by Graeme Hurry
KZINE MAGAZINE
Issue 13
Edited by Graeme Hurry
Kzine Issue 13 © September 2015 by Kimota Publishing
cover © Dave Windett, 2015
Calculated Flight © Maureen Bowden, 2015
Similon © Liam North, 2015
Smash and Grab © Michelle Ann King, 2015
Sylvia © Jackie Bee, 2015
The Crippled Heart © Tyler Bourassa, 2015
The Vacancy © Steven Mace, 2015
Victor Manure © Gustaf Berger, 2015
Deluge © Derrick Bodenh, 2015
Note: An editorial decision has been taken to retain the spelling and vocabulary from the author’s country. This may reduce consistency but it is felt it helps to maintain authenticity and integrity of the story.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright holder. For editorial content this is Graeme Hurry, for stories it is the individual author, for artwork it is the artist.
CONTENTS
CALCULATED FLIGHT by Maureen Bowden (5)
SIMLION by Liam North (16)
SMASH AND GRAB by Michelle Ann King (8)
SYLVIA by Jackie Bee (2)
THE CRIPPLED HEART by Tyler Bourassa (17)
THE VACANCY by Steven Mace (16)
VICTOR MANURE by Gustaf Berger (3)
DELUGE by Derrick Boden (8)
Contributor Notes
The number in brackets indicates the approximate printed page length of the story.
CALCULATED FLIGHT
by Maureen Bower
I’ve lain awake all night, waiting for daybreak. I creep into the bathroom while Heather’s still asleep, pin up my hair and wrap a towel round my head so she’ll think it’s wet, put on my underwear under my bathrobe, and wait.
At eight-thirty I start running taps, banging the toilet seat, and making as much din as possible to wake her up. I need to be gone by nine o’clock but I can’t let her see me dressing for my escape. I have to get her out of our bedroom and into the shower.
“Cass, what the hell are you doing in there?” She thumps on the door. “Hurry up. I want to get breakfast over before the old man arrives.”
I turn off the taps and open the door. “It’s all yours.” She flounces past me. When I hear the water running I grab my escape bag from the bottom of the wardrobe. I packed it weeks ago with everything I’ll need: two outfits I’ve never worn and two wigs. I dress, and arrange the blond wig over my pinned-up, dark hair. If I’m caught on CCTV at the student accommodation security entrance I won’t immediately be recognised. Before leaving I take a note I’ve already written and place it on her bed, ‘Got a headache. Gone to Boots for paracetamol. Back in ten minutes.’ She’s supposed to be keeping me on a leash so she won’t be in the bathroom for long. When she finds the note she’ll be reluctant to raise the alarm unnecessarily because the old man would be furious with her for giving me the opportunity to run. She’ll wait ten minutes then she’ll panic, but that will be all the time I’ll need.
It takes me seven minutes to walk to Norton Street bus station. I’ve already calculated it. I pray to all the gods in whom I don’t believe, that the National Express coach will be on time. It is. It pulls out of the bus station with me on board at ten minutes past nine. I’m on my way to Holyhead, and I’ll be off this damn planet before it sees another sunset.
* * *
I came to Earth when I was ten years old. The transporter pilot and I beamed down onto the O’Connell Bridge across the River Liffey, in the centre of Dublin. “When the time comes for you to leave,” he said, “return here. You need only set foot anywhere in Eire and you can call me.”
Long ago, our ancestors had visited the land then known as Erin. Their transmutation into human form was imperfect in scale and colouring, and they were remembered in Irish folk law as leprechauns. They had established a link here, through which our transporter beam could operate with ease. For the purpose of this visit the pilot and I appeared as humans, and this time we got it right.
“You promise I need to stay no more than ten years?”
“I promise. The people of Earth are close to understanding black holes, alternative realities, and dark matter. We must help them. When you believe the answers are within their reach you can come home.”
We took the Dublin ferry, across the Irish Sea, to the city of Liverpool. The pilot accompanied me to the university, where he approached a longhaired youth with a distressing skin condition, which, I later learned, was referred to as zits. “Young man, where will we find Professor Mortimer, please?”
The youth pointed to the high-arched entrance of a sandstone building. “Third floor, turn left, end of corridor, room on the right.”
“Thank you. Eat more vegetables. They’ll improve your skin.”
The instructions led us to a heavy oak door, bearing a brass plaque engraved with the name, Professor Finbar Mortimer. “This is the man you must help,” the pilot said. “You’ll be well rewarded. Goodbye.” He vanished and I was alone on a strange planet.
I knocked on the door. A man that I calculated to be in his sixtieth year opened it. He was of medium stature, his grey hair was receding and his eyes revealed that he was intelligent, powerful, and conceited. I disliked him. I also sensed danger, but I had a duty to fulfil.
“Where the hell did you come from?” He said.
“Cassiopeia.”
“What?”
“Must I repeat myself? I come from a planet unknown to you, in the galaxy you call Cassiopeia.” Over his shoulder I saw a whiteboard covered in algebraic calculations. I could see what he was trying to do and where he was going wrong. I walked past him into the study, rubbed out his mistakes, picked up the marker and corrected them. He stood beside me, examined my revisions, and laughed.
“How old are you?”
“Ten Earth years.”
“What are you doing here?”
“My civilization is pledged to help others, less advanced, to acquire greater knowledge. I’ll give you as much help as I believe you need, then I’ll go home.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t need a name.”
“You do now. I’ll call you Cassie.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a button. “Heather, get in here, now.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said. It was an order, not a request. Heather came in. I calculated that she was twenty-five years old and that she was afraid of Mortimer. “This is Cassie, my niece,” he said. “She’s a child prodigy. Get her registered and move her in with you. She’s also a fantasist. Don’t believe anything she says and don’t let her out of your sight.”
Heather was Mortimer’s Personal Assistant. We shared the apartment allocated to her in the student accommodation complex close to the city centre. It had only one bedroom so we were constant companions. She provided me with all my material needs, and she tried to be my friend, but she was obliged to be my jailer. She delivered me to Mortimer each morning, and I worked with him, pointing out his errors, guiding him towards greater knowledge.
With my help, the following year, he won the prestigious Fowler Award. “We’re on our way, Cassie,” he said. “You can forget about going home, girl. If you do a runner I’ll find you before you reach your spaceship, or whatever it is.” I turned away from him, closed my eyes, and remembered the
rainbow-coloured river where I was spawned.
Nine years after my arrival he won the Nobel Prize in Astrophysics. His growing reputation brought him wealth and power, but he didn’t use either well. He cultivated the acquaintance of corrupt politicians, who were as numerous as flies around a student’s trashcan, buying their allegiance, and through them, influencing the laws of the land without the consent of its citizens. He built up a private army of thugs to intimidate his enemies and to stalk me whenever I was beyond Heather’s jurisdiction. Luckily, the thugs’ excess of brawn was balanced by a deficiency of brain and I was able to evade them when necessary, in order to check travel timetables, withdraw cash from my current account, and make a few purchases, in readiness for my escape.
Heather was always more relaxed when Mortimer was out of the country. Two nights ago, while he was absent, giving a series of lectures in the United States at the invitation of Princeton University, we raided her secret stash of vodka and got drunk together. At least, she got drunk. Alcohol had no effect on me, but to be sociable, I pretended.
“Who are you, Cassie?” she said, curling up on the couch and waiting to be entertained. Over the years I’d told her a number of amusing lies about my identity, including claiming to be Cerridwen, Goddess of Wisdom, or a reincarnation of Albert Einstein. This time I decided to tell her the truth and give her an even better laugh.
“I’m an alien from the galaxy of Cassiopeia, and in my true form I resemble a squid.” She clapped her hands, one of which was still holding a glass, spilling voddy down her Primark vest-top, threw back her head and shrieked.
When she’d finished laughing, she said, “You know, you’re so weird I could almost believe you.”
“Who are you, Heather?” I said.
“I’m an idiot who fell in love with her boss. By the time I realised he was a monster he’d taken control of my life and I couldn’t break away from him.”
“You’re as much a prisoner as I am.”
“Yes, but you’re probably clever enough to escape. I’m not.”
“You don’t still love him, do you?”
“No. He’s an evil old man, but I need him. I have nobody else.”
I calculated that when I escaped, Mortimer would have no further use for her and he’d cast her adrift. It was the best thing that could happen. She’d have the opportunity to make a better life for herself. When I was free, she would be too.
She had a hangover next morning. I brought her a glass of ginger ale while she was still in bed. “It’ll calm your stomach,” I said.
“Thanks.” She took a sip, lay back on her pillow and groaned. Her phone rang. She answered, and I calculated from her subservient demeanour that it was Mortimer.
He talked for five minutes before she replied, “I understand, Professor. Yes, Cassie’s right here. Thank you for letting me know.” She ended the call. We had expected him to be away for another two weeks but I was unsurprised when she said, “Holiday’s over, Cass. The old man’s coming home tomorrow, but not for long.”
“He’s going back?”
“Yes, he’s emigrating to America and taking us with him.”
Some recalculation was required. I’d find it difficult to escape from America because he kept my passport in his possession. From the UK, however, I could travel to Eire without it. If I didn’t leave before Mortimer arrived tomorrow I might never see my home again.
“What time will he be here?” I said.
“His plane gets into John Lennon airport at ten o’clock in the morning. One of his henchmen’s picking him up. He’ll be here between ten-thirty and eleven.”
I could do it. I was going home.
* * *
The coach enters the Mersey Tunnel and we leave Liverpool behind. To pass the time I contemplate my calculations of Mortimer’s actions when he discovers that I’ve fled. He’ll examine the CCTV footage from the security entrance. My disguise will delay him but not for long. He’ll pass details of my disguise to the thugs. They’ll question every taxi driver, and they’ll board every train that left Liverpool after my disappearance. He’ll alert Customs officers at the airports in case I’ve acquired a false passport. He’ll check The Dublin ferry that leaves Liverpool at midday, and then He’ll shunt the minions off to the ports at Southampton and Dover in case I try to cross the North Sea or the English Channel. After failing to locate me he’ll assume that I’ve hitch-hiked and he’ll pass the CCTV footage to the television news teams, telling them I’m a runaway with learning difficulties. Their news item will urge drivers to watch out for me. Fortunately, there’s no TV on the coach, and so my fellow passengers won’t see it. He won’t bother with National Express, believing that speed would be my main priority, and that would rule it out. It will be some hours before his search is complete. Only then will it occur to him that I might have bluffed him and sailed for Dublin from Holyhead. I hope that by that time I’ll already be crossing the Irish Sea.
The coach arrives at the ferry terminal. In the Ladies toilet I change my outfit and replace my blond wig with an auburn one. If I encounter anyone who saw me on TV they won’t recognise me now. I buy a one-way ticket to Dublin and I board the ferry. When he finds that the ship has sailed, the bird has flown, and any other clichés have been accomplished, he’ll fly to Dublin in his private plane and be waiting for me. He doesn’t know that I have a date. My freedom depends upon who’ll reach me first, Mortimer or the pilot, and I have insufficient data to make an accurate calculation of which it will be.
Two hours have passed since we left Holyhead. The ferry has docked. Uniformed thugs are standing behind a barrier, scrutinising each passenger that disembarks. Mortimer is with them. They are no more than three metres away from me as I step ashore. I call the teleportation pilot and our minds touch. Mortimer sees me, and points. The thugs leap over the barrier and lunge. My temples throb. Fear paralyses me. The pilot appears in his true form, wraps his tentacles around my waist, and takes me home.
SIMILON
by Liam North
I first laid eyes on him at a roadside flea market. There would be blood and butchery later, plenty of it. When everything went to hell I’d find him standing at the center of the storm with a mangled body at his feet and a dripping hammer in his fist. He tore a hole in my very dull and predictable life. After he appeared nothing would ever be the same.
It wasn’t like that when I first saw him. He seemed harmless, almost pathetic. And I was oblivious, sweaty hot and consumed with my own problems. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t see it coming. No one could have, really. But that’s cold comfort now.
It was late summer at the time. I remember the dust and the heat were particularly bad that year. Dogtown’s unpaved roads and near absence of cultivation didn’t help much. The dirty little settlement was situated at the foot of the endless Bitter Sands Range, an ancient silt-choked seabed. A living ocean had once occupied the space. At its height it covered a third to two-thirds of the planetary surface. But that had been a long time ago, and a much better time.
Bellepheron was dry, dry and getting drier. I’ve never believed the sole rationale for colonizing a world should be simply that it possesses an oxygen atmosphere, which is apparently what the Continuum government believes. They’ve carted human beings off to some real hellholes, all the while urging them to pitch in and suck it up for Mother Earth.
I’m not clear on why the species needs to occupy a thousand different worlds. There is plenty of anecdotal evidence that some serious, powerful players once existed in this region of the galaxy, the bottleneck Orion arm. We’re spreading through it like kudzu, but they preceded us by a hundred million years. Funny thing though; there is no indication that they gave a flip about the planets we are so hot to possess. There isn’t the slightest hint that they settled any of the backwoods shit-pots we call home sweet home. I’ll give it to us for being eager, but I’ll forever question our real intelligence.
Bellepheron’s towns were all connected
by a single road like knots on a rope. The winding route passed through some lonely and beautiful country as it meandered from miserable hamlet to run-down shantytown to squalid encampment and back again. These burgs all had the most whimsical and endearing names, like Plumdale, Harbortown and Millwood. But they were just terrible places where huddles of humanity gathered in run-down buildings to stick it out because they had nowhere else to go.
On my days off I liked to drive the entire route. I’m a teacher. I’m also a childless widow so I feel no particular pressure to stay home. Dogtown was no better or more attractive than any other settlement. It was just larger. There were more people, fewer supplies, longer lines and crime, lots of stupid crime.
I wasn’t escaping anything by driving. I was just driving. I was lonely. I felt I needed a hobby. I think everyone should have one. Driving the Damascus Road was mine. You might assume it was named after the legendary Biblical route where Saul was struck down by God and woke a better man. You would be wrong. It is not a place of miracles. It is a narrow strip of sun-beaten tar running through a boring wasteland like it had someplace important to go. It was named for Pieter Damascus who owned the Damascus Interstellar Construction Company, the same outfit that had laid the road and built the towns.
Pieter hailed from the city of Damascus on Autumnus. The city received its name from his ancestors, who really liked naming things after themselves. Pieter was a chip off the old block. There wasn’t a world he had worked on where something wasn’t named Damascus. I find his hubris really annoying. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so curious and determined to know the truth about things. I could have lived with the Bible story. It does me no good to be irritated by Pieter Damascus.
The road between Westbury Farm and Maypark is usually teeming with vegetable stands and bric-a-brac vendors. Westbury is the only agricultural community on Bellepheron and it produces far more food than necessary to feed a hundred thousand planetary residents. Some of it goes into government storage. Most is packaged and sold at the markets and the rest is left to the farmers to dispose of as they see fit. While the government officially discourages black market zucchini, it also recognizes that extra cash keeps the few people who grow things happy. Unhappy farmers might stop growing things. Without them, the entire teetering economy would come crashing down in a day or so.