IGMS Issue 8

by IGMS

  Morgan had already turned to go back inside the shuttle, when he heard Wiggin's voice calling to him. "Admiral Morgan! I don't think the people here have understood what you have done for us all, and they need to hear it."

  Since Morgan had the words of Graff's and Wuri's letter fresh in his mind, he could not help but hear irony and bad intent in Wiggin's words. He almost decided to keep moving back into the shuttle, as if he hadn't heard the boy.

  But the boy was the governor, and Morgan had his own command to think about. If he ignored the boy now, it would look to his own men like an acknowledgment of defeat -- and a rather cowardly one at that. So, to preserve his own position of respect, he turned to hear what the boy had to say.

  "Thank you, sir, for bringing us all safely here. Not just me, but the colonists who will join with the original settlers and native-born of this world. You have retied the links between the home of the human race and these far-flung children of the species."

  Then Wiggin turned back to the colonists. "Admiral Morgan and his crew and these marines you see here did not come to fight a war and save the human race, and none of them will die at the hands of our enemies. But they made one great sacrifice that is identical to one made by the original settlers here. They cut themselves loose from all that they knew and all that they loved and cast themselves out into space and time to find a new life among the stars. And every new colonist on that ship has given up everything they had, betting on their new life here among you."

  The colonists spontaneously began applauding, a few at first, but soon all of them, and then cheering -- for Admiral Morgan, for the marines, for the unmet colonists still on the ship.

  And the Wiggin boy, damn him, was saluting. Morgan had no choice but to return the salute and accept the gratitude and respect of the colonists as a gift from him.

  Then Wiggin strode toward the shuttle -- but not to say anything more to Morgan. Instead, he walked toward the commander of the marine squad and called out to him by name. Had the boy learned the names of all of Morgan's crew and marines as well?

  "I want you to meet your counterpart," Wiggin said loudly. "The man who commanded the marines with the original expedition." He led him to an old man, and they saluted each other, and in a few moments the whole place was chaotic with marines being swarmed by old men and women and young ones as well.

  Morgan knew now that little of what Wiggin had done was really about him. Yes, he had to make sure Morgan knew his place. He accomplished that in the first minute, when he distracted Morgan with the letter while he showed that he knew all the original settlers by name, and acted -- with justification -- as the commander of veterans meeting with them forty-one years after their great victory.

  But Wiggin's main purpose was to shape the attitude that this community would have toward Morgan, toward the marines, toward the starship's crew, and, most important, toward the new colonists. He brought them together with a knowledge of their common sacrifice.

  And the kid claimed that he didn't like making speeches. What a liar. He said exactly what needed saying. Next to him, Morgan was a novice. No, a fumbling incompetent.

  Morgan made his way back inside the shuttle, pausing only to tell the waiting officers that Governor Wiggin would be giving them their orders about unloading the cargo.

  Then he went to the bathroom, tore the letter into tiny pieces, chewed them into pulp, and spat the wad into the toilet. The taste of paper and ink nauseated him, and he retched a couple of times before he got control of himself.

  Then he went into his communications center and had lunch. He was still eating it when a lieutenant commander supervised a couple of the natives in bringing in a fine mess of fresh fruits and vegetables, just as Wiggin had predicted. It was delicious, and afterward, Morgan napped until one of his aides woke him to tell him the unloading was finished, they had taken aboard a vast supply of excellent foodstuffs and fresh water, and they were about to take off to return to the ship.

  "The Wiggin boy will make a fine governor, don't you think?" Morgan said.

  "Yes, sir, I believe so, sir," said the aide.

  "And to think I imagined that he might need help from me to get started." Morgan laughed. "Well, I have a ship to run. Let's get back to it!"

  Laws and Sausages

  by David Lubar

  Artwork by Lance Card

  * * *

  My dad likes to say there are two things people should never see being made -- laws and sausages. I guess that means it can get pretty ugly when people are making laws, like in congress or at the school board. Dad took me to a school board meeting once, when they were fighting about whether to keep a certain book in the library. Let me tell you -- it got pretty ugly. These parents who had never even read the book were shouting about how bad it was because it had a word in it that I hear on the school bus all the time. Heck, I've heard a lot of parents use that word, too.

  But this isn't about laws. See, most of the time when Dad shares that quote, it's right before we eat sausages. That got me thinking. What do they put in those things? With a whole piece of meat like a steak or spare ribs, I know exactly what it was before it got sliced up and wrapped in plastic. Even with hamburger, you can sort of see that it started out as meat. But sausages? Who knows. I guess it doesn't matter. Whatever is in there, they taste good -- that's for sure.

  I didn't think I'd ever get a chance to find out. But then our class took a field trip to the Wexler Museum of Traditional Arts and Crafts. Yawn. Huge yawn. Arty-crafty-yawn. When I got off the bus, I noticed that the Wexler Museum was right next door to Philo's Phantastic Sausages.

  Bingo. Or maybe I should say, how phortunate.

  I ducked out of the line when we went into the museum. That was easy to do because we were with Mr. Exmire and Ms. Grunbalther, and they were always flirting with each other. Which reminds me of a third thing nobody should ever see being made -- Exmire and Grunbalther making meaningful glances at each other. Wretch.

  So while these two fine adults educators were leading my eager classmates into a hall filled with painted crockery, ceramic tea pots, and fascinating textiles, I ducked around the other side of the bus and slunk off toward Philo's Phantastic Sausages in search of wisdom and enlightenment.

  Philo's was in an old two-story building made of red bricks. There weren't any windows. I walked around back and spotted a couple of those big metal doors where they load trucks. But they were shut. I found another door in front. I've learned that it's not hard to walk into any place if I pretend I belong there. I figured that if I ran into anyone, I'd just say, "Got a message for Dad," and keep walking.

  Luck was with me. When I went in, there wasn't anybody up front. I guess there aren't a lot of people who'd stroll in and buy a ton of sausage, so they didn't need a receptionist. The area was pretty small, but there was a door at the back of the room. It led to a hallway that ended at a flight of stairs. I climbed up the stairs, pushed open the door at the top, and stepped onto a small metal walkway high above the factory floor.

  Cold air washed over me and I shivered.

  Below me, a half dozen workers dressed in white butcher's coats were unloading large bins with shovels and tossing the contents onto a conveyor belt.

  What I saw made my stomach lurch like it wanted to leap out of my body. Who would have believed it? They were shoveling the worst stuff imaginable out of the bins. This was truly gross. The belt was loaded with broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, and brussels sprouts. Cabbages and lettuce rolled off the shovels, along with eggplants and artichokes.

  "No way. . ." I whispered. This couldn't be the whole process. I knew there was more to sausages than a bunch of vegetables. I couldn't imagine any possible way that vegetables could be made to taste that good. The catwalk ran all the way around the room to a door on the opposite wall. I had to see where the conveyor went.

  I stepped into the next room. The belt stopped just a few feet past the entrance. It delivered its load of vegetables into the wi
de-open mouth of a huge creature. The animal -- if that's what it was -- filled the length of the room. It was lying on the floor like a giant worm, with a gaping mouth at one end. From its sides drooped dozens of short legs that looked almost like flippers. It had no eyes.

  It swallowed all that the conveyor belt could offer. The sound of its chewing was louder than the crash of waves during a tropical storm, and definitely as wet. I watched as the creature ate and swelled, until it's bloated body rose to just below the height of the catwalk, reaching a beam that ran across the room beneath my feet. A large, red switch jutted from below the center of the beam. I held my breath as the taught gray flesh pressed against the button.

  A bell rang. I could barely hear it above the chomping. Dozens of workers, dressed in white butcher's coats, rushed into the room, each one carrying a long metal tube. One end of the tubes was pointed. Clear, floppy tendrils trailed from the other end. I realized the tendrils were sausage casings.

  A second bell rang. All at once, like sailors harpooning a whale, the men thrust their tubes deep into the body of the creature. I suspect it might not even have noticed. It certainly didn't care enough to stop chewing. At each wound, something rushed out from within, filling the casings. In a moment, the men had harvested their sausages, and the creature had shrunk down to a size which, though still huge, was no longer swollen to the bursting point.

  I'd seen enough. More than enough. My mind tried to chew what I'd just witnessed, but couldn't seem to swallow it. I went back to the stairs and raced out of the building. The class was just returning to the bus. As I blended in with the crowd and took my seat, I envied them their afternoon spent viewing arts and crafts that wouldn't haunt their dreams.

  That night, my mother made sausages for dinner. I stared at my plate. There it lay, amidst the potatoes and onions and peppers -- a large, meaty sausage, stuffed to bursting inside it's transparent wrapper. I closed my eyes and vowed that I would never eat it. In my mind, I saw the factory again, with that creature eating endlessly. I heard the sound of it chewing and saw the men thrusting their tubes into its swollen sides.

  Chewing. Swallowing. Mindlessly chewing whatever it was fed.

  Warmth flooded my mouth. I opened my eyes. To my horror, I saw a sausage on my fork. The severed, open end dripped an amber-colored grease. In my mouth, I could taste the remains of the hunk I had mindlessly bitten, chewed, and swallowed.

  "Another?" my mother asked.

  "Yes, please," I said. I closed my eyes and took a large bite.

  Zero Tolerance Meets the Alien Death Ray

  by David Lubar

  Artwork by Lance Card

  * * *

  My Uncle Shubert was passing through town, and had stopped at our house for a couple days. He's pretty cool for an adult. He takes me places and never treats me like a kid. As he was packing up his suitcase, I noticed a silvery tube on his bed.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Alien death ray," he said.

  I checked his face to see if he was kidding. It was hard to tell. "Do you mean it's a ray that aliens use to kill people, or is it a ray that kills aliens?"

  He shrugged. "Not sure. The guy who sold it to me wasn't very clear. But I liked the looks of it, and the price was right, so I bought it. Do you want it?"

  "For real?"

  "Yup."

  "For keeps?"

  "Definitely. It's all yours."

  "Awesome!" I grabbed the tube and took a close look. It fit nicely in my hand, though it was heavier than I'd expected. It was solid at one end, and hollow at the other, with a single clear glass button near the solid end. I pointed the tube out the window and pushed the button. Nothing happened.

  "Maybe it needs batteries," I said.

  "Maybe it only shoots aliens," he said. "Or maybe only aliens can shoot it."

  "Either way, thanks."

  "Sure. That's what uncles are for."

  I took the alien death ray with me to school the next day. I showed it to my friend, Veejay, as soon as I got to class.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "Alien death ray," I told him.

  Before he could say another word, a hand swooped down over my shoulder and snatched the tube away. "Young man, you are in a lot of trouble," my teacher, Mrs. Peswitch, said. "You know we have a zero-tolerance policy about weapons."

  "But . . ." I tried to protest that it wasn't a real weapon, but she yanked my arm hard enough to pull me off my feet, and dragged me down the hall. The whole time, she kept muttering about all the "young, violent hooligans who were wrecking the school."

  The next thing I knew, I was in the Principal Mabler's office. "This is very serious," he said. "Bringing a weapon to school. I'm shocked."

  "It's not real," I said.

  "That doesn't matter. We have a zero tolerance policy. It doesn't matter if it is a toy, or even a drawing of a weapon. Any weapon gets you a five day suspension. I'm sure your parents will agree that this has to be done. It's the only way to keep us safe."

  He reached for the phone.

  "Please . . ." I'd never been in any kind of big trouble. This was so bad, I could feel my knees trembling. Then my whole body started to tremble.

  "I'm sorry. No exceptions. Not even --"

  Whatever he said next was drowned out by the roar. It was like twenty fighter jets flew overhead at once. Then the roar grew louder. The whole room shook. Books bounced off the shelf behind Principal Mabler, and his diploma fell off the wall.

  I raced to the window. A space ship, round and huge and filled with flashing lights, landed in the front of the school. As I stared, the hatch opened, and a whole bunch of creatures raced out. They were big -- maybe six or seven feet tall. They had enormous heads with four eyes. They had four arms, each carrying something that I figured had to be a weapon.

  Principal Mabler opened his mouth, but all that came out was a gasp as his eyes rolled back and he passed out. He flopped to the floor. Luckily, he had a thick rug in his office.

  I grabbed the alien death ray from the desk and raced back to the window. I aimed the ray at the largest alien and pressed the button.

  I hope this works.

  It sure did. I nearly got knocked on my butt as a searing beam of energy shot from the tube. The alien sizzled for an instant, like a burger that had just been dropped on a red-hot grill, then vanished in a puff of green smoke.

  I stared shooting the rest of them. Luckily, I'd played enough video games, and watched enough cartoons, to know what sort of stance to use with this kind of weapon. I cleared out all the aliens I could see. But some of them had broken into the school. I ran out of the office, and hunted down at the rest of them.

  When I was sure I'd gotten all of the aliens, I returned to the office. There was one last alien in there. He was holding the principal from behind, and had some sort of gun pointed at his head.

  "Help me," Principal Mabler said.

  "Zero tolerance?" I asked. "No exceptions?"

  "That would be silly," he said. "There are always exceptions."

  I fried the last alien, and then put the ray in my pocket. I headed toward the door so I could get back to my classroom before the morning announcements. But I turned back a moment later. "Can I have a late pass?" I asked. "Mrs. Peswitch loves to give out detention."

  "Well, according to the rules, tardiness based on disciplinary actions isn't excusable." Principal Mabler said.

  "So I'm going to get a detention?" I asked.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Oh no! Aliens!" I pointed out the window.

  Principal Mabler let out a squeal and dove to the floor. Then he crawled to the window and peeked over the sill. "What! Where!"

  "My mistake," I said. "I could have sworn it was more aliens. It must have been a cloud or a duck or something. So, anyhow, about that late pass?"

  "No problem." He got off the floor, grabbed his pad, and started writing.

  "Thanks." I took the pass and headed back to homeroom. I t
hought about running down the hall, but I knew that was against the rules. And some rules actually almost made sense.

  InterGalactic Interview With Zoran Zivkovic

  by Darrell Schweitzer

  * * *

  Zoran Zivkovic is a Serbian writer who lives in Belgrade. He has a PhD in Literature from the University of Belgrade, 1982. He has been writing fiction since 1993, when his first novel, The Fourth Circle, appeared in Serbian. He has gained a considerable English-language following since his work began to appear in the British magazine Interzone. His novella, "The Library," published in Leviathan 3, won the World Fantasy Award in 2003. His current American publisher is Aio Publishing. He has also been published by Northwestern University Press, Dalkey Archive Publishing, Night Shade Books/Ministry of Whimsey, Prime Books, and PS Publishing in England. His works are ably translated from the Serbian by Alice Copple-Tosic, though he is himself fluent enough in English that in the course of this interview he managed to teach me a word I didn't know. ("Slalom," which means to take a zig-zag course while skiing; here used metaphorically.)

  SCHWEITZER: Your work first came to my attention with the splendid "The Astronomer" in Interzone, which is not only a story about a powerful moral dilemma, but one of the best uses of the "Lady or the Tiger?" ending I've ever seen. Was that your first publication in English? How long had you been writing in Serbian before that? What had you published?

  ZIVKOVIC: Yes, "The Astronomer" was my very first publication in English. It appeared in the July 1999 issue of Interzone. In 2000 it was published in the USA, as the introductory part of my mosaic-novel Time Gifts. Eventually, "The Astronomer" was reprinted in the UK in 2006 in the Impossible Stories omnibus.