Mothership Zeta issue 1, volume 1

by Escape Artists, Inc.

  Don’t dwell on the hydraulics but do embrace the messiness. Masters and Johnson spent their entire careers documenting the physiological changes that take place during arousal and orgasm—so writers don’t have to. Yes, the blood pounds causing various blushings and swellings. There can be sweat and at some point precious bodily fluids may be exchanged. But describing these things in detail in the cause of verisimilitude is a mistake. If it’s realism you’re after, how about a nod toward how awkward sex can sometimes be? The rocking and rolling and bumping against one another. Or the classic struggle to get out of those pesky clothes. “He didn’t remember the specifics, but he did remember the way his pants caught on his feet, how he had to hop around on one leg to dislodge them. He was reminded of that moment every time he had sex afterward.” Bonnie does mention fluids, but uses them to show character. “… the spirit hovered right above the wet spot. After making love Nolan had offered to sleep on it, but he’d rolled off and away from Wendi as the urge to sleep dry took over.”

  Don’t describe orgasms—do concentrate on foreplay. Your orgasm is your own; nobody knows what it’s like. I’ve never read a description of one that wasn’t a) wrong or b) silly. Or both! All the interesting character stuff happens before the climactic moment. There are multiple orgasms in this story, but Bonnie saves the sexiest scene for the last:

  “From the bag he pulled a bright purple hairdryer. Wendi laughed and made a lewd gesture with her hips. They ran into the bedroom, the hairdryer trailing behind them. They did it with the hairdryer between them, waiting, already plugged in. They turned it on and held the heat on each other’s bellies. They laughed until it burned. They let the noise cover their words, not the words Nolan had always imagined sex would be full of, but different words, better words because they were true—ow, wait, oh, don’t you dare come I’m not ready yet.”

  But these don’ts and dos aside, the most important question for readers to ask when encountering sex in a story is this: Is the sex about something more than the sex? I suppose it’s possible in real life to have meaningless sex, but not in fiction. Every act, but especially this most characteristic of acts, needs to be filled with meaning—to overflowing, if possible. Writers shouldn’t send characters into one another’s arms unless there is more going on than mutual lust. Here our main characters, Nolan and Wendi, are having personal problems that appear to have nothing to do with their enthusiastic sex lives. But the fantastical aftermath of their lovemaking makes it clear that the resolution of their individual problems will have to take place in the bedroom and must arise out of the strengths they derive from their loving relationship. This is why Bonnie’s wry, ingenious, and sexy ending works.

  Writing about sex is truly fraught, but “Sleeping With Spirits” shows one way it can be done.

  James Patrick Kelly has won the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus awards; his work has been translated into seventeen languages. He’s on the faculty of the Stonecoast Creative Writing MFA Program at the University of Southern Maine where he had the honor of teaching two of the three editors of Mothership Zeta. Committed internet stalkers will have no trouble discovering which two.

  /review

  Series Review:

  Amelia Peabody, Egyptologist

  by Karen Bovenmyer

  Okay. I admit it. I am a binge reader. If I like the first few books in a series, I have to obsessively read all of them in order immediately. A fellow fannish friend recommended reading Elizabeth Peters’ Amelia Peabody books, so I checked out the first one from the library and, now nineteen books later, I have consumed 25 years of carefully crafted 1890s-1920s archaeological mystery novels over the last five months.

  I had fun with these books, though they were ethically problematic for me—I was often uncomfortable with what I felt were racist descriptions of a variety of non-white characters, particularly Arabic peoples. That feeling faded somewhat as I progressed through the books, I think because the main characters became less bigoted, and because I factored in the time in which they were published. But the undercurrent was always there. Was it satire of H. Rider Haggard’s Victorian-era adventure novels, as the wikipedia entry suggests, that gives the books this feel? I’m not sure. Nevertheless, the humor, discussions of parasols as weaponry, romantic subplots, and the light side of the Downton Abbey/Raiders of the Lost Ark/Lawrence of Arabia setting provided a popcorn-like escape from daily life.

  The author, Elizabeth Peters, AKA Egyptologist Barbara Mertz, Ph.D. (1927-2013) is an accomplished academic. The verisimilitude felt legit for the history of archaeology, personages of the time period, and early scientific method (at least, I think my anthropology and history professors would have been pleased). Moreover, the setting research also felt accurate and mapped to what I’ve been learning about the period though a familial obsession with the aforementioned Downton.

  This is all, of course, window-dressing, because the heart of the story is Amelia Peabody’s detectival skills, her struggle to be recognized as a professional in a time of sexism, her machinations of matchmaking tertiary characters, and her role as an action hero. If you’re a fan of steampunk parasol violence, this series is not to be missed.

  The only genre feature about this series is that it is mystery. There’s no magic or fantasy other than the suggestion of slightly prophetic dreams. Nevertheless, experiencing the cultural change, revolution, and evolution of the middle east before and during World War I was interesting, and I learned something almost in spite of giggling uncontrollably over the very wry wit of these books. I fell in love with the reckless Amelia “Lady Doctor”, her atheist and bull-like husband Emerson “Father of Curses” (the greatest archaeologist of this or any age), her son who goes by the sobriquet of Ramses “Brother of Demons” (whom we watch grow from a precocious boy into a spy worthy of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels) and his adopted sister, Nefret, the “Light of Egypt” (heiress, philanthropist, and surgeon).

  If you’re looking for something light, fun, and engaging that occasionally kicks you in the feels in a good way, check out the adventures of Amelia Peabody, Egyptologist.

  /fiction

  People have been making bargains with demons for centuries (in fiction, and possibly also in real life). But this time Malachai, Devourer of Miscreants and Usurper of Souls, is going to get more than he, uh, bargained for. “Bargain” is Sarah Gailey’s first pro sale, and we’re confident it won’t be the last.

  Bargain

  by Sarah Gailey

  Malachai loved his work. He loved wandering among the trappings of enormous wealth and influence, seeing the baubles that humans excreted to express their status. He especially loved watching those wealthy, influential mortals tremble before the might of his inescapable superiority.

  Malachai worked exclusively with those humans who had found themselves at the limit of how much power they could posses. They called him to bend the rules of time and space around their whims, so that they might be even more feared and loved by the other mortals. Their desires were predictable—money, knowledge, talent, authority. These were the kinds of people who hunted down ancient parchments with the Words of Invocation inscribed upon them. These were the kinds of people who did not concern their consciences with the compensation Malachai required for his services.

  They appreciated a bit of theatrical flair.

  So when he received the summons from dispatch, he responded with appropriate formality. Curling smoke, crackling lightning, the wailing of damned souls—a standard business-casual entrance. He waited for his cue, which was usually the sound of a man discovering terror for the first time in his comfortable life. Once that terror had peaked, Malachai would announce himself. Any sooner, and the human would get swept up in proceedings before their fear really set the tone. Thus, on this and all assignments, Malachai waited to hear the panic and the wailing and the what-have-I-wrought’s.

  He waited for quite some time.

  He
looked around, waving his hands to clear some of the lingering smoke—which was actually just high-quality steam. They never noticed the difference, and real smoke would have aggravated his asthma. The result was visually pleasing and left his suit wrinkle-free, but occasionally served to obscure a mortal who was too frightened to plead at the proper volume. Malachai arranged himself into a posture of menace and waited for the last of the steam to dissipate.

  There was nobody in the room.

  Malachai frowned in puzzlement. There were rooster-shaped salt and pepper shakers on a well-used round table, and a sign hung over the door that read “If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen!” This didn’t make sense. He didn’t do domestic calls.

  A massive brown Labrador lolloped around the corner, his tail waving frantically. Malachai narrowed his eyes and bared his fangs at the dog. He projected threatening thoughts, visions of Labradors being eaten by bigger, scarier dogs; visions of thunder and flooding and tigers pouncing on unsuspecting puppies; visions of the hounds of Hell shaking off their chains and storming the little kitchen in search of a mortal morsel.

  The dog smelled Malachai’s shoes—and, ignoring Malachai’s strenuous objection, also smelled Malachai’s crotch—with great interest. He wuffled to himself about the results and sat. His tail thumped on the linoleum.

  Malachai stared at the dog. Looked over his shoulder. Nobody there. Just him and the dog. He crouched in front of the beast and looked into the large, vacant brown eyes. First time for everything.

  “Did... uh, did you summon me?”

  The dog panted happily and continued thumping his tail.

  “I summoned you. He’s a dog. He can’t read Archaic Latin.” A woman walked into the kitchen. Malachai was not good at guessing mortal age, but his best estimate placed her at around... three hundred years old? She was upright and walking, but relied heavily on a dull aluminum cane. Her back was straight, and her eyes were clear, and Malachai assessed her as aware of her encroaching mortality, but not intimidated by it.

  Malachai drew himself to his fullest, most menacing height, and began billowing smoke (well, steam). He drew breath to begin his Terrible Introductions. The dog stood and nudged a cold, wet nose into Malachai’s hand.

  “Oh, go on and pet him, would you? He’s going to start pouting if you don’t. And enough with the special effects. We have a lot to discuss and not much time.”

  Malachai turned to the woman and allowed the fires of Hell to blaze behind his eyes. He hissed in a fashion he had picked up from a colleague with a uniquely crocodilian aspect.

  The dog whined softly and nudged at his hand again.

  The woman lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table and raised her eyebrows pointedly at Malachai. “Pet Baxter, and then let’s begin.”

  The hellfire and hissing hadn’t worked. There was only one explanation: this was a mistake. The woman was old for a mortal—if he recalled his training, humans started to peter out around three hundred and fifty years or so—and she had probably intended to place an order for a new pelvis or lawn furniture or something. She just didn’t realize who he was. It had never happened to him before, but it wasn’t unheard of—someone means to say “Operator, please connect me to Home Shopping Network customer support,” but they have a stutter, and what comes out instead is an Archaic Latin summoning of a Pestilent Creature.

  He turned off the theatrics, patted Baxter on the head, and smiled at the poor, foolish old woman. She did not smile back at him.

  “Ma’am. I think you got the wrong number.” No need to scare her. Malachai liked to startle the hubris out of mortals, but causing cardiac arrest in little old ladies gave him no particular satisfaction. He would approach this gently.

  “Oh?” A look of very mild concern crossed her brow. “Well, then, who are you?”

  Malachai was not used to delivering this next part without a certain amount of panache, but he tried to subdue his tone so as not to shock the woman too badly. Only a small rumble of thunder trickled out; he was proud of his restraint. “I am the Great and Ominous Malachai, Devourer of Miscreants, Archduke of Nightmares, Usurper of Souls. I am He Who Is Called Despair!”

  Her brow unfurrowed and she gave a satisfied nod. “It was you I wanted, all right. Please, take a seat. My name is Lydia. Would you like some tea? I have Lemon Zinger and Sleepytime.”

  The Archduke of Nightmares patted Baxter’s flank as his Lemon Zinger steeped.

  “Baxter is getting on in years, but he’s too dumb to realize it. Just like he’s too dumb to be afraid of you.” Lydia’s hands shook slightly as she lifted her own teacup. The teacup was misshapen and had “#1 Grandma” painted across the front in drippy glaze. “Or maybe he’s like me—too old to be afraid of you.”

  Baxter laid his head on Malachai’s knee and sighed with deep contentment; the Usurper of Souls tried to shove the dog away to no avail.

  Malachai felt awkward. He had always held a strong position during negotiations—he would arrive with smoke (steam), lightning, baying of hounds, etcetera, and then he would Speak his Title. The person who had summoned him would wet themselves or drop a glass or start gibbering tearfully, and then they would plead for mercy, and then they would offer the life of whatever chump they had available, and then the bargaining could begin. This woman did not seem to know the procedures. He fidgeted in his chair and scratched Baxter’s huge, blocky head.

  “So, then, Frail Mortal—”

  “Oh, please, no need to be so formal. Call me Lydia.”

  “...So, then, ah, Lydia. Ahem. Do You Know The Covenant Which You So Foolishly Invoke At Your Peril?” He rolled the ‘r’ in ‘peril’ to make up for the loss of ‘frail mortal.’

  “Oh, yes, Malachai. I know.”

  “What Foolish Mortal Have You Designated To Fulfill The Bargain?”

  “Myself.” Lydia folded her hands on the table with an air of finality.

  “And Where Is The Foolish Mortal—wait, what?”

  “I will pay.”

  Malachai retracted his claws enough to gently lay a hand on her wrist. “No, no, Lydia, I’m asking you who you’re going to sacrifice. Look, I really don’t think you get how this works—”

  Lydia looked at him coolly. “I understand quite well. You grant a request, and you take a soul. Well, I am making a request, and then you are going to grant it, and then you’ll take my soul as payment. This is not difficult to understand, dear.”

  Malachai shook his head. He was deeply relieved to find that this was not going to work. “I can’t bill you in arrears. Payment up front. Sorry, it’s policy. Nothing I can do about it.” He stood to leave. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Lydia rapped a gnarled knuckle sharply on the wooden tabletop. “Sit down, young man, we are not finished here.”

  Malachai brushed dog fur off of his suit pants. “Look, lady, I can’t help you, I’m s—”

  “Sit Ye Down, Pestilent Creature.” Her words were imbued with the Power of The Summoner. Malachai eased back into the chair. The Power of The Summoner had not been wielded against him in some time; he thought the practice had died out long ago. Baxter returned his head to Malachai’s lap and drooled agreeably on his knee.

  “Now.” The old woman pursed her lips at the demon. “I know the bargain. I’m not stupid, and it’s not complicated. I don’t need to be alive for my request to be granted.”

  Malachai’s front two sets of ears perked in spite of his intent to sulk. So she did know the procedures. And the technicalities. Lydia noticed his interest and continued with greater confidence.

  “I want you to save my wife. She has cancer, and she is going to die, and I want you to make it so that she lives.”

  Heaviness settled over the room. Mortals and their cancer. They were always getting cancer. Tears shimmered briefly in Lydia’s eyes; Malachai looked at Baxter, giving the morta
l a moment to collect herself. He rubbed the dog’s velvet ears.

  “So, you want me to save her, and take you?” He did not lift his gaze from the top of Baxter’s head. Lydia sniffed delicately.

  “Yes. I want you to make her young and healthy again. Not too young, mind you. She was happiest at around... thirty-five. I remember because it was our tenth anniversary, and she turned to me, and she said, ‘This is the best I’ve ever felt.’ And we laughed, because you know, we were supposed to be these ‘middle-aged’ women now, and, and—” she broke off and put a hand over her eyes. Malachai was embarrassed for her. Fear displays he could handle, but this was out of his wheelhouse. Hoping to escape her tears, he crouched on the floor to rub Baxter’s belly. The dog made a deep groan like the timbers of an old ship settling.

  Lydia laughed as she patted her cheeks with a napkin. “That’s a good sound, from him.”

  Before he could stop himself, Malachai laughed, too. “I know. We have some hounds at HQ that make the same noise when we feed them thieves’ souls.”