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

7S e p t e m b e r 2 0 0 3

THE RETURNRuthanna Gordon

THE ANNALS OF VOLUSIUSClaudio Salvucci &Paolo Belzoni

THE HONORABLEMAYOR WILLIEBROWNJohnny Eponymous

THEY WERE THE WINDC.J. Henderson

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THE LAST STRAW

PARTIALLYCLIPS

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September 2003 1

FEATURES

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

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

The Gaming Closet by Ron “Seawolf” McClung ............................................................8

Spine Bender by Michael D. Pederson ...........................................................................10

Faces of Fandom by Catherine E. Twohill ....................................................................14

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

FICTION

The Return by Ruthanna Gordon .......................................................................................7

They Were the Wind by C.J. Henderson......................................................................16

The Annals of Volusius, Part V by Claudio Salvucci and Paolo Belzoni ..................20

The Honorable Mayor Willie Brown by Johnny Eponymous .................................26

POETRY/FILKS

Jersey Devil Went to the Convention by Steven Earl Yoder.....................................32

Cover Illustration for “They Were the Wind” by Erica Henderson

CONTENTS

September 2003, Issue #7

Nth Degree is a free publication and may be distributed by authorized distributors only. We encourage you to submityour manuscripts, illustrations, or photographs, but cannot guarantee the return of any unsolicited materials. Allcontributors retain individual rights to their contributions. Six-issue subscriptions are available by sending $15 to:Nth Degree, 77 Algrace Blvd., Stafford VA 22556, 540-720-6061, Fax 540-720-7050, email editor@nthzine.com.Nth Degree #5 is ™ and © by Big Blind Productions, September 2003.

PUBLISHER/EDITORMichael D. Pederson

SUBMISSIONS EDITORRobert Balder

BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION

Catherine E. Twohill

WEB DEVELOPMENTBrandon Blackmoor

CONVENTION LIAISONKaren Edelstein

GRAPHIC DESIGNMichael D. Pederson

CONTRIBUTING EDITORSPhill Ash

Susan BlackmoorErik Cotton

Christopher J. GarciaCatherine HardingJennifer HarmonRon McClung

Lloyd MontgomeryJames S. ReichertAndy World

BIG BLIND PRODUCTIONS, INC.77 Algrace Blvd.

Stafford, VA 22556540-720-6061

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

t h e e d i t o r ’s

2 Nth Degree

When I first conceived of Nth Degree I wanted to create a fanzine thatwould serve as a place for up-and-coming writers and artists to get their first publication.My biggest concern at the time was that I would have to look at a lot of marginal materialand end up publishing second-rate authors that would never grace the pages of the big-namemagazines. People still ask me at conventions just how many stories I have to reject before Isee a quality piece. The answer is: Surprisingly few.

I’m as shocked as you are. I was actually looking forward to having a slush pile of realstinkers. When it comes to finding the discipline to sit down and work on a short story, I’mhopeless. It would have been a nice boost to my ego to be able to sit back and laugh at thelame attempts that these so-called disciplined writers churn out. But, alas, it was not to be.I’ve been receiving quality stories. Now, let’s not get carried away and assume that I mean tosay that every story has been a work of art and would win a Hugo if it could only be nom-inated. But, in my opinion, many of our contributors do have the potential to go on tobecome major names in the field.

I was prompted to write this rant because at a recent convention a reader said to me, “It’sa great looking magazine, but you should get rid of the fiction.” His complaint was that hedidn’t think the fiction was as good as what you can find in the major genre magazines. Andhe was right. But does that mean that these stories should never be published anywhere? Idon’t expect to publish the next Hugo-winning novella but I do expect that one day a Hugowinner will stand before the podium and thank Nth Degree for helping to start their career.At least that’s what I hope for.

Right now, there are a handful of major magazines publishing fiction by recognizablenames in the industry. There are also some very good smaller magazines that pride them-selves on being able to get fiction from some of the big names in our field. And who canblame them? A recognizable name on your cover sells magazines. Perhaps, if a name appearson our cover often enough it will be considered recognizable enough to be picked up by amajor publisher.

I think that we have already published some great new writers and artists that are wellon their way to a solid career in the field. I find it unbelievably exciting that I could alreadybe working with the next Vernor Vinge or Lois McMaster Bujold. It thrills me that the nextMichael Whelan may donate a piece of cover art to this humble little ’zine in exchange fora small amount of publicity.

The final arbiter on quality though, is you the reader. We will soon be expanding to agreater number of pages and will finally be able to include a Letters column. So, please, writein and let us know what you think. The contributors are used to hearing me say that theirwork is great—they expect me to say that so that they’ll keep sending me stuff—but I thinkthey deserve to hear it from the readers as well.

September 2003 3

SheVaCon 12Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Convention

February 27-29, 2004

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

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

Mark Rainey � John Ringo DNA Publications � Meisha Merlin Publishing

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

Location:Holiday Inn Tanglewood

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

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

JerseyDevilCon 3, April 25-27Edison, NJJerseyDevilCon, a.k.a. the small con that doesn’t know it’sa small con, met and/or exceeded expectations again thisyear. GOHs for multiple categories (SF, Fantasy, Horror,Art, Comics, Science, Gaming, and Filk—Harry Harrison,Nancy Springer, Brian Lumley, Joe DeVito, Mark Rogers,Clifford Pickover, Bard & Vicki Bloom, and Voltaire,respectively), a large art room filled with pros and semi-pros, and lots and lots of programming (they kept mebusy) are just a few of the things that JDC has going for it. I’ve attended two out of the threeJerseyDevilCons so far and I am continually impressed. With attendance around 500,JerseyDevil falls into the small con category but they run the programming, art show, deal-er’s room, and masquerade as if they were a 1,000+ member convention. Next year’s con willprobably be held in a different hotel (keep an eye on www.jerseydevilcon.com for details) asmultiple event bookings have made the last few years difficult on the convention—this year’s“difficulty” is already being talked about on the con circuit in the same hushed tones as theinfamous Disclave flood. (See the filk on page 32 for more details.)

Balticon 37, May 23-26Baltimore, MDBalticon is considered a large regional con, like Philcon inPhiladelphia or Albacon in New York, with attendancebetween 1,000 and 2,000 members each year and offers awide array of activities to satisfy just about any fan. Thisyear the Writer Guests of Honor were Sharon Lee andSteve Miller, the Artist Guests of Honor were Sheila andOmar Rayyan, and the Filk GOH was Steve MacDonald.In addition, there were dozens of SF luminaries includingJon Ashmead, Joseph Bellafatto, Tobias Buckell, Hal Clement, Brenda Clough, AnnCrispin, Keith Decandido, Scott Edelman, Laura Anne Gilman, Eric Kotani, Paul Levinson,Mark Rogers, Tony Ruggiero, George Scithers, Bud Sparhawk, Laura Underwood, andDiane Weinstein. Understand, this is only a partial list.

My son and I arrived at the convention on Friday and checked into the hotel with aminimum of difficulty. For those of you who have not visited the Wyndham Inner Harbor,this is an excellent hotel with extensive facilities just blocks from Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.The opportunities for good food, shopping, and entertainment are too extensive for me todiscuss here.

My son attends conventions with me so that he can participate in the gaming track andwatch lots of anime. Balticon did not disappoint him. The con had set up a networkedcomputer room with about a dozen stations and ran tournaments all weekend. My sonspent a great deal of time competing in the Unreal tournament, as well as playing theWorld War II computer game “1942.” He also spent time in the gaming room set up byLooney Labs, a local gaming company, and purchased several card games. When he tired

CONVENT IONS

CONVENTIONS C H E D U L ES EP T -DE CSept. 5-7 CopperCon Phoenix, AZ

Sept. 19-21 Gamefest Richmond, VA

Sept. 26-28 Arcana Minneapolis, MN

Oct. 3-5 AnimeNext Hilton Rye Town, NY

Oct. 10-12 Albacon Albany, NY

Oct. 17-19 Übercon Meadowlands, NJ

Oct. 24-26 MileHiCon Lakewood, CO

Oct. 24-26 HallowCon Chattanooga, TN

Oct. 24-26 Ohio Valley Filk Fest Columbus, OH

Oct. 30-Nov. 2 World Fantasy Con Washington, DC

Nov. 7-9 Rising Star Salem, VA

Nov. 7-9 Nekocon Virginia Beach, VA

Nov. 7-9 United Fan Con Springfield, MA

Nov. 8 Con*Cept Montreal, Quebec

Nov. 14-16 MACE High Point, NC

Nov. 21-23 Anime USA Vienna, VA

Nov. 21-23 Capclave Silver Spring, MD

Dec. 12-14 Philcon Philadelphia, PA

4 Nth Degree

of that, he visited the anime room, the art room, and the dealer’sroom. The anime started at noon on Friday and ran continuouslyuntil 3:00 PM Monday, so he (and I) had ample opportunities tovisit. The biggest problem I had with my 15-year-old was gettinghim to eat and sleep.

My interest differs substantially from my son’s. I read and writegenre fiction, so my time was spent in the writer’s tracks as much aspossible. My first panel on Friday was put on by the publishers ofthe fine magazine you are presently reading. The panel was entitled“Nth Degree: A Fanzine Meets the Fans” and was hosted by MikePederson, publisher and editor; with Cate Twohill and Rob Balder,administrators and contributors. Those of you who write certainlyunderstand how valuable it is to be able to meet the people whopublish the magazines you read and submit to. The rest of theevening I sat in on panels relating to various writing topics, such as“How to Make Nonhuman Sentients Really Alien” and “NewTrends In Publishing: Print On Demand,”and ran into the NthDegree crew again at the “Fanzines and SF Fandom” panel. I fin-ished off the night with a presentation of the classic movie, Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Saturday, I was up early to attend the writer’s workshop, one ofthe main reasons I attend these cons. Balticon’s workshop is put oneach year by Steve Lubs, with able assistance this year by DianaWeinstein of Weird Tales magazine and author Ann Crispin later inthe morning. For those aspiring writers out there, I strongly recom-mend these convention workshops to you. I am aware of no othervenue where you can get direct comments from editors and authorson your writing.

The rest of the day was spent decompressing from the work-shop and catching panels on every kind of subject imaginable. Theyincluded discussions of the Lord of the Rings movies, literary scamsto be aware of, art demonstrations by Joseph Bellafatto and MarkRogers, and a workshop on balloon sculptures. In addition to these,there was a strong science track with lectures on artificial intelli-gence, time travel, the Hubbell Space Telescope, and surgery inspace. Then it was time for dinner.

My son and I made a quick trip to the Inner Harbor for dinnerand hurried back to get in line for the Masquerade. For those notfamiliar with masquerades, the Balticon Masquerade is one of thepremier regional competitions for the costumer’s art, and is one ofthe high points of the convention for me. There is no way for meto describe either the costumes or the presentations, beyond sayingI was thoroughly entertained for hours. I finished off the night byvisiting a number of room parties put on by Nth Degree, Charlottein 2005, Seattle in 2005, L.A. in 2006, Capclave, a Buffy fangroup, and several others that just seemed to be there for the heckof it. This was a late night for me.

Sunday was another busy day starting with a workshop onimprovisation in writing, run by author David Sherman and others.I was introduced to the Malaysian poetry form known as pan-tooms, which is poetry written in four lines. You then use the sec-ond and fourth line in your poem as the first and third line in a newpoem and so on. As this is all done on the fly, you’re forced toachieve some interesting imagery. I then put in my bids at the artauction before it closed and won several Chinese-style paintings onsilk. The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting various panels,including “Crazy Science Ideas,” “How to Prevent Identity Theft,”and “The Effect of Recent Changes in Copyright Law.” I finishedthe evening catching a film festival showcasing a number of moviespresented by local producers and hosted by Chainsaw Sally, a localhorror show maven.

Monday was the slowest day at the con for me. Most of theartists had left after the art auction concluded on Sunday, and manyfans had headed home as well. Still, the organizers worked hard tokeep the members interested. The dealers were offering deep dis-counts on many items on Monday only, and were giving out ticketsfor each purchase that could be redeemed from the con organizersfor prizes. The con also had a premiere presentation of TheAnimatrix on Monday.

I should mention that I partook in a number of other activitiesover the weekend… I watched the complete anime series SabreMarionette J, the anime movie Spirited Away, and the very oddanime series Real About High School. I also caught several movies,including Spiderman and The Witches Of Eastwick. Last, but notleast, I taught Steve the bartender how to mix my favorite adultbeverage, the blue sky martini. He mixed his first ever on Fridayand gained great proficiency with repeated practice over the week-end. In addition, there were many other activities that I did nothave time for. There is a separate poetry track, an artist track, amedia track, and a costuming track. In short, there was more therethan any one person could ever hope to experience in one weekend.

Overall, I can highly recommend Balticon to the writers, read-ers, artists, and just plain fans out there. You’ll find the experiencecompares favorably to any of the many other conventions heldthroughout the year. If you attend next year (May 28-31, 2004—www.balticon.org), look for me as you wander about. If you’d like,we can chat as we give Steve another practice round at the blue skymartini. Until then, enjoy! JSR

BayCon 2003, May 23-26San Jose, CABay Area fandom has had a busy 18 months, from the half dozenregular conventions to hosting last year’s WorldCon. BayConreturned to the DoubleTree hotel in San Jose for the twenty-second

September 2003 5

6 Nth Degree

time in twenty-two years. As always, BayCon brought together fansfrom all over California, plus Oregon, Washington, New Mexico,Arizona, Nevada, British Columbia, Alaska, and Great Britain,more than twenty-two hundred over the course of the convention.

As always, BayCon brought some great guests: Greg Bear, whobrought with him tales of the forth-coming Science FictionExperience museum in Seattle; Artist GOH Mark Ferrari, who gavea delayed, but highly regarded reading from his up-coming novel;Fan guest Janice Gelb; and Toastmistress Rachel Holmen, alongwith more than one hundred guests made BayCon 2003 the mostimpressive line-up in years.

BayCon tends towards the highly decorated. The hugeScreamWorks party took up two large guest rooms, plus a signifi-cant portion of balcony. At one point, more than 200 peoplecrowded into the space. The League of Evil Geniuses’ celebratedalumni including Cruella DeVille and Eric on the Elevator, an ele-vator talk show, hosted a party that featured the debut of the firsttwo seasons, filmed at BayCon 2001 and 2002.

The panels were far-ranging, fascinating, and typically wellattended. Some highlights included Five Dollars, a Dead Fish, anda Time Machine, or Turtledoving for Dummies, which filled aroom designed for 50 with nearly 80 attendees. Futurism: or Howthe Future Has Failed Us at Every Turn took the classic Where’s MyFlying Car debate into areas such as world government, single pillmeals, real internet security, and the fifteen-hour work week. Panelson art and tech were highly successful, as were all the Buffy panels,despite the fact that author Nancy Holder had to cancel at the lastmoment. All that, plus great readings from Ferrari, HowardHendrix, Lori White, Cory Doctorow, and Irene Radford made formuch great stuff for daytime consumption.

Running alongside the parties in the evenings were the largestmasquerade in recent memory, Off The Wall films (actually shownon the side of one of the hotel’s towers), half a dozen concerts, and

at least two dances a night. And every issue of Nth Degree that hitthe fan handout table flew into a greedy fan’s hand almost instantly!

All in all, a great weekend that signals the begging of a littlerest for NorCal’s hardest working SMOFs. Next year’s conven-tion, with GOH Michael Swanwick, will be held May 23-31(www.baycon.org/2004). CG

Trinoc*CoN 2003,August 1-3Durham, NCSummer conventions are tough.Who wants to compete with thebeach, amusement parks, familyvacations, or Pennsic? Well,Trinoc*CoN has bucked the sys-tem by successfully moving theirconvention from its well attendedOctober dates to the first weekend in August. Guests this yearincluded Lawrence Watt-Evans (Literary), Ursula Vernon (Art),and Bruce Baugh (Gaming). Trinoc*CoN has built a reputation asa literary convention so I was surprised and impressed to see howmuch of their programming was dedicated to gaming, anime, andweb comics. A very large (and well-ventilated) gaming room waskept open 24-hours as was the anime room which had the coolestsound and projection system that I’ve seen yet at a small conven-tion, plus it sat up to 250 people. A good portion of Saturdaynight was spent crowded around the Nth Degree party room withseveral book dealers and the literary chair, discussing potentialguests for next year’s Trinoc*CoN. I am always impressed to seethat kind of interactivity between the con staff and the attendees.Trinoc*CoN 2004 is scheduled for July 23-25 (www.trinoc-con.org). Expect to see me there, even though I couldn’t get a goodanswer on why a capital “N”. MP

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

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

September 2003 7

Shub Niggurath looked around the city, tapping a tentacle in irri-tation. The last time she and her friends had been here, towershad stretched toward the sky, walls swooping in intricate and

highly symbolic curves to guide the paths of the inhabitants. And thoseinhabitants! Not the most aesthetic or well-formed creation, by anymeans, but the ugly little creatures had devoted their lives to creatingand worshipping the images of their masters. They had been the seedof a glorious civilization, ready to spread the holy names across theirworld (and win the bearers of those names a rather substantial bet).

They all appeared to have stepped out to lunch.“Where are they?” whined Cthulhu.Azathoth glared. The smartest of the threesome, he had spent

the last few millennia telling the other two that these get-rich-quickschemes never panned out.

It had seemed simple enough. The Elders and the Great OldOnes had been in friendly competition for some time, and a groupof their rivals had made an offer. Each party to have a thousandyears to start a religion on a world, and the worlds then to be leftalone for… well, a not-unreasonable length of time. Whicheverreligion had spread the farthest at the end of that time, its creatorswould win both planets, plus… well, other considerations. Twoplanets, and more, practically overnight. In a moment, ShubNiggurath knew, Azathoth was going to say, “I told you so,” andshe was going to scream, and that was always a bad thing.

Instead, Azathoth took a deep breath (or at least, the eldritchequivalent—you really don’t want to think too hard about what heactually did).

“If you all will just shut up for moment, I’ll check where they’vegone.” Azathoth was telepathic. He closed his eyes (or at least, theeldritch… never mind—you get the idea). After a moment, his facedarkened in anger.

“They have forgotten all about us… no, wait…” The air crack-led, and several objects fell to the ground in front of the trio. ShubNiggurath sat down to take a look, pushing aside the remains of a

crumbling edifice to make room. There were several tomes (small,cheaply made, and written in the most vulgar of tongues) and astuffed cloth figure. She picked up the doll to examine it moreclosely. It had a bulbous head and a nearly reasonable number oftentacles. It was also plaid. Aside from that…

“Hey,” she said. “Look who I found.” Azathoth looked over hershoulder, and then at the remaining member of their party.

Cthulhu glared. “It does not look like me!” The other two keptsmirking. “It does not! It does not, it does not, it does not!” Hishowl took out a few more of the ancient ruins.

“Aside from your pride,” rumbled Azathoth, when the echoeshad died down, “we have a problem.”

“Yeah,” said Shub Niggurath. “If this is all that remains of ourworship, not only are the Old Guys going to win the bet, they aregoing to laugh.” She bit the head off of the plaid Cthulhu. “Ugh.This tastes awful, too.”

Azathoth began to smile. “I believe you may just have hit on asolution. You’ll recall the eschatological section of our mythos…”

Light dawned slowly in Cthulhu’s eyes. “Oh, no,” he said.“That part was your idea. You know I get stomach cramps.”

“So we eat them,” said Shub Niggurath. “Not only don’t theyworship us, but they’re all dead. What good is that?”

“Who’s to say who they worshiped while they lived?” saidAzathoth. “Only we saw. A few well-placed statues before the OldGuys come by to check, and they were so delighted and awe-struckat our return that every last one sacrificed itself on our altar. Howcould they top that?”

“And at least we’d still have one planet to work with,” said ShubNiggurath. “It’s so crazy, it just might—”

“Don’t say it,” said Azathoth. He looked out over the world,thinking that he hadn’t eaten since they passed Altair. They couldpull this off yet.

Cthulhu swallowed. “All right,” he said, looking a bit queasy.“Let’s do lunch.”

The Returnby Ruthanna Gordon

This story was awarded first place in a Quick Write competition at JerseyDevilCon in April 2003. The judges were Edward Carmien, Tony DiGerolamo, Michael D. Pederson, Tony Ruggiero, Darrell Schweitzer, and Susan C. Stone.

8 Nth Degree

H.P. Lovecraft’s Dunwich: Return to the Forgotten Village For Call of Cthulhu (Classic & d20) Chaosium, Inc. H.P. Lovecraft’s Dunwich sourcebook is the first of the LovecraftCountry series to be revised for use in Call of Cthulhu d20. It is adual system book, able to be used in either Basic or d20 systems. Itis basically a sourcebook describing the town of Dunwich, its sur-roundings, its citizens and the mysteries that lie beneath the “for-gotten town” appearing in H.P.Lovecraft’s classic The Dunwich Horror.Included is source material, completeadventures that take place in and aroundDunwich, and several maps.

The book opens with a Table ofContents and an Introduction explain-ing the book’s use and contents, followedby a comprehensive map of the LovecraftCountry in Massachusetts as well as alisting of locations on that map with aparagraph describing their significance.

The meat of the book starts with thecomplete text of The Dunwich Horror. Ifa Keeper is going to tackle a Call ofCthulhu game, it is a real good idea toread some of H.P. Lovecraft’s works, andthis is a good place to start. This story isquintessential Lovecraft. It gives you a sense of context and tone tothe Lovecraftian universe.

Adding considerable value to the book, each location in thestory is identified by a Location Number; some people and eventsmentioned also have a Location Number in parentheses next tothem, indicating that they are associated with that location. This isa handy system that allows for quick reference.

Following the story is a chapter entitled “Welcome toDunwich.” It is the start of a location-by-location description ofDunwich Township. It gives a short history of the township, as wellas general facts and statistics of the town, and names and notesabout the town leaders’ names. Also included are climate notes,flora and fauna descriptions, a timeline of the township’s history,notes on how to get to and around in Dunwich, as well as where to

stay and notes on local laws. Interestingly, also included in this arenotes about the telephone “system” in Dunwich, and it ends with acomplete “Village Directory” of telephone numbers. Nice flavor!

The “Welcome” chapter is then followed by the “Secrets ofDunwich.” This section is probably best not read by players or itwill ruin some deep dark secrets the Keeper could use. Revealedhere are the darkest secrets of the Whateley Gold and the Believers,an ancient secretive cult that founded Dunwich. There are manycool nuggets of inspiration contained in these pages.

Inside the “Secrets of Dunwich” is asection about the village itself. Thisincludes the first of many Dunwich maps,numbered to correspond to the LocationNumbers mentioned earlier. These describethe central places the players would proba-bly go first—from the Osborn’s GeneralStore (formerly a church) to the DunwichCemetery, and other important locationsin the village-proper.

After extensive descriptions of thevillage, Western Dunwich, and the MillArea, the next chapter is called “A Guideto Dunwich Environs.” This chapterdivides the area around Dunwich intonine regions. Each region is described inpainstaking detail, noting specific sitesand buildings of importance as well as

listing important people associated with each site. Detailed here arethe relationships, specific historical significance, and political plotsof the Dunwich sites, people, and things. Nothing is leftuntouched—not even the loneliest abandoned barn.

If that isn’t enough, the following chapter, “The Underground,”as the name suggests, delves into the caverns, tunnels, and under-ground waterways that lie beneath Dunwich. These are no ordinarycaverns for investigators to go off spelunking in if they get bored.Inside these dark serpentine tunnels are Things in the Darkness,and other immeasurable perils including The Black Beach and TheBoat Dweller. The Underground is not just one set of caverns butseveral. Starting with the upper caverns, investigators can potential-ly be lead to the windy lower caverns and even deeper into darknessand secrets untold for centuries.

THE GAMING CLOSE TRon “Seawolf” McClung

“Outsiders visit Dunwich as seldom as possible, and since a certain seasonof horror, all the sign boards pointing toward it have been taken down.”

September 2003 9

The book ends with adventures. A solid one-third of the bookis dedicated to adventuring in and around Dunwich, including“Return to Dunwich,” and “Earth, Sky, Soul”—a shortadventure/encounter first published in the Unspeakable Oathfanzine. Also included in this section are the appendices. The firstis a chronology of the events that occurred in The Dunwich Horrorto be used if the Keeper wishes to put the players through that actu-al story. The second is an invaluable tool for Keepers, “Mysteries,Legends, & Rumors,” a series of notes divided out by region thatdescribe just what the title suggests. This is perfect for those red-herrings, creepy tales, and things that keepers like to throw at theinvestigators to keep their stress levels high. The final appendicesare the d20 conversions for non-player characters, creatures, andspells. Also included in the end are the handouts for the adventuresand a nice fold-out map of the entire region.

H.P. Lovecraft’s Dunwich: Return to the Forgotten Village is abook of rich material for any Keeper wanting to venture into anestablished town in the Lovecraft Country. It is full of “nuggets,”ideas for quick adventures or long campaigns. The value in thebook comes in the numerous possibilities, the ease of use for aKeeper, and the fact that it is a complete sourcebook—beginning toend—giving veteran Keepers as well as beginners a chance to getthe true feel of a CoC game.

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10 Nth Degree

American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold, HarryTurtledove, Ballantine Books, 619 pp. What can I possibly sayabout the latest American Empire novel? Turtledove is the undisput-ed master of the alternate history story. The Center Cannot Holdcontinues the story of the ongoing conflict between the UnitedStates and the Confederate States following the Great War. By theend of this book the series has been diverging from our timeline forseventy years and it remains fascinating to see how Turtledovemaintains a congruity between the two realities. In this installment,the stock market’s rise and fall influences most of the action of thebook while the CSA’s Freedom Party continues its Nazi-like rise topower. Can a new reader pick things up six books into the series?Probably, Turtledove is good with his recaps, but six hundred pagesof political and economic upheaval might not be the most interest-ing place to start.

Hell’s Faire, John Ringo, Baen Books, 312 pp. This is thelatest (and last, for a while) installment in Ringo’s Posleen Warseries. For reader’s of the first three books (A Hymn Before Battle,Gust Front, and When the Devil Dances) this is a must-read. Ifyou haven’t read the earlier books you will most likely be unap-preciative of this one. If you haven’t read any of this series andyou’re a fan of military SF, crawl out from under your rock andbuy them all. Ringo is easily the best new military SF writer tocome around in a while and this series (Gust Front especially)shows him at the top of his game. Publishing deadlines and the9/11 attacks forced Ringo to cut his last book short; Hell’s Fairewas originally meant to be the concluding chapters of When theDevil Dances. Unfortunately, the book suffers some from theobvious padding that was needed to stretch the conclusion out tofull novel length (and it’s still less than half the length of the pre-

vious volumes). The added material brings out a lot more ofRingo’s rather wicked sense of humor but also saddles the readerwith an almost constant barrage of in-jokes that must be annoy-ing to those not in the know. As for the rest of the book though,the action scenes are still cranked to eleven and the Posleen arestill one of the nastiest alien menaces to ever invade our planet.Hell’s Faire ties up some loose ends but leaves us hanging onsome of the larger issues that have been looming behind thescenes since the first book and it looks like it’s going to be a whilebefore Ringo returns to the series as he is currently involved inseveral other projects.

Niamh and the Hermit: A Fairy Tale, Emily C. A.Snyder, Arx Publishing, 276 pp. If the Brothers Grimm hadbeen raised in Ireland, they probably would have written tales likethis one. Niamh is the story of a Celtic halfling princess, too beau-tiful to behold. With no suitors able to withstand her beauty,Niamh is betrothed to a reclusive magician who has been cursedwith a bestial form—he has the claws and wings of an eagle and thehead and tail of a lion. His letters cause the princess to fall in lovewith him, but before he can arrive at the castle a vengeful countplaces a curse on Niamh and has her banished from the kingdom.In true fantasy form, a quest ensues to return the princess to thecastle so that she can marry the Hermit. Along the way theyencounter fairies, a Wolf King, an evil witch, an enchanted lake,and plenty of peasants. Blending Celtic mythology with a classicfairy tale structure and throwing in a dash of Tolkien, Snyder’s bookprovides a full banquet for your starving inner child. My biggestconcern about this book is that the unusual Celtic names and the“thou mayest” writing style could scare off some of the youngercrowd that would otherwise be the natural audience for this type of

SP INE BENDERMichael D. Pederson

book. Snyder does remedy this somewhat though with very helpfulappendices that include character descriptions and name pronunci-ations as well as a series of maps of the kingdom.

The Best of Pirate Writings: Tales of Fantasy,Mystery & Science Fiction, Vol. 1, Edited by EdwardJ. McFadden III, Padwolf Publishing, 219 pp. Published in1998, this Best Of collects stories from the first six years ofMcFadden’s highly acclaimed magazine, Pirate Writings. Don’t letthe T&A cover fool you, this is a serious collection of stories fromsome of the finest writers in the genre; including Allen Steele, PaulDi Filippo, Esther Friesner, David Bischoff, Nancy Springer,Geoffrey Landis, Charles de Lint, and Roger Zelazny. McFaddenhas chosen thirty stories and poems to showcase in this volume (asecond volume is set to be released this year) and they are, for themost part, all excellent choices. Some highlights: “Doblin’s Lecture”by Allen Steele and “Roadmaster” by Leland Neville are both star-tlingly unique stories of serial killers that grab you instantly. RogerZelazny’s “Coming to a Cord” is an amusing Amber tale that takesplace behind the scenes of the second series. And Paul di Filippo—one of my favorites—has two great whacked out surreal tales inhere. “Bad Beliefs” is a fun exploitation of the “meme” concept,while “Leakage” is an old favorite of mine that would justify thepurchase of this book on its own.

Red Thunder, John Varley, Ace Books, 411 pp. Varley isback with a fun-filled tribute to the classic Robert Heinlein juve-niles. Red Thunder is a modern re-telling of Rocketship Galileothat combines the classic Heinlein sense of wide-eyed wonderwith thoroughly modern, believable characters. With the UnitedStates’ Mars program falling behind the Chinese, Americans haveaccepted that they won’t be the first to reach the red planet.Disappointed by this situation, our young heroes—Manny, Dak,Kelly, and Alicia—team up with down-and-out ex-astronautTravis Broussard and his Rainman/genius cousin, Jubal, to build

“a spaceship on pocket change.” Using a new engine that Jubalhas invented, the team sets out to reach Mars before the Chineseand also to rescue the trailing American ship from a fatal designflaw. Varley does a great job of using Heinlein’s basic Andy Hardyplot and infusing it with humor and depth to create a reasonablybelievable “kids building a spaceship” story. He gives the storyconsiderable credibility by not shying away from a believably less-than-happy ending when the four kids must deal with the fame oftheir accomplishments. Along the way, Varley also throws in atouch of homage to Florida mystery writers John D. MacDonaldand Carl Hiassen. Good stuff.

Shadow Puppets, Orson Scott Card, Tor Books, 372 pp.The third book in Card’s Ender’s Shadow series continues to fol-low the plight of Bean, now a teenager, as he continues his con-flict with Achilles on a global scale. This is a light enjoyable readthat won’t waste too much of your time, just don’t expect greatthings from it. Card spends too much time reminding us thatAchilles is pure evil and Bean spends too much time runningfrom conflict. Once again, Ender’s brother Peter (now in theoffice of Hegemon) is underused and somewhat inept when hefinally does appear. Very little in this book can compare favorablywith the original series. However, if this is your first experiencewith an Ender novel you’ll probably find it to be a clever, fast-paced tale of hyper-intelligent teens and the new world that theyare forging.

Those Who Walk in Darkness, John Ridley, WarnerBooks, 310 pp. Ridley is a multi-media talent, whose past workin novels, television, film, and radio has brought him a modicumof success (Third Watch, Undercover Brother, Three Kings).This timearound, he’s telling a superhero story with a dark sense of reality. Inour post-9/11 world, is it tough to imagine a scenario where asupervillain destroys three-quarters of San Francisco? That’s thebackstory to Those Who Walk in Darkness. Ridley creates a world

September 2003 11

12 Nth Degree

where there is nothing heroic about super powers and metanormalshave been branded as outlaws and banished from the United States.Charging into the fight against metanormals (freaks) is SoledadO’Roark, a new member of the L.A.P.D.’s Metanormal TacticalUnit (MTac). When O’Roark is suspended for using an illegalweapon against a freak she begins to reassess her priorities. Can shereconcile her single-minded hatred of metanormals with the per-sonal life that she begins to develop during her suspension? This isa conflicted hero that brings to mind Frank Miller’s Dark Knightand Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Although the plot never strays farfrom familiar territory, Soledad makes a few unexpected personalchoices that keep the story fresh.

The Years of Rice and Salt, Kim Stanley Robinson,Bantam Books, 763 pp. Multiple Hugo award winner, KimStanley Robinson is a writer that continues to draw me in with fas-cinating premises, rich characterizations, and top-notch writing butsomehow manages to always leave me feeling slightly disappointed.The Years of Rice and Salt (nominated for a Best Novel Hugo) is analternate universe story that imagines a world where the BlackDeath has killed of 99% of the European population, leaving worldhistory to be written by the now dominant Buddhist and Islamiccultures. Robinson recreates 1,400 years of history through a seriesof stories that cover a grand range of human emotions and mile-stones. Familiar scientific discoveries are made by Islamicalchemists, a Chinese invasion fleet is driven off course and discov-ers the New World, and Native Americans (the HodenosauneeLeague) unite to form their own nation. Any one of the ten chap-ters could easily stand on its own as a fascinating novella studyingan individual segment of this new history. Unfortunately, Robinsonchooses to link the stories together by reincarnating three maincharacters over and over again in each sequence. It’s a cheap, tiredgimmick that fails to deliver in the end.

September 2003 13

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14 Nth Degree

You may be asking yourself “What’s a FilthyPierre?” Is it a new drink? An unwashed nether region? A newwrestling move? If one was so inclined to have one’s own Filthy Pierre,how might one go about making it? Well, here’s a start: begin with avery bright, well-educated American, mix in some early exposure toSciFi, an interest in physics, a Parisian college experience, and a home-made musical instrument. And voila! You have Erwin S. Strauss.

Spiffy recipe aside, Erwin Strauss is still a long way from FilthyPierre. Unless you’re a French college student in 1961 and meeting a“feelthy Aymereekahn” around the same time as the cartoon and movieLucky Pierremade the scene. Ahh, you say, now it all makes sense. Sortof. OK, let’s move on… I had the chance to sit down with Erwin dur-ing Balticon 37. I’ll let him fill you in on the rest in his own words.

ND: So, give me somestats!

FP: Well, I live in Newark,New Jersey—downtownacross from City Hall. I’m60 years old and single, nochildren.

ND: How’s the career?

FP: I’m retired. I retired at55, well, really ten daysbefore my 55th birthday asI had to one-up my sisterwho retired at 55 herself. Ihad really been planning to

retire 18 months later and attend the WorldCon in Australia in ’99.However, my employer had other ideas about moving the project I wasworking on to Alabama. I decided that I’d prefer to not go to Alabama.Plus, at the time, the market was hot. I took vacation, crunched num-bers and determined I could leave for good. So, off I went.

ND: So, clearly you had a career! What did you do?

FP: I was a computer consultant focusing on Business ProcessAnalysis for both GE and Computer Sciences. I would talk to cus-tomers about why and how they did stuff and how they could dothings better.

ND: Sort of a “know-it-all”?

FP: Sure.

ND: How did you get into SF and conventions?

FP: I really need to credit my mother who was an avid SF reader.She had me reading SF when I was nine. I attended my first con-vention in 1965—Philcon in Philadelphia. My interest in Fandomreally started when I arrived at MIT to do my undergraduate workin Physics. By then I had the Filthy Pierre nickname so I kept it forFannish purposes ever since.

ND: Did your interest in Fandom help in your career?

FP: Not really. I was not a career-oriented person. If I really want-ed to be in Physics, I’d need my PhD and it’s all really competitive.It’s all about being one-up on the next guy and I’m not that com-petitive. I think it’s very difficult to be a practicing physicist—thereare very few jobs out there.

ND: How many conventions do you squeeze in per year?

FP: Oh, about 12-20. Twenty was my max at one point. I don’tcommit to going as I may not feel up to it. I tend to focus on the bigcons like WorldCon, of course, and Boskone, Arisia, Lunacon,Philcon and [waving emphatically] Balticon! The con organizers knowI’ll generally show up with my racks and ready to play my music.

ND: Your racks? Expliquer, s’il vous plait…

FP: I’ve designed the racks that many cons use to display theabundance of free materials people wish to distribute. I’ve soldabout twelve rack designs/plans to different groups around thecountry. I don’t know if they’ve actually built them. I’ll bring 4-5 toan average sized con. I’ve got as many as twenty racks on hand tohandle as much as a WorldCon can offer. Each rack breaks down somuch that a couple of them can fit into a suitcase for easy travel.

ND: And your music? Is that an instrument or scuba gear?

FP: Oh, it’s my Hohner Melodica! I know some call it theAnnoyatron or the Sonic Disruptor. It’s sort of a harmonica with akeyboard. Inside is very much like a harmonica or an accordion asit’s got brass reeds. Back in the day, Hohner made two differentMelodica models. A piano player by training, I glued the 2 & 3-octave models together as I wanted as much range as possible. Overthe years, I’ve added the cover and a hose and a little rig so I canput it over my shoulder and march down the street with it. Oh, andI’ve also added a bagpipe’s mouthpiece to the end of the hose. The

FACES OF FANDOMCatherine E. Twohill

Down and dirty with Erwin Strauss.

September 2003 15

hose blows the air through the reeds inside so I sit around hotel lob-bies with my organ in my mouth.

ND: <blink>

FP: <smile>

ND: Got any good con stories?

FP: The funniest story had to be the ’74 WorldCon inWashington. We were rounding up a piano for a filk sing and it wasat a multi-level hotel on a very steep hill where the lobby of onelevel led to the 9th floor on the other level. We wound up in thesub-basement of one building while trying to get to an upper levelin another building. Hilarious. The saddest story was probably the1983 WorldCon in Baltimore. They rented a DiamondVision pro-jection screen for $25,000 and the convention went bankrupt. Ittook years to pay it off. The convention organizers all had their ownideas of what to do to make the con a success and, in the end, theywere just twelve Cardinals in search of a Pope.

ND: How about a brush with greatness?

FP: Oh, one rubs elbows with all of the authors at these conven-tions. In 1966 I ran my first convention—Boskone 3—with Co-Guests of Honor John W. Campbell and Isaac Asimov. It was total-ly impromptu and was great fun! Campbell was coming up to speakat MIT and Asimov was teaching at BU. It was sort of a “MickeyRooney and Judy Garland” moment when it was suggested that“hey, we can put on a con right now!” It was considered sort of anin-between con as we had been holding cons every six months butafter Boskone 2, we planned to wait a year. The availability ofCampbell and Asimov was just too great to pass up so we had aninstant convention with 75 people in attendance. Another great“brush” was in 1976 in Kansas City. I grew up on Robert Heinleinand he was the GOH. He and Sally Rand (his own childhood idol)were judges for the Masquerade. I played my Melodica as a traineebandsman from Starship Troopers and received a Judge’s ChoiceAward. I’d like to believe that it was from “Master Bob.”

ND: Hey, you’re published in Asimov’s! You’re a celeb!

FP: Oh, no. Not really. Years ago, I started publishing an“Upcoming Conlist” that [still] has its own mailing list distribu-tion. George Scithers took note of it about 22 years ago and startedincluding it in the magazine. It gets printed 11 times per year. Ithink I’ve been on Asimov’s masthead more than anyone else—savefor Mr. A. himself.

ND: Well, on that humble note… thanks for your time today!

FP: You’re quite welcome. Would you like a picture of me withmy organ?

ND: <blink>

16 Nth Degree

They Were the WindA Tale of Byanntiaby C.J. Henderson

Illustration by Andy World

September 2003 17

“So,” asked the human, the outsider. The one who did notknow. “What the hell was that thing?”

A Kuzzi warrior stood next to the human, thinking how toexplain. Though the one called Joseph Matson was tall, over six oftheir feet, the Kuzzi stood more that two feet taller. His short coatof horizontally striped fur had thinned for the summer, the blue,black and grey markings of his skin showing through, a naturalcamouflage that blended well with the alien landscape during thehot months. The male’s head was surrounded by a thick, glossyblack mane, a single gray stripe cutting its forehead and muzzle tothe chin.

“They were the wind,” answered the warrior.Matson wondered if the Kuzzi were speaking metaphorically, as

its kind often did, or not. It certainly sounded like a poetic descrip-tion, but the young man knew much of Kuzzi speech patterns, andMatson would have sworn his companion meant the statement tobe taken literally.

“Bentelii,” he asked, “speak plain now, or with layers?”“Speak with plain layers,” the warrior answered. “No other

speak possible.”Matson grunted. He wanted an answer, a simple, uncomplicat-

ed set of words wrapped around an idea he could accept. His com-panion’s answer, however, told him there was nothing simple oruncomplicated about his question, no matter how straight-forwardit might have seemed to him. Setting his repeller on the ground, theyoung man made a motion with his head the Kuzzi understood asa request for the full explanation. Both males sat, one cross-legged,the other with arms wrapped around knees, and the one who wasnot an outsider spoke.

“Long before your people come this place,” it said, sinewy armsin motion, “long before Kuzzi people even, there were the Fa’Lun.They exist, learn to hunt and harvest, to speak and write and buildand dream. They name Byanntia, teach Kuzzi speak, know wholeworld as old race while Kuzzi only children.”

“So, that thing could talk?” Matson asked his challenging ques-tion with wonder in his voice, and Bentelii nodded, equal wonderin the motion. Then, it continued.

The warrior told the human of the Fa’Lun’s fascination withflight. The race might have been ancient, but they had alwaysremained nomads, had never built permanent shelters. The humanswould find no artifacts of a Fa’Lun empire. They had never been arace interested in great populating numbers. No, the Fa’Lun, thestory went, decided early on that the best way to deal with preda-tors was not to try and construct defenses, or to cover the land withgreat numbers of their kind. Instead, they had a different idea.

“They wanted to fly. Their thought was that the safest place wasin the sky, and so they went there.”

Joseph Matson shook his head in fascinated confusion. Hequestioned his friend as to what he meant. How did someone sim-ply choose to fly?

Bentelii explained that the Fa’Lun were quite adept at breeding.It was they that had crossbred the early kison, an at-the-timestringy, tenacious beast, until they had perfected the slow-moving,fat and juicy breed the humans had discovered upon their arrival onByanntia. To the Fa’Lun the answer to their quest had been simple.

“If they wanted to fly, they would simply make themselves fly.”The Fa’Lun, a people who had made almost a religion out of

genetics—who had never over-extended their population in fearmembers would break off and form their own tribes, tribes thatmight turn on one another—turned their amazing talents on them-selves. Quite simply, they began to breed themselves into a racewhich could take flight.

“It took them thousands of years,” Bentelii said with a flourish,a sound like pride in its graveled voice. Matson wondered if theKuzzi was telling the tale in a bragging sense—hometown clanmakes good—to let the human know that not only his race couldmake things happen when they set their minds to it. “But slowly,eventually, they succeeded.”

Matson looked into the sky, his mind filled with questions.How was it no one had mentioned any of this to a human before?Why had a Fa’Lun never been seen before now? How did Benteliiknow all he told? The Kuzzi continued its story.

“Bones got lighter, hollow. Skin stretched, flaps extended, ankleto wrist, hair thickened, hardened, grew into feathers, not like bird,different, their own. Feathers enough to take the Fa’Lun to theskies.”

Bentelii’s command of the human’s language was quite good,but still the warrior stumbled as it tried to explain the transforma-tion of Byanntia’s first race. The Kuzzi, it seemed, had begun toreach for sentience just as the Fa’Lun began to reach for the clouds.The older ones refused to hinder the dangerous carnivores as theyobviously began to come into their own as thinking beings. Insteadthey used the event as fuel, a prod to keep them working towardtheir goal.

Let the Kuzzi learn to hunt with tools, they decided with aninordinate generosity, let them learn to plant and built and spin andcarve and create. By the time they are a force that can oppose us,we will be gone to where they can not reach.

“Are you saying the Fa’Lun named, ah, your people? ‘Kuzzi’ wasa Fa’Lun word?”

“Yes. All words are Fa’Lun.”Bentelii explained that while the Fa’Lun had sought flight above

all things, still they had remained a part of the world. Not wantingto exterminate a predator, they had instead helped the Kuzzi along,

18 Nth Degree

adopting them, gearing the younger race to take their place as care-takers of the planet. By the time the Fa’Lun had streamlined them-selves to the point where tools and tribes were no longer of any useto them, they had left their language behind in the stewardship ofthe Kuzzi, as well as anything else the younger species desired toclaim as their own.

“They had been flying for some time by then. By the pointKuzzi understood, really, what the Fa’Lun were, had been, weredoing… I mean…”

“I understand,” whis-pered Matson, his tonequieted by the awe tin-gling his senses. “Go on.”

“By that time, theFa’Lun disappeared. Theyused to fly and land, likethe birds, fly to escape dan-ger, fly to search for food,land to sleep, to makenests… but that stopped.By the time Kuzzi becamea true race, the Fa’Lunwent to the skies and didnot return.”

Matson was speech-less. He could not compre-hend it all. Oh, he couldaccept the story as a scien-tific thought, as an idea, asuggestion. A possibility.But as a reality, as a tangi-ble notion with weight hecould test against his ownbeliefs—no.

No, it was too large anidea, too foreign.

Too alien.“It is hard for us to

accept as well.”“But,” Matson countered, “your people had time to accept this,

they saw it. Talked to the Fa’Lun… ah, I, er… do you still… doesanyone still talk to them?”

Bentelii shook his head.“Not for stretch after stretch. Last person I know to talk with a

Fa’Lun, many long stretch… In my grandfather’s grandfather’sgrandfather’s grandfather’s time, healer Baww’ja, they say he friendwith one Fa’Lun. The last Fa’Lun that would come down from the

sky. They would talk and Baww’ja would tell him of Kuzzi.”The Fa’Lun of whom Bentelii spoke had no name, or at least

never gave one to the healer. Over the years of their relationship,the Fa’Lun grew more and more distant. His eyes began to stay con-stantly trained on the sky. Finally, after Baww’ja died, the Fa’Lunwere never seen again.

“Their minds different,” the warrior explained. “Life on landforgotten, social rules forgotten, everything left behind, not justthings, but ideas, concepts, maybe even thought itself.”

Matson shifted uneasi-ly. The more his friendtried to make the conceptof the Fa’Lun clear, themore impossible under-standing them seemed tobecome. An entire racethat just up and changedthemselves—herdsmenwho got it into theirheads one day to leavethe ground behind, whoabandoned thought itselffor flight.

“They really stoppedthinking?”

“The last Fa’Lun,Baww’ja’s visitor, it wassaid he became harderand harder to communi-cate with, that toward theend of Baww’ja’s days, itseemed the creature onlycame back to hear hisvoice. It is said the healerhad a most pleasant voice.”

Matson shuddered.The story he had beencounting on to make him

feel better, to diminish his guilt, had instead multiplied to becomea weight he could barely stand. He turned his head, looking backat the mangled corpse splattered against the rock wall behind them.Not some monster from the skies, at all, but a thing of grace andwonder, a self-made angel which he had snuffed out through a pan-icked moment of careless fear.

His mind fell backwards, rushing his memory to the momentnot so long ago where he had heard the noise in the sky. He hadwheeled around, had seen the great, glorious wingspan spread

Illustration by Erica Henderson

September 2003 19

across the heavens, and his first thoughts had been colored withawe. The young human had watched the soaring object as it spunand looped and floated its way in and out of the clouds. He had noidea what he was looking at, did not care. He had stumbled acrossyet one more of Byanntia’s marvels and was simply happy to be wit-ness to another miracle discovered.

And then, everything had changed. The flying form had takennote of Matson, had changed direction, diving straight for theyoung man. He had grown frightened. The thing was movingstraight for him, flying directly at him at what seemed an incrediblespeed.

Matson had lifted his repeller, the creature had screeched defi-antly, charging on, sweathad stung the tremblinghuman’s eye, and with asingle action, it was over.

Suddenly the sky wasblotched by an explosionof fluff and flesh andblood, and the ruinedsack of what had been aliving being slammeddown out of the blue anddestroyed itself againstthe solid rock of themountainside uponwhich Matson still sat.His eyes glued to theshattered remains, theyoung man whispered;

“That might be thelast of its kind, for all weknow. And I killed it.”

The air hung darkwith grief between the two friends, regret curling itself aroundMatson’s neck and biting away at his skull, burrowing into hisbrain. The human could not bring himself to look his friend in theeye. At least, not until the Kuzzi spat;

“Good.”Matson’s eyes blinked hard in shock. He swallowed, his head

jerking, first sideways then backwards. The motions were violent,but slight. The human asked;

“What do you mean?”“Fa’Lun foolish, cowardly people. Run away from life instead of

embracing it.”“But they taught themselves to fly.”“Taught themselves to hide. Afraid of everything, they go to the

sky and never return. Tell me, Joseph, what good is flight withoutdestination?”

“But I killed it.”“Dove at you out of sky, screamed and came for you. What were

you supposed to do? What do you think it was coming for?”“I, I don’t know… but…”The big Kuzzi smiled. Its mouth opened past the point of

humor to where Matson knew the lion-like alien was laughing athim. Placing a paw on the human’s shoulder, Bentelii said softly;

“You humans, you could never understand the Fa’Lun. Andperhaps,” the Kuzzi’s yellow eyes went soft for a moment, “perhapsit is best that way.”

The two friends gath-ered their things then,and prepared to maketheir way back down themountain. They hadclimbed to the heightthey had merely as adiversion and had beenrewarded with far morethan they had everexpected. As they startedtheir trek back to the passwhere their descent wouldbegin, Matson asked onelast question.

“You said the Fa’Lun,that they were the wind.What did you mean bythat?”

“They were thewind,” Bentelii repeated,muscles rippling as he

ambled down the steep incline. “They were there, but then theywere gone.”

Joseph Matson’s eyes scanned the horizon, searching the skyendlessly as he and his friend worked their way down the mountainthrough the heavy heat of the late afternoon. He wondered aboutthe Fa’Lun, as well as the Kuzzi’s casual dismissal of them. Hethought on what he had done, punishing himself diligently, and onhow Bentelii had felt about it and had seen no damage in his actions.

Then, a breeze cooled his brow and he sighed in relief, gratefulfor the slight but comforting gust.

“They Were the Wind” is the third installment in the Tales of Byanntia. The first story in theseries (co-written by Bruce Gehweiler), "Time of the Gr'Nar," was published in the anthology"Frontiers of Terror." The second story in the series, "Young as the Mountains," was published inthe Anthology "Oceans of Space." Both stories were printed in 2002.

Illustration by Andy World

20 Nth Degree

The Annals of

VolusiusPart V by Claudio Salvucci and Paolo Belzoni

Illustrations by Lori Kauffmann

September 2003 21

X: Odi et amo et nescioDawn was tinting the eastern skies when Augusta opened her

eyes. She had been dreaming, rather inexplicably, that she was aScythian priestess entrusted with guarding the public latrines toensure that no one made off with them. She had unfortunatelybecome rather irate at a balding Phoenician who was attempting todistract her while a grinning accomplice attempted just that.

So it was with that argument fresh in her mind that she awokewith a pressure on her body. She realized, to her astonishment, thatthis pressure was caused by a man lying on top of her. She wouldhave bitten his nose clean off if she hadn’t remembered in time thatit was Julian, with whom she had been grappling the previousevening before the sun set. She was about to throw him off of herwhen a sudden subconscious impulse stabbed her heart and explod-ed in a wash of unfamiliar feelings she couldn’t immediately sortout.

He looked so absolutely helpless asleep there, his hand curledunder his chin, his face so piteously bloodied and torn. The slowrise and fall of his chest against hers indicated that he was still deepin slumber. Without quite knowing what she was doing, Augustareached up and ever so gently laid her hand on his head, smoothinghis hair back away from his blood-caked face.

“Hey,” she called to him. There was no response from the sleep-ing form.

“Hey. Get up.” Julian’s breath at once caught in his chest. Heopened his eyes and looked directly into Augusta’s. What with thenature of the situation, and his just-awakened stupor, he was tootaken aback to say a word.

“Do you plan on getting off me?” said Augusta with a sternnessborn of habit, though she wasn’t quite sure she wanted him to. Thepair had already passed a whole night like this, and as tired as theywere, this awkward arrangement was a perfectly acceptable statusquo for the time being; the extra warmth was particularly welcomeduring the cool of daybreak in the Syrian desert.

“Hmm,” said Julian unhelpfully, as he closed his eyes again andshifted to get more comfortable.

“Julian, I’m laying on rocks here!” Exasperated, she twisted outfrom under him, and as he did not resist, she was quite easily freefrom his weight. Julian however, was now drooling face down in thedust, and his tangled posture made it look ten times more painfulthan it really was. Her heart almost broke with this wretched sight.

“Look, get up, Julian. You’re going to open your wounds again.”She picked up the still semi-comatose form and sat him upright.“Stay here. I’m going to get some water and clean you up.”

She strode back in the direction of the road. Julian’s headbobbed forward, threatening sleep again. But he didn’t get a chance

to nod off before a shadow alighted on him.“I found one of the skins. Here.” Augusta wet her hands and

began wiping Julian’s brow. He gave a few soporific winces and triedto lick the water flowing down his face with his tongue. His thirstwas not alleviated, however, as Augusta halted the water andgrabbed his tongue.

“Don’t lick that,” his makeshift nurse scolded him, “it’s filthy!”“I thon’t caih. I’m thuthy.”“If you’ll wait a second, I’ll let you drink from the skin.” She let

go of his tongue.“Ow,” he whimpered.Augusta leaned carelessly over as she continued wiping the

grime from Julian’s visage and her torn blouse drooped precariously,confronting Julian with skins of a different sort. At the sight,Julian’s erogenous engines kicked on involuntarily and totally over-rode any hold Morpheus’s spell still had over him. Coupling theevents of his lately-concluded dream and with the gentle words andsoft caresses which Augusta was bestowing upon his disheveled cra-nium, Julian felt an elation which rose through him like a highmast as it is fitted onto a trireme in the harbor at Caesarea-Philippi.His plan had worked to perfection. All that remained was for himto pluck the ripe fruits of his scheming.

He did just that.Seconds later, he found himself lying face down in the dirt

again with a curious throbbing bothering the side of his face.“Are you insane?” Augusta raged rhetorically. “You know I don’t

feel that way about you.”“You don’t?” Julian murmured, righting himself.“Of course not!”“Uh… why not?“Oh, Julian… ” Augusta sighed as if to indicate that she had

gone through this with him at least 450 billion times. “You mean you don’t love me?” Julian queried, now regaining

some sense of coherence and trying to guess how much off themark the suggestion hypodermic had been.

“Of course I love you, Julian,” she paused tentatively andthought for a moment, “I’m just not in love with you.”

“Uh… oh… that’s nice.” Julian was now momentarily per-plexed. Since the lifetime he had lived most recently was freshest inhis head, he was having trouble accepting this obvious paradox.Most Roman men would have laughed hysterically at the notion.However, Julian remembered back to his many lives as a twenty-first century human male and quickly recalled how skillfullyfemales in that era demoted suitors to this degrading level ofeunuchdom when they found them lacking in one way or another.It was a clever strategy used to ensure that a steady column of males,

22 Nth Degree

desperately hoping to win their favor by slavish servitude, would beever-ready to do their least bidding. Julian naively assumed that hisfoolish fiddling with the suggestion hypodermic had brought thisstate of affairs to pass.

Turning away, Augusta continued, “I could never feel that wayabout you… you’re like my little brother.”

Nuts, this is worse than I feared, Julian thought, frowning.“At this point, I’m just more comfortable being friends.”

Augusta finished decisively. Julian winced slightly at the words. The tiny noise that could be

heard clearly by anyone standing nearby among the scrub was noth-ing more than the death rattle of his libido.

Augusta was herself not privy to this sound—her female earbeing unattuned to it. And at the moment, she was rather preoccu-pied with those words that had just escaped from her mouth seem-ingly of their own volition: “just a friend” rang with a particularhollowness in her mind.

It was not the kind of hollowness born of bold-faced lying, likewhen Varilus Carnifex the butcher had earnestly and sweetlydivulged his feelings to Augusta, who for her part was rather dis-tracted by the bits of cow spleen which he hadn’t bothered to wipeoff his arms. Nor was it the kind of sarcastic hollowness with whichshe said those exact same words to an overly eager suitor namedTullius, just before she smashed him in the groin with his house-hold penates.

It was a hollowness born of, well, uncertainty, and Augusta hadno way of defining that uncertainty except that she wasn’t sure whatit was.

The poor object of her romantic confusion had no way ofknowing what was going on in Augusta’s head; he was only judgingher by her words. And had her words more precisely matched theemotions in her head, he would have had good reason to be pleasedindeed.

“Squalor!” he opined, less because his plans were frustrated thanhe had managed to put his leg square into a spiny plant.

“Oh, be careful!” Augusta said in a sweet, cooing voice whichmade Julian want to punch her.

“I’m alright,” he said flatly, and stood up in defiance of the pain.“Now let’s get moving.” He intended to march the physical andemotional pain right out of him.

“But where?” she asked, not even moving from the spot. “Whatabout Odorpus? And your brother?”

“Oh-who?” he demanded, perplexed, and then rememberedStanley. “Aw! Forget about them! They’re probably off eating antssomewhere.”

“But they might be hurt.” Her reply was laden with concern,

which did nothing to appease Julian’s frustration. He knew verywell where they were, and didn’t care a whit. As long as she wasgoing to be fawningly concerned about anyone it had better darnwell be him.

“Look, Augusta, if they haven’t found their way back yet, theydon’t have a prayer. And if we don’t get over to those hills wherethere’s shade and water, we won’t have a prayer either. Now get yourbutt up and let’s go.”

Julian was, rather unwittingly, putting into practice the philoso-phy of the Ddjurccs, a religious sect who believed that spiritualenlightenment was most readily arrived at via romantic relation-ships. Their supposedly infallible approach to achieving this quixoticnirvana, as laid out in the Book of Ddjurcc, was simply to treat awoman like garbage whereby she would fall madly in love with you.

Between the escalating heat, the blood loss, and the emotionalroller-coaster, Julian ceased to be his normally amiable self, and wasunintentionally acting as if he had been given a no-holds-barredstrategy by the great Ddjurcc himself.

Whether it would work or not remained to be seen.

XI: Ranarum viscera numquam inspexiTraveling due eastward towards some low hills far in the dis-

tance, Julian and Augusta were soon immersed in the SyrianDesert—not to mention pathetically lost. However, only one ofthem was privy to this fact. Marching along smartly, Julian was apicture of confidence and unflagging endurance. For all her perspi-cacity, Augusta never once realized that Julian had something lessthan a vague idea of where he was going. If she had asked him, thebest response he could have given was, “Uh, over there.” Luckily forhim, Augusta never once touched on the subject.

As it started to become dark, Julian halted. “We will pitch camphere for the evening,” he declared authoritatively. Obediently,Augusta threw down the gear which she had been carrying since thedeath of their horse from heat-stroke. Soon, after no little effort,she had created a blazing fire and was preparing the three hares

September 2003 23

which she had caught with her bare hands earlier in the day. In themeantime, Julian stretched out upon the ground, elevated his feetand began to snooze…

…No sooner had he dropped out of consciousness than dimshapes began dancing before his eyes. As he struggled to focus, theshapes came closer and began examining him—talking about himwith admiring voices as if he were a roast turkey about to be carvedup and devoured. When Julian finally did arrive at full interlife con-sciousness, he immediately recognized the first figure as the onerousFeg Myktat. The other two were not so familiar, although the tallerhad a face which reminded Julian distinctly of a Nbandulan teal-billed neutrino heron. The third was a short squat female beingwhich wore a corrective clavicle brace for nothing more than itsfashion value.

“Ah, Julian you’re awake… or should I say asleep?” Feg chuck-led, pleased with his mild witticism. “May I present to you my col-leagues, Über Professerin Lycra von Grossfrau from the LankhoeffelAsylum for the Extremely Erudite and Miiro Urp, CEIT.”

“What does CEIT stand for?” Julian asked impulsively, stillsomewhat groggy.

“Cerebrally Enhanced Intellectual Titan,” Urp responded with-out the slightest trace of humility, “but my friends call me Cer.”

“OK, ‘Sir’,” Julian replied with a thick coating of greasy sarcasm.“No, no… It’s pronounced ‘Tsehr’… short for Ts-cerebral,” Urp

explained with the distinct accent of a cerebrally enhanced snob.“Thanks,” Julian replied insincerely.“Now Julian, Feg has filled us in on the details of his little

experiment,” Professerin von Grossfrau began anxiously, “and Mr.Urp and myself are keenly interested in the results. In fact, the datawhich are being collected in your brain mass are of extreme valueto the scientific and pseudo-scientific community.” Von Grossfrauuttered these words with such aplomb that Julian immediately sus-pected her to be a fellow at the Vivisectional Institute for the Studyand Creation of Educational Resource Applications, otherwiseknown in the multiverse as VISCERA. This dreaded facility was thehaven of pure scientists—that is, those scientists who operated out-side the constraints of what lesser beings refer to as ethical stan-dards. As the eons progressed, VISCERA’s reputation had sunk tothe point where it was often mentioned in the same breath withsuch clearly notorious outfits as Glovnor’s Casa del Torture and theWe Taste Delicious chain of Tumor Markets. VISCERA’s tenuredfaculty were shunned by nearly everyone except fellow pure scien-tists and even a few of them sometimes wondered about the foodservice in the cafeteria. Thus, many faculty members, such asProfesserin von Grossfrau had to hide their credentials behind those

of another institution.The Institute’s reputation was not enhanced by an incident

involving the Nicomachean Academic Society for TotalitarianEthics, which filed a suit challenging VISCERA’s right to conductexperimentation without ethical standards. Much was made of thissuit in advance of the trial, and the posturing of both sides createda great deal of public outcry. Unfortunately, the suit was droppedbefore it ever got to court as NASTE’s leading legal mind and driv-ing force, a certain Eldbach Squd, disappeared three days prior tothe start of the trial. What made this incident all the more suspi-cious was the short-lived appearance of a side-dish called SqudCasserole on the menu at VISCERA’s main cafeteria one week later.

“My brain?” said Julian sarcastically, “what… this old thing? Iguess if you really want to take it off my hands… hmm… does fivemastabas sound fair?”

Mr. Urp widened one eye in glee.“Oh, heck,” Julian continued laying it on so thick that

Emotonegometers five doors down were dancing like self-flippingAnuran bufoburgers. “I can’t lie to such esteemed souls as your-selves. To tell the truth, I was going to leave this darn brain in theCranicycler and be done with it.” He sidled up to von Grossfrauand Urp and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. “I’d behappy to help the advancement of educational resource applica-tions in any way you would deem it necessary, and all I ask in returnis for you both to share a small bit of wisdom from these marvelous-ly enlightened heads of yours.”

If the pair of VISCERA members were pleased with this latestsyrupy praise, it is not recorded, for no sooner was it delivered thanthey found themselves in rather compromising headlocks, forced toendure the ravages of the vicious Earth noogie which Julian hadwisely learned on his current stay there. Such was the physical weak-ness of his hapless victims that he was able to both maintain his holdand dispense the punishment on each of them simultaneously.

Before Feg had a chance to peel his comrade away from thescreaming academics, Julian had successfully managed to conveyhis true sentiments on the matter at hand. He also made two verypowerful enemies, which in all candor he was quite glad to have.Overriding loathing of obnoxiously repugnant souls gives one agreat deal of focus in the Interlife.

“Now see here, Julian,” admonished Feg, while the two scien-tists wheezed on the floor, “these are well-respected colleagues ofmine, and I expect you to…”

His concluding thought was muffled by Julian’s forearm, whichwas uncompromisingly clamped around Feg’s head. A tentacleflailed in vain.

“Excuse us a moment,” Julian said sweetly to von Grossfrau and

24 Nth Degree

Urp who were not, at any rate, paying attention. He led Feg out ofthe room and released him from his iron grip.

“…now really, this has clearly gone too far. What do mean bythese unprovoked assaults?” Feg sputtered indignantly.

“Look, you pompous overblown self-righteous stuffed shirt, Idon’t know what you have in that asinine mind of yours. It’s badenough I have to have you around sticking that damn tentacle ofyours into this whole mess, killing me six ways till Sunday, invadingmy dreams, ruining every life you get your hands on, and makinga general ass out of yourself.

“But no, Julian’s a good chap, he won’t mind if I root out a pairof sadistic maniacs to saw his face open for five mastabas. Listen,Myktat, I’ve had it with your idiot schemes. You strut around likesome kind of hyper-intelligent megalect, and yet the mere sugges-tion somehow never crosses your mind that, gee, maybe Julianwants to keep his brain in his head after all. Well, you can take your‘esteemed colleagues’ at VISCERA and shove ’em up your AnolockBung, because I’d sooner reincarnate myself as Simmon Boulesthan exchange one more word with those nihilistic demons.”

“Julian,” Feg said calmly, “I wish to point out that though itunfortunately proved fatal to its inventor, the Boules GenitalBroiler pioneered the use of flaming sulfuric acid for family plan-ning. So too might this sacrifice of your scient matter benefit theentire population of the Interlife.”

“I can see you still don’t get it,” Julian said calmly as he onceagain caught Feg around the neck and began explaining mattersonce more, using Myktat’s head like a Jamoriquan skiffle block topunctuate certain points of emphasis.

As this was going on, Professerin von Grossfrau and Miiro Urp,CEIT were passing by on their way out. Their demeanors clearlyshowed them to be in a state which was a mixture of outrage andpublic drunkenness. Professerin von Grossfrau hadn’t even botheredto re-arrange her disheveled clavicle brace, which had slipped to herwaist and now flapped ridiculously over her massive buttocks.

“Well Myktat,” Urp shouted in his most sanctimonious tone ofvoice, “I certainly hope that you weren’t counting on that fourgoogle mastaba grant from the Interlife Endowment for ComplexNonethical Experimentology.”

Feg flailed helplessly in response. Julian translated for him,inaccurately: “Shove it, Urp. Or perhaps you’d like me to do somenonethical experimenting with my Ograktigon choke-hold?”Actually, Julian was bluffing because the Ograktigon choke-holdcould only be applied by beings with five arms and a prehensilenose. Luckily Urp’s vast range of knowledge did not include a cat-alog of dirty-fighting techniques across the multiverse. Fearful thatJulian might carry out his threat, Miiro Urp, CEIT hurried off in a

huff with Lycra von Grossfrau lumbering after.Meanwhile Feg, who had flopped onto the floor after being

released, had managed to get himself into a sitting position, leaningagainst the wall. In his current state, he made for a pathetic picture.

Julian was about to offer Feg some incredibly sarcastic apologieswhen he suddenly found himself wide awake and staring pointblank at the deadly point of a Saracen spear…

“Uhh… No.” he declared brusquely. “I don’t think so.”With a sudden burst of adrenaline, a flagrant disregard for his

own safety and a wild “Woo-hoo!” he rolled out of the way of theoffending iron implement quick as lightning and sprang to his feet,running like a giddy maniac across the desert. His brain, havingbeen presented with this umpteenth abrupt change of surround-ings, had steadfastly refused to process the new information on theentirely reasonable grounds that given a few minutes, Julian wasprobably going to be back in Reincarnation Station berating Feg forhaving enrolled him in one of the Fiasfer League’s notoriouslyrepulsive colonospelunking trips.

The Saracen, for his part, was rather perplexed at this unexpect-ed development, and at the moment didn’t have the sense to hurlhis spear into Julian’s back, as a more forthright member of his tribewould have done. He had had a very long day which had involvedan altercation with a neighbor over some rather annoying habits ofhis goats followed shortly by the discovery of freshly deposited scor-pion eggs in his soup bowl.

To top it all off, an insane but well-dressed woman speaking Latinhad interrupted his afternoon nap making wild gesticulations andtrying to get him to follow her. Very reluctantly—he was of an agewhere sleep mattered more to him than women—he left his goatsand came to where a young man was lying inert on the dusty ground.If the lad did not wake up shortly, the sun would soon kill him.

Further pleadings by the woman for the old man to do some-thing went ignored, until she had the sense to realize that he had nocommand of the Latin language. She haltingly tried to communi-cate with her schoolbook Greek, with no perceived effect.

Still suspicious, the old Saracen cautiously tried to wake theyoung man up, not entirely sure that all this wasn’t a ruse to makeoff with his goats. He chose to do this, over the woman’s objections,by prodding the little punk with the business end of his spear.

The well-dressed gent who lay prostrate on the ground, howev-er, did not stick around long enough to demonstrate his intentions.He managed to babble something incoherent before bolting head-long into the desert in no particular direction. He had apparentlynot even noticed the woman.

“Yep,” the old man mumbled in his native tongue. “Aftermy goats.”

September 2003 25

Augusta plied some more of her less-than-fluent Greek againstthe herdsman, pleading with him to run after her friend, but whenthis proved ineffectual, she launched into full-fledged vitriol, pep-pered with some of the most stinging invective her stilted vocabu-lary could manage.

In response, the crusty old goat-herd, leaned lazily against hisspear and wagged his head feverishly in time to Augusta’s syncopat-ed series of unintelligible expletives, agreeing readily to each one—even her somewhat exaggerated claim that he was conceived froman act of unnatural passion between a female donkey and a rancidcabbage. Why he seemed so calm in the face of such an animatedassault was made clear as soon as Julian could be seen rushing backtoward Augusta with a full caravan of heavily armed Saracen brig-ands trotting in pursuit on camel-back.

“Augusta! Run for it!” Julian shouted as he approached.Unfortunately, Augusta was in no mood to retreat. She was frustrat-ed, hungry and tired, not to mention enormously ticked off. Juliansaw that she had no intention of joining his panicked flight. Uponreaching her position, he stopped, perplexed. The old goat-herdsmiled his toothless grin and mumbled something that soundedvaguely like “Your ma paints chili dogs on purple gyroscopes.”

“I hope you’re happy. Now we’re going to get killed,” Julianmuttered to Augusta, ignoring the jolly old coot and his ridiculousbabbling.

“Shut up, obol-brain,” Augusta responded curtly as she steppedforward to greet the new arrivals.

The Saracens, decked out in their desert finery, approachedAugusta brandishing their weapons in a particularly menacing fash-ion and ululating loudly.

“Stop!” She called out in her most commanding Latin, hopingone of them would understand. “I am Zenobia. My companion isInsipidus. We are noble Romans from Antioch. Do us harm andthe might of Rome will come down on your heads!”

Seconds later, both she and Julian, in a considerably morerestrained condition, were being loaded onto a camel like twopieces of very awkward luggage. After seeing the leader of theSaracens dropping a few shekels into the grateful hands of the oldgoatherd, Julian got the distinct impression that he had been soldinto slavery.

For an entire day, the caravan marched through the swelteringdesert. At night, Julian and Augusta were removed from theirmount and propped up by the campfire where they were servedsome stale bread and warm water.

“So Zenobia, did you really think that your invocation of Romewould save you from me?” the leader of the Saracens said as heapproached, speaking in perfect Latin.

Shocked, Augusta remained momentarily silent. When shefinally spoke, it was with a tinge of guile in her voice: “And just whoare you that abducts Roman citizens with such reckless abandon?”

“You mean you don’t know me? Well, that’s acceptable becauseuntil today, our paths have never crossed. Your friend Insipidus, onthe other hand, I am quite familiar with.”

At this, Julian, who had been pretending to ignore the conver-sation out of pure bitterness, perked up. “I’m afraid you’re wrong,you addle-brained desert fungus. I can honestly say I’ve never seenyour hideous face in all my many lives, eh, er… life, that is.”

“Oh, I think you have, my good man.” the Saracen commandersaid, picking a piece of food out of his mangy beard. “I recognizeyou and I believe that the name Insipidus, while fitting, is not youroriginal one. Isn’t that true, Mr. Enkeizer?”

At the name, a dim feeling of recollection crossed Julian’s mind. “Perhaps it will refresh your memory,” the Saracen continued,

“if I tell you that here I am known as Iskendr the Egret.”Julian remained silent in stunned disbelief. His only thought was

a silent ‘hurrah’ that Feg was not in the immediate vicinity.

To Be Continued.

26 Nth Degree

The Mayor of San Francisco, the Honorable WillieBrown, hated spending the night in San Jose. Usually, a long nightmixing with the DotCom elite at South Bay galas meant a long,traffic-logged morning return to his precious city, but other timesit meant waking up in the nineteenth century. Monday night, the30th of December 2002, faded into Tuesday morning, November14, 1896. The mayor woke; saw the walls of the hotel had gonefrom soothing cream, to harsh, yellow Victorian annoyance. HisHonor saw that the fine silk suit he had worn all night had beenreplaced by a fine wool suit he would wear all day. I don’t like grey,he mumbled, but it’s better than that brown thing I had last time.

The mayor stood, the wood under his feet reminding him ofthe time difference, just as the taste of champagne hours previousmade him forget. He heard footsteps up the wood stairs outside theroom, a gentle knock and his butler, Gibson or Gimlet, a drinkname either way, entered holding the early edition.

“Your Honor, the paper.”Willie’s head was a little hazy from the trip, or maybe he had

overdone it back in the twenty-first century. He stared a bit at anetching, though his attention strayed to the banner of The San JoseBee.

“What’s all this about, Gibson?”“Gilby, sir. It’s Gilby, and it’s the airships. The airships passed

over the city last night.”The Mayor focused a bit on the picture, finally making out the

image of a blimp floating over the tower of light. He rather likedthe fact that he ended up in the body of another man of import,though spending the day as a barkeep might have been a good timefor all. He folded the paper, pretending to read the story.

“Well, this is a most serious matter. I think… I think I’m goingto get dressed, go down to the City Hall and call a meeting. Willyou get my advisors on the phone… I mean, get them to the hall,right quick.”

Gilby turned, and started down the stairs. Willie noticed thebox of cigars on the bed stand, took one and flicked the lighter onthe small table, turning the perfecto gently in the flame. Hebrought it to his mouth, drew slowly, far more gingerly than hewould have on the Dominicans he favored. Just the scent comingfrom the open box told stories of Cuban soil, of a perfect roll on theinner thigh of a Havana virgin. He savored it, let it roll aroundbefore exhaling with his yelled words.

“And lunch; I’d say a steak, some potatoes, something with a lotof oomph to it. I’ll get dressed, send someone with a coach to takeme to the office in half-an-hour. Understood, Gilby?”

Gilby made a barely audible reply from the first floor. TheMayor made a note to give Gilby a raise if he made it through theday. He rose, removed the nightshirt and slid into the suit, gravelon bare skin when he thought of the silk he had left behind. Lunchcouldn’t come soon enough, he hadn’t eaten in negative one hun-dred and six years. Willie suited himself up nice, a styling man,

The Honorable Mayor Willie Brownby Johnny Eponymous

Illustration by Andy World

September 2003 27

even if he paled in comparison to the Frisco Fashion plate (a termcoined by Esquire… or maybe GQ). He started downstairs, thesounds of a steak breakfast ringing towards his ears.

“Morning, Mr. Mayor.”The lovely young thing approaching him wore an apron, a

smile, and a dress that managed to show off precise curves, and stillmaintain an air of Victorian distance. She gave a small bow, theMayor, cursing the lack of modern necklines at a time like this,bowed his head a slight bit forward.

“And how are we this morning, Miss…?”The girl, probably nineteen, maybe twenty-one, smiled, looked

at the floor and walked into the kitchen. The mayor must have hada fine night last night. The mayor smiled the smile that made himthe mayor of the greatest city in the world. He knows how to live,I’ll say that for him.

The breakfast was heavy, greasy, and a hundred times betterthan the granola and grapefruit juice he’d have in the limo on theway back to the City. The biscuits and steak he smothered in gravyso thick, no ladle could contain it. The potatoes, crunchy and lard-fried, smelt of rosemary, sweet-stinging on his lips. If you are goingto be trapped in the body of a Victorian, you may as well takeadvantage of the arteries your host provides. He washed the morn-ing down with a tankard of… well, the Mayor wasn’t sure. It wasobvious that it must be the mayor’s favorite drink, as it had waitedfor him at the table. He finished the meal, sat for a moment lookingover the paper, reading the various reactions to the war in Cuba, thestories of the airship, and had started in on a story of Japanese farm-ers when Gilby entered the room, a notebook in each arm, his stepshurried.

“Sir, the men are at your office and the auto is outside. Here isa full breakdown of topics that the boys have asked you to go overwith them today. I took the liberty of putting the airships at the topof the agenda.”

The mayor wiped his mouth, gave a quick smile to the youngmaid who had stayed in the dining room while he ate. She giggledslightly to herself and looked back to the floor. The mayor tossedthe napkin to the table and went to Gilby, taking one of the note-books from him.

“Excellent, Gilby. Let’s make our way over. I’ll read this as wehead over.”

Gilby stared at the mayor with annoyed amazement.“Sir, I don’t think it is wise to drive and read at the same time,

especially not this time of day.”“Well, you could drive, couldn’t you Gilby?”The house staff laughed, just enough so that the mayor could

tell that Gilby couldn’t drive, and that the mayor would never letanyone else take the wheel anyway.

“Fine then. I’ll drive and you can give me notes on the way, justgive me the gist of the topics as we go.”

The mayor walked out the front door, hoping that the car wasat least as steerable as the Jag he would take into Napa on the week-ends.

� � �

The Mayor’s office was filled with smoke from six cigarsand the scent of at least ten thousand others smoked over the years.The walls were the same yellow from the house, only stained darker,giving an antiqued look that he had always associated with old ladydocents at historic homes. He went to the desk that everyone hadseated themselves around. This is what a mayor’s office should be.Men, crowded eight to a space designed for three at most, and thedesk, the monstrous desk, affording his honor room to stretch.Every man stood as the mayor entered, Willie’s head slightly hurt-ing from the smoke. A young man, maybe thirty, clipped a cigarand handed it to the mayor, flipping the handle on the desk lighter,sending up a perfect flame. The mayor bent, puffed it three timesand set it in the ashtray, unable to subject these men to any moresmoke.

“Alright, let’s talk turkey. What can you all tell me about the air-ships last night? Anyone have anything solid?”

An older gentleman stood in the back, his cigar smoke hiding ahideous pair of hanging sideburns.

“Well, there are theories, your honor. A great many theories,mostly floated by those with a little science. Folks in Sacramentoseem to reading too many of the stories by Mr. Welles, as they areclaiming that it is an armada of alien ships coming to take the worldprisoner.”

The mayor had a chuckle. “Alright, now, how about anything with a touch of science

behind it?”Another man spoke, his eyes glowing against the haze, though

he too had the same awful sideburns. “I can say that the coursers seem to be of our design, like the

Germans have been experimenting with for years. I remember see-ing such a device at our fair, something I believe built by the Swiss.Again, I am not certain of any of this.”

The young man who had lit his cigar spoke out of turn,received heavy warning glances that he failed to notice.

“Sir, if I may bring up another subject; I feel we must quicklyspeak of the Japanese issue. The area of Fourth Street was set asideyears ago, and now that they are eying land outside of the area, I amafraid that we will be unable to control them for much longer.”

The mayor focused on the young man with severe control.

28 Nth Degree

“What are you talking about?”The oldest man in the room, the one who must have been pres-

ent when Junipero Serra wandered into town, spoke up, his voicehoarse with decades of meetings in room like this.

“Well, a Mr. Yamamoto has asked to buy a farm near the SantaClara border. It would be a quite large farm, some 130 acres. Itwould be quite near Santa Clara University, and the Chaplain hasasked for us to prevent this. I am of the opinion that offering thegentleman a suitable piece of land closer to the Fourth Street sec-tion would satisfy him, if we can arrange for a drop in price.”

The mayor stood, paced and spoke simultaneously, trying tofigure a way that the men would understand his opinion and notthink he had dropped his mind on the auto trip over.

“Now, I am firmly of the opinion that the Japanese citizens ofthis fine city are, and always will be, a vibrant and important partof our electorate. We must allow them to grow, and if we encouragethat, we will be rewarded with votes in upcoming elections. Do youunderstand me?”

The oldest man spoke again.“You have the next election bought and paid for, sir. Besides,

how would a few hundred votes sway things your way. It opens upa great many possibilities as well. What if the Jews or the Russiansfeel that they can simply find a piece of land and buy it to make ahome? Hell, those countries will empty in a week if we fail to putup limits. Why, even Negroes may make permanent settling in theheart of the polite citizenry.”

The mayor stopped moving, leaned onto the desk, and steadiedhimself on both arms, a look of fire and disgust coming fromWillie.

“You will listen to me. I will not allow the good Japanese of ourcity be discriminated against. They will live wherever they feel andwill hopefully bring as many members of their families as possible.They will ensure the future of this city without question. Is thatclear?”

The young man looked back at the mayor, his eyes fearful of therage that his elder colleague had been put through.

“Your honor, I think you should think of the security issues inthese times. The Japanese are… well…”

The mayor shifted to the speaker with even greater intensity. “What could you possibly mean.”“Well, the airships, sir. I have heard that the Japanese may have

something to do with the airships. There are rumors, sir.”A man, still wearing his bowler and smoking a long thin cigar,

stood and spoke, removing his hat and holding it over his stomachas if to deflect an expected blow.

“Well, there are great kite flying festivals in Shanghai. It is quitepossible that they could equip these great kites with bombs and

destroy the state. Or, they could be working with the Spanish. Bothare devilish races.”

The mayor made the man glad he had removed his hat, as hewhipped a stack of papers at the offender, the only one to makecontact hitting the hat before gliding to the floor.

“First, Shanghai is in China, you dolts! Second, that is the mostridiculous thing I have ever heard. Now, all of you get out! I needto take a nap, and afterwards, we will go to Japantown and discussour options. Now, out!”

The crew walked through the door, with Gilby lagging behind. “Will you need me for anything?”“No, Gilby, you can take a break. I’ll be fine.”Gilby closed the door behind him, the sounds from the street

making it up to his window. The lively voices, the calling of news-boys, the sounds of horses and carriages all mixed with the heavymeal to put the mayor to sleep in record time.

� � �

The mayor woke up in the Palace hotel, his best black silksuit on a hanger hung on the top edge of the open television cabi-net. Surrounding the bed were a dozen bottles of whiskey, the heavyscent of cigars, and a half-dozen room service trays. The knockingon the door had woken the mayor in his own time, and unfortu-nately in the body that had been the recipient of the mess that hadonce held the contents of the bottles and trays that littered theroom. Mayor Brown walked to the door, opened it and let in hispersonal assistant, his personal assistant who seemed to be wearinga suit that Gilby would have thought suitable for a day at the office.

“Your honor, we have a busy day, and there were complaints allevening about the noise from your room. My God, look at this place?Did you buy every bottle of Jack Daniels in the city last night?”

The mayor managed a slight laugh as his stomach began torumble under the weight of prior festivities. “I wasn’t quite myselflast night. What have we got?”

The pair went over details as the mayor dressed, the silk feelinga hundred times better than the burlap the Victorians called wool.The mayor put a hundred dollar tip on the dresser, insisted on pay-ing for the room on his personal credit card, and hopped in his car,waving and signing an autograph for a little girl on the way. Oncesafely in the car, he spoke sidewardly to his assistant.

“I need you to do me a favor. Call up the San Jose archivist, getme the paper for November 15, 1896. I wanna see how I did lastnight.”

The assistant wrote it down, then buried his face in his hand.The mayor smiled, burped, and laughed. That damn Victorian sureknew how to live.

September 2003 29

30 Nth Degree

The Last Straw by Bob Kauffmann

COMICS

We’re excited to welcome The Last Straw and All Grown Up to our comic pages this month. And, of course, we’re still proud to be carryingBob the Angry Flower, PartiallyClips, and BelchBurger.Write in and tell us what you think about the new additions!

September 2003 31

BelchBurger by Dan Fahs & Robert Balder

32 Nth Degree

Jersey Devil went to the convention But he didn’t know the dealBut soon he’d findAn exposed behindCan become a really big deal

Well, he came across a reunionFull of women, and some were hot!And the women raisedHis loincloth justTo see what he has got

I guess they didn’t know itBut some girls were watching tooAnd they ran to whine to coachy even though they liked the view

And he came down all in a rageAsking what the desk would doPut the con on holdGet the shields of goldAnd if you won’t I’ll sue!

The man said I’m the Jersey DevilAnd I didn’t mean to sinBut the coach was setHe wasn’t satisfied yetUntil all the cops came barging in

Devil cover up your bone and make sure it ain’t hardCause hell’s broke loose at the convention and the cops hold all the cards

And even though the law is biased and seems a little oldThey’ll put you in a cell that’s damp and cold

The devil quickly covered upPutting an end to the showBut the girls had seen enoughAnd said the coach just had to know

They ran upstairs to wake him upAnd he said “What the hell is this?”And the M.O.D. joined right on inAnd he dealt the fatal kiss

[Instrumental]

When the police arrived they saidJersey Devil you look pretty good old sonBut Edison’s a town thatDoesn’t allow that kind of fun

Don’t look down andRun girls run!The Jersey Devil’s at the con and he’s out for funNothin’ but a loincloth if you looked you knowThe Edison police said He had to go

[Instrumental]

The devil bowed his hornsIn fatalistic defeatAnd he walked out to the squad carWith some jeans over his meat

Johnny Law said Devil now don’t come backAnd if you ever try againCharged you once son of the Leeds witchWe’ll be glad to charge you again

Now don’t look down andRun girls run!The Jersey Devil’s at the con and he’s out for funNothin’ but a loincloth if you looked you knowThe Edison police said He had to go

The Devil Went to the Conventionby Steven Earl Yoder

to the tune of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” by The Charlie Daniels Band

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