Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 7, October 2014

  MASTHEAD

  R. Leigh Hennig, Editor-in-Chief

  Nick Lazzaro, Assistant Editor

  Zod, Social

  Lauren Jane Shipley, Slush Reader

  Madison Abshire, Slush Reader

  Robert Davis, Slush Reader

  Nancy Waldman, Slush Reader

  Joseph J. Langan, Slush Reader

  Alexis A. Hunter, Slush Reader

  CONTRIBUTORS

  “Zero’s Hour”, Copyright ©2014 by Eric Del Carlo

  “When the Wind Blows on Tristan da Cunha”, Copyright ©2014 by Meryl Stenhouse

  “Waterman High Speed Axials”, Copyright ©2014 by William R. D. Wood

  “Time Enough”, Copyright ©2014 by Salena Casha

  “A Vision of Paradise”, Copyright ©2014 by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

  “Shudder”, Copyright ©2014 by Manfred Gabriel

  “In the Space Between”, Copyright ©2014 by Jeff Stehman

  “Sympathy for the Download”, Copyright ©2014 by Matthew Lyons

  Cover image courtesy Milan Jaram.

  Bastion Publications

  PO Box 605

  Lynnwood, WA 98064-0605

  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

  Zero’s Hour

  Eric Del Carlo

  When the Wind Blows on Tristan da Cunha

  Meryl Stenhouse

  Waterman High Speed Axials

  William R. D. Wood

  Time Enough

  Salena Casha

  A Vision of Paradise

  Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

  Shudder

  Manfred Gabriel

  In the Space Between

  Jeff Stehman

  Sympathy for the Download

  Matthew Lyons

  Editorial

  R. Leigh Hennig

  Continuing our upward progression, Bastion crashed right on through to the #1 bestseller spot at Weightless Books for our August issue, and our staff and authors couldn’t be happier. I’d like to stress that despite our relative success, your continued support is critical. Every share, repost, and retweet all mean a lot to us. I’ve been saying this same thing for months, and it’s my hope that the readers aren’t taking my words as hollow ones. If you doubt me, simply send an email to editor@bastionmag.com and I will be more than happy to have a personal conversation with each and every one of you to echo these sentiments and answer any questions that you may have.

  Last month’s theme (death) was pretty heavy. Someone commented that it was dense, like a good New York style cheesecake. My mother-in-law prides herself on how dense she makes her cheesecake. You can only eat so much of it, though. This month’s focus is two-fold: time (and what we do with it), and relationships. We’ve taken a look at how they’re built, and the importance that we place on them. I’m really excited for what we have in store for you.

  In “Zero’s Hour”, by Eric Del Carlo (a returning author to Bastion, he wrote Nigh in our May issue), a tired detective quizzes a tool about its death. Or maybe it’s more than a tool? Maybe even tools can relate to what it’s like to be human, once. Meryl Stenhouse’s “When the Wind Blows on Tristan da Cunha” shows us so well what it’s like to be seventeen and stuck where you don’t belong, but that’s not what makes this story unique; it’s the stellar examination of where we belong that you’ll fall in love with. If you’re a fan of villains, then “Waterman High Speed Axials” by William R. D. Wood will suit you just fine. Let’s just leave it at that for now, shall we? Salena Casha’s “Time Enough” expertly paints a dichotomy for us between what it’s like to be a “have” and a “have not,” in a world where it’s normal for the “have nots” to be literally counting their minutes. When are handouts no longer okay? Speaking of handouts, in “Sympathy for the Download” by Matthew Lyons, how far would you really go to not have people leeching off you? What do you do when a life has been forced on you? If you could hit a “reset” button, would you? At what cost? You need time and space to think about such things though, with a clear head. Suppose that you had your time taken from you, and were literally thrust into space, left with nothing but the occasional musings of a madman to accompany your thoughts? Could you think your way out of that? In Jeff Stehman’s “In the Space Between,” you’ll find out. “A Vision of Paradise” by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro is a wonderful take on the struggle between familial commitment and the struggle for self-preservation. At what point do traditions start to get in the way of progress, and what does it mean to be home, anyway? Finally, in “Sympathy for the Download” by Matthew Lyons, the lines between villain and hero are going to be blurred. This is a story that’s definitely going to get inside your head.

  I continue to be astounded by the stories that authors are sending our way, and I think you’ll be nothing less than moved after reading each story here. Enjoy.

  Zero’s Hour

  Eric Del Carlo

  "'mon, kiddo. Up and at 'em."

  There's a lot of tired in that voice. It is the zero's first fully resonant thought, integrating memory, deductive capacities, even a hint of wit. He has been looking up at the ceiling, which seems to have fluctuated in height several times in the past few minutes. He isn't sure those have been minutes, actually. His eyes feel moist. As he sits up, obeying the man's command reflexively, he wipes at his eyes with a hand that feels big and blunt.

  His obeying continues. He rises. The room doesn't whirl, but it threatens to. He puts out his hands for balance and wonders at the weakness in his legs. That doesn't jive with his emerging pattern of memory. He is a runner—six laps around the reservoir, that challenging forest trail switchbacking up the mountainside. He's done that, many times. His calves are hard as marble, flexible as an antelope's.

  He is naked. No. He is naked under this suit, a single-piece rubbery thing encasing him from toes to throat. It is not molded to his body, and its shapeless hollows and bulges look clumsy.

  The man in the room with him takes hold of one of his arms, grip strong but not rough. He snaps something into place over the zero's wrist. "That's counting down, kiddo. Let's make the most of it, okay?"

  He looks back at the slab on which he was lying, at the sterile black walls, then steps out of the room with the man with the tired voice into a corridor of blue walls, grimy with age. His clumsy suit is a hideous lime green color with black numerals stenciled on one leg, and it screals and squorks as he moves. His steps are feeble, but he stays upright. He looks at his wrist. What's there is like the cheap electronic gewgaws that used to come with fast food meals when he was a kid. Kid. Kiddo.

  The zero looks at the tired man he is following down the corridor. "Fifty-seven," he says to the man. Only, he has to try three times before he can make the words come out. Two of those times it feels like he is going to vomit, even though he is not sure there is anything in his stomach.

  "Fifty-seven," the man repeats. He has an agreeable air about him. He is somewhat heavy, and moves heavily, like hi
s center of gravity has been pressed permanently low. Clean-shaven, dressed in passable professional clothes. He wears a cap. "You're right out of the tank. You'll get the full benefit. I'm not one for that ten-minute assimilation. Who decided that? Well, engineers. But you're okay, right?” He glances back. Eyes twinkle under the brim of the cap.

  "I'm okay," says the zero. He finds he likes walking with this man. It is companionable, like a stroll. He looks again at the display on his wrist. Fifty-six minutes now.

  The corridor ends in a room that is bigger and far less sanitary than where he started. Not quite an office, he concludes. More of a den, with furniture and clutter, shared by many people. The zero is making aesthetic value judgments. He likes that.

  "Okay," the tired man drops into a seat, waves to a chair vaguely opposite. The zero stands, looking around at the other people talking to each other and into collar pickups. Some are uniformed. "Just move that and sit. Okay?"

  He breaks off his surveying, sees sheets of deadtree piled unevenly on the chair, and moves them aside. "Okay," he says. Okay. It is this man's word, and it feels like he has learned it for the first time. "Okay?” He pulls at facial muscles, trying to make a smile.

  The man looks up from a pocket playback. His twinkly eyes have red squiggles. "Can you tell me your name? Just relax. You can lean back in that chair, close your eyes if you want to. Tell me your name, kiddo. If you can.” His upper teeth gently hook his lower lip, drawing it inward.

  The zero doesn't close his eyes, which still feel wet. But he does deliberately sag back into the seat, even though the suit makes more horrible noises on the leather-like upholstery. "My name is Alfeo Jurado."

  It elicits an immediate smile. The man is surprised and pleased. "Well, that's it. First try.” Looking around as if to flaunt a victory, he crows, "Ten minutes for assim my ass. We're on a budget here, people!” A few muttered comments are returned to him.

  The zero smiles again, finding it easier to do this time.

  Light from the playback shifts on the man's rounded features. "Okay. Great. And—just relax again, relax—tell me, if you can...who was it who killed you?"

  He doesn't want to disappoint this man who he has just pleased. This man has been nice to him. He is tired, overworked, probably has been at this job a long time. He has had too many disappointments already.

  The emptiness in the zero's stomach tightens. He says, "I don't know. Okay?"

  He watches the fatigue roll back over the man, like a tide. Alfeo Jurado grew up near a seashore. He feels bad.

  "Okay.” And the tired man nods. Heavily. He switches off the playback and pockets it.

  The zero thinks to himself that it is all over; there is nothing more to come. He looks a little shyly at his wrist. Forty-nine minutes left. That seems like a lot of time to him.

  The man stands. He seems to have to gather himself to do it, physically and mentally. The zero rises, not waiting for a command. "You up for a little ride, kiddo?"

  #

  He guides the vehicle off-GRID. "Privilege of the job," he says.

  "What's your name?" asks the zero.

  He widens the eyes beneath the cap's bill. "Emil Mekelburg.” He says it like he is sharing a secret.

  The nighttime streets outside are slushy. Winters are like this, the zero knows. But the weather is more intense than it once was. He doesn't think he is remembering gentler winters; it is more like something he has been told.

  "You have a girlfriend," Emil says. While the zero has been looking out at the frozen city, the man has unpocketed his playback again. He steers one-handed, which should be alarming, but it doesn't bother the zero. "Her name's Harriet. Harriet Johnstone."

  "Yes."

  "You've got a boyfriend too.” Emil's eyes flick down, then back up as he negotiates a turn.

  "Morgan," the zero says.

  "Right."

  "Morgan Noke."

  "Right again.” Emil's thumb skips nimbly across the playback's face. "That's from your soash-net profile."

  He remembers Harriet's dark hair. Morgan has blond. He wonders if they have been told yet, then stops wondering that as he makes another deductive leap. Emil Mekelburg has them in mind as suspects. The zero supposes it is possible. Both relationships, he recalls, are volatile. But he loves both of them.

  They round another corner. Emil pulls up at the edge of an irregularly shaped pedestrian common. It is lit, but not for maximum visibility. Great cleaving shadows fall here and there over the odd corners. The zero peers out. He knows this place, a personal knowledge, not like what he knows about winters. He feels an immediacy. His flesh is throbbing under the lime suit. Sitting in this seat makes the shapeless garment balloon grotesquely around his middle, and it embarrasses him. He has always stayed so fit and trim.

  "You recognize this?" Emil asks. His alert expression is broken up as a yawn distends his mouth.

  Even before the zero has seen the red holo tape winking in the ill-lit night, he knows. He says, "I was killed here.” Wet thick flakes are spinning down through the swaths of light, disappearing into the shadows.

  "That's right.” Emil grunts, but only to indicate that he is impressed. "Let's go out and have a look around. Okay, kiddo?"

  The zero meets the tired man's red-squiggly eyes. "I want a hat."

  "What?"

  "I want a hat. Like you've got."

  Emil Mekelburg is surprised, not for the first time tonight. This time, though, it is like something is wrong, or at least a little off. He starts to say something, shakes his head, chuckles, and opens up the storage compartment between the vehicle's front seats. The hinge makes a tiny metallic whine.

  He holds out the blue logoed cap, but doesn't let go as the zero reaches for it. In a solemn tone of voice, something new from him, Emil says, "My grandmother on my mom's side was the first woman player ever on the Cubs. She was a reliever. Anna Barth. Buzzkill Barth.” He almost says more, but stops himself, shaking his head in a self-deprecating way and letting the zero take the baseball cap, which he covers his head with. The digits on his wrist are now counting down from thirty-two. He steps out with Emil into the wintry night.

  #

  The rubbery suit is repulsive, but he doesn't feel the cold anywhere but on his face. His movements seem a little less frail to him. He feels a loosening inside himself, or a quickening.

  They cross the plaza. No one else is on the scene. The overlooking buildings are anonymous slabs. He is careful with his footing.

  "You want the tape off?" Emil asks.

  "Yes."

  Ahead, the waist-high triangle of red blinks into darkness. It has cordoned off an area of shadow, plenty of room for a body.

  "Do you know how you were killed?"

  The zero knows the method isn't being investigated. "A knife..."

  "Are you asking or telling?” Emil is grunting again, but it is from exertion. His squelching footfalls sound more labored than the zero's.

  "Stabbing is the number one way people get murdered," the zero says, "now that they don't have guns anymore."

  Emil slips, catches himself, and they continue on. "Yeah. And how did you get killed?"

  "I was stabbed.” The zero halts at the edge of where the red holo was a moment ago. His nose is getting numb, but the cap keeps the snow out of his hair.

  Emil, breathing out long plumes, stops alongside him. The zero feels the intensity of his gaze as he steps forward, by himself now, solemnly, like when Emil talked about his grandmother. The energetic feeling is still growing in him.

  He walks back and forth over the area. He doesn't, after a moment, need to remember how the red triangle marked it off. He knows this plaza, though he doesn't always use it. It depends which rail transit station he is coming from or going to. Harriet means one, Morgan the other. Then, of course, there's work. Shoes. He designs shoes, and a whole host of memories emerge with that revelation. He is not wearing shoes now. His feet a
re encased in the same suit that envelops the rest of him.

  His apartment is near here.

  "Coming home," he says. His breath steams, just like Emil's.

  "Yeah?” The tired voice is gone. This is what the man has been saving up his energy for.

  "Coming from—there.” The zero points to one of the pedestrian accesses to the common. Probably Emil knows which station that suggests he got off at, and the significance of that. "Crossing—here.” He stands over a dark patch of ground. Maybe the daylight would show a stain; maybe not.

  He turns, turns again. He takes three lurching steps. He lets the memory emerge. It is difficult to get to, dulled by trauma. The blade opened him up. He was by now already sinking into shock. The light, of course, was bad.

  But it comes.

  He straightens. Emil Mekelburg's hands open and close at his sides. The zero gives his description of the assailant, everything there is. It doesn't sound like much to him, but Emil's eyes twinkle. Maybe it is enough. A yellow light shows on Emil's collar. This information is being relayed. It will be acted on.

  The zero lets out a pluming breath. He stands again over the place where Alfeo Jurado's life ended earlier tonight. The zero knows the final thoughts that were in the man's head, which of his two lovers he thought of last.

  Emil talks into his collar pickup, terse sentences, pauses, then more staccato words.

  The zero blinks. His eyes feel wet again. His earlobes are so cold they burn. When Emil's final pause becomes a silence, the zero asks, "Was it a robbery?"

  Emil has his playback in hand again. The holo tape springs back to life. "He was robbed, yeah. If that's all there was about it—" shoulders heave, like he is fighting his low center of gravity, "—we don't know. Yet. But I think we'll find out.” He smiles. "Okay? That's a good thing."

  The zero knows it is. But it is not, he discovers, the most important thing. The anxious vitality he feels is suddenly overflowing, overwhelming him. He smiles back at Emil, and it becomes a grin, big and ferocious.