Let me be straightforward here: Evolutions isn’t working.

The primary reason for that is me because I am Evolutions.

Seriously.  Just me.  A guy with a measly three published short stories who barely knows how to run Wordpress 2.5 and can’t upgrade to save his ass. (I keep destroying the database on the dummy site I’ve been using to experiment.)  Editor?  Why do I call myself that?  Because I’m the only one doing it.  Ergo, that’s the only title I can use.  I don’t feel like an editor, but since I write checks and do all the editing and layout crap, editor it is.

But, the key point is, it’s not working.  It’s not working for lots of reasons but mostly because I lack the necessary OCD to run something like this solo.  Call me an odd duck, if you like, but I’d really prefer to work this in a team environment.  I prefer to have people to bounce things off of and listen to.  I don’t want to live in an echo chamber.  That was never the point of this effort.

Which, oddly, brings me around to what I wanted to talk about.

See, I’ve been spending a bit of time pondering about what the heck I should do with Evolutions since: a) I have no motivation whatsoever to work on it and b) I have no money to spend on it anymore since I’m with the 17-20% of Americans who are more or less still screwed by the recession and unemployed. (Read that last bit as “Darwin ain’t got no money.”

Part of this has to do with the ongoing maelstrom that is e-publishing.  Amazon, MacMillan, whatever.  The big boys are busy stepping on each others feet to the detriment of authors and genres pretty much everywhere.  The thing is, the big boys are so disconnected from their market base that it’d be laughable if it weren’t so damned tragic.  Well, emotions start to come to the fore at this point, so I’d best leave off that for a minute otherwise I’ll get a spittle-flecked rant going, and that’s not what I want.

The key is, I deviated pretty wildly from what I originally wanted to do with Evolutions and that deviation has trashed my enthusiasm.  See, the point of Evolutions was to provide an alternate path to publication - to open another door, no matter how cramped, for fiction to get out into the world.  I never really wanted to follow the traditional “periodical” model, though.  I just kind of ended up there, which was the big mistake.

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We are proud to present this novelette-length short story by Sarah Hoyt set in the same universe as her recently released “Dark Ship Thieves” novel.

***

Before the first burner singed the air, I had jumped. I didn’t know why. Perhaps I wasn’t truly asleep and heard strange steps in the hallway. Or perhaps a voice whispering what was planned for us. I don’t know.

Whatever warning there was fell into my sleeping mind and made my body react. I woke up half way through my jump-and-dive, dragging with me my brother Pol, who slept in the next bed. We thudded together into a too-narrow space between his bed and the wall.

It saved our lives, because the blinding flash of the burner swung in an arc which sliced my bed in two, setting it on fire. Still half asleep, dazzled by the brilliance of the light, the acrid smoke in my nostrils, I pushed Pol further back and down, shoving him right next to the wall and pressing close to him, close, my heart beating a deafening rhythm.

“Cas, what–?” he said, his voice barely audible, because in addition to the sizzling sounds of the burners there were now screams and gurgles, moans and cries for mercy. I recognized the voices of my dormitory mates, and I didn’t want to recognize them. I’d never heard them sound like that.

My hand covered Pol’s mouth, my other hand tapped against his shoulder, in dark-water-language, “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stay quiet. Shut up.”

He made a movement, but didn’t try to fight free or to speak again. The burners zinged and cut, and our dorm mates – judging by the noises – screamed and died. I braced my feet against the ceramite floor, and tried to become one with the wall. Thoughts ran through my head like water dripping from a burst tank. They’ll see us! They’ll set fire to the bed!

And at the same time, a mad part of me wanted to run out there and save my creche mates, the closest thing I had to a family.

It wasn’t that I was particularly close to any of them. Pol and I were twins, a freak accident in the building process, an egg that gave our fabricators a bonus: another homo-aquaticus, designed for intelligence and cunning and speed, who could be trained for the war against the Earthworms.

Written by Sarah A. Hoyt
Illustration “Sirena” by Jesus Garcia

On the twentieth floor of the Millionaire’s Complex, the lady who had called for Derek’s services turned out to be a knock-out brunette. She was waiting in the hall, and her body, steaming under a diaphanous nightgown, made him feel woozier than the rush of the plush elevator. Before Derek had time to open his mouth and introduce himself, she grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him inside the penthouse.

“In the bedroom,” she said, and strode off ahead down the hall. Derek hitched up his belt and went after her.

Inside the bedroom, the elderly patient (grey-haired and bespectacled) lay fully clothed. His head rested on a pillow, his eyes closed.

“He switched off this morning and hasn’t moved since,” the brunette said, touching Derek’s forearm. He felt the short hairs on his arm become erect, as if responding to static electricity.

“Do something doctor!” she pleaded.

Derek couldn’t help grinning. Doctor, not repairman! “It’s a Model 16,” he said, trying to sound superior and relishing the authority. “These bots are tamper proof. No access points, see. I would need to take him back to the shop to run a full diagnosis and operate. I could bring him back in five working days.”

The woman’s face crumpled. “Five days? Can’t you operate here? Don’t you people do it with that spinning can-opener thingy?”

He laughed. No, not repairman or doctor, but glorified opener of cans. “It’s hardly a can-opener, Miss,” he said.

“Please, not five days; I need him.”

He almost felt sorry for her, but then he marveled at how people grew so attached to their bots. As someone who saw robotic inner workings daily, he suffered no illusions – but business is business, he thought. “Okay,” he said. “It’s unorthodox but I have done this sort of thing before, so…”

He took the cutting tool from his equipment belt. It resembled a cross between an electric shaver and a pizza slice. She had called it a can-opener and Derek had to admit she had a point – can-opener was basically what it was. He switched it on and brought it, whirring like a dentist’s drill, to the
sleeping bot’s forehead to make a precise incision. The metal cutting disc would slice imitation flesh like a hot knife through taffy.

Except that wasn’t what happened. On contact, the little blade wheel zipped down and dug up a long thread of blood. The ‘patient’ woke with terror in his pale grey eyes.

“What the hell? She drugged me. She’s gone killing crazy. Who the hell are you?”

Derek jumped back in shock, dropping the tool on its lanyard.

“Oh my God,” said Derek, seeing what a mess he had made of the old man’s forehead. Then he looked around for the girl. “Where’s she gone?”

Outside, the elevator doors clanked shut.

He couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. Damn crazy millionaires, he thought as he ran up the stairs to the rooftop carpad. I’m not coming here again, no matter how much they offer to pay me.

He was still shaking as he climbed into his car, doubly disturbed by the thought that he would have to get his story straight for the insurance company. He was looking back to see if he was clear for take-off, when he saw something in the back seat that made him jump and hiccup a small scream.

“How did you get in here?”

It was the brunette from the apartment, fluttering her long eyelashes. “I hacked into your car’s onboard computer, of course,” she said. Her tone was low and husky, her lips moist, and the way her dark, sultry eyes stared at him made his spine tingle.

“I bet he told you I’m malfunctioning,” she said. “Well that’s true, but you could fix me, couldn’t you?” Her arm snaked forward to stroke his shoulder, and her fingertips brushed his neck, making him shiver.

“He bought me, but that doesn’t mean I love him,” she said. “I hate him. I need a real man, like you. You could take me with you, couldn’t you.”

Derek nodded with a twitchy grin. Her purring voice resonated deep in his loins. But all the time he was reaching down by his side for the can opener.

Written by Jim Penge.

Illustration for this story is “Canned Brains” by Karl Nordman.

Guest rant on fiction content by Sarah Hoyt:

Let me start by saying I’m not allowed to read reviews of my own work. At least not unless friend, husband, son or trustworthy stranger has vetted it and told me it’s “safe.”  ”Safe” is defined as “won’t set Sarah off” I think, mostly because setting Sarah off results in this.

Before someone goes off on this being a patronizing rule to me, as a woman, let me add I know three other writers who have this rule.  They are all male.

This anticipated criticism - come on, ladies, admit half of you were thinking it - brings me neatly to my point.  The proximate cause - as opposed to the long-simmering cause - of this rant is the fact that a friend let slip that a reviewer (not sure if professional or private) of my work was disappointed because the main character of Darkship Thieves cares what the man she loves thinks of her.

Sorry for the minor spoiler above.  Yes, my novel contains a love story. Most of life (though not all) does.  It’s one of the things that makes humans tick.  If you wish, I will apologize, too, that my characters behave like real people, not like political cliches.

My main character is a woman who was grown but not in any sense raised, who, as a child, was indulged but not loved, who was educated but not taught. There is a reason for this, and it is given in the novel.  (Though not obvious by the time she falls in love.)  There is also a D*MN good reason most of her peers are men and she never made friends with the women whom she considered her social inferiors.
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I’m happy to announce that I finally finished stitching together Volume 2, Issue 1 (also known as the “Halloween Edition 2009″).  Yeah, I’m late, but I think waiting so that each story could have an illustration was worth it.

Anyway, here’s the link:

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/evolutions-vol-2-iss-1/7904466

You can purchase Vol. 2, Iss. 1 from Lulu as either a print-on-demand trade paperback or as a high-quality PDF download.  The Mobi, Kindle, and smaller-file-sized PDF will be along in a bit.

Authors and Stories in this issue:

The Finder Fields by Charlotte Comley, Illustrated by Christian Podgorski
Tea and Fairy Cakes by Kelly Madden, Illustrated by Jesus Garcia Lopez
No Beast So Fierce written and illustrated by Lazette Gifford
Hysteria by Rob Sharp, Illustrated by Marge Simon
Minor Details by Jaleta Clegg, Illustrated by B.C. Hailes
Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf by Julie Frost, Illustrated by Karl Nordman
The Ninth Tenant by Leslie Fish, Illustrated by Jennifer Brazas
Derek the Can Opener by Jim Penge, Illustrated by Karl Nordman.

Includes an interview with Anne Bishop and a review of her trilogy omnibus, The Black Jewels Trilogy.
Also, a review of the manga Princess Resurrection.
And finally, a question and answer session with our cover artist, Jennifer Miller.

Greetings, everyone.  Sorry for the lack of story this Monday, but there’s a valid reason for that.

I will be releasing Vol. 2, Iss. 1 shortly.  This issue of the ‘Zine will feature 8 stories along with some non-fiction content that will take the total page count over 100.  That means that the Lulu P.O.D. version will be, for all intents and purposes, a 6×9 Trade paperback anthology.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to release it in time for Halloween proper, even though it’s the “Halloween” issue.  The reason is that I a) underestimated the time needed to lay it out and b) decided that the last two stories I added at the last minute deserved illustrations as much as any of the other stories.

Not that I really have the free-state money to buy the illustrations, but I guess I can go without lunch for a week or so or maybe sell off a paintball gun on Ebay or something to recoup the greenbacks before my wife divorces me.

Anyhow, as soon as the last bits of art come in, I’ll be uploading things to Lulu for the POD and downloadable PDF versions.  There’ll be two PDF versions.  One high-resolution that is the same as is used for the Lulu POD typesetting and one lower-resolution for the memory-space conscious folks.  We’ll add Mobi and Kindle versions shortly thereafter, as well.  The following Monday will see the start of releasing the stories to free web-only reading.

It looks really good in my desktop publishing software at this time.  Jennifer Miller’s cover art was carefully adapted by Kevin Wasden into yet another killer cover.  The stories are all great, each in their own way, and they’ll all now have their own art to go with them, and the art continues to amaze, even at the story illustration level.

Laterz.

Darwin

Hey.  It’s not like I asked to get set up in the tooth business.

It happened this way: I’d just hunkered down to breakfast beside my favorite rock.  It’s a lovely thing: all crumbling and lichen-covered.  I like it because it looks a lot like me, except it has no feet.  I was taking my first delectable bite of beetle sandwich when the sun vanished.  Fabric brushed my face, and something heavy and disturbingly cushy plopped onto my back.  I said “oof”, and forced my eyes open to see a tattered skirt and a pair of high-heeled, curly-toed boots.

“Hey, Lady,” I said–and it came out a little more gruff than I intended, what with the extra weight on my spine and all–”The rock’s over there.”

She jumped up and whirled around.  The sun was at her back, so I couldn’t see much more than the droopy hat and a frazzled snarl of hair, but I’m pretty sure she was looking back and forth between me and the boulder as though trying to figure out which of us had spoken.

I cracked my mouth open so she could see it.  “You’re blocking my light.”

She bent down and peered at me.  Her nose almost touched my face.  “And a good thing, too,” she said.  Her voice was like branches snapping in the wind.  “You look hideous.”

“Yeah, well that’s about how you smell.  You should do something for your tooth rot.”

Written by Nancy Fulda.

I stood at the south end of the Greenwich foot tunnel, under the Thames, at two a.m. in the bleedin’ morning, shivering and not just with the night chill. Water dripped amongst the shadows, reminding me of
the millions of gallons just above my head.

A dark shape appeared at the north end, moving towards me. It looked too big to be a man and I swear I could see two black shapes behind its head like giant bat’s wings.

This, I’d been told, was my nemesis and, in order to save everything I cared about, I had to face it.

#

And to think it only started yesterday, just after a fairly normal event, namely a well narked Big Trev storming past the bar into his office then slamming the door. I poured a triple Bushmills, dropped in two ice cubes and took it to him.

“Cheers Tony,” he said, taking a long swallow. “Bloody ‘ell, but it’s tough making a decent living these days.”

This statement should have concerned me, seeing as how I made my living from him–bar-tending, managing accounts, arranging women and the such. But I’d heard him whinge like this hundreds of times before, and put up with it because he never made me do the nasty persuasion work and, well, because me and him went back a long way.

“I tell you, bruv,” he went on, “I’m getting too old for all this unpleasantness.”

“You’re the same age as Sheringham, boss, and he’s still sticking ‘em in the back of the net.”

His big face opened up like a kid’s on Christmas day. “Speaking of footy,” he said, “I got an executive box at the Valley next Saturday; interested?”

I accepted his offer, appreciating that he liked to occasionally make up for my missing family, not to say social life, by taking me to films, fights and footy. Then, after listening to the details of how he and the boys had persuaded the owner of a new fancy restaurant on our Rotherhithe patch to take out damage limitation insurance against Big Trev’s damage-causing activities, I went back to the bar.

And that’s when my nice, cozy, life changed forever.

Being late afternoon, the place was near to empty, so I had plenty of time to take a shufty at the two newcomers. Later, I would see the sketch pads under their arms and realize they was students. But at first, all I saw was her black, shoulder-length, hair, terrific figure and fearsome intelligence. She took in everything, including me who, at that very moment, felt as if Bow bleedin’ Bells was clanging round his ears.

Written by T. D. Edge. Illustration by Christian Podgorski.

I’d sworn off Ringo’s Aldenata universe. Really, I had.  You see, though, I was at the library with my son as he pulled references for a college project and there, on a shelf of new arrivals, was The Tuloriad.  “Okay,” I told myself, “I’ll just check out a page or two.  It can’t do any harm, right?”

And I walked out of the library with The Tuloriad in my hands.

People like to hate Ringo and Kratman, especially those narrow minded and intolerant members of Denialists Universal, also known as the American Left.  What you can’t deny, though (at least if you actually read the book instead of skim it for little word bites that you can then try to use to pretend you read it in a spittle-laced defamatory “review”), is that between them Ringo and Kratman do an excellent job of writing entertaining fiction.  This comes out in the way that they hook the reader in the very beginning and don’t let them go to the end.

Honestly, I don’t know how much of this book was done by John Ringo and how much by Tom Kratman.  I think in the main that I sense the Colonel Kratman’s continually improving style throughout.  There are places where the voice seems to de-synch from the main, and I think that’s where Ringo might have had a hand.  Both voices though, are engaging and character-driven.  This isn’t a book that’s easily put down once you’re into it, as I found out to my bane during a series of later-than-I-should-have-been-up reads.

The overall gist of the book involves a refugee clan of the “evil” Posleen invaders, at last driven from earth.  This particular clan, though, is led by the Posleen hero Tulo’stenaloor, the creator of a clan of “5 percenters”, i.e. a clan made up of the smartest of all the Posleen.  In desperation, he accepts the offer of an escape ride from earth from a shady Indowy with obviously ulterior motives. Continue reading…

“So we have defeated the evil wizard after fighting out way through the bugbears, trolls, orcs, and rabid sheep, thus freeing these human children from the evil spell that was draining their souls in order to open a demon gate. I guess we’re done, then.” Fenris the dwarf finished tying off his bandage and gulped down a healing tonic, throwing down the glass vial to smash next to some part of a bugbear that could not be readily identified.

“Not so fast,” Kursiff the monk said as Fenris turned to leave. “What about the little ones? We have to get them back to their village.”

There were six- two babies and four walkers, blocked off in the corner of the wizard’s rooms, huddled together and whimpering. Kursiff was aware of their eyes following him and his fellow adventurers as they moved around the wizard’s rooms. looting.

“Oh, aye, I’m sure that you can handle that yerself,” Fenris said as he stuffed jewelry and coins into a sack. “Or mayhap our wizard here?”

“Me?” asked Podha with a squeak in his voice. The elf put down the book he was hefting. “No, no no, that is far beneath the dignity of a-”

“You still here?” boomed a big voice. Rollin the warrior poked his head in from the hallway. “Let’s shake a shank. I hear that there’s trouble in the foothills.”

“What about the wee ones?” Kursiff asked, pulling his dagger out of the sorcerer’s skull.

“Pixies?” Rollin looked around wildly, drawing his sword.

“No, you dolt!” Kursiff straightened and pointed to the children barricaded behind a makeshift corral made out of spears and chairs. “The villager’s children, the ones the wizard stole.”

Written by Jane Chirgwin.  Illustration by Marge Simon.