I’ve returned from Bali to the warm embrace of my computer, never to part again.

Two days ago, I wrote one last story while drinking tea with a view of emerald-green rice terraces, above which sparrows and cranes wheeled, and thought, “Writing doesn’t make you a writer. Drinking fancy tea makes you a writer.”

The story I wrote that day is entitled “A Surfeit of Eels”. I think Ali may have come up with that. If so, thanks, Ali! It’s a great story. Here’s the opening paragraph.

“That’s enough eels,” he said, waving the destructo-cannon. “When they’re up to your knees, you have enough eels.”

Look for it in Harper’s.

The same day I wrote that story, Randi and I were in a pretentious art gallery filled with pretentious photographs of the feet of people praying and pretentious crap like that. It was very pretentious. (Bali, you know, is a refuge for many famous artists who would be killed in their own countries [for their pretention].)
Anyway, I shook my head and said, “This isn’t art - ‘Dancing Queen’, that’s art.”
Randi frowned and said, “Not everyone can be a famous photographer. You have to buy a really expensive camera first.”

(No offense to my photographer friends. I have no problem with the medium of photography as art, even though I don’t really understand it. But this one guy really sucked.)

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“Blankenship & Dawes in: Chrono-Conundrum!” will appear on Every Day Fiction! Hurrah! Over a thousand regular readers will be exposed to the wonder and fundaeity of B&D. No publication date yet; stay tuned to this web-frequency!

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Two more nights in Bali, one night on an airplane, and then I’m back to Korea and regular internet access. More updates then!

“Lunacide” has passed the first round of reading at Space Squid.

The first page of “Electric Fantastiphone” is available to read at Space Squid. Read it! Then buy the magazine! Only a buck!

Part III of “Corazon” was posted on Space Westerns. Read the exciting conclusion!

Now reading: Hyperion, by Dan Simmons. Wow. Amazing novel. Blows my mind every fifty pages or so.

Just read: Falling Free, by Lois McMaster Bujold. I loved it. The science is interesting and sound, the characters are well-formed and complex all around, and the plotting is superb. She is the McMaster of my heart. Can’t wait to read more by her. It’s telling that she has as many best-novel Hugos as Robert Heinlein.

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Part of the reason why I was long shy of reading genre literature was the tremendous length of the works; it seemed that authors could rarely finish a story in 300 pages if it were possible to write 400; and why finish a story in one book if you can stretch it to five?

The Riverworld Saga reaches almost 2000 pages over its five volumes, but it never feels stretched, and for good reason; it’s the biggest idea in science fiction. The premise is thus: after death, everyone who has ever lived, from the dawn of time to 2008 (when the world was destroyed, you know), is simultaneously resurrected along the banks of a twenty million-mile river. Everyone is twenty-five again, with any physical imperfections and mental illnesses removed. And everyone is there: Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, Hitler, Jack London, me, you.

Somewhere in the third novel, Farmer expounds, through the auspiciously-named character Peter Jairus Frigate, a scifi author from Peoria, that this concept is too big for any one author to explore in any one lifetime. That is true. The culture clashes alone could be mined for novels upon novels; factor in the sheer gratification of watching historical characters interact, and you’ve got material for a lifetime. And then there’s a pretty good scifi plot to explore as well.

The first novel, To Your Scattered Bodies Go, which beat The Lathe of Heaven for the Hugo in 1972, follows the historically awesome Sir Richard Francis Burton after Resurrection Day. He forms a band including Alice Pleasance Liddell Hargreaves, the inspiration for Alice of Alice in Wonderland, Kazz the Neanderthal, and others. They build a boat and begin the long voyage upriver to confront the makers of this mysterious world.

The Fabulous Riverboat opens with Samuel Clemens, in the uneasy company of a band of Vikings, searching for iron in the Riverworld to build a riverboat to storm the fabled tower at the end of the River. This novel features King John of England, Tokugawa Iyeyasu, and Cyrano de Bergerac. I read it in two days. This book really begins to explore the sociological aspects of the Riverworld, what happens when you mix people of all nations and all times.

His Dark Design is where the series hits a snag; Farmer wants to introduce new characters and new plots, but the resolution of the novel undoes much that the novel accomplishes. It’s still a fascinating read, and much of the Riverworld’s questions are answered, even, as the cover copy says, new questions arise!

The Magic Labyrinth was intended to be the final chapter of the saga. It delivers. It is a 500-page climax. Farmer pulls out all the stops and gratifies the reader for the entire length of the novel. Here is some of his most powerful writing (particularly in the chapter “Burton’s Soliloquy”); here the plots that we have followed for over a thousand pages reach fruition, as the vast cast of characters meet for their final confrontation. This book alone makes the saga worth reading.

Gods of Riverworld was never meant to be written. Farmer intended to stop one book earlier, but his imagination was tempted by the possibilities before him at the end of Labyrinth. Unfortunately, the book doesn’t really capitalize on those possibilities; there are many interesting ideas on display here, but they are never explored as deeply as they might be. Though disappointing, the book is still worth ending.

The compelling thing about this series is its sheer scope. It delves into history, sociology, psychology, spirituality, ethics, and hard science with equal aplomb, and, while the books remain gripping throughout, they never sacrifice their explorations for the sake of plot. These novels are the sprawling accomplishment of decades.

Farmer’s works are obsessed with the afterlife. His earlier novel Inside-Outside explores many of the same questions in different ways; one of the most interesting questions is the idea that we won’t necessarily get all the answers when we die, which is the complete opposite of Judeo-Christian-Islam belief. What if, he poses, the next world is as full of suffering and mystery as this one? In the Riverworld, the old religions struggle to adjust their creeds to the new, harsh reality; new religions arise.

Now that I’ve done my best to make it sound boring; read the books! Don’t be intimidated by the length of the series. I read each book in a few days. Singly they are incredible stories; together they are the biggest story in science fiction.

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I’ve been reading and writing a lot this vacation. It’s dandy.

Two days ago I wrote a short-short called “Ars Draconis.”

Yesterday I wrote a story called “Lunacide”. I’ve had the first sentence of this story for a long time, but could never figure out the rest: “It was 2016, and we were finally blowing up the moon.” So, yesterday, while the wife was at yoga, I took a lone table overlooking an emerald-green rice terrace, ordered a papaya smoothie, wrote the one sentence I had, and let the rest flow. I’m very satisfied with the results.

Today I wrote two stories: “Planetworld” and “Killipedes”. I admit that these were both written title-first. They’re both funny and deeply strange. I like them. I find it easy to write in a tropical paradise. I’ll send these pieces to Space Squid and EDF, though I don’t know which to where.

I recently read Raymond Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely, and was deeply impressed. I quite literally writhed with joy while reading it. His language is delightful. His metaphors are renowned, and for good reason: “She was about as cute as a washtub.” “I lit a cigarette that tasted like a plumber’s handkerchief.” Even though I’ve never written noir or mystery fiction (too scared to try), I can admire his commanding style.

Now I’m about halfway into Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, which is pretty good. It has some pacing issues - I’m 300 pages in and almost nothing has happened - but the world he’s building is rich and interesting. I’ll happily read on.

Also, I neglected to upload the images for the next story. Nor did I get a guest column for next Friday. So I’m afraid the Tournament of Titillation will peter out with a final book review this next Wednesday. It was good while it lasted!

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Erin Kinch recently completed her Masters in Fantastic Arcanum degree at the University of Nova Texas, granting her fourth-level telekinetic abilities. It is rumored that she has the power of the evil eye. Her stories appear on EDF, Allegory, and many other places. She maintains a scintillating blog.

Young Adult Fiction Isn’t Just for Young Adults Anymore

I used to skulk by the Y/A section, perusing the shelves surreptitiously, hoping no one noticed me loitering. At the cashier’s counter, I had a lie on the tip of my tongue (“They’re a birthday gift, I swear!”). After all, why would someone clearly in the adult age range be interested in reading about teen angst?

Now I know the truth—it’s not just me. A lot of adults like Y/A fiction. Good stories are good stories, no matter what shelf you find them on at the bookstore. I probably should have realized that earlier—I was never embarrassed about liking other genres (sci-fi, fantasy, romance). But I didn’t think of Y/A as its own genre—I thought it was a maturity marker that I was somehow failing.

Several things helped me slough off that Y/A embarrassment forever. One was a quote I read from my favorite Y/A author of all time, <a href=“http://www.tamora-pierce.com/” target=“_new”>Tamora Pierce</a>. I can’t remember the exact words (it’s been a while), but the gist was that she wanted adult readers to should stop apologizing for their age in fan mail, because she wrote her stories for anyone who wanted to read them. She loved to hear that her books appealed to different generations.

And then, the <i>Harry Potter</i> craze hit, and suddenly everyone was talking about “kid” books. At first it was just the youngsters of my acquaintance. I started to read the series so I could participate in their heated discussions, and soon I was hooked on the adventures of the young wizard. Soon, though, I noticed that I wasn’t the only adult reading it, and it wasn’t just parents wanting to read what their kids read, either. It was everybody!

The Y/A genre has exploded over the past few years. Now I read author blogs (like <a href=“http://jenlyn-b.livejournal.com/” target=“_new”>Jennifer Lynn Barnes</a>) and agent blogs (like <a href=“http://pubrants.blogspot.com/” target=“_new”>Pubrants</a>), and Y/A fiction is a huge discussion point. They enjoy reading Y/A (and not only the novels they write/represent), and they aren’t embarrassed to talk about it.

There is so much great Y/A fiction out there that it’s hard to know where to turn. When I was actually a teenager, we didn’t have anything that inspired the kind of devotion of <i>Harry Potter</i> or <i>Twilight</i>. Maybe part of that was the lack of Internet to help us with our fannish pursuits, but I think part of it was the stories, as well. <i>The Babysitter’s Club</i> and <i>Sweet Valley High</i> can’t hold a candle to Ann Brashares, Melissa Marr, Meg Cabot, Ally Carter, Michael Grant, and all the other great Y/A authors out there. Every time I go to the book store, there’s more to choose from!

But what is it, really, that makes Y/A fiction popular to adults as well as younger readers? I really can’t say for the world in general, but I have thought about why I like it so much. There is something magical about the idea of that time in everyone’s life, that time of youth and possibility. The big choices haven’t been made yet; the characters are only just discovering who they will become, so the possibilities are still wide open for them. I guess I’m just a sucker for the coming-of-age story. And there are those firsts that happen around that time that, once they’re over, never happen for the first time again. It’s powerful stuff. And, there’s also the fact that I write Y/A—all my attempted novels have been in that genre. So maybe it’s just a genre that resonates with me for whatever reason.

It’s probably long past time for me to wind up this entry, so I’ll leave you with one last thing—a list of some of my favorite Y/A novels. If you’ve never read Y/A before, but now find yourself intrigued, one of these novels might be a good starting point (there are tons more I could list, of course, but these few are at the top of my list):

<ul><li><i>The Song of the Lioness</i> quartet by Tamora Pierce—When her gender disqualifies her from fulfilling her dream of knighthood, Alanna takes things into her own hands.</li>

<li>The <i>Harry Potter</i> series by J.K. Rowling—Unknown to Harry until his 11^th birthday, he is the most famous wizard in the wizarding world, and he has a destiny to live up to in the battle against the most powerful dark wizard of the age.</li>

<li>The <i>Twilight</i> series by Stephanie Meyer—a new interpretation of vampires. Though, really, my favorite Meyer book is <i>The Host</i>. It’s technically adult, but it’s written in the same style. The only difference is the age of the protagonist, but Wanderer, in <i>The Host</i>, is coming of age just like Bella in <i>Twilight</i>—it’s just that Wanderer happens to be an alien!</li>

<li>/The <i>Peaches</i> series by Jodi Lynn Anderson—three very different girls, brought together by a peach orchard, discover that life has more twists and turns than they thought.</li>

<li>The Tillerman books, starting with <i>Homecoming</i>, by Cynthia Voigt—Four kids, abandoned by their mother, journey cross-country to find their grandmother.</li></ul>

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… is live at Space Westerns. So go read it!

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I’d never read LeGuin before, though I was long aware of her as one of the heavyweights of science fiction; mentally, I’d always confused her with Anne McCaffrey (no, not just because they’re both women; my reason is more complex than that; because they both have last names that start with ethnic prefixes!), and my one and only outing with McCaffrey to date (The Ship Who Sang) was disappointing.

This was, of course, a superficial aversion, and just like Cormac McCarthy and Carson McCullers before them, these two authors are now sharply divided in my brain. LeGuin is hyper-intelligent, with a keen eye to character and a deft hand to plot; there’s no confusing her with any other.

The Lathe of Heaven is about George Orr, everyest of everymen, except for the exceptional ability to make his dreams reality. The new, dreamed-up elements don’t simply pop into our reality; all reality is reshaped to make room for them. Orr is terrified of dreaming and seeks psychiatric help to relieve himself of this condition; he ends up in the less-than-scrupulous hands of Dr. Haber.

What unfolds is much more than a be-careful-what-you-wish-for tale; it is a powerful ethical quandary that explores Neitzsche’s will-to-power concept and Freudian character construction. Both sides of the dilemma are essentially right in the ensuing questions of greater good and individual good, but, as the characters flip from one eerie dystopia to another, they find themselves unexpectedly on opposite sides of the debate, or on both sides, or in a world with no sides at all, where reality is shaped by morality but moral questions are curiously obscured.

My attention was captivated by this book, and I’m looking forward to reading more of LeGuin. It turns out, writers with the title “Grandmaster” are pretty good!

Two further notes:

1) This novel was beaten out for the Hugo that year by To Your Scattered Bodies Go, the first novel of Philip Jose Farmer’s Riverworld saga, which we’ll be covering next week!
2) Whilst browsing Harold Bloom’s opinion of the modern Western canon, I noted that LeGuin’s Left Hand of Darkness was the only science fiction to make that prominent critic’s list. (Unless you count Vonnegut as scifi, which Vonnegut himself did not.)

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Ironically, “Bali” means “fast” or “hurry” in Korean, which describes the pace here not at all…

Yesterday I ate a barracuda.

Today I finished reading Stranger in a Strange Land next to a palm-fringed swimming pool.

Ah…

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Extraterrestrial antics on orbital aircraft! Erudition ensues!

By Jens Rushing. Illustration by Katie McCullough.

“Let’s do it,” Xygraphon said. A muscle in one of his many handsome pseudopods twitched, sending a nerve-bolt through the controls. Brilliant light flooded the teleportation deck of the Krazzar ship. The light receded, leaving a bemused and naked man. The man patted at his body, perhaps wondering where his clothes went, perhaps wondering why he stood before two tremendous creatures seemingly constructed of phlegm and wires.

“YOU ARE LEONARD SMITH,” Kalgar said. Xygraphon snickered; Kalgar had the volume all the way up, and when his squammous voice boomed through the chamber, Smith shuddered like he’d been electrocuted. “YOU ARE HERE TO ANSWER FOR THE CHARGE OF BEING A GRAVELY INFERIOR RACE.”

“Me, personally?” Leonard said. “I think I’d do better if I had my clothes on.”

“NO, NOT YOU PERSONALLY,” Xygraphon said. “YOU ANSWER FOR THE WHOLE OF HUMANITY.”

“Well,” Leonard said. He seemed confounded. He chewed his lower lip for perhaps forty seconds.

Xygraphon grew impatient. “WELL?”

“Well, what?”

“WELL, EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

“See, it’s like this. I’m just a bus driver. I drive a bus. I don’t know as I can explain for all of humanity.”

“MAKE THE ATTEMPT, FLESH-CREATURE, OR YOUR PLANET IS ANNIHILATED.” Xygraphon held a tentacle over his orifice to stifle his bubbly laughter. “Stop it,” he hissed at Kalgar. “Stop making faces, jerk! I’m trying to do this!”

“AND YOUR, UH, ORGANS WILL SHRIVEL,” Kalgar added. He clicked the microphone off just in time to prevent Leonard from hearing a flood of laughter.

“Well, gosh.” Leonard scratched his head. “We’ve got, uh, lots of flowers and dogs and things.”

“YES. PLEA. TELL US OF YOUR CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENTS. WHY SHOULD WE NOT DESTROY YOUR PLANET?”

“We got lots of books. Books like Hunt for Red October. And, uh, Da Vinci Code.”

“CLANCY IS A HACK,” Kalgar said. “RESEARCH IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR THE MOST BASIC PROSE SKILLS.”

“We got movies, too. Movies like… Hunt for Red October, and, uh Da Vinci Code.”

Silence reigned on the teleportation deck for a little while. “This guy…” Kalgar said.

“Don’t look at me!” Xygraphon replied. “I didn’t pick him!”

“I’m sorry, all right?”

“No,” Xygraphon said. “Let’s get him out of here. My dad wants the ship back by ten.”

“Your dad can kiss my orifice.”

“Shuddup!”

Feedback squealed as Xygraphon clicked the mic. “YOU HAVE BEEN FOUND GUILTY.”

“Mmmokay.” Leonard shuffled his feet.

“THE EARTH WILL BE DESTROYED.”

“Well,” Leonard said. “I guess that’s not my first choice.”

“UNLESS…”

Kalgar grabbed the mic. “UNLESS YOU SHAVE YOUR HEAD AND EAT ONLY MUSTARD FOR A WEEK.” Xygraphon roared with laughter, which Leonard heard only as a sound like chickens clucking. He grabbed the mic back.

“YES, YES, AND YOU MUST INTRODUCE YOURSELF AS ‘CRAPFACE’ FOR A YEAR!”

“A whole year?” Leonard said.

“OKAY, SIX MONTHS?”

“Six whole months?”

“OKAY, TWO MONTHS. UH, PLUS ONE MONTH.”

“I reckon I can manage that.”

“OFF YOU GO!” Xygraphon manipulated the teleporter controls, and the brilliant light bore Leonard away. “Do another?” he asked Kalgar.

“Yeah! But let’s get a Canadian this time. They’re just so funny!”

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Today’s guest columnist is Alex Burns. Alex was first spotted in New York’s Catskill Mountains, feeding on a possum; he resurfaced in Vienna in the latter part of that century, possibly in the service of the Queen of Aragon, only to vanish again after what onlookers described as “a frightful row”. His recent works appear in AThousand Faces and Everyday Fiction. He maintains the erudite blog Meanwhile… I agree wholeheartedly with everything he says. - Jens

Addendum: You know what I hate? Art Spiegelman, the deeply talented author of “Maus” always refers to the medium as “comix”. That drives me insane.

On to the column!

I Refuse to Title with Onomatopoeia

[Also, anyone using “Holy (Noun), Batman!” as a headline will be first against the wall when the revolution comes. I’m looking at you, Entertainment Weekly.]

Sequential storytelling, as the late great Will Eisner referred to the medium, has come a long way in the past ten or so years. The audience has aged with the form, and as a result comics have grown more experimental and mature. I would venture to say that there are more talented writers and artists working in comics today than ever before. It’s a renaissance.

Sadly, however, the sales figures have not grown. It’s not unexpected – reading in general isn’t exactly the world’s favorite past time, and that makes comics a niche of a niche, hardly a favorable position for any industry.

So, as the resident comic book guy, I felt compelled to flavor Jens’s blog with a little list of recommended comic books and graphic novels. I’ll skip over the old obvious masterpieces, like Watchmen, Maus, or The Dark Knight Returns, and present a variety of newer material that’s come out more recently, stuff that hasn’t had a chance to make it into college classrooms yet. (Sandman, Sin City, and Hellboy should be old news as well, unless I’m more out of touch than I thought.) I’ll give a wide range of genres – it’s not all capes out there.

Powers, by Brian Michael Bendis and Michael Oeming. Bendis has done a lot of great work, but this is really the stand-out. Powers is about two police detectives, Christian Walker and Deena Pilgrim, who specialize in metahuman homicide. Whenever someone has been murdered by a supervillain, or a superhero turns up dead, they get the call. It’s an unconventional comic; not just a crime series, but a procedural police drama. Imagine Zodiac but with super powers. Snappy dialogue, experimental panel layout, and a complex interwoven plot make it well worth the investment.

Y: The Last Man, by Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra. I hesitate to include this, as it feels like it’s become as famous as some of the classics I already mentioned. But I’d feel remiss in not mentioning this 60-issue (conveniently divided into 10 easy-to-find trade paperbacks) epic set in a near future in which every mammal on the planet with a Y chromosome has suddenly perished. All but two, rather: Yorick Brown and his helper monkey, Ampersand. Yorick and his allies embark on quests to discover why all the men died, what can possibly be done to save humanity, find Yorick’s lost girlfriend, and simply survive in a civilization struggling to rebuild itself. Really, though, if telling you there’s a monkey named Ampersand doesn’t get your attention, I’m not sure I can help you.

DMZ, by Brian Wood. Another series set in the near future, DMZ takes place in an America wracked by civil war. Rookie photojournalist Matthew Roth takes us into Manhattan Island, which has become a demilitarized zone between the shattered US and Free States armies. It’s got all the gritty realism you’d expect from that premise, and a healthy dose of biting social and political commentary.

Scalped, by Jason Aaron. American Indian Dashiell Bad Horse returns to his home reservation as an FBI agent sent to expose and arrest the local kingpin of crime. Dashiell’s history and old relationships tear at his loyalties. Complex character studies are set against a backdrop of an absolutely seedy run-down shit-hole of a reservation. The only thing sadder than the fates of some of Dashiell’s acquaintances is that the conditions on the reservation aren’t particularly fictional. An extremely dense, dark read.

Persepolis (Volumes I and II), by Marjane Satrapi. An autobiographical comic, Satrapi’s life is remarkable in that she grew up in Iran amongst the tumultuous revolutions of the 1970s. Satrapi, who attended French schools and periodically spent time in Austria and France, straddles the borders and presents a fascinating view of her country as it descends into fundamentalism and fascism. There’s also an excellent film adaptation, if you like your pictures in the moving variety.

American Born Chinese, by Gene Luen Yang. American Born Chinese is constructed as three stories: one of a young Asian American kid struggling to fit in at a largely white school in California; another sitcom-style tale of a teen ashamed of a visiting Chinese cousin who embodies every terrible Asian stereotype imaginable; and a third detailing a Chinese folk story about the Monkey King fighting to earn the respect of his fellow gods. You’re probably noticing some thematic parallels between the three stories, and it works very well. Yang successfully intertwines the three stories together into a single plot by the end of the book, and the result is quite emotionally satisfying.

I could go on (oh, oh, Gotham Central! Walking Dead! Astro City!), but I’ll stop before Jens herds me, tarred and feathered, toward the harbor. I’ve been watching a lot of John Adams lately.

Many of these are likely available at local libraries. Give them a chance, and they may surprise you.

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They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

I miss the old paperbacks of the 60s and 70s, with yellowed pages and cover prices under a buck; they come in under two hundred pages, and you can read them in a long afternoon. I think that may be the ideal form for genre literature. On my shelf here in Korea, I have dozens of titles in this format: Fritz Leiber’s “The Silver Eggheads”, Philip K. Dick’s “The Unteleported Man”, “Venus Plus X” by Theodore Sturgeon, “The Heaven Makers” and “The God Makers” by Frank Herbert, “Transit,” by Edmund Cooper, a bajillion books by Philip Jose Farmer: et cetera, ad nauseum. Slim paperbacks from Ace, Del Rey, and Bantam, weighing in at fifty to sixty thousand words, smelling wonderful and musty.

But mammoth works by the likes of Robert Jordan, Terry Brooks, George Martin, and so forth raised reader’s expectations of a tome’s value. They want their money’s worth for a book, and the publishers certainly agree; it’s better for them to sell a double-thick volume than two slim volumes. Just take a look at submission guidelines at major houses. They don’t want to see your novel if it’s under eighty thousand words and, often, a hundred thousand.

I miss the old format. I think I would have been better at writing science-fiction novels of fifty thousand words rather than a hundred thousand. Certainly premises would be less strained; fifty thousand words forces tight plotting and restrains scientific sprawl.

Such is “Planet of the Damned”. It’s so tightly paced, in fact, that the whole of the action plays out over a scant three days, as advertised by the back cover copy: “72 HOURS IN HELL.” Exciting!

This is my first experience with Harry Harrison’s work. He is probably best known for his “Stainless Steel Rat” series, which I have seen on the shelves of Half Price many times, but never read, scared away by the somewhat kitschy title. He also wrote “Make Room! Make Room!”, the novel that was later turned into “Soylent Green”, and the awesomely-titled “Deathworld” series.

The gist: Brion Brandd, a man with the sort of name that does not exist outside of your finer works of genre fiction or pornography, is the apex of human development. He must go to Dis, a barren, scorched planet that has suddenly acquired nuclear capabilities, and defuse the situation before they either nuke their neighbors, or their neighbors, the peace-loving Nyjords, are forced to nuke Dis, leaving seven million (admittedly awful) people dead, and the Nyjords’ promising ethical development wrecked. From the outset, everything goes wrong.

What follows is not the work of scifi adventure one might expect; it could be described aptly as an “ethical thriller”. Brandd must weigh the deaths of individuals versus the deaths of a race, and whether even remorseless, merciless killers have the right to salvation. Harrison keeps a tight hand on the plot and characters, giving us bits of science when feasible, but clipping them short before the point of indulgence.

And there’s a lot of science in here. In this book, Harrison is interested in a number of topics; human evolution is right at the fore. The inhabitants of Dis have adapted to their environment in interesting ways, forming symbiotic relationships with many of the native organisms in order to survive. Our hero Brandd, from the frozen planet of Anvhar, has likewise adapted; his body is able to “sweat” out an entire insulating layer of fat in hot climes, so he can be more productive during Anvhar’s short summer. Anvharians have mutated so far from Earth-stock, in fact, that they are no longer biologically compatible with Earth humans (sexually compatible, though, as is hinted in the way people might hint at such things circa 1962).

Other topics of interest are how the geological and other factors of planets might affect their inhabitants - Anvhar’s lengthy orbit and Dis’s short one, for example - as well as hypnopaedia and empathy. But these are, in terms of storytelling, a means to an end. Harrison’s real focus here is the ethical dilemma of saving a fundamentally loathsome race. On that score, the book delivers.

If I had a complaint, it would be the thinness of the one female character in the book. This character seems to go out of her way to prove Anne McCaffrey’s old contention that scifi is fundamentally unflattering to female characters (she claimed that she began writing to rectify that). The beautiful xenobiologist spends 50% of the book dying of heat stroke under the Disan sun, 40% under heavy sedation, and 10% making incredible, plot-mandated scientific breakthroughs, that, regrettably, when compared to the otherwise completely organic pacing of the book, feel unearned and forced.

Otherwise, this is an excellent, compelling, and approachable title. I recommend picking it up. Heck, just pick up anything under two hundred pages and published by Del Rey, Bantam, or Ace in the 60s or 70s. It should at least be entertaining - and if not, at least it will be over in a few hours!

Edit: Right after writing this entry, I learned that Harrison was named SFWA Grand Master for 2009. Congratulations to him!

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The first part (of three) of “Corazon”, Dixie O’Dell’s inaugural adventure, is live on Space Westerns. Go read it! It’s a good one!

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The first Tale to Titillate is posted! Merely look below, or see it archived under the “Tales to Titillate” sidebar just to the right!

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Daring deeds done dans le dungeon! Double devilment deals delight!

By Jens Rushing. Illustration by Katie McCullough.

The ruby eyes of the death-mask burned with a volcanic fire, filling the crypt with an infernal glow. Mummified guardians in rust-eaten suits of armor surrounded the mask and its reclining wearer, posed in eternal defense around the bier. Their shadows loomed large and phantasmic on the mosaic-covered walls.

Kaya moved with cautious tread through the crypt. Her footfalls were so silent an observer might have counted her one more ghost of that ghastly chamber. Only the whisper of her breathing betrayed her as one of the living.

She slipped between the crossed halberds of the guardians. Before her, the mask seemed almost to float in the darkness. Kaya could not see its wearer for the ruby-light, but she could imagine her well enough. The legends told her all she wanted to know: that the ageless witch-queen had preyed too long on the poor souls of Kolodo; that, fearing the people would not give her the burial she demanded, the witch-queen had prepared her magnificent tomb while still living and sealed herself therein with her retainers. Wth her fresh and unnatural youth still upon her, she had quaffed a poison, donned her death-mask, and waited to slip into oblivion and meet her sovereign demon-lover at last. Kaya wondered whether joy or terror was written on that cruel face.

Better not to know. She was only here for the mask.

The infernal light reflected on her poised palm for a half-second, then she snatched the mask away. It was heavy. Kaya was terribly aware that the witch-queen’s face was exposed; she swore she felt the dead eyes rake her. In a burst of panic she leapt backward from the bier.

And fell gasping to the dusty floor. Something had blocked her frantic spring. From behind her came a sound that electrified her with terror — metal scraping on metal. She raised her eyes from the floor.

She had expected it at every step, but it was no less horrifying when it finally happened. The stygian knights were moving, their dry bone-limbs rattling within rusty greaves, breastplates ringing on breastbones. They raised their halberds, threatening Kaya with the jagged blades. In one sepulchral voice they intoned:

“Who takes the mask wears the mask.”

One of the soldiers unceremoniously swept the witch-queen’s body from the bier.

“Who takes the mask wears the mask.”

Horror seized Kaya as she realized their intention.

“No!” she cried, and she coiled to leap past the skeletal defenders, but one already had her by the throat. Even as it choked her, she was grateful for the gauntlet that prevented contact with that undead hand.

The guardian forced her to the bier, and another grabbed her legs. Gauntleted hands pressed on her shoulders, forcing her down.

A scream gathered in her lungs, but it would not come.

“Who takes the mask wears the mask.”

They held the death-mask above her face, lowering it with inexorable slowness. All thoughts were lost to Kaya then.

The scream finally came. Suddenly the soldiers released her, their heads cocked as if listening to something far away. Kaya fought off the red madness of panic and strained her ears. The distant grinding of steel on stone. Sozhi must have heard Kaya’s screaming and begun lowering the crypt portcullis.

Taking advantage of the guardians’ momentary distraction, Kaya rolled from the bier and moved like a cat between two of the ancient warriors, snatching the mask as she rolled. She hit the ground running, her fine muscles working in wonderful harmony to bear her away.

“Who takes the mask wears the mask!” Kaya thought she detected a hint of indignation in their tone. The clamor of booted feet signaled their pursuit. Kaya didn’t bother looking back.

It was a long, straight dash for the exit, a slow incline to the surface. Far ahead she saw a small square of reflected moonlight. As she neared, she made out bars dropping across it.

Breath rasped in her lungs and fire burned in her thighs and calves. Her head jerked back and pain exploded in her scalp. A knight had her by the hair.

She dropped, winced at the tearing of her hair, rolled and rose to her feet while still running, always running. The portcullis was halfway down. The death-mask weighed heavy in her hand, seeming to drag her down, back into that dread chamber. But she would not relinquish it.

“Who takes the mask wears the mask.”

They babbled in chorus, the corridor echoing and distorting their chant. Less than a foot remained beneath the descending portcullis.

Desperate, Kaya threw the mask underhand. It tumbled end over end. The mask caught perfectly under the teeth of the gate. The portcullis ground to a halt. Kaya laughed aloud. She slid beneath the gate, twisting her head sideways to fit. A tooth raked her temple.

Kaya opened her eyes. Above her stood Sozhi, her dark locks shaking as she laughed.

“Clever!” she said. “And damned lucky, too.”

“Don’t I know it,” Kaya said, getting to her feet. “I can’t believe that worked.”

“I suppose we’ll count it,” Sozhi said, “even though you didn’t actually get the mask out of the crypt.”

“Shut up! That counts and you know it.” She pointed to the gate. One of the mummified guardians was reaching through the portcullis, his armored hands coming inches from Sozhi’s hair.

“Who takes the mask wears the mask,” he moaned. They ignored him.

“See? The mask is at least an eighth of an inch outside. Now what’s my time?”

“Just over five minutes.”

Kaya beamed. “A new record.”

“Get rid of that thing,” Sozhi said. “It’s cursed like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, I believe it.” Kaya kicked the mask back down the corridor. The portcullis dropped with a clang. The undead soldier took the mask and silently bore it away.

“Your turn,” Kaya said.

Sozhi sighed. “There’s nothing to do in this town.”

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“Tears of Clobbersaurus” has been sold! Wow! In five days! It’ll appear in “Thousand Faces”, not sure what issue. What a silly story.

I wrote a Blankenship & Dawes flash piece today, which was a challenge - the characters are defined by gleeful verbosity, so squeezing a story in under a thousand words was tricky. It’s a tidy little piece, though, entitled, true to form, “Blankenship & Dawes in: Chrono-Conundrum!” I now have a stable of three stories with these characters, totaling 31,000 words. Add Dixie O’Dell in “Corazon” (due to appear on Space Westerns August 3rd! Don’t miss it!), for her world is B&D’s world, and that makes 47,000 words - half of a novel. I have four more B&D novellas plotted: the zombie invasion of London, B&D versus Spiritualism, Atlantis, and the moon, plus one or two more D O’D stories, and we’ll have a pretty thick collection! Huzzah! Rule, Britannia, rule the waves…

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