THRILLING TALES FROM BEYOND THE ETHER

Far From the Fields

by Michael Merriam
Winners of the Ray Gun Radio
Space Battle Flash Fiction Contest:
Fireships
by John D. Popham
Flight of the Medic
by S. E. Markey
The Glass People
by Paul R. McNamee
...In the Waste Howling Wilderness...
by John M. Whalen
Exclusive Serial: Deuces Wild, “Steel Trap”
by L. S. King

Issue 09
November 01, 2006
“The Distance,”  by  Tom Roberts
 Pg. 

Table of Contents
Table of Contents 2
Far From the Fields, by Michael Merriam 3

The Glass People, by Paul R. McNamee

3rd place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest 9
Flight of the Medic, by S. E. Markey
2nd place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest 11
Fireships, by John D. Popham
1st place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest 13

. . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . ., by John M. Whalen

A Jack Brand story 15
Featured Artist: Tom Roberts 25
Serial: Deuces Wild: “Steel Trap” by L. S. King 26
The Jolly RGR 34
Overlords (Founders and Editors): L. S. King, Paul Christian Glenn, Johne Cook

Ray Gun Radio: Taylor Kent - founder, director, and producer, all things audio
John “JesusGeek” Wilkerson - RGR Disinformation Specialist

Venerable Staff:
A.M. Stickel - Managing Copyeditor
Paul Christian Glenn - PR, sounding board, strong right hand, newshound
L. S. King - lord high editor, proofreader, beloved nag, muse, webmistress
Johne Cook - art wrangler, desktop publishing, chief cook and bottle washer
Slushmasters (Submissions Editors): Taylor Kent, Scott M. Sandridge, David Wilhelms, John M. Whalen

Serial Authors: Sean T. M. Stiennon, Lee S. King, Paul Christian Glenn, Johne Cook

Cover Art: “The Distance,” by Tom Roberts

Without Whom... Bill Snodgrass, site host, Web-Net Solutions, admin, webmaster, database admin, mentor,
confidante, liaison – Double-edged Publishing

Special Thanks: Ray Gun Revival logo design by Hatchbox Creative

Visit us online at http://raygunrevival.com

All content copyright 2006 by Double-edged Publishing,  
a Memphis, Tennessee-based non-profit publisher.
Rev: 20061101c

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam Pg. 

Far From the Fields

by Michael Merriam

“S ir, Theodore’s in this mess because he’s

an idiot. You should just leave him to die
of stupidity.”
“And how long before we can expect help?”
“Skimmers are on the way from the three
nearest survey posts.”
Robert Wilson settled into the surface rover’s Wilson gave the swirling snow outside his
control seat. “I can’t. The company would frown windshield a calculating look. “Twelve to fourteen
if I let one of its big brains disappear.” hours, then.”
Karen strapped him in and gave him a worried “Robert, I want you to stay in radio contact at
look. She ran a nervous hand through her short all times.”
hair. “Company policy says you’re not supposed Wilson smiled at his mechanic’s words. They
to go out alone in anything less than a skimmer.” had worked together now for nearly ten years,
“I won’t leave him out there. He’s crew, and I surveyed a half-dozen planets as a team: he
won’t let him die out there if I can help it.” knew the more worried Karen became, the more
“I understand.” She gave his seat restraints formally she behaved. “Who’s in charge here,
another sharp tug, pulling them tight. She secured anyway?”
his receiver on his head. Satisfied, she stepped Karen terse voice came over the headset.
through the hatch and prepared to close it. “But “You are, sir, or else this fool mission wouldn’t be
sir, the idiot wandered off on his own without any happening.”
authorization, knowing that a storm was coming,” “I could have ordered you to come with me.”
she said, closing his hatch with an unnecessary “Policy says someone has to stay on-station.”
slam. Wilson had traveled barely a hundred yards
Robert pushed the ignition button. The big before the gale-force wind started shaking and
exploration vehicle’s engine roared to life. The buffeting the rover hard enough to make steering
rover shuddered, trembling like an eager thor- a struggle. The machine was being pushed
oughbred at the starting gate. sideways on its tracks. He kept one eye on his
Karen’s voice spoke in his ear. “Apollo’s Green compass and positioning display, aiming for
Station Twelve to Rover Two-Three, do you where he suspected his wayward archaeologist
copy?” would be.
“The signal’s good. Open the door.” Eight miles from the station, near a dry
Wilson waited patiently for the large garage riverbed, lay the reason they were stationed on
doors to open. Once he found himself faced with Apollo’s Green: a ruined village of the planet’s
the raging storm and gathering gloom outside the extinct inhabitants. The people of this region had
station, he turned on the rover’s forward lamps carved dwellings out of the natural caves along
and engaged the transmission. The rover rolled the river, using stone-age technology before a
slowly into the blizzard. series of planet-wide volcanic eruptions, followed
Karen’s voice crackled in his ear. “Winds are closely by a comet strike, had rendered the world
from the north-northwest, ninety kilometers an unlivable.
hour gusting to one hundred and ten. Outside air Theodore Ellsworth was a forward archaeolo-
temperature is negative twenty-three.” gist for Draegior Terraforming. He would examine
“Another beautiful summer evening on Apollo’s a possible site with an escort team and make a
Green. How long since Teddy’s last signal?” recommendation whether or not to send out a
“Three hours ago. He reported everything fine full excavation crew.
and he was nearing the ruins. I’ve tried to raise In the case of the nearby ruins, the company
him, but all I get is silence.” had deemed them “of insignificant archeologi-

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam
cal value,” despite Ellsworth’s recommendation.
They canceled all further field expeditions and
planned to transfer Theodore to a new planet.
The entire team would be leaving when the ter-
raforming crew arrived to take over the station.
Wilson understood why Ellsworth had taken off
with the buggy: he was trying to find something
that would make the company reconsider its
schedule, an artifact that would keep these long-
dead people from being forgotten by history and
swallowed up by progress.
Wilson sympathized with Teddy, but wished
he would leave the ghosts of Apollo’s Green in
peace.
“Talk to me, sir,” Karen’s voice commanded.
“Sorry, it’s just taking all my attention to keep
moving in a straight line.”
“According to satellite, the storm’s about to
intensify. I recommend you turn back.”
“Recommendation noted. Do me a favor: stop
telling me how much worse it’s going to get. Have
you tried contacting Teddy again?”
“I just did. Nothing.” Her voice paused. “He’s
probably frozen to death by now.”
“Karen—” Wilson put a warning tone in his
voice as he corrected his course.
“Sorry. I could read you the news feed or
something as long as you grunt occasionally to
let me know you’re alive.”
“Read me the box scores for the Earthside
teams.”
“Just the Earthside teams?” Karen asked.
“They’re the only teams that matter.”
“Terrancentric?”
“Just read.”
The rover moved slowly through the deep
snow, too slowly for Wilson’s taste, but he could
ill afford to be impatient with so little visibility.
He settled into a rhythm of correcting his course,
accelerating and decelerating as the thickness
of falling snow outside his windshield allowed.
Karen brought him up to date on sports news,
her voice in his ear a familiar counterpoint to the
howling winds outside and the strained whine of
his engine.
Wilson thought about how long it had been
since he had seen Earth. He had been in space for
too many decades, seen far too many races wiped
out by nature, then swept under the rug by the
relentless press of human colonization, first as a
young lieutenant, then as a transport pilot and
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 
field administrator for Draegior.
Wilson knew Teddy had been confused by his
recent actions. Teddy had come to him, asking
to be driven out to the ruins in the rover despite
the company’s orders. The archeologist had been
shocked when Wilson, for the first time in the
three years they had worked together, refused
his request. Wilson had told Teddy the weather
was too dangerous, knowing full well it was a lie.
The rover could sustain them in hostile conditions
for a week if necessary.
He did not see the wheel sticking up out of
the snow until he was upon it. Wilson braked and
turned, hoping to avoid whatever obstacle the
little two-man buggy had encountered while not
running the machine over. He backed the rover
up, lining the front of his vehicle up with the lone
wheel.
“I’ve found Teddy’s buggy. There’s one wheel
sticking up out of the snow, like it tipped over. I’m
going out there.”
Wilson unstrapped himself from the chair, his
heavily-gloved fingers fumbling with the snaps.
He decided to take a shovel and extra canister of
oxygen from the tool locker. He spent a minute
securing his helmet in place. Satisfied that his suit
was sealed properly, he slung the extra oxygen
over his shoulder, picked up his shovel, and
opened the cargo door.
The blast of wind pushed him back into the
rover. He steadied himself against the gale and
took a step outside. He turned on the light on top
of his helmet. The beam did little to cut through
the swirling white, but it did give him close-up
illumination. Wilson struggled through the waist
deep snow to the front of the rover. He pulled a
length of cabling loose from the forward winch,
hooked it onto his suit, and turned toward the
wheel sticking up from the snow.
The wind knocked him down twice. At one
point he lost sight of the buggy tire, though it
was only a few feet in front of him. The blowing
snow was piling up around him, slowing his
movements. Every few minutes Karen would call
to him, and he would give her a terse, monosyl-
labic reply. His hair was plastered to his forehead
and his breathing became labored as he struggled
forward, sweating inside the suit. At last he came
to the disabled vehicle.
His gloved hands wielded the shovel awkwardly
as he dug down, looking for a place to hook the
"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam
cable to the buggy. At last he found the front of
the small vehicle. He secured the cable to the
buggy, then reached out and followed the cable
back to the rover, moving through the blizzard
along his secured line.
“All right,” he whispered to himself once he
was back at the rover. The winds had died down
suddenly, which was a blessing, allowing him to
see his work. He shifted the control lever on the
winch. The winch growled, protesting against the
abuse. The front of the buggy slid forward, its
nose and other front wheel coming into view, then
stopped. The rover’s winch hissed, grumbled, and
strained, but the buggy refused to break free.
Wilson studied the buggy. He could not see
the hatch. He considered taking the shovel and
digging the hatch out, but the vehicle was resting
on a steep incline. It would be hard to dig out,
and then he would be faced with trying to extract
Teddy from the vehicle while wearing his clumsy
suit.
“Sir? How are you doing?” Karen’s worried
voice asked.
“He’s stuck good. I’m going to try and pull him
out with the rover.”
Wilson locked the winch and climbed back
inside the rover. He left his helmet on, knowing
he would need to return outside once he had
pulled the buggy free.
He shifted the transmission into reverse and
leaned on the accelerator. The rover coughed and
shook, then wound up, straining against the force
trapping the buggy. Wilson gave the machine
more fuel. The rear of the rover slid left then
caught traction. The buggy moved forward a few
inches. Wilson swore and worked the steering,
trying to keep the tracks turning at the same rate.
The rover straightened out and retreated another
three feet, pulling the buggy along with it. Wilson
pressed on the accelerator, asking the engine for
more power.
The buggy broke free from its restraints,
lurching forward and landing on its over-sized
wheels. Wilson tried to power down, but the
rover slid again, this time turning right. He heard
a sharp cracking noise, and the rover rolled
backward and down, settling with its nose in the
air, caught in the same predicament as the buggy
had been. The engine rumbled and coughed to a
halt.
“Damn!”
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 
“What happened? Robert, are you all right?”
Wilson forced himself to stay calm. “The
ground under me caved in. The rover’s trapped.”
“Sir, do you still have power?”
Wilson pushed the ignition button. The engine
turned, sputtered, then stilled. He tried it again,
nothing.
“I have battery power.”
“The batteries should be good for ten hours
if you seal off everything but the cockpit and do
nothing but run the heat, air recycler, and radio.
You should shut everything down and sit tight.”
“I need to go get Teddy.”
“If I’m reading the imaging right, you’ve
got about ten more minutes of relatively clear
weather, then it’s all going to fall apart. Stay in
the vehicle.”
“I’ll be buried under the snow.”
“We’ll find you.”
“The buggy’s free. I’ll try and drive it back.”
“Sir, the batteries on the buggy are probably
dead.”
“I’ll take one from the rover.”
“Robert, those things weight almost a hundred
pounds each!”
Wilson had already left his seat, moving to
the back of the rover. A few minute’s work and
he had one of the batteries free from its con-
nection. He stuffed the necessary tools into the
pockets on his suit. Robert fashioned a cargo net
into a makeshift bag for the battery and his extra
oxygen tank. He hefted the whole mess up and
climbed to the front hatch of the rover.
The wind outside was vicious, blowing,
swirling. It tore at him, trying to dislodge him as
he slowly climbed the outside of the disabled
machine. He reached the ground in front of the
nose of his vehicle and fumbled about, searching
for the cable running from the winch to the buggy.
He finally found it, buried under several inches
of snow. He took a firm hold on the cable and
started forward, dragging his load behind him.
Karen’s voice called to him, growing more
faint and frantic by the minute. Wilson tried to
reply, but she was not hearing him. He felt his
suit cooling on the inside. He suspected the suit’s
power supply was beginning to fail under the
harsh conditions.
He reached the buggy. Wilson unhooked
the cable from the smaller vehicle, then felt his
way around to the back of it, where the battery
"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam
compartment was located. He hoped that the
accident had not damaged the machine too badly.
He found the latch and fought with the crumpled
body work for several minutes before managing
to open the compartment. He took the tools
from his pockets and, working as quickly as the
bulky gear would allow, changed the batteries.
Once finished, he climbed to the hatch on top of
the buggy. It was jammed, and only after several
minutes of pounding it with the bottom of his
spare oxygen tank was he able to break it loose.
At last he climbed inside, his arms and shoulders
shaking from exertion.
Theodore Ellsworth was strapped to the pilot’s
chair, dressed in his own environmental suit.
Wilson checked the controls on Teddy’s suit. The
suit’s power was drained, but Teddy was still alive,
though unconscious and almost out of oxygen.
Teddy had turned his air flow down to the bare
minimum to make it last. Wilson plugged the
spare oxygen tank into Teddy’s suit and opened
up the flow. At least Teddy would not asphyxiate
anytime soon. He moved the archaeologist from
the pilot chair, laying him on the rubber-coated
floor.
Wilson saw the sample bag, filled to bursting,
lying on the floor next to the pilot’s chair. He licked
lips gone dry as he bent over and lifted the bag
into the chair where he could examine it more
closely. He took a series of short, quick breaths,
steeled himself, and opened the bag.
For a moment he considered flinging the entire
thing out the hatch, sure that the deepening
snow would cover the bag and its contents
quickly. He hefted the bag and set it back on the
floor near Teddy. It would not matter if he threw
it out; Teddy knew the truth now and would tell
everyone what he had found.
Wilson settled in the pilot’s chair and flipped
the power switch. The buggy’s lights came on,
and its little electrical engine spun up with a bee-
like drone. He plugged the buggy’s communica-
tion unit into his suit.
“Karen, can you hear me?”
Karen Montgomery’s relieved voice of came
to his ear. “I can hear you! How’s Theodore?”
“He’s alive, but in a bad way.”
“What’s your situation?”
“The buggy started. I’ve got a working compass
and radio, that’s it. The positioning display, oxygen
recycler, and internal heat are out. Its oxygen
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 
tanks are empty. My suit’s batteries are running
down, so it’s going to get pretty cold in here in a
few minutes. Teddy’s suit batteries are dead. I’ve
got him on the only oxygen tank I brought. I’m
going to have to find you the hard way.” Robert
engaged the engine of the buggy and, checking
the compass for direction, started toward where
he hoped the station was. “Any news on your
end?”
“I’ve turned on all the lights outside, so look
for the white glow on the horizon.”
Robert scanned the area as he drove the buggy
forward. “I don’t see it, but everything’s just a
sheet of white against the darkness out there.”
“Keep your eyes open,” she replied. “Robert,
there’s something else you should know.”
“More good news, I take it?”
“The rescue skimmers turned back because of
the storm. We’re on our own until the weather
clears. You should do everything you can to
conserve battery, including using the radio less.”
“I thought you wanted constant radio
contact.”
“I’ll make an exception.”
Wilson peered into the night, searching for
some sign of the station. He kept the buggy’s
speed down, only allowing the machine to roll
along at a crawl because of the ominous vibra-
tions coming from the undercarriage. He hoped
the wheels stayed on the buggy.
Wilson checked his compass again. He turned
the buggy back to the right, certain the winds had
blown the light vehicle off course. He scanned the
world outside his windshield: nothing, no reas-
suring glow of the stations lights, just darkness
and sweeping snow. He fought down the panic
rising in his chest. He knew to panic was to die.
He rolled along for several more minutes,
the buggy’s steering trembling under his hand,
whether from the violence of the storm or
damage to the drive train he did not know. He
gave his control console a glance. The battery
was discharging faster than normal. At this rate it
would be dead in less than half an hour.
“Karen?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m running out of power.”
“Is there anything else you can shut down?”
“Just the transmitter.”
There was a moment of hesitation, and then
Karen’s voice came back to him. “You should
"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam
conserve power, sir.”
Wilson gripped the steering tightly as a burst
of wind rocked the buggy, threatening to tip the
entire vehicle.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m lost. I can’t see the
station’s lights, the wind’s blowing me all over
the place. I’m not turning off the radio.” Wilson
licked dry, cold lips. “I’m not going die out here in
the silence.”
Crackling filled his ears for a few moments,
and he wondered if the signal had been lost.
“Karen? Can you hear me?”
“You’re not going to die, Robert,” her static-
broken voice said.
Wilson turned the buggy more to the left,
instinct telling him that was were the station
lay. “Look, there’s something I need to get off my
chest.”
“Deathbed confession, sir?”
“Something like that.”
“The recorder is running.”
Karen’s voice had a hollow, distant sound, as
if she was far away from the microphone. Wilson
checked his failing battery. He supposed the
signal must be fading. Faint lights shone in the
distance.
Robert parked the buggy and cut his lights.
Even if the glow ahead was the station, he was
too far away to reach it. He needed to use his last
bit of power to confess the truth.
“That’s fine, let the recorder run.” Wilson
paused, considering his next words carefully. “This
is not the first time I’ve visited Apollo’s Green.
The first time I was here, it was still inhabited.”
“Sir?” Karen’s voice sounded clear in his
headset, stronger, he suspect, because the
battery only needed to power the radio.
“I was a junior officer in the North American
Alliance Fleet in those days.”
There was a long pause from Karen, then her
voice whispered in his ear. “The North American
Alliance collapsed almost forty years ago. I had
no idea you were so old.”
Wilson chuckled despite his circumstanc-
es. “Yes, I’m old. Don’t interrupt me, my mind
wanders.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“You have to understand, I didn’t grasp what
we were doing, not at first. I was just a year out of
the Academy, assigned to a cruiser scouting out
worlds fit for colonization or terraforming. If I had
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 
it to do over, I’d like to think I’d make a different
choice, but I was too young and inexperienced
at the time.” Robert took a shaking breath and
plunged ahead. “We found the barest remnant
of an early Stone Age culture on Apollo’s Green,
as well as a few struggling plants and animals.
They were all failing, and in another twenty or so
years would have died out on their own. But the
Alliance was deep into its treasury, funding terra-
forming projects and fighting its shadow war with
the Sino-Russo Confederation, and Apollo’s Green
was rich with natural resources. They couldn’t
wait for those last remains of a fading people to
die out naturally. The decision was made to get
rid of them and go ahead with terraforming and
mining.”
“The Nairobi Protocols—”
“Weren’t in effect yet. Those came afterward
and wouldn’t have mattered in any case. The
Alliance government meant to keep their act of
genocide a secret from the civilian population.”
“Sir, sir, maybe you should stop talking now.”
Karen’s voice was tight and strained.
Robert Wilson swallowed. His air was almost
gone, his breath coming in gasps as he felt the
darkness closing on him. He needed to make
peace. Wilson wheezed. He considered opening
the buggy’s top hatch before his oxygen ran out.
He and Teddy would freeze to death quickly, but
that seemed a mercy for Teddy, to allow death
to claim him while still unconscious. Wilson
unhooked his restraints with fumbling fingers as
he finished his tale.
“We killed them, Karen. Just bombed their
little villages and burned every living thing away.
We killed the whole planet so we could rebuild
it in our image. The terraforming crews were all
military then, so they followed orders.”
“Robert, I should remind you—”
“That this is all being recorded, yes.”
Wilson closed his eyes and leaned back into
the pilot’s chair. He was too exhausted to reach
the hatch.
“When the captain gave the command I
hesitated, but then I followed my orders.”
“Robert—”
“I killed them, Karen. I pushed the button and
they died. The Alliance kept it secret, swept it
under the rug. When my cruiser returned to Mars
Station Four after the mission, I jumped ship. I
took a job as a freighter pilot. I never returned to
"Far From The Fields," by Michael Merriam Pg. 

Earth, I just couldn’t. When Mars and the outer “It’s okay,” he told her. He supposed there
colonies revolted six months later, the Alliance would be an inquiry, possibly criminal charges.
was forced to abandon Apollo’s Green.” He suspected that, even if government did not
Wilson opened his eyes and took a last look prosecute him, he would never be able to work
at Apollo’s Green. Wilson sighed in relief. It was in space again. It did not matter. The truth, even
done. The truth was told. “Karen, there’s a thing after all these years, was the important thing.
I’ll need you to do.” “It’s okay,” Wilson whispered again. “It’s time
“Of course, sir.”
“I want to be cremated and my ashes returned to set things right. It’s time to go home.”
to Earth. I want you to promise to take me
home.”
A painful brightness filled his vision, a horrible
roaring sounded in his ears. He took a gasping
breath, then another, and another. He closed
his eyes against the blinding light and tried for a
fourth breath. The crushing darkness took him.
#
Wilson opened his gummy eyes. He blinked
them clear and licked his dry lips.
“Welcome back.” Michael Merriam
Karen Montgomery leaned over his bed, her Michael Merriam has sold fantasy and science
face pale and filled with open concern.
“How—” Robert croaked out. fiction stories and poetry to a variety of
“I was pretty clear that you weren’t going to magazines, including Andromeda Spaceways
die out there.”
“You came and got us? I thought policy required Inflight Magazine, Beyond Centauri, Deep
you to stay on station?” Magic, Fictitious Force, and The Shantytown
“Yes sir, it does. Policy also requires the rovers Anomaly. He is also a two-time semi-finalist
be taken out for regular field tests. Rover Two-
Five was overdue for a check-out run.” in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of The Future
Wilson nodded and sat up. “How’s Teddy?” Contest. Michael participates in the Online
“Theodore’s fine. He’s suffering dehydration,
pneumonia, a raging fever, and various other Writers Workshop and is an assistant organizer
ills, but he’ll live until relief gets here tomorrow.” of the Twin Cities Speculative Fiction Writers
Karen paused and handed him a glass of water. “I Network. He lives in Minneapolis,Minnesota
found something interesting in Theodore’s suit.”
“Really?” Wilson said after taking a deep with his wife and cat. Visit his homepage at 
drink. http://home.mn.rr.com/mmerriam/
“You know what the Venus of Willendorf is?”
Karen asked, holding her hand out. He nodded
to her. She smiled and opened her hand. “Look
at this.”
The small statuette was carved out of the
native rock. She sat cross-legged, her large belly
and heavy breasts sagging to her lap.
“I wonder if this will force the company to
bring in a full excavation team?” Wilson said.
Karen shrugged. “I don’t know. Robert, about
the recorders—”

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

"The Glass People," by Paul R. McNamee
The Glass People
by Paul R. McNamee 
3rd place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest
T he black vacuum of space flashed bright
white as a missile exploded starboard of
the Midnight Sun.
“Subspace drive!” hollered Padraig Slate. The
tawny, stocky man held a rail for support and ran
a worried hand through his close-cut curly, brown
hair.
“Not available,” commented his pilot, Malloc.
The dwarfish cyborg’s mechanical hand blurred
across the controls. “Missile’s E.M.P. is overload-
ing everything.”
Slate groaned—so did the spacecraft as it
banked into a hard turn.
“You know, Malloc, we’re not smuggling grain.
Even if they don’t hit us, we could lose a very
large payday!”
“The artifacts are well packed.”
“The artifacts are more fragile than a Condro-
nium mummy!”
“If you’d pay the Krina tariffs...”
“Funny thing about that, Malloc. I don’t have
the money until after I’ve brought the goods over.
And no one wants to front the job in case I blow
it.”
“We’re being pursed by a Krina medium class
patrol ship.” The cybernetic half of Malloc’s brain
interfaced directly with the ship. Schematics
appeared in the corner of the viewscreen.
“She’ll only have three missiles at most.
Probably only one, and they already used it.”
An explosion rocked the craft.
“They have plenty of rockets, though.” Malloc’s
tone was almost apologetic.
“That’s good news?” Slate wondered.
“Rockets are not guided­—with our speed and
maneuverability, we stand a chance.”
“Do they have beam weapons?”
“Yes. Harder to avoid,” the dwarfish cyborg
admitted. “Accurate aiming system.”
The Midnight Sun shook hard from a direct
hit.
“Where?” Slate asked.
Malloc gritted his teeth. “Cargo hold—rocket.
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 
Blast door shuttered.”
Slate dashed from the bridge. He could add
nothing to Malloc’s effort. The cyborg could fly
and operate the meager weapons—the Midnight
Sun was a runner ship, lightly armed and lightly
armored.
Evasive maneuvers and tremors jostled Slate
every step of the way to the cargo hold. The door
slid open and he sighed in relief when he did not
look upon a complete disaster. Only one crate
had slipped it’s moorings and crashed to the
deck. Three neatly padded oblong shapes were
scattered on the floor.
Apprehensively, he picked up one of the
bundles. He did not feel broken glass. His eyes
went wide when he felt the slightest, dampened
vibration through his clutched hand and he heard
muffled singing.
Fascinated, Slate stood unyielding against the
yawing of the embattled ship. He removed the
padding and stared at the glass figurine. Long,
but narrow enough to be held in one hand, its
shallow curved lines represented a three-limbed
alien race long since lost to the aeons.
On the floor, the two other figurines joined
the chorus, amplified in harmonic frequency by
their unwrapped brethren.
The close impact of a rocket broke Slate’s con-
centration. He dashed to the wall communicator,
and pressed the button.
“Malloc, get me two minutes!”
Slate pulled out an anti-grav sled and tore
apart the other crates. Hurriedly, he unpacked
the figurines and stood them on the floating
platform—its gyroscopic elements keeping it
level.
Seven glass figurines glowed and sang with
voices of crystalline vibration. Their vibrations
moved them about like living chessmen. They
arranged themselves in a six-pointed star, with
the tallest, seventh figurine occupying the center.
The formation complete, the choir precipitated
to a whining crescendo of harmonious notes.
"The Glass People," by Paul R. McNamee
Clamping his hands over his ears, Slate stumbled
out of the cargo hold.
“I thought you were dead!” For a rare moment,
Malloc showed surprise when Slate returned to
the bridge.
“Why?”
“They must have hit us with some new
energy beam,” Malloc told him. “The cargo hold,
its warping or imploding or...or... I don’t know
what!”
Slate accessed the image from the camera in
the cargo hold. Enraptured, Malloc’s cyborg eye
recorded the scene. The glass figurines radiated
patterns of colored light from within their crystal
bodies as complex as the music they sang.
“Eject the blast door—open the hold!”
Malloc hesitated.
“Do it!” Slate said. “The galaxy is full of
treasure.”
Malloc pressed a sequence on a keypad.
They watched the sled evacuate into space.
The figurines stayed in place upon the sled, coun-
terbalanced by their own vibrations.
The patrol ship approached directly over the
priceless artifacts, intent on its helpless prey.
Rockets and energy weapons trained on the
battered runner.
A rip tore through the fabric of space where the
precious figurines floated. The maw swallowed
the patrol ship and space repaired itself, all in the
blink of an eye. The priceless figurines had disap-
peared with the patrol ship.
“Dimension jump,” Malloc said quietly.
Slate nodded.
“Where?”
“Anywhere away from us is fine by me,” Slate
said coldly. The patrol ship could have gone
anywhere. He had no knowledge of how the
people who crafted the figurines judged spatial
coordinates.
“Why didn’t they do anything before?”
“Must have been the explosions—set off the
first and caused a chain reaction. If we hadn’t
been so careful when we excavated the site, we
might have been clued in earlier with a single tap
on the crystal,” Slate said. “Amazing, they knew
about dimensional travel with no sign of space
faring in their culture.”
“Why go through space when you can jump?”
Malloc said.
Subspace travel had long been established—a
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 10
shortcut that still required traversal through
space from point to point. Dimensional jumping—
actually moving from one point to another in an
instant—was still only a theory.
“How did you know?” Malloc asked Slate.
“I recognized the sound of a dimension drive,”
Slate said.
“Where would you have heard such a thing?”
Malloc’s encyclopedic brain quivered in anticipa-
tion of new knowledge.
“We need to limp this ship into safe harbor
for repairs,” Slate said, ignoring Malloc’s pleading
gaze. Slate held many secrets—he did not yield
them freely. Malloc resigned himself to his frus-
tration.
“Stama 4,” the cyborg suggested. “You’re not
well-known there.”
The Midnight Sun turned sluggishly into her
new course.
Paul R. McNamee
One day Paul R. McNamee fell into the Robert
E. Howard collection, Eons of the Night, and
he is still there­—roaming around the worlds
of dark fantasy, sword-and-sorcery and horror
(plus sword-and-planet, space opera, and all
points in-between)—both as a reader and as
a writer. In addition, he is a book reviewer for
Sword & Sorcery.
His first official publication was for The
Sword Review, with the story, “Queen of the
Sepulcher,” as a Bonus Feature in November
2005.
Paul is a lifelong resident of Massachusetts,
USA. He is married to a lovely lady named
Linda, and his day job involves computer
software.
You can find some of his earlier work at his
website, http://writer.paulmcnamee.net.
"The Glass People," by Paul R. McNamee
Flight of the Medic
by S. E. Markey 
2nd place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest
Note -- language warning
S ilas could sense the guns firing at his small
ship before they actually did. He could
anticipate the burst of light from the warship’s
guns. Not one strike against him.
It was supernatural.
On the radar screen there was a line of white
dots, enemy ships, and a scattering of blinking red
dots. He rotated the radar screen by dragging his
finger across it, and the view changed. He couldn’t
imagine working with the one-plane radars that
the starships had used until a few years ago. 3D
was much more appropriate in space.
Stop it. Concentrate. You’ll get yourself killed.
Dodge left, left again, down.
Miss, miss, miss; still untouched.
He swooped under the ships and no one
followed. There were too many of his own
warships shooting at the enemy for them to
pursue.
Silas slowed as he approached one of the small
red dots on the radar, an escape pod from one of
his warships. He slowed just enough so the pod
wouldn’t be smashed apart when the magnets
on the belly of the ship caught it.
Steady. Slower.
There was a loud bang as the pod connected.
He kicked on the fusion thrusters and burned
toward the next light. He checked the radar
screen, and watched as the red light from the
pod he had just rescued faded as the pilot killed
his emergency beacon. Two more pick-ups and it
was back to the space station, back to the orbiting
castle. Hover and drop, then back to the battle.
He reached out and changed the radar’s view,
as if wiping dust from the screen, and dropped
90 degrees relative to his previous direction. He
flew toward the next pod, outrunning a trio of
ships behind him, and trying to arrive before a
squadron of five ships coming in from the side
reached the drifting pod.
I’ve got the speed, the best line. It’ll be close,
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 11
but this one’s mine.
He reached over, keeping his hand poised
above the reverse thrust button. The two lines
of ships were closing. He moved the radar; the
three ships were riding the same line, the others
were coming from the right, toward him at a 45
degree angle. He changed his line, dropping lower
to avoid the shots from the ships behind him,
just as three streaks of light passed overhead,
and out to empty space. Their weapons had an
impressive range. They shouldn’t have been able
to reach that far.
Crazy bastards, trying to take Earth.
He changed his line every few seconds now
that their long ranges could reach his ship. He
kept his movements random and frequent.
Almost, almost. Change the line. Drop. Up, up.
Steady.
Right before reaching the pod he slapped the
reverse thrust and killed the engines. There was
a noise as the pod attached itself to the ship’s
belly.
Three pods. Room for one more. Gotta escape
first.
It happened all in one beautiful motion; the
instant after the pod connected, Silas pulled hard
on the stick, raising the nose to point straight up.
The ships behind him were firing more often now,
and a few of the shots hit his ship.
They did little damage at that distance, sacri-
ficing reach for power. The others though, coming
down on him, were close, but hadn’t aimed yet.
He knew they were waiting for a sure kill. Kill a
medic; take out the pilots he’s rescued as well.
Never happen.
With the nose pointing straight up, he released
his hold on the reverse thrust, and fired the fusion
thrusters of all three engines, shooting straight
up like one of the old shuttles that launched from
inside atmo.
There was no chance those ships would catch
him. It was a clean escape, though the pilots
below him, sitting in the awkward positions
"Flight of the Medic," by S. E. Markey Pg. 12

aboard their pods stuck against his ship, probably S. E. Markey

wanted to kill him for flying like that.
Plenty of time for killing me after they thank Sean E. Markey is a student at Flagler
me for saving their lives.
The last pod he would save before returning College in Florida, and is majoring in 
to the castle was nearby and drifting well away Elementary Education.
from the concentration of ships that made up the
main battle. He cut the fusion thrust and two of
the engines, pulling out of the launch and cutting
a straight line toward the pod.
A brilliant flash pulled his attention from the
radar. He shielded his eyes against the light that
came from the heart of the main battle, but
there were too many ships to tell which side had
initiated it.
Silas felt something intangible, like a premoni-
tion of activity, and looked at his radar to see a
white dot remaining stationary near the red one
he’d locked on to.
That’s the trick of radar, why 2D doesn’t work.
He rotated the view until the motion of the white
dot changed and made sense. It wasn’t sitting
still; it was coming in straight down, dropping in
on the pod, much closer than he was.
Too late.
Silas watched as three quick streaks of light
shot from the enemy’s ship, which could now be
seen through the window.
“No,” he said, speaking against the obvious,
the inevitable. Against fate.
He looked down at the screen, because he
couldn’t bear to see it in real life. The enemy
ship pulled back to avoid the debris from the
explosion. The little red light winked out. Gone
forever.
The pain of that loss hit him hard.
There was death all around, in every bright
flash, in every strike, every collision. He could
ignore those casualties, but this was a life stolen
from him when it was his to save. From the
moment of locking on, when he chose that point
of light, it was his.
He felt every pain when a life was taken right
before he could save it. He felt the loss, the grief.
He felt the amazing potential, and the tragedy of
an ending. He had been touched by death.
It was supernatural.

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Fireships, by John D. Popham
Fireships
by John D. Popham 
1st place, Ray Gun Radio space battle flash fiction contest
Y esterday we were six. Now we are four:
Sung, Ali, Johnny and me riding in close
and tight. Our fireships burn bright, turn fast,
as we cut the vector, dump velocity and kick
the drives back in again. Even in the gel-tanks
we feel it—feel the hard Gs that would turn
us, unprotected, into bug-squish. To our
nadir, explosions erupt—bright and orange
in the deep vacuum, striking out at the spot
we would have been in without the turn. The
fireships jink, red lights across the board as
we ride the shockwave, run before it, letting
it boost our V and hide our engine signatures
from the Bits.
“Wicked,” breathes Sung.
He’s excited. Aroused. He loves the game,
loves speed of hot ships, the release of
the kill. He’s a fear junkie. We all are. It’s a
condition of employment. We dance at the
raggedy edge of oblivion, and sooner or later,
the dark claims you. No ‘if’ about it—only
‘when’, only ‘how’. That’s the game: to make
the dance beautiful—to make your death,
when it comes, an exquisite thing.
The shockwave passes us and we run
silent for a while, playing hide and seek with
the silicon ghost that’s out in the deep, trying
to kill us. It’s playing the quiet game too.
We’re all on passive sensors, sweeping the
dark, listening for it. We wait for it to make a
mistake, to give itself away. It waits for us to
do the same. We play this game all the time
and the Bit usually wins. We’re human. We’re
impatient and riding a high. It’s cold—its
heuristic routines working out the relentless
calculus of our deaths.
The formation’s tight enough that we can
see each other. Too close—not regulation.
We could be taken out in one salvo, and the
console jockeys get buggy about that. But it
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 13
hides how many we are. A Bit can’t calculate
the odds if it doesn’t have all the numbers.
You have to keep the numbers from them.
As much as you can. Once a Bit has all the
numbers, it can calculate your death to a
hundred decimal places. Dance over.
Sensors pop a ping at the five o’clock
off our port side. It doesn’t repeat. Maybe
something. Maybe a glitch. Maybe a trap. Ali
hand signals tally-ho. No radio, nothing to
give us away. Johnny waves it off. Sung signals
go. My call now. I say yes, we go. I say no, we
stay dark.
I don’t like it. Smells bad. Only a Bit with a
loose wire loses this game. I shake it off. I say
no.
Sung repeats the “go” sign, along with a
second one that calls me coward, weenie,
wuss, and other less polite things. I shake him
off again. I love the speed, love the dance, and
my mind runs as hot as anybody’s. But, most
of all, I love the kill. I truly do. And I don’t
think there’s a loose wire out there—just a Bit
trying out a new subroutine. And I’m going
to paint a marker for the motherless thing’s
death on the side of my ship. I shake Sung off
again.
Sung brakes hard, flips, and his engines
flare—drops out of formation and drives his
fireship toward the source of the ping.
The world comes apart. Sung goes live—
weapons hot and his active sensors reaching
out ahead of him, searching for his target.
Nothing. No target. He cuts his vector, hard
and tight. The fireship’s engines kick in as the
first salvo blossoms close by. We lose him as
the shockwave scrambles the sensors, but
we know where the Bit is. It’s gone active,
targeting Sung. A second salvo erupts where
Sung might be. The Bit’s blinded by the
Fireships, by John D. Popham Pg. 14

shockwave too and is firing blind. Can’t see

Sung. Can’t decide whether it got him and is
playing the odds. Can’t see us either.
We break loose of the formation, light the
fires and go in hot. I cut high, Ali and Johnny
from the right. My targeting picks up the Bit
as it lays another shot at Sung. Then I see its
engines show heat as it swings its active scan
toward Ali and Johnny. It doesn’t see me. Not
even when I cut loose three shots of my own.
Not even when it dies.
That alter-day I paint the kill on my fireship.
Sung is gone—broke up in the Bit’s first shot.
Now we are three. But, dear God, we can
dance.

John D. Popham
John Popham is a freelance writer living in
Washington, DC. His short story, “Dusk” is
published in the current issue of 5th Story
Review. His story “Plainsong” is forthcom-
ing in the Winter issue of Noneuclidean
Cafe.

He is a recipient of the Mark Time Award

for best science fiction audio for the radio
drama “Primitive James.”

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
. . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .
by John M. Whalen 
A Jack Brand story
Part One
B rand cut the ignition. The motor whirred to
a stop and sand billowed under the Hover-
Jeep as it sunk down on the ground. He climbed
out of the vehicle, his eyes shielded from the
glare of the desert by the wide brim of his hat.
He walked toward the Strato-Van parked about
twenty yards ahead, next to a grouping of large
boulders. The van appeared to be abandoned,
but he wasn’t taking any chances. He pulled the
Electro-Pistol from the holster Velcroed to his leg
and with a flick of his thumb set the charge to
“full.”
Something moved under the vehicle.
“Come out of there,” Brand ordered. “You’ve
got three seconds.”
“All right, all right,” a voice said. “Don’t
shoot.”
A tall, thin man with sandy hair, a long face,
and watery blue eyes crawled out from under the
vehicle. He was dressed in prison grey. Mingo.
“Hands on your head,” Brand ordered. “Where
are the other two?”
Mingo shrugged and grinned.
“Don’t know, Brand,” he said. “Took off
somewhere. Don’t know where. You gonna take
me back?”
Brand pulled a white plastic strip from a pouch
in his belt. “Behind your back.”
Mingo turned, swung his hands around behind
his back and Brand held the plastic strip against
the side of his wrists. It seemed to come alive and
wrapped itself around the fugitive’s wrists, then
congealed again into a pair of hard plastic cuffs.
“Down on your knees.” He pushed him down
by a shoulder, and looked warily at the big rocks
on the other side of the van.
“Thorson! Jackson!” he yelled. “Come out. You
wouldn’t try to walk from here. There’s nothing
for fifty miles.”
There was the crunch of sand under a boot
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 15
and a medium-sized man with dark brown hair
stepped around the side of one of the boulders.
Cal Thorson.
“You’re right, Brand,” he said, a hard glint
shining in his yellow-green eyes. “But then every-
body’s got to be right sometime.”
“Hands over your head.”
He moved toward Thorson. There was a
scuffling sound above. He looked up too late. A
body flew down from the top of the boulder. The
impact knocked him off his feet. He landed on
his back, and through a cloud of dust and sand
saw a black man sitting on his chest. The man
had ten fingers wrapped around the wrist of his
gun hand. He slammed it down hard on the hot
sand. Jackson. Brand reached up and grabbed a
handful of Jackson’s face and tried to pry him off.
The heel of Thorson’s boot thunked against the
side of his head. Brand saw stars and involuntarily
squeezed the trigger of the Beretta. A blue blast
of electricity shot past Thorson and hit one of the
boulders. Pain shot up Brand’s arm as Jackson
twisted his wrist hard. He dropped the gun in the
sand. Thorson picked it up.
“Don’t move,” Thorson said. “Or I’ll kill you.”
#
He sat with his back resting against the side
of one of the limestone boulders. Jackson and
Mingo leaned on the fenders of the Hover-Jeep,
looking down at him. Jackson had the AR-225
Plasma Beam rifle that Brand kept in the jeep. Cal
Thorson stood in front of them with the Electro-
Pistol on his leg. They had helped themselves to
the water and rations Brand carried in the jeep.
Temporarily satisfied, they turned their attention
back to him.
“Guess you’re wondering why I haven’t killed
you yet,” Thorson said. He looked over at his com-
panions. “This here’s Jack Brand, boys. He used
to be with the Tulon Security Force.” He looked
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
back at Brand. “How come you’re still doing their
dirty work for them?”
“I take an occasional contract job, if it interests
me. When I heard you busted out I took a real
interest.”
Thorson looked over at Mingo and Jackson
and laughed.
“Three years ago he sent me up for a killing
over at the Pinkney Oil Processing Plant,” he said.
“Twenty years hard labor.”
“Should have been the death penalty,” Brand
said.
“Yeah, you’d have liked that better,” Thorson
said. “But they don’t have the death penalty on
Tulon. Not enough people here. They need every
man they got, even the convicts, to work in their
lousy oil fields.”
He looked at Brand for a moment, the finger
of his right hand rubbing the side of his nose.
“I served three years of that sentence,”
Thorson said. “And every day of those three
years in this miserable heat, all I did was think
about you and what I’d do to you if I ever got out
and caught up with you. I never thought it would
happen. Maybe I need to have more faith.”
“Will you finish with him, man?” It was
Jackson. “We gotta get a move on.”
“In a minute,” Thorson said with some irri-
tation. “I just want to tell Brand something first
before I kill him.”
He stepped a little closer, but not too close.
“That Strato-Van we took out of the prison
yard ran out of gas,” Thorson continued. “We
didn’t have no time for a fill up. But I see you
got plenty in that Hover-Jeep of yours. Water
and food too. There’s a settlement West of here.
We were heading for it when we ran dry. It’s a
religious community. They call it New Eden. They
ain’t even got guns there. It’ll be easy pickings.”
“They got women there, Thorson?” Mingo
asked.
“What do you think?”
”I think we’re gonna have some fun,” Jackson
said with a wide grin.
“Reckon so,” Thorson said. “We’ll gear up
there for the long haul over the mountains. I hear
there’s places there with green grass and fresh
cool water. That’s where we’ll be, Brand. Sorry
you can’t come along.”
“That’s the way you like your victims, isn’t it,
Thorson?” Brand said. “Nice and defenseless.”
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 16
“Don’t matter much,” Thorson said. “I can kill
an armed man easy as one that’s unarmed. Like
you, for instance.”
He grinned maliciously and turned to the
other two.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.
Mingo, you drive. Jackson, get in back.”
The two convicts climbed into the vehicle.
Thorson turned to face Brand again and pulled
the pistol from its holster.
“One more thing, Brand,” he said, the grin
widening to reveal yellow teeth. “Something
I want you to know before you die. About your
sister.”
Brand’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed.
“Yeah,” Thorson said. “I know the story. How
she was a member of your squad in the glory
days of the Tulon Security Force, and how you
got jumped by the Wilkerson gang. They killed
everybody but you and took your sister with
them. And you’ve spent the last seven years
trying to find her.
“I knew Jesse Wilkerson, Brand. Ran into him
one day about four, five years ago. Never mind
where. She was with him. Good lookin’ woman.
He had a rope around her neck and he led her
around like a dog. Terrible way to treat a woman.
I saw him beat her and rub her face in the dirt,
just for the hell of it. And I’ll tell you something
else. Your sister was loving every minute of it. She
just couldn’t get enough of old Jesse.”
Brand got to his feet, his hands closed into
two fists, his face tight.
“I hear she’s still lovin’ it,” Thorson said.
“You know where they are?” Brand asked.
“Could be. But it won’t do you no good, even
if I tell you,” Thorson said. “You’re gonna be dead.
Unless maybe you think you can take this pistol
away from me, before I can pull the trigger.”
Brand looked down the muzzle of the gun
as Thorson stood there with a twisted grin on
his face. Brand knew the man meant to kill him.
There wasn’t a chance he could close the distance
between them before he pulled the trigger. But
he had an edge Thorson didn’t know about. At
that close range it might not be enough. But he
had to try for it.
“What’s the matter, Brand?” Thorson said.
“No guts?”
Brand dove at him. The Electro-Pistol jumped
and a bright blue wave of light crackled through
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
the air, hitting Brand in the solar plexus. A black
circle the size of a saucer appeared in the center
of Brand’s tunic, and his body crumpled. The
world went black and he fell in a heap, smoke
rising from his body.
“So long, Brand,” Thorson said and climbed
into the passenger side of the Hover-Jeep. He
nodded at Mingo. “Let’s go.”
# seemed to shake the sky. He jumped, grabbed a
Brand woke up, his abdomen on fire, his ribs
aching horribly. He rolled over on his side and
looked down the front of his tunic at the burn
hole the pistol had made. Grunting in pain he
stripped the tunic off. The gun blast had burnt
through most of the Krylor vest he was wearing
underneath. There was only a thin layer of plastic
left covering his skin and it was badly charred. He
took off the vest and carefully peeled the plastic
from his skin. When it was removed, he could see
the damage had all been limited to the epidermis.
The vest hadn’t been enough of an edge for him
to jump Thorson, but he realized if he hadn’t put
it on before setting out, he’d have been dead for
sure.
He put the tunic back on carefully and stood
up. How long he’d been out he wasn’t sure. His
Jeep was gone, along with his water, his weapons,
his desert rations, and his first aid kit. If he was
going anywhere, it would be on foot. He knew
the settlement Thorson mentioned. It was a
community founded over 150 years ago by one of
the original settlers who’d fled Earth during the
Terror Wars. Brand guessed it was at least fifty
miles away. He didn’t know if he could walk that
far without water. But he’d have to try. He hoped
Thorson would still be there.
His mouth was dry and he tasted salt when
he licked his lips. The temperature was around
120 degrees. It wouldn’t take long for dehydra-
tion to set in. He knew that if you lost more than
18 percent of the water in your body you died. He
looked skyward. Five Skavs already were circling
around high above him. He started walking.
# colonizing other planets. Oil had been found on
He’d been walking several hours when he
heard a low moaning sound like the wail of some
ancient goddess not far behind him. He looked
back over his shoulder. An ominous-looking dark
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 17
wall of swirling sand was coming his way. Sand
storm! He looked around for shelter. There was
an outcropping of boulders ahead. He ran for
them. The wind picked up. The moan rose to a dry
shriek and sand stung his skin. He moved around
the twenty-foot high outcropping, looking for
a space to crawl into. At the top, several of the
rocks leaned together forming a small cave.
The wind rose to a deafening howl that
handhold, and pulled himself up. He scrambled
over the top and crawled into the cave-like space,
hoping there were no animals or poisonous
insects lurking there. There was barely room for
his long frame, but it seemed unoccupied by any
other life forms. He took off his hat and rolled
over on his back.
The wind tore at the mouth of the cave with
a loud scream. Sand pelted the rocks with the
force of a hailstorm. He hoped his shelter was
high enough off the ground. Too many had died
in Tulon sand storms when they’d taken refuge at
ground level and been buried alive.
There was nothing to do now but wait. He was
losing precious time. But he reckoned the storm
would slow Thorson and his friends down too.
In fact, they could have more serious problems.
The Hover-Jeep did not travel well in these condi-
tions. If they didn’t stop moving but tried to keep
going, they could ruin the vehicle. He hoped so.
He’d catch up with them. All in due time, he said
to himself. All in due time.
He lay there quietly in the narrow darkness
and thought about what Thorson had said. His jaw
tightened as he remembered the convict’s words.
Had a rope around her neck and led her around
like a dog. Terrible way to treat a woman. Terry!
How could he have let such a thing happen to his
kid sister? It was his fault. He was responsible.
There was no escaping that fact. He never should
have let her come with him to Tulon. Should never
have let her join the Security Force.
But when the Terror War ended, and Brand
got out of the Rangers, the Government of the
Northern Hemisphere, as it was now called, began
Tulon, and the oil companies and the provisional
government needed recruits to build a Security
Force to protect the oil fields and the oil workers.
Brand’s experience as an Army Ranger made him
highly qualified for that kind of work. Terry said
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
she was damned if she’d stay home while he
went out exploring new worlds. Their parents had
been killed in the Great Salt Lake chemical attack,
and were buried with a thousand others in the
mass grave out in the Bonneville Salt Flats, where
they used to ride their horses as kids. There was
nothing left of the lives they knew growing up as
children on their ranch fifty miles from Salt Lake.
He agreed to take her with him.
The wind howled all around and Brand felt
as though the rocks that sheltered him were
beginning to press in on him. He was sweating
and his chest felt tight. The storm outside seemed
to be sucking air out of the cave.
His mind went back to that day seven years
ago when they went after the Wilkerson Gang.
Jesse Wilkerson was a huge brute of a man with
a shaved head, huge belly, and an arm as big as a
side of beef. They had robbed a Trans-Exxon field
office. Brand and his posse tracked them to Alma
Mesa. There hadn’t been a day since that Brand
didn’t think about it. Didn’t remember how he’d
led the posse into a trap—a mistake that a man
of his experience should never have made. Three
killed, him wounded, and his sister kidnapped.
The walls of his shelter closed in on him even
tighter, as the wind whined and whistled around
the confining rocks. The temperature inside the
cave had risen considerably.
Now, after seven years, he had a fresh lead.
Thorson. He’d catch up with him. And then he’d
find Wilkerson and Terry. All in due time, he told
himself.
A blast of sand lashed against the mouth of
the cave, and the rocks themselves seemed to
shudder.
All in due time.
# them as they came into focus as his sister and
The storm lasted until late afternoon. When
it was over, Brand wriggled on his back toward
the entrance and kicked away the sand that half-
covered the opening. He slid out feet first and
stood on top of the rock he’d first climbed up on.
The sand was piled higher around the outcrop-
ping than it had been, but the harsh, unfriendly
landscape stretched out to the horizon much the
same as it had before. In the East the orange and
purple shades of evening were beginning to color
the sky. He jumped down to the desert floor and
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 18
started walking again.
When night came, the three moons of Tulon
rose. Scorpio-pedes, giant lizards and snakes,
their tongues flicking the air, skittered out from
caves and under rocks and tried to sting or bite
him. In the distance he heard the wailing cry of
Jack-eynas baying at the moons. If a pack of those
beasts ever got his scent, he knew he would be
finished. He wanted to lie down in the dark and
sleep, but he knew if he did, he’d never get up
again. He kept on walking.
The sun rose slowly—a big orange disc that
portended more heat. Brand’s legs were stiffen-
ing from dehydration. His tongue was swollen and
he felt as if he was gulping sandpaper with every
swallow. He stopped and surveyed the horizon.
In the far distance he saw the blue outline of a
mountain range low on the horizon. Or was it a
mirage? He walked toward it.
Noon. The world shimmered in heat waves.
He looked up at the cobalt sky and the Skavs
were still there, circling patiently. His face was
blistered, his lips cracked. Everything seemed
to be disappearing into a white haze. There was
no vegetation. No plant life where he might find
moisture. It was so much like the Salt Flats back
home. In other deserts, you could find vegeta-
tion, like cacti and cut into them and squeeze out
a few drops of water. But on the salt flats, if you
didn’t have water with you, you’d never make it
back. And it was the same here. Nothing but hot
sand and rock.
He fell down, his strength gone. He couldn’t
move. He had to get up, he told himself. He had
to make it to New Eden. He had to find Thorson.
He lifted his head from the sand and through
blurry eyes thought he saw something moving.
Two hazy figures on horseback. He recognized
himself as kids. She rode the chestnut mare, and
he the Sorrell, the way they always did.
“Terry!”
He watched as the two figures on horseback
rode by. He wanted to call to them. He wanted to
tell Terry he was sorry. But they rode past without
seeing him. He raised a hand futilely, as they rode
away from him and disappeared behind the crest
of a dune.
“Get up,” he told himself. “Can’t lie here. Got
to go on.”
He pulled himself to his feet and started
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
walking again. One foot in front of the other. In
the direction that the two riders had taken.
# My God to Thee.” But that was exactly what he
Night fell again and the moons of Tulon seemed
even bigger than the night before. Brand’s thirst
was unendurable. The howls of the Jack-eynas
seemed louder, closer. Their cries sent a shiver
down his spine. And then it happened.
He saw the yellow eyes glinting in the darkness.
Heard the low deep growl. The Jack-eyna stood
only several feet away, its feet dug straight down
in the sand, head tucked back inside its neck,
black lips pulled back tight, exposing long white
fangs. Foam dripped from the animal’s jaws, and
Brand realized it must be sick. That would explain
why it was out here alone. Jack-eynas normally
travel in packs, but when one becomes sick, he is
usually ostracized by his fellows and sent out to
wander and die alone.
The thing sprang and knocked Brand on his
back. Brand held the beast’s slavering jaws away
from his throat with two hands. The creature
shrieked and growled in rabid rage. Brand
managed to keep the fur-covered fury from
tearing his throat out, but he could feel the claws
of its hind feet trying to tear out his abdomen.
He felt something hard under his back. With one
hand holding the animal by the fur on its throat,
he reached under his back. Desperate fingers
clutched the rock he’d fallen on. He rolled over on
top of the Jack-eyna and raised the rock up over
his head. He smashed it down on the animal’s
skull with all the strength he had left. The animal
yelped in pain. Again the rock came down. Again
and again, until the animal lay silent and still, its
head a bloody mass of pulp and bone.
Panting for breath, Brand rolled away from
the animal. He struggled to his feet and stood
there for a moment, swaying like a tree. He took
several steps and then the three moons of Tulon
swirled in a crazy dance and he collapsed to the
ground unconscious.
# bed in a small, but comfortably furnished room
When he awoke, he believed it was for the last
time. How long he’d been lying there bleeding,
exhausted, and parched, he couldn’t tell. But
he was certain his life was ending. He knew it
because he heard church music. He’d never been
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 19
a religious man and he wondered why at the last
few minutes of his life he would hear the sound
of an organ and a small choir singing “Nearer
heard.
He lay there with his face in the sand and
listened to the hymn coming to him on the cool
desert wind that ruffled his thick hair. The sound
of the music seemed to increase and diminish
with the strength of the breeze. Then he realized
it was not a hallucination, he really did hear
music. New Eden!
He raised his head. The music came from the
other side of the sand dune he was lying on. He
got to his feet and staggered feebly toward the
crest of the dune, every inch of his body racked
with pain. He made it to the top of the dune and
lights swam before his eyes.
There were several buildings that looked like
houses. There were others that seemed nothing
more than shacks. But there was one larger
building with lights shining in the windows. It was
from that building that the music came. There was
a porch in front with several steps going down to
the street. At the apex of the roof was a wooden
cross that shone white in the moonlight.
The music ended with a long, low chord on
the organ and the chorus singing, “Amen.” Brand
staggered down the hill and saw people coming
down the front steps of the church. He started
toward them. A woman screamed in fright. The
churchgoers stood and watched in silence as
he lumbered closer. But half way to them, he
dropped to his knees.
“Thomas, go to him,” a woman said. “Someone
is in need of help.”
Brand fell into a pool of darkness and heard
nothing more.
Part Two
He opened his eyes. Sunlight filtered through
gauzy curtains hanging on a window. He was in
with walls painted a cheerful yellow. A sharp pain
flared under his ribs, when he tried to sit up.
Lifting the blanket, he saw that he was wearing
a nightgown. He touched the places where the
Plasma rifle had burned him and the Jack-eyna
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
had clawed him, and felt the bandage and
dressing someone had put on them.
Then he remembered how he’d gotten here
and his heart raced, his head throbbing. Thorson,
Mingo, and Jackson! He jumped up. Dizziness and
nausea flooded over him. He must have made a
noise, because the bedroom door opened.
“Don’t try to get up.” A woman came into the
room. She was blonde, brown-eyed, and had a
kind, but somewhat worn-looking face. “You
must get back in bed. You’re in no condition.”
She stood next to the bed looking to Brand
like something out of an old story book. She wore
a long gingham dress with white ruffles at the
sleeve. Black leather shoes poked out from the
hem of the dress, and her blond hair was rolled up
in a tight bun, tied with a black ribbon. She went
to a small table next to the bed and poured water
from a pitcher into a wooden cup. She gave him
the cup and looked at him with deep concern.
“Drink this slowly,” she said.
Brand took the cup and took a sip through
cracked lips.
“You’re badly dehydrated, Mr. Brand.”
He looked up at her surprised.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I took the
liberty of looking at your identification papers. I
saw your badge.”
“How long was I out?”
“Not long. Last night and most of the morning.
It’s almost noon now.”
“Any other strangers been here?”
“No one. You’re the first person from the
outside world who’s been here in some time.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“My husband, the Reverend Thomas
Freemont,” she said. “My name is Sarah
Freemont.”
Brand’s head began to throb and he narrowed
his eyes against the pain.
“Where is your husband? I’ve got to talk to
him.”
“He’s . . . not here,” the woman said.
“Where is he?”
“The cemetery.”
Brand saw his boots standing in front of a trunk
next to the wall. On top of the trunk were a shirt
and pants and his hat. “I need to get dressed.”
“But you can’t—”
He threw the covers aside and got up shakily.
He took a few steps toward the trunk and grabbed
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 20
up the clothing—black pants and red shirt, the
old fashioned kind with buttons down the front
instead of the modern day pullover tunic. Despite
the woman’s objections, Brand started putting
the clothes on. She left the room and shut the
door to give him privacy. He dressed, stepped
into his boots, put on his hat, and then opened
the door. He walked into a living room, Spartan
in decor—a couch, several chairs. The woman
started toward him.
“Thomas is not himself right now,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s at our daughter’s grave, Mr. Brand.”
Her voice cracked. “Jennie died last week. Stung
by a Scorpio-pede. She was only four years old.
There wasn’t time to send for a doctor. Out here
we’re too far away. All Thomas could do was pray.
Thomas prayed so hard for her to live. And when
life left her, he died too, inside. He’s not the same
man. Everyday since we laid her in the ground, he
just stands there by her grave for hours. He won’t
speak. He won’t eat. His soul is lost in despair,
Mr. Brand. We’re all waiting for him to come back
to us. I think if something doesn’t happen soon,
he’ll lose his mind.”
#
The bright light out on the street hurt Brand’s
eyes. A few of the people of New Eden walked
about. They all wore the same simple dress, he
noticed. The women in long dresses, the men
in coveralls and shirt. As he walked, Brand saw
several other small houses like the one he had
just left along the street and some shacks made of
wood or tin. There was a small general store, and
a blacksmith’s. Several lean-tos and tents were
scattered around between the houses. A tumble-
weed rolled past him and a dust devil swirled
in the middle of the street. It was a burnt-out
looking place that had once seen better days.
He could see the cemetery behind the church
on the Western side of the settlement. He circled
around the church and saw a man standing at the
far end of the graveyard—a silhouette standing
against the backdrop of the desert that ran clear
out to the blue distant mountains.
As he got closer, Brand saw a tall, thin man
with a dark brown beard. A black coat hung from
his slumped shoulders and he held a black hat in
his hands. His head was bowed and he stood in
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
front of a small stone marker that jutted out of a
mound of freshly dug earth.
“Reverend Freemont?” Brand said, taking off
his hat.
The reverend looked up at the distant
mountains, as if he hadn’t heard him.
“My name’s Brand—”
“Yes, Mr. Brand, I know,” the reverend said.
“I don’t like disturbing you,” Brand said. “Your
wife told me what happened. I’m sorry. But it’s
urgent.”
“I didn’t think you walked all the way across
the desert without some reason.”
“Reverend, there are three men on their
way here. Three killers who broke out of prison.
They’re armed and dangerous. It’s just luck they
haven’t gotten here already. They must have had
trouble in the sand storm yesterday. But they’ll
be here soon enough. They have to stop here for
supplies before going over those mountains. Are
there any weapons here in New Eden?”
“Weapons?” the reverend asked with surprise.
“There are no weapons here.”
“Then I’ll have to ask you to get your people off
the street,” Brand said. “Get them in their houses
and tell them to arm themselves with whatever
they can find. Axes, pitchforks, kitchen knives.”
“They wouldn’t know what to do with them,”
the reverend said. He turned and looked at Brand.
“They’ve been taught not to believe in violence
for any reason.”
“Then at least get them in their houses. If you
don’t, this place will turn into a slaughterhouse.”
The reverend didn’t say anything right away.
He turned away from Brand again and gazed at
the blue mountains once more. He pointed to
them.
“You see that tall peak with the snow on it,
Mr. Brand?” he asked. He spoke slowly, dispas-
sionately, as if nothing Brand had said had made
any impact on him. “My great-great-great-grand-
father Jonah Freemont named it Mt. Ararat when
he came here 150 years ago. He said the name
was fitting. On Earth Mt. Ararat was the final
landing place of Noah’s Ark. Just as Noah was
set down on a mountain when he fled the Great
Flood, so our ancestors landed here, fleeing the
flood of iniquity back on Earth. It was a good
place, he thought. In this barren land, the snow
on the mountain sent water down to grow crops.
This valley is hidden from the outside world by
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 21
the sand dunes on one side and the mountains
on the other. It was a place of hope.”
“Reverend, there’s no—”
“There was a time when there were a
thousand people in this congregation, Mr. Brand.
A thousand believers. Do you know how many
are here now? Thirty. New Eden is on its way
to becoming a ghost town. For a hundred fifty
years we kept to ourselves, closing our eyes to
what was happening in the outside world. We
believed in peace and love, that the meek shall
inherit the earth. We believed, while all around
us the planet was crumbling. The corporations
came and raped Tulon for its oil. They pushed the
original settlers into the wilderness where they
had to live like animals. The Tulon Nomads rose
up on their dune buggies, killing, stealing, and
worse. Tulon has become more evil than Earth
during the worst period of the Terror War.
“My people asked me to explain how this
could happen. They expected me to give them
answers. I told them that somehow it was all part
of a Divine Plan. But even I didn’t believe it. They
could sense that. I never really had the faith that
my father and his father before him and all the
others had. The people started to wander away.
I was losing them. Some went to live in the labor
camps and villages. Some have even gone back
Earth. Only a handful remain here now. A handful
still struggling to believe.”
He looked down at the small headstone
marking the freshly dug grave.
“It must have been punishment for my lack of
faith,” he said. “She was only four years old, Mr.
Brand. The joy of our life. As she lay delirious with
fever I prayed. I pleaded for her life. I promised I
would build New Eden back up and make it like
it was before. If only she lived. But she didn’t
survive.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. Reverend
Thomas Freemont looked at Brand, and his dark
brown eyes were as empty and bleak as the
landscape around him.
“He took her. Don’t you see? If I had been
stronger. Been more like my father and his father
before him, New Eden would have continued to
thrive and she would still be with us. Now there’s
nothing left. It’s all gone. All of it. And I’m respon-
sible. You say men are coming to destroy New
Eden? It’s already been destroyed. I destroyed it.
So let them come. The exterminating angels. Let
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
them burn New Eden to the ground. Perhaps out
of the ashes something better will come.”
“What about your people?”
“Tell them to leave before it’s too late.”
“You won’t even try to save this place?” Brand
asked in astonishment.
“I’m not New Eden’s savior, Mr. Brand. I’m its
destroyer.”
The reverend started to walk away but Brand
grabbed his arm.
“You blame yourself for what’s happened
here,” he said. “You say you feel responsible.
Guilty. Maybe that’s something we have in
common, Reverend. I bear a responsibility too. I
lost a sister seven years ago. She was kidnapped
by Nomads because of my negligence. But one of
the men coming here knows where she is. I mean
to take him. I’m full of guilt too. But there’s a dif-
ference between you and me. For seven years
I’ve never given up the hope that someday I’d
find my sister and punish the man who abducted
her. That hope is the only thing that keeps me
alive. I’ll never stop looking. But you’ve given up
hope. Why?”
“I’ve explained my reasons.”
“I’m not a religious man, Reverend,” Brand
said. “I don’t know the first thing about it. But
one thing I do know: without hope you can’t go
on living. I look at New Eden and I see a town that
was built on hope. It’s probably the last place of
its kind on this hell-hole of a planet. If it goes,
there won’t be anything like it left. Doesn’t that
make it something worth fighting for?”
“I can’t fight anymore,” the reverend said. “I
don’t have the heart.”
He looked at Brand and the law man could see
the utter desolation and wild despair in the man’s
eyes. The reverend moved away from the small
grave and stepped over the low fence surround-
ing the cemetery. Brand watched as he walked off
into the desert. He knew there wasn’t any point
in trying to stop him.
# “Listen up,” Thorson said. “First of all, you
They came at sundown. The Hover-Jeep slid
in quietly from the wilderness and stopped at the
beginning of the deserted street. The orange sun
was setting behind the church at the other end.
The long shadow of the cross on the top of the
roof fell down the length of the street. Thorson
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 22
stepped on it as he climbed out of the vehicle, a
red rage lighting the corners of his yellow-green
eyes.
“Where is everybody?” Jackson asked. He
came up next to Thorson, the AR-225 resting on
his shoulder.
“Where’s the women, Thorson?” Mingo
asked. “I don’t see no women.”
“Shut up,” Thorson said. “I’ve had most enough
of you. Hadn’t been for you driving us into that
ravine in that sandstorm, we’d have been here a
day ago. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you back there. If
it hadn’t been for Jackson, we never would have
gotten this jeep running again.”
Mingo shrugged but didn’t say anything.
Thorson looked up and down the street.
“Looks like the good people of New Eden want
to play hide and seek,” he said. “Jackson take that
rifle and go into some of these houses and drag
‘em out onto the street. Mingo, go with him and
set fire to a few of these shacks, so they’ll know
we mean business.”
Jackson ran to the door of the first house and
smashed it in with the rifle butt. Mingo ran in
behind him. There were screams and yelling and
soon a man and woman and three small children
came out of the house at gunpoint. Orange flames
licked the curtains hanging in the front window.
Jackson and Mingo went on to the next house.
Thorson walked up the street to the church,
as people came filing out their front doors. He
climbed up the church steps and stood on the
porch looking down at the chaos in the street. A
bell hung in a wooden frame by the front door.
He pulled the bell rope.
“Come on out, people,” Thorson said, clanging
the bell loudly. “Come on. We want to talk to
you.”
The people gathered in a small crowd at the
foot of the church steps. In the background smoke
billowed into the street from the buildings that
had been set ablaze. Jackson and Mingo jumped
up the steps and stood on either side of him.
see that man there holding that rifle? He’s not
a very nice man. He could kill any one of you
without batting an eyelash. If I said the word,
he’d pull the trigger in a heartbeat. Now I know
this is supposed to be a place where people don’t
believe in carrying guns. But if anyone has one, I
want you to tell me and bring it to me right now.
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
“ “You gonna rise again, Reverend?” Thorson
“We have no guns,” a voice in the back of the
crowd said. The crowd opened and a tall thin man
in a black coat and hat came forward.
“Who are you?” Thorson asked.
“I’m the Reverend Thomas Freemont, pastor
of New Eden. It’s against our beliefs to bear
firearms.”
Sarah Freemont came up next to him and
stood by his side. Her eyes searched his face for a
sign of what he intended to do. He looked at her
and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Well, pastor, that’s good,” Thorson laughed.
“Too bad more people don’t think like you do.”
“We offer you no harm,” Reverend Freemont
said. “You’re welcome to whatever we have. We’ll
give you food, drink, shelter for the night. We offer
these things in the spirit of brotherhood. We only
ask that you lay down your guns and share the
Creator’s bounty with us in peace.”
Thorson’s lips twisted in a crooked smile.
“Well, Reverend,” he said. “That’s a mighty
fine idea, but there’s them’s that would just love
us to put our guns down so they could come and
take us back to jail. I don’t think we can do that.”
“Do you think your guns will save you?”
“Let’s say when push comes to shove, I’d
rather have a gun than not.”
“When the hour of judgment is upon you,
what then? What use will your gun be?”
“Reverend, you can stop with the sermons,”
Thorson said.
He came down the church steps, one step at
a time, stopped several feet away from him, and
unholstered the Beretta.
“Seems like you don’t have much respect for
guns,” he said.
“Nor for the men that hold them.”
Thorson’s face tightened. He pointed the
muzzle of the Electro-Pistol at the reverend.
“That right?” he asked. “Maybe I need to teach
you to have some respect. How’d that be?”
“It is written,” the reverend said. ‘For a
righteous man falls seven times and rises
again.’”
Thorson’s lips stretched in a wide grin as he
stared at the clergyman with amusement. He
squeezed the trigger and blue light quivered
through the air. The reverend fell to the ground,
a black hole smoking in his left shoulder.
“Thomas!” Sarah Freemont cried.
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 23
said. “Or maybe now you’re wishin’ you had a
gun of your own?”
The reverend got up again slowly.
“‘As saith the proverb from the ancients,” he
said, “wickedness proceedeth from the wicked:
but mine hand shall not be upon thee.’”
“That tears it,” Thorson said. He aimed the
pistol at the reverend’s head.
The church door burst open behind him with
a bang. Thorson spun around.
“Brand!”
#
Brand came through the church doorway,
and strode up behind Jackson. Jackson turned,
carbine in his grip. Brand grabbed the barrel and
stock of the carbine, put a foot up in the middle of
Jackson’s stomach, and kicked him off the church
steps.
Down in the street, Thorson raised the pistol
and squeezed off a round. The blue ray missed
Brand’s head by an inch. Brand fired the AR-225
from the hip. A shaft of purple light struck Thorson
in the chest and he fell to his knees. Brand heard
Mingo running at him. He turned and swung
the carbine, smashing the stock into the side of
Mingo’s head. The sandy-haired man fell on the
porch and lay still.
Brand looked down at Thorson. The man was
on his knees, looking up at him in disbelief. The
pistol fell from his fingers and he toppled over
into the dust.
Jackson started to get up.
“Don’t even think about it,” Brand said. He
went down the steps. He had some lengths of
rope in his back pocket.
“Boy, take this,” he said to a young man in the
crowd, and handed the assault rifle to him.
The boy looked over at Reverend Thomas.
“It’s all right,” he said.
The boy took the carbine and held it on
Jackson while Brand tied his hands.
When he was finished, he went over to
Thorson. The dying man lay on his back, his dark
eyes shining in the light of the triple moons of
Tulon.
“Brand, how the hell?” he asked.
“You should make sure a man’s dead when
you kill him,” Brand said.
". . . In The Waste Howling Wilderness . . .," by John M. Whalen
“Next time I will.”
“You don’t have much time left,” Brand said.
“There’s something I’ve got to know. What you
told me about my sister and Jesse Wilkerson.
Where was it that you saw them?”
A sudden grin twisted on the Thorson’s face,
and he chuckled.
“Where was it?” Brand asked through gritted
teeth. “Where’s Wilkerson now? Where’s my
sister?”
“Guess you would like to know, wouldn’t
you?” Thorson said. His cruel smile in his eyes
faded and he fell back on the street.
# “All in good time, Reverend. All in good
Mingo crouched in the rear hatch, and Jackson
sat in the passenger seat of the Hover-Jeep, their
hands bound behind them. Brand put a ten gallon
container of water in the back next to Mingo.
“Sure you got enough fuel, Mr. Brand?”
Reverend Thomas asked. He had one arm in a
sling. His wife stood next to him.
“Should be enough to get to the next relay
station. I can fuel up there.”
“I wish you God-speed,” the reverend said .
“And thank you, Mr. Brand. For everything you
did.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Brand
said. “Mind telling me what made you come
back and face up to Thorson that way? Without
a gun?”
The reverend looked out across the desert at
Mt. Ararat.
“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I walked out
there yesterday, thinking about what you said.
That a man can’t live without hope. It’s true.
Yesterday, I didn’t want to live. I walked so far, I
couldn’t see New Eden anymore, and I remem-
bered what you said about it being the last
place of its kind on Tulon. I looked around and
all I could see was the dry, lifeless wilderness. I
don’t know... I felt small. Alone. The sun and the
desert seemed so big. I remembered Jennie and
how I thought she died as punishment for my
failure. And suddenly I realized how arrogant
that notion was. Who was I—this little speck on
the landscape—to be singled out for special pun-
ishment? And what kind of Creator would be so
cruel? And I realized, He wasn’t punishing me. I
was punishing myself.”
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 24
His smoke-colored eyes moved away from the
mountain and looked at Brand.
“We all punish ourselves needlessly for things
we have no control over,” he said. “All of us.”
Brand nodded.
“Maybe so, Reverend,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry that man died without telling you
where your sister is.”
“I’ve got some ideas. I know some of the
places Thorson used to hang out. Maybe I’ll get
lucky. Goodbye, Reverend. I’ve got a feeling New
Eden will be all right now.”
They shook hands.
“I hope you find her,” the reverend said.
time.”
Rev. Thomas Freemont and his wife watched
as the Hover-Jeep’s engine whirred to life and
the vehicle lifted off the ground. They saw it glide
across the sand and head north.
“‘He found him in a desert land,’” the reverend
said half to himself, half to his wife, “‘and in the
waste howling wilderness; he led him about, he
instructed him, he kept him as the apple of his
eye.’”
They watched the jeep until they could see it
no more.
John M. Whalen
John M. Whalen’s stories have appeared in the
Flashing Swords E-zine, pulpanddagger.com,
and Universe Pathways magazine. Contact
the author here.
Featured Artist: Euka Pg. 25

Featured Artist:
Tom Roberts
Name: Tom Roberts

Age: 23

Hobbies: art; music; films

Favorite Book / Author: Hitchhiker’s Guide to

the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams

What media do you work in? Mostly digital

Where your work has been featured?

Only on deviantART

Where should someone go if they wanted to

view / buy some of your works? deviantART

Where do you get your inspiration / what

inspires you? I’m inspired by other people’s
achievements
Have you have any notable failures, and how has that affected your work? Lots of attempts have turned out
less than desireable, but this is just part of the learning curve

What are your favorite tools / equipment for producing your art? PhotoShop and Terragen

What tool / equipment do you wish you had? A Wacom tablet

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King
Deuces Wild: “Steel Trap” 
by L. S. King
T ristan tapped off the comm and left the
bridge, satisfied to find buyers for both
their official and unofficial cargoes. He’d had to
leave Perseus Station in a hurry, but their next
stop had been uneventful and, now that he had
buyers lined up, successful. In Confederation
space, smuggled goods brought great prices due
to the embargoes against all but government-
sanctioned suppliers. This stop at Tania should be
lucrative.
He frowned at a muffled pounding and walked
toward its source—Slap’s quarters. After receiving
no answer to his chime, Tristan overrode the
lock.
The door slid open to reveal his tall companion,
tears streaming down his face, pounding the
bulkhead over and over with one fist, then the
other. Sweat tightened his dark, curly hair into
tiny ringlets. Red splattered and smeared on the
metal wall.
Tristan watched, leaning against the doorframe,
arms folded.
Slap’s blows slowed, and finally he stopped,
his shoulders slumped, his breathing heavy rasps.
Without turning, he muttered, “What’re you
looking at?”
“You tell me.”
Slap squeezed his eyes shut. Through clenched
teeth he hissed, “I see them die every day. Every
night. My beautiful Shallah.” He inhaled raggedly.
“My baby, my son, Evan. And Ol’ Pa. Dead. All
dead. Burned. Murdered.”
Tristan lifted his head slightly, frowning. “You
had said the Mordas killed your family. I thought
you meant your parents, siblings.”
A sob shook Slap and he gulped, stiffening
his shoulders. An admirable effort at control. The
cowboy shook his head. “Naw. My folks died
when I was younger. It was only Ol’ Pa, Shallah,
the baby, and me on the ranch when the Mordas
came.” His lip curled. “They even killed Ol’ Pa.
The Zendians weren’t happy over that. They said
their god would send an avenging angel to stop
the evil. That’s why they sent me to the city. I was
supposed to hook up with the angel.” Slap’s eyes
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 26
cut to Tristan, the blue almost glowing from the
water in them. “Instead I found you.” He stopped
and broke into a low chuckle. “I don’t think you
qualify as an angel, but you did stop the evil.
Blew ‘em all to dust. The dirt-sucking lizards.” He
continued to laugh, a low, malevolent sound.
“Go back.” Tristan rubbed his forehead, trying
to make sense of Slap’s ramblings. “Why were
the Zendians upset over Ol’ Pa’s death? Who was
he to you?”
“He was a Zendian. I’d helped him when I was
small. I found him hurt. It’s not often the Zendians
have anything to do with humans, but after that Ol’
Pa became my friend. He said we were brothers,
best translation from their language anyway.
After my Ma died, he came and stayed with me.
Trying to help me run the ranch—which was
funny sometimes cuz he wouldn’t have anything
to do with any electronic machinery, no Zendian
will—and just...being there so I wasn’t alone.”
Tristan stared at the cowboy. Finally he pushed
up from the doorjamb. “Wrap up your hands and
come down to the cargo bay.”
#
Wiping his sweaty face on a towel, Tristan
watched Slap chin himself on the pipe. Why was
he doing this for Slap? Not because he cared,
certainly. But listening to a man smash his fists
into the bulkheads would get on his nerves. Better
this way.
The cowboy had been working out steadily
for over an hour. His arms trembled as he pulled
himself up again. He held himself face level to the
metal bar, teeth bared with effort, and dropped
to the deck. Tristan tossed him a towel.
Slap took it without a word. After drying and
pulling his shirt back on, he nodded upward.
“Where’d you get that pipe, and those rings
hanging there?”
Tristan shrugged. “If I keep this thing for long,
I’ll get mats and more equipment. Plenty of room.
I can even get weights or a punching bag if you’d
like.”
Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King Pg. 27

“Yeah.” Slap looked around. “I’ve been bored Tristan eyed the cowboy as he followed him
to tears the last few days. Not much to do aboard back to the ship. What had he done to deserve
ol’ Bertha.” having his pleasant solitude disrupted—much
“Her name is Giselle.” less by someone with such wounds?
“And the next time we get in a scrape, you’ll
change it again. I’ll just call her Bertha.” #
Tristan didn’t deign to respond but changed The steely-eyed Confed Sec operative would
the subject. “If you want something to do, I can expect Tristan to make contact at first opportuni-
show you various jobs around the ship.” ty. So Tristan stayed aboard ship. He owed those
“Maybe later. Right now, I’m hungry.” people no loyalty or consideration. He wasn’t a
Things were back to normal. For now. citizen of the Confederation, and didn’t care what
# their secret security’s schemes were.
He played checkers with Slap, and was
“So you gonna dump me now that we’re on a surprised—the kid had a sharp mind.
planet again?” Kid. Was he? At times he seemed so young,
Tristan blinked in the sunlight as he walked despite his size. But he had been married, owned
down the ramp. “No. It would be in your best a ranch. A man then. Young, but—a man.
interest to stay with me for the time being.” “How old are you?” Tristan barely kept his face
“Oh, would it? How nice of you.” from registering shock at asking the question.
Tristan took a deep breath. Emperor Vasso What had made him inquire? He prided himself
knew by now Slap had been the one to rescue his on his lack of interest in any person. People were
sister. As a reward, that madman would likely kill annoyances to be tolerated or ignored, or marks
the cowboy in capricious amusement. “I mean it. to exploit. Nothing more.
Stick close to me. And watch your back.” Slap didn’t glance up as he studied the board.
Slap snorted but followed as Tristan left the “Nineteen.”
spaceport and headed into the city. A kid. A man. A tall ox with a heart that had
Selling their freight and arranging for a new seen more grief than he should have had to
legitimate cargo took very little time. Tristan endure. Fate, or perhaps some Zendian god of
hoped he could make other, more profitable irony, had saddled Tristan with this burden. But
dealings on the side, but that would have to wait he owed Slap; the cowboy had stepped in, risked
for a time when Slap wasn’t tagging along. his life for Tristan. Tristan knew betrayal, and
They walked through a market, Slap purchas- expected nothing less from others, but could not
ing fresh vegetables and fruit. Tristan trailed as make himself betray such a sacrifice. He couldn’t
the cowboy exclaimed over various types of leave Slap until he knew the ki—man would be
produce and grumbled at the high prices. This safe.
is a Confederation planet, boy, get used to being Slap jumped Tristan’s king and looked up with
robbed. a grin.
A movement between stalls caught Tristan’s Rubbing his chin with a mixture of quiet aston-
attention. A pair of steel grey eyes glinted and ishment and chagrin, Tristan met his opponent’s
disappeared from the top of potato crates. Oh, gaze with narrowed eyes. “Ever hear of a game
no. Not again! called ‘chess’?”
Tristan watched Slap shopping as if he hadn’t Slap shook his head.
seen that execrable watcher. He would have Tristan smiled.
to meet with him later, if only to find out what
Confed Sec wanted now. #
“Hey, broccoli!” Slap picked up a large bundle The ops man browsed booth to booth, glancing
of green florets. “D’you like this stuff, Tristan?” over silks, jewelry, baked goods, but his gaze
“Do you know how to cook all these fresh darted about the crowd. Tristan’s lips twitched
vegetables you’re buying, or are we to eat them up and he sidled between stalls until he came
raw?” around behind his target, who was pretending to
“I ain’t no Shallah, but I can cook.” Slap frowned, examine local ceramic artwork.
and dropped the broccoli. His shoulders hunched. “I’m not interested in another job,” Tristan
“Let’s get back to Bertha.” murmured, picking up a decorative pot from the

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King
table.
The man didn’t jump. “We just want informa-
tion.”
“I’m not inclined to give any.”
“We understand you were recently on Zenos at
just the time their local underworld was thrown
into turmoil by the death of their kingpin, Lyssel.
You wouldn’t happen to know anything about
that, would you?”
“No.” Tristan turned the pot over in his hands,
tracing the intricate designs. The Three Systems
weren’t neighbors of the Confederation. Why
the interest? It couldn’t be due to trade routes,
or plans of Confederation so-called ‘expansion’
known anywhere else as conquest; the Xanthus
Commonwealth lay in between the two. Had
Lyssel been dealing across Confed borders,
perhaps? Or was Tristan the connection?
“Even though it appears your ship was blown
up at his orders?”
“Was it?”
“And who is this bumpkin with you?”
This required more privacy. Tristan put the pot
down with a nod to the vendor, and strode off.
He wound through streets until he found a small
alley. There he waited, leaning against the wall.
Steel Eyes soon came around the corner and
jerked to a halt. “We need your help.”
“Sorry. I’m not available. And not for sale.”
“You were the last time.”
“We merely had a common goal. Getting
paid to do what I would have done anyway was
ironically pleasant. Is that prostitution or expedi-
ence?”
Steel Eyes’ lips thinned for a moment. “You
were on Perseus Station about a week ago. Did
you have a meeting with Emperor Vasso Istvan?”
Panic gripped Tristan’s heart, squeezing it in
a vice. What the—? Perseus Station wasn’t in
the Confederation either; it was within Xanthus.
What were these serpentine idiots up to?
In an even tone, he said, “I didn’t know the
Emperor ever left Eridani. That would seem to be
a nightmare for his security.”
Jaw muscles twitched as Steel Eyes glared at
him. “Let’s go back to the hayseed traveling with
you. Who is he?”
“He is none of your business. Neither am I.”
“My superiors need your cooperation. We are
ready to deal.”
“Not interested.” Tristan pushed up from the
wall.
“Don’t you even want to know our offer?”
In lieu of an answer, Tristan walked away.
“We’re willing to do an identity search,” the
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 28
man hissed.
Tristan turned. “I know who I am. Who I was
born is of no consequence to me.” He spun and
left before any more conversation could be thrust
upon him.
His mind raced as he returned to the ship.
Blast Confed Sec! Had he merely stumbled across
two concerns of theirs with both the Mordas
and Vasso, or were they studying him? They
knew something if they had found out about his
searches for his heritage in his younger days.
And why the curiosity in Slap? If Confed Sec
knew about Tristan’s enforced visit to the Eridani
emperor, how much did Vasso Istvan know about
both him and Slap? His neck tingled in expecta-
tion of danger. He wished he hadn’t promised to
take the cowboy on a local tour before they left
Tania.
#
“Y’know.” The cowboy’s eyes were wide as he
took in the low, rambling buildings with brightly
colored canopies and tree-lined streets beyond
the spaceport marketplace. “I haven’t seen one
alien since we left the space port.”
Tristan gave a small, brittle smile as he glanced
up at Slap. “This is a Confederation planet. You
won’t. They don’t like aliens here, and don’t allow
them on-world except at the ports.”
Slap had seemed to understand his basic
warning before, but now, in the sunshine, amid
shoppers, families walking together, he gawked,
seemingly unaware. “But laying aside that detail,
most port cities are the same.”
“This place doesn’t look nothing like Zenos’
port. At least, not Zanti City, where we met.”
“I’m not talking about climates or architecture,
or the races of beings one might encounter. Port
cities attract certain types of unsavory characters
and illegal dealings.”
“Like smuggling, you mean?”
Tristan nodded as they side-stepped two
women hurrying toward a shopkeeper’s door.
“For one. The trappings might vary, but the foun-
dations are always the same. I keep telling you to
be on guard.”
Slap nodded, but didn’t seem to take it to
heart. He sniffed with obvious appreciation, his
body half turned as they passed a bakery.
Tristan stifled a sigh. “You really need—”
Tingling paralysis halted his words and steps.
Buzzing filled his head. A stunner! The ground
rose up to meet his face before all went black.
#
Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King
Muscles trembled and ached. His head
thudded. Nausea passed through him in waves,
making him swallow convulsively. Brago’s bands,
what happened? Slap opened his eyes and blinked
twice before realizing the room wasn’t sideways;
he was. The side of his face pressed against a
cold floor. His hands were tied behind him, the
bindings cutting into his wrists.
Tristan lay across from him, eyes shut, a
slightly glowing net wrapped around his torso.
Where were they? From the metallic, slightly oily
smell, he’d guess a ship. And from the narrow-
ness he could see, they’d probably been dumped
in a hallway.
Boots appeared near his face.
“That’s the one he wants all right. Keep that
energy-mesh on him—he’s a slippery one.”
“We got him easily enough,” a second voice
said with sneering disagreement.
“Don’t underestimate him. I won’t rest easy
till he’s off our hands and we’ve got the reward.”
“What about this other one?” A boot prodded
Slap’s forehead. “There’s no reward on him. Shall
I kill him?”
“When we could make a side profit? Look at
his size! Sell him to a press gang. There has to
be freebooters in port. Now help me get this one
locked up. Then you can get rid of the big one.”
Several men lifted Tristan. Footsteps faded
away.
Slap struggled against his bonds and a hand
grabbed him by his hair.
“He’s awake.” Laughter. A foot nudged against
his ankles. “You’re going on a trip, boy. A real
luxury cruise.”
Fury rose in Slap. He swung his legs and
contacted flesh. A yell and thump. He lifted his
head to see his victim scrambling against the
bulkhead, holding a hand to his bloody nose.
Hands grabbed Slap’s shoulders from above
his head. He sat up and twisted. A body flew
over him and flipped, landing on his back. Slap
shoulder-dropped onto the man’s chest.
The other man leaned against the bulkhead,
one hand still on his nose. Blood dripped through
his fingers. He dropped his hand to his holster.
Slap scrambled to his feet and dove at his
captor. They crashed to the deck—the man
softening his own landing, but Slap still struggled
to get his breath. His cushion wasn’t so lucky; he
was out cold.
“Good for you, lizard,” he muttered. He rolled
off the body and managed to get to his feet again.
His first victim lay unmoving, gasping shallowly.
He bet he broke the man’s ribs and sternum, and
Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006
Pg. 29
despite everything, he winced in sympathy. He’d
been kicked by a horse once and suffered broken
ribs. It’d been agony. He’d been unable to move or
breathe without it feeling like knives were driven
into his chest.
He strained his arms, but couldn’t loosen the
bonds. He eyed the corridor. Not far down to his
left a hatch promised a way out. They’d likely
been brought aboard and dumped unceremoni-
ously until the captain, or whoever, had checked
them over. So—that was the way out. But he
needed cover, and a knife. His knife! He could feel
the sheath on his back, but he’d bet it was empty.
No way to tell with his hands tied—Brago’s Bands,
how was he going to get untied?
He looked down at the gasping man with
what he hoped was a convincing snarl. “You gotta
choice. You untie me or I stomp you.”
The man’s mouth worked like a fish out of
water, and he lifted a hand. Hoping he wasn’t
going to be stabbed in the back, Slap knelt next
to the man. Fingers fumbled at his bonds and as
he felt the cords slacken, he strained and pulled
his arms free.
Blood welled from gashes the cords had
made in his wrists. He rubbed the circulation into
his hands as he stood. “Thanks,” he said to the
downed man. “Maybe when we’re through with
you, we won’t sell you to the freebooters.”
Empty bluster, but perhaps because of Tristan’s
reputation he was at least half-believed; the man
on the deck turned pale. Slap remembered his
sheath and felt for his blade. As he thought, gone.
“Who’s got my knife?” he asked himself aloud.
“Braddon,” whispered the man on the deck.
Slap grinned and bent over, taking the man’s
stunner. “Amazing how a little pain can make you
rethink your position, huh?” He stepped to the
unconscious one and relieved him of his stunner
as well, tucking it in his waistband. “These’ll do
instead of my knife for now.” He looked down
the corridor, then back down at his ersatz helper.
“How many men are on your ship?”
“Twenty one.”
“You two down, that’s nineteen to one.” If
the man were telling the truth. Slap would soon
find out. “I wonder what Tristan would say to
these odds?” Without a further glance down, he
muttered to the man, “Wish me luck.”
This ship was larger than ol’ Bertha, and who
knew what doors led where. Hefting the stunner
and starting down the hall, Slap wondered where
Tristan was locked up. Two men came out of a door
ahead of him and Slap shot them. One fell imme-
diately, the other staggered against a bulkhead,
Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King Pg. 30

his hand fumbling at the gauss gun holster on his I’ll use them if I have to. Let me go, I’ve got no
back. Slap fired again and snorted at the heavy part in this.”
thud. “Sack o’ potatoes. Seventeen.” “You’d just walk out when we killed your
The first man wore a stunner. Slap tucked it in friend?”
his belt. Slap swallowed taking the gauss gun—a Slap eyed Tristan prying the stunner’s case
nasty weapon. He gazed about. Where might open as he answered, “He wasn’t no friend, just
they have Tristan? He opened the door the two someone I hitched a ride with. ‘Smatter of fact,
had exited. Tristan! Blind luck! with him dead, I can take his ship. I figure you’ve
His dark companion leaned upright against the done me a favor.”
bulkhead, awake, dark eyes glaring. The energy- Silence for a moment. Tristan was still diddling
mesh hissed, almost a sizzling sound. It must be with the stunner, his slender fingers working
set to max. quickly, face intent.
“What are you doing here?” Tristan asked. Then, from the hall, “And if we don’t want to
“Looking for you, what else? How do I get this let you go?”
thing off you?” “Well, I figure being dead now is only hurryin’
“The controls are on a belt.” what I’d get in a press gang. And I reckon with
“Gotcha. I’ll check the two guys who just left this gauss gun, I’d take a few of you with me,
here.” Slap peeked around the doorway and anyway. So what’s say? You get your reward, I just
dragged one, then the other, into the room. He inherited a ship. Call it square.”
found a small box with several switches on it and Tristan looked up, his voice low, urgent. “When
yanked it off the belt. He thumbed a switch and I say ‘now,’ you rush with me, cover our backs
the hissing stopped. —stun anything moving.”
Tristan tossed the thing off with a look of “Thing is,” the voice called, “how do we trust
disdain and rose. “What are you doing here?” he each other?”
repeated. He took the gauss gun from Slap. Tristan gestured as if tossing the stunner out
Slap scowled. “If it slipped your mind, we were the door, and winked.
both stunned and brought here.” Slap grinned. “For starters, how about if I
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “I meant, why did throw my stunners out to you?”
you come looking for me. No time now. Let’s go.” “Sounds fine.”
He started through the door and jumped back—a From an angle, Tristan lobbed the stunner to
blinding flare hit the left side of the doorframe. the right, the direction the particle beam had
The entire edge of the jamb twisted in glowing come from. Shouts of alarm—a burst of light.
ruins—the door within the scorched bulkhead “Now!” Tristan hissed.
ruined. Tristan muttered a sharp word in his Slap almost tripped charging out the door,
native tongue. one hand on Tristan’s back, spraying stunner fire
“PBG?” Slap hissed, fear rising through his behind them. Bodies fell, and he turned to see
gut. where they were going just as Tristan skidded
Tristan eyed the damage and shoved backwards and pushed against him. “Back! Back!”
into Slap. “Or rifle. Get back.” Slap needed no urging—he could hear
“You’re trapped in there,” a voice called. “It footsteps running their way from beyond the
doesn’t matter to us if you give up or not. We get curve in the corridor. He trampled over bodies
our reward dead or alive.” and felt a pull on his arm.
Slap’s gaze darted around the room—no other “Up!”
doors. He grabbed Tristan’s arm. “What do we do He saw the stairs and leaped up the steps, his
now?” breath ragged with panic. Behind, below, he heard
Tristan jerked free, lips thinned into a line. a scream. He jumped up to the deck, belatedly
His gaze went to Slap’s waist and he snatched checking for people. Tristan surged up to join
one of the stunners from him. “Play them,” he him, eyes darting about. He waved a command
whispered. “Stall. Tell them the PB got me and to follow with the gauss gun and sprinted to their
you’ll give yourself up, but only if they let you go right. Slap stayed on his heels.
free.” Tristan pulled up by a door. “Get ready to
Slap licked his lips, a feeling of certainty, of stun.”
trust in Tristan welling up in him. “You got your Before Slap could nod, the door slid open,
reward then,” he shouted. “The particle beam and he peppered the room—the bridge from the
got him. But I have stunners and a gauss gun, and look of it—with stun bursts. Two men slumped in

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Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King Pg. 31

chairs. Slap pushed up from the bulkhead.

“Overkill, but effective,” Tristan said, as he A deafening flash—shock knocked him back
locked the door, glancing around. against a console, his neck and spine recoiling like
“What do we do now?” a whip. He blinked, unable to see, his body tingling
Tristan went to a small cabinet embedded in with electricity, his back screaming with pain, his
the bulkhead and pulled out several tools. With ears ringing. What? What? An explosion? He
one hand, Tristan hauled a body out of a chair tried to straighten and fell to the floor. Smoke and
and let it flop to the deck. Falling into the seat, he burnt-metal tang invaded his nostrils, choking him.
began working on the console’s cover. Crawl. Move. His hand bumped into something
Slap leaned back against the bulkhead on the and he grabbed, felt. An arm. He squeezed his
other side of the room. The better to keep an eye eyes shut and opened them. Things seemed furry
on Tristan, the unconscious men, and the door. and like negative images but he saw Tristan, face
“What are you doing?” pale, eyes closed, bloody. No!
“Taking advantage of opportunity and Hands jerked him to his feet. With a roar, Slap
buggering their ship.” swung fists, connecting with flesh. Three men,
“Do we have time for this?” two down. The third he grabbed by the throat and
“You have any place to go?” crushed until he felt soft tissue and cartilage give
“Yeah. Away from here.” Slap put his hand before throwing him against the far bulkhead.
up to push back his hat and realized it was gone. The ship fell silent except for Slap’s gasping
Great. He ruffled his curly hair instead. “Prefer- breaths. He looked down at Tristan and knelt by
ably alive.” him. Blood poured from a wound in his chest.
“This won’t take long. You have a few moments Fingers felt for a pulse at his throat. Weak, but
to catch your breath before we make a run for it.” there. Brago’s Bands, Tristan, don’t die on me! He
Slap jerked a thumb at the door. “Just don’t pressed his hands against the wound, trying to
forget there’s eighteen guys standing between us staunch the flow of blood.
and a way out.” Footsteps thudded in the corridor. Slap
“Most are piled up on the deck. Just wait.” fumbled on the floor with one hand for a weapon,
Wait. Right. Like Slap had a choice. He twirled any weapon. He snatched up a stunner but before
the stunner then stiffened. “Hey, one of them has he could aim it, the first of two men skidded to
my knife!” a halt and called, “Don’t shoot! We’re here to
“If you want to go out there and ask kindly for help.”
its return,” Tristan said, head bent to his work, Slap didn’t lower the stunner. He looked over
“be my guest.” the two intruders. They weren’t dressed like the
“But—” mercenaries. No space vests, and their dark blue
“They took my whole bloody vest.” His voice clothes had straight lines, the jacket a high collar.
sounded bitter. Slap could understand why. They had a military air about them. “Prove it.”
Tristan’s vest had lots of little secrets and unusual The man nodded toward Tristan. “He’s hurt.
devices hidden in it. “We can replace whatever We’ll take him to a hospital.”
we’ve lost, but not our lives.” Slap looked down at the bloody, still figure
Slap leaned against the bulkhead. Tristan was and licked his lips; his worry for Tristan battling
right. But still, it burned. That had been a good with his fear to trust. He looked up and nodded.
knife. “Help him. Don’t let him die.”
“So what are you doing, anyway?”
“Let’s just say I’m increasing the odds that they #
won’t get this ship off planet any time soon.” His Sharp pain. He gasped and the pain spiked into
lips spread in a grim smile. “Just in case we don’t searing hotness. He experimented with shallow
escape, they can’t either.” breaths...relief. A hazy, dark cloud seemed to
Tristan set the cover in place, and swiveled to envelop his mind. Various astringent odors
access the communications console. He studied permeated cool, dry air. A monitor softly beeped
something for a bit and seemed to be nosing in body responses, heart rate, breathing...he was in
files. a hospital or medical facility. His throat felt raw.
Finally he stood. He returned the tools to the He opened his eyes. White ceiling tiles. Motion
kit in the wall and turned. “Get ready!” Lifting the drew his attention to the right. The tall form had
gauss gun, he walked toward the door.

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King Pg. 32

been lounging in a chair, but now sat up. Curly first set in front of him. The café boasted foods
hair disheveled, eyes sunken. from many planets, each dish with a strange name,
Slap stood with a worried look and approached and expensive to boot. Tristan’s choice from the
whispering, “How ya feeling?” menu had been a mystery to Slap. He didn’t know
Tristan tried to speak but his dry mouth and what hobbits were; Tristan said the name was a
throat fought him. He swallowed, licked his lips, reference to some classic literature from ancient
and swallowed again. “What happened?” His Earth. Whatever the source, the dish had lots of
voice came out a hoarse croak. mushrooms.
“A piece of metal tore into your chest. You Tristan sipped his tea, his gaze, as usual, darting
almost died. But these Confederate guys”—Slap around, always alert.
waved a hand across the room—“showed up and The meal had been quiet, but now, with Tristan
brought you here.” seeming a little more relaxed, perhaps Slap could
Tristan turned his head to the left. Steel Eyes ask a few questions. He finished chewing and
and another man, stockier and older. Great. swallowed. “So who hired those mercenaries?”
“We saved your life,” Steel Eyes said. “You owe “I’m not sure and I loathe leaving without
us.” knowing, but those men are all in Confed’s custody.
“I didn’t ask for your help.” They have refused to talk, which has our erstwhile
“He did.” Steel Eyes nodded at Slap. benefactors pulling their hair out.” Tristan’s teeth
“He doesn’t speak for me, and he can’t make flashed in a grin. He took another drink of his tea.
deals for me.” “It can’t be Istvan. He’d want me alive, and be
“He asked us to save your life. We figured it after you too. These fellows weren’t interested
would be worth something to you.” in you. And Dray wants me dead. I don’t think the
“You figured wrong.” Mordas have gotten their feet under them yet to
“Now look—” come after us, and again, they’d want us both.”
“Enough,” a new voice said from beyond the Slap tapped the table lightly with his knuckles.
foot of the bed. “He’s still far from recovered.” “Istvan? Why would the Emperor be after you or
“We need answers,” Steel Eyes’ partner said. me? You returned his sister to him.”
“My patient needs rest. Now get out of here.” “A quirk of his.”
The two men hesitated, then left. A stern man Slap gritted his teeth. “Could you chew it fine,
of slight build walked up and peered at Tristan. please?”
“A little worse for wear after your adventure, but With a shrug, Tristan put down his teacup.
you should be up and around in a day or two.” He “More often than not, his rewards are painful.
gazed up at Slap. “Now that you know he’ll be And fatal.”
fine, why not go get some rest yourself? At the Slap grimaced as he pulled out Tristan’s
rate you’re going, you’ll end up a patient too.” meaning. “That’s crazy!”
Slap frowned, shaking his head. “So is he. The best thing that could happen to
“Don’t argue or I will throw you out. Now, go!” Eridani would be for the royal palace to be blown
Grumbling, Slap complied, with one last up with him and all his family inside.”
troubled look before heading out the door. Slap thought of the girl, the princess, blown
Tristan let himself fall back down into forgetful to bits, and pushed aside the image. “Who is this
sleep. Dray you mentioned?”
“Someone to avoid.”
# He banged his fist on the table. “Why can’t
you give me straight answers?”
Slap took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh Tristan looked off, as if seeing something far
breeze of the open-air café. Now that Tristan away. “He’s someone I used to...know. He taught
was released, they’d be heading back into space me a few skills and felt that obligated me to him.
too soon, he was sure. Ol’ Bertha seemed to get He wasn’t appreciative when I left and has been
smaller and smaller each day he was confined to looking for me.”
her. Well, at least it made him appreciate being “You know...” Slap whirled his glass in the water
on a planet.
He swirled the last bit of meat in the spicy saying“You
ring. have the most...understated way of
things. Of saying nothing.” He sighed. “So
green sauce and shoved it in his mouth. Good how many people want you dead—or alive?”
stuff. He hadn’t thought so when the plate was “Unknown.” Tristan’s dark eyes bored into his.

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Serial: Deuces Wild, "Steel Trap," by L. S. King Pg. 33

“Unfortunately, some of them are now aware of L. S. King

you. I thought keeping you with me for a while
would guarantee your safety from the Mordas. It A science fiction fan since childhood — read-
was a mistake.”
Slap dropped his gaze to the table. Here it ing Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, Dick, Bradley, Pohl,
comes. He’s dumping me. Vonnegut, Anthony and many others – L.S. King
“Now answer me a question.” has been writing stories since her youth. Now,
“Yeah?” Slap mumbled, wishing he could
pretend he didn’t mind being chucked like an old with all but one of her children grown, she is
pair of boots. writing full-time. For the last four years, she
“Why did you come back for me?” has worked on developing a sword-and-planet
Slap squinted over at Tristan. “Huh?”
“You broke free. Why didn’t you just leave series tentatively called The Ancients. The first
while you could?” book is finished, and she has completed a rough
“Without you? Are you crazy?” draft of several more novels as well.
“I wonder sometimes. But why? And why did
you ask the Confeds to save my life?” Tristan’s
eyes probed his for answers. She serves on the editorial staff of The Sword
Did he honestly not get it? Slap turned his Review, is also their Columns Editor, and
hands palm up. “You’re my friend.”
Tristan’s expression froze for a moment. He writes a column for that magazine entitled
took another sip of his tea, looking very thought- “Writer’s Cramps” as well. She is also one
ful. After a silence he said, “I’ve paid the medical of the Overlords, a founding editor, here at 
bills—we owe the Confeds nothing. I’d like to get
off this planet before they get more insistent that Ray Gun Revival.
I help them.”
Slap grinned. “So where’re we going next?” She began martial arts training over thirty
“Out of Confederation space,” said Tristan, his
voice flat. “I was thinking of going to the Cygnus years ago, and owned a karate school for a
Hegemony or perhaps to the Aquila Freehold. decade. A mother and grandmother who lives
You might get a landstake on one of the Aquila in Delaware with her husband, Steve, and their
worlds.” He lifted his cup in a throwaway gesture.
“That’s what they call a homestead.” youngest child, she also enjoys gardening, soap
With a wrinkle of his nose, Slap said, “I knew making, and reading. She has homeschooled
that. But...naw. I don’t want a homestead.” her children for over fifteen years, and main-
Tristan sat back, his brow rising.
Slap suppressed a smile. It wasn’t often he tains two homeschooling websites. She also
could get a reaction out of his friend. He liked the likes Looney Tunes, the color purple, and is a
feeling. “A strange place, all alone?” He shook his Zorro aficionado, which might explain her love
head. “No. I’ll stick with you.”
Tristan’s expression grew slightly dyspeptic, of swords and cloaks.
but he nodded. “Wise. For now.”
“Sure is.” Slap paused for a second. “You need
a bodyguard.”

...stay tuned as Deuces Wild continues next month...

To catch up on previous episodes

of the adventures of Slap and Tristan, visit:
http://loriendil.com/DW.htm

Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006

Jolly RGR Pg. 34
The Jolly RGR

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Ray Gun Revival Issue 09, November 01, 2006