Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 8, November 2014 Read online

  MASTHEAD

  R. Leigh Hennig, Editor-in-Chief

  Nick Lazzaro, Assistant Editor

  Lauren Jane Shipley, Slush Reader

  Robert Davis, Slush Reader

  Nancy Waldman, Slush Reader

  Joseph J. Langan, Slush Reader

  Alexis A. Hunter, Slush Reader

  Lauren Hinkle, Slush Reader

  Coral Moore, Slush Reader

  CONTRIBUTORS

  “Good Times”, Copyright ©2014 by Alexander Jones

  “The Ticket-Taker”, Copyright ©2014 by CJ Menart

  “Us or Them”, Copyright ©2014 by B. Brooks

  “The Vestal”, Copyright ©2014 by Rob Steiner

  “Playing in the Skeleton on Riot Day”, Copyright ©2014 by Jedd Cole

  “Mayhem at Manville”, Copyright ©2014 by Michael Andre-Driussi

  “Shenzhen Blues”, Copyright ©2014 by Spencer Wightman

  Cover image courtesy Milan Jaram.

  Bastion Publications

  PO Box 605

  Lynnwood, WA 98064-0605

  ISSN 2375-2610 (print)

  ISSN 2375-2602 (online)

  Visit us at www.bastionmag.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bastionmag, on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/bastionsf or you can check out our Google+ page.

  Bastion Science Fiction Magazine publishes original short stories on the first of every month. As a new publication, we’re working hard to build up our readership. We’d appreciate it if you would help us out by letting your friends know about us. Thanks for your support and happy reading.

  Contents

  Editorial

  R. Leigh Hennig

  Good Times

  Alexander Jones

  The Ticket-Taker

  CJ Menart

  Us or Them

  B. Brooks

  The Vestal

  Rob Steiner

  Playing in the Skeleton on Riot Day

  Jedd Cole

  Mayhem at Manville

  Michael Andre-Driussi

  Shenzhen Blues

  Spencer Wightman

  Editorial

  R. Leigh Hennig

  It’s been a quite month here at Bastion. We’ve been diligently working to go through our slush pile, plucking out the best stories and encouraging the authors that still need a little more polish. If you somehow missed the news, the “super secret” project we had been going on about for the past couple of months was an ASMR reading of William Delman’s “The Cure,” (from our August issue) by Dmitry of MassageASMR. It’s a funny little thing, ASMR, and if you haven’t checked it out yet then I encourage you to do so. Already the video has over 67,000 views and has received a very positive response. Big thanks to Dmitri for the reading, and William of course for the fantastic story.

  This month Michael Andre-Driussi returns with “Mayhem at Manville” (he first featured in our June issue with “Miracle of Asteroid Camp 88”) which is going to be, I think, a polarizing piece. This story is all puzzle, and if you’re the sort that really enjoys unlocking a story with a lot of different parts to it, this should be right up your alley. While Spencer Wightman’s “Shenzhen Blues” is more approachable, it certainly isn’t lacking in suspense and excellent description. The protagonist in this piece plays a game with more on the line than she realizes. Brimming with character, CJ Menart’s “The Ticket-Taker” is oddly reminiscent of early Vaudeville, mixed with far-flung futuristic characters that you can’t help but adore. On the topic of interesting characters and settings, I have only one thing to say about Rob Steiner’s “The Vestal”: Romans…in spaaaaace! A little closer to reality though is “Good Times,” by Alexander Jones. Or perhaps…reality is what you make of it? If I’m being honest, this story choked me up a bit—in a good way. You’ll enjoy this one. Jedd Cole’s “Playing in the Skeleton on Riot Day” is another touching story; Jedd does a fine job of exploring heavy themes through the eyes of children. Finally, “Us or Them,” by B. Brooks, is the kind of story that’s probably best to read during the night, when the wind is howling during a heavy storm. It’s a dark little tale, and thoroughly enjoyable.

  Fall is winding down, and winter is starting to peak from around the corner. You can be sure to count on us to deliver memorable tales of the strange and fantastic to keep you up long throughout the chilly nights. Thanks for reading.

  Good Times

  Alexander Jones

  Art shackled his bicycle to the chain link fence off the pedestrian path in the park and sat down on the bench next to Ray. Ray, slouched down against the thick wooden slats, took a hand out from the pouch pocket on his hooded sweatshirt and the two lightly touched their knuckles together.

  “What’s doing?”

  Art shrugged, adjusting himself on the cold wood. “You know. Same stuff.”

  Ray nodded. “I know.”

  They both stared across the path at the dirty river and the twinkling lights of the city on the far shore. They listened to the muted traffic sounds of horns blaring and engines revving from the highway overpass in the sky above them. A traffic drone hovered, purring as it zigzagged over the traffic. Car exhaust drifted and settled to the ground, the smell less burnt and acrid at this distance. Layered beneath that smell, the sweet autumn odor of rotting leaves signaled the impending winter.

  Further down the path, an old man with pockmarks on his face cast a line into the gray water. Otherwise, they had the park to themselves.

  “What’s he gonna catch, fishing this river?” Art asked.

  “Cancer.” This joke never got old.

  Art slapped Ray’s thigh and rubbed his hands together. “So. Whatcha got?”

  Ray grinned. “You’re feeling it? You want it?” Then, with a slight teasing edge to his voice, “You need it?”

  “Yeah, I want something. It’s cold out. Something to lift the blues.”

  “But do you need it?”

  “Stop busting my chops.” But he had no animosity, no annoyance. Just another part of their little ritual dance.

  Ray shrugged. “Alright.” He wagged a finger, “You know, you do too much and you won’t remember—”

  “And I won’t remember who I really am anymore,” Art finished in singsong. “Right.”

  Cracking his knuckles, Ray reached under his sweatshirt and came up with his works, a worn brown leather satchel about the size of a hard cover book. He slowly unzipped the zipper running along the side of it and flipped it open.

  On one side, tucked into little pockets, a series of different colored vials, some labeled, some not. On the other, strapped in, was the twonky. Ray had named it after a science fiction story, he had once explained. Its holographic logo gleamed and shifted in the twilight. It was in pristine condition, Art knew. The most valuable thing Art owned; expensive, rare, illegal. He'd asked about it, how Ray had gotten one, where he could get one of his own, but Ray had brushed him off each time.

  Ray pawed through the vials beside the machine. "A kid, playing with a little puppy. Labrador.”

  “You serious? That’s a commercial for laundry detergent or something.”

  Ray smiled. “You like to bike. How ‘bout a cyclist in an important race? Bought it a week ago. Tour duh France. Last few miles, exhausted, wanting that trophy so bad. Exhilarating. You can feel the wind in your hair.”

  “I feel the wind in my hair right now,” Art answered, a smoggy breeze wafting over them from a tract
or trailer crossing the bridge. “Besides, that sounds like it’s been used a few times already. Third, fourth generation. Right?"

  Ray lit a cigarette. “Now who’s busting chops?” He smoked. “But you’re right, it’s been passed around a few times, but it’s still pretty clear. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “No. But you know, a copy of a copy of a copy is fine when you're working with codes. It was fine all the way back to videotapes. But things get lost in translation, with organix.”

  "Emotions are hard to code. So I clone them instead." Ray tossed his cigarette. “And I’ve got something special. A girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “A woman.” Ray nodded his head. “Not just sex. An entire relationship with a beautiful woman. Not a blowup doll fantasy, either. A real relationship.”

  Art licked his lips. “How much? Is it fresh? No thin spots, no hiccups?”

  “I don't know, I haven't done it. But it's fresh. She's fresh. At least, that's what my scout told me. I’m reluctant to part with her. It's been a while.”

  “I thought you were a terror junkie. You getting soft?”

  “A hundred.”

  “I haven’t got a hundred.”

  “There’s an ATM at the bodega.”

  “I don’t have a hundred. Besides, you owe me for that guy tortured by the Chinese secret police. I gave that to you for practically nothing.”

  “Yeah." Wistful, he said: "That was something. Only thing better was what I got from that Holocaust survivor in my mother’s apartment building.” He tittered. “Good times.”

  Shaking his head, not wanting to hear about that again, Art said, “So you owe me.”

  “True. But I’m not letting go of her for just money alone. On principal. Nothing scary ever happened to you?”

  “I OD’ed once.”

  “Coke or heroin?”

  Art smiled at him. “Speedball. Best of both worlds, right?”

  Ray shook his head. “Not for me.”

  Art looked over at the river, at the ripples extending from a bridge pylon in the center, lapping against the stone barrier at the edge of the park. The gray-brown water held a shifting reflection of the city’s lights. A protracted blast from a car horn came from the bridge. The traffic drone skittered over to investigate.

  Ray touched his shoulder, and when Art looked over at him, Ray held up a glass vial. Art took it. About three quarters full, it held a coppery red liquid. Art shook it and the liquid languidly responded to the motion. “Thick.”

  “Dense. A whole relationship, like I told you.”

  “It’s red,” Art said, shaking the vial again.

  "Red's the color of passion, right?"

  “So what, then?”

  “Fifty. And something horrible.”

  Art dug through his pockets and handed Ray a wad of money. Then, touching his chin, he leaned his head back against the cold wood of the bench, eyes closed. The dread of coming home from school, walking around the block a couple extra times, waiting for his father because his father used to beat him with a doubled over belt. Getting caught with the belt buckle a few times. He’d pissed himself once, and pissed blood after the beating he caught for pissing himself in the first place. As a teenager, he’d broken into a junkyard looking for a quiet place to get high, but a Rottweiler started chasing him. He remembered that clearly.

  Opening his eyes, looking out at the water, Art thought of it. His best terror. Better than that mangy dog, or the belt.

  “You got something?”

  Art nodded. “It’s good.”

  “It better be. You only gave me 43 dollars.”

  Art shrugged. “It’s a fair trade.”

  Ray flipped through his works to another compartment, and came up with an eye dropper.

  "The eyes?"

  "I don’t want to sit here for an hour waiting for the pills to work."

  Art nodded. He took the eye dropper, opened it. He tilted back his head, rested it on the bench, and, focusing on the sky, dripped two long drops into each eye. Heavy, self- guided, the drops soaked in, not even making his eyes tear up.

  "I'll never get used to that," he said, returning the dropper.

  "It's the fastest way into the brain, right through the optic nerves."

  "You know, they promised us rocket ships to the moon and bionic kidneys, and instead we got this." Memory cloners. The stuff wasn't psychoactive, really just a marker, but he always felt a little woozy, right after.

  "You could be sitting at home with vodka and scotch."

  "No, thanks."

  Ray checked the time on his phone. After another couple minutes he nodded. "Your amygdala's probably lit up nicely by now." He tapped a couple buttons on the machine; it beeped and a motor inside it whirred to life. He handed a suction cup electrode to Art, who stuck it to his own forehead, squeezing it into place.

  The machine beeped.

  "You ready? Think about what happened. Remember it."

  Art did. It was easy. Once he'd thought of it, recalling it again got easier with each attempt.

  "Deep in there," Ray muttered.

  "What?"

  Ray looked up from the machine's display. "Whatever it was, happened when you were a little kid?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good. Childhood terrors taste best." He smiled as he said it. He tapped a couple more buttons. "I'm right on the cell cluster. You ready?"

  Art nodded.

  Ray handed him an empty vial, smaller than the one holding the relationship.

  Art rubbed his eyes and stared at the churning river water, remembering everything, fastening on to details, playing it over in his head again and again, allowing the cloning fluid to attach to it, remembering faster and faster, then slowing down over details, the clone soaking it up. When the memory started to shake, Art slowed it down, let it straighten out, let the clone absorb it just right, all in the right order. All the little subtleties flowing from his mind into the clone, the juice soaking it up, doubling it, replicating the memory and the terror.

  Art swallowed until his mouth was as dry as he could get it, and when the fluid leaked out from the roof of his mouth, he caught it on his rolled tongue and let it drip into the vial.

  Retching as the last of it passed into the vial, he pushed in the rubber stopper.

  Holding it up, he saw the color inside the clear glass was the same color as the river water and he shrugged.

  “That was good. You’re getting to be a pro.”

  “I found a book about yoga and meditating. Expand your mind, control your center. Zen.”

  Ray handed him the red vial. “Maybe you’ll get tantric with the girl.”

  “Maybe.”

  Overhead, the traffic slowed as rush hour took hold. The old man had caught two fish, flopping around in a sack at his feet, and was loading up the line again. They watched as he cast.

  “You wanna do them together, or wait till you get home?”

  Art shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Let’s do ‘em here.”

  Art nodded. “To pleasant memories.”

  “And sweet dreams.”

  They toasted, touching the vials together. Ray popped out the stopper, looked at the red and downed it all in a single shot. Art opened his and sipped slowly.

  The campus gallery doesn’t open for another hour, but there are already people inside. They’re looking around and talking, pointing and gesturing at things, smiling or maybe trying to appear erudite as they hold forth on this or that. I like the gallery; it strikes the right blend of open space and bright lighting without being harsh or sterile. Those lights are extra soft fluorescents. I know because I’d installed them a week ago, nervous at the top of a twelve-foot ladder.

  In some places the floor is polished wood, in others it’s a sepia toned carpet that I’d vacuumed and steamed earlier in the day. I smile the way I usually do when I get assigned to work in this area of th
e school. The paintings are someone’s work, displayed in the gallery, and the gallery display is my work. I stick around for the exhibits; a part time chemistry undergrad doesn’t get enough exposure to the artistic types. I like the sense of adding to my well-rounded education, seeing things I know I wouldn’t see without making the effort. Making myself cultured. Plus, my boss thinks I’m clean cut enough to represent the maintenance department.

  There’s a girl standing alone, off to the side, close to one of the walls, staring at one of the smaller paintings. I remember first being aware of her hair, a deep red that flows over the collar of her shirt. Irish? I wondered.

  “You like it?” I ask, walking up beside her.

  She shrugs. “You?”

  I look at the painting, thinking of something to say, something on point and witty to make me sound smart, something to impress her with my depth of artistic insight and rapport, because I already know that it’s her own painting. No one in this gallery stands in front of one painting, staring, unless it’s their own.

  I come up short on the sagacious artist front, so I step in a little closer, squinting theatrically. “It’s cocked.”

  “What?” she asks, forehead wrinkling, drawing up her little button nose.

  I grin at her when our eyes meet. “I said that it’s cocked.” I continue. “Cocked. You know…”

  When her expression shifts to puzzlement, my grin widens. “Tilted.” I make an incline with my hand.

  “Oh.” Her face relaxes as a thin smile comes to her lips.

  “Oh?” I repeat. I want this girl to smile, really smile at me, and maybe laugh, or I want to know that I tried even if I failed miserably, so I say, “Oh, did you think I was saying something dirty to you?”

  She blushes, her eyes darting to the floor, and bites her lower lip. “Ummm…”

  Time to reel her back in, time to say something friendly or look like a perv and feel like a chump for blowing it. I shrug. “I can’t think of any other dirty sounding things I can say about your painting.”