Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212 Read online

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  DANIEL KAYSEN

  When I first sold a story to Interzone I tried to explain the feeling to a non-genre friend. “It's like getting a Peel Session,” I said. John Peel's Radio 1 show—irredeemably British but with an extraordinarily International passion—still seems like a good analogy to Interzone. Peel of course is sadly RIP, but Interzone is not, and long, long may it continue.

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  KAREN FISHLER

  Having admired Interzone from afar for so long, I was incredibly excited to be included in the first issue of the relaunched version. It's been equally exciting to be part of subsequent issues. Long live Interzone!

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  ALAN DOREY [part of the Interzone editorial collective, issues 1-12]

  I couldn't really miss the chance of congratulating you on breathing new life into good ole Interzone in recent months and particularly now in its 25th anniversary year. I was there at the start—in fact, before the start, before Interzone had a name, before we even knew it was definitely going to exist and before we knew who was going to produce it. In 1981, I was Chairman of the BSFA and had also been on the committee that ran the British SF Convention that Easter along with David Pringle, Simon Ounsley and Graham James—Yorcon II in Leeds. We had a small surplus at the end and after due consideration in our local bar, The West Riding, we thought “Let's start a magazine.” We had been real fans of New Worlds and what it had tried to do, so we wanted something that would be a New Worlds for the 1980s, something that would publish great fiction and be a proper outlet for aspiring writers. Only, how could we do it? Other than publishing an array of fanzines, we hadn't really that much experience—or indeed cash. Coincidentally, I was approached by Malcolm Edwards who had independently wanted to start an SF magazine and he was keen for the BSFA to support it, particularly with publicity and promotion across its membership. Maybe even some financial support.

  The mists of time are hazy here, but essentially, Interzone was born out of a marriage of the two groups and we started out as the Editorial Collective and a vision that, yes, Interzone would happen and would not only survive, but would be bought by all true SF fans and become an established fixture. The first few months were a big learning-curve, but through enthusiasm, skill, hard work and support from many others, it got there ... and David Pringle deserves a massive vote of thanks for persevering so forcefully with it throughout the ‘80s and ‘90s—even at one stage producing a stable-mate, Million: The Magazine of Popular Fiction. So, although my direct involvement as an editor finished years ago, I do feel a warm glow whenever I see it on sale in my local Borders—and still buy it after all these years.

  One final point: I agree in principal with your statement that it's “Britain's longest running SF magazine,” but technically, that won't be the case until it reaches issue 217. The original New Worlds got to 201, there then followed ten paperback ‘quarterly issues’ numbered 1-10, then a break, then Charles Partington and others produced issues 211-5 in Manchester in the late ‘70s before Charles Platt (who had edited some of the original run) wrestled it back and, with support from Michael Moorcock, started a new run with issue 216 in September 1979. His editorial said that “There is every reason to expect, now, that New Worlds will continue on a regular schedule appearing between three and six times a year.” Needless to say, I think that was it! So, you have a target to aim at: issue 217 and you'll be the undisputed holder of the title! Very best wishes.

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  ANDY MILLS

  The venerable Andy Sawyer used to edit a little reviews publication for the BSFA called Paperback Inferno. In the February 1986 issue he put out a request for somebody to review Interzone. I threw my hat into the ring and (undoubtedly because there were no other volunteers) got the gig. For six years, from PI #61 until the final PI (#97, in 1992) I reviewed every issue of Interzone from 15-61. (This is all very precise because I've been having fun digging through my old copies to check dates.) I was enthusiastic for the magazine then—which is why I reviewed it—and I'm enthusiastic for it now. IZ has certainly aged better than me, retaining its style and its cutting edge. Whilst the fiction isn't always to my taste (and how dull and predictable would it be if it was!) what the magazine has always kept faith with is a consistent balance of stories and non-fiction—news, interviews and reviews—that for me have made it an essential part of my SF diet. I hope IZ is around in 25 years’ time, still young, still important.

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  ANDY SAWYER

  How can I not send appreciations to IZ in its 25th year, especially when concrete evidence that the whole thing is part of my life is sitting in a cupboard at home, making the shelves warp ominously. Gosh, it seems a long time ago now. Somewhere in the Interzone archives—now warping shelves not too far from where I sit—is very possibly evidence that I was unhinged enough to submit fiction not once but (if memory serves) twice. Fortunately, that sensible Mr Pringle had enough taste to compose letters of rejection. And in any case, I can always destroy the evidence, and who would know. (It's handy being a librarian, that way.) But in those early days—the monochrome covers, the calls for ‘radical hard sf'—did I think that I would end up being paid to work in sf? A thousand times no. But I'm glad I'm here. And I'm gladder that Interzone has survived so long, to boost the careers of a lot of fine writers.

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  PETER CROWTHER

  I have an enormous soft spot for Interzone, having posted numerous reviews and even one story (David Pringle was always a hard sell for me) in its and its long-ago sister Million's pages over the years. You'd have to be soulless not to be impressed by today's incarnation of IZ—particularly its new colourful format and delivery. Now more than ever, it is the UK's flagship for quality short fiction. Here's to the next quarter century.

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  If you would like to contribute please send your entry to the editorial address or email it to [email protected]

  Copyright © 2007

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  FEELINGS OF THE FLESH—Douglas Elliott Cohen

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  Illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe

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  Doug is the assistant editor at Realms of Fantasy. He has attended both the Odyssey Workshop and Orson Scott Card's Literary Boot Camp, and ‘Feelings of the Flesh’ marks his first fiction publication. Visit his blog to learn more: slushmaster.livejournal.com

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  Tarrik cocked his pistol and peered from behind a boulder that stood at the top of the rock-hewn stairs. Below, centered in the glen, there stood a table, laden with food. Flies buzzed about the feast in thick numbers, drawn to the chickens, wines, eggs, vegetables, fruits, cheeses and breads. Two benches lined the table, both of them unoccupied.

  Several feet over, five Aberrates gathered around a dying tree. Dressed in animal skins, each of them carried a monstrous axe that hung from a crude leather notch, hooked to a belt of human skin. One of the creatures scratched under its armpit while shifting its stance. Over its broad shoulder, Tarrik spied a woman, tied to the tree's trunk.

  "Enough talk.” The creature's rumbling voice cut through the afternoon air. “I say we do it now."

  "After we eat,” said another. “I prefer such pleasures with something in my stomach."

  "Agreed,” said a third.

  The large man-shaped creatures lumbered to the table. Their bloated stomachs quivered with each step, and several of them ran blue tongues along their lips in anticipation of the feast.

  Tarrik grimaced. These Aberrates were of the Taster breed—the one he hunted was a Feeler. But her tracks led here, so she wanted him to find this lair. But to what end? So he could rescue the girl? Her presence seemed too unlikely for coincidence.

  Tarrik adjusted his wide-brimmed hat as he shifted his attention back to the Tasters. The Feast of the Glutton had begun. The Tasters were devouring chickens. Guzzling wines. Stuffing cheese wedges in
to their slavering mouths. Each flavor had become enhanced, from robbing the girl's sense of taste. The enhancement lasted a short time—even shorter when the sense was divvied up—which explained why they ate like it was their last meal. There was another reason too, because if the enhancement remained in effect after they finished, other things might be tasted ... like a human female.

  Tarrik let the feast continue, his grim silence answered with noises of chewing, drinking and belching. Soon enough the table was made a wasteland. The Tasters stood, rubbing their bellies and picking between their teeth. One of them licked at the grease smearing its fingers. Its slothful eyes slid over to the girl, and it leered broadly, more grease dripping from its fat lips.

  Tarrik stepped from behind his boulder and fired. The air cracked as the bullet obliterated the Taster's eye. Gore and brains spattered its companions before it could fall over dead. The others wheeled in confusion, drawing weapons and screaming challenges.

  Tarrik busied himself reloading. When he heard a collective roar, bursting from their throats, he knew he had been spotted. Bare feet slapped up the steps, and sunlight bounced off their axes. Tarrik squinted into the glare. Raised his gun. Gunpowder exploded, and the bullet lodged itself in the chest of the nearest creature. The Taster staggered, blood spilling onto its gut. But instead of falling it roared again and pressed onwards. Upwards.

  Tarrik dropped his gun. Before it hit the ground he drew a pair of knives from his belt and hurled them. The wounded Taster and one other grabbed at their throats, which suddenly spurted blood to either side of the embedded blades. They collapsed as one, knocking into one of their own, and all three tumbled down the steps.

  Tarrik unsheathed his sword, ducking as the last creature unleashed a ferocious swing of its axe. Steel whizzed overhead. Air tickled his neck. Before it could follow with a backswing, Tarrik rammed his shoulder into its stomach. In slow motion the creature seemed to tilt, mouth opening in a wide circle. Then it fell down the steps. Halfway down a different sort of crack cut through the afternoon, and its cries ceased.

  Meanwhile at the foot of the stairs, the last Taster staggered to its feet. Tarrik bounded down two steps, leapt, and landed in a crouch next to it. The Taster's eyes widened, only to glaze as Tarrik sheathed his sword deep in its stomach. Crimson stained its yellow teeth, and it looked at the bounty hunter in disbelief.

  "Taste it,” he said, and he viciously twisted the blade before pulling it free.

  The Taster collapsed like a felled tree. Blood leaked from under its body, cutting a red marsh through the grass. Breathing almost easy, Tarrik knelt beside the corpse and wiped his blade off on its flea-ridden clothes. Afterwards he stood, started towards the girl—

  And his legs threatened to buckle. His breathing grew heavier than it had during the battle. The girl looked like Zaleen. The long legs and swanlike neck, the short dark hair ... even her features were reminiscent of his dead love.

  So this was the reason Olethia had lured him here, so she could rub salt in old wounds. One more thing she would answer for.

  As Tarrik drew closer the girl fought her bonds, animal fear distorting her face. “I won't hurt you.” Somehow he kept his voice calm. “Stay still so I can cut you loose."

  She stopped struggling at once. Tarrik brought his sword down in a smooth stroke and the severed ropes fell to the grass. Without a word the girl rushed to the table, where she snatched a sliver of bloodstained cheese.

  Almost eagerly, it seemed, she crammed it into her mouth. Over the next few seconds a gamut of emotions ran across her features while she chewed. Then she spit a sodden mass onto the table. “No!” She snatched a bottle of wine, swallowed what little remained, then hurled the glass against the mountainside. Glittering shards tumbled down the rocks.

  "Nothing!” she screamed.

  Sobbing, she picked through the remaining scraps on the table. Each time the result proved the same, with her spitting out chewed food and cursing. Tarrik kept quiet, letting her work the denial out of her system. Of the five senses, taste was one of the easier to lose. Such comfort would mean little to someone unable to know even the flavor of dust though. But sometimes the things people took for granted were what they missed most when gone.

  By now the girl had tried everything. Still sobbing, she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms about her sides. “Nothing,” she said again. Shivers wracked her. “Nothing at all."

  Tarrik unfastened his cloak and knelt beside her. He draped the wool around her shoulders, and she quickly wrapped it closer, like a child seeking protection in its blanket. Then she laid her tearful face against his chest. Tarrik stiffened. Instinct urged that he move back, but the girl needed reassurance. He cautioned himself to relax, and their contact went on.

  "I can't be a Deficient,” she said. “I don't want to be."

  "No one does.” Zaleen's bloodied corpse flashed through his mind. “No one."

  "I'm an Intact,” she said, her voice turning stubborn.

  "What's your name?” He tried to keep his tone gentle, something that no longer came naturally to him.

  "Weyna."

  Since she had stopped crying, Tarrik decided it would be reasonable to separate. “I'm Tarrik. Can you stand?"

  "Yes.” He offered a gloved hand. Once she stood he let go. “Are you a bounty hunter?” she asked.

  "I am."

  Tarrik retrieved his knife from the throat of the nearest Taster. Kneeling beside its destroyed face, he pried its mouth open and reached inside with his fingers. He pulled the blue tongue out to its full extension, saliva hanging off its abnormally large taste buds. His knife came down, severing the tongue along the borders of the teeth. Blood pooled in the creature's mouth, and Tarrik slipped the prize into one of his pouches while moving on to the next corpse.

  Weyna padded over. “You're collecting your bounty?” She sounded both revolted and curious.

  "Aye.” Another tongue tore loose, dripping blood onto his boot. “These prove my kills.” At the next town he came to he would present them to the council. Based on the breed and number of trophies offered, he would be paid for his service to mankind. While bounty hunting was profitable to those skilled enough to excel in its practice, whatever wages Tarrik earned were but means to an end. When he awoke each morning until he slept each night, what truly mattered was the hunt.

  Weyna followed him to the next carcass. “Five tongues should fetch a lot of coin."

  "Enough.” It took a few more seconds to finish the harvest. “I'll take you home,” he said, cinching closed his pouch. “Where do you live?"

  A trace of life returned to her features. “The valleys. A day's walk."

  Tarrik hid a grimace. By the time he finished this errand Olethia's trail would be cold. But these mountains were crawling with Aberrates. The girl was dead without him. “Let's be off. I want to cover as much ground as possible by nightfall.” He led them towards the stairs.

  "Wait,” said Weyna. She walked to the table and from under one of the benches she picked up an apple. “For later.” Frowning, she twisted it around by the stem. “I used to hate fruit."

  Without a word more she started up the stairs.

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  "I feel strange."

  Tarrik glanced at the girl. She had been quiet since leaving the Tasters’ lair. The silence had suited him fine. Conversation with someone who looked so like Zaleen would be awkward. Instead he had puzzled over Olethia, wondering what brought her to these mountains and what came next in this little game of hers.

  "What's bothering you?” He kept one hand near his sword while noting every ridgeline and crevice, each boulder and shadow. Aberrates could be lurking anywhere. “Stomach? Head?"

  Weyna adjusted her borrowed cloak. “My head, it's—"

  "Headache,” said Tarrik, nodding—a common occurrence with new Deficients. “It will pass. Do you need to rest?"

  "It's not a headache,” said Weyna. “It's ... something else.” She sounded puzzle
d. And a little scared.

  They had drawn to a stop now. Wind blew against their backs; dust swirled, and the air filled with the cackling of crones. Tarrik tensed before remembering that these mountains were called the Laughing Rocks. No matter how often he head it, he could not get used to how the winds channeled here. Next time it might be children giggling or drunkards guffawing, or one of the other countless possibilities. It was enough to drive someone mad.

  As if to mock him the crones fell silent. “If not a headache, what then?” he asked her.

  Weyna chewed her lip. “It's like a ... a presence.” She cocked her head. “I can almost hear it."

  "That was the wind,” said Tarrik.

  "No.” Annoyance flashed over her features. “I've lived in the valleys my whole life. I know the laughter of these mountains. This is different.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed northwards. “That way."

  Tarrik loosened his pistol from its leather holster. “What of it?"

  "Whatever it is, it's that way.” Her hand faltered. “I think."

  "You think?"

  Weyna rubbed her eyes. “I don't know. The ... the presence, whatever it was. It's gone. But it felt like we're supposed to go to it."

  "It's late,” said Tarrik. People reacted to sense-theft in different ways. Some learned to cope. Others spiraled into black depressions. A few managed to rediscover happiness. And occasionally someone went mad. “Let's find shelter.” Most likely this was hysteria from her intense shock. She would be fine in the morning.

  "I'm not crazy,” said Weyna. Her voice was defiant. “That's what you're thinking. I tell you, something's out there."

  Tarrik met her gaze. “What I'm thinking is that it's suicide to travel these mountains at night.” He gestured to the creeping shadows. “Perhaps there is something touching your thoughts. But now isn't the time to look for it."

  He spun on his heel and set off. A faint scattering of pebbles informed him the girl was following. Tarrik slowed his pace until she walked beside him, so he might keep an eye on this hysterical companion of his.