Mothership Zeta issue 1, volume 1

by Escape Artists, Inc.

  A collective gasp does.

  That’s when I see Nanavi, hands held up at the ready, one eye closed and the other squinting, waiting for the splash. But instead, Kedo’s globules, no longer globules now but amorphous shining things hanging in the air, are paused in front of her. Held up by her. In her control. Waiting for her command.

  And as if reading an ordained script, Nanavi swipes her fingers in an imitation of Kedo’s flick. The water responds, but not just the blobs hanging in the air. The fountain-pond. The speckles in the grass. The hecking dew, bless my word. In that brief flick, the whole world lifts—the pond rises to double my height—and then collapses in a big, wet, heavy splash.

  “She’s...” someone whispers.

  And commotion ensues.

  It’s dark outside. In the front yard, there are no children. Everything is wet, because nobody bothered to clean up, the parents more concerned about whisking their children away from “that cursed couple.” The Aleles were the only ones who lingered even for a moment, but only for Frank Alele to summon all the water from his daughter’s dress and hair, while Eje Alele warmed her shivering daughter by running heat-reddened palms around her tiny frame. The way the three huddled and looked up to the house and spoke in low tones, I wasn’t surprised not to see them there the next time I looked.

  The air outside is cold and still, and only the tiny dark patches in the grass are any sort of indicator as to what might’ve happened here hours earlier. A night bird makes a sound in the distance.

  In the living, it is our turn to huddle. Udazi and I sit in the longer armchair, across the wooden table and opposite an Administrator from the Ministry of Psionics. This one is a long-faced man in round glasses, bearded, who introduced himself as Admin Kess Izosa. His face is as flat and unreadable as that pig of a man, the Minister for Psionics himself. Do they train them all to be like this?

  “We start her on the regimens immediately.” There is no feeling in his voice, a flat matter-of-fact thing. “Kundalini with the very next admission.” He nods to his briefcase. “As for the Obviator, I brought one with me.”

  I look to Udazi in astonishment, and he’s focused on the Administrator, careful not to meet my eyes. Something tells me that’s my cue to let out my annoyance, so I go ahead and do so.

  “Is that what you’re calling it now? In my time, we just knew it as a Manacle.”

  Izosa’s clear brown eyes behind his glasses meet mine. He’s unmoved.

  “That would imply you were in a manner of imprisonment, madam.”

  “Wasn’t I? Aren’t we?”

  His eyes flick and shift, refocusing on mine.

  “Fire is dangerous by form, Mrs Okuta, unlike water. Even the tiniest of its psionic energies cannot be allowed to thrive until it is within control.”

  “So, it’s our pyro psions, then? Isn’t that what you’re after?”

  He pauses. “Obviously.”

  “I would think so,” I say, then sit up to make the next statement sound. “That’s why I’m curious as to why Nanavi needs a Manacle.”

  “Obviator,” he corrects.

  “Whatever. She’s hydro-psionic. Like the boys.”

  He nods. “Exactly.”

  “So.” I fold my hands.

  His eyes stay on me. “You saw what she did today. You were there.”

  “Yes,” I retort. “I saw what she did. I also saw what Kedo did. I don’t see two Manacles.”

  “Obviators,” he corrects again. “She’s different. She’s… raw.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “So? You’re an Admin. I’m sure you’ve seen many young, raw hydro-psionics.”

  “Maybe,” he replies. “Except they’re all boys in training.”

  I nod my head in triumph. “Boys.” The way I say the word, I might’ve as well hurled spittle in his face. “So it’s not that she’s raw or dangerous. She deserves to be shut down because she’s a girl.”

  He takes a minute to consider his response carefully. When it comes, it’s weighted as expected.

  “Anomaly,” he says, fishing in his briefcase. “Not that she’s a girl. She’s an anomaly.”

  He retrieves the silver bracelet and places it on the table, all receptors on its underside gleaming in the low-energy lighting. When he lifts his face, I swear I see zero trace of humanity there.

  “Anomalies,” he says, “aren’t they meant to be…fixed?”

  He rises before I can reply, readies his briefcase, nods to me, and heads for the door. Udazi follows to lock it behind him. When the door clicks, Udazi lingers there for a moment, then turns to look at me with a heavy sigh. My husband doesn’t talk much, but I learnt to read the signs a long while back.

  “I know, I know,” I say, rising to pick up the bracelet. “I know. We all have our place.”

  Nanavi is under sheets, still unrecovered from the strong Valerian root supplement administered to her after the afternoon episode. Her baby fat is spread across the bed in a haphazard manner in satisfied sleep, a manifestation of the freedom her body now relishes.

  The thought that runs through my head as I sit on the edge of the bed is, why now? Had it been dormant, perhaps? Maybe. Maybe because she’d never felt threatened before. This was the first proper attack on her psion. Was it enough to awaken the sleeping giant? I don’t know. But as I sit here now, I wish it had picked a better time. Like before she had to wear a strip of gray paper.

  I lift her chubby wrist and reluctantly place the Manacle around it, clicking it shut to engage the receptors. There’s a tiny whirring sound, as the thing settles itself into her pores, into her body. Into her soul, I think.

  I’m not surprised she stirs, albeit dreamily. The bracelet’s receptors are strong like that. What I don’t expect is how she lifts her arm, peers at the shiny silver bracelet through slits, and actually smiles. One that stretches her lips fully wide, reflects deep in her eyes and reaches deep into her spirit. Finally, it seems to say. Finally.

  I blink back the tears that aim for my eyes, and head for the kitchen, remembering the half-done popcorn. I go in and rest my two palms on the aluminum pot. Then I breathe deep and let out the tiniest of my psions, stream by stream, just enough until the pot warms up and I hear the faint crackle of the corn.

  All the while, I’m looking out the jalousie window, thinking about Nana. Thinking about how she finally found her place. Her place. Our place.

  Suyi Davies Okungbowa lives in Lagos, Nigeria and writes suspense and speculative fiction. He has published in Jungle Jim, Omenana, The Kalahari Review, and The Naked Convos. His flash story “Invisible Scars” was longlisted for the inaugural Etisalat Prize for Flash Fiction in 2013. He is currently writing his first novel, an academic crime-thriller set in the University of Benin in Nigeria. Between reading and writing, Suyi works in Assurance and plays piano, guitar, and FIFA 16. He lives on the web at suyidavies.wordpress.com and on Twitter at @IAmSuyiDavies.

  /review

  My very first MFA workshop had a bona fide published comics author in it—Adam Gallardo, Creator of 100 Girls. I did not expect that he would also be kind, soft spoken, extremely intelligent, and possess an incredible sense of humor. I thank the lucky draw that put me in Adam’s critique group, and I am excited to share this talented author’s insights on what’s new in graphic fiction with you.

  —Karen Bovenmyer, Nonfiction Editor

  Favorite 2014-2015 Graphic Novels

  Nimona; Finder: Third World; Ms. Marvel, Volume 1: No Normal; Trees; the upcoming Star Wars, Volume 1: Skywalker Strikes; Lady Killer.

  by Adam Gallardo

  More good comics are being produced now than any time I can remember, and I’ve been in comics longer than I’d care to admit. As more and more people read comics, more and more publishers are going to try to cater to that new readership. We’re finally seeing the range of subject matters and the variety
of creators we’ve been promised for so long. While superheroes still dominate, other genres are gaining ground in the market. Below are a few of my favorites from the past twelve months—and a couple of books I’m looking forward to.

  Nimona (HarperTeen / Noelle Stevenson / May 2015)

  This collection, which started life as a web comic, is completely fresh and surprising. Written and drawn by Noelle Stevenson, Nimona reveals itself to the reader slowly, which is not to say that the story is slow, only that the reader isn’t beaten over the head with its themes. Nimona, a young woman with the ability to shape-shift, lives in a world where science and magic co-exist and an almost Orwellian government watches over all. She’s gotten it into her head that she wants to be a super villain and so apprentices herself to Lord Blackheart, the bane of the government’s existence. But nothing and no one in Nimona is only what they seem at first meeting. Stevenson delivers a world and characters that are refreshingly complex. The story is wrapped up at the end of the volume with no promise of more to come. And that’s a shame; the world of Nimona is one in which I’d gladly spend more time.

  Finder: Third World (Dark Horse Comics / Carla Speed McNeil / September 2014)

  For nearly twenty years, Carla Speed McNeil has been producing what may be the finest science fiction comic currently in existence (sorry, fans of Saga). Finder is the story of an entire society told through the life of Jaeger, a man set apart from it, and through the lives of those he touches. Set in a far future Earth that has been seriously depopulated, Jaeger moves through all levels of society as he struggles to come to terms with his twin desires—to be apart and a part of that very society. The sprawling nature of the comic defies easy encapsulation, especially given the space available here, but suffice to say that Finder is unique in the world of comics for the types of stories it tells, the types of characters it follows, and the sweeping emotions and visuals it employs. This volume, which was originally serialized in Dark Horse Presents, and produced in color—a first for this comic—tells a stand-alone story of Jaeger truly living outside the walled cities of the world. McNeil is both writer and illustrator here, with help from colorists Bill Mudron and Jenn Manley Lee, and she seems to have perfected the cartoonists art, words and pictures perfectly complimenting one another.

  Ms. Marvel, Volume 1: No Normal (Marvel Comics / G. Willow Wilson, Adrian Alphona / April 2015)

  G. Willow Wilson’s Ms. Marvel is a rare thing: a superhero comic that makes me care about the main character and the world she inhabits. The fact that it does this while staying firmly rooted in the Marvel Universe feels like a minor miracle. Ms. Marvel in this case is Kamala Khan, a teenage girl living in Jersey City. She’s trying to navigate life with Muslim parents whom she thinks are too strict while wanting to take part in what she sees as mainstream life with her friends. On top of this, Kamala is exposed to a strange mist which gives her super powers—powers which she sometimes can’t control. One of the joys of this comic is the casual way so many of the elements are handled. Tension between Kamala and her non-Muslim friends and between Kamala and her strict parents are given the same weight as her struggling with her new-found powers, which is to say they’re seen as a nuisance which needs to be dealt with. This trope isn’t new, certainly, but it’s handled with such aplomb by Wilson that it feels fresh. And she’s aided in this effort by Adrian Alphona, whose fluid art and relaxed style perfectly capture a young woman trying to navigate between worlds. Please, may all superhero comics find a way to inject this sort of life into the genre.

  Trees (Image Comics / Warren Ellis, Jason Howard / February 2015)

  British comics writer Warren Ellis has long been one of the medium’s biggest thinkers. In comics such as Global Frequency, Transmetropolitan, and Planetary, he’s explored the ways that technology changes us as we use it to change the world around us. In Trees the catalytic factor comes from without rather than within. It asks what would happen if aliens came to Earth, and what if they had no interest in us, but, rather, sat mutely observing? The story begins ten years after the aliens, called Trees, planted themselves all over the planet. We follow several individuals from many walks of life and in different countries as they live out their lives under the shadows of these hulking alien monoliths. Artist Jason Howard brings each story and character and setting to life and with his expressive line work. The two artists evoke a great number of questions without resolving many of them in this opening volume, but they do so in such a way that leaves the reader wanting to read more and to explore this familiar yet altered world further.

  What I’m looking forward to:

  Star Wars, Volume 1: Skywalker Strikes (Marvel Comics / Jason Aaron, John Cassaday, Laura Martin / October 2015)

  This is, perhaps, a perverse selection given that, full disclosure, I wrote a Star Wars comic for Dark Horse Comics and generally disliked what Marvel did with the property the first time they had it. That was several editorial regimes ago, however, and I’m interested to see what they do with it this time around. The writer/artist teams they’ve announced are solid, and, provided they stay away from any six-foot-tall, green, humanoid rabbits, things should be okay.

  Lady Killer (Dark Horse Comics / Jamie S. Rich, Joelle Jones / September 2015)

  This story of a picture-perfect housewife who also happens to be a ruthless killer-for-hire promises to deliver a smart lesson in feminism wrapped in a satisfying tale. Writer Rich (It Girl & the Atomics and Madame Frankenstein) knows his way around a female-centric story, and his partner, Jones, is an accomplished artist who can deliver the goods. I have high hopes for this title.

  Adam Gallardo writes comics (Star Wars: Infinities, Return of the Jedi and 100 Girls, among others) and novels (Zomburbia and Zombified, so far). He lives in western Oregon with his family. He’s looking forward to the rain coming back this winter. If there are any books you’d like to recommend to him, please email him at adamkreutzgallardo@gmail.com.

  Photo by William Bragg.

  /fiction

  If you’re a parent of a middle-school aged kid, then the next time they complain about their life, you may want to show them this. Poor Tekeli-li has it worse than we remember, but Kevin Wetmore lets him find a way out of the bind that his little brother and Cthulhu have put him in.

  Tales of a Fourth Grade Shoggoth

  (by beloved children’s author H.P. Lovecraft,

  the author of Are You There, Azathoth? It’s Me, Margaret)

  by Kevin Wetmore

  I won “C’thulhu” at Harley Warren’s birthday party. Everyone else got a goldfish, and at first I felt bad that I didn’t get one, but I guessed the correct number of pseudopods on the thing in the basement (it was seventeen!) and so Mrs. Warren announced, “Randall Pickman Whatley came closest to the actual number of pseudopods and so he wins the grand prize,” and then handed me a small glass bowl with a tiny castle inside with strange non-Euclidean geometry. Inside the castle I could see two eyes and some tentacles.

  “It’s an evil baby octopus!” she cooed. All the other guys in my fourth grade class were jealous, and looked at their goldfish like it was no longer anything special. For a moment I knew what it was like to be one of the cool kids in school. But I knew it wasn’t going to last. My little brother would probably do something to ruin it.

  My little brother’s name is Wilbur Ezekiel Whatley IV, but only my mother calls him that and only when she’s mad at him. Everybody else just calls him “Fhtagn” because it’s easier to pronounce, especially for him. Everybody knows my father, Old “Wizard” Whatley. He’s really well-known in town and everybody either likes him or is afraid of him. Sometimes I think he’s disappointed that I’m his son. I liked it when it was just me, my mom, and my dad, but then they had to give me a little brother.

  My mom is crazy. I know everybody thinks their mom is crazy, but mine really is. Sometimes she stares off into space and sometimes she shrieks a lot or looks at Fhtagn and starts to g
iggle and weep at the same time. Like when he brings home half a dog carcass and just leaves it in the front hall. I mean she always tells us to clean up after ourselves and she’s always talking about keeping the house neat, but sometimes Fhtagn just leaves carcasses around and it drives her crazy.

  At a neighborhood Walpurgisnacht party a few years back, while the bonfire was being lit, I heard a neighbor tell another neighbor that my mom was actually my father’s daughter, but that is crazy. Why would she be my mom if she was also his kid and why would my father want to marry his daughter and why would she want to marry her dad? I knew it didn’t make any sense. Still, last year in third grade they told us we had to make a family tree, but when I went home and asked my mom, she just locked me in the basement for a week and I heard her crying a lot. So like I said, my mom is crazy.

  I don’t think my mom is disappointed in me like my father is, but she also spends a lot more time taking care of Fhtagn than she does with me. I mean, I know he’s only two and it’s not that I need my mom to take care of me. I’m already ten, and although I’m not as tall or big as Fhtagn, I’m not a baby like he is. I can’t help that I’m afraid of swimming. I just don’t like it. I must be the only kid in Innsmouth who doesn’t like the water. Every year, my father rows us out to Devil’s Reef and pushes us in the water and every year I scream until my mother says, “Oh, Wilbur, can’t you see he’s not ready yet?” and pulls me out. Last year, for the first time, he pushed Fhtagn in. Fhtagn, of course, just floundered around in circles for a minute and then moved his pseudopods so that he dove deep and then began moving towards the land, singing and giggling the whole way. I hated him. My father was so proud. “Look at him,” he said to my Mom. “Fhtagn is already swimming like a Marsh!” And he rowed furiously to keep up with my stupid brother.