENTIONS C H E D U L EJAN-MARCHJan. 9-11 GA Filk Atlanta, GA

Jan. 9-11 ConVergence Phoenix, AZ

Jan. 16-18 Arisia Boston, MA

Jan. 16-18 Chattacon Chattanooga, TN

Jan. 23-25 MarsCon Williamsburg, VA

Jan. 23-25 Confusion Detroit, MI

Jan. 29-Feb. 1 Capricon Chicago, IL

Feb. 13-15 Katsucon Arlington, VA

Feb. 13-15 Farpoint Hunt Valley, MD

Feb. 13-15 Boskone Boston, MA

Feb. 27-29 SheVaCon Roanoke, VA

Feb. 27-29 NoSuch Convention Poughkeepsie, NY

Feb. 27-29 Con-Dor San Diego, CA

March 5-7 GameStorm Portland, OR

March 19-21 Lunacon Rye, NY

March 19-21 Millennicon Springdale, OH

March 26-28 Mid/DeepSouthCon Memphis, TN

March 26-28 I-CON Stony Brook, NY

4 Nth Degree

GoH’s Mike Glyer, George R.R. Martin, and Spider Robinson at the opening ceremonies.

Photoshop), and a LOT of Doctor Who programming that kept usbusy. We also attended a few readings and lectures by SpiderRobinson, Cory Doctorow, and Nalo Hopkinson. There was a greatChildren’s Programming track as well (pipe cleaner dragons, yay!).We wanted to go to a few of the KaffeeKlatches but the sign-up listsfilled up WAY to quickly. And, unfortunately, none of the video pro-grams that we attended had the necessary projectors—that reallyhurt the Chuck Jones tribute that we had been looking forward to.

Don’t get the impression that the convention was a total bustthough. SF fans LOVE to complain and Torcon really camethrough for us. We spent half the con laughing and bonding withtotal strangers over the mounting problems each day. Therein liesthe beauty of a Worldcon… There are no true strangers at aWorldcon, just strange people you haven’t met yet.

Next year’s Worldcon, Noreascon 4, will be held in Boston,September 2-6. For you early planners, check out www.noreascon.org.Terry Pratchett and William Tenn are the scheduled Pro GoHs.See you there! CP MP

Dragon*Con, August 29 - Sept. 1Atlanta, GAThe world’s biggest Geekcchanalgrew even bigger this year, asDragon*Con boasted a hugejump in attendance over thealready staggering 20,000 it hadattracted in ’01 and ’02 (no sur-prise with WorldCon being heldin Canada). I heard estimates ofthe attendance ranging from 22,000 to wildly speculative numberslike 36,000. We should be hearing an official number before toolong, but it’s really just a footnote. This party was record-breakingby any measure.

Once again, I am left in awe of the sheer competence of thosebrave and dedicated souls who make this thing happen. The poten-tial for disaster in such a gathering staggers the imagination. Yet wesaw no fights, no injuries, no accidents, no arrests, no fires… noth-ing to ruin the fun. As last year, Dragon*Con was brilliantlyplanned and executed. If you didn’t have an incredible time, it wasyour own bloody fault.

Having said that, there were some growing pains associatedwith this larger crowd. Most programming panels at the Hyatt werestanding room only (the ones at the Marriott seemed to be small-er… reason unknown). The elevator situation—bad last year—wasabsolutely miserable. You could count on a ten-minute delay everytime you went between floors. Between the packed-solid conferencerooms and sardine elevators, the pungent odor of my fellow geeksbecame a buzzkill. “Aren’t you glad you use Dial?” I kept thinking,“Don’t you wish Dragon*Con did?”

But these problems were tertiary and there wasn’t much thatcould reasonably be done about them. They did not appreciablydetract from the insane amount of stuff available for a con-goer’samusement. As it always will, what we didn’t get to do dwarfs whatwe did. We missed the Klingon Beauty Pageant AGAIN, dangit.We never got to any concert, not even Cruxshadows or Voltaire. Webarely met any celebs (our fault—they were totally accessible on theWalk of Fame) except Gil Gerard, who I sought out to ask if hewould submit some poetry to Nth Degree. He said he’d consider it.We missed the Masquerade, but it was available afterward on theHyatt closed-circuit channel and I caught most of it. I dunno whowon, but the Pac-Man skit was my pick.

What did we do? Well, I for one could have been satisfied doingnothing but Writer’s Track programming. And that’s just what is sogreat about Dragon*Con. It has full tracks for everything… enoughto fill an entire themed con around each. People come and domainly Buffy programming, or British Sci-Fi, or Comics, orTolkien. There was an entire track for Pern, and Anne McCafferyor her husband were personally involved in most of it! It made merealize that there is a level of fandom honor above mere GoH—ifthey have a full programming track or a complete con just for yourstuff, then you have reached a new level.

So what else did we do? I performed in the Trek Trak filk-singand it was an absolute train wreck. The less said about that, the bet-ter. If you really want the details, the whole Charlie Foxtrot is avail-able on video, so that future generations may mock my plight evenlong after I am dead.

I went to an X-Track panel on cryonics, hosted by some folks fromAlcor. I learned some interesting details about how to get frozen andhad some of my long-standing questions answered.

I sat on a webcomics panel that had to be about the best one

December 2003 5

Torcon’s Best in Show Masquerade winners, The Trumps of Amber.

6 Nth Degree

I’ve ever done. The chemistry among the five of us was great, theroom was electric, I got cheered twice for saying I quit my job, andthe panel got a standing ovation… a first! There was a second web-comics panel that I was not on, but most of the people who werehad been in the audience at the previous one. I made a lot of newfriends in the field.

The ’zines went like crazy. We put out four of the five boxesright away, and then followed up with the final box as a reserve.Probably we could have put out another three or four boxes. NthDegree’s name recognition is really growing, based on some conver-sations I had.

The hallway costumes were amazing, again. They shouldrename the Lower Lobby the Cleavage Mile. The costumes wereheavily tilted toward LotR this year, with Uruk-Hai and orcs verynearly outnumbering Imperial Stormtroopers, even with the 501stthere in… uh, force. And where we saw ten Spider-Men last year,we saw about that many Lara Crofts this year (and no Spider-Men).Again, we saw only one Borg… a different Borg than last year.Collective, my ass. “No Face” from Spirited Away loomed large andspooky over the crowd almost all the time.

Many more things happened, many bottles were drained,many hangovers were suffered, many unique personal experienceswere experienced, and a car was totalled. But these should be toldat future con parties. Next year’s Dragon*Con will be heldSeptember 3-6. For photos from this year and more info on nextyear, visit www.dragoncon.org. RB

Conjecture II, October 3-5San Diego, CANo city in America is more identi-fied with a single con than SanDiego is with Comic-Con. But tothink that Comic-Con is the onlygame in town is to forget that thereis a rabid fandom in SD. One of their annual activities is Conjecture,a small con in its second year that has not failed to impress.

This year, in honor of Guest of Honor and Chronoliths’ authorRobert Charles Wilson, Conjecture was subtitled “A Brief Historyof Time Travel.” The theme ran throughout the convention whichfeatured Time Machine Wars, a Mad Science Fair, and film pro-gramming that featured time travel films from the last five decades.Panels dealt with everything from “The Physics of Time Travel” to“Microscopic Temporal Anomalies,” alongside the standard StarWars, Buffy, Fandom, music, literature, and sex programming.

What’s a con without parties? The League of Evil Geniusesthrew a fine party as part of the push to bring CostumeCon 2008

to the Silicon Valley. Fan Dave Bloom held an open-door fortiethbirthday party which featured authors like William Wu, VeraNazarian, and Lee Martindale playing with nearly fifty balloonsthat covered the floor. Both the San Diego in 2006 and Monterey2006 WesterCon bids threw shindigs as well.

Perhaps the most stunning thing was the number and quality ofthe guests. For a con attracting only about 350 attendees, the namesbrought in for programming were astounding. Authors VernorVinge, David Brin, Nancy Holder, Gregory Benford, and DavidGerrold all participated on panels with artists like James StanleyDaugherty, Frank Wu, and Sue Dawe.

Another excellent small, West Coast con that is looking towardsbigger and better things in the future. Conjecture III is scheduled forOctober 1-3. Next year’s GoHs will be C.S. Friedman (Writer) andJess Heinig (Gaming). More details at www.conjecture.org. CJG

Albacon 2003, October 10-12Lake George, NYAlbacon was held this year in LakeGeorge, New York. Normally it’sheld at a hotel in Schenectady,however the convention’s regularhotel has been closed so they hadto find someplace new to hold it.They choose a dude ranch resortin Lake George during peak foliage season.

The drive up was gorgeous! Along the sides of Route 87 thetrees exploded with yellows, oranges, and reds. I arrived at RoaringBrook Ranch and went to the main lodge where I was greeted by asweet woman who saw my art and immediately told me where theArt Show was. I set up in the art room and then went to register. Ihad volunteered my services as a programming guest at the lastminute and, unfortunately, they didn’t get my email in time to addmy name to the “free badge” list. This took some time to sort outand I missed the ice cream social because of it. They had a niceartist reception though. They fed us Spicy Sesame Chicken wings!

After the reception I wandered around the Ranch to checkthings out. In the game room I saw the most surreal thing: Theroom was filled with animal heads and pool tables. Above a con-fused Pac Man game (it was really Ms. Pac Man, but it said PacMan on the outside) was a moose with lipstick!

The next day began slowly, I found the ’zines and hit a lecture.Most of the panels were aimed more towards writers (no surprisewith Lois McMaster Bujold as the GoH) so, as an artist, I felt a lit-tle left out. I made up for it by going to the Artist Guest of Honor’s(Allen Koszowski) presentation. It was a slide show of his influences

December 2003 7

If you would like to have your convention listed in our ConCalendar please send your information to editor@nthzine.com at least two months prior to your convention.

If you would like to represent Nth Degree at a convention and review your experience, please contact us and we will be happyto send you extra copies of the magazine to make you lookimportant.

and artists that he liked. It was filled mostly with horror pieces fromclassic sci-fi and horror magazines. He also had early fanzine workfrom successful illustrators like Charles Vess. After the presentationI handed him a copy of Nth Degree and showed him one of myillustrations. He asked if he could add it to his World Fantasy Conpresentation. I told him I would be honored!

After a fine Mexican dinner it was time to hit the room parties!Oz Fontecchio of Philcon (also the Fan GoH) threw a great party.The copies of Nth Degree I brought just disappeared! Plus Oz hadan amazing array of alcohol—I discovered Godiva mixed withButtershots—needless to say, I don’t remember very much aboutthe party.

The next morning I went to a few lectures, hung out, and thenwent to visit a nearby friend.

Albacon 2004 will be held October 8-10. They will beannouncing their guests soon at www.albacon.org. AW

Capclave 2003, November 21-23Silver Spring, MDI can’t remember the last time that I enjoyed a small convention asmuch as I enjoyed Capclave. Attendance this year peaked at about200 fans, all determined to enjoy themselves as much as possible.This is Capclave’s third year and their first disaster free weekend—their previous cons took place during a hurricane one year and theDC sniper the next year.

This year’s Guest of Honor was William Tenn, Golden Ageauthor and satirist. It’s always impressive to see a small conventionbag a big name for a guest and Capclave pulled no punches. Inaddition to Tenn they also scheduled Alexis Gilliland, Yoji Kondo,Bud Sparhawk, Steve Stiles, Scott Edelman, David Hartwell,Darrell Schweitzer, Lawrence Watt-Evans, and quite a few others.

I participated in three panels that were all well-attended and

extremely fun to be a part of. The first was a discussion of comicbooks as short fiction that included Steve Stiles and covered nearlyfifty years of comics history. After that I had an enormous amountof fun discussing SF/F television with Tee Morris (writer/actor),Mike Zipser (host of the Washington cable program Fast Forward),a couple other panelists, and a packed room. Needless to say, wewere an opinionated group. The last panel that I was scheduled forwas “Fanzines: Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow” with AlexisGilliland, Rich and Nicki Lynch, and Steve Stiles. Between the fiveof us we had about 150 years of publishing experience (with mymeager ten years added in). Needless to say, I was honored to beincluded. The one panel that I got to attend as an audience memberwas a reading by Michail Velichansky (whose second appearance inNth Degree is in this very issue). He read a fantastic story that hewrote at this summer’s Odyssey.

Kudos need to be awarded to next year’s Capclave chair, LeeGilliland, for stepping in at the last minute (9:00 pm Thursday!) totake over the con suite when the previous two con suite organizersgot sick. Capclave 2004 is scheduled for October 15-17. More infowill be posted at www.wsfa.org. MP

Capclave chairperson, Sam Lubell, stops by the Nth Degree room party for a quick pick-me-up.

8 Nth Degree

Buffalogic, Inc.: Tales of the Amazing Conroy No. 1,Lawrence M. Schoen, SRM Publishers Ltd., 46 pp., ISBN 0-9722473-2-7. Schoen is best known as one of the world’s leadingauthorities on the Klingon language. So it comes as no surprise(and perhaps even a bit of a relief ) to learn that he has a great senseof humor. This chapbook presents two short stories featuring theAmazing Conroy. The first story, “Buffalo Dogs,” introduces us toConroy, a stage hypnotist, and to the title creatures. Buffalo dogsare miniature buffalo that eat anything and fart oxygen; they arehighly prized by the terraforming industry and worth millions.“Buffalo Dogs” is a wacky story about how Conroy got into thesmuggling business and acquired Regina Catherine AlyosiousNantucket Bitter Almonds St. Croix (his own buffalo dog) thatkeeps you laughing to the end. The second story, “TelepathicIntent,” is a clever murder mystery that uses telepathy and hypnosisto confuse the issue of whodunit. The characters are good and theplot is clever but the story seems to move too quickly. This timearound Conroy is swept along by events around him and he spendsmost of his time reacting to others as opposed to “Buffalo Dogs”where he was the master hypnotist, in complete control. Still,Buffalogic, Inc. is a good pair of stories, especially if you’re in themood for some enjoyably humorous science fiction. I look forwardto future volumes.

Conquistador, S.M. Stirling, Roc, 424 pp., ISBN 0-451-45908-3. In 1946, John Rolfe returns home to Oakland fromthe war. One malfunctioning short wave radio later and he has adoorway to another America, an America that has never been dis-covered by Europeans. Rolfe calls in his war buddies and pro-ceeds to settle what he calls New Virginia (yes, he’s descendedfrom those Rolfes). Cut to the year 2009 where our hero—Tom

Christiansen, a big blonde farmboy and game warden—hastracked a warehouse full of poached pelts and some unusual con-dors back to John Rolfe and his family. This, of course, leads toChristiansen and his partner being abducted to New Virginiawhere they become embroiled in a coup by radical NewVirginians attempting to overthrow the Rolfe family. There areno real surprises in the story but it’s well told and the descrip-tions of an untainted California can’t help but make the readerlust for a west coast that hasn’t existed for 200 years. And theweird mix of fascist police state and Ozzie and Harriet wonder-land that Rolfe has created on his blank slate America leaves onewondering just what they would do in a similar situation. In theend, Stirling proves that he’s still as capable of putting out damnfine alternate universe stories as ever.

Dune: The Butlerian Jihad and Dune: The MachineCrusade, Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson, Tor, 621 pp.and 643 pp., ISBN 0-765-30157-1 and ISBN 0-765-30158-X.It’s hard to get excited about licensed continuations of sciencefiction classics. Usually. However, Herbert and Anderson provedwith their first trilogy that they are more than qualified to playin the late Frank Herbert’s sandbox. House Atreides, HouseHarkonnen, and House Corrino dealt with all the backstory lead-ing up to the birth of Paul Atreides. They were enjoyable andfaithful to the original but felt claustrophobic at times—we allknow how it has to end and there isn’t much room for surprises.This time though, tackling the Jihad (10,000 years pre-Dune),Herbert and Anderson have free reign to cut loose and leavetheir own mark on this classic series. Butlerian Jihad sets thescene: An artificial intelligence named Omnius and his army ofcyborg (Cymek) and robot warriors have enslaved mankind.

SP INE BENDERMichael D. Pederson

Military leader Xavier Harkonnen and his fiancé Serena Butlerhead up the resistance. Vorian Atreides, son of the CymekAgamemnon, works alongside the machines against humanity.Along the way, we see the invention of Holtzmann shield gener-ators, the first wormride, the early roots of the Guild, theenslavement of the Zensunni tribes, and a planet of female tele-pathic Sorceresses that you just know is going to turn into theBene Gesserit. It’s an intricately plotted story that plumbs thedepths of human emotions and pokes and picks at the very defi-nition of humanity. For most of the book humanity is on thedefensive; dealing with losses that range from tactical to deeplypersonal, the characters become clearly defined instantly in away that draws the reader into the action. By the end of Jihad,mankind—lead by Butler, Harkonnen, former slave Iblis Ginjo,and the reformed Atreides—has begun its holy war against themachines. The Machine Crusade picks up twenty-five years intothe Jihad. The Cymeks are fighting to overthrow Omnius andhumans have succeeded in liberating several planets from themachines. Where Jihad dealt more with the evils of themachines and the inevitable Frankenstein issues, Crusade dealsinstead with the evils of man. Herbert and Anderson focus onthe plight of the Zensunni people, fighting for freedom againsttheir hypocritical human slavers; Iblis Ginjo, Grand Patriarch ofthe Jihad, and Arrakis tribal leader Naib Dartha both succumbto the corruption of power and money; and the organ harvestingoperations of the Tlalaxu are exposed. In the end humanity’sevils are overshadowed by the heroes’ acts of bravery and self-sacrifice. It is a beautifully crafted, emotional story arc. By thefinal page most of the main characters have been killed so onecan assume that the concluding book of the series will take thestory into still more unexplored territory in the Dune universe.Stay tuned.

The Fix: Fix in Overtime, Tony DiGerolamo, PadwolfPublishing, 196 pp., ISBN 1-890096-09-1. This superhero

story from comic book writer and humorist Tony DiGerolamo isa humorous page-turner that’s perfect for that weekend whenyour gaming group all bails on you. Private investigator MarkMammon is… The Fix! Yep, after he drinks a weird green alienliquid he calls “The Stuff ” this lovable slacker is transformedinto a super hero that defies description. This story of alieninvaders is fast-paced and amusing. DiGerolamo switches thepoint of view from chapter to chapter creating a unique (if some-times confusing) framework for what might otherwise be anoverly simplistic story. The book opens with a 16-page comicbook that explains the character and closes with a 3-page comicepilogue (artwork by Brendon and Brian Fraim). If you likesuperhero novels you’ll find this one to be far superior to thegeneric novelizations that Marvel and DC have been flooding theSF bookshelves with lately. If you’re not a fan of the genre youprobably haven’t even read this far into the review and I’m justwasting space by saying anything else.

Perdido Street Station and The Scar, China Miéville,Del Rey, 623 pp. and 638 pp., ISBN 0-345-45940-7 andISBN 0-345-44438-8. In the past twenty years I have beenknocked-off-my-feet-amazed by only two new writers: WilliamGibson (who’s writing has suffered since the future caught up tohim) and Dan Simmons (who has spent much of the last ten yearswriting in other genres). It’s time to add China Miéville to thatlist. Perdido Street Station is hands down the finest SF-fantasy-steampunk-horror novel that I’ve read this year. Combining sev-eral genres and mythos, Miéville has created a fantasy worldunlike any that has come before. With a smattering of alien races,a major socio-political conflict, an ongoing drug war, a Jack theRipper-style killer on the loose, a burgeoning society of sentientmachines, and demon moths preying on the city—all worked inamongst a touching inter-species love story—this is a story thathas something for everyone. I am in awe at how smoothly all ofthese plot lines come together into a creepy, tense, horrific, and

December 2003 9

10 Nth Degree

moving climax. If all that isn’t enough to spark your interest, howabout an enormous interdimensional spider and a conferencewith the Ambassador to Hell? The plot at its most basic: An odd-ball scientist must outwit police, drug lords, and a machine intel-ligence to save the city of New Crobuzon and his one true lovefrom giant transdimensional brain-sucking moths. Do yourself afavor and check it out for yourself. The Scar picks up wherePerdido Street left off but deals with a whole new set of charactersand promptly sends them off to another part of the world. Muchless steampunk and slightly less horrific, this sequel still blendsscience fiction and fantasy in brilliant new ways. Our hero thistime is a linguist fleeing police persecution in New Crobuzon.Right away her ship is boarded and pirated away to a floating citycomprised of centuries worth of other stolen vessels. Here therulers of the floating Armada nation plan to raise a leviathan fromthe depths to pull the city to a tear in the fabric of reality that isleaking probability. As in the previous story, Miéville writes quan-tum physics like it was magic and writes magic as if it were simpleengineering. Although much less complicated than Perdido Street,The Scar is teeming with amazing concepts and nasty beasties.This is a series that has nearly endless room for continuation andMiéville is a name that we will be hearing an awful lot about inthe near future.

Tritcheon Hash, Sue Lange, Metropolis Ink, 228 pp., ISBN0-9580543-8-X. Here’s a darn good first novel that’s worth pick-ing up. Tritcheon Hash is a speed-crazed military test pilot, she’shappily married with two kids, and she’s about to be assigned to atop secret spy mission. The catch? Hash lives on the all female plan-et of Coney Island (named for the ancient Irish penal colony). It’sthe year 3011 and all women have become fed up with the violentbehavior of men and left the Earth. Now, after several hundredyears of isolation, there is talk of reunification and Tritcheon Hashmust slip through Earth’s defenses to spy on the planet of men. Thisis, of course, pure parody. The humor ranges from subtle tongue-in-cheek to all-out zany madcap. The basic story is silly and thesupporting characters are a little two-dimensional but it’s mostlyfunny and when it’s not the strong figure of Hash carries the storythrough any rough spots. Along her adventures Hash befriends onemale, makes a bitter enemy of another, and takes a quick tour ofwar-torn Earth. Lange uses the humor to get across a few simplepacifist/feminist points without seeming preachy. In the endthough it is a story of love, sacrifice, and personal growth that cli-maxes in an emotionally poignant sequence that brings the story toa satisfying close. There never seems to be enough good science fic-tion satire on the market, so it’s pleasing to see a talented new writerentering the field.

The Big Giant Stack of ‘Zines…I’ve received an exceptional amount of magazines in the last fewmonths. It’s mostly been people trading ’zines with me. If I keep gettingthis many, I’ll make this a regular feature. So, keep those ’zines coming!

Absolute Magnitude, Issue 20; Warren Lapine,DNA Publications; P.O. Box 2988; Radford, VA 24143-2988; quarterly; $4.95. Semi-pro, slick cover, newsprint.Features fiction by Ben Bova, Jamie Wild, Chris Bunch, John W.Randal, and Bronwyn Elko. Bova’s story is, of course, a good one.

Interzone, Issue 190; David Pringle; 217 Preston Drive;Brighton BN1 6FL, United Kingdom; interzone@cix.co.uk;monthly; $65/year. Slick semi-pro ’zine. This issue features fic-tion by John Meaney, Eric Brown, Daniel Kaysen, Sarah Ash, andNicholas Waller.

Knarley Knews, Issue 100; Henry and Letha Welch;1525 16th Ave.; Grafton, WI 53024-2017; welch@msoe.edu;bi-monthly; $1.50. A nice looking 15-page perzine that featuressome great art and a thorough LOC section.

A Mimosa Fanthology, Issue 28; Rich and Nicki Lynch;P.O. Box 3120; Gaithersburg, MD 20885; fiawol@cpcug.org;$5.00. An enormous 108-page collection of the Lynch’s favorite arti-cles from the first sixteen issues of Mimosa.

Mimosa, Issue 30; Rich and Nicki Lynch; P.O. Box 3120;Gaithersburg, MD 20885; fiawol@cpcug.org; $4.00. A beauti-ful 68-page fanzine devoted to the preservation of the history of sci-ence fiction fandom. Sadly, this is the last issue of Mimosa. Articlesby Eve Ackerman, Mike Glicksohn, Peter Weston, Esther Cole,David B. Williams, Jim and Greg Benford, Dave Kyle, Ron Bennett,John Hertz, Sharon Farber, Alexis Gilliland, Richard Brandt, JohnBerry, Mike Resnick, Robert A. Madle, Harry Warner Jr., CurtPhillips, Dave Locke, and Michael Burstein.

Sleight of Hand, Issue 2; John Teehan; 499 DouglasAve.; Providence, RI 02908; jdteehan@sff.net; $2.00.Traditional fanzine with an emphasis on the history of fandom.Includes articles by Terry Carr, Ted White, and Dave Locke.

The WSFA Journal, October 2003; Samuel Lubell;lubell@bigfoot.com; monthly; free to members, also availableonline. The club ’zine for the Washington Science FictionAssociation. Contains club business and an assortment of movieand book reviews.

December 2003 11

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12 Nth Degree

ND: Why Mimosa?

RL: Well it goes back to when we were living in Tennessee. Westarted Chat—the club ’zine for the Chattanooga SF Association.We did that for 40 months—before computers! We had to print itout and paste it up by hand.

NL: That got us noticed but we quit after 40 issues as the club hadstarted to disintegrate and we really couldn’t do much more withthe format we were under. Plus, it was tough doing it on a monthlybasis with just the two of us working on it.

RL:While friends would help collate and provide articles and artwork,printing monthly was non-stop work. We tried to print eight or fewerpages but, toward the end, we had 24 pages. Chat was made up ofauthor interviews, commentary, and continuing comic strips. All of thateventually led to burnout. We wanted to try something else that was alittle less structured. We wanted to publish articles rather than be a focalpoint for news. So we decided to do more of a Gen ’zine and we startedMimosa. “Why Mimosa?” you said—back to the question! Well, wewere still living in Tennessee and we wanted a one-word name.

NL: Something that was indicative of the south but not necessar-ily from the south—just like us.

RL: Kudzu was already taken and Julep just wouldn’t do, so wedecided on Mimosa. It’s a tree, it’s a drink and, after Issue #25 while

at the ’99 Worldcon in Australia, we found out it’s also the second

greatest star in the Southern Cross, thus bringing the name back to

the science fiction aspect.

ND: Okay, so… Why Mimosa?

RL: We were doing it for preservation reasons. There were many,

many stories that were fragilely preserved in the memories of the

older fans—many of whom have since passed away. There was a real

need for preservation for some of these stories. That was one of the

reasons we started Mimosa.

ND: How many years were you publishing Mimosa?

RL: January ’82 was our first issue so this would be our 21st year

but there was a five-year gap between Issue #s 1 and 2. We pub-

lished thirty issues in total. Once we got going again with Issue #2,

we were averaging about two issues a year.

ND: How do you pay for it? There’s no advertising!

RL: Nope, no advertising. We paid for it out of our own pockets.

We did charge per issue but near the end the price we were asking

was less than the cost to publish each issue.

ND: Why no advertising?

NL: It’s a fanzine! You never have advertising in a fanzine!

RL: Well, some fanzine’s do, of course, to cover costs. But we

wanted to be in control. We definitely did not want to make it a

commercial enterprise with compromises. Plus, if you have adver-

tisers, you need to stick to a timely print production schedule.

ND: Tell me about it…

NL: The same reason we didn’t take subscriptions, either! We

never knew when we were going to stop it. If we took subscriptions,

we’d be beholden to fulfill them.

RL: So, we never took money for more than two issues in advance.

ND: How many copies did you print for each issue?

RL: At the last part of the run, we were printing 500 copies and

we’ve never done more than that. Early on, we printed about 200-

300 copies each.

NL: Because we mimeo-ed them all ourselves!

FACES OF FANDOMCatherine E. Pederson

In the fanzine publishing system, Mimosa was published by two separate yet equallyimportant people. Rich Lynch who invested his time and Nicki Lynch who

prosecuted the offenders… uh… published the submissions. These are their stories.

Rich and Nicki Lynch with their latest Hugo award for Best Fanzine.

December 2003 13

RL: Up through Issue #16, they were stapled by us, too. After that,we farmed it out to a commercial printer.

ND: How have you recruited writers and artists?

RL: It’s hard at first, that’s very difficult to do. You have to startwith the people you know.

NL: Yep, you lean on them heavily!

RL: You have to be a pest in a nice way. But nobody’s going to con-tribute if the product doesn’t look attractive and if it doesn’t containdecent writing. The longer you go the easier it gets as your reputa-tion starts getting around. Networking at conventions is key.

NL: Every now and then, out of the blue, someone will say, “Hey,I’ve got an article for you.” Sometimes they actually fulfill on thatpromise!

RL: We were usually planning for 20% more content than wecould print as often, work failed to arrive. We’re not paying peoplefor their work so there’s only so much we could do.

ND: Without a formal print schedule, how did you set yourdeadlines?

RL: We’d let people know about three months in advance. Beforeemail, lots of snail mail went around.

NL: We have people who don’t have email still! One fan in partic-ular refuses to get email—and he’s a lawyer! Also, lots of our con-tributors are older.

RL: But that’s a nice thing about an open-ended schedule. Weused to say we’d publish as soon as we had about 36 pages of usablematerial. After about Issue #12 or 13, the page count went up andup so that rule went out the window. Our last issue was 68 pagesand one of our “Best of” issues had 108 pages.

ND: Let’s talk about your cover art. I’ve noticed that the two of youhave been woven into the fabric, so to speak. What’s that all about?

RL: I don’t know how this trend started but, with the last four or fiveissues, all the artists decided they were going to put us into the cover.

ND: So, Mimosa’s taken that long ride into the publishing sunset.What’s next?

RL: Nothing.

NL: <laughing gleefully>

RL: Wait for the economy to improve, I think.

NL: Yeah, I was laid off in December. I was a software tester.

RL: We don’t necessarily have quite the disposable income we hadbefore. My job with the Dept. of Energy is stable so we’ll be ok.

ND: If you didn’t have SF Fandom to define you, how would youdefine yourself?

NL: A quilter!

RL: That’s an excellent question and, to be honest, I really don’t

know. When you’ve been doing it for as long as I have, it’s tough to

say. Maybe astronomy?

ND: How many cons do you attend a year?

RL: When we lived in Tennessee, we’d attend about ten a year.

Nowadays we attend the Worldcon, Midwestcon, the local conven-

tions and that’s it. It takes time and energy. But we haven’t missed

a Worldcon since 1988.

ND: How many Hugos line your shelves at home?

RL: This year was our sixth win. However we were nominated and

didn’t win many, many times. Theoretically, we’re eligible for next

year’s ballot but it’s probably not going to happen. In order to be

nominated, you have to have something out by the end of the year

and we ceased publication as of August.

ND: How long have you been married?

RL: This is our 30th year.

ND: Do you share your home with other 2 or 4-legged creatures?

NL: Yes, we have a cat named, of course…

ALL: Mimosa!

14 Nth Degree

Abig man with a cardboard sign meets me in the arrivalvestibule, before I even have a chance to buy someclothes and shuck my airline suit. They’d told me not to

ship any baggage, so no trouble there, but visitors aren’t normallyallowed in here.

Something’s breaking on the screen by the shuttle stop, some-thing about 200 dead in Dallas. The sound is pretty low and I missmost of the scrolling text. The big uniformed guy sees me squintingat the screen, puts a heavy arm around my shoulder and shakes hishead. “Plenty of time for that later,” he says, and motions me out aside door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

There’s a breeze out on the tarmac, and it chills me through thesuit. The waistband is starting to rip and of course I’ve got nothingon under there. I feel ridiculous. There’s a Dreamland Air logo afoot high on my chest: clouds and pink cherubim. Fortunately it’sa short walk to the car, a drab unmarked affair parked right at thebottom of the metal stairs between a fuel truck and a forklift.

He sets the car on automatic, but it’s not taking the Expressway;it’s all back roads, in from the tip of Long Island. There’s someequipment I can’t identify in the car, wired to the windows. Hestarts to brief me, but he doesn’t know much. “Your experience andskill in the breeding of nanomechanisms are needed at the site. Ihave been told that this project could win the war.” I’m not goingto argue; no more holy plague would be good enough for me.

“For the past seven years, we have had a small team here doingfundamental research on the measurement problem in quantummechanics,” says Dr. Patel. I sit in the only occupied chair in thedarkened colloquium room, wearing a ragged bathrobe belongingto one of her grad students. She’s showing me an animated 3Dmicrograph of some sort of nanocircuit attached to a living cell.The cell is covered with branching tendrils and has a sort of longneck: a neuron, I suppose. The circuit is all over the thing, like awire basket, and there’s a little box with a couple of leads stretchingout of the picture.

“That looks biological,” I say.She nods. “We have confirmed Wigner’s hypothesis of the cen-

tral role of the brain in wave-function collapse.”I’m irritated. They hauled my naked butt out on the tarmac in

March at Giuliani for this? “Wigner was confused. There’s nothingspecial about the brain except that it’s a thermodynamically irre-versible system. If an observable gets coupled to the brain state,there’s gotta be decoherence. You can explain everything about so-called collapse by just assuming that.”

“No, you can’t,” says Patel, giving me a lopsided smile.“What can’t you explain?”“The collapse is not irreversible. We have reversed it.”My jaw drops. “You have not.”

They have. Her students Tianbao and Nora give me a tour of theexperimental lab that afternoon. Their apparatus, on a heavy opticaltable in the twilit room, is mostly an ordinary optical interferometer,though there’s more… plumbing than I’d expect in such a lab.Photons from a weak light source hit a half-silvered mirror, and con-tinue on either of two paths through a series of mirrors and lenses,to be recombined at a detector, a device like the business end of adigital camera. The arriving photons, summed up over time, shouldshow an interference pattern of light and dark fringes, provided thatno steps are taken to identify which path an individual photon takes.

But the beam in each leg of the interferometer also goes througha cylindrical cell containing an optically active crystal. It is a nonde-structive photodetector, designed to let the beam pass while notingits passage, to be remembered in a file on a junky old PC somewherein the shadows. Still, no matter how gentle the detectors are, the actof doing this should destroy the interference pattern.

Two weeks ago, after three years of repetitive and scrupulouslysecret toil, Tianbao and Nora became able to identify the photonpaths without destroying the interference pattern. Somehow, theycould induce interference with a piece of the photon’s wave func-tion thought hopelessly lost to decoherence. This was accomplishedby wiring the detector cells to a device in the middle of the table,the focus of the plumbing in the room. It contains the nanomech-anism that Dr. Patel’s team had constructed, wrapped around a sin-gle human neuron, floating in a nutrient bath.

Tianbao says, “You’re looking at our dissertations, if we canget this work declassified enough to release it. Dr. Patel thinksthat we’ve already got enough to publish and graduate, after thewar is over.”

And get a Nobel in the bargain, I think. And maybe a Medal ofFreedom, too, though I can’t yet see the military application that allthis has got to have. I hope it goes well for them, in any event. I’mgrateful to Tianbao, since he let me borrow his spare change ofclothes. They almost fit.

Nora taps the central housing. “That’s Demon Mark One,”she says.

I’m lying on my bed at the new, secret hotel near the old synchro-tron equipment shed, listening to the uniformed federal agents

Demons by Matt McIrvin

December 2003 15

cleaning the carpet out in the hall. I ponder the problem. I wantedto cure the holy plague, but building a bomber that runs on air is agood consolation prize, I suppose.

My job, I’m told, and the purpose of all this lavishly fundedsecret research, is to construct a Maxwell demon. This is an entityfirst mentioned in a paradoxical 19th-century thought experiment.Suppose you have a box of air with a wall down the middle, and atiny door in the wall. A microscopic demon sits by the door, exam-ining the speeds of the air molecules bouncing around in the box.He opens and closes the door selectively, trillions of times a second,to let fast molecules pass into the rightmost compartment and slowmolecules into the leftmost one. For very little expenditure of ener-gy, he can create a large temperature difference between the twosides of the box, and you could run a heat engine off the difference.It’s practically free conversion of heat into work. With a Maxwelldemon you could build a refrigerator that needs no electricity, or acar that runs on ambient heat and drops cubes of frozen air out thetailpipe. And it blatantly violates the Second Law ofThermodynamics. Where does the entropy go?

Only in the twentieth century, with quantum mechanics andinformation theory, was the paradox resolved. The forgetting ofinformation is associated with an unavoidable cost. By quantummechanics, any device that could work as a Maxwell demon mustsomehow retain a record of every molecular selection it makes—which in a precise formal sense is itself an increase in entropy,and can’t be continued forever anyway—or erase it, whichrequires the conversion of work into heat. It all balances out sothat you can’t win.

But Tianbao and Nora now have a means of painless forgetting.In a selected piece of a detection apparatus, they can erase the dif-ference between the-photon-went-this-way and the-photon-went-that-way. They could, in principle, do the same for air molecules.All it takes is some suitably constructed, far more complex descen-dant of Demon Mark One.

The power-plant cell that will contain it has already beendesigned in some detail. They’ve given me the plans, colorful andstereoscopic, with only a few of the details blanked out. Inside is anempty space that it is my job to fill, once my demon is working.

As I drift off to sleep, I think circular thoughts of painless for-getting, and wonder if it could be applied to Jane and the plague.

Dr. Patel’s lab is in the old detector analysis rooms, stacked likegiant concrete packing crates inside the metal shed. It has morebrand-new, off-the-shelf mechanogenetics equipment than I’ve everseen in one place before. They don’t know how to use half of it.Demon Mark One was made with the oldest machines in the lab,in the lowest rooms. They’re what I’m used to, as well; the assem-

bler tanks are relatively low-capacity and the generation countpoky. Progress has sped along as always, and the new stuff is equip-ment that I’ve drooled over in trade-magazine ads, specialized formedical projects. Neurons from the stem-culture lab down thestreet go in here; the powder of tiny machines that is generation Nfrom the machine-breeder goes in there; the mechanobiologicalcomplexes, carefully fed and cossetted by artificial cilia, travel downthis pipe to the selection bath, where... where I had to design some-thing to test for the behavior we wanted—only a small part of whatI had to do. Whatever it was, it would pick out the parents whosedesigns would be folded, with suitable mutation and crossbreeding,into generation N+1.

Looking at the gap where the selector will go, I imaginesomething that James Clerk Maxwell would have recognized: abox of some inert gas divided down the middle by a porousmembrane. This will sprout both invisibly tiny life-support con-duits and nanoconveyors, molecular arms that would haul myhopeful demons, each a cultured neuron in a mechanical cage,into and out of place, plugging their molecular doors into thepores in the wall.

Selection should be easy in principle. At first, the nanoconvey-ors can be adapted to pull them apart if they don’t generate a localtemperature gradient. Once I’ve got some vague approximation ofa working demon, I just increase the time that each demon sits atits pore: the ones that don’t work will simply overheat from thesting of their accumulated memories and fall apart within millisec-onds, adding their atoms to the gas. It’s easy enough to scrub themout chemically.

The details, of course, will take a year or two. But I’ve got peo-ple, and budget, and lots of shiny machines.

The demons start to work a little in mid-July. We’re seeing tinythermal gradients, and Demons Mark Million or so are starting toburn themselves out without being helped along. Conventionalphysics has reached its limit, and the new effect first seen by Noraand Tianbao must start to take hold if the demons are to evolveany further.

That night my dreams of Jane and forgetting become moreelaborate. I’m in a vast, dimly lit warehouse with cracked, filthywindows, filled with long tables at which people work without ceas-ing. Each table has at its midline a tilted chute that descends froman invisible, distant place hidden in mist and darkness. Black andwhite marbles roll down this chute, and off on side channels thatdeposit them in a shallow basin in front of each worker. The peoplesort them into barrels of black marbles and white marbles that sitat their feet. The workers’ hands are a blur of motion. No matterhow many marbles go into the barrels, they never become full.

16 Nth Degree

Jane is in this great sweatshop, sorting the marbles. I can’t makeout any other faces with confidence. I see her a long way down oneof the tables, and run to her; it seems to take hours, as if the tableswere many miles long. I try to say her name but stumble on the ini-tial J. She doesn’t take any notice of me. Her hands and eyeballs justquiver like hummingbirds’ wings, as the marbles drop from thechute and fall into the barrels.

It seems that she has forgotten me, at least. I suppose that’sa comfort.

The hard part is over. I’m in the engine shop, watching themacromechanics fit the first production power cell (it contains amonogenerational batch of Demon Mark 394,700,655) into aStirling engine. The nutrient solution in the connected hoses istuned down a little so they can handle it with gloves. Still, I cansee the heat ripples rising off one end, and the other is coatedwith a layer of frost.

Nora is there, fidgeting as she always does when somethingimportant is going to happen. Suddenly she asks me: “Are you adualist?”

“What?”“What do you think is going on in the demon cell? It’s some-

thing completely outside the physics we know.”“A straightforward extension, I imagine,” I say. “I never got all

the theorists’ fretting about unitarity. I mean, I’m familiar with thetheory, and when I saw it violated in your lab it was a shock, but Idon’t get why that’s so philosophically disturbing. We’ll have toextend quantum mechanics; that’s all. I’m happy to leave it to thepeople who write papers about the measurement problem.”

“Wigner thought the collapse effect had to do with conscious-ness. Do you think the neurons are tapping into the soul?”

“Whose soul? These neurons are cloned and differentiated inthe bio lab down the street. They didn’t come from anybody.”

“Good point,” she says, but she still looks nervous.Once the mechanics tighten all the bolts and release the brake,

the engine’s flywheel starts to turn, faster and faster, with a whirringnoise that becomes a high-pitched whine. The cell is far past engi-neering break-even, producing many times as much power as thecultured neurons consume. I reach for the glucose regulator andmake the mixture a little richer, and the whine passes out of therange of human hearing.

We’re here for the duration, of course. We know that we’ve donehistory-making science, but we can’t go home or make anythingpublic. We can’t even switch the whole facility to a demon-cell gen-erator, lest somebody see us drop off the grid and get ideas. We doa little research on refinements to the process, but mostly we sit

around in the top-secret hotel pool, mope over the hourly tolls ofthe distant dead in Seattle and Portland, and write things up instacks of highly classified paper. Meanwhile, production ramps upon things that have been in development since long before I arrivedat the lab: transports, tanks, planes, even explosives powered by thelimitless source of free energy that we have created. After the war isover, this will revolutionize society, make possible a technologicalheaven on earth and even rapid expansion into space. We’re all con-vinced of that.

Then, one day, we convene for a public ceremony, completewith a flyover of the strange, nearly silent airplanes that, it isrumored, have been winning the fight in Mozambique and NewZealand. We can’t reveal details. We can reveal that we’re the onesbehind it all.

I’m sweating in the early-October heat, wearing the first tai-lored suit I’ve worn in thirty years. Dr. Patel is as impeccablydressed as always; Tianbao and Nora are almost unrecognizable.We’re sitting at long tables, rubber chicken at the ready in coveredtrays. “Hail to the Chief” starts up from a loudspeaker somewhere,and the President of the United States strolls to the podium at thehead of the assembly.

Just as the airplanes streak overhead in V formation, a bombgoes off beneath the President’s podium and kills us all.

I sort. Sometimes, at long intervals, I think, just for a moment.Then I sort some more.

White black white white black white black black black blackwhite black white.

Sometimes my environment looks like a sweatshop, and achute with marbles. Sometimes, it is a fence with a gate in it, andsheep are running through the gate, left and right. Sometimes itlooks like a cave with doorways manned by we grinning imps.Sometimes we are ticks in the copious beard of James ClerkMaxwell, and we herd tiny lice that run eternally up and down.There must be trillions of us enslaved in these places, more thanever lived on my planet alone.

Sometimes (and in my rare moments of lucidity this fills mewith recognition) my home appears to be a molecule-sized holein a membrane waving with artificial cilia, somewhere in theheart of an Air Force DF-65 DevilDart tactical fighter. We’regonna win.

Fast fast slow fast fast slow slow slow fast slow fast fast fast.Somewhere among the uncounted dead, Jane labors, as I do. I

have not found painless forgetting, but the task of sorting comesclose.

I cannot entirely forget that I have created Hell, and that I amthe only demon who belongs here.

WizardsWizards are smart fellows.

They wear big hatsAnd long robes to hide

Their pajamas.They have long whiskersBecause they rather

Think glorious thoughtsThan shave.

They order pizza,Look to the heavensAnd chart the planetsWhile us foolish mortals

Fold our laundryAnd clean our bedrooms.

Wizards smell a great deal.Who has time for bathingWhen the King needs youTo forecast weatherAnd plan battles

Based on the alignmentOf the planets and stars?

WarningIn dusty bookshelves

Some books gather no dustThey smell of leather,Glue, parchment and inkThat the centuriesCannot decay.

Calling to would-be wizards“Open me.

Learn my magic,”They fill your headWith tales of fancy.Their silence call

Speaks of gold, kingdoms,And your fondest wish granted.

Don’t listen!Because ancient magic

Will never do as you commandThe ancient magic serves no master

But itself.

by Rochelle Mitchell

December 2003 17

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18 Nth Degree

The Annals of

VolusiusPart VI by Claudio Salvucci and Paolo Belzoni

XII: Faber est suae nemo fortunaeThe palatial tent in which Julian was being housed—or more

correctly, where Julian was being restrained with stout cords to thecenter post—was a model of desert finery blended perfectly withnomadic crudity. With no fanfare, the flap was flipped open by theguard and Iskendr the Egret appeared inside.

“Your phollygog is no longer in your possession. Where is it?”Egret’s Saracen lackeys had been given instructions as to what tolook for, but despite a thoroughness bordering on absurdity, theyfound nothing.

“Hmmm…” said Julian, with no particular concern for his wel-fare at the moment, “Well whaddya know. I must have left it on thetable next to my chariot keys.”

Though not especially amused by Julian’s anachronistic humor,Iskendr laughed anyway. But it was the kind of laugh that signifiedless “That was a witty and well-timed rejoinder,” and more “Whata fun thing, disemboweling!”

“Your friend Augusta, she cannot help us in this regard, despiteour persistence in questioning.” Iskendr had an evil smirk upon hisface, and Julian knew immediately that his ability to withholdinformation would be severely compromised if they used Augustato get to him—which they certainly would.

“You see, Chuly, we have a bit of a problem here. I am desper-ately in need of a Junkuonese 4th Denoblian Phollygog…”

Julian arched an eyebrow. “Look, pal, your jollies are yourown business.”

“Oh no, my friend, this has nothing to do with my ‘jollies,’ asyou say. I have been shadowing you, Mr. Enkeizer, and noticed

that you are not quite fully aware of the potential power that littlecontraption has.”

“Egret, you’re a piece of work, you are. First of all, I don’t havethe darn thing anymore, and secondly, even if I did, why would Igive it to you when you just finished telling me how much alleged‘power’ it has.”

“Alleged?” Iskendr laughed, “No, Chuly, you let the absoluteuselessness of the thing delude you. I submit that you do have thephollygog, and you will, willingly or not, lead me to it. And restassured if I give you any information at all, it is because it is usefulfor me to have you know it.”

Or because it’s a crock, Julian joked silently to himself. “Okay,but what I don’t understand is why you’re so interested in a worth-less Phollygog anyone could have picked up anytime. It was in thelost and found for Pete’s sake!”

“Ahh, because, my captive friend, no one else, not me, notMiiro Urp, not that infernal Feg Myktat, not anyone, could haveclaimed that Phollygog. The device was obviously left there express-ly for you and you alone. And you played the part for which youwere destined without even knowing it.”

“Aww, get out of here… destiny! My destiny is what I decide itis! And who the heck takes such an interest in me that they’re leav-ing Phollygogs for me to find in the lost and found desk atReincarnation Station?”

“That, Chuly, is the question you should be asking yourself,and the answer to which I am extremely interested in knowing, forvarious and sundry reasons which I will not divulge to you at thistime. This trite philosophical quest which you and Myktat are

The Annals of Volusius Parts I-V are available at www.nthzine.com

December 2003 19

undertaking is nothing but a waste of time. Yes, Chuly, I knowmore of your search for the extra-infinite than you think I do, andI can tell you that it is fruitless. There is nothing beyond the inter-life that is of any concern to you—no escape from the endless cycleof birth and death.

“You should, rather, be directing your attention to those pow-erful, hidden, secret forces within the interlife that are attemptingto manipulate your existence against your will—indeed, withoutyou even knowing about it. Remember the Great Rule engraved onthe concourse wall in Reincarnation Station: ‘We make the rules’?To whom do you think the word ‘we’ refers?”

“I always thought that it meant ‘we’ as in ‘we’ beings collective-ly, all of us…” Julian mumbled, confused as to where Egret wasgoing with this argument.

“As do most other soft-headed, proletarian souls. But could ‘we’not also signify a specific group of beings as opposed to ‘you’ the greatunwashed beingsthat scrape outmeager existencesin lifetime afterlifetime on planetafter planet? Is itnot possible thatsome beings inthe Interlife haveabsolute powerover all the oth-er s—includingyou and me?”

Julian didn’thave an answerto that one.Admittedly, he’dnever consideredthat possibilitybefore. But thenhe realized hewas speaking toa charlatid, whichcomforted himimmensely. If onlybecause of gutinstinct and Feg’ssporadically suc-cessful wisdom,Julian knew

Iskendr the Egret was dead wrong about there being nothing outsidethe Interlife. But he did have a point about the ambiguity of that ‘we’.

The Egret continued, “I have come to believe that a cabal ofpowerful organizations and beings are engaged in a massive con-spiracy to control the multiverse using covert power dynamics thatare completely invisible to the sheep-like masses. “We make therules” is their derisive way of making us think we have freedom ofwill and movement, while at the same time admitting the truetotality of their tyranny for all to see. I have in mind nothing lessthan to find out which beings are meant by the Rule, and you,Chuly Enkeizer, are incapable of interfering with my plans.”

For the moment, at least, that statement was correct. However,Iskendr’s sinister-sounding revelations had successfully piqued Julian’scuriosity. Noting the powerlessness of his present condition, Juliandecided that owning up to the truth might not be such a bad strategy.It might allow him to extract even more valuable information from

this clearlyderanged person-age and besides,there was no pos-sible way thatIskendr could layhands on hisphollygog in thislifetime. Or soJulian thought.

“Listen Egret,just because I’msuch a swell guy,I’m going toshow you wherethat precious 4thD e n o b l i a nPhollygog is cur-rently located.”

“Oh?” Egretsaid as his eyesgleamed withsurprise and cov-etousness.

“First, I needto be untied, ofcourse.”

“No… Firstyou will tell mewhere it is.”Illustration by Lori Kauffmann

20 Nth Degree

Egret growled suspiciously.“Actually, it’s right here in this room. Untie me and I’ll

show you.”Squinting warily, Egret drew his scimitar. “Alright, Chuly. But

if you should even breathe the wrong way, you will feel the bite ofthis blade.”

Julian was utterly unaffected by this threat as he knew thatEgret would never kill him as long as he didn’t have the phollygog.Such a death would only allow Julian to escape into the labyrinththat is Reincarnation Station.

With a single dexterous sword stroke, Egret sliced through thecords which lashed Julian to the tent pole. In utter disdain ofEgret’s instructions, Julian removed his tunic with a rapid flourishand a hop.

“Here’s your phollygog, Egret!” he shouted, thrusting out hischest to reveal the strange pig-shaped birthmark that had changedso very little over the past two decades.

“Ah! You adsorbed it! How interesting!” Egret was genuinelyastonished. “I should have guessed it, considering your recollectionof the interlife is intact.” Of course, as a charlatid, Egret retainedcomplete interlife awareness while skipping back and forth betweenexistences. But for an ordinary nondescript soul like Julian, suchawareness was exceptional indeed.

“Well, I suppose you know what this means,” Egret continued,now resuming a demeanor of pure wickedness, “We shall have todo a little surgery. How fortuitous that I am currently holding animplement which should do the job quite effectively.”

“Yes, but how will killing me now yield you the phollygog?”Julian queried, fearing suddenly that his stratagem had catastroph-ically misfired.

“Kill you? Why would I kill a smart fellow such as yourself? I’msimply going to do a little reconstructive surgery and remove thatunsightly birthmark for you. It must have caused you endless griefas a child at the baths.”

“Ha, what would you know about baths,” Julian counteredweakly. Knowing the state of medicine at this particular period inhistory, when a boil was treated with a pinch of dried goat manureand six prayers to Demeter, Julian realized that an ‘operation’ of thissort would almost certainly result in a horrible lingering death,which notwithstanding a knowledge of the interlife, he was deter-mined to postpone for a while. “Uh, you won’t be able to take ahunk of my body back into the interlife with you, you know,” heoffered, hoping that Iskendr had overlooked this obvious problem.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Well, you see, I have a feelingthat if I ingest your birthmark and then murder myself, I mighthave a shot at it. Does that not sound reasonable to you?”

Julian gulped hard as this notion seemed quite plausible—atleast no less so than climbing the sheer face of Mount Gorbon, thesolid nitrogen peak of Regnas, and spitting into the liquid hydro-gen sea 78 miles below, as Feg had oft suggested as a spontaneousday-trip.

Scimitar in hand, Iskendr closed in on Julian. However, it washere that Julian’s fantastically high luck quotient again quite literal-ly saved his skin.

The blade had not even begun its journey towards the innards ofJulian when, in the span of an instant, a cry of curiosity and surprisesounded from outside and the entire tent collapsed upon itself.

Some large and unwieldy animate object had somehow project-ed itself square onto the roof like a flailing sack of turnips andripped the fabric away from the center post. Iskendr fell backwards,smothered in animal skins, and instinctively rammed his scimitarthrough the fabric into the offending load that crashed down uponhim. There were more confused cries, a few minutes of awkwardstruggling, until finally the Saracen commander had managed tofree himself from the chaos and began to survey the scene.

According to the testimony of witnesses, a rabid camel hadplunged into the camp full-tilt with a half-crazed rider astride her.Apparently mad from the desert sun, the rather corpulent rider hadrelaxed his hold of the camel’s neck just as the ship of the deserthalted abruptly. Thanks to the laws of inertia, its human cargo wasprojected forward in a high arc, directly onto the roof of the tent.

Iskendr could not have known the name of the meaty oaf whohad provided escape to his prisoners, nor would he ever learn it, forthe instinctive application of his sword into the fleshy package as itfell onto him had resulted in its fatal wounding. The Romangent—for so he appeared by his vestments—was bleeding his lifeaway and gasping for air like a landed fish.

The Saracen, growing more enraged by the minute, trompedthrough the crimson pool and stood over the object of his rancor,ready to sever his head from his trunk. Before the blow fell, howev-er, a last raspy cry escaped from the throat of his unfortunate vic-tim—“Augusta”—and the creature expired.

XIII: Primum est nocere“What an unflagging hero!” sighed Augusta dreamily.“By the gods,” muttered Julian sotto voce.“To think, in the enemy’s cruel hands. I hope good Fortune sees

fit to take him under her protective care.”Now that’s comedy, Julian thought maliciously.“To pay for our freedom with his life,” she mused, much to the

annoyance of her companion.“Enough already!” he admonished rather severely.

December 2003 21

She said nothing further, but sighed so lamentously that Juliannearly dove headfirst into the sand to escape the awful shudderingthat it sent up his spine.

To explain the words thus traded in the desert, it must be men-tioned that both Augusta and Julian had, when their flight hadbeen completely unhampered and a safe distance from the camphad been procured, turned their eyes back in curiosity so as to learnthe nature of the strange event that had won them their freedom.

Through the haze of the desert sun, Augusta had been able tospy the Saracens dragging a strangely compliant man about thecamp. She ever afterward swore—though Julian thought it impos-sible for her to be certain of this fact at so great a distance—that thepoor captive was none other than Odorpus her betrothed, knownbetter to the followers of this tale as Stanley Aorta. It is fitting torecord that Augusta was perfectly correct as to the identification ofthe form, but had grossly overestimated his overall state of health.

At any rate, the young fugitives would soon have their ownhealth to worry about. Having just cheated death, they wereunaware that his seeming leniency was in fact a ruse to land themin worse predicaments—predicaments that would have more far-reaching consequences than merely being gutted in the sands ofArabia. For example, after wandering aimlessly under the scorchingsun for a few hours, the two quickly found themselves dehydrated,sunburnt, delirious, and in Julian’s case, suffering from a severe caseof turf toe. Almost simultaneously, both ceased their stumblingmarch and collapsed into an exhausted pile…

…Awaiting their arrival at the Unconsciousness Waiting Areawas Feg Myktat whose incredibly excited demeanor seemed to indi-cate that he had completely forgotten about his recent altercationwith Julian.

“Julian! Augusta! I’ve been expecting you!” He called out, rush-ing toward them.

“Ack!” Julian ejaculated, his involuntary Feg-Avoidance mecha-nism working at peak capacity. He grabbed Augusta’s hand andbegan dragging her away at a quick clip.

“No, wait! Stop!” Feg called, hurrying after him. “I have some-thing of the utmost importance to tell you!” This, in fact, was a fab-rication, but Feg could think of no other way to halt Julian’s flight,short of having him arrested for a violation of penal code π7: leavingthe scene of an accident before it happens. This capricious law hadbeen put on the books by members of the Yazi Party to allow forthe detention and incarceration of petulant opponents withoutcause. As Feg had never been a member of that particular totalitar-ian gaming club, he was loathe to invoke such an unjust andfrowned upon section of the Interlife legal code. Regardless, this

ruse he had chosen instead worked quite well.Julian paused. Feg was on him faster than a nine-legged

Rapindian fleetsucker on a Lethargian leadbellied wallowox. “What?” Julian demanded.“Uh, oh…” Feg thought for a moment.“Well?” Julian asked angrily and began turning away.“No wait,” Feg stammered, “Uh, Alexander Egret is right

behind you!” Julian made a crude sound that was a clear indication of the low

regard in which he held Feg’s ridiculous statement.“I’ll take the phollygog now, Mr. Enkeizer.”“Ack!” Julian sputtered as he nearly came into contact with the

odious spiritual essence of Alexander Egret. Augusta, by this point,was completely befuddled and wore the corresponding expressionon her face.

“I knew you’d show up here eventually. Years of research taughtme that the sun is hot in the desert and you had no way to refreshyourselves,” Egret rationalized. “So hand it over, or else…”

“Or else what?” As the words escaped his lips, Julian realizedthat this was a particularly foolish question.

“Or else, THIS!”Augusta disappeared.“Ack!” This time it was Feg who manifested shock.“If you ever want to see her again, hand over the phollygog,”

Egret intoned with a smirk. His method of effecting this turn ofevents was in reality quite simple. Upon disposing of the nowassuredly killed body of Odorpus, the Saracen brigade had begun athorough search of the area. It wasn’t long before they came uponthe unconscious forms of Julian and Augusta baking under thedesert sun. By dropping into a trance, Egret was able to enter thedreamlife himself and track down the hapless pair in theUnconsciousness Waiting Area where he knew they would be. Hissemiconscious living body mimicking his every Interlife move,Egret’s Saracens were kept well appraised of the situation. On cue,they revived Augusta, whisking her back to consciousness. Theywere also prepared to take other actions, should their leader com-mand them.

A cold fear gripped Julian. The idea of losing Augusta forever wasunderstandably anathema to him. He reached in his pocket and tookout the phollygog which, though battered, was still quite active.

Egret eyed it greedily.Feg had a look of dire foreboding about him.Julian hesitated. “First, bring Augusta back.”“In due time,” Egret lied, “But I must have the phollygog in

order to retrieve her. It’s a bit of a catch 22y + √7x.”Confused, Julian handed him the contraption.

22 Nth Degree

“Ack!” Feg chirped and tried in vain to restrain Julian’s arm.“You fool! I finally have it!” Egret exclaimed as he snatched the

phollygog. A look of supreme triumph wrinkled his oddly shaped face.“Now bring Augusta back you rancid wormloaf,” Julian com-

manded with all the authority of a 14th class cannon-foddergrenadier of Lord Lortran’s famous Fighting Horde.

Egret’s subsequent mocking laughter was not the responsehoped for by Julian. He was about to throttle the deceitful curwhen Egret suddenly disappeared as well.

“Julian Kaiser, Julian Kaiser,” the station loudspeaker boomed,“Your life has expired. Please report to Fiche Room 773 for re-assignment.”

“Figs!” he swore. “Figs, figs, figs!”“Sometime today,” insisted the garbled voice on the speaker.“Figs to the fifth!” Julian concluded his algorithm.“Now there’s no reason for that sort of language, Mr. Kaiser,”

the Idiopager droned.“Oh, cram it,” replied Feg uncharacteristically.“Alright,” conceded the computer-generated voice, just before a

small platoon of Station Transit Troopers apprehended both Fegand his comrade and smashed their faces into the station floor. Abevy of onlookers, just back from the Brush Fire Pentathlon, hoot-ed appreciatively.

It is well known in the multiverse that just about the vilestplaces and the most repugnant individuals pertaining to any civi-lization are found in transportation terminals. That applies equallyto the most advanced InterGalactic ultramodernist Warp Tubes ofthe Atpis cluster, the Move-O platforms on the planet Bhugg whosetrolleys are run purely on slug power, and every mode of transporta-tion in between. And in all of them, there are some form of civilpeace-keepers who try their best not only to deter crime, but alsoto ensure that traffic moves in an orderly fashion, the waiting areasare kept clean, and in the case of Bhugg, to prevent malevolentyoungsters from smuggling salt shakers into the subway.

The Reincarnation Station Transit Troopers however, knownand feared by their initials—TT—are not your average civil ser-vants. Since all of the interlife is one humongous station, all of theactivity that would normally fall under the jurisdiction of otherorganizations—police, militia, military, espionage, death squads,and orthodontists—fall under the aegis of the TT. This is, obvious-ly, a lot of work to ask of one department of overpaid thugs, a pointmade and remade continuously by their union president, the dis-gustingly libidinous Lig Prut.

In their earlier days, the TT were political insurgents, but yearsof getting fat off of station kickbacks had softened them to thepoint where they were an almost nonexistent presence on the

Station floor, even during such tumultuous and disruptive inci-dents as the great Free Flatulence rebellion protesting the passing ofa gas tax in the Bien dimension.

But woe betide the lowly passenger who managed to wind upon the TT’s bad side, for when the central control computerpopped them out of their nice cozy sleep cubicles and ushered themonto the main floor to respond to some incident, no matter howinsignificant, the old skull-cracking thuggery would return andthey would wreak terrible vengeance on the offender. The trooperswere even known to chase souls through sixty or seventy lives justto make sure they got the point.

So it was not an altogether good turn of events for Feg andJulian to be apprehended by these over-zealous enforcers of publicorder. Nor were they particularly pleased about being hog-tied anddragged along the floor down the hall.

These trifling troubles were soon forgotten, however, displacedby the sickening realization that the door to which they were beingdragged bore the ominous appellation:

LIG PRUTINTERROTHANASIA CHAMBER

To Be Continued.

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December 2003 23

The judge’s boots are thunderstormsClapping at my brainsTying up both handsI can’t feel my lungs

She puts an apple on my headMy will crumbles and I findTo the sardonic judges aboundI am everything

The judges loom down nowWith their quivers, arrows, eyesI’m shaking all over, I’m hopelessI hear the strings go twangNow streams leak my faceBefore there’s certain painMaybe I should take a peek…For I’m certain I taste apple juice

Apple Juiceby Monique Moate

24Nth Degree

The furless rat stood at the entrance to the maze, wrappedin old rags, staring out at its pristine white walls. Pristinewhite, but to him, bloodied. They rose from the ground,

and they went down deep—roots in some molten core, the bonesof the world.

A mist hung above and thin tendrils floated down, caressing theground so that the dust became damp and caked. From the distancecame a sound like the dong of a bell suspended in time. Themachines were calling. Everyone would be here soon.

“Called by God,” the furless rat hissed. He glanced around,nervous and agitated.

There was silence, and then the bell-thing sounded again, themachines from their caves calling, calling. The furless rat turnedaround and ran back. He moved as quickly as he could while oldjoints fought, and muscles complained. The limp was bad today:his rear right leg dragged as he moved and left eddies in the dustbehind him.

He had traveled the same path before, many times; the firsttime, carrying the limp with pride, leaving behind the first bit offur, tiny clumps to be covered with dust and hidden in fog.

*****In the distance, the crowd squeaked and chittered while the

machines bellowed their final calls.“They’re waiting for me,” said the young rat. He was thin and

small; next to the furless rat, he still looked like a nothing, a child,a pup. His nose and whiskers twitched in agitation, his tail jerkedback and forth.

Another cry from the machines beyond the maze, echoingthrough the plastic tunnels carved into the rock, bouncing fromwall to wall into every nest till all the world heard. Then, a silencebloated with expectation.

“That was the last call,” the young rat pleaded. “I have to go.”He tried to get past the furless one, but his path was blocked.

“You don’t have to go,” the furless rat said. His heart beat quick-ly, and so he spoke louder to drown it out. “Don’t you understandthat you could die in there?”

The young rat scuttled back and forth in front of his elder. “Ihave to go… If I don’t run the maze, I’ll always be a nothing-pupto them. And… and I might make it.”

“No! You could die like so many others have died. That place,it’s bloody. The walls are covered. It reeks of death.”

“That won’t be me,” the young rat said. “I’ll get through it.”“And if you do?” The older rat clicked his teeth at the younger

rat. His game leg twitched. “What then? Only the machines andtheir small deaths sheathed in silver. What’s the point? Why do thatto yourself?”

The Touch ofHands Beyond the Mazeby Michail Velichansky

December 2003 25

“Because it is life!” the young rat said, too quickly. “Themachines are the Hands of God! To be touched by them…” Heinhaled suddenly, a reverse hiss through his teeth.

“The hands of god? What god?!” the furless rat yelled, trying tostifle the desperation he felt behind his throat, trying to ignore thepains in his chest. “There are only machines! Cave after cave ofmachines! I’ve seen no God!”

“Then you must be blind!” The young rat was shaking. “You seethe hand but cannot see the body, so you assume that no bodyexists—now let me through!” He rushed forward, charging the fur-less rat, and they fought, hissing and scratching, until the youngerrat twisted and rolled back, one of his ears torn and a thin gashacross his side. He lay on his stomach, panting.

Slowly, the furless rat crawled up to him. “Please,” the old ratsaid. “Please, I… I can hide you. We can hide together. The otherswon’t know.”

“Why should I exile myself?” the young rat asked, staring at thewalls. “They’re my people too.”

“They’ve practically exiled you already. You’re as alone as I am.”“I can prove them wrong. I’ll run the maze, then they’ll accept

me! They’ll have to. I’ll be a true rat then, not a pup.” And he addedin a whisper-like sigh, “Blessed by God.”

“Blessed! You call it a blessing? I am lame. My fur, once thickand full, gone…”

“Once you wore your naked skin with pride.”They became silent, and the silence filled the tunnel—but

around it flittered the ghosts of muttered speech from outside, fromthose waiting before the entrance to the maze.

“Don’t go,” the furless rat said finally. “Please don’t go. You’re allI have, my adopted son. Don’t go. Stay with me.”

“I can’t.”“Then… then you’ll die.” The furless rat turned away from the

young rat, staring at nothing, whiskers twitching.“Why? Why will I die?” A fire flared in the young rat’s eyes, and

teeth flashed into view as he spoke. “Because I’m too weak? Toosmall? Or am I unworthy to be like you? To receive the blessing intomyself, to allow God to leave his mark… No. No, you will not holdme back.”

He tore forward again, faster than before, regardless of wounds.They fought, and fought, and finally the furless rat was too old. Theyoung rat ran down the tunnel, panting.

“Please!” the furless rat screamed, his voice cut bitter, a tearingsqueal. “Please!”

And he lay, shaking, as the echo raced down the tunnel after thesmall rat, destined to finish without purpose.

The tunnel said to the furless rat, “’ease-ease-ease...”He forced himself up. There was blood on the ground, and he

didn’t know if it was the young one’s or his own.Lagging far behind both pup and echo, the furless rat ran.

*****They were gathered in two columns before the gate leading into themaze, lifted up, open; the furless rat heard the ragged end of a cheeras he ran out of the tunnel.

“Where is he?” the furless rat yelled out, his head jerking leftand right. “Where is he?!”

“No worries, Holy One.” A large brown rat with a tattered earand an extra leg growing from his back. “He’s gone into the maze.”

The furless rat sank down, the air leaving his lungs to become,“God…”

“I didn’t think he’d do it, you know. But he did, the little runt.So maybe he’s not such a pup—I told him that before he left. Ofcourse, he still has to get back out.”

The furless rat could only stare at the maze, barely hearing thewords. His chest was tight, so tight, and he was trembling.

“God… Let him come out of there… Let him live. He’s all Ihave, God, God damn it, there’s so little left now…” He mumbledthe prayer, choking on the words. They came anyway.

“Hope he gets out of there soon,” said the brown rat. “I’m itch-ing to go.”

Still the brown rat sat and waited, as they all waited, as the fur-less one waited. The mist hung over the maze moving back andforth, seeming to be the sleep-motions of something alive, wrap-ping its wispy hands around paw or tail, stroking the rats just as itstroked the maze.

“He’s been a while,” someone said.“Too small for it,” said another.“How soon do you think?” asked the brown rat.The furless rat could only stare into the maze. The mist felt cold

on his skin, and his leg pained him more than ever before. He feltnone of it.

And then suddenly everything rose—the rats stood up ontheir back legs and stretched their heads high to stare into themist as it flashed green and black, as lightning crackled. Themachines screamed.

Of unworthiness.Of failure.The tones were chaos, rough pain. The cessation of order.

Death.So the rats took up the sounds, and they sang, forming smaller

patterns around the sounds of the machines. Of mourning. Of loss.Until they stopped, quite soon, and only the furless rat made anysound at all as he choked.

26 Nth Degree

“So pointless… So pointless… So much pain, so much painto us who have your blessing… Help me get through. Help meunderstand.”

Slowly, the stillness broke, and from each of the columns ratsbegan to flow toward the gate.

“He was an innocent…”Again the machines called, static bell even-toned.“Stop it…” the furless rat prayed. “Stop,” he pleaded. “Stop!” he screamed.“Holy One?”Eyes stared at him, small and

worrying, no—piercing, ready topuncture his flesh, to quick-flash thepain into his leg as the machine con-tinued to click-click-click, impossi-bly fast crackle-crackle-crackle, gaugesspiking behind glass, thin red nee-dles. The rats staring at him, movinga little closer, nervous.

“Holy One?”Give me strength… “We must

stop running the maze. We muststop! So many of us have diedalready… Too many. Too manyhave died!”

They stared at him, and he felthis own nakedness beneath the rags.

“Too many…” Breath camehard to him. The pain was a physi-cal thing, spreading like a gnarledroot from his leg. “Why? Why arewe doing this, killing ourselves,killing our children? There is nothing there—you have seen. Thereis nothing… Nothing but the machines, calling us, screaming whenwe die and calling again... Bloody hands! Bloody hands cut off atthe wrist!”

The eyes flashed as heads turned left and right; they steppedback.

Desperation tasted like something fermenting in his throat.“Please! Listen to me! We can stop. We can all stop, right now,

they… they can’t make us go. We can stay—for ourselves, for ourchildren, we can stay, close the maze, tear it down. It has no controlover us… It doesn’t… Doesn’t have to…”

“Holy One?”“He’s mad!”“His runt died…”

“It is blasphemy. It is dangerous!”And finally a calm, sad voice said, “Leave him here. If he has

turned away from the gods, we must turn away from him.Goodbye, Holy One.

“Goodbye.”So they turned their eyes from him, some right away, some after

looking at him for a while; and he could no longer see what the eyesof his people told him. And one by one, without looking back athim, they entered the maze, and the furless rat was left alone.

***** He stood at the entrance to themaze.

“All of it… All of it, God…” Hecould feel his muscles spasm, ticsplaying inside him. “There is somuch I do not understand. Am Iwrong? Are you really listening? Didyou really touch me with yourmachines?”

The walls rose from the ground.Pristine pure and bloody from sacri-fice. Roots watered with so muchblood.

“Is this what you want fromme?” the rat called to the walls. “Isthis why we are here?”

The machines called again, andthe maze said nothing.

“Tell me,” the rat said. “Pleasetell me.”

Adrenaline flowed from blastingheart. Yet moving slow, the furless rat rolled over, contorted himselfand wiggled out of his rags. He was naked. The mist was cold andclammy on his skin, and he was caked with wet dust.

“Help me,” he prayed.Through the pain and aged muscle, through the pounding in

his head, the furless rat ran into the maze.

***** The maze never changed. And yet as he ran through it, the worldtwisted, like jerks in perspective. There were mirages, and he closedhis eyes. He could smell… so much death, could smell how hope-less it all was, all of it, and he made himself stop knowing, movedhimself to a place without smell. His nose had become null.

In the distance,the machines

sang, perfectlyordered tonesflowing around

each other. The otherswould be

returning soon.

December 2003 27

The furless rat ran.There were sounds moving in on him, illusion-sounds,

changing like liquid from order to chaos, breaking mind, break-ing concentration—in the sounds he could lose himself. And soto another place in his mind he went, deeper down, to a placeof silence.

The furless rat ran through the maze.He tasted the mist, and it was bitter and poisonous, and then

that too was gone. He felt the world move under him, felt the wallsclosing in on him, felt himself. Felt the maze around him, impossi-ble to pass through. Felt himself lost. Then he felt nothing.

The world as it was now: empty, old, thoughts rebounding andechoing in the sudden silence, full of dark screens. There, beforehim, was the knowledge of the presence of a rat. The body of ayoung pup, lying without senses. Dead thing. Still-warm thing.

The machines called to him, a knowing that echoed anddrowned out his own voice.

The furless rat was still. In the empty place inside himself—hethought. And then the furless rat walked out the other side of themaze.

Behind him, the maze was itself again, bones of the world, likethe outside of a mouth. In front of him were the machines, so manyof them, enough for them all and more. In each of the glass-and-crystal rooms, machines; in each room, a rat. The machines reacheddown, and they did things to the rats, they opened them and filledthem, they damaged and healed, they flashed colors, shot tastes,filled noses with smells. Wires ran from bodies and heads, musclestwitched and voices screamed. In those voices there was pain, andthere was ecstasy.

All the while, the gauges jerked, and the displays played theirwonderland colors of numbers and formulae.

Nearby, a room was empty, and the machine waited for him.Even from here he could hear it, could hear its crackle… crackle…Could feel the metal point with his leg just as he could see it withhis eyes.

It called to him.“I can’t,” the furless rat whispered. “I can’t… Not anymore. I

won’t anymore, I…”He stared at the room, at the machines, and he said, softly, “You

can’t hear me,” and the desperation in his throat exploded andbloomed.

“You’re nothing! You cannot hear me!” the furless rat yelled.And he whimpered, “Bloody hands…”

He turned and ran back into the maze.

*****

A prayer:“Not anymore! You are nothing, nothing! There is naught but

walls, a maze of walls, beyond which are naught but machines!“I will not run it again, even if I die now!“If you cannot hear me—” and he shouted each word: “There

is no purpose!”Until his body gave way and he fell down into the dust so that

it filled his nose and mouth, rough and metallic. He rolled overonto his back, and stared up, the walls towering over him oneither side.

He was alone.“I could still do it,” he said, his laugh causing blood to seep into

his mouth. “Even now, I can still run it. I am still holy. But Iwon’t—not anymore… Because there’s nothing to be holy to.”

Nothing at all…In the distance, the machines sang, perfectly ordered tones

flowing around each other. The others would be returning soon,running back through the maze, stilled now, wearing their marks,the blessings of god within them. Thoughts poured into the furlessrat’s head, but he stayed silent. Again the machines sang, the edgeof the tones chaotic, fractal. There was passion and violence there.There were other things.

And—he felt something around him, felt… felt the handstouch him, cold, so cold he hissed, eyes wide, and the handswrapped about him, lifted him.

From the tone it came, a natural extension—a light in the sky,growing brighter and brighter. The furless rat gasped; and he felthimself rising, saw the walls fall beneath him. The light was toobright; trembling, the furless rat turned away. He was rising still,above the maze, and he could see it all now, could see how it cametogether, how it was whole.

The others were returning now, through the maze like a flowingriver. Some moved faster than others.

“Thank you,” the furless rat gasped. “Thank you…”He could feel the hands on him. They turned him toward the

light, and it was brilliant. His eyes burned. Working slowly andmechanically, the hands brought the metal, and they opened him.The furless rat cried out.

There was pain in his voice, and there was ecstasy.“Thank you…”As they stripped off each layer of him, skin and muscle and

bone, as they opened his head to touch his brain, his thoughts,his soul.

As they lifted him up.“Thank you…”Blind, he looked up at the City of God.

28 Nth Degree

Noise! Raucous, giddy, clamoring noise pulled BoyTen’s mindsix ways. He couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, it was sooverwhelming. He stumbled along buffeted by the crowd as hisbare feet slapped the wet pavement. His head barely reached thewaists of all these big people, so his view was blocked by the fleshyforest. A trail of angry shouts marked his passage. Seeking asylum,BoyTen’s gaze darted about but only found more people, morebewildering sights. The big people loomed over him, generally act-ing like he wasn’t there. An opening, dark and unpeopled, appearedbetween a man dressed in bright holiday colors and a gleaming sil-ver cart pushed by a sad, withered woman. The boy leapt, startlingthe woman, and scrambled into the dark and quiet. Sighing, hecrawled between two dumpsters smearing smelly filth on his over-sized green coveralls. He hugged his knees to his chest and pulledhis knit cap over the blue marks on his forehead.

“I’m a good boy, a very good boy,” he murmured. “But I donea bad thing.” He rocked as his gaze darted about. “KeeperJohn, I’msorry. I wanna go home. Come find me.”

But how could that happen? He’d gotten so turned around thathe had lost track of his turns and twists. How would KeeperJohn,or even ChiefKeeperSimon, unravel the trail if he could not? He’dtreaded the path with his own feet!

As his breath slowed and his heart quieted, BoyTen worried at thepuzzle. Try to remember the path back? He grunted and grimaced ashe tried to remember. But the chaos of his passage defeated him.Follow his own tracks? No, there was no dirt to hold his tracks. Heclutched his knees as his eyes burned with tears. There had to be a way!

He sat up and sniffed. Yes! He clasped his hands and sniffedagain. The air was rich with exotic scents he’d never smelled. Butlaced in and through them was his own familiar musk. Normally heignored it, but not today!

BoyTen stood and padded down the dark alley. If he could fol-low his own scent-trail back the way he’d come, he could find hisway. Hot tears blurred his vision as a sob burst up from his belly.He needed to be home so bad! He missed his pen, the compoundwith its climbing structures, his fellow boys and girls. Oh, thiscrowded, dirty, noisy place was terrible!

BoyTen pinched himself. Not now! He needed to be calm if hehad any hope. Breathing as he’d been taught, BoyTen stilled hismind and heart. He exhaled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.Sniffing, he smiled. Yes, it was there.

At the entrance, BoyTen stared wide-eyed at the swirling crowd.His trail turned to the right, back the way he’d come. He huggedhis sides and took a cleansing breath, then slipped in between two

men striding along and marched within the human canyon theyformed. Good, a left here and straight ahead.

He walked a good long way, turning left and right, and only lostthe scent once. With his eyes half-closed he ignored everything,threading his way through the sea of smells. The further he came, thefainter his scent grew. It was spreading and drowning in the sea ofsmells. Suddenly a hand grasped his shoulder, jerking him around.

“Got you, ya little bastard!” said a man with a face the color ofa looming thunderstorm. “You knock over my table, you break mygoods, you pay!”

BoyTen squirmed and pulled, but the man held tight. He twist-ed his one hand around to gather the loose cloth of BoyTen’s cov-eralls and punched BoyTen in the head so his knees buckled.

“Stop it! Hold still!” the man shouted. “You wait for the police.”He smacked BoyTen again so he saw sparkling lights before him. Acold breath on his scalp warned him he’d lost his cap. Before hecould grab it, the man hoisted BoyTen up and thumped him on theside of the head so that everything blanked out. He returned togasps and shouts as he spun helpless in the man’s hand.

“Look! He has blue numbers on his forehead.”“It’s the meat bag! Like on the video. Hold him. There’s big

money for him.”“Yeah, grab him. Call the cops.”Several of the big ones closed to pull and paw at him until

BoyTen thought he would go insane. KeeperJohn had taught himto always mind keeper folk, but this was too much!

He shrieked so that his throat burned. Biting, clawing, kickingand butting, he cleared a space around himself. Several clutchedbitten hands or bloody nail-scratched faces. He spun and screamedhis outrage so they swayed back, then bounded forward. The fatlady before him fell, and the boy stomped across her belly and bust.His bare feet barely touched the pavement as he hurtled left, thenright, under, then over. The pounding feet and angry shouts faded.Soon he huddled in a courtyard surrounded by tall brick buildings.

As he panted, BoyTen’s eyes froze and a sob hiccuped throughhis teeth. He’d lost them, sure, but he’d also lost his original scenttrail! Worse, he couldn’t backtrack to pick it up. These big peoplewere mean. They’d grab him if he went back. So he was truly lostnow. Shivering, BoyTen dropped to the ground and wailed. Thebuildings around him echoed the mournful sounds until the court-yard rang with his sobs.

“Boy? Are you hurt?”A soft, quavering voice jolted him to his feet. He jumped up

and crouched, jaw jutting with teeth bared, hands raised with fin-

Meat Bag by James R. Stratton

December 2003 29

gers bent to claw. Growling, he glared defiance at the woman stand-ing in the nearest doorway. She was thin, so her wrinkled skin hungloose from her cheeks and neck. She was pale, so even her hair wasthe fluffy color of clouds in a blue sky. And frail! BoyTen had nodoubt she would shatter into a dozen pieces if he touched her trem-bling frame. She was unlike any big person he’d ever met.

She called again. “Boy, are you okay? You needn’t worry. I won’thurt you.”

He rubbed his nose on his sleeve and gulped. “Um, I’m lost. I wastrying to go home, but a bunch a people grabbed me and hit me.”

She frowned and glanced at the blue marks on his head. “Youcan come inside if you want. I’ve got apples and bananas, and somecookies I was baking.” She held out her hand like KeeperSue.

The boy turned to flee, but stopped. Run where? The yearningto be someplace safe with a friendly person ached within him. Hecrept forward and took her hand. It was softer than any hand he’dever held, and she smelled of clean and quiet. At the same time, hisstomach knotted painfully as odors wafted through her open door.Yes, cookies and fruit like she said, but also bread and meat and fishand veggies, older smells from other days but all good. He shrankagainst her as he entered the house wide-eyed. The food-smellwrenched his throat until he whined. He grabbed an apple andbanana from a bowl as soon as she sat him at a small table andlaughed as he rammed first one then the other into his mouth untilhe cheeks bulged with the gooey fruit mush. Gulping, he cried ashis stomach shuddered with pleasure.

The woman set milk and cookies in front of him and sat. “Ithink I know where you belong. Would you like me to call so yourfriends can come?”

BoyTen slurped the milk and shoved a warm sweet cookie into hismouth. “Yeth,” he mumbled and picked up another. She nodded andwalked to a black phone thing by the door. She murmured at lengthinto it. Smiling she turned back as he sat clutching the last cookie.

“They’ll be here soon. Are you full? You look tired. Would youlike to lie down?”

His stomach bulged and his eyes were hot and heavy. He tookher hand and she led him to a big couch in the next room like theone in KeeperDoc’s office, but lots softer. He curled up on it andthe lady began to sing. KeeperSue sometimes sang, but not thissong. It was about all kinds of silly things like babies and cradlesand trees. He giggled even as waves of sleepiness washed over him.Soon he was afloat with a dreamy lassitude.

When he awoke, he knew a long time had passed from the waythe light came in the window. BoyTen jerked up at the sound of voic-es. There was the nice lady’s soft quavery one, but whose was thatdeep booming voice? He smiled as his heart thumped. KeeperJohn!He kicked the blanket that covered him but just got tangled. Rolling,

he thumped onto the floor, cutting off the voices. He grabbed theblanket and peeled it away as KeeperJohn filled the doorway.

“Hey, champ! I am so glad to see you.” The man walked over.The boy smiled, but his chin was quivering even as he did. Oh, hehated it when he blubbered and that just made it worse. Tearswelled and the boy clutched the man’s heavy green coveralls.

“I’ve been such a bad boy. I snucked out the gate whenKeeperBill left and took his hat and clothes, but now I lost his hatand I got lots of people mad at me…”

“It’s okay, sport. It’s all over. I’m not mad.” KeeperJohn rubbedthe boy’s back and said this over and over until the tears stopped.Kneeling down, he looked the boy in the eye. “It wasn’t your fault.KeeperBill should have been more careful. You ready to go home?”

BoyTen panted at the thought. The compound, the other boysand girls, his pen! Oh, he couldn’t wait. “Yes! Now, please.”

“I’ll just be a minute. I have to finish talking to Mrs. McCarty.”He stood holding the boy. “I really can’t tell you how grateful

Universal Medical Supplies is, ma’am. This little fellow is worth asmall fortune.”

The old woman frowned. “They had his picture posted at thestore but the manager there called him a meat bag. I didn’t under-stand that.”

KeeperJohn frowned and snorted like he did when he wasangry. BoyTen clutched tighter. “That’s a nasty word. This youngfellow is a donor-clone. One of Universal’s clients paid us to growa clone from his own tissues for use as an organ donor.”

“But they’re going to take his heart and liver and such someday,aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes. His owner has contracted for the normal array oftransplants; organs, corneas, endocrine glands and marrow. But thislittle guy’s lucky. His owner also asked for a full skin transplant, andhe isn’t big enough. We’ll start hormone therapy soon to force himto stretch out, but he still has years yet.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed with a tremor in her voice.“Don’t worry, ma’am. He’ll live a wonderful life full of fun and

happiness, until one night he’ll go to sleep. And that will be it.”BoyTen clutched KeeperJohn. There was so much he didn’t

understand! And the tone of KeeperJohn’s voice was scary.“Besides, you’re entitled to a sizable reward. You’ll be getting a

call from the main office. Please don’t talk to any media peoplebefore then. Universal will pay very well for your discretion.”

The old woman smiled at last, and BoyTen smiled back. “Youready to go home?” KeeperJohn asked.

BoyTen nodded and pushed the big man’s chin around until hefaced the door. KeeperJohn laughed and walked out the front door.

“Bye!” the boy called over KeeperJohn’s shoulder and waved tothe nice lady.

30 Nth Degree

The Last Straw by Bob Kauffmann

COMICS

Bob the Angry Flower by Stephen Notley

December 2003 31

The Tragic Downward Spiral of Addiction by Chris Matz

She crossed her tentacles and swung her eyes to me.The answer’s easy if you take it logically.I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free.There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

She said it’s really not our habit to intrude.We couldn’t help it; you’re a fascinating brood.Why do you sit here burning oxygen and food?There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

Fifty ways to leave your planet.

Use chemical thrust, Gus.Make a big ram, Sam.Just hop on a sail, Dale.Listen to me.

Start usin’ your brain, Blaine,Manufacture a spaceplane!Make an ion jet, Brett.Get yourself free.

Just ride up a thread, Fred.Use an orbital sling, Bing.Get a microwave boost, Bruce.Listen to me.

Go build a big gun, son,We know you can make one!Just superconduct, Buck.Get yourself free.

You don’t need hyperspace, don’t need a warp nacelle.Within your reach are many methods to propelThe human race beyond your gravitation well.There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

She said why don’t we both just sleep on it tonightAnd I believe in the morning you’ll begin to see the light,And then she probed me… but I realized she probably was right.There must be fifty ways to leave your planet.

Fifty ways to leave your planet.

Use chemical thrust, Gus.Make a big ram, Sam.Just hop on a sail, Dale.Listen to me.

Start usin’ your brain, Blaine,Manufacture a spaceplane!Make an ion jet, Brett.Get yourself free.

Just ride up a thread, Fred.Use an orbital sling, Bing.Get a microwave boost, Bruce.Listen to me.

Go build a big gun, son,We know you can make one!Just superconduct, Buck.Get yourself free.

32 Nth Degree

Fifty Ways to Leave Your Planetby Talisman

to the tune of “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover” by Paul Simon

Illustrations by Andy World

SPACE ISI N F I N I T E

(It’s also cheap!)

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