Editorial — Journey into Dimension6

At Dawn’s Speed — Dirk Strasser

Author Loci

Upon A Distant Shore — Alan Baxter

Author Loci

He Ain’t Dead — Robert N Stephenson

Author Loci

Why Dimension6?

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Copyright

Editorial — Journey into Dimension6

Keith Stevenson

Our second issue of Dimension6 exhibits the kind of serendipity we’re becoming used to as we travel across the multiverse: all of our contributors are or have been publishers and editors in their own right. Dirk Strasser is of course one of the founding editors and owners of Aurealis Science Fiction and Fantasy, the longest-running speculative fiction magazine in Australia. Robert N Stephenson created and edited Altair Magazine which, although it had a comparatively short run from 1998 to 2000, was transformative for the local indie publishing scene because of its strong focus on international as well as Australian fiction. And Alan Baxter ran Blade Red Press for a period and published, among other things, the excellent debut collection Souls Along the Meridian by Bill Congreve, another Australian writer, editor and publisher. Such is the breadth and depth of talent in the Australian speculative fiction scene.

As we’re at the midpoint of the year, it’s timely to announce that Dimension6 will again be open for fiction submissions from 1 to 31 November inclusive. All submission details are on our website at http://keithstevenson.com/CDLblog/submissions/

We hope you enjoy the stories in this issue and, if you do, tell your friends about us!

Now sit back and prepare to journey into Dimension6.

At Dawn’s Speed — Dirk Strasser

My people are never still. Even when we sleep, our bodies sort of twitch and shake. We call ourselves the Run People — because that’s what we do. Run. And run. Through the dark. Always in the dark. Away from the dawn. Until it’s time for one of us to silver. Like now.

My mammer picked a birth-name for me that would make me faster as I grew older — Swift. She is a wise woman. I’ve only just reached my full height and I can already outrun anyone in our tribe except Bardon, the guider. I sort of like to pretend in my head that I could one day be a guider like him, but ’course I know that’s silly. Girls like me grow up to be mammers, and mammers don’t run that good when they’re carrying babies.

We started our silvering dance in the dark, like we do everything. The youngers never really do it right. I remember when it was hard for me to slow down and make the body shapes that the adults made. My heart used to pump hard, and my muscles sort of fought against me trying to make them do things that weren’t normal. Now I can do it as good as almost anyone. My mammer taught me the secret. She is a wise woman. It was the same as the secret to running, really — it was all in how you breathe. If you breathed real steady, you could slow the stuff in your head, and if you could slow what’s in your head then you could make your body do anything you wanted. I could make my body dance the silver rhythms, and it was like I wasn’t in my head anymore and was in the sky dancing with the star-rains under the curves of the two blood moons.

Without breaking my rhythm, I watched the first blade of sunlight appear on the horizon and followed it as it moved across the plain down below us. I used to think dawn didn’t really move so fast, that the Run People could easily get up way ahead out of danger. But then I understood that dawn never sleeps or eats or gets tired or sore. It just keeps coming forever. And, anyway, we had to stay close enough to do the silvering dance when we needed to.

Then my eyes sort of locked on the silverer lying in the still-darkness in the middle of the plain. I knew I shouldn’t. You’re not supposed to think of them like they were still one of us. But I couldn’t help it. For a moment the stuff in my head starting racing again. The dance. It’s all ’bout the dance. I tried to force my breaths back into the silver rhythms. The dawn border-line now stretched right across the plain in a curve, travelling steady over the stones and dirt towards us.

My breath stuck in my throat like the bone of a mudfish. I can’t control what I’m thinking when that happens to me.

I started climbing down the rocks onto the plain.

‘Swift, what— ’ Bardon shouted at me, but I didn’t hear the rest.

My feet were already on the plain and I was running towards the silverer that was still lying there without moving.

I ran faster than the ill-winds. Even Bardon wouldn’t be able to catch me with my head start. Me and the dawn line were running a race that only one of us could win.

The silverer saw me coming and sat up as I got closer, waving me away. But I didn’t stop. The silverer kept sort of glancing backwards and forwards between me and the light. Scared. I just ran faster.

Until I reached her.

And I put my arms ’round her and and held her hard.

‘Run,’ she said into my ear.

I looked up and saw the dawn line was almost on top of me. I touched her cheek and then turned to race back.

After a short spurt I stopped again to look at where I’d come from.

I watched the light wash over her like it was flood water, and she started to shine like a fallen star.

I couldn’t tell for sure, but she looked like she was waving to me.

I held my breath, and waved back.

She glowed silver and then began to sort of dissolve.

When the last of her faded into the light, I said goodbye to my mammer.

She was a wise woman.

Then the run started again.

•

I know the dozens of words for running in my people’s language. I know the word for a sprint when death is sort of nipping at your heels. I know the word for the steady jog when dawn is way behind you and you know you have as much time as you’ll ever have. And I know all the run-words in between. But my favourite word is the lope we do just before we’re going to make camp.

That’s how we were running now: loping, sort of tired but calm, through a narrow gorge filled with puddles of grey snow and round boulders. It’s a time when you have enough breath to speak, but not enough to speak ’bout things that don’t mean anything. It’s a time when only important things get said. I always feel like I’m at my best when we lope. I never feel what the others complain ’bout: the tight muscles, the aching joints. It’s a time when I always run at the front with Bardon and the other guiders at the head of race. A time when they either don’t notice I’m there or they don’t care.

It’s a time when I listen and learn stuff.

‘It’s not worth the risk, Bardon.’ Aril was a seconder and usually ran at the head with Bardon.

‘You know seeking Refuge has always been my plan,’ said Bardon. ‘Why are you arguing against me now?’

‘We’ve survived this cycle. The Run People still live. We can survive another cycle. And another after that.’

‘Yes, we survive, by the skin of our feet, but I don’t want to guide a people who merely survive. I want more for us.’

‘We still hold the old tales in our hearts,’ said Jehu, who we all knew was starting to slow down and would have to silver soon. ‘We know what our people once were. As long as we keep the tales, we do more than just survive.’

Bardon looked up at the star-rains that were sort of streaking the sky. ‘A guider only has one chance in his lifetime to do this thing. None of us will live to see another cycle, and at best there will be others in the future in the same place as we are now, arguing the same arguments.’

‘You don’t know if the tales haven’t been twisted in time,’ said Aril. ‘Perhaps Refuge is just a place we all go to after silvering. Perhaps it isn’t real the way we believe it to be.’

‘See,’ said Bardon, ‘we are beginning to doubt the truth of our own past. Refuge is real. We know the exact place it lies. We simply need the will to seek it.’

‘And the speed,’ said Jehu.

‘Will and speed are the same thing,’ said Bardon.

‘Not when you grow old,’ said Jehu.

‘You can still keep up with us, Jehu,’ said Bardon. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get us all to Refuge and we will finally be able to rest.’

I could tell Jehu was ’bout to speak again when the ground started to shake in front of us.

There’s times when the way words flow ’round you make you sort of numb to things that are happening, and you don’t see danger signs you should have seen. A time when you should have felt the faint shivering under your feet. Or the hunger in the air.

This was a time like that.

‘Hiberantors!’ cried Bardon, too late.

We all drew our bone knives and did something we hardly ever did. We stopped in our tracks and started retreating back through the gorge.

Out of the ground they came. Half solid, half silvered things that could move through rock like fish swam through water. Covered in barbs which locked into your skin, they attacked us. You could smell the hunger now. A hunger that had waited and waited under the surface, until a time like this when it knew it could sate itself.

We were trapped, the hiberantors blocking the way forward and the cliffs pressing in on us on both sides.

Bardon picked up one of the round boulders and threw it at one of them, and the thing sort of collapsed back flat onto the ground, like the air had been taken out of it.

‘They are still very weak. Don’t let them feed on any of us,’ he called. ‘It will make them grow stronger.’

I copied the others and we threw rocks like rain onto them.

‘Now!’ shouted Bardon. ‘Run.’

We charged through them as they started to fill themselves with air again.

One nearly hooked into my leg but I was too fast.

I heard a scream behind me. Garen, a boy a bit younger than me, wasn’t fast enough, and I saw a dozen barbs hook him, sucking his juices, and his body start to collapse on itself. There were other screams, but I didn’t look back again.

We didn’t stop sprinting until we were out of the gorge and had gone deep into a pale forest of bone-trees and smooth rocks. Bardon gave the signal to make camp and everyone just fell down, muscles twitching.

We had lost three Run People, without dancing and without silvering. I warmed myself by the camp fire, trying not to think of Garen and the others, trying instead to think ’bout how my mammer had died, the right way, the way our people chose to die when they could no longer keep up with the others.

Bardon and the seconders had moved away from the fire and were looking hard up at the sky and trying to hold the movements of the stars and the two blood moons with their hands. I could tell they were arguing. Voices got loud and then went quiet, and then got loud again. I moved closer to listen, but Bardon waved me away. Whatever they were discussing, it was real serious.

I don’t like being waved away, and I don’t like being told what to do. I moved out into the deeper darkness past the camp fire, pretending I was searching for a place to squat, and then sort of doubled back through the boulders until I was hidden but close enough to hear what the men were saying.

I could tell who was talking by the sound of their voice. ‘The seconders all speak as one,’ said Aril. ‘We cannot agree that you should do this.’

Bardon’s voice was real clear and firm. ‘You do not need to agree for this new plan of mine. I understand why you do not want me to lead the Run People to Refuge, but you cannot stop me going by myself.’

‘Your plan is insane,’ said old Jehu. ‘We will lose a guider in his prime. You cannot possibly run fast enough. ‘

‘I believe I can. I can make it to Refuge and then return to all of you before dawn strikes me. The plan can work. I will return and we will know, finally, whether Refuge can offer us peace. At the next cycle our people will no longer need to risk all their lives. The new guider will no longer have an impossible choice. Either he will lead the Run People to Refuge, or at the very least we will know that some of the old tales are not worth listening to anymore.’

‘So you want us to continue our cycle and simply expect you will return to us?’ asked Aril.

‘Yes, do not slow at all. The whole point is to not put the people at risk.’

‘If you are determined to do this thing,’ said Aril, ‘then I will come with you. There are too many dangers for you to go alone.’

‘No, our people cannot afford to lose both of us. You will be guider in my absence.’

‘Bardon is right,’ said Jehu. ‘We will struggle to survive the next cycle with the two of you dead.’

‘Then it is settled,’ said Bardon. ‘I will head north immediately. Every moment I delay will mean I will need to run even faster.’

The men split up. I watched them go and their faces were like stone. I followed Bardon as he went to get his pack.

‘Take me with you,’ I said as he was fastening the straps.

Bardon frowned. ‘You were listening. Our discussions were not for your ears.’

‘Take me with you. I’m faster than Aril, and nearly as fast as you.’

‘No.’

‘I am nearly as fast as you.’

‘I mean, no, don’t be foolish. You can’t come with me.’

‘Why not? Aril said there will be many dangers. I could help.’

‘No. You will stay with the others. I won’t allow anyone to come with me.’

‘Please.’

‘You don’t understand, Swift.’ Bardon looked ’round for something. ‘You don’t understand enough about our world.’ He reached down and picked up a rock that was round all the way. ‘Do you see this?’

I just stared at him. I’d seen lots of round rocks before.

‘We are like fire-ants endlessly crawling around this rock.’ He traced a circle ’round the bottom half of the sphere. ‘We run a full cycle along here, always staying just ahead of sunrise.’

‘I know these things,’ I said.

‘You know nothing, Swift. Stop and think for a moment. We are trapped in this cycle. We stick with it because it has no large mountain ranges to cross or seas to traverse. We can’t go further south because it gets colder and the snow deepens, making running impossible.’

‘Refuge lies north, doesn’t it? See, I do know things.’

‘Yes, Refuge lies north, and it’s warmer there so there’s even less snow, but look at this rock again and imagine you are a fire-ant.’ He traced a cycle closer to the centre of the sphere. ‘Do you see what the problem is?’

I nodded. ‘The cycle is longer the further north we go.’

‘Yes, and not only do we need to run further, dawn also moves faster.’

I frowned. ‘So the further north we go, the faster we need to run.’

‘Yes, exactly.’

‘See, I do understand.’

‘Good, then you can understand how dangerous what I’m about to do is. I’m not only going to attempt to reach Refuge. I’m going to return to the Run People and tell them what I found there.’

I didn’t know what to say and kept frowning as Bardon walked through the camp saying his goodbyes. When he waved to me, I thought of the way my mammer had waved to me just before she silvered.

It was then that I decided to follow him.

•

At first the ’scape was what I was used to, flat with loose boulders, bone forests and small outcrops of rocks breaking from the ground. I thought at the start that I’d have to be real careful to keep my distance so Bardon wouldn’t see me. I didn’t need to worry. He was running so fast I had to sprint at full pelt just so I wouldn’t lose his tracks. I had no time to think ’bout what I was doing.

I sort of lost track of things after a while. All of a sudden I noticed that the ’scape had changed to hard black stuff with little holes all the way through it. Then, before I knew it, the rock outcrops had gotten real large and real wild. And after that I was suddenly running through blood-grass that left bright red stains on my legs.

It must of been a long time after I’d left the Run People when I snapped out of it.

I heard Bardon shout.

I sprinted towards the sound and saw he was trapped up to his belly in a pit-mouth. And he didn’t look too happy as he tried to pull himself out. The juices must of already been biting into his skin. When he looked up and saw me, it was like he’d seen a silverer come back to life.

‘Swift?’

‘Here, I’ll help you.’ I snapped a bone tree branch and shoved it into the pit-mouth next to where Bardon was stuck. I angled it against the lip of the mouth and pulled down hard until the branch took his weight.

He pushed back against the wall with his legs, and the two things together forced the pit-mouth’s suction to let go just enough for Bardon to climb out.

‘What have you done?’ said Bardon, wiping blood-grass on his burning skin.

‘I’ve saved you from becoming a pit-mouth’s next meal.’

‘I would have fought my way out myself.’

‘But how bad would your skin be hurting just now?’

Bardon grunted. ‘Do you never listen?’

‘I listen all the time.’

‘What am I supposed to do with you?’

I smiled. ‘You don’t get any choice now. You have to take me along.’

Bardon glared at me. ‘I do have a choice. I could send you back. If you made it here, you can make it back to our cycle.’

‘You can’t send me back. I’d just keep following you,’ I said. ‘You can’t make me do anything.’

‘I can,’ said Bardon, ‘and Aril or Jehu would — but you know that’s not my way.’

‘Then let’s just keep goingf.’

‘I’m too soft with you.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re a great guider.’

Bardon stretched, getting ready to start the run again. ‘Tell me, Swift,’ he asked. ‘Why did you come?’

I just sort of looked at him for a moment. Not real sure what the answer was. Finally I said, ‘I guess I didn’t want to live my mammer’s life.’

•

‘So how many cycles do you reckon our people have made, Bardon?’

The two of us were running through a ’scape where rock outcrops now reached high above us.

‘Your questions are endless, Swift.’

‘Have we been running forever?’

‘You know the story — we once camped in just one place.’

‘A story is a story. I like real things.’

‘Well, hopefully we’ll find out whether Refuge is real.’

I stared at the outcrops ’round us and saw they had these big openings in the rock.

‘What are those holes we can see?’ I asked.

‘Another question!’

‘Yes, another question. If those openings go back far enough, we could— ’

‘Forget about them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know what you’re going to ask next. The openings are called caves, and no, they will never provide our people with shelter. In fact, they mean we are in a lot of danger just now.’

‘Why?’

‘Just keep running — faster if you can.’

‘I can always run faster.’

We ran ’round an outcrop and I sort of got weak in my knees at what I saw. In front of us were people. Strange-looking people, but people just the same. Hundreds of them. More than I’d ever seen before in the one place. They were all dressed in rags, didn’t have any hides on their feet, and were moving real slow. Not slow like our silvering dance. This was a different slow. There was no point to what they were doing. It was an empty slow. An I’ve-given-up slow. But the strangest thing ’bout them was their eyes. They were silver and barely there. It was like you could see right through them and into their heads.

‘What are they, Bardon?’

‘Sleep People. Sleepers. Keep running. Stay right next to me. They don’t see the way we do, but they’re very sensitive to changes in movement. Our best chance is to keep our pace up.’

‘Can we talk?’ I whispered.

‘Don’t lower your voice,’ said Bardon. ‘Keep speaking normally. Not too loud. Not too soft. They can’t hear either, but they sense changes in sound tremors in the air.’

I had a thousand questions inside me trying to burst out, but I kept them inside and made sure I was right up next to Bardon. The ’scape was covered with loose rocks, making it hard to keep the same pace. All ’round us the sleepers kept sort of swaying and staggering, not really noticing we were there. Not really noticing anything.

I started to see groups of youngers in amongst them. They looked different to the adults, and were playing a bit like our youngers did at a campsite. They were still in rags, but they moved sharper, more like us. Their eyes were alive. And the younger they were, the more alive they looked.

Then it happened. I must of been looking at their eyes too closely. My foot hit one of the rocks and I stumbled. Just a little.

A sound I can’t really describe was suddenly all ’round us. A moan full of dead pain. A moan that had woken up and just remembered what it was like to be hungry.

‘They’ve locked onto us,’ warned Bardon. ‘Now we’re in real trouble.’

‘Why? We can run steady again.’

‘It’s too late, Swift. Once they’ve locked on a change, they become incredibly sensitive to their prey.’

‘Prey?’

‘Whatever you do, don’t let them bite you.’

I felt like my legs were going to crumple up. This was worse than the hiberantors. Much worse. The Sleep People were now crowding us from all sides at once, spitting at our faces. The adults attacked slow, but there were so many of them. And they just kept coming. Like the dawn line. The youngers were faster and could change their direction when we did. And all the time the dead moaning sound wouldn’t stop. I knew we could outrun any of them — even the fastest younger — but for once, it looked like running wasn’t enough to save us. I couldn’t have tripped up at a worse time. We were pretty much right in the middle of them when it happened.

‘What’s that coming out of their mouths?’ I cried, as I rubbed the stinging wet stuff off my cheek.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Bardon, leading me through a maze of grasping hands. ‘It makes you go numb, but we can wipe it away later. Just keep away from their mouths.’

He pushed back a few that stood in front of us. I hit one that nearly got its teeth into my shoulder. We weaved left and right, sometimes doubling back, but always pushing north again.

I felt a heavy body fall into my back.

‘Watch out!’ cried Bardon, as he rammed at it with his forearm. He made a face like he’d twisted his ankle, but the sleeper fell back. ‘This way,’ he said, leading me through a gap that was closing quickly in front of us. We sprinted even faster and raced through until we were clear of the sleepers.

Some youngers still ran after us for a while, but then fell behind and stopped the chase.

We kept sprinting until the moans sort of faded into the air.

‘We should rest for a while,’ said Bardon, so we slowed down to a jog, catching our breaths.

‘We’re safe now, aren’t we?’ I asked.

Bardon grunted.

‘Aren’t we, Bardon?’

‘I don’t know. They say there are more sleepers the further north you go.’

‘They were horrible.’

‘Yes, Swift, but I feel sorry for them.’

‘Sorry? They were monsters.’

‘Swift, there are so many things you don’t know.’

‘Then tell me.’

‘Do you remember the caves we saw?’

‘You said they were dangerous. And you said you knew what I was going to ask next.’

‘Yes, you were going to ask why our people don’t escape from dawn by sheltering in the caves. You were going to ask whether perhaps these caves were the Refuge of our stories. That we could stop running. That our people could find some way of collecting food and storing it and staying hidden in the caves until the daylight died and we could emerge again and live in the darkness.’

‘Yes, how did you know?’ I asked. I don’t like it when Bardon guesses what my questions are going to be.

‘You wouldn’t have been the first to think that. Those Sleep People, they thought that. They chose to live in caves, and look what happened to them. They aren’t dead and they aren’t alive. Did you see the youngers were not much different to ours? The older they are, the deader they become. Dawn seeps through the cave rock somehow. Slowly. Their death isn’t the quick death of silvering. It’s slower. Much slower.’

I felt a shudder that went all the way down to my feet. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

‘But I must tell you this, Swift. The worst thing is, those Sleep People are us. That’s what we would become if we decided to stop running and seek shelter in caves.’

Bardon made the I’ve-just-twisted-my-ankle face again.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘No, you’re not. What’s wrong with your arm?’

Bardon looked away.

‘You have to answer my question.’

Bardon held out his arm and I saw a bite mark that sort of shimmered silver on his skin.

•

I could see that Bardon wasn’t swinging his arm the way he usually did. His wound was growing the further north we ran. The air was getting warmer, like Bardon said it would, and the ground was covered in a sort of spongy grey moss that made it feel like we were running on clouds. What Bardon hadn’t said was that it also rains more the further north you go. Large pools with stars floating in them often got in our way, and we had to skirt ’round the edges.

We slept in little fits, our bodies twitching like mad the whole time. Bardon always studied the sky just before we slept, answering my questions ’bout what he was doing. I always checked the horizon for sunlight. There was no sign of dawn yet, but I sort of felt it wasn’t far away. We were barely digging into our pack food because there were so many fish in the pools. I’d never seen so many. And they were much better tasting than the mudfish we were used to — even if they were a bit harder to catch.

When the rain cleared not long after we’d started another run, I saw some huge jagged shapes growing out of the ground in the north-west.

‘More caves?’ I asked.

Bardon, who now hardly moved his left arm when he ran, shook his head. ‘No, Swift. By my calculations that could be Refuge.’

I lost control of my breathing. Refuge. In my head the word sounded like the cloud-moss we’d been running on. I started to sprint towards it, squealing, but Bardon held me back.

‘This is a time for you to listen very carefully to me, Swift, not a time for you to run off the way you usually do.’

‘But you said it’s Refuge.’

‘No, Swift. I said it could be Refuge. And even if it is, we don’t know who else is already there. This is a time for caution.’

We ran steadily towards what looked like a strange mountain range. As we got closer, I could see these were not like any rocks I’d seen before. There were too many straight lines, too many sharp edges and funny angles. ‘What are these things?’ I asked as we reached the first outcrop.

Bardon stared ’round like a younger seeing his first silvering.

‘Bardon, you can’t stop answering my questions now.’

‘I will answer your question, Swift. The old stories are true. This is Refuge. It’s what used to be called a city.’

‘City?’

‘Where our people used to live. Think of these things here — they used to be called buildings — think of them as the most glorious caves.’

‘But look, they’re open to the sun. How could they have protected us from dawn?’

‘These aren’t complete buildings. They don’t look the way they did when our people lived here. They are ruins. They once had walls on the side and roofs on the top.’

Bardon was using a lot of words I didn’t know. ‘What happened?’

‘The story says we. . . ran too fast, faster than we were ever supposed to run.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. You can’t run too fast.’

‘Yes, you can,’ he said slowly. ‘If you spend all your efforts on running quickly rather than concentrating on where you’re going, you will come to grief. Our ancestors came to grief here in Refuge.’

‘Tell me how, Bardon, I need to know.’

‘The story says that we did something that made the sun poisonous. We tried to pretend it wasn’t us doing it. But it was. There was once a time when we could bathe in the sunlight, and dawn was something we gloried in. I don’t know how, but gradually over many generations the sunlight became something we needed to protect ourselves from. Here in Refuge, the last of our people gathered and built a city that protected them from the sun. The buildings were made of things that took the poison out of the light and enclosed tunnels connected the buildings. There was no need to let the sun ever touch your skin.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Can’t you see from the ruins, Swift? Something bad. Something real bad. There were explosions. The buildings couldn’t stand under the power of them. There was a fight. . . what was called a war. People couldn’t agree to live in Refuge in peace. Perhaps there was no room for everyone who came here. We destroyed the buildings ourselves, and then dawn broke over the city. There must have been a million people here.’

‘And they all silvered?’

‘Most of them. Those that fled for the caves became Sleep People, and those that simply fled became Run People.’

I shuddered. ‘Then what you’re saying is there is no Refuge for our people here. Nowhere for us to. . . live?’

‘No, Swift, the story says that one building remained whole after the war. If there is one, we must find it.’

We ran through the city, searching for the one building. And I started to understand how the straight lines worked, how different they were to rocky ’scapes we were used to running through. Refuge was full of criss-cross paths that Bardon called streets, and we made sure we were covering every one.

There’s a feeling that I get deep in my toes when something’s about to happen. I was getting it now.

‘Dawn’s coming,’ I said.

‘I know, Swift. We will have to run faster.’

‘Can we get through the whole city in time?’

‘Keep looking.’ Which didn’t answer my question.

Dawn broke and started moving towards us. Faster than I’d ever seen it move.

I didn’t think we’d be able to run quicker, but we did.

More ruins. More rubble. More buildings without roofs.

‘You’ll have to leave and head west,’ said Bardon, finally. ‘Leave me. There’s no point us both risking our lives.’

‘I have a better idea, Bardon. Let’s split up. We can cover more ground that way.’

‘No, there may be sleepers and— ’

I was already gone.

The dawn line came for us from the east across the grey-moss plain until it reached the edge of the city.

I dashed up and down the criss-cross streets, my legs pumping like never before. For the first time in my life I started to feel tired. I always heard the others complain ’bout their muscle-aches and their breaths not coming in strong enough, but right now I felt all those things too. I was going to have to slow down. I couldn’t keep up the pace any more.

Then I saw it. A big building closed-in on all sides.

‘Bardon,’ I screamed with everything I had left in my lungs, ‘I’ve found it.’ I hadn’t really thought through what splitting up meant. Now I did. ‘Bardon,’ I screamed, my voice fading, ‘I’ve found. . . Refuge.’

I felt something grab me just as my lungs collapsed.

•

I knew I was surrounded by slow moving things. Sleep People. I shuddered, suddenly feeling a horrible ache in my legs. They’ve bitten me.

I pushed out, trying to get away from them, but a crowd of hands held me back.

‘No,’ said a voice. ‘Stop.’

I looked up and saw a female face. With blue eyes. Not silver.

‘You’re not sleepers,’ I said.

‘No,’ said the mouth that belonged to the blue eyes.

‘Who are you?’

‘We’re like you.’

‘Run People?’

‘We don’t run much, and we don’t call ourselves that. We’re just the People. My name is Florin. You are safe. Please believe me, you are safe.’

I made my breaths real steady like my mammer taught me. ‘I understand.’

‘Come with me,’ said Florin. ‘I want to show you something. Just remember you are safe.’

She led me by the hand into a large open area.

I couldn’t take in what I saw. Without thinking, I started to run, but Florin held me back.

All ’round me burned the brightest sunlight. I squinted, my eyes screaming.

I walked up to the see-through walls and touched them with my hand.

‘Not only are we protected from the sun in here,’ said Florin, ‘but we can see it.’

In the distance, on the plain past the city’s edges, I could see something strange happening. The ground was sort of rippling like the waters of a lake. And then things started bursting from the ground. Wild green things. Living things that had slept in darkness waiting for their time. Growing things that reached for a sky without stars.

I frowned. ‘If only Bardon could have seen this.’

‘I can,’ said a voice behind me that I knew.

‘We found him just before dawn broke,’ said Florin. ‘He was calling your name, Swift.’

‘So this is Refuge,’ said Bardon. His face was sort of glowing.

‘Yes, you are both welcome to stay. Our people are slowly re-discovering what we had lost and are starting to rebuild. There is room for many others.’

Bardon’s head suddenly sank. ‘So I have failed,’ he said. ‘My quest was to return to the Run People and tell them the stories are true and they should seek Refuge on the next cycle.’

Florin’s eyes shone with sun-light. ‘There is one chance,’ she said. ‘We have uncovered parts of the old network of protected tunnels under the city. They are not as safe as this building and you can’t stay in them for long, but if someone runs fast enough through the western tunnel, they may be able to race past the dawn line and exit just ahead of it.’

Bardon lifted his head. ‘So, I still have a chance.’

Florin pointed to the silvering wound on his arm. ‘No, unfortunately with that, you will not make it through the tunnel. The diffuse rays will eat into that and make it fester rapidly. We can keep you alive here, but you will not be able to leave this building while the sun shines. You cannot go.’

‘But I can,’ I said.

Florin nodded. ‘Yes, you can.’

‘Then show me this tunnel.’

I wrapped my arms hard ’round Bardon.

‘Return to the Run People,’ he said. ‘You will make a fine guider. Tell them there is Refuge for all of us.’

With that I followed Florin down what she called stairs to the tunnel entrance.

And then I ran like I had never run before.

Author Loci

Dirk Strasser

‘At Dawn’s Speed’ revisits the world from ‘The Final Birthplace’, a story of mine that was first published in Aurealis #3 and which appears in my upcoming collection Stories of the Sand. I had always felt there was far more to this world, where humans could only survive by eternally running ahead of the rising sun, than I showed in that early story. I can usually classify my works clearly as either science fiction or fantasy, but ‘At Dawn’s Speed’ is one of the few that lives in the nebulous regions between the two. If I had to make a call, based on the calculations I did matching human running speed with planet size, orbit and rotation speed to ensure that such a planet could plausibly exist, I’d say it was science fiction. Then again, this is probably also as close as I’ll ever get to writing a zombie story, so maybe it’s actually horror.

Not that I usually spend a lot of time thinking about classifying my stories. The reason it’s come up recently is because of the short story collection I’m putting together for Satalyte Publishing. I realised that with my stories ranging widely from hard science fiction to the most fantastical of fantasy, I had to come up with a coherent way of structuring the book. Rather than lumping all the fantasy together and all the science fiction together, creating a schism, I decided to interweave fantasy, science fiction and horror through a series of sub-themes.

The contents of Stories of the Sand ended up as:

Stories of the Sand

Stories of the Sand

The Dark under the Skin

Nullarbor Lights

Stories of the Sky

Conquist

Primal

The Doppelgänger Effect

Stories of the Rain

Waiting for the Rain

Steering the Waters

At Rain’s Grey Remembering

Stories of the Dusk

Watching the Soldiers

The Jesus Particle

The Tale of Valkyra and Verlinden

Stories of the Dark

The Vigilant

The Final Birthplace

Dear Reader

Stories of the Truth

In Theory

2084

The Skerricks of Truth

On the other hand, my trilogy The Books of Ascension — Zenith, Equinox and Eclipse (Macmillan Momentum) — is definitely fantasy. As in ‘At Dawn’s Speed’, the sun defines the world and has immense transformative power, although in The Books of Ascension, the main characters strive to get ever closer to it rather than run away from it. The trilogy is also about the power of tales and the idea of ‘story’ is central to it — so much so that, on reflection, I could have called the series Stories of the Sun.

Here are some excerpts of reviews of my short stories:

‘Stories of the Sand’ . . . is a rich, dreamlike tale of a journey through a mystical desert that is also a journey of loss and redemption. — Off the page

‘The Dark Under the Skin’ is a sensitive and superb tale laced with Aboriginal mythos, the longing for spiritual understanding, and the use of art to yoke disparate people and communities. — SF Site

Starting out as a simple adventure story about conquistadors discovering a gateway into an alternate world populated by dwarves and elves, ‘Conquist’ evolves into a complex story with themes of betrayal and contrition. — Book Impressions

A genius . . . Wow . . . Strasser has this amazing way of writing that’s just too far ahead of his time . . . I like how his works are existentially fraught. I had to read his work, ‘Waiting for the Rain’, for my literature class and now I’m just obsessed with him and the stories that he makes. — Cosmosmagazine.com

It takes an astounding work for literature to make me feel something by heart and soul. ‘Waiting for the Rain’ is one of the only two stories that have hit me so hard that my mind is just so blank right now. Seriously, I want to just cry. I have never read something that embodies the quintessential definition of sadness like this story. — Lucid Dreaming

(‘Watching the Soldiers’ is) . . . a tale of universal truth and heartfelt emotion. Dirk Strasser . . . has captured the ambiance of Eastern Europe in a story of extraordinary power. — Borderlands 4

Here are some excerpts of reviews of my novels:

Zenith . . . is on my list of all-time worldwide Top Ten fantasy novels . . . It does what all good quest novels do, and does it better than almost any of them — that is, it creates wonders. — Richard Harland, author of Song of the Slums

Strasser’s unique blend of adventure, esotericism, Eastern mysticism, and fantasy makes for compelling reading . . . Strasser has not just written down a legend, rather, he has crafted one. — Amazon review

This series is one that fantasy fans will adore and fly through. If you haven’t discovered Dirk Strasser’s The Books of Ascension series, do yourself a favour and pick them up. You’ll not be disappointed. — Pretty Little Pages

When I finished this last book in the trilogy, I was sad to leave Atreu’s world . . . when a reader becomes that engrossed, that connected to the tale and its people, that is the sign of masterful writing! — Tometender

This is, perhaps, the greatest praise that can be given to Eclipse. It not only provides a fitting climax to the Ascension trilogy, but one that captures the essence of the series as a whole. Imbued with the same sense of wonder and majesty that permeate Zenith and Equinox, Eclipse is the ending that fans have been waiting for, and one that will delight new converts for years to come. I cannot recommend this series highly enough. — Goodreads

•

Author Profile

Dirk Strasser has won multiple Australian Publisher Association Awards and a Ditmar for Best Professional Achievement. His novels and short stories have been translated into a number of languages. He founded the Aurealis Awards and has co-edited and co-published Aurealis magazine for over twenty years.

Dirk’s website

Dirk’s blog

The Books of Ascension trailer

Dirk Strasser on:

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Upon A Distant Shore — Alan Baxter

It made orbit three days ago. We knew it was coming, of course, had tried to make contact, checked for any signs by which we could learn more. But it emitted no signature, no radio, nothing. Dead. Its course was set to enter a perfect low eccentric orbit and that’s exactly what it did, without apparent power, without fanfare.

Even after it settled into orbit, it resisted every kind of scan. Earth’s response was unanimous: someone would have to go to it.

So here I wait, on the International Space Station, praying for the call. No one has more EVA hours than me. It’s a perfect alignment of fortune that I’m here right now. My children will be so proud. I imagine them in their mother’s small house in Voskresensk, avidly watching every update. Irene will frown and shake her head — she divorced me for reasons I grudgingly accept — but inside she will be pleased, warm with love for me, despite her protestations, even if she can no longer be with me. Imagine if I had retired after my last mission, or the one before like she insisted. Being an astronaut these days is not enough to mark your place in history, she was right there, but this? This will put my name in the books forever. This will make my whole life mean something.

If they pick me to go.

‘Anatoly, quit staring out the port. It’s not like you’ll see it from here.’

I turn and give Sally Munday a rueful smile. ‘But it’s there. We know it’s out there.’

‘Give me a hand with these rotations.’ She indicates one of the numerous NASA zero-g projects. ‘Take your mind off the wait.’

I nod, push off to drift over to her. She grins at me. ‘You know they’ll pick you.’

‘Nothing is certain,’ I mutter, but return her smile.

•

‘Novikov, you might wanna get up here.’ Salieri’s voice is officious — he takes Mission Commander status seriously — but I hear amusement in it.

Heart racing, I unbuckle and push away from my bunk, thumb the comm. ‘Coming.’ I couldn’t sleep anyway.

Salieri turns to face me as I float towards him. Munday’s already there, a smile she can’t hide pulling at the corners of her mouth. And Tsung is turning gentle circles, refusing to look at me. I can’t help my own grin spreading at the sight of them.

I open my mouth to ask and Salieri holds up one finger, flicks the comm toggle. ‘He’s here, Control.’

The voice from Earth is as clear as if they were in the next room. ‘Wanna go greet our visitors, Anatoly? I hope you got some flowers or wine to take ’em.’

‘Yes, yes!’ I say, laughing, but Control’s response is lost in the whoops from the crew.

‘Please repeat, Control,’ Salieri says, waving everyone silent.

‘A shuttle is launching at 0600 EST tomorrow. It will rendezvous with ISS and you will join the crew on board. They are prepared to explore the vessel, but you will make the first approach, tethered. We’ll have to take next steps from there based on what we find.’

‘Received and understood, Control. Thank you!’

I try to ignore the blood rushing in my ears while they detail specifics and organise times for rendezvous. I’m going. I’m really going. I’ll be the first human to approach an alien vessel, even if it turns out to be long dead and dormant.

•

The wait for the shuttle seems interminably long, but it finally arrives. I board, nervous, excited, and we move towards the silent visitor that hangs massive, smooth and silver above our world, a glistening arrowhead of the unknown. We match orbit.

It is truly colossal, ten times the size of our shuttle, maybe more. It seems utterly featureless from around fifty metres away, glistening in the dark. The sun will clear Earth soon and we’ll get a proper look at it.

From the newly adjacent perspective, every possible reading is taken again. The shuttle crew jabber at each other and Control, talking in multiple languages to their representatives all gathered at Houston for the occasion. A truly international effort. But not surprisingly, it seems the Americans have the upper hand in managing us. No matter, let them do their tests and readings.

They finally finish. Still nothing. My turn.

I suit up and run through EVA checks with practised ease. As I move out into the loading bay, the huge gull-wing doors above me split silently and yawn open. My view is filled with smooth silver, I can see no blackness of space around it. When it comes time to connect the tether, I take a last chance.

‘Control, let me jet free. You know I can use this minipak like I’m flying.’

‘Negative, Anatoly. No one is questioning your expertise, but this first inspection will be connected. You’ve got a long tether, don’t worry.’

‘Received.’ I attach the cable, double check the locking mechanism and pass it through the toggle under my left arm to keep it behind me, away from interfering with my hands. ‘I’m ready.’

‘Captain Anatoly Novikov, this is Mission Control. You are go to clear shuttle bay. Repeat, you are go.’

‘Received, Control. EVAC in three. . . two. . . one. . .’

I push away from the shuttle, boosting a fraction of jet to push me along and slowly cover the distance between the shuttle and the alien craft. My breath is loud in my ears, my heart racing. I try to calm myself before Control panic over my signs and call me back. As I clear the doors, black space appears suddenly either side of me. Earth is a dark mass to my left, speckled with the electric nightlights of a thousand human cities. I can see dawn creeping around the globe, the sun will emerge any moment. My view ahead is only silver.

I reach out, my gloved hands meet alien technology and I’ve done it. I’ve made history. My name is eternal.

‘Contact made,’ I say, even though Control can see everything through my helmet-cam. The lights either side of my faceplate reflect on the surface. It’s clean and smooth up close, like brushed aluminium.

I run my hands over its gleaming surface, imagining the feel of it, as dozens of technicians on board the shuttle and below on the ground scan for every possible emanation.

‘Bring up the meter, Novikov.’ Control’s voice makes me jump, but I quickly shake off the surprise. I’m here to do a job.

I lift the sensor from a waist hook, touch it to the vessel’s surface, trigger it to read. I see nothing, but information floods back to the shuttle for the crew there to analyse. I slowly walk hand over hand, scanning as I go. I see perfectly straight seams, tiny striations that could be doors, hatches, but they are little more than scratches in the perfect smoothness.

‘Control,’ I say, running a finger along one mark. ‘Is camera clarity enough for you to get this?’

‘Confirmed, Anatoly. Do you recognise any pattern to it?’

I push back from the surface a little to see if there’s any kind of recognisable shape to the markings, but see no particular order to them. They’re hard to spot from even a couple of metres away.

Another voice comes through. ‘Control, all sensors, every scan, every bandwidth of energy, sound and light, turning up empty.’ That’s Giroux on the shuttle. She sounds disappointed, and I can’t help feeling the same way. ‘This bird is dead in the water,’ she says.

I jet gently back to the vessel, to touch it again. Hands and toes against its shining skin, the Earth a lightening presence behind me as dawn moves across the surface. I slowly drift along.

And suddenly gape in wonder. My stomach tightens and I feel a moment’s nausea before the excitement rushes through me again. ‘Control, you getting this?’

Only as the angle of light changes with our rotation and the sun’s rays hit a certain vector does the translucency become apparent. I can see inside the ship, through one large rectangular panel about a third of the way up the huge sloping top of the vessel. I jet again to reach it, counter thrust to stabilise.

‘Novikov, we see it. Hold steady, please.’

It’s dim in there, and still. Banks of consoles line the space, the architecture rounded, flowing, organic. It all looks uncanny, not quite right, too big. Which makes sense as the alien’s hands are long and thin, each of its three fingers the length of my forearm, its thumb central to the base of the palm. Its skin is dark and shrivelled tight over narrow bones. Desiccated like an Egyptian mummy, frozen by the empty nothing of deep space. It must be eight or nine feet tall.

Its face, withered tight to a conical skull, appears almost calm. It wears an iridescent one-piece suit of striking blue as it sits in what must be a pilot’s chair, in repose, hands resting palms-up in its lap atop a restraining harness. Before it on the console is a square of pale material; an alloy of some kind, or maybe a plastic, etched with a flowing written language.

A sign? A maker’s mark? A last message before life-support ran out?

It’s the only feature on the smooth surfaces. The area I can see bears all the hallmarks of a bridge, several other chairs before blank stations, but the consoles have no screens or controls, no switches or lights, even long dead and dark. This bridge takes up only a tiny percentage of the ship’s overall volume. A passage leads away into shadow behind the pilot, deep into the vessel. What might be back there?

Early reports tried to estimate where it might have originated, how long it may have travelled. Did it power down recently or many years ago? Judging by the state of the occupant, I’m guessing it either ran out of energy for some reason, or perhaps there was a breach. A malfunction. It could have drifted like this for thousands of years. Was it slowed somehow, out there? Was it aiming for us, or has it fallen into orbit completely by chance after losing power and life support aeons ago, drifting aimlessly until now?

They’ve washed up on our shore, either by design or chance. Who are they? Where are they from? We have to accept that we may never know. But we have work to do, to search this craft for clues, details, history. To try to understand.

We are not alone. This is a constructed thing, and it’s occupied. There has been other life, even if this is the last of it, long dead.

We’re not alone.

Shocked, awed, disappointed, excited, I force steadiness into my voice. ‘Orders, Control?’ My voice is thin, reedy even to my own ears in the confines of the helmet.

‘Keep your head steady, please, we’re collating.’

Collating. Freaking out more like, as they watch the images sent back, try to decide what next.

‘Anatoly, move to your right, please. Can you see further down the central aisle at the back?’

I do as they ask, shifting position hand over hand across the vessel’s strange viewport, tiny in the vast expanse of metal. My tether drifts snakelike back to the open shuttle bay. There’s not much slack left. My helmet lights and camera penetrate weakly into the interior. Our orbit brings us further into the direct light of the sun and more detail becomes apparent on the smooth surface. A line of pale luminescence below the strangely transparent screen seems to stand out as the light hits it directly. I run one gloved finger along it from one end and it gets brighter as my finger passes, pale blue. Mesmerised, I keep going. How far will this light extend?

‘Novikov, please stop what you’re doing.’

A panel some fifty centimetres square lights up at the corner of the transparent window beneath my suddenly trembling hand.

‘Don’t move!’ Control’s voice is tight. I can hear numerous overlapping conversations in the background as whoever is talking to me muffles his mic. I imagine everyone trying to get their opinion heard, their agenda addressed. This will be messy, internationally.

I comply, freezing in place, but my hand on the square of light begins to sink downwards. ‘Er, Control. . .’

‘We see it, remove your hand.’

‘Massive EM spike as he made that line light up,’ someone says near the mic.

I lift my palm away but the square continues to sink into the surface, almost liquid in its smooth passage. There’s a burst of tiny particles from the bottom edge of the rectangular screen and it pops up a fraction. I panic briefly. If there’s atmosphere inside it will blow out and push me away. But I’m tethered, I’ll be okay. The large section of translucent material continues to rise, hinging up along its top edge. There’s no blast of anything from inside, no atmosphere in there at all. I guess they never expected anyone to trigger this hatch from the outside in space. Is this a service mechanism? Can this vessel enter planetary atmosphere? Make a hard landing?

‘Don’t move, Anatoly. Hold for instructions.’

My hands rest on the edge of the now open portal, perched on the precipice between everything we’ve ever known as a species and everything that will now come. This is a single moment of history, a tipping point. There’s no return. I hope they let me in, please, let this be me. Anatoly Novikov, the man who made first contact. Not just with the vessel, but with the occupants! Even with a long dead alien, these events will be taught along with my name in schools forever more. I breathe patiently, keeping my signals calm as voices stutter and hiss and rage and cajole in my ear. I’m sure they won’t let me, they’ll argue about who gets to have the honour. It’ll be one of the people behind me on the shuttle, even though I’m right here.

Unless I make the decision for them. . .

‘Anatoly, what are you doing? Novikov, stand down immediately, cease all progress!’

Even in the graceful weightlessness of space, these suits make us clumsy, but I’m a master of spacewalking. That’s why they chose me, after all.

I make a clean entry through the portal and manoeuvre myself down next to the alien pilot. Standing beside the chair his size is overwhelming. He’s half again as tall as me, twice as wide. A giant. I have no idea why I’m assuming it’s a he, but as he has no obvious breasts it’s my best guess. The assumption he’s mammalian is equally arbitrary.

‘I’m inside,’ I say aloud, stating the obvious. ‘I may as well have a look around.’

More muffled arguments.

‘Anatoly, do no more than turn to face the corridor that leads away from the occupant. Let your helmet lights show us what lies that way. Do not, repeat, do not move from your current location.’

I tear myself away from leaning back to see the pilot and turn ninety degrees to shine a light on dead shadows that haven’t been illuminated in millennia. The corridor is more than tall enough for these beings, maybe four metres or so from floor to ceiling, the walls curved, smoothly sweeping around to make an elliptical passage. It slopes gently down, disappearing into shadow after only a couple of metres.

‘Can’t see much,’ I say. ‘I’ll be able to see more if I move towards. . .’

‘Negative, you are not authorised to advance. Hold for instruction.’

More frantic discussion ensues. My place in history is assured, but I can easily show them more. I bend my knees and press gently into the bridge floor with my feet, rising slowly a metre or so. As I lift, I angle myself to light along the corridor. It ends in a door about ten metres along, two more doors, facing each other, halfway down each wall. Protruding from the left are two long, thin legs, suspended a foot or so off the ground, narrow feet clad in black, thin-soled boots. I gasp at the sight, my heart rate increasing again.

‘Novikov, do not move.’

I put a hand to the bulkhead above me to hold my position. Two occupants. Two ancient beings. How many more behind that door at the end? How many more in those rooms to either side. A vessel this size could carry dozens, even fifty or more. A hundred?

‘There’s not much to see,’ I say. ‘Let me explore a little further while I’m here. I should gather all I can so the next expedition can be better prepared. Better equipped.’

I’m aching to go on, desperate to know. The first human to encounter alien life, to board the vessel of an extraterrestrial species. This is what drove me to become an astronaut, this possibility of more, out there. I knew I would likely never live to travel to alien worlds, but by the time I was old enough to understand that I was already hooked. Making it to the ISS became my life dream and I realised it. And now here’s my reward! The alien world has come to me.

‘Hold, Anatoly.’

A scuffle and static are harsh for a second in my ear, then a new voice comes through. ‘Novikov, proceed with caution along the corridor.’

Yes! This new voice has the weight of authority and experience behind it. The man is clearly used to taking charge, getting things done. He’s almost certainly military. Strong US accent, unsurprisingly. No matter, he’s telling me to explore.

I give a gentle push and drift to the mouth of the passage, careful to keep to one side so my tether doesn’t disturb the pilot. It’s nearly taut, maybe another fifteen metres or so at most. I could always unclip, jet free if they let me go further. I use the ceiling to palm-walk along until I get to the doors facing each other. The owner of the legs is another alien indistinguishable from the pilot to my untrained eye. He wears the same shimmering blue one-piece suit. The room beyond is banked with smooth, round-edged consoles. They’re featureless like the bridge, no lights, screens, keyboards. Perhaps these creatures see differently to us and those surfaces are covered with touchscreens. Perhaps they project holographic interfaces. Impossible to know but the speculation is intoxicating. What might we learn from this? What technology might we gain? It’s possible I could captain a mission to alien worlds yet. I will not be retiring any time soon.

I turn about slowly, project my lights into the opposite room and it’s identical to the first, but unoccupied.

‘Shall I progress to the door at the end?’ I move gently towards it even as I ask, pushing my luck along with my body.

There’s a sudden and heated exchange at control, the military big-mouth not muffling his mic as the previous man did.

‘We need to know what killed them!’ A woman’s voice, high with stress.

‘The vessel is spaced, open to vacuum and powerless. They died from lack of atmosphere and life support.’

‘How is it powerless? That fucking hatch opened! Did you not see the fucking thing light up?’

‘So it has residual power. . .’

Another voice. ‘We need to know more. The astronaut himself said he’s willing. . .’

The woman again. ‘Willing to what? Die?’

The military man I had been speaking to blusters through. ‘To die? He has plenty of air!’

‘What killed those aliens?’ the woman screams.

The voices disappear into muffled and incomprehensible noise again. Someone must have finally covered Mr Military’s mic. But I have a sudden and visceral fear. The deaths of these aliens didn’t bother me at all until now. I assumed the vessel had lost power and drifted, the occupants dying once life support gave out, subsequently preserved by the void of space. But the frantic owner of that last voice had clearly been trying to make herself heard for some time and she raises a very salient point. Something so obvious, yet I’d missed it in my excitement. The ship isn’t powerless, the hatch opened, the panel lit up. If it had power to do that, why not life support? Maybe it has reserve power, but no more air. Do they need air? Or they ran out of food or water.

Or something else killed them.

My heart is hammering as I bump up against the top of the door at the end of the corridor. I use my hands to walk myself down, plant my boots on the floor. It’s a pointless position in zero-g, but it’s a calming manoeuvre, something a little more familiar, to feel as though I’m standing on solid ground.

My comm bursts suddenly to life, Mr Military again. ‘Novikov, please return to the body in the doorway. Get close and see if you can slowly turn it so we can try to observe any cause of death beyond a total lack of atmosphere.’ His voice is heavy with sarcasm. I can imagine him giving the frantic woman a look of disdain as he speaks but it would appear a compromise of sorts has been reached.

I turn myself and push gently on the wall to drift back to the prone alien. My gut turns to water as something shifts beneath my hand as I move away. ‘Control, I just felt something.’ I reach for the side wall, drag a hand and turn myself back. A panel of light is sinking beside the end door.

‘Novikov, what the hell did you do?’

‘I just pushed off to get back where you wanted me.’

I’m drifting backwards towards the bridge as the small square of pale light stops moving and the door splits down the centre, each half retracting into its side of the wall. I feel a soft buffet of something, a last pocket of contained atmosphere, barely enough to shift me. My lights shine into a large room, striking highlights and shadows off a chaos of confusing items, stirred into balletic motion by the opening door. A maelstrom of destruction.

Things gently twist and float, all manner of unrecognisable detritus, but I’m sure I see something like a drinking glass, something else like part of a chair and then a long arm with a three-fingered hand at one end and a ragged stump at the other. A huge table is fixed to the floor through the centre of the room, more chairs, massive to my human eye, scattered and broken around. More body parts drift among the debris, dozens of them, and frozen globular lumps that can only be blood or other violently expelled bodily fluids. I bark a cry of shock as a huge alien head pops disembodied under the top of the door and drifts slowly towards me. It rotates grotesquely, large eyes and broad mouth stretched wide in a universal expression of agony and terror.

My breathing is loud, harsh and rapid, my pulse pounds in my ears and I realise there are voices shouting at me.

‘Novikov, calm down! Clearly something violent has occurred here, but it’s all aeons dead, remember? It’s been left to the void of space for centuries or more. Control yourself. Calm down, man, it’s all right.’ Mr Military has obviously talked people down from a panic before. His tone and clear authority as much as the words start to settle me.

‘Maybe. . .’ I swallow, try again. ‘Maybe those two up front managed to contain whatever was happening back there and they turned off life support deliberately. Sacrificed themselves, perhaps?’

‘Yes, possibly. Been drifting ever since. Good thinking, Anatoly, well done. Keep breathing, man. Calm down.’

The woman’s voice cuts through again, far calmer but edged with horror. ‘We need to get specialists up there.’

Mr Military barks a laugh. ‘Know any specialists on alien violence in outer space, do you?’

‘We’d better find some,’ she snaps. ‘But Anatoly Novikov is not one.’

There’s a moment’s pause, then, ‘Well, yes. You’re right there. Regroup at the shuttle and plan our next move. Novikov, you hearing me? You calm?’

I swallow again, my throat is so dry. ‘Yes, sir,’ I lie. I’m anything but calm.

‘Good man. Now get yourself to that door and press that lit panel again. See if it closes the door. Then back out and see if you can close the front hatch the same way. If not, try to physically press that hatch closed. We need everything in there contained, don’t want it all drifting out into orbit. Got all that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I use the wall to get back to the door at the end of the corridor, wincing as I manoeuvre clumsily past the alien head spiralling gently. As I reach for the lit panel, sunlight lances down through the bridge and illuminates the room full of carnage. Extra detail only makes it worse, adding colour and clarity to what can only have been a hectic, depraved frenzy of violence. My hand freezes as a shadow flickers at the back of the debris-filled space. ‘Did you see that?’ I whisper.

‘Hold steady, Novikov. See what?’

‘Something moved in there.’

‘All kinds of stuff floating about, don’t worry about it. Try the door.’

Trembling racks my body as sunlight passes over more darkened patches, like pools of oil across the floor and against bulkheads. Again that flicker and something peels up from the deck, another unravels from a wall. Then more, ballooning up from flatness as if filling with the sunlight itself, triggered somehow into sinuous movement by those bright rays. More and more shadows move. They shift left and right, first a few, then half a dozen, then more than I can count, pulsing across the large room like a colossal school of squid. All heading directly for me.

‘Close that door, man!’ Mr Military hollers.

The sun reveals three passages leading away from the other end of the room and more glistening black things pour out of each one. The shadows resolve in the light, shining, hard-looking creatures but moving with a supple fluidity like flexible black glass. They’re at least as big as I am, bulging in front, trailing dozens of long thin tentacles that writhe as they whip through the vacuum, jetting some dark, inky gas from among those flailing appendages. There’s no possibility of sound in a vacuum, but I hear them screaming in my head, not through my ears. My brain pulses with their ravenous hunger, their desire to follow the light, to be again. My hand is hammering the panel of light as the first of them near the door, their rounded front splitting open into toothless, gaping maws.

I realise I’m screaming and Mr Military is yelling about doors and nothing is happening and they slam into me. Everything is a tumult of motion and panic, the corridor whips around me as I spin hectically, bounce off bulkheads. I’m expecting one of those horrible mouths to close on me any second, but no pain comes and I bounce against the pilot and something else hits me and then again. And all the time, the desperate, frantic emotion of these things rips through my mind. I tumble out into space and dozens of frenziedly swimming creatures stream pass me, single-minded in purpose as they shoot straight for the shining blue-green surface below. So many! How can there possibly be so many? How did they survive? What the fuck are they?

They jet with tremendous speed and begin to hit the Earth’s atmosphere and flare with heat but don’t appear to burn up, streaking deep and beyond my sight. They can survive dormancy in the void of space for aeons, they can survive atmospheric re-entry. Can anything damage them? Do Earth’s defences have any chance at all? There’s panic and screaming and shouting and some of it is mine and some of it is coming from Control and my tether catches and pulls me up sharp, far from the shuttle and the alien ship. And still the creatures swarm out, pouring from the tiny aperture like blood spraying from a rent artery. They exude their ravenous hunger, a desperate need to get to the planet below, so desperate they can’t even pause to take me on their way by. Perhaps my suit hides my life from them.

Stilled at last by the taut tether, I watch wide-eyed and finally silent as flare after flare after flare punches through Earth’s atmosphere, a seemingly endless fiery rain. My name will definitely go down in history, but a tiny, terrified part of me wonders if this might be where human history ends.

Author Loci

Alan Baxter

I don’t write a lot of science fiction even though I’ve loved it for as long as I can remember. I tend to write more dark fantasy, urban fantasy, horror and so on. So when I do write sci-fi, it tends to be SF horror, or some variation thereof. The thing I really enjoy about the dark stuff I usually write is the exploration of human nature in the face of the horrendous, the unjust, the monstrous and so on. When I write SF, I get to explore those things again, only the monsters can be truly without scale, the weirdness utterly without end or boundaries.

When I wrote this story, it began with a very simple premise: what if a dormant alien vessel just happened to drift into our space and get hooked into our gravity? The first thought then was, who are they and where did they come from? But these are things SF has been dealing with forever and, while interesting, I realised it wasn’t the heart of the idea. The real question was, how did they die? Why are they dormant? And so I got to play with monsters again. I hope you enjoyed it.

Talking of monsters, my new novel, Bound, the first in the Alex Caine series, has just been published by HarperVoyager. You can find it in any good bookstore. Or bad one, for that matter. Is there such a thing a bad bookstore? Anyway, it deals with a whole different type of monster — many of them, in fact — and all sorts of injustice along with hectic martial arts action and magic and mayhem. It’s a very dark contemporary urban fantasy and I’d love for you to check it out. Learn more at my website, linked at the end of this piece.

•

Alan Baxter is a Ditmar Award-nominated British-Australian author. He writes dark fantasy, horror and sci-fi, rides a motorcycle and loves his dog. He also teaches Kung Fu.

He is the author of the dark urban fantasy trilogy, Bound, Obsidian and Abduction (The Alex Caine Series). Bound is out from HarperVoyager Australia in July 2014. He is also the author of the dark urban fantasy duology, RealmShift and MageSign (The Balance Book 1 and Book 2) and co-authored the short horror novel, Dark Rite, with David Wood.

Alan has had more than fifty short stories published in a variety of journals and anthologies in Australia, the US, the UK and France. His short fiction has appeared in Fantasy & Science Fiction (forthcoming), Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Daily Science Fiction, Postscripts, Wily Writers and Midnight Echo among many others, and more than twenty anthologies, including the Year’s Best Australian Fantasy & Horror (2010 and 2012). Alan also writes narrative arcs and dialogue for videogames.

In 2013, he won the Australian Horror Writers Association Short Story competition. He wrote the popular writer’s resource, Write the Fight Right, a short ebook about writing convincing fight scenes.

Alan is represented by literary agent, Alex Adsett, of Alex Adsett Publishing Services. As well as fiction, Alan is a freelance writer penning reviews, feature articles and opinion. He’s a contributing editor and co-founder at Thirteen O’Clock — Australian Dark Fiction News & Reviews, and co-hosts AuthorCast, a thriller and genre fiction podcast.

He’s a member of the Australian Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, The Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild, Australian Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association and a full Active Member of the Horror Writers’ Association.

Alan is director and Chief Instructor of the Illawarra Kung Fu Academy. He lives among dairy paddocks on the beautiful south coast of NSW, Australia, with his wife, son, dog and cat.

Read extracts from his novels, a novella and short stories at his website — www.warriorscribe.com — or find him on Twitter @AlanBaxter and Facebook, and feel free to tell him what you think. About anything.

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He Ain’t Dead — Robert N Stephenson

Tim became the town’s sheriff by default. He had been there when one was needed and as no-one else stepped forward he was sworn in, given the badge and everyone went about their day’s business. Since then he’d kept the peace between the Indians, the miners, the farmers and the townsfolk. And that peace had well and truly been tested.

He looked once again into the mirror, the badge shiny and still new looking. It stood for what was right. Today had been tense in town; the air hung heavy on everyone and a sense of foreboding showed in their faces. Tim didn’t have to go out and walk the streets tonight, but for some reason he felt compelled, as if the town depended on him to show them everything was under control and all was safe.

‘Please don’t go out, Tim.’ Martha always wanted him to stay in after sunset. The three sheriffs before him had been shot at night, the last one after a bar-room brawl.

The first couple of weeks he’d been in charge, there hadn’t been any fighting at the saloon at all. Not after the miners dug up a burial mound and the local Indians came to town and complained, which put the townsfolk on edge. Then the Indians had packed up their camps and left, the miners had returned to their holes in the ground and everything went back to normal.

But today an Indian had passed through town walking his horse; he wore no war paint, no feathers and little in the way of clothing. He just walked quietly from one end of Main Street through to the other and was gone. Then the tension set in.

‘I’m only going to do one round, check in on Faber at the Garter and then head right back,’ he said, straightening his hat.

‘I’ll brew some fresh coffee, for when you get back.’ She left the front room of their small house. She couldn’t watch him walk out the door; she was funny like that. Wanted him to stay, fretted when he was away, but wouldn’t kiss him or watch as he left.

‘I’ll be an hour,’ he called as he stepped out the front door and onto the porch. The dark was black-dark tonight. Cloud cover and the expectation of rain did that. He could smell the rain coming, but only when he saw it fall on the dust would he believe winter had arrived. His boots clumped on the worn boards of the porch and crunched on the dirt of Main Street. Down the street he could hear the piano playing in the saloon and the raucous laughter of the miners in from a week’s digging. The miners and farmers didn’t get on and by closing time someone would either be in the Doc’s hands or dead. Stone Cutting was like that; the Doc and Harry the gravedigger did a good trade. He just hoped the cowhands hadn’t come to town. The mix would be too much for even the muscular Faber to handle.

‘Ev’nin’ Sheriff,’ Singh said, walking his horse past Tim’s house. Singh was an Indian, an Asian Indian, not one of the local kind. ‘I have something for you.’

‘Singh,’ he answered, tipping his hat.

‘I be givin’ it to you in the light. It would be a good idea to be stayin’ in tonight, I feel,’ Singh said as he looked to the lights of the saloon. ‘The gods be unhappy.’

Singh believed in hundreds of gods so knowing which ones he meant was impossible.

‘Just doin’ my rounds.’ Tim walked beside his friend. He seemed to welcome the company. The man’s small house was at the other end of the street, well away from the noise and lights of the saloon.

‘Things not being right tonight, Sheriff. The air is prickly, I feel power in the stillness.’

‘Rain’s comin’, that’s all.’

‘No. Not rain, not weather but a storm of another kind. Maybe the gods are unhappy with Stone Cutting, maybe the Indians were right about Héshokta; maybe the stories of the cliff dwellers are true.’ Singh kept checking over his shoulder as they walked, the strong smell of curry spice heavy on his clothes and skin. He quickened his pace as they grew closer to the saloon. The Broken Garter had imported two large oil lamps from Paris, France, though about the only real good they did was allow drunken gun-players to shoot each other better at night.

‘The dark, it has been talking to me,’ Singh said, stopping in the brightest patch of light. His breathing slowed as if relieved. He pulled something out of his saddle bag. ‘She said for me to give you this.’

He handed Tim an amulet made in rough silver and studded with turquoise and red stones. ‘She said you are to give it back. It must be you.’

‘Give this to whom?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Who didn’t say?’

‘The squaw I saw on the way into town just a few moments ago. She said she was a Sinagua mystic sent to ease the bad blood. She said this is Átahsaia’s.’ The little balding man in his dirty white shirt sleeves and dun trousers looked as if someone had placed a curse on him. ‘She said she could not come into town because of this blood, she was saying only you can. . . can. . .’ He stopped talking and stared down the street lost in thought. ‘It’s out there. You have to give it back she said and then she gave me the amulet to give to you.’

‘This is one of your ghost stories.’ Tim clapped the man on the shoulder. With a well-filled graveyard there were always ghost stories and sightings. He took the amulet and put it in his trouser pocket. Martha might like it he thought; it could soften her disposition when he returned home. He left Singh standing in the light while he headed up the steps, through the opened swing doors and into the din of the saloon.

Doc sat at his usual table, bag in the centre and a half bottle of whisky in his hand. Tim wasn’t sure what would be worse, getting shot or letting him dig out the bullet. Either way life expectancy wasn’t great. But Doc was wearing fresh clothes, a neat, grey suit and black bow tie, his hair combed back into a pony tail; he usually looked like he’d just fallen out of bed. Must have had a house call today, Tim thought. The man even looked sober.

The smell of cheap beer and even cheaper whisky saturated the air. The grey blue fog of tobacco smoke clung to the ceiling like a mist. The place felt hot. A fire raged in the hearth and the five girls who worked the bar-room had their shoulders bare and sat in the laps of the few men who could afford their services. Tim had thought of stamping out prostitution when he was first elected — well volunteered — for the job, but in a town where the women were out-numbered ten to one by the men, the service seemed beneficial. The preacher disagreed, but the sheriff was sure he’d seen the man visiting the place on Sundays after the service.

Faber, the big and grizzled ex-miner, polished the bar, as all bar-men did. It must be relaxing, Tim thought as he sauntered up.

‘Bit cold out,’ Faber said, pouring a shot.

‘Didn’t notice.’ Tim never really noticed the cold until the end of October. Standing at six four and weighing two hundred and fifty pounds made him impervious to the early chills; it wasn’t until the first snow came that he had to put on a coat.

‘See Singh standing out there in the light. Never done that before.’ Faber pointed his polishing rag toward the window.

Tim downed the shot, the fire of the spirit biting the back of his throat. ‘Says the gods are angry.’ Faber poured another. ‘He saw some Indian on his way back through town; spooked him with mystic tales and crazy talk.’

‘Indian?’

‘They aren’t a threat, they’ve moved on.’

‘But today. . .’

‘Just a brave passing through, he wasn’t even armed with anything more than a knife.’ The tribe had its own supply of guns, thanks to unscrupulous traders. ‘But if the gods are getting angry it might be best if you consider closing up early tonight until they stop.’ Tim smiled but Faber didn’t buy into the lightness he made of the tension they all felt.

‘Singh might have something there.’ Faber leaned over the bar, face stern and his voice barely carrying over the clink of the piano. ‘Old man Johnson came in about four complaining his herd’s gone mad, had to let ’em loose to stop ’em smashing down the fences. He’s been over there nursing some hop juice all evening.’

Tim scanned the saloon. The old man sat by one of the front windows, sipping beer and gazing out into the night.

‘Says it ain’t safe out. Wants me to let him have one of the girls’ rooms for the night.’

Faber was a kind soul if you offered enough money. But giving away one of the rooms would mean less takings for a Saturday night unless the old man bought a girl for the whole evening. Twenty bucks was a lot of cash and he doubted Johnson would have half that.

‘I said he could sleep in the barn, but the old man shook his head at that. He’s off his chump I reckon.’

‘Thanks,’ Tim said, taking the second shot over to sit at the table with Johnson.

Johnson broke his gaze from the window, his face white with fear and eyes red rimmed and tired. He smelled of cow-shit and hay. Tim put down his shot, took off his hat and dropped it on the table between them.

‘Trouble?’ he asked simply.

‘Something’s wrong out there,’ Johnson said, sounding all of his sixty years.

‘Like what?’

‘My herd, it’s gone loco, never seen nuttin’ like it in all my years. Even when I was runnin’ buffalo with the Indians.’

A loud hoot rang out behind them; someone had won a hand of poker. Tim waited for the breaking of glass and the sound of a table being over turned. It didn’t come. So far it was a good game, but he knew things could change with these men after a few more drinks and when their pay turned to dust. Tim listened to Johnson and the saloon crowd at the same time.

‘Maybe something spooked them. Season’s changing and cats and wolves are about.’ It was a reasonable conclusion.

The old man looked to the bar. Faber was polishing again but staring at them. Johnson looked like a man with something to say, just too scared to let it out. Tim looked out the window. Singh still stood in the light looking down the street. He hadn’t moved. He’d known Singh since he was a kid and the man never hung around the saloon.

‘He knows,’ Johnson said. ‘Ask him, he knows somethin’s wrong.’

‘Said the gods are angry.’ Tim sipped a burn of whisky. ‘Just a storm coming, that’s all.’ Tim didn’t believe it but he had to calm the old man down enough to get him talking.

‘No storm I ever seen.’

‘What have you seen?’

Johnson drank the rest of his beer and wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve. ‘I seen a man, or it looked like a man.’

‘And?’

‘He didn’t look right. I seen him near enough, he appeared just before my herd went mad,’ Johnson said, raising his voice. No one listened in, loud voices weren’t uncommon. ‘He looked big and. . . and. . . he looked like he was kinda dead!’

The sheriff finished his drink and sat back in the chair, the old joints cracking under his weight. A ghost story, he should have expected it, did expect it but not from Johnson; he was an even-tempered God-fearing man who did odd jobs around the chapel when he wasn’t with his herd. Johnson’s face whitened even more, which Tim wouldn’t have thought possible.

‘I’m tellin’ you, sheriff, this ain’t no story.’ His voice shook, so did his hands. ‘I seen him clear as I see you, only he didn’t look so good. He might have been a native but he was strange, spotted like.’

‘And he spooked your cattle?’ Tim waved to Faber, which meant bring a bottle and another glass.

‘I don’t know.’ Johnson looked at his hands, clasped together on the table top. ‘I seen him near the house, then later I heard the cattle bellowin’. When I rode out to see, they were buttin’ each other and buttin’ the fence. Sheriff, they were all wide eyed and wild lookin’, I didn’t know what to do but cut ’em loose.’

Faber put the bottle on the table and dropped a glass in front of Johnson. ‘He makin’ sense yet, Sheriff?’

Tim sighed. Johnson was certainly afeared, and it was clear something had happened out on his property to make him so edgy.

‘Give him a room for the night,’ Tim said, pulling the cork from the bottle and pouring two glasses. ‘Put it on my tab.’

Faber grunted and went back to the bar. Tim thought about Martha, at home and waiting; he’d better get word to her he would be longer than an hour. He turned in his seat. It wasn’t a big crowd for a Saturday night; not many farmers came into town until just before winter’s freeze really started to show. Standing beside Gustav the wiry piano player was Faber’s boy, Clarry. Big lad with a gut already hanging over his belt. His moon-like face looked pleased with the piano playing. To Tim it was just an annoying noise.

‘Back in a bit,’ Tim said to Johnson.

The old man downed the whisky and poured himself another. Tim walked to the bar and asked Faber to send his boy to tell Martha he’d be late.

‘I don’t like the lad out at night,’ Faber said, his frown all bushy brows.

‘Only take him a few minutes. You know how Martha frets.’

‘Give him a dime and he’ll even write a note. He’s done schoolin’.’

Tim smiled and offered a slight nod.

‘On the tab?’ Faber said, not so pleased.

Tim left Faber to send Clarry and returned to Johnson who seemed to have a little more colour back in his face. He sat, drank his shot and gave the old man what he hoped was a reassuring gaze.

‘What did this man look like?’

Johnson didn’t answer, just stared out the window.

‘You sure it wasn’t an Indian just spookin’ you because of what the miners did? Singh said they weren’t happy and maybe you saw the brave who passed through town today.’

‘He still hasn’t moved.’

Tim followed his gaze. Singh still stood beside his horse in the light, looking down the street into the darkness.

‘He knows.’ Johnson poured yet another drink. ‘He knows.’

Well, if Singh knew then Tim thought he’d better head out and ask him, otherwise he could be sitting with Johnson all night and be none the wiser come morning.

He stood.

A scream broke outside.

Silence dropped on the saloon like a hammer.

The sheriff drew his gun and ran for the door. Others did likewise. Tim’s heart thrashed. Instinct took over. Shoot first. Out on the Broken Garter’s porch he looked to where Singh had been standing. The horse was down, bleeding from its neck. Singh’s body lay beside it in the light, a pool of blood in the dirt. His head was gone.

A woman screamed from behind him.

Men pushed past and ran into the street, guns ready.

Tim turned to the saloon. Johnson stared out the window, face and hands pressed against the glass. Who could have done this? And who could have done it so quickly and not be seen?

Someone fired a couple of shots up the street. Someone else joined in.

‘Put your guns away, boys,’ Tim yelled. ‘Whatever did this is gone.’

He struggled to control his own shaking as he walked down the steps and onto the street. Doc came running out with his bag. A pointless thing to do, but he had to write a death certificate.

‘You think a cougar?’ Faber said, coming down the steps behind him.

‘Maybe?’ Tim holstered his weapon and waved the other men to do likewise. ‘I think whatever it was, it was big.’ He could think of nothing that explained what he was seeing.

Faber called a few of the men together to get rid of the horse while Doc ordered a couple of men to bring his stretcher. Tim forced himself to relax. An animal attack in town was rare, but he couldn’t deal with panic, especially when those who panicked were all armed, drunk and crazy enough to shoot at shadows. Martha came running out of the dark, the overweight Clarry close behind, puffing and panting like an old bull.

‘Tim! Tim!’ she cried. She ran past the crowd, round the body and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Tim. I heard the shooting. . . I thought. . . when Clarry came over. . . I thought. . .’

‘I’m fine, Martha.’ He held her tight, her slight form disappearing into his big arms. He picked her up and carried her into the saloon; she didn’t need to see the mess. He sat her at a table well away from the windows and doors and close to the fire. ‘I’ll get you a sherry,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead.

Johnson started yelling and waving his arms. ‘It’s out there! It’s out there!’

Tim side-stepped some tables and headed for the door. Clarry ran in, Faber close behind. The others were shouting. Gunshots rang out. Tim drew his weapon again.

‘No, Tim!’ screamed Martha.

As the sheriff reached the door he saw something move through the light. It took one of the men with it. Screams could be heard down the street. Lying on the ground next to the body of Singh was one of the card players, his throat torn out. Blood was everywhere. Tim turned to the people in the saloon. The men had their guns drawn. Faber stood in front of his son, sawn-off shotgun at the ready.

‘Everyone stay inside,’ Tim said.

A dandy in a black suit and white shirt drew his gun and aimed at Tim. He froze. The man could fire before he even raised his own weapon. There was a flash and explosion as the gun fired. Tim grabbed at his chest but nothing had hit him. The dandy fired twice more before Tim realised he was shooting at something in the doorway. He turned. What looked like a man — but wasn’t — took another step into the saloon, three bleeding wounds in its huge, thick-haired chest. Another shot. This one hit the man in the head; or what could be a head, so macabre was the black and white face paint. The man fell back and staggered outside.

‘Indian attack!’ a woman yelled.

Panic erupted as tables were overturned; another woman screamed out.

‘The doors!’ Faber called. He and Clarry rushed forward, slamming the large wooden door closed and dropping the lock bar in place.

‘What was that thing?’ someone yelled. Tim could hear the women sobbing and men shouting at each other.

Faber looked to Tim. ‘The windows!’

The old hotel had internal shutters as well as external. It had been built in the days when the Indians and whites weren’t so friendly. And while Tim didn’t believe the Indians were attacking, he had no other explanation for what had just happened and what he’d just seen.

Glass smashed. Tim saw old man Johnson fighting with something. Then in an instant it was gone, taking the old man with it back out the window. Gustav threw himself over the tables to get to the broken window. He slammed the shutters closed. Faber secured the other window.

‘You, Dandy,’ Faber called. ‘Take some men upstairs and secure the girls’ rooms and I mean do it now.’

The fancy-dressed man headed up the stairs with two miners close behind.

Tim headed for the back door; even halfway there he could see it had already been secured for the night. He still had to drop the small shutters over the rear windows and push a chock through their clasps. He turned and rested his back against the door. Everything had happened so fast. There was a commotion in the bar. Faber’s voice boomed. Panic had to be headed off. The sheriff pushed himself forward. His gut was tight and his jaw ached. He felt he wasn’t too far from panic himself. Walking into the bar he saw the Dandy standing halfway down the stairs, gun at the ready. The two miners stood by the balustrade, looking down and unsure of what to do. The high voices of the women came from near the hearth. Martha stood amongst them.

Tim dragged a chair across the floor and climbed to stand tall above the men. He raised both arms to quiet the voices, to try and restore some calm before the group turned on each other.

‘What was that thing, Sheriff?’

‘Why didn’t it die?’

‘You have to protect us.’

The men shouted their concerns and the women comforted each other. He knew which group he’d have preferred to be in right at that moment. He raised his hands higher, finally silencing the men. He counted eleven in front of him, plus the Dandy on the stairs, himself, Faber and Clarry, fifteen men in all and seven women.

‘We’ll be safe in here,’ Tim said. ‘The doors are barred, as well as the windows.’

The Dandy tipped his hat to confirm he’d taken care of the girls’ rooms. ‘Evil will not take our souls,’ he said, holstering his gun. ‘Here is the patience of the saints: here they that keep the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus.’

‘What is out there?’ Martha said, leaving the women by the fire.

‘I don’t know.’ Tim looked to the others, hoping one of them had an idea, something he could understand and use. ‘Anyone seen the likes, or heard of anything like this before?’

The women whispered. Dina, who was probably the oldest at twenty-four, was shaking her head, trying to get away from the others. She knew something; Tim could see it in her face. He climbed down from the chair and made his way through the men, their stink more prominent now fear had been injected into them. The women parted, leaving Dina standing alone, staring at the floor. Her maroon dress trimmed with lace looked exotic in the fire light. Tim took her hands. They were cold and she was trembling. She refused to look up at him and tried to pull her hands free.

Martha came up and put her arm around Dina’s shoulders. ‘Tell him what you told us.’ Martha was younger than Dina, but did seem to be more mature in some ways. Maybe marriage aged you that way.

‘It could be important, Dina. You saw what happened out there; old man Johnson and that thing the Dandy shot. . .’

‘Stuart,’ Dina said. ‘He’s not a Dandy, his name’s Stuart.’

Tim wondered why she defended the man so abruptly. Maybe he made her some promises. But it was none of his business.

‘Stuart, I’m sorry,’ he said softening his voice. The woman was petrified and with good reason; he wasn’t feeling all that secure himself.

‘I lived in Boston as a kid,’ she said, finally making eye contact. ‘There were stories from Europe. I didn’t hear them myself but they were spread around school as coming from other girls’ parents.’ Her eyes were wide, blue and afraid.

‘What kind of stories?’ Martha said, offering strength.

‘That thing. . . it could be a vampire.’ The men stopped their chatter, all attention turned to the discussion by the fire. Dina looked to them then stared at the floor again. ‘It’s what I heard. They drink blood and can’t walk in the daylight.’

The men laughed; all but Stuart, Faber and Tim. Dina pulled away and buried her face in Martha’s shoulder, she started to cry. Martha’s look said enough; he had to listen to what Dina had to say, as strange as it was. There was no denying the thing Stuart had shot several times wasn’t a man, and what killed Singh definitely wasn’t a bear.

‘Dina’s on the Hoyle,’ Stuart said, joining them by the fire. ‘But only part right. I’ve been to London, England, and heard these stories first hand, and the Lord only knows what kind of evil stalks in the dark.’ Stuart spoke with a very slight accent. Tim had first thought it was because he was from back east. ‘Vampires suck blood from their victims and sleep in coffins at night and they will die if they are in the sun.’

Tim thought of Johnson. ‘That thing was seen during the day.’

‘That’s why I don’t think it’s a vampire. There are other things out there we don’t know about. Demons and Satan himself.’

Something battered the rear door. A mad collection of Colts were drawn and aimed. The women gasped. The fire in the hearth sputtered as a cold blast of wind rushed down the chimney. The sheriff, like the others, just stared. Again a solid thump rattled the wooden doors in their frame. The fire went out, dropping the room into the glow of the few lanterns.

‘Will it hold?’ Tim holstered his gun and grabbed a lantern from the mantel.

‘Held against two Indian attacks in ’forty-eight, but I don’t know about what’s out there now.’ Faber walked back behind the bar; the painting of the ship on the wall was out of place. He put some extra lanterns on the bar and a drum of oil. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

The window shutters began to rattle. Men ran to them and pressed against the wood. The small stocks held the shutters secure but they didn’t look strong enough to resist too much of an assault. The sheriff asked Faber about boards and nails. They’d need them to strengthen the windows. He had some in the cellar.

‘Bill, Davey,’ Faber called. ‘Go down the cellar, you’ll find some boards and tools in the back corner and a tub of nails on the shelf above the whiskey crates.’

The two men, one old, the other about twenty, rushed to the cellar door with a lantern and were gone in a thud of boots down wooden stairs.

The rear door continued to take heavy blows, each one making everyone start. Stuart put his hat on the bar and slipped out of his long coat. He handed it to Dina who put it around her shoulders. Tim watched and wondered if the Dandy was better than the usual promises that came through town. Martha caught his eye, arms wrapped about herself, holding the shawl given to her on their wedding day. She had that look of determination he saw when things got difficult; at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her for a time. Martha nodded, turned and attended the now sobbing women. Some men had joined them i a show of protection.

The first scream from the cellar shocked them. The second had Clarry slamming the door and turning the key in the lock. Such a small lock.

‘Faber,’ Stuart shouted. He was already dragging a table over to put in front of the back door. The door rattled on and the banging was unnerving. One of the miners, well liquored up, fired a couple of rounds into the thick wood, the snap of the gun bringing louder cries from the women. Faber ran round the bar and helped upend another table and press its face against the door. They angled a couple of chairs into the base for support.

Tim helped Gustav and two others push the very old Hawkins Piano across the room and against the front door. The back of the instrument was pressed against the wood and its faded red velvet front would offer no protection should bullets be fired. At least it was heavy. Gustav looked concerned when the piano was slid into place. They braced it with a couple of tables. Without the boards the windows were still the weakest points in the saloon.

Glass shattered out the back. The back door began to shake, the shutters rattled. Faber checked the load of his sawn-off and gave it to Clarry, who somehow looked the calmest of everyone. Faber pulled two ex-military six-shooters from beneath the bar and led the boy out the back. ‘Anything come through, boy, just shoot and run,’ Tim heard him telling his son.

•

All through the night the doors and windows rattled. Tim sat with his back against the bar with Martha’s head and shoulders against his chest. She slept fitfully; he only dozed for short moments. The sobbing of the other women died down as some slept and others watched, too afraid to close their eyes. Stuart sat at a table with some of the other men and played cards. Not for money, just for something to do. They were quiet in their playing and sipped whiskey. Despite the banging against the shutters they were relatively safe. Tim didn’t know what time it was. He looked to Martha, quietly asleep; he looked to the women and wondered: could he be a hero and save the day? Every time the shutters and doors rattled he doubted such thoughts. His job was to keep these people safe. Some of the men went upstairs to either sleep or wait out the noise.

‘And through the night they absquatulate,’ Stuart said softly. ‘And into God’s hand they go.’

Tim ignored the man’s low mumblings as he held his wife. He could smell the soap in Martha’s hair. He looked to Stuart with his smart clothes and plated guns. A man who made a living from cards, no doubt, but he also had an air of authority about him, a quiet strength. Maybe he was ex-cavalry, an officer; Tim could see him in blues, sword on hip and moustache waxed. Given the situation a few soldiers would come in handy about now. Martha moved. He hugged her, the embrace seeming to settle her again. Tim tipped his head back against the bar, the smell of beer and sweat somehow calming with its familiar stink.

‘Sheriff, Sheriff.’ A firm shake woke him; he’d dozed. ‘Sheriff, sun’s up.’ It was Gustav.

Tim moved. Martha wasn’t nestled into him; she was standing over by the window with the other women. Sunlight peeked through the shutter boards and spilled through the gaps in the old building’s walls. His legs felt numb from sitting on the floor all night.

‘Been no bangin’ for about two hours.’ Gustav helped Tim up.

The sheriff looked to Stuart, who was helping move the piano away from the door.

‘You sure that’s wise?’ He walked towards the door.

Martha was quick to his side. ‘It’s too quiet, Tim,’ she said.

‘We can’t stay in here for much longer,’ Stuart said, leaving two other men to wrestle the piano. Gustav just watched in obvious horror at seeing his pride and joy treated so badly. ‘We’ve been using buckets in the back room for our necessaries and it ain’t pretty.’

Now he mentioned it, Tim could smell the strong odour of excrement, and Stuart had a point. A day in that and they’d be ready to bust out of the place no matter what waited outside. The door was clear and Faber and Clarry lifted the lock bar.

‘I’m going out,’ Tim said. ‘Give me your sawn-off.’ Faber grabbed it from a nearby table and handed it over. ‘Close the door after me.’

‘Tim, no!’ Martha cried.

The street was deserted. Dark brown patches showed where bodies had lain and bled out, but there were no bodies. Nothing remained of the horse or the men. He looked up the street to the mining end of town. Ten miles from the last building was the copper mine. Had they also been attacked? Were there miners still in the camps out there? A dog barked. A lonely sound. A frightened sound. Tim thought it was the Franklins’ dog. With the sawn-off settled in his hands he walked down the centre of the street, looking at every building and seeing the smashed windows and broken doors. His boots crunched on the light brown dirt. He was careful not to step in wagon tracks, lest he twist his ankle. The air smelled dusty and empty.

‘It’s Sheriff Galagher,’ he yelled. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

He passed the general store and could see the stock normally stacked neatly by the big windows was strewn about inside. Cranky Jack would be extra cranky once he saw the mess. He hesitated outside the store and wondered if he should go in and check the house out back where Jack lived with his son; his wife had died of smallpox several years ago. The dog peered around the corner of a building, tail between its legs. It was Ranger and she was afraid. Where was everyone? Tim yelled a few more times but was only met with the creaking of doors partly broken off hinges and the flutter of curtains poking through smashed windows as the stiff morning breeze gusted. Tim looked back to the saloon: broken glass was strewn onto the street as if something had been clawing at it and throwing the glass out behind. Maybe coming outside wasn’t such a grand idea after all.

‘Hello,’ he called, disliking the dull sound his voice made. The town sounded empty. Even the dog skulked away at his call.

The door of the saloon opened and Stuart stepped out onto the porch. The door slammed quickly behind him. He looked weary in the brightness of daylight. The man held a gun in his left hand.

‘They’re getting a might ornery,’ he said as he stepped into the street. ‘I can’t rightly say that I blame them.’

Tim walked back to the saloon. ‘You got a last name, Stuart?’ he said looking towards the other end of town and to where his house was.

‘McAlister, Stuart McAlister.’

As he grew closer to Stuart he saw he wasn’t as young as he’d thought in the saloon. It always amazed him how much lamplight hid with its yellowish glow; he wondered what he looked like with his shiny badge and thick beard.

‘Well, Mr McAlister, it looks like the town is empty.’ He pointed towards his house. Even from this distance he could see part of the roof was missing. ‘Now we are away from the women you can tell me more about these demons and vampires.’

McAlister sat on the steps of the saloon, resting his gun in his lap. He squinted up into the morning sun, dark eyes narrow and cautious. With his right hand he pulled at his lined face as if trying to draw away the weariness. Tim saw in his demeanour the look of a well-worn man. The night had been long, maybe longer for him, and he wondered if Stuart had even slept. His necktie was loose and the top button of his collared shirt undone.

‘There was a fellow I read of back east, a John Polidori, he wrote a book called The Vampyre. It was all the rage and reports of such creatures were rampant, but I don’t. . . or should I say, I didn’t believe in such things.’

‘What are they?’ The sheriff watched the street and listened to the creaks and squeaks of the town. With the tip of the sawn-off he pushed back his hat, the brim getting tight about his aching head.

‘They are not what is happening here, sir.’ Stuart fixed him with a hard stare. ‘This is a demon of biblical creation, maybe even Satan himself come for our sinning souls, and trust me when I say I have sinned.’

Not being a religious man made it difficult for Tim to comprehend what Stuart meant, but the church-goers in town were a righteous bunch and sang up a storm every Sunday morning. There was no singing today and not an amen to be heard. Tim knew some Bible stories — every kid did when the local Baptists ran the school — but those stories were of floods and whales and great famines. What kind of biblical beast could this be?

‘You know of such things?’

‘Daniel spake and said, I saw in my vision by night, and, behold, the four winds of the heaven strove upon the great sea. And four great beasts came up from the sea, diverse one from another,’ Stuart said with a grave tone and a solid commanding voice.

‘The first was like a lion, and had eagle’s wings: I beheld till the wings thereof were plucked, and it was lifted up from the earth, and made stand upon the feet as a man, and a man’s heart was given to it. And behold another beast, a second, like to a bear, and it raised up itself on one side, and it had three ribs in the mouth of it between the teeth of it: and they said thus unto it, Arise, devour much flesh.

‘After this I beheld, and lo another, like a leopard, which had upon the back of it four wings of a fowl; the beast had also four heads; and dominion was given to it. . .’ He stopped for a moment and shook his head as if trying to remember something. ‘Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred, three score and six.’

‘And what in all hay is that supposed to mean?’ Tim felt the skin prickle on his neck and arms.

‘Sheriff, I wasn’t always a man of cards and travel. I was once a preacher until the evils of man consumed me and I became all I despised.’ Stuart eased himself to his feet. ‘I might disbelieve a lot of things today, but if what I have said is true then we are all damned to hell.’

So much for missing out on the Sunday preaching, Tim thought. And talk of evil things didn’t sound like something he wanted to calm the women with, or the men for that matter. He didn’t bother asking the gambler-priest what they could do because in a way he knew what he would say. He had heard the church-goers say it often when men staggered from the saloon on Sunday afternoons. ‘Repent and be saved, by the blood of Jesus, our Lord, be saved.’ He didn’t think that would work either.

He remembered what Singh had said about the Indians, the angry gods. He wanted to get back inside the saloon. Everything was too strange and too quiet. ‘

Do you know anything about Héshokta, the cliff dwellers?’ He didn’t know what it meant, but Singh had thought it important last night.

The man frowned, closed his eyes in concentration. ‘You speak of the natives’ beliefs.’

‘I don’t know about belief, just what do you know of them?’ He walked up the two steps to stand on the porch; it was time to get back into safety.

‘I. . .’ Something flashed by and Stuart fell forward minus his head. His gun dropped to the ground.

Tim screamed to be let in. His fists crashed against the scarred wood. His heart thumped, and all he could hear was the banging, the endless banging, of his blows. He heard the door unlatch. He stepped back. He was lifted into the air and dumped into the middle of the street, air knocked from his lungs. He gasped. The sawn-off was thrown clear of him and his pistol lay a few feet away. He reached for the gun and a foot slammed down on his wrist. He cried out as bone broke. The foot lifted and Tim hugged his hand as tears came. Standing, facing into the sun, was a beast the size of a bear. But it wasn’t a bear, couldn’t be a bear. This was desert land. Each hand bore talon-like fingernails and the thing’s face looked like burnt leather. Tim tried to scramble away but his boots slipped on the street’s loose surface. The thing reached down and pulled him to his feet with one long, brawny arm. Black eyes examined him before its mouth opened to reveal sharp, yellow and rotted teeth. It breath was foul with the stink of meat.

When it spoke Tim didn’t understand the language; it sounded a little like Navajo but there was far too much that had no familiarity. The thing lifted him off the ground and he groaned with the strain on his back.

‘Átahsaia.’

A sound of chanting filled his mind; he had a splash of vision of fireside dancers and medicine doctors shaking their sticks.

‘Átahsaia.’

The word filled his mind as the thing pulled him close and the hair on its chest, as sharp as porcupine quills, stuck through his shirt and into his skin. He cried out and the thing threw him aside. The beast’s skin was a mottle of black and white, like the scales of a snake, and it lumbered forward, its long, strong legs thumping into the ground like two large hammers.

‘Átahsaia.’

A blast of gunfire erupted and the beast was knocked down, blood spraying from wounds over its body. Then came the crump of a shotgun. Tim tried desperately to get to his feet. On the porch were the men from the saloon: Gustav, Clarry and Faber holding big barrelled shotguns. They were reloading as the others fired handguns. Martha ran from the porch; he wanted to scream at her to go back but he couldn’t catch his breath. The thing staggered closer until three sets of shotgun shells slammed into its spiny chest, knocking it over. Martha reached him and helped him up. He lost sight of the thing as she steered him toward the saloon. More gunfire and a roar unlike anything he had heard before. He turned to look at the creature, big and ugly and frightening. In the middle of the street where he had lain was his gun and the silver amulet, the blue and red stones bright in the early sunlight. It had fallen out of his pocket when the beast had thrown him.

Slowly, ignoring the bullet impacts as if they were mosquitoes, the beast who could have been a man, knelt before the amulet and gently picked it up. The shooting stopped. The beast turned its coal-black eyes towards them and chattered its teeth. It vanished, a gust of hot wind slapping about the gathering.

•

Not far from a mesa in the desert is an empty town. No-one visits and no-one remembers the road that used to lead there. Even the copper mine nearby has fallen into disrepair and no-one has ever come to lay claim to its rich deposits. Some old Indians — some of the oldest in the region it is claimed — speak of the Cannibal Demon Átahsaia and its encounter with the sisters. But mention the town that no longer has a name and they all turn away and shake their heads.

Author Loci

Robert N Stephenson — In The Light

It is a strange thing to write about yourself as an author in the spotlight. In my early years in the business I was very boisterous and some would say alarmingly so, but I and others survived the turmoil and in a way we are better for it. . . maybe. As a writer in many genres I enjoy the challenge of visiting some old tropes in new ways, and even creating new adventures via the head space I call my very own difference engine. I have made enemies in this business no doubt, but at this stage I would say they are not my enemies; I dislike no one really, and I have little time for hate and it is this attitude I hope shines the most through my works of fiction. The story in this edition of D6 is a visiting of the old kind wrapped around a legend older than the world the story sits in. To get it to work was a challenge and to create a story that people would like to read and even a greater challenge.

Keith has kindly offered writers this space to sell themselves, to promote and allow others to share. As I said, I find self-promotion rather difficult as I really do just want my work to speak for itself. In this mad world things are not so simple and many voices are drowned out by the shouting of vendors selling their own wares. Every day I am bombarded with new writers selling works that I just can’t live without and it becomes tiring, especially when you do give it a read and find it dreadful. I was fortunate that my first published novel was published in Poland in 2005 (Life Light is to be published in English by Satalyte Publishing in November 2014) and while it did well I didn’t have to do any hard sell because the publishers, Nowa Fantasyka, had a steady readership already for their products. It pleased me and it is still a rather proud moment in my career. My second novel, Uttuku (www.amazon.com), was a labour of pure madness and something written out of my frustration with a book industry trapped by sparkly vampires and werewolves that wore cologne and designer T-shirts. Uttuku was birthed from this difference engine of my mind and deliberately played outside the expected lines for supernatural tomes that used cookie cutter characters and themes. I didn’t like the sandbox so I made my own. I had originally just put the book out through CreateSpace to get it off my desk and out of my mind while I worked on other things, but there it stayed. Readers who have taken the chance have loved the book and now want a second (one day) and I think this is by far my favourite work. One critic — unnamed — actually said it would have been better if it was set in Australia. I disagree and still do. I had a location in mind and a world in mind and I needed a culture to develop easily. So Uttuku is set in Santa Monica; if that is an issue then this book isn’t for you. Definitely unpopular with the romantic vampire novel set, this novel did break interesting ground when it used the birth of the legends as its research project.

I have done fairly well in recent years with a few good short story sales and my work writing a graphic novel and accompanying book called Lycanation for a film company. The original project was detailed and required me to create a number of elements. But, me being me, I couldn’t follow the rules and created something completely different and the film producers loved the graphic novel and the first draft of the book so much they scrapped the original project and redesigned everything based on my work. Pity the contract means I don’t get a huge pay raise, but I am slowly developing an audience around the slow release (in parts) of the novel Lycanation – The First Queen on the Facebook page Lycanation. It is free to download and subscribe to each release every full moon. Yes, it is a werewolf novel, but slightly different. The full novel won’t be released until an accompanying computer game has been fully developed, along with some animations that are in the works. So, I am happy with this. Of course when working with film people you are basically anonymous, but given my inability to sell myself widely and with abandon, I don’t really mind.

Like Keith, I have a real passion for publishing and have published twenty four titles over the years, some selling better than others but I have had the greatest of pleasures working with Jack McDevitt, David Brin, Sean Williams, Tony Shillitoe and Kate Forsyth, plus numerous others. For me it was a huge thrill to work with such legends in the business and seeing their works and how they approach the business has allowed me to learn how to better conduct myself. It is true, I am still a live weapon in the room but I hope I am better understood these days.

The short story here is a journey — not a personal journey like you will find in Uttuku, or even in Life Light, out later in the year — but one that I hope paints a picture in your mind that lasts for a few minutes. I don’t want to own you, or possess you with my writing. What I want to do most of all is allow you to not be where you are for a few minutes and take you some place you have never been before.

How do I view me as a writer? How do I view anyone who writes or who author’s works? I breathe my world and live every atom of the oxygen that fuels me and when I breathe out it is hoped what makes me alive filters through the air and into your life.

Enjoy.

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Next Issue

The next issue of Dimension6 will be available free for download on 3 October 2014, featuring stories by Cat Sparks, Robert Hood and Steve Cameron.

You can download Dimension6 by visiting the Dimension6 webpage.

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Copyright

First published in Australia in 2014 by coeur de lion publishing

www.coeurdelion.com.au

please direct all enquires to the publisher at keith@coeurdelion.com.au

Compilation copyright © Keith Stevenson 2014

Copyright in each story and article remains with the individual authors © 2014

The right of the individual authors to be identified as the authors of their respective stories and articles has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

Dimension6 is published under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International licence. This means anyone can copy, distribute and transmit Dimension6 as long as they attribute the work back to us, do not charge for it, and do not alter, transform or build on it. More information on the licence is here — http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/