Thanks for reading issue 22 of Ibn Qirtaiba. This issue introduces the first installments of two new regular features. The first is a review column entitled Sci-Fi Corner by Fred Noweck. Fred will contribute brief, incisive reviews of about four science fiction novels each issue, ranging from classics to the latest releases.
The second regular feature that begins this issue is the poetry of W Gregory Stewart. Amongst his awards, Stewart is a 3-time Rhysling Award winner (for science fiction poetry), a past Nebula finalist, and the 1994 recipient of the Asimov's Readers' Poll Award for best poem. He is the author of Antepenult, from Dark Regions Press, and Blood Like Wine, from Preternatural Productions. His poetry and prose have appeared in numerous magazines including Asimov's, Amazing Stories and Science Fiction Age. This issue's selection the universe considered as kite... was originally published in Pandora.
Another regular feature which enjoys its second outing this issue is a sampling of the science fiction artwork of a professional artist or illustrator. This issue, Rick Lieder's artwork is presented. Rick is an artist and photographer whose body of work spans both fine art and illustration. In addition to the original artworks sampled in this issue, most readers will have seen Rick's cover art on two of the popular X Files novels.
Without further ado, issue 22.
Feature: Self-Publishing Science Fiction, part 2 Short story: Candidate
from Ocean Base One by Frances Taira
Serial: Local God,
part 1 by Frederick Rustam
Poem: the
universe considered as kite... by W Gregory Stewart
In last issue's installment of this feature we investigated how to publish, promote and distribute your own science fiction novel in the electronic age - specifically, using the Internet. Whilst this may be the "cutting edge", at the present time and for the foreseeable future the largest market for science fiction novels is for print publications distributed through traditional channels. Luckily, self-publication is still flourishing in this market, and you can discover how to get started by reading on.
Actually writing the novel falls largely outside the scope of this article, and the process is similar whether or not the novel is to be self-published. Maxine Komlos, author of TransMat which was reviewed last issue, advises prospective authors to "Read all the SF pages you can find on the Net. Of course read great gobs of SF. Read Ben Bova's book, How to Write SF."
If you write the novel on your computer, it will save time later if it is in a format that can easily be converted to publishable form. For instance, Maxine wrote the text of TransMat using Aldus Pagemaker 5. She found it important to obtain comments from her friends and family before the book ever saw print. "My daughter, Alinta Thornton who is a professional legal editor proof read it several times and Anne Melano, a publishing friend of Alinta's did one and a half proof reads. My husband also proof read."
In writing a novel that is intended to be self-published you are free from the pressure to appeal to a mass market. However it is still a good idea to write with a particular genre or market segment in mind, such that your novel could be pitched to a commercial publisher. Larry DiRuscio from Self-Publishing Partners advised Ibn Qirtaiba, "Any work is suitable for self-publishing. However, it is more difficult to market fiction." He continues, "We recommend that authors attempt to sell their work to a trade publisher or magazine that specializes in the type of material they have created."
Maxine Komlos sent her novel to several publishers in Australia and overseas. She says, "Most rejected it without comment or said they didn't think it would generate enough sales to be worth their while. Others said they were swamped with stuff." However if you are fortunate you may obtain some useful feedback from a commercial publisher to enable you to improve it before publishing it yourself.
Larry DiRuscio agrees that authors should always try to sell the work outright to a traditional publisher before attempting to self-publishing their work. "The reasons are numerous," he says, "but include the costs involved and marketing/distribution considerations. It also requires an author or writer to educate themselves on the technical side of publishing, printer requirements and specifications, etc... things that can take time and energy away from the writer, who should be spending time perfecting their craft, or writing that next book or short story."
Unless you happen to own your own printing press, a publisher will still be involved in putting your novel into print. Selecting which publisher to use depends upon how much assistance you need. If you need someone else to typeset and lay the novel out, you should hunt down a small-press or "vanity publisher" in your area. They will also be able to assist you to obtain an ISDN number and barcode for your book (these are administered by the National Library in your country), and can put you in touch with an artist or photographer to create your novel's cover art.
Be aware that
these services can be expensive, so you should investigate how
many copies you believe you can sell before engaging the
publisher's services. It may be possible for you to make advance
sales of your novel to help defray the high initial costs of
layout and printing, but the publisher will almost never advance
you money on sales.
One way to save money - if you have the time and energy - is to lay the novel out and prepare the printer's proofs yourself. To do this you will require the appropriate desktop publishing software, and a clear idea of exactly how you want your book to look. Speak to your printer first to ensure the desired size, format, and design of your proposed book can be printed for an acceptable price, and to ascertain the standard of printers proofs that are required. If your novel has been saved in a standard computer format such as Postscript or Pagemaker, many printers will be able to print in high quality directly from the file.
Don't assume that the printer can accept whatever standard of originals you provide. Maxine Komlos had to alter the final verison of TransMat at the last minute because of a request from the printer for a wider margin. For a guideline, take a close look at other published books from the same printer. This will also ensure you do not suffer any surprises at the quality of the finished product. In particular check the evenness and quality of printing, binding and cover reproduction, and query any problems you find before proceeding.
Promotion starts even before the book is printed. If you know or can get in touch with a professionally published writer, send them a draft copy and request their comments. If these are positive, ask if they would be willing to provide a quote for the cover of the novel.
Once the book is in print, be prepared to give a number of copies away for free to reviewers. Allow excerpts from the novel to be printed in fan and professional magazines and on the Internet. Be prepared to spend money on advertising, and allow for this in the cover price of the book. You can keep track of what kind of return you are receiving for your promotion dollar by asking buyers how they heard of your book.
Take your novel to as many science fiction bookstores as you can, and talk to the proprietor in person. Most SF booksellers are genuinely interested in the genre, and will be likely to take more copies of your book and promote them better if the book is outlined to them first. Offer to spend an afternoon in their bookstore signing copies of your book - this will benefit both the bookseller, the purchaser and you. Also keep an eye out for book fairs, conventions and other similar events where prospective readers are to be found, and where no wholesale discount need be offered.
Larry DiRuscio told Ibn Qirtaiba, "Marketing and distribution must be considered heavily before self-publishing, but an energetic author with a self-published book can sell if they are creative enough and have a sound business plan."
Self-publishing is not for everyone. If you can sell your book to a traditional publisher, you will probably obtain wider distribution and more visible advertising and marketing of your book, and you may receive a cash advance on future sales. You can expect to receive around 7% to 10% of the cover price in royalties, or alternatively a flat amount with a bonus for higher sales, depending upon the generosity of your contract terms.
However if you can't interest a publisher in your work, self-publication allows you to retain artistic control of your novel and to market it as you think best. Depending on the print run and production costs, you can also make more money from a successful self-published book than you would make from royalties from a publisher. If you have written or plan to write a novel, publishing it yourself can be an enjoyable and instructive experience which will stand you in better stead with commercial publishers when your second novel comes along.
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Tom Ryan announced, "I seek the nomination for senator to World Council." The audience of two hundred aquanauts erupted in loud sustained applause. The lanky, sandy haired administrator stepped down from the podium to the park recreation area of the marine colony, and shook hands with his supporters. If elected next year in 2010, he would be the first Council member chosen from a federal ocean base constituency. The Energy Consortium vowed that its candidate would defeat Tom, who fought for the development of cheap electric power.
"What did you think of my new grant proposal?" asked a petite brunette. The smile left Cindy Chudy's face as Tom admitted, "I forgot to read it."
"If I knew you were leaving, I would have signed up at a different location, with other experts in my research area of employee compensation." She turned away in anger.
The Council needed a Senator, who appreciated the need for funding Ocean bases. Few engineers wanted to emerge from a six year term to discover their knowledge was obsolete and they required extensive retraining.
In the middle of the fund raising picnic, alarm bells rang, heralding major seismic activity in The Deep. Following the warning from the Base's instruments, a searing white light and loud crash told them a nearby oil rig of the Consortium had caved in. The diners tore off their naval uniforms, donned diving gear and boarded rescue spheres. Led by shouts of "M'aidez, M'aidez," they located the trapped workers and cut through the wreckage to them. The twenty minutes it took to accomplish the rescue seemed like an eternity.
Tom watched through an underwater window of the observation deck as aquanauts, led by their burly, mustached, security officer, freed the last oil driller from the wreckage of the rig. Then the officer, Seretse Khama, sealed off the site of the explosion with buoys and nets, and removed material samples for lab testing for bomb residue, substandard materials, etc. Aquanauts Union rep, Cindy Chudy, escorted the injured and their family members to motor boats that took them to the local hospital ship. She half carried a new wife, with eyes bloodshot from crying.
Since they didn't need back up, Tom replaced his diving gear with navy coveralls, and prepared to begin the accident investigation from his federal research base. When the Council OSHA rep drafted him as a consultant, he asked,"Won't that be a conflict of interest during the election campaign?"
"We know you better than that. You are the most qualified for the job."
He must examine the lab testing and instrument readings results, and study computerized records archives, to discover the cause of this accident and prevent potential loss of life in future incidents. This additional responsibility cut into the time he budgeted to train his successor, Seretse, as administrator of the marine colony.
"I knew these people well," Seretse said, when he reported back. The oil drilling company brought jobs and prosperity to his country, Somalia, after years of plundering by warlords. What a mess the work site was in.
"We'll find the problems and eliminate them," Tom said.
Cindy slid down the pole to the observation deck. "Three deaths, and thirty miners sustained injuries, because substandard equipment buckled and the rig collapsed. The Council must charge the Consortium with negligence, or we union reps will call a sympathy strike."
She refrained from pointing out that
voters, unhappy over a rig accident and strike, wouldn't support
Tom or a Consortium candidate in the campaign. To suggest
politics would influence his actions in this situation would be
insulting.
"First we examine the evidence, before accusing people of negligence. Besides, we don't want to ruin this project, if we can save it," Seretse said. "In five years our Ocean Thermal Energy Converters will make drilling obsolete. Now people rely on that oil as a source of energy and income to feed their families." The OTECs delivered cheap electric power through differences in temperature - taking in warm surface water and then sucking up cold deep water. However Earth needed more than the prototype Ocean Base One to deliver enough power.
Tom agreed. "The Council has shut down the drilling project, pending an investigation. Our committee needs to evaluate the evidence to recommend if the District Attorney should bring charges against the Consortium. Let's go to my office module." There they sat down on seats from coral, grown on the Base, and had an algae soup snack.
It didn't help the Consortium's cause that their financial officer/senatorial candidate, Zara Ekberg, refused to go on camera with Tom or express sorrow to the families directly, as the aquanauts did. She scribbled a note to Tom on her e-mail pad, stating she felt the counselor from Human Resources would do a better job of handling that task, when the counselor arrived by helicopter from the mainland.
After receiving the note, Tom shared it with his colleagues. Seretse scanned it, then frowned and studied it carefully. "So, what does your training in hand writing analysis, tell you about this cold fish?" Cindy asked. "Would she cover up profiteering by her company?"
"Graphology doesn't foretell an ordained future. We can usually identify the person who wrote a particular sample. Zara has distinctive hand writing, especially at the end of the message, when she relaxes." He handed Cindy the note. "Look. Angular lower loops indicate resentment and hostility. Irregular slanting to the right then left indicate unpredictability."
"I know Zara," Tom said. "She was pressured into becoming a candidate, by the Consortium. She prefers to function behind the scenes crunching numbers."
"Graphological analysis can give a profile of a person's characteristics and expected behavior in a given situation, but we have free will to control and change our behavior," Seretse said. "We're not just stimulus-reaction robots."
Zara was present when they reached the office. The tall blonde ran over to Tom and buried her face in his shoulder. Cindy glared disapproval, at this evidence of potential bias. Then she frowned as she noticed the almost invisible surgical line from facial reconstruction surgery, as Zara's pearl necklace shifted. Usually Zara wore high necked clothes.
"I am confident that we will show the accident could not have been prevented," Zara said. "Let me make a copy of the records for you." She sat down at the computer.
"OK to tape this meeting, Tom?" Cindy asked. She listened intently to the other woman's Swedish accented voice and focused on her long, narrow face. Was Zara vain or was she one of many fugitives from justice? So easy to vanish by having plastic surgery on the face and finger print pads. The Internet even advertises how to set up a different ID, using computer strategies developed by the Witness Relocation Program. How will any of us behave, now that a different face and background allows us to avoid responsibility for our past actions?
At the end of the meeting, Zara took Tom's arm as they walked down the corridor. "Don't scold me. I can't listen to the people, who become emotional over every unimportant thing. Let my staff listen to them. "If you want to leave the Base, you would do much better in the private sector as a CEO."
He shrugged. "The Base needs money. I want to explore space, one day. Living as aquanauts on Earth prepares us to colonize other planets."
That evening Cindy called Tom at home. "Why did Zara have facial reconstruction surgery?"
"Don't know."
"You can't talk, because you have a guest? OK. I looked through the Mackenzie trial video tapes. Remember that couple were indicted five years ago, for neglecting safety precautions, before an underwater mining accident. Zara resembles Mackenzie's wife, who testified against her husband, then escaped from the court room."
"You just don't like her."
"True. But the Base is relying on you to represent us on World Council. If I'm right, it is inappropriate for you to remain on friendly terms with her, during the investigation. You're handing your political opponents evidence to blackmail you with."
Discussing this disturbing information with Cindy, Tom realized she raised a couple of important issues. He replaced the phone and turned to his political opponent. When he asked for comments on this new information, Zara said, "What Mackenzie case? I was in a car accident, so needed surgery," and stomped out of his residential module. She scribbled a note to a TV tabloid show, and faxed it through an untraceable public e-mail channel. The note accused Cindy of being AWOL from the army. The Aquanauts Corps placed Cindy on suspension, pending an investigation.
Seretse compared Zara's notes with letters written by Mrs Mackenzie during the trial. He informed the civilian police that they were written by the same person. "However, my evidence is not recognized in a legal court," he reminded Tom.
Tom visited Cindy. "How could anyone believe this nonsense about you?"
"Because it's true. When the Aquanaut Academy said they had no openings, I joined the army. One month later, I ran away from basic training, after I received a delayed acceptance to the Academy. I received only a fine and probation as punishment, because I was under 18 years old and officially a student, not a soldier. Now my entire army file has disappeared."
Tom felt very angry with Zara. He confronted her.
Zara cried. "I only did it because I don't want to lose your friendship. I can offer you a job as Vice President with the Consortium. Cindy and Seretse have no proof of any crime, to put me on trial. Old videos and graphology won't stop me."
"Tell me the truth. What caused the accident?"
"Who expected any seismic activity in this region. We'll change the design of the rig, to facilitate swaying instead of rigidity - like a skyscraper on land - to avoid future problems. Soon we will settle all the lawsuits out of court."
Tom went back to his computer. He had experience with computer glitches. However he was rusty. It took two hours to enter the army files archives, search for and locate Cindy's buried file, before it was permanently deleted. After six years on the Council, would he be able to return and make a scientific contribution to Ocean Base? Sometimes you have to make sacrifices.
Since the AWOL occurred when she was a juvenile and she fulfilled the fine and probation requirements, the Corps reinstated Cindy. "You can make big money from the tabloids, by exposing Zara," Seretse said to her at the morning meeting.
"Law suits have been filed against the Consortium. They are raising safety standards. I want us to win the election on the issues not by making accusations we can't prove, just to get even. Besides I may run for Senator, now that Tom's withdrawing."
"No, I'm not," Tom said.
Later Tom had dinner with Zara, on her river houseboat. The Consortium transferred her to Switzerland. No evidence linked her to the present accident. However, the civilian police prepared extradition papers, related to the former charges.
"You are quiet. Let's go for a swim."
"This is good-bye, Zara."
"Leave Cindy to me. I'll see she keeps her mouth shut."
"And how many others will I have to threaten or pay off? A cover up always unravels." He no longer trusted her. She dived into the water.
He felt like a Siddhartha looking into the river. What was real and lasting about Zara and Tom, and what was constantly changing? Did differences among people generate power?
On election day, Seretse and Cindy hugged Tom as he left the voting booth. "Good luck. Not that you need it. We have such confidence in you."
"Cindy, why don't you dump that workaholic as co-investigator?" Seretse asked.
"Look who's talking," Tom said. They went to the gym and worked out, while watching the returns that elected him, Senator Ryan. At the party later, Tom pledged to his supporters, "I will encourage new scientific developments through political action while in office, and then come back to this Base as an aquanaut." They erupted in loud sustained applause. He could get used to this.
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With the growing interest in science-fiction and fantasy in movies and on television, many people have asked me, "Fred, how do you get started with sci-fi?" and "I picked up and read a science-fiction book last week, and I couldn't understand what was going on. How do you pick out what to read?"
Both very good questions. Science fiction does not appeal to everyone but, with the right start, almost anyone can develop an appreciation for many of the different styles of story in the genre. And, if you have never read sci-fi before, the wrong choice to start off on can destroy further interest.
That brings us to the purpose of this column: To acquaint you, the reader, with what is out there to read. To review science-fiction and fantasy books and short stories of many styles with broad appeal so that you can intelligently select what you would like to read, avoid books that you would be wasting money on, and to answer any questions you may have about the genre.
To that end, we will be reviewing four books on average each issue, complete with my comments on who could read them with enjoyment. The books to be reviewed this issue are:
The Flight of the Horse by Larry Niven, Ballantine Books
The Warlock in Spite of Himself by Christopher Stasheff, Ace Books
Wizard's Bane by Rick Cook, Baen Books
Callahan's Crosstime Saloon by Spider Robinson, Ace Books
The Flight of the Horse is a collection of short stories set in a future time when time travel has been perfected. The main character, Svetz by name, is repeatedly sent back in time to retrieve various extinct animals for the zoo of the Emperor of Earth. These animals being dogs, cats, horses, and other unlikely creatures. Unfortunately, the only reference material Svetz has to tell him what the animals look like is a child's picture book. So when Svetz went back in time to retrieve a horse, he really wasn't prepared for the horn growing out of its head...
If you like the idea of time travel,
you should have a lot of fun reading about the trials and
tribulations of a time traveler who never seems to get quite the
right animal for the zoo.
The Warlock in Spite of Himself is the first in a series of books about the planet of Gramayre, a planet colonized by devotees of the Society for Creative Anachronism.
Rod Gallowglass and his faithful robot horse, Fess, land on the planet several hundred years after its colonization for the purpose of secretly preparing the inhabitants for democratic rule so that they can be brought into the Galactic government. All well and good, but... there is a high percentage of telepaths, teleports, and what-have-you in the population, who are refered to as witches and warlocks, and here, magic really works!
This is a delightful romp into psionics, espionage, and a feudal culture which is happy to stay that way. While not recommended for the beginning reader, this is highly recommended for the more experienced sci-fi reader. Well worth the money.
Wizard's Bane asks the question, how much trouble can a computer hacker get into when he is magicly transported to a universe that operates on magic instead of science? The answer is, a lot! The Wiz has been transported to The World to break the deadlock between Good and Evil. However, the wizard who brought him there is dead and now everyone wants him dead.
The first in a series, this tale may be just the thing for anyone closely associated with computers. If you are a new reader, you may have a bit of difficulty with this one as it slows down to a crawl in spots and some of the concepts may not make much sense.
Callahan's Crosstime Saloon, Spider Robinson's collection of short stories, takes place mostly in Callahan's Bar. Located somewhere on the East coast, Callahan's is the bar everyone has always searched for and never found. The stories are narrated by Jake, a guitar player who hangs out there.
In the Saloon, you will meet telepaths, time travelers, aliens out to "destroy the Earth", as well as the regulars.
Easy to read, you'll laugh and cry (often over the same tale). Spider brings to his stories a love of puns as well as a love of humanity that shines through on every page. This book is a must read.
All of the books reviewed in this column are available in paperback. No prices are given as most can be gotten at used book stores.
If you like the column and want to see more, tell us! Let us know that you are out there. Send your letters or e-mail to Fred the Sci-Fi Man c/o Ibn Qirtaiba. Letters of interest to all will be answered in this column. Remember, your letters keep this column alive, so don't assume that your letter isn't needed. Let's hear from you!
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The red desolation unrolled endlessly under the recon flyer like a perforated piano-roll playing the same tune over and over.
The pilot wanted to rub his tired eyes, but his sealed helmet prevented such self-indulgences. He had to wear it even at low altitudes to get the extra oxygen he needed. The planet's atmosphere lacked enough of that vital element to keep him conscious and alert.
He didn't want to end up on the surface, suddenly and unscheduled... In fact, he didn't want to return to the surface at all. He wanted to fly his craft to a mothership leaving for a nice greenworld. All the recon guys yearned to shake the red sand from their boots and bid this hellworld goodbye - and good riddance.
He envied the goggled, ancient Earth pilots flying their flimsy open-cockpit craft, the slipstream mussing their hair and whipping their white scarves behind them. Those were the days of real flying, a seat-of-the-pants thrill the recon pilot would never experience in his sealed, advanced atmosphere-flyer.
The relentless white sun was yellowing on the horizon. Soon, his flightshift would end, and he would turn the desiccated surface of Maarzha over to the night-recon pilot who had flown from Base to relieve him... He didn't envy the night guy, though. With no moon to paint the surface with pale light, that pilot had to fly very carefully at low altitudes, using starlight-intensifier activation in his helmet visor.
He turned up the volume on the air-to-air channel until the soft hiss of the AM radio was louder than it needed to be. It was his ritual of assurance. It meant that relief was expected soon... Instead of a radio-call, though, he heard something he didn't really want to hear.
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP... The modar alarm sounded, and its vox brought his attention to a point on the surface off to one side of his flight path: "MOTION AT TWO O CLOCK. MOTION AT TWO O'CLOCK," it repeated.
He muted the voxalarm by visoring the modar display, and banked his flyer to the heading where the sensor had detected surface motion. He had to investigate. The maroons often came out in the open around dusk. The large yellow blip on the modar display resolved into several smaller ones as he approached.
The on-surface motion was at that old religious place, the monument with megaliths set up around a circular platform of flagstones that had a sculpted idol in its center. The recon pilot had passed high over the place before, but had never spotted anyone there.
As he approached, slowly and quietly, he saw several maroons scatter between the megaliths to a nearby rock outcrop. They lived in tunnels dug beneath the torrid surface, and had many boltholes for getting into and out of their habitations... Sometimes he was able to sneak up on the dark, wiry natives until he was directly over them. He always enjoyed seeing them panic and rush away from him in all directions. That was their sensible mode of escape: every man for himself.
He never attacked them, though. That wasn't his job. He just shot them with his aerovideor lenses and made notes in his vocalog... It was for others to take "action" against them.
Although these maroons were in no position to interfere with the mining operations in the northern hemisphere, they were a potential threat and had to be "contained" on the southern continent where they lived. That was why Imperial troops were stationed here.
By the time he circled the monument, all the maroons had disappeared underground among the boulders of the outcrop. Only the carved-stone figure in the center remained at the monument. The pilot scanned the idol with the electro-optic panel in his helmet visor set at low power. He winced a little at the sight of its stark, ugly face.
He thought, ("Some kind of local god, I guess. Looks like the natives. They probably think He made them in His own image.") He chuckled at his humor - showing his assumed superiority over the superstitious primitives... But a weird impulse made him stick his tongue out at the idol. It didn't quite reach his visor to smear it, and it made him feel better about the ominous figure.
Then, he had a wild idea... An against-the-rules, dangerous idea.
He wanted to land his flyer and eyeball the place like a tourist.
The suddenness and inappropriateness of this impulse disturbed him. ("I must be crazy... But nobody would know... I'd probably be the only recon pilot who's ever been on the surface of this hellworld away from Base... I don't know, though. It's risky.")
He could use his small personal videor to photograph the monument. The shots would make great souvenirs when he rotated off Maarzha. If he hurried, he could take off before his nightflying relief gave him a radio-call.
While he circled the monument, the pilot struggled with his impulse, trying to reason himself out of it... Maroons had killed "aliens" like him, before.
Then, he decided... He moved to land his flyer on the red sand his sensors told him was trafficable for its desert-designed, wide balloon tires.
("I can't believe I'm doing this... What's got into me?") Unable to resist his new compulsion for touring, he landed, then quickly disconnected himself from the flyer and adjusted his portable oxypack for what was officially known as "extra-vehicular activity."
("I'll only take a minute,") he assured himself as he looked around to make sure no maroons had emerged from their holes among the nearby boulders. ("They're probably watching me... I don't care. I'm armed - and they aren't.") He wasn't strongly-confident about that last thought, though. The Intelligence people claimed they had no radguns, but the maroons on the northern continent had amply demonstrated they knew how to use simpler weapons.
As he jumped down onto the red sand, he flourished his radpistol so it would be seen by any watching maroons. He hoped this would deter them from rushing him. Even though the sun was almost on the distant horizon, it was still hot; but he knew his flightsuit would keep him cool for a while... With his videor clipped to his jacket, he slogged through the sand toward the monument.
The recon pilot stood before the idol at the center of the monument.
It was a simple but well-carved figure. The face had oval eyes, a wide nose, and a wide mouth with everted lips. Its ears were prominent and its head was engraved with thin, tightly-curled hair. Its arms, held close to the body, fell several feet, and terminated in two five-fingered hands near the ground. There were no legs, just a dark trunk that disappeared into the sand.
The figure must have been carved by the maroons... These
"natives" were the descendants of a group of Imperial
citizens who had long ago escaped the Emperor's rule by spacing
to the southern continent of this planet, the one where there
were no Imperial mining operations. How they managed to maintain
themselves in the desert wasteland was unknown. Scholars had
applied for permission to study them, but had been denied the
opportunity by a government which didn't want to
"validate" such escapees from its purview.
What the maroon descendants had become certainly didn't help them gain the sympathy of the Empire's military forces... Although the original "pioneers" had been a tall, light, mixed race like most of the Imperial population, the maroons had quickly evolved into a short, barrel-chested, dark-skinned people. They were very thin-limbed. All in all, their appearance made them seem alien to the Imperial troops.
Nonetheless, their evolutionary adaptations made it possible for them to survive the hot, oxygen-poor hellworld of Maarzha - a world named after a similar, but much colder, planet in humankind's Sol system.
It seemed almost as if they were true natives of this sun-scorched world. How their evolution had come about so quickly was Maarzha's greatest mystery... The Imperial military forces stationed here were not much interested in studying the maroons, though. They were here to control them.
To the soldiers and airmen, the maroons were just a bunch of dirty primitives, for whose extermination the Emperor had granted formal permission, "...if necessary" - although this was a state secret.
The pilot photographed the idol and began walking around inside the circle of megaliths to see if there were any carvings on them. He stopped and scanned the nearby rock outcrop to be sure maroons were not leaving it to sneak up on him, then continued his circular walk.
He was staring at a mark on the next, approaching megalith when he fell into through the sand onto a flight of stone stairs.
The recon pilot groaned and propped himself up to see what he had fallen into. He was bruised in places, but his hermetic flightsuit had protected him from serious injury. He was dazed, but remained alert for maroons. He stood, shakily, to check the surface at the top of the stairway, slightly above him... He was still alone.
Ahead of him, the tough, sand-covered fabric which had concealed the stairwell - and which he had partially ripped loose from its edge fasteners when he stepped onto it - was still spilling sand onto the stairs like a miniature red waterfall. ("Clever,") he conceded. ("They did a good job of hiding this place from aerial recon.")
He reached down and pulled up the loose end of the covering. The stairs below it led down into a dark chamber of some kind. He'd thought it was a trap, at first, but now it didn't seem to be... He turned on his helmet-mounted spotlight and squinted into the darkness. He could see a flagstone floor. The stairway and the walls of the chamber were also skillfully faced with unmortared rocks.
("It must be a temple of worship. I should get some shots of it. If I hurry, I can get airborne before the sun sets.") The sun was near the horizon, now.
He ducked under the covering and moved slowly down the stairs, his boots gritting on the sand that had fallen in with him. When he reached the bottom, he shined his helmetlamp around the chamber. It was the same narrow width as the stairway, but he could see that it widened-out ahead in the direction of the idol on the surface. He moved forward into the spotlighted darkness.
Soon, he could see a platform at the end of the chamber. On it was a large, oblong boulder which looked like an altar. He moved close enough for a flash photo. Then, cautiously, he mounted the platform to inspect the stone altar. There were no words carved on it, or elsewhere in the chamber. It was pretty plain for a place of worship. He guessed the idol was directly above him, here... He swept the beam from his helmetlamp over the surface of the altar.
A humanoid-shaped depression was carved into it... Was it a place for human sacrifice?... There were no channels for draining away blood, but it clearly seemed to be a place for someone to lie upon. He rubbed his gloved hand across the depression. It was smooth and polished, but dusty with disuse.
As he contemplated this strange, simple place, he had another impulse. This one was so bizarre it made him laugh aloud, fogging his visor.
He removed his helmet and flightsuit and, clad only in his blue airman's undergarment, climbed onto the altar and lay down upon it... He did this foolish thing without even looking back to the stairs to be certain he was really alone.
"The Devil's making me do this," he proclaimed to the darkness. His manic laughter reverberated in the stone chamber and rushed up the stairway to the surface like sand blown by the wind.
"Whoa!..." he crooned in surprise as he settled into the depression.
It fitted his body as if carved for him... Somewhat alarmed, he considered this for a few seconds. But he soon relaxed and quickly became drowsy. Intellectual concerns no longer seemed important.
In the light of his grounded helmet lamp, in the grave silence of the cool desert chamber, he gave himself up to this place he had discovered so dramatically.
Outside, the sun turned into a red ball the same color as the sand, then sank beneath the long horizon. The air cooled to a comfortable level for some minutes, then to a less-comfortable one. The stones of the monument radiated away the heat they had accumulated during the torrid daytime... Soon, the monument was illuminated only by the distant, cold light of the stars.
Nearby, the flyer made little cracking sounds, as its hot metallic surfaces cooled. From the cockpit loudspeaker came the voice of the night recon pilot making his relief radio call - a call that was not answered by the day pilot, who lay fast asleep beneath a primitive idol.
...At rest in a chamber which was not really a place of worship.
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...on the end of superstring
drifting on timewinds
taut and lofting
crossbraced
against missing matter
and quantum dimensions
to fly as far
as curving space allows
and tap you on the shoulder
or entangled leave abandoned
and dangling from the event horizon
of some penultimate black hole
at the end of this long afternoon...