Smith's Monthly #9

by Smith, Dean Wesley

  Copyright Information

  Smith’s Monthly Issue #9

  All Contents copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith

  Published by WMG Publishing

  Cover and interior design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing

  Cover art copyright © by Evenaners/Dreamstime.com

  “Introduction: Science Fiction and Space Issue” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith

  Music in Time” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover illustration by Slava182/Dreamstime.com

  “The Tragic Tale of a Man in a Duster” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover art by Customposter Designs/Dreamstime.com

  The Life and Times of Buffalo Jimmy copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover art by Searead/Dreamstime.com

  “Dreams of a Moon” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover art byMartine Oger/Dreamstime.com

  The Adventures of Hawk copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover photo by Wisconsinart/Dreamstime.com

  “As the Robot Rubs” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover art by Mike Kiev/Dreamstime.com

  Morning Song: A Seeders Universe novel copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, cover design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, cover art by Konradback/Dreamstime.com and Peter Jurik/Dreamstime.com

  Poems: “Memory” and “So You Want to be a Writer” copyright © 2014 Dean Wesley Smith, header design copyright © 2014 WMG Publishing, header illustration by Mariagrazia Orlandini/Dreamstime.com

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in the fiction in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Introduction: Science Fiction and Space Issue

  Music in Time

  Memory

  The Tragic Tale of a Man in a Duster

  The Life and Times of Buffalo Jimmy: Chapters 25-27

  Dreams of a Moon: An Earth Protection League Story

  The Adventures of Hawk: Chapters 25-27

  As the Robot Rubs

  Morning Song: A Seeders Universe Novel

  So You Want to be a Writer

  Full Table of Contents

  Smith’s Monthly

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Introduction:

  SCIENCE FICTION AND SPACE ISSUE

  I FINISHED THE novel in this issue, Morning Song: A Seeders Universe novel and was wondering what kind of stories would logically fit with the novel. Usually, that’s not a thought I would normally have, as those of you who have been following this magazine now for nine issues know. I just put stories in here and keep the reading varied, for the most part.

  Granted, I had one issue that had sort of a sex and science fiction theme in a few stories and the novel. But past that, the theme has been that everything in here is my work. Period.

  But for some reason, mostly to see if I could do it, I figured this issue, at least the four short stories, could have a space and couples theme since that is the major setting for Morning Song.

  So I started looking at some of my stories that most modern readers in 2014 would never have seen.

  First I came across a story called “Music in Time.” The story was originally in an anthology called Love and Rockets, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie M. Hughes. The story is set on a space station. It takes one look at how the future of space flight might be. I loved that story and was really sad it came and went without even a notice.

  Why I liked it a lot and wanted it to come back was that it is a story about believing in your art. I believe in the story, so I wanted it back here now.

  One story down, three to find. Or write.

  Then I found a story I wrote for my short story book challenge last year or so. It’s called “The Tragic Tale of a Man in a Duster.” It is yet another way of looking at how mankind gets out into deep space and some of the strange Einstein problems of time and speed.

  If you subscribed to the short stories, you got this story, so you can skip it. But in the last two years, the story didn’t sell very well on its own, so since its a favorite of mine as well, I wanted to give it a new life here.

  Two stories down.

  Then, it just so happened that my Fiction River story scheduled to be in this issue was one of the stories that made up the novel from last month’s issue of Smith’s Monthly. It was originally in Fiction River: Moonscapes and it is yet another look at space travel.

  And again, it has a lot to do with time and speed and is about a couple.

  So at this point I had three stories plus an entire novel that were science fiction and couples in one form or another

  But now the search got harder, since I now had a pretty clear theme in my head.

  It took some searching through old files, but I finally found a story that originally appeared in an anthology called Alien Pets back in 1998 in a very altered form.

  There is no pet in this version of the story. This is the author’s preferred edition. (grin) The other form of this story with the same title also vanished without a trace when it came out.

  This story was a forerunner of my Buckey the Space Pirate series. Actually, it was the third Buckey story before I changed him. To be honest, until I looked at the story again, I had forgotten Buckey was even in it.

  It’s humor (I hope) and is yet another look at how space travel in science fiction can work.

  A very tongue-in-cheek look, granted.

  So the only two fiction pieces in this issue that are not space science fiction with couples are the two ongoing serials.

  I had fun putting this issue together, to be honest. I doubt I will do themed issues that often, but this one sure fit nicely together and brought some of my old favorite short stories to a modern audience.

  And I like that. As I said last issue, I hated the old world when I wrote a story, sold it, the book or magazine came out and vanished and the story went into a file drawer, to be forgotten.

  I really love this new world much, much more. In fact, the stories that are in the first few issues of this magazine, since I did covers for them, will be coming out shortly in stand-alone form.

  I hope you enjoy my first real themed issue as much as I did putting it together.

  Dean Wesley Smith

  May 8, 2014

  Lincoln City, Oregon

  “Music in Time” takes a look inside the mind of an artist when that art seems to have left him stranded on a space station.

  First published many years ago in an anthology entitled Love and Rockets, this story remains one of my favorite personal stories. Every artist, in all fields, hits bottom at one point or another.

  I find this great fun to bring back after all these years, now that I have gotten off the bottom.

  MUSIC IN TIME

  ONE

  THE BRIGHT LIGHT from the Benson Space Station sundeck made the inside of Scott’s Tavern as black as the insides of an ore carrier. The thick musty smell of the bar, the comfortable herbal smoke, and the thick, rich odor of beer wrapped around me like a whore’s arms, dragging me into the dark. It was cool inside, making sweat break out on my forehead.

  A whole lot cooler than that stupid sundeck. Whoever thought of putting a station tube made out of mostly windows open to the closest sun on a space station should be shot. Idiots in bathing su
its actually laid out on lounges out there, more than likely frying what little brains they had left.

  I let the door slam behind me, closing out the sundeck heat, and stood there for a moment, fighting for my eyes to adjust, letting the cool air relax me. I knew Scott’s Tavern wasn’t really dark, but until my eyes adjusted, it sure seemed that way.

  “Yo, Danny,” a voice said from the shadows in the direction I knew the bar was. “Bright out there, huh?”

  The voice was Carl’s, the owner of Scott’s tavern. Carl had bought the place after Scott died in a shuttle accident a few years back.

  “Like walkin’ on the damn sun,” I said.

  My eyes had adjusted enough for me to see the tables and chairs, so I started toward my normal bar stool. Carl was already sliding a beer onto a bar napkin just like he had done for me hundreds of times over the last few years.

  I could see the shadows of a couple at a table, and one woman bent over her drink at the bar, two stools down from mine. Steve usually sat on that stool later in the night. Steve actually had a real job on the unloading pylons. Middle of the afternoon was too early for him.

  I had no job, hadn’t found a job in a year of searching, and had basically given up at this point. I was going to die on this stupid space station orbiting a star with a name I can’t even pronounce. This morning I hocked my old guitar. I used to think I was going to take the Old Earth Country Music world by storm. I dreamed of selling millions, having fans want my autograph, be in demand by women, the whole deal.

  Fat chance that was. I couldn’t even find a damn job flipping burgers or cleaning up shuttles or mopping the stupid hallway floors.

  I had used the money from the guitar to buy enough food to last for a week, and I had enough money left over to drink myself into a blind drunk tonight. What I would do for tomorrow’s drinking money I would worry about tomorrow.

  Damn I was going to miss that guitar. It had been like a best friend to me for twenty years. My first and only wife told me I loved the damn guitar more than her, and the bitch had been right about that toward the end of our marriage.

  Man, how had I gotten so low as to hawk my guitar for food and drink money?

  I shook the thought away, ignored the twisting in my stomach that I had made a fatal mistake, and climbed onto the stool. Coming to this stupid space station had been my fatal mistake. The promise of a gig here fell through twenty minutes after my ship arrived and I’ve been stuck ever since.

  I grabbed the beer and held on for dear life. The glass was cool and wet and felt damned good after the hot sun on that sundeck. Actually, it felt good for a bunch more reasons than just the heat. I downed half, letting the wonderful taste wash away some of the regrets like I had taken a big-ass pill.

  I then took out the fifty station credits I had on a chip and slid it across the bar toward Carl. “When that’s gone, kick me out of here.”

  “You got it,” Carl said.

  He started to pick up the credits when the woman two stools over said, “Hold on a minute.”

  Both Carl and I glanced at her. Even with my eyes still not completely adjusted to the dim light yet, I could see her well enough.

  She had on the traditional space wear business jacket, dark shirt, no tie. Her pants matched her jacket, and I could tell she spent far too much time on her short blonde hair.

  I couldn’t get the color of her eyes, but I was betting blue.

  She was shorter than I was by a distance and looked to be athletic, not extra hyped up like some women were today. She seemed natural and aging normal, just like I was. I liked that.

  She didn’t look the type to be in Scott’s place at this time of the afternoon, let alone picking up some loser like me. I hadn’t had a real woman look twice at me in longer than I wanted to think about.

  More than likely that was because I had nothing to offer any woman, hadn’t cut my brown hair in half a year, and didn’t have a non-wrinkled shirt to my name.

  “That one’s on me,” she said, indicating my half-finished beer. “And you may not want another after what I’ve got to say to you.”

  Carl and I both just stared at her, then finally Carl just shrugged, as any good bartender would, took the price of my beer from the chip in front her, and turned away.

  “And why would something you’ve got to say stop me from having a few drinks?”

  The woman shrugged. “I got a job for you if you’re up for it.”

  My stomach clamped tight at the idea of getting a job, earning enough to get my guitar back. Could something like that actually happen? Could I actually get so damned lucky?

  I stared at the woman, her thin face and faint smile. I had never met her before, that I could remember, and I couldn’t imagine what kind of job she might have. Or what type of job that would need a drunk from a bar to do.

  But damned if she wasn’t good looking. Even a loser like me could notice that I suppose.

  I turned back to my beer and took another long drink, almost finishing it. My fifty credits still sat on the bar in front of the beer, waiting for me to drink it away. And I had no doubt I was going to do just that, even with a nut-case sitting two stools down from me. But it was nice of her to buy me the first one.

  She scooted her stool back with a scraping sound, then reached down into the darkness below her and pulled up a guitar case. She put the case up on the bar between us. “I think you lost this.”

  I stared at the old case, the once-broken upper latch, the faded sticker from a trip I had taken to the New Mexico Star Cluster for a gig ten years ago. I had figured when I walked out of that pawnshop this morning I would never see it again.

  My stomach felt like someone had kicked me.

  “My guitar,” I said, my voice soft. I wanted to reach out and clutch it like a long lost child, but instead I just turned to stare at the woman. “How did you get it?”

  “I bought it out of hock for you this morning, on the assurance to the man in the shop I would take it to you.” The woman laughed to herself. “I had to pay him a little extra to let me take it though.”

  She slid the guitar another few inches toward me. “It’s yours. All I ask is you consider doing one job for me in return.”

  I looked at the case, then back at her. “A few answers first. How did you know I had hocked the thing? And how do you even know I want it back?”

  She sort of shrugged and smiled, the smile of an insurance agent.

  I was right. Her eyes were blue. I wondered if any of her appearance was actually real. It looked real, unaltered. But with enough money, looking natural could be bought these days and she looked like she had enough money to do just that.

  “I happened to see you coming out of the pawnshop, so I went in and asked what you had sold. When I heard it was your guitar, I knew you could help me.”

  “And how would you know that?” I asked, doing my best to not get angry at some woman who was trying to give me back my guitar.

  She stared at me, then said flatly, “I’ll be honest with you. Coldly honest if you can take it.”

  I nodded and looked her right in the eyes.

  “No one with your talent, your former career, would ever give up their instrument,” she said, not looking away from my gaze, “without being flat on the bottom, with no hope. And right now I need someone with talent who thinks there is no hope.”

  I figured right at that moment I had two options. I could let my normal pride make me turn away from this woman, ignore her, or I could laugh. And since my guitar, the special Earth-made guitar I had hocked just a few hours ago, was sitting on the bar in front of me, I figured laughing was the better option.

  “Am I right?” she asked.

  I finished off my beer and turned on the stool to face her. “Oh, lady, are you right. With the money from the guitar I bought food for a week and that money right there to drink tonight.”

  I pointed at my last fifty station credits.

  “After the food and money are gone, I�
��m done. I’m about to be kicked out of my room in the workers section of the station since I haven’t paid in three months. I’ve borrowed from every friend and some strangers, and more than likely I’ll be sleeping in some station shelter in the outer ring in a week and eating handouts or from garbage before it gets recycled.”

  I held up my empty beer glass, caught Carl’s attention, and motioned for him to bring me another. “Friend, I don’t know about the talent part, but you found someone with no hope.”

  The woman nodded, then stuck out her hand. “Mr. Danny Kenyon, my name is Alexis Pierce. Just call me Lex.”

  I reached out and shook her head. Her grip was firm, like she had done a few years of good solid work. But at the same time there was a softness to her hand and I held the grasp a little too long as I looked into her eyes.

  She didn’t look away.

  I felt disappointed when I let her hand go finally. I was sure attracted to this woman for some reason.

  I stared down into my beer, now feeling embarrassed. “Lex, I don’t know what to say.”

  Carl brought me another beer at that moment, and Lex, bless her heart, bought, indicating that Carl should take the price from the money in front of her on the bar. Lex was going to make my fifty credits last a little longer than I had hoped at this rate.

  “Just listen to my offer,” Lex said. “You don’t have to say anything yet. And no strings attached.” She shoved the guitar a few more inches my way. “Better put that under your chair before we spill something on it.”

  I picked up my guitar and slid it to the floor between my legs. I had sat in many a bar over the years in many a different solar system and space station with the guitar in its case in that same position.

  Me and my guitar had seen a lot of bars and a lot of light years. It felt good to have it back.