Bad Moon E-Zine #2 - Blue Moon

by Tom Laimer-Read

  Bad Moon E-Zine

  #2

  BLUE MOON

  from

  Edited by Tom Laimer-Read and published by Let's Rock Publishing in 2016

  Copyright 2016 Let’s Rock Publishing

  Moon cover image from Torange.biz - http://torange.biz/24181.html

  Publishing Information

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  If you would like to share this book with another person,

  please purchase an additional copy for each person.

  If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  main featuring

  Complete Stories:

  Brief Encounters of the Third Kind, in-between days, Here Be Dragons

  Continuing Serials:

  The Grimm Truth, Fortress Europe Part 2, Steaming Pistons - The Wheels of Industry

  Featured Extract from:

  Berlintoxication

  Afterword

  Editor's Note

  Well hello there, readers! It’s the second exciting instalment of that fascinating e-zine that everyone is calling “what’s it’s name again?” That’s right, it’s Bad Moon, of course! In this edition, Blue Moon, we have a romantic flavour to the proceedings, seeing as how it’s February and the month of Valentine’s Day and all things blossoming and everything. Well, maybe not all things, but quite a lot of them, anyway.

  In this edition, we travel across Europe to see the developments there in a few decades from now, as well as taking a special visit to old Berlin in an enthralling, exclusive extract from the gaslight fantasy novel Berlintoxication. We also see things from the Magic Mirror’s point of view in the twisted retelling of the Brothers Grimm tale of Snow White, and revisit Odnnol in the second helping of our steamy steampunk short story series Steaming Pistons. We have another cheeky parody of two famous films spliced unceremoniously together in the form of Brief Encounters of the Third Kind, a fantasy story about dragons and a little experimental piece called in-between days that’s an in-between story about in-between things.

  Brief Encounters of the Third Kind

  She stood on the shuttle liner landing platform, awaiting the next star cruiser to arrive, in this case the 6.13 from Pluto, a sleek, elegant old vessel from the space colonial days that still ran on the old zero-g particle wave magnified magnetic propulsion engine, supplemented by a dark matter hyperdrive for safety, of course, a real classic of its time. They certainly didn't make them like that anymore. The vehicle that arrived next was not the great hulking starcruiser that she was expecting, but an unscheduled flight, which descended in a stream of swirling steam, its orbit entry creating a heat disruption cloak that sent a thin, wispy mist hissing off around it from its central exhaust funnels.

  The woman collected herself, and shortly after collected her hovertrolley, which was packed with delicious delectables and enticing comestibles gathered from across the known galaxy, with which to tempt the new arrivals into purchasing using her feminine allure, so as to keep the turbocredits flowing. However, it wasn't her Neptunian Spineapples or her Arcturan Anglefruits that would come to tempt the transgalatic traveller. Who, or perhaps what, stepped out of the reinforced steel exit portal was a semi-humanoid form, yet somewhat taller than most Earthen men. He had strange visual apparatus and exotic clothing that marked him as a man very much of the moment.

  “Welcome, traveller!” chimed the trolley lady. “May I perhaps interest you in some of my offerings?”

  The traveller surveyed the trolley lady with his technovisor, which whirred with activity as it automatically adjusted to his vision, buzzing and clicking rapidly. He decided to remove the electronic lenses to get a clearer look. Their gaze met. The air seemed to fizzle between them, although that could have just been the jetpipe gasket discharging itself. He had purple pupils and a penetrating stare, while she had a gaze that could melt ice at twenty nanosecs.

  As the jetpipe erupted, it sent a spray of detritus into the atmosphere, from which a small but by no means insignificant speck of dirt flew into the pretty trolley girl’s eye. She blinked and let out an exclamation of surprise at her discomfort.

  “Oh!”

  “Is something the matter?” inquired the stranger.

  “I’ve got something in my eye!” she wailed.

  The Spacestation Master, observing the scene from afar, came over to intervene and offer his advice.

  “Try blowing your nose while pulling your top eyelid over the bottom one!” he advised.

  The new arrival proffered her a handkerchief, which he pulled from his top lapel pocket, such items being deemed de regeur at this particular time.

  “Oh, thank you! That’s better! Thank you very much!”

  “Not at all. You can keep it. It’s a gift,” said the traveller in an act of abject, uncommon generosity. The traveller had a rich, syruppy voice and wore the smartest clothes this side of Arcturus. His dark green skin gave him something of an amphibious appearance, perhaps indicating that his own race had originally evolved from newts, or some relative pond-dwelling species.

  “Where are you from?” she enquired, inquisitively.

  “Just a little place in the back water star clusters of Lyra named Calliope. You know it?”

  “Not really. My knowledge of interstellar geography leaves a lot to be desired, and I haven’t travelled much. Not since I got married to Gerald.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the traveller, sounding a little disappointed.

  “I’d like to see more of the universe though!” she blurted out quickly. “In actual fact, I got this very job so that I could get out of the house more, and dream of visiting the stars, or come into contact with them at least indirectly, somehow. That place was always too cramped.”

  “Oh, I must apologise, please allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Gil,” said Gil.

  “Nice name. Mine’s Hepa.”

  “That’s nice too.”

  “Thanks. Are you married?”

  “Yes, I have a wife back in Calliope. We don’t see much of each other though. We’re quite... distant. Even when I’m there.”

  There was an expectant pause.

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Me? I ship out in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, just enough time to stop by for a glass of glurb.”

  “Ah, I was just thinking of getting one of those myself!”

  “Yes? Well, there’s a nice cafe over on the far platform, just around the corner, if you have time maybe we could go together?”

  “For you, Hepa, yes.”

  They strode to the small but comfortable cafe on the far platform and chatted about plans and titbits of tittle-tattle as if they had known each other forever. Maybe there was some kind of special force in the universe that had brought them there together? Or maybe it was pure, blind chance? Whatever the case, they were getting on like a star cruiser on fire.

  Then the time came for Gil to leave.

  “Do you have to go?

  “I must deliver my cargo to the company on time, or a lot of people won’t be happy.”

  “I see. I understand. Do you think you’ll come back?”

  “For you, Hepa, yes.”

  She waved goodbye as they parted on the platform, and both hoped to see each other again, but knew in their hearts that they would not.

  - - -

  Fortress Europe

  by Tom Laimer-Read

  2.


  At the magnorail station, people were buzzing about like flies on a meringue left to melt under the scorching sun. Advertising vidiscreens displayed the latest fantastic plastic items on offer, accompanied by mesmerising musical jingles. A message was currently being broadcast by the Homeland Secretariat on the Public Interface system.

  “We have had a steady influx of unwanted immigrants swamping the country, which we cannot and will not tolerate. We shall be running full security sweeps of all zones to eradicate any unauthorised residents with extreme prejudice. Thank you for your time.”

  At one end of the cavernous hall, a line of dishevelled people were queuing, shuffling along against their will. Security were prodding them with electrobatons, forcing them into a waiting magnotrain, destination unknown.

  Nerm reached an auto-ticket machine and tried to find the station that he wanted to get to.

  “Ticket to Brussels, please.”

  “Trick me to brush tails, bees?” replied the automated machine.

  “No! One ticket to Brussels in Belgium, please!” groaned Nermal.

  “Bun tickle of bustling bell jams, cheese?”

  Nermal was getting more than a little irate now.

  “A BLURPING TICKET… TO… BRUS-SELS… PLEASE!” he barked.

  “Ok, ok, there’s no need to shout!” returned the machine, defensively.

  “Well, why didn’t you hear the first time?”

  “I must have had some dust clogged in my microphone socket or something.”

  “Same old excuses!”

  “Identity Swiper, please.”

  “Nermal Turville.”

  “Identity Swiper, please.”

  “I just swiped it.”

  “Identity Swiper, please.”

  Nermal gave the machine a swift kick, and it whirred conscientiously into action. It chugged out the ticket, Nermal picked it up, scanned it carefully for any discrepancies, and then went to find his cabin and seat on the magnarail train.

  Magnatrains operate on a magnetic principal that makes the carriages float on a cushion of antimagnetic waves above the rails. One magnet holds them at the terminal end, then another at the other end activates and it speeds to that location as fast as possible, on the reverse-magnetised rails. It runs pretty quickly, when there aren’t delays, stops, hiccups or mishaps to contend with. This being Britain, however, nothing runs as it ought to.

  Nermal sat there, sighing, waiting for the magnatrain to depart. A stern-looking gentleman sat opposite him, taking up all the leg room. It was going to be one of those journeys, if indeed the journey ever began.

  After some more waiting and a robot repair team welding something to the bottom of the magnatrain, which was slightly unsettling, it set off. As the magnatrain purred along the rails, Nermal leant against the cold, super-strengthened plastic window. He was wearing the current student fashion; Plexiglas elbowpads, a thermoplastic hypercolour tank top and a pseudo-llama fur t-shirt, all the range amongst the cybergeek set. The trendy guy in front of him gave him a disapproving glare.

  Nermal observed the savage sea ravaging with jagged, toxic waves, slush, spume and sewage washing up against the edges of the Channel Bridge. Seagulls pecked at the discarded waste, picking at scraps of reconstituted, vat-produced seaweed-based protein mulch - the mainstay of everyone’s diet these days, and boy did it taste bad.

  “Who are The Twitcher Squad?” thought Nermal to himself. “I’ve never even heard of them. Why am I doing this? I’ve never been involved in any kind of dubious intrigue in my life!”

  A robotic trolley assistant rattled by, crashing into people’s luggage, chairs and feet as it went, disturbing Nermal’s speculative thoughts.

  “Snacks, nibbles, other things to eat!” it shrieked, ignoring any requests for it to stop.

  Nermal remained hungry, so decided to go and grab a bite from the buffet cabin, a reconstituted seaweed mulch sandwich. Not tasty, but edible, just about. People had to subsist off anything going now that food was a limited commodity.

  Nermal passed roads full of self-operating cars, all lined up in synchronised regularity.

  Beside the Hyperrail there were no trees or fields, all was paved, parched concrete, stark tarmac, sheet metal, pristine plastic or glistening glass, the acidic rain hissing as it touched the pavement. Adverts for somaburgers and suchlike added a burst of synthetic colour to the otherwise grey, gloomy slabs on display. This sterile world outside, bereft of life, even any kind of germs or microscopic organisms, completely sanitised, offered no sense of divergence, no difference, just endless, dull uniformity. One place looked exactly like the next, all cities were the same stale typeface. Radio beacons, fuel silos, solar stations, zipvision aerials and drone pod platforms drifted by.

  The magnatrain whooshed through France, taking in the bombed out shells of Toulouse and Liege, heading directly for his and its finishing destination - Brussels - the capital of Europe.

  Nermal decided to go to the toilet to get himself a better view. He wheeled up towards the first cubicle, which on inspection was out of order. He had to go back along the carriage he had just precariously promenaded down, narrowly avoiding elbowing people in the head as he bobbed down the gangway, across a holding area, through two more automated swishing electrical doors, one of which wasn't working properly and nearly crushed him as he attempted to go through it too quickly, past a crowd of cheering electroraver kids, who were cheering rowdily as a live noise-splicer cut its crazy sounds around them in time with the clack of the shuffling magnatrain. They yelled something indecipherable at Nermal. He peered perplexedly back at them. They glared back at him, unimpressed, for some reason or another, as often seemed to be the case with Nermal. He plodded on.

  A working toilet door appeared in sight. It had a huge bolt and barrier system attached to the front, like a space station airlock, with a similar array of flashing buttons next to it. Clearly the old fashioned open and shut door handle method was way past its sell by date and practical usage. Far too simple.

  After a failed attempt to open the door by pressing a variety of buttons, Nermal realised that it was currently engaged. He waited, and waited, and waited. And waited. Whoever was in there clearly had some serious business to attend to. Eventually the door hissed open. Standing there was the enormous, eight-limbed figure of Garganturantula. He had a polkadot purple and orange bandana on his head and a pair of huge eight-eyed wrap around sunglasses. He didn't know who Nermal was, so stepped past him with four of his eight limbs, the ones that acted as legs, the other four serving as arms. Nermal sweated, but stood absolutely still. He didn't like Spiderfolk, but didn’t show it as he was supposed to be liberal-minded.

  "You just have to remember that they are more scared of you than you are of them... or is that wolves? Or bears?" Nermal's memory was never good at the best of times. While contemplating this, an old lady had slipped by him and took the toilet instead. Nermal swore and kicked the door.

  Outside, large Securityballs hung in the air, scanning for any untoward or unwarranted movements. These floating drones had digital equipment on board that surveyed the surrounding area for a full 360 degrees, probing for rogue elements, programmed to notice specific movements that denoted 'unusual behaviour'. Anything that was deemed erratic would immediately get reported through the mainframe to the Central Databank at HQ, processed, and if deemed to contravene the accepted norms, the assailant was picked up, bagged, and bunged into Quarantine, a massive impenetrable concrete complex compound from which there was no escape, as far as anyone knew.

  It was a bad idea to develop a limp, or have some form of deformity, or really show any sort of interest in anything whatsoever. This was frowned upon by The Board. If somebody had a heart attack, don't stop to help - whatever you do!

  Some Loco Bozos scowled at Nermal. They were extreme magnatrainspotters, standing in the most dangerous vantage points possible to catch glimpses of the bullet trains whizzing by, whilst also avoiding the gaze of the
Securityballs. They had black leather anoraks and mirrorshades with a bit of plaster tape holding at least one arm attached for added cool factor. Dynomotors were automobiles partly powered by pedals that stored up kinetic energy in the engine that was then released when required. A bit like a bike, with turbo booster. Warning signs adorned most walls. One even warned against warning signs. If people didn't know the dangers, how could they possibly avoid standing in front of moving vehicles or getting their heads cut off? It wasn't as if they ought to make any decisions or take responsibility for themselves. That could lead to quite terribly horrendous consequences. It just wouldn't do - people had to be told.

  An incomprehensible voice came over the announcement speaker.

  “Smurfle gnuffle grulp nurgle nurgle squonk! Merci beaucoup,” it said.

  Nermal assumed that this must be his stop, and got out. The large sign that said “Brussels” was also a bit of a clue.

  - - -

  Brussels by night had a stylish esplanade, elegantly lit elegiac edifices enticing inexorably intricate illuminated individuals. Compact flat pack-designed turbotramstops and neat, clear Neo-Art Deco striplight streetlamps, cathodes emitting diodes flickering and flitting in the digital data blipping windows, a total space trip wind flip. Multi-story megaplexes where the metropolitans meandered in meatrack mayhem.

  Nermal shuffled along the designated pedestrian area walkways through the smartly kept streets, not sure where he was supposed to be. He passed a statue of a small boy peeing into a pool.

  “Those crazy Belgians!” he thought to himself.

  All he thought he had to do would be to get to his designated contact, whoever this Agent Crane was, give them the package, and then he could find a nice café and sample some Belgian waffles and maybe a nice Trappist beer or something similar.