No, that life was dead to him now.
The late, lamented Christopher Marlowe.
He used a nearby cross to lever himself to his feet. Even if he penned that final act it would never see the light of day. To the world The Birth of the Phoenix would go unfinished forevermore, none but the Admiral’s Men even familiar with a single line, and as with any incomplete work it would fast fade from all memory. Within the space of a dozen years none would know of what should have been his masterwork.
He sighed again.
So it went. There was little for it now. Marlowe was dead and gone, as Malguin of Toulouse had been before him.
Yet the Phoenix lived on.
Who would he become now?
Sifting through his belt pouch, the man who had been Marlowe discovered coins still tucked within the fabric. Most likely those who had handled his body had thought it unwise to rob so ill-omened a corpse. God love a superstitious murderer, he thought. He possessed enough to see him clear of London and environs, and perhaps to flee England altogether. He could away to Scotland, or to Ireland, or even to distant lands as yet untroubled. A new name, a new life, a chance to create and inspire and embolden anew. He would rise from the ashes, aflame as always.
With a smile, he stepped away from the grave that had been his, then turned and pushed the soil back into place once more. No need for any to realize Marlowe resided there in name alone. Not yet, at least.
“Marlowe, the scourge of the Beast must die,” he said, misquoting the final moment of what would now forever be his greatest work. Tamburlaine. “Meet heaven and earth, and here let all things end! For earth hath spent pride of all her fruit, and heaven consumed his choicest living fire. Let earth and heaven timeless death deplore, for both their worths will equal him no more.”
Then, with a last bow to the life he had left behind, the Phoenix turned and walked off into the last dregs of sunlight. Soon all that was left of him was a hazy image among the twilight, and a memory that would burn ever brighter as his words continued to enflame the hearts and minds of any who heard them.
Exeunt
About the Authors
AARON ROSENBERG is an award-winning, bestselling novelist, children’s book author, and game designer. He's written original fiction (including the NOOK-bestselling humorous science fiction novel No Small Bills, the Dread Remora space-opera series, and the supernatural thriller Incursion), tie-in novels (including the PsiPhi winner Collective Hindsight for Star Trek: SCE, the Daemon Gates trilogy for Warhammer, Tides of Darkness and the Scribe-nominated Beyond the Dark Portal for WarCraft, Hunt and Run for Stargate: Atlantis, and Substitution Method and Road Less Traveled for Eureka), young adult novels (including the Scribe-winning Bandslam: The Novel and books for iCarly and Ben10), children's books (including an original Scholastic Bestseller series, Pete and Penny's Pizza Puzzles, and work for PowerPuff Girls and Transformers Animated), roleplaying games (including original games like Asylum and Spookshow, the Origins Award-winning Gamemastering Secrets, and sections of The Supernatural Roleplaying Game, Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, and The Deryni Roleplaying Game), short stories, webcomics, essays, and educational books. He has ranged from mystery to speculative fiction to drama to comedy, always with the same intent—to tell a good story. You can visit him online at http://www.gryphonrose.com or follow him on Twitter @gryphonrose.
STEVEN SAVILE has written 20 books for various media properties including Doctor Who, Torchwood, Stargate, Warhammer, Slaine and Primeval. Shadow of the Jaguar, which was a #1 bestseller in the UK in 2008, and sold over half a million books worldwide. 2010 saw the release of his first non-fiction book, Fantastic TV, charting 50 years of science fiction television in the UK and US. He is the co-creator of Monster Town, recently bought by Sony Entertainment to develop for cable tv in the US (with Adam Fierro, Dexter, The Shield, 24, Walking Dead, as show-runner) and his novels have been translated into 9 languages, including German, French, Italian, and Spanish. Silver, his debut thriller, was released in January 2010 from Variance, in the US, It reached #2 on the e-book bestseller of Amazon UK and has spent over 100 days in the top 100, having sold 50,000 copies since Feb 1st 2011. Steve also wrote the storyline for Electronic Arts' Battlefield 3. He has been runner up in the British fantasy award, and won the Writers of the Future Award and the Scribe Award for best Media Tie-In in 2010. His most recent novel, The Black Chalice, was released in March. His next novel, Each Ember's Ghost will be published by Fantasy Flight Games, continuing the first novel in the Fireborn world written by Tracy Hickman (Dragonlance). He has also developed Isra the Nightwalker series for Pathfinder, the bestselling RPG in the US last year. You can visit him online at http://www.stevensavile.com/.
Want your fiction a little on the lighter side? Check out the first chapter of the hilarious science fiction novel No Small Bills, by Aaron Rosenberg:
Chapter One: DuckBob, meet the Universe. Universe, meet DuckBob.
Ever have one of those days where nothing ever seems to go quite right? Where you miss the train by seconds each time, fumble your change at the snack machine, click away from the porn site too slow to fool your supervisor, kick yourself in the head when you’re trying to tie your shoe, take a swig of your beer only to realize it’s a canister of baking soda instead?
That’s pretty much every day for me.
The name’s DuckBob. DuckBob Spinowitz. No, that’s not a nickname or a pet name or any of that other funny stuff. It’s my name. I had it legally changed. Figured it was easier to join ’em than try to stop ’em, and when you beat ’em to the punch, it stops being funny. A little. Sometimes. Why “DuckBob”? Well, okay, here’s the thing—
—I’ve got the head of a duck.
I know, right now you’re thinking, “oh, he’s got a flat nose” or “he’s got a weak chin and a high forehead” or “he must have feathery blond hair.” No. That’s not it at all.
I.
Have.
The head of.
A duck.
Really. My head? It’s that of a mallard—a Wood Duck, to be precise. Complete with black-tipped red-and-white bill, white below the bill and down the front of the neck, a touch of yellow rising up from the bill and leading to a white streaks above red eyes, and emerald green feathers covering the rest, with a few white streaks mixed in.
A duck.
Only, y’know, man-sized.
I’ve also got webbed feet. And feathers instead of hair. All over. Soft downy feathers, looks just like fine hair until you feel it. Speckled brown down the chest and on the feet, tan across the arms and hands, emerald green on the back (yes, all the way down!), and white on the belly, groin, and legs.
It’s pretty slick-looking, actually. If I were a crazed xenobiologist with leanings toward ornithology, I’d say I was an impressive specimen. I even won a few awards at bird shows, before I was disqualified—seems the entry and the owner can’t be the same person. Purists.
Plus there was that whole “disrobing in public” thing. But hey, is it my fault they wouldn’t take my word for it about the feathers, y’know, Down Below?
On the plus side, I can walk in the rain and not get wet. And swimming? Fuggedaboutit.
No, I wasn’t born this way. And no, I don’t want to talk about it. Just another example of the colossal bad luck that routinely plagues my life. Because that’s what it was—bad luck. I mean, was it my fault I was hiking through a restricted area in the Catskills in the dead of night, waving a lighter in one hand and a neon-orange fishing pole in the other? While naked?
Long story. There was a girl involved. At least I certainly hope so, because otherwise I’ve got no excuse.
Beyond that—let’s just say that, all those stories about alien abductions and crazy experiments? They don’t know the half of it. Those little gray buggers are downright cruel.
So you’re probably thinking, “Okay, this guy’s half man, half duck. That’s weird. I’ll bet he’s a superhero, with a face like that—DuckBob th
e Aquatic Avenger. Or a mad scientist. Or a professional deep-sea diver. Or at least a sunglasses model.”
Nope. Sorry. I’m just your ordinary average guy, and when I’m dressed I look completely normal, ’cept for the whole duck-head thing. I’m no superhero. I work at—aw hell, does it even matter what the name is, really? It’s an office job, okay? I’m a pencil pusher, and not even a glorified one. I shuffle papers and push buttons in a little cubicle all day. Then I leave.
Whee.
Some life, huh? Well, it beats the alternatives. At least that’s what I like to tell myself. Hey, whatever it takes to get through the day. For me that usually includes watching a few minutes from old Donald Duck cartoons at some point. It’s about the only way I can convince myself things could be worse. Look like this, not be able to talk straight, and be forced to walk around with my butt and my business hanging out all the time? Yeah, that would pretty much be the last straw.
Anyway, I’m used to being the butt of some cosmic joke. That being said, I was still surprised when I walked into work one Tuesday and two guys suddenly showed up alongside me and grabbed me by the arms. Big guys, too—they lifted me right off my feet, and I’m not small myself. Plus the bill weighs a lot—I’ve got amazing neck muscles.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” I demanded as they turned and carried me back out the door. “I’ve gotta punch in!”
“Mr. Spinowitz?” One of them asked. He had a face like a microwaved potato—squishy and overflowing—and a voice like a hoarse bulldog. He was wearing a suit, a dark one, and I was pretty sure I heard fabric tear each time he shifted.
“Yeah. Who the hell are you guys?”
“We need to speak with you about an urgent matter of national security,” the other guy said. He was taller than his buddy, athletic where Mr. Potato Head was just squat. (I’m big-boned and slightly rotund, by the way. It’s the slacker lifestyle that does it.) Matching suit, though. I thought that was sweet. Like jewelry but washable.
“National security? I was just curious what sort of brownie recipes it had,” I said quickly. “I didn’t try any of the other stuff, and even if I did Missus Gries down the hall had it coming! I’m sure the twitching will stop soon!”
The shorter guy raised an eyebrow but shook his head. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“What, then?” I thought for a second, then gasped. “Oh, come on! I know the porn was from Yugoslavia but I only traded an old Steve McQueen movie for it! It’s not like I was selling state secrets! It’s not even a clean copy!”
By this time we’d reached the curb, and a big black sedan idling there. Mr. Potato Head opened the passenger door and slid in, then Mr. Tall shoved me in after him. I’ve never understood the whole “dark sedan with government plates” thing, actually. Why that kind of car? Why not those crazy monster SUVs, so the agents can drive over anyone who gets in their way? And nobody’d escape custody—it’s not like you can get out of one of those without a ladder and some pitons. Or go for sports cars, classy and great in a car chase. Or the old kidnapper classic, the white Econoline van—cheap, ubiquitous, and now with faster sliding doors! Or maybe something to counteract their whole “we’re not really on your side after all” image. I bet government agencies wouldn’t seem half as scary if they all drove brightly colored compact cars or minivans with “My Kid’s an Honors Student” bumper stickers.
Instead, there I was in the back of a dark sedan. The windows were tinted—I could have made faces at my co-workers and they’d never have known. Not that I can do many faces anymore—duckbills are not very versatile. I’m great at Charades, though. As long as it involves water fowl.
“Where’re we going?” I asked as the car pulled away—there must have been a third guy driving but I couldn’t see him. “Who are you? What do you want from me? Say, what’s that?” That last one I asked while pointing at the Empire State Building, just to get a reaction. I did. They looked at me like I was a moron. I know that look all too well.
With a head like mine, it’s hard getting people to take you seriously.
“Our superiors want to speak with you,” the taller guy answered.
“They never heard of the phone?”
He glared at me. “It’s a matter of national security.”
“Yeah, you said that already. Couldn’t they have used a nationally secure phone?”
That got snorts from both of them, and I think from the driver as well. “No such thing,” Mr. Potato Head said. “You have any idea how easy it is to tap into a cell phone conversation?”
“No. Could you show me? I’d love to know what my boss says about me.” Though actually I think I have a pretty good idea. “Quack, quack” is surprisingly easy to lip read.
They didn’t answer, and we spent the rest of the ride in silence. I hate silence. It gives me time to think.
Finally we pulled into a building down near the south piers. A warehouse, it looked like, on a narrow street full of warehouses. I didn’t see a sign or a street number or anything. Which I guess was the point.
“Out,” Mr. Tall demanded once we’d stopped and the garage door clanked shut again. He got out first and Mr. Potato Head shoved me from behind to make me move, then clambered out after me. Maybe his door was broken. I looked around as I got out but it just looked like a warehouse. There was a guy standing there watching us, though. Average height, skinny as a razor blade, with features to match and glossy black hair that looked painted on. Same suit as my escorts but his looked better on him.
“Mr. Spinowitz? I’m Mr. Smith,” he said, offering his hand. “Thank you for joining us.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” I pointed out, but I shook hands with him anyway. Hell, I was in a nondescript warehouse somewhere in Manhattan with at least four guys, all of them probably armed. Being rude didn’t sound like a good idea.
“I apologize for our insistence,” Smith explained. “But this is an urgent matter and we couldn’t risk you refusing our invitation.”
“Okay, so I’m here.” I glanced around again. Nothing to see but rusty walls and stairs and railings, concrete floor, the car we’d pulled up in, and us. “What’s this all about?”
Smith started to say something, stopped, and started again. “We have a situation, and we think you may be uniquely qualified to handle it for us,” he said finally.
“Qualified? Me? You haven’t read my performance reviews. What makes me so qualified?”
Smith pointed at my head. “That.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. You see, we’ve been approached by extraterrestrials. We have no idea what they want, and none of our attempts to communicate have worked. But you’ve encountered them before—we hoped that might have granted you some rapport with them.”
I stared at him, at the guys behind me, and then back at him again. “Let me get this straight—you’ve got some aliens you want to talk to, and you want me to do the talking because I got abducted and given a duck head so you figure I can relate to them better? Are you mental?” Okay, I might have forgot about the whole not-pissing-off-the-men-with-guns thing.
“You may be correct,” Smith admitted. He actually didn’t look pissed-off at all, which was unusual for anyone I talk to. “But we have little to lose at this point, and it seemed an avenue worth exploring. Would you be willing to make the attempt? For the good of your country?” Man, this guy was good! Those callers from the Fraternal Order of Police had nothing on him!
I took time to think about it, though. I didn’t want to just jump into anything. “Yeah, okay, sure.”
“Excellent!” He actually rubbed his hands together. I thought they only did that in cheesy movies. “Come along, it’s right this way.” I followed him to the back of the warehouse, which had several doors. The floor above continued back past this point so I was looking at the doors to several rooms rather than a whole set of back doors. Which makes sense because why would anyone need more than one back door, especially all in a row? Why no
t just have one great big giant door? Smith gestured toward the door to the left. “After you.”
“Oh, the alien’s in there?” He nodded. “And you want me to talk to it?” Another nod. “Alone?” Nod number three—one more and I walked. “But you just said ‘after you’—doesn’t that mean you’re going in with me?”
Smith smiled then, which looked like something you’d see on a buzzard that suddenly found itself at a breakfast buffet. “I lied.” He indicated the door again, and rested one hand on his side. Right below the bulge I suspected was his gun—either that or he had a hideous growth under his left arm. Either way I figured I’d better do what he wanted.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” I turned the knob and pulled the door halfway open. At least it looked dark on the other side, no blinding lights and sets of examining tables and rows of glistening tools. Not that I think about such things. Much. Ever.
“Right.” I took a deep breath. “Here goes.” And I stepped inside.
And promptly screamed as the door slammed shut behind me. Then the lights came on, showing me four plain metal chairs and a small folding table—and the little figure sitting in one of the chairs facing the table.
Short, skinny, gray skin, huge head, huge eyes, no hair. An alien. Just like the ones who . . . anyway, an alien.
Though I wondered where he’d gotten the Halloween-themed footy pajamas. Those didn’t seem like standard issue. At least the black-bat pattern went with his skin tone and his eyes.
I was trying hard not to panic. I figured I could always do that later, in a pinch. I’m good at spontaneous panic. Also, shooting spitballs. I’ve got wicked velocity.
Right now, though, I figured the best thing was just to get this over with. Face my fear. All that.
“Uh, hi.” I like to think my voice didn’t shake much at all. I walked over to the table and leaned over it so we were roughly face-to-face. “I’m Bob. DuckBob. Um, have we met?”
For This Is Hell Page 9
