Yes, this post is a shameless promotion. But this is a good book that not enough people are reading to truly appreciate that fact. When I was a boy in the 1960’s, there really was an old German lady who lived in a small tar-papered house, all ginger-brown in color, which we all called the Gingerbread House. She really did love to give out sweets and cookies and popcorn balls to the kids in our town. And she really did love to talk to people and tell them little stories.
Grandma Gretel Stein
Her name, in real life, was Marie Jacobson. She was, in fact, a survivor of the holocaust. She had a tattoo on her right forearm that I saw only one time. Our parents told us what the tattoo meant. But there were no details ever added to the story. Mrs. Jacobson doted on the local children. She regularly gave me chocolate bars just because I held the door for her after church. But she was apparently unwilling to ever talk about World War II and Germany. We were told never to press for answers. There was, however, a rumor that she lost her family in one of the camps. And I have always been the kind that fills in the details with fiction when the truth is out of reach.
I based the character of Grandma Gretel on Mrs. Jacobson. But the facts about her secret life are, of course, from my imagination, not from the truth about Mrs. Jacobson’s real life.
Marie Jacobson cooked gingerbread cookies. I know because I ate some. But she didn’t talk to fairies or use magic spells in cooking. I know because the fairies from the Hidden Kingdom in Rowan disavowed ever talking to any slow one but me. She wasn’t Jewish, since she went to our Methodist Church. She wasn’t a nudist, either. But neither were my twin cousins who the Cobble Sisters, the nude girls in the story, are fifty percent based on. A lot of details about the kids in my book come from the lives of my students in Texas. The blond nudist twins were in my class in the early eighties. And they were only part-time nudists who talked about it more than lived it.
Miss Sherry Cobble, a happy nudist.
But the story itself is not about nudists, or Nazis, or gingerbread children coming to life through magic. The story is about how telling stories can help us to allay our fears. Telling stories can help us cope with and make meaning out of the most terrible things that have happened to us in life. And it is also a way to connect with the hearts of other people and help them to see us for who we really are. And that was the whole reason for writing this book.
Today’s post starts the next novel in the series I am making out of the disastrous novel I wrote and published in 2007. Being the part of the story undergoing the most rewriting, today’s post, as many of these posts will be, is a rough draft.
Canto 101 – Rimbaud Outstation
It was, by my reckoning, early morning when we came out of jump space at a deep-space location known only to pirates and corsairs. The spot in deep space contained no stars or planets. Only the huge, insanely-placed interstellar truck stop known as the Arthur Rimbaud Memorial Outstation and Weapons Storehouse.
Ham was in his usual pilot seat. Sinbadh sat next to him in the co-pilot chair. I was standing behind him with the cabin boy Sahleck next to me waiting for everybody’s breakfast orders. Sinbadh wasn’t cooking for a change, so we were forced to contemplate synthesized foods from the material synthesizer that were only marginally edible at best.
“Tell me, Professor Marou, why is this thing named as a memorial to Arthur Rimbaud? And who the heck was he?”
“If I remember correctly, Ham, he was a Nineteenth Century French poet and arms dealer who lived a debauched life, died young, and may have inspired the Surrealist movement in Art and Literature.”
We were looking out the front viewing portal at the outstation itself. It was a brightly lit, transparent diamond shape, the central sun-source, located in the apex of the top pyramid, illuminating all the space and spaceships around it. As we neared the equatorial docking bay, we noted that a badly damaged Blackhawk Corsair was being worked on there.
“Razor Conn, maybe?” Ham asked me, turning around to eyeball me.
“Shad Blackstone, more likely. It has been through something terrible, though,” I said in a vast understatement. “This is one of the safe points the Blackhawks and ships of the White Duke use when they are in trouble.”
“So, ye knew about this here place from yer White Duke connection, eh, Googol me boy?” said Sinbadh in his bad fake-pirate accent.
“Naturally.”
“Can you tell me what to punch in for breakfast?” asked Sahleck plaintively.
“Banana with peanut butter sandwich, my lad,” said Sinbadh. “In fact, one for each of us blokes here.”
The Lupin boy scampered toward the galley.
“We can’t eat that drehk. Why did you order that?” asked Ham.
“Yes, I thought Lupins didn’t like peanut butter on anything, because it sticks to the roof of your canine mouth,” I added.
“Ah, but it be the favored food of Elvis. And besides, the synthesizer makes everything else on the menu taste like cattle poo.”
The Leaping Shadowcat cruised slowly into the docking bay and made a soft landing on the tarmac.
“Why does the sign over the door say Pray for him?” Ham asked.
“That’s what it says on Arthur Rimbaud’s tombstone. I assume Banzai Joe wants you to know he is French and that he can provide wine, women, song, and bullets here, just like a dissolute poet.”
Three peanut butter and banana sandwiches later, we disembarked from the Shadowcat, the three of us plus Duke Ferrari.
When we got down from the exit ramp we were met on the tarmac by Banzai Joe himself along with three serving girls who wore only ribbons in their hair and a serving tray with drinks and aperitifs on their hands.
“Wha… why are these ladies naked?” asked Ham, blushing fiercely.
“Messieur, s’il vous plait, we are French, no? And French spacemen are Classical Worlders, yes? Appropriate raiment, c’est nue!” Banzai Joe was a young-looking handsome guy with an oily manner. He was fully dressed with a leather bomber’s jacket on with a rising-sun decoration on the front.
“We are not taking our clothes off for the sake of your silly religion, sir,” said Duke Ferrari with a rather stuffy air.
“Oui. That is fair. We have this station far away from the Classical Worlds. Our staff are all nude. But most of our guests, unless drunk or gambling and losing, they are not.”
“We are on our way to Coventry, my good man,” I said, trying to give the others room to compose themselves.
“Ah, Oui. That will mean you are needing food and drink, and probably fuel. A good jump six, or two easy threes, I am thinking.”
“Yes, that will do quite nicely. And we are friends of the White Duke,” I said.
“Yes, Professor Marou. I know you. It all comes free for the friends of the White Duke.”
“Good man!” I patted Banzai on the shoulder in thanks.
“Umm… I don’t know how to say this, but you all are needed in a special accommodation this fine day. There is a game afoot.”
“Oh? Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Friends of the White Duke, you see. You will attend, yes?”
Ham looked at me with a questioning look on his handsome young face. But it was obvious he knew things could not be talked about openly in a place that was not a special accommodation.
“We will find out later, I suppose?” I said to Banzai.
“Oui. We will all find out later.”
The girls passed out drinks.
“There’s a very good French restaurant on this outstation,” I said to Ham and the Duke. Sinbadh’s Lupin ears perked up right away at that.
“Yeah,” said Ham. “Let’s go get the taste of bananas and peanut butter out of our mouths.”
“A fine idea, bucko,” said Sinbadh. “A very fine idea indeed!”
I had to admit, the food sounded good, and the nude girls were beginning to look very interesting as I sipped my wine.
The re-write of AeroQuest 3 is now complete. I just need to finish proof-reading and final edits before self-publishing on Amazon along with the other two books.
The Duo-ilogy will now be pushed into a trilogy.
And then rewriting and reworking begins on part 4 to turn the trilogy into a fourple-ilogy.
Four books? Did I say fourple-ilogy? That isn’t going to be the end if the Coronavirus doesn’t cut me short. What’s left will become a five-book thingy. What do you call that? A fiveple-ilogy? A nickelilogy? It can’t be a nickelology. That would be the study of five-cent coins.
Book one, subtitled Stars and Stones, tells how the two Aero brothers flee the Imperium because Ged faces persecution as a space-werewolf, a thing he is really not. What he really is is a Psion Shape-changer, able to rearrange the cells of his body according to the DNA of other creatures he has come in contact with and analyzed, mostly by tasting their flesh.
They come to an unknown planet where billions of people have been marooned by space pirates, corsairs, and stardogs. This planet, called Don’t Go Here has developed an entire stone-age culture based entirely on old holovids of the cartoon show The Flintstones.
The second book of the Teachers in Space Nickel-ilogy is subtitled Planet of the White Spider.
In it, Ged Aero learns for the first time that he is the prophesied return of the White Spider, a great teacher that will help Psions learn to overcome prejudice against them to use their powers to help make life better for everyone and build an empire of new stars and star-systems.
While Ged is busy learning to be a teacher and how to have some class, his brother Ham Aero is joining pirates, corsairs, smugglers, and various marginalized alien races as they rebel against Admiral Tang and the empire of half-lizard, half-human Galtorrian/Human Fusions.
In the third book, subtitled Juggling Planets, the characters learn the hard way that some of them are going to have to become leaders while others will have to be teachers. Numerous planets join in the rebellion. Some serious losses occur, as well as some significant gains. Some serious people get made fun of. Some not-so-serious people do some of the hardest work… or have the best dumb luck. And there are weird aliens, wacky technology, goofy people and strange planets, and things undreamed of in Horatio’s philosophy. If you haven’t guessed yet, these books are science-fiction comedies.
Next week, I start the rewrite of book 4, subtitled The Amazing Aero Brothers.
The building itself was one of the strangest constructs King Killer had ever seen. It was like a disintegrating pyramid, but, impossibly, it defied gravity and hung above the jungle floor in an upside down position. The stone it was made of looked sandy and crumbly, but was cold and metallic to the touch.
Ookah pointed upwards at what appeared to be an upside-down doorway with a vaulted roof. It didn’t take Slythinus’ expertise to understand what he meant. All the many monkey-people quivered with fear as they stared upward at the opening.
“Up there?” moaned King. They want me to get up there?”
“The Lemurians can do it,” offered Hooey helpfully.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a tail to swing by.” King’s face darkened as he felt ready to bop the old Time Knight on the nose.
Wicked Wanda was grinning at King. Her green eyes were full of satire and insults as she laughingly got King’s attention. He would’ve hit her instead of Hooey, except he suddenly noticed how beautiful and shapely she was. Why did women do this to him? He hadn’t recovered yet from the loss of Sheherazade.
“I’m wearing the answer,” said Wanda.
“Oh?”
“Yes. You’ve heard of grav boots, haven’t you?”
“You mean you’ve been wearing grav boots all this time and never told us?”
“Well, not exactly. It’s the same anti-gravity technology, but it’s in my brassiere.”
“What?!”
“You know… When a woman reaches a certain age, she needs a bit of extra support in strategic ways.”
“So how does your anti-gravity bra help us?”
“Oh, it has an intensity control.”
Hooey began to laugh. “I get it! If she turns the thing up high enough, she can fly!”
“That isn’t the funniest part,” said Wanda. “In order to get us all up there, I’m going to have to take it off and throw it back down to you. Each of you has to wear it in order to get up there.”
Hooey rolled on the undergrowth, howling with laughter.
“I don’t think it’s funny,” said King, frowning.
“Ahh,” moaned the eyeless Emperor, “there are times when I really regret losing my eyes.”
To be a wizard is to be wise. Look at the word origin if you don’t believe me.
wizard (n.) early 15c., “philosopher, sage,” from Middle English wys “wise” (see wise (adj.)) + -ard . Compare Lithuanian žynystė “magic,” žynys “sorcerer,” žynė “witch,” all from žinoti “to know.” (Wisely plagiarized from http://www.etymonline.com/word/wizard)
Mickey, the old fool that he is, thinks of himself as a wizard
Mickey is a wizard. He writes down foolish things like that because he knows that the beginning of wisdom is to recognize that you are no more than a fool. You can laugh, but it’s true. Some wise guy that I am paraphrasing here said so. So, that makes it true
Don’t believe me? Want to debate me?
Have you taken the step yet of recognizing your own foolishness?
How can you be wise if you never take the first step down the path to wisdom?
And what defines a wizard, is that a wizard writes. He must write his wisdom down. Otherwise there are no fruits of his wisdom. I tend to write mostly strawberry wisdom. That kind of fruit is tart and sweet in season, but sours easily and spoils in hot weather and dry kitchens. Blueberry fruits are probably better. They become tarter and sweeter with dryness, kinda like good humor and subtle jokes. But enough of the fruit-metaphor nonsense. The best fruit of wisdom is the Bradbury fruit. I confess to having eaten often of Bradbury Pie. Dandelion Wine and The Illustrated Man leap to mind, but there are far more Bradbury Pies than that.
My latest published Beyer-berry Pie.
So, if Mickey is a wizard, and wise wizards write wisdom, then where do we get Beyer-berry Pie?
The strawberry-flavored pies are found in the My Books page of this blog, though the author’s page on Amazon is a more up-to-date list.
Recently the fool of a wizard, Mickey, planned to set up a free-promotion weekend for A Field Guide to Fauns.
The foolishness begins tomorrow.
Of course, I probably can’t give away a single copy. Potential readers will see that there are naked people in this book about nudists and automatically think that Mickey is too weird and crazy to be a good writer. But good writers like Ray Bradbury and Kurt Vonnegut can be bizarre in their writing too. (I wonder what Vonnegut-berry Pie would taste like? I must read Cat’s Cradle again, for the third time.) Probably at least blueberry-flavored, if not gooseberry.
But even failed wizards can write wizardly writing if they write with wit and, possibly, with real wisdom,
If I have any wisdom at all to share in this post about wisdom, it can be summed up like this;
Writing helps you with knowing, and knowing leads to wisdom. So take some time to write about what you know.
Writing every day makes you more coherent and easier to understand. Stringing pearls of wisdom into a necklace comes with practice.
Writing is worth doing. Everyone should do it. Even if you don’t think you can do it well.
You should read and understand other people’s wisdom too, as often as possible. You are not the only person in the world who knows stuff. And some of their stuff is better than your stuff.
The stuff you write can outlive you. So make the ghost of you that you leave behind as pretty as you can. Someone may love you for it. And you can never be sure who that someone will be.
So, there you have it. The full measure of the wacky wizard’s wisdom written down by the wise-fool-wizard Mickey.
I finished another re-read of my most recent book, A Field Guide to Fauns. In spite of this being an experiment expected to fail, I read into it a growing sense of my ability to write well. The issues it deals with, mental health, body shame, self-image, and dysfunctional families, are all things critical to my own understanding of myself. All of these things have deeply affected my life and my family’s life. And, being set in a nudist park, it has a certain aura of comedy about it that you can really only achieve with characters who are naked (figurative or literal are both funny).
Ironically, two of my five best books have nudists in them. Six of my fifteen books over all have nudist adventures in them at one point or another. That’s four more more than have Nazis in them. Four more than have werewolves in them. Four more than have zebra puppets in them, as well as four more than have literal clowns in them. And two more than feature aliens from outer space. Five more than have rabbits who are changed into people by science.
If nudity is not funny, then I have seriously miscalculated the appeal and gone entirely down the wrong garden path of humorous story-telling. So, since I now believe The Field Guide to Fauns is one of the best novels I have done, I may have actually laid an egg. (Who knew that farm boys could one day grow up to lay an egg themselves?) For balance I need to plant a few more carrots of irony in that garden that the garden path of humorous writing leads to.
Mandy Clarke, Pinky Pithers, and Tandy Clarke
I am planning to make my newest novel this month’s free-book giveaway sometime next week. I have a few more corrections to make on it before I do, so stay tuned. I don’t like it when I find bugs in the writing on the fourth re-read. But I think I may have sprayed them all with anti-bug proofing spray (figuratively speaking again, because with Mickey, you never know.)
Lemurians were shaped like human children except for the thumbs on each foot and the long prehensile tail. Most sentient aliens and Unhumans treated them like mere animals mostly because they wore no clothing and spoke no discernable language. Of course, nakedness made them much more like the Classical Worlders rather than apes. They were covered in soft tan and chocolate fur, but it covered up no more of their bodies than the oil that a naked athlete from the planet Mantua might wear.
And lack of language didn’t necessarily make them any less of a person than the vast numbers of humans that fell under the general heading of “stupid people”. Emperor Slythinus, though, the deposed Emperor of the Galtorr Imperium, had discovered a telepathic ability that he shared with the monkey people. He called it the “shining” because it was more a matter of reading colored auras and electrical impulses around the monkey people than reading actual words from their minds. It was a primitive brain-to-brain language that served as a sort of pre-telepathy. It allowed him to translate for the Lemurian people.
Ookah, the Lemurian leader, now stood in front of King Killer, Dr. Hooey, and Slythinus naked as the day he was born and radiating green-colored lies.
“How could you not tell me about this?” raged Slythinus. “You have been my most trusted friend. Better than my top advisors on Galtorr.”
The monkey man shined an answer that was intended to be soothing and conciliatory, but ended up being a transparent form of lie.
The blind Emperor turned to King Killer and Dr. Hooey. “They found the device when they first came through,” he said, interpreting. “They found it from the other side because they did not originate here. Ookah and his friends sought to keep the knowledge of it from me because they feared I would be hurt by the place’s guardian, some villain they “shine” at me as being a “white man”.”
“Interesting!” cooed Hooey. “These little monkey people have developed a real fondness for you, a man mostly snake by nature. Tell me, did you have your eyes when you first met them?”
“No, of course not! Prince Ali blinded me before he marooned me here.”
“I wonder if they would’ve had an atavistic fear of those eyes if they had seen them.”
“What I want to know,” said King Killer, “…is where is the dang thing, and how do we use it?”
Slythinus took a moment to “shine” back at Ookah. The little simian looked quite agitated as the answer came back.
“He says he will take us to the place. He has no other way to tell us.”
Ookah turned and gestured to the monkey people who surrounded the tree house sitting in each and every one of the trees around it. They began jumping up and down on branches and shouting raucously, sounding more like upset children than alien primates. Eerily, it almost sounded like a series of swear words.
“They don’t like it,” interpreted Slythinus, “but they promise to take us there and help us defeat the white man.”
“Natives defeating the white man?” said King dubiously. “That doesn’t sound like something that happens too often in History.”
Hooey laughed aloud. “Now the skeptic thinks he knows History better than a Time Knight! Wait and see. And remember the Little Bighorn.”
Canto 87 – The New Star League (the Multi-colored Thread)
Ged was still a bit stunned when he made his way the next morning to the meeting in Shen Ming’s Hall. But he knew it was going to be important as Shen Ming claimed to know nothing at all about it, which always turned out not to be true, and Tkriashav said it was about the direction the Prophecy would take next.
He entered the Masters’ Study to find Shen Ming sitting behind the desk, contemplating the desktop with his off-kilter stare. Tkriashav stood behind him with his arms crossed, looking disgustedly at the two guests standing before them. One was a clownish-looking fool in a scout uniform. The other was a young boy wearing tights that bore the insignia of Tron Blastarr’s Outpost.
“So, Liz was right. A scout ship has come to Gaijin.”
“You knew about the prophecy?” Tkriashav asked him.
“Not until she told me about it last night.”
“Did she tell you this little incident will require the founding of the New Star League?”
“No, she must’ve forgotten about that part.”
“We should kill her, Ged. She’s a spy for the Imperium. We don’t know who she’s meant to help in the working out of the prophecy.”
“But she’s the mother of my son.”
“Ah, gave you the egg, did she?” said Shen Ming with a grin that could kill a bear.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Shen-sensei!” swore Tkriashav with a very mild swear. “Why do you insist on never telling me about the things you read in the prophecy?”
“For one who can read minds, you really don’t understand much about thoughts and feelings, I fear.”
Tkriashav’s glare had shifted fully to the back of Shen Ming’s spotty old head.
“Ah, so you must be Ged Aero, the famous White Spider of Prophecy.” The clown in the scout uniform wiggled his thick, black eyebrows weirdly.
“Who’s asking?” Ged asked.
“I am Captain Spaulding, the African Explorer.”
“No, you’re not,” said the boy. “You are going by the name of Bill the Postman.”
“Oh, right, right. It’s hard to forget sometimes. And easy to disremember.”
“Since when does the Imperium send messages and videos to Gaijin?” asked Tkriashav. “Gaijin is an unknown planet to the Imperial Scout Service.”
“The ISS don’t pay me enough to come here. Fortunately, the Star Nomads do.”
“Star Nomads?” Tkriashav asked.
“The Star Nomads? What are they?” Ged echoed the Psion.
“I thought you knew everything, old Zaranian spooky-dude. The boy can explain later. He’s a gift to Ged Aero from Tron Blastarr and the Magnificent Wanderer.”
“A boy is a gift to me?” Ged didn’t like the idea of people as property, let alone as gifts.
“Oh, not quite a boy. Take your head off and show them, Tiki.”
To Ged’s horror, the child peeled all the flesh and hair off his head, revealing a silver face that looked like Artran if it weren’t bald and made of metal.
“You are a Metaloid?”
“Yes,” said Tiki. “Your Metaloid from now on, Ged-sensei.”
“Even programmed with Gaijinese honorifics, he is.” Shen Ming smiled at the child as he put his head back on. “You will accept this boy, Ged, as a gift to the White Spider and an honor to own.”
Ged nodded consent, since he really had no other choice.
“Now we need to settle some details about the New Star League,” insisted Tkriashav.
“Like what, for instance?”
“Well, we have worlds to sign an alliance with to finally form the League.”
“What worlds?”
“Well, I was thinking of proposing Gaijin itself as the capitol world. Then there is the world you still own at Don’t Go Here.”
“I don’t really own that world. It’s a democracy now.”
“Yes, as is the world of Zarane which I have already secured in an alliance.”
“Three worlds against a thousand?”
“We also have treaties in our possession with the former Psion world of Phoebus IV. Tron Blastarr has pledged the forces and star system of Outpost, as Razor Conn has the system of Dancer. We may still take back the world of White Palm. And we have word that Duke Ferrari now reigns over Farwind.”
“So, seven worlds… maybe eight.”
“Yes.”
“Against a thousand.”
“Well, minus Dancer, Farwind, and White Palm, so more like 997.”
“Ah, comforting that sounds,” remarked Shen Ming.
“You will go with this Bill the Postman today as he leaves here?” Ged asked.
“Yes, as I seem to have no choice by the Prophecy,” answered Tkriashav. “Although it makes me worry to leave with this scout whose strange mind I cannot read.”
“Are you suggesting, sir, that I have no mind to read?” asked Bill who was really Scarpigo Snarcs but had first claimed to be Captain Spaulding.
“Certainly not. But you are not human. You are some sort of time-traveling being.”
“Ah, my mind is an open book, then,” said Bill Spaulding-Snarcs. “You just have to live with the fact that all the pages in it are blank.”
“You see what I mean about him not being human?”
“Yes. Where will you go?”
“What other choice is there? I must go back to Don’t Go Here. And when I go there, I must work out plans for the New Star League with Frieda. Ancient Technology has a large part to play in the Prophecy going forward.”
“At least you don’t have to go to Don’t Go Here alone,” offered Shen Ming with an inscrutable grin.
“Who is going with me?” Tkriashav seemed startled, an unusual state for one who reads minds so easily.
“Lizard Lady,” said Ged. “The Prophecy told her to leave too, just as it told you.”
“That’s a good sign,” said Shen Ming. “You are going to a planet called Don’t Go Here with a woman you would rather not go with in a space ship piloted by a man with a mind like a book with blank pages in it. Poetic to say the least.”
“And the least said, the better,” said Scarpigo-Bill Spaulding. “If you ask me, that is.”
Nocturne 7 – The Prophecy Fulfilled (the White Thread)
Ged returned to the Palace of 1,ooo Years with a lot on his mind. But, in truth, the last thing he was thinking of was becoming a biological father.
As he was entering the apartment that he shared with the Lizard Lady, he was surprised to see her sitting at the table with her feet folded under her and a large green egg on the tabletop in front of her.
“What is this, Liz?”
“You have been busy, my love.”
“I have, yes.”
“So have I.”
Ged suddenly had an eerie feeling about what this all meant.
“Is that…?”
“It is. You must say hello to your firstborn son.”
“But that is an egg.”
“One cannot fool the White Spider.”
“Galtorrian females lay eggs?”
“We do. Its gestation still has another six lunars to go.”
“Six Gaijinese lunars? Ten Earther months?”
“That is correct. You were in Galtorrian form when he was conceived. He will be as pure-blooded as any Galtorrian ever is.”
“How do you know it is a boy? Is he already formed in the egg that way?”
“That I do not know. But this is the child of the prophecy. This will be Lizardboy Aero, heir of the White Spider.”
“You will tend the egg like a bird? On a nest?”
“Not quite. Shen Ming has the necessary incubators to raise a Galtorrian cub. Lizardboy will not be the first eggborn delivered on this planet.”
Ged knelt on the opposite side of the table.
“May I hold it?”
“Certainly. You are his father.”
Ged carefully took the leathery but firm egg from her. He turned it over and over in his hands, examining it carefully.
“My mother on Questor would never have believed this of her son if she were still among the living.”
“May Zhan keep her soul, and may she be blessed by her grandson from another world.”
“Are all Galtorrian purebloods born by eggs?”
“Not all. There is much Earther DNA in Galtorrians. They have been intertwined for more than three thousand of your Earth years. Possibly from a time even before our two home-worlds were ever aware of each other.”
“I know fusions like Phoenix and Taffy King were born the way Earth humans are born.”
“Yes. All fusions are born the Earther way. That is why they are so much more human-looking than I am.”
“Ah, but you are beautiful too. I admit, I never felt it at the beginning, but I do love you now. And I will love this boy as well.”
“Now comes the hard part, my love.”
“What do you mean?”
“If it hadn’t been for the Prophecy of Zhan, I would never have met you. But my part in the prophecy is not yet ended. I am still a spy in the service of the Imperium, and I still have a destiny to fulfill.”
“So… what does that mean for the two of us?”
“We must part for now. I will leave in the morning, heading back into the Imperium.”
“In what ship? There is only the Dragon and the Rooster on this planet now.”
“The prophecy says a scout ship will arrive tomorrow. I must be on it when it leaves.”
“How will I raise our son without his mother?”
“You will be a wonderful father. And young Sara Smith is not the only lovely little lady that will happily play mother to our son.”
Ged’s head was swimming with emotion. This parting was completely unexpected and unwanted.
Most star systems in both the Imperium and what would become the New Star League are generally referred to by their primary world, the planet in the system with the most population, highest technology, and/or the dominant culture. Between the worlds of Djinnistan, Houris, and the three moons of the inner gas giant that had habitable atmospheres and ecosystems, namely Pan, Eblis, and Surtur, Djinnistan took first place not by population or culture, but because it was one of the three heart-worlds of Faulkner Genetics.
Now, I have never contended that I am any sort of expert on genetics and the science of DNA manipulation, but I do understand the dominant role that heart-worlds had in the creation of the kind of beings known as Freaks.
Freaks were genetically engineered slave races bred mostly from human DNA, though also including recombinant lifeforms made from other viably sentient creatures. They ranged from the Longlegs Speedsters of the planet Martin Faulkner’s Dream, to the Man-bull living bulldozers of Sword-World Prime, to the fire-belching Afrits of Djinnistan.
Djinnistan was the science playground of Faulkner Genetics’ number-two man, Dr. Havir Bludlust. He was a man capable of grafting and gene-splicing his own body to achieve a sort of immortality, and doing any necessary horrible thing to other beings to get the specific genetic effects he wanted in a special slave. It is rumored that he had genetically amplified his own brain and given himself two giant bird claws in place of feet. Many claim that his self-manipulations drove him to insanity, but the masters of gene-splicing were all a little bit insane to begin with.
On Djinnistan, Dr. Bludlust produced three different kinds of Freaks with a decidedly Arabian Knights sort of theme.
The little halfling-like creatures, called Peris by Dr. Bludlust, were bred for extreme creativity. They had basically the bodies of a human child with a slightly larger-than-normal head. Their eyes were large and very clear-sighted. And they thought in very innovative and eccentric ways.
One Peri engineer designed a ground car with chicken legs instead of wheels, capable of hopping over rough terrain and running smoothly at about the hunting speed of a velociraptor, providing the most common vehicle on Djinnistan because it was a design loved dearly by all Peris.
Another Peri engineer created a material-synthesizer cannon that could instantly create any kind of aquatic lifeform in the barrel and shoot it out to a distance of one hundred meters. This “fish-gun” was not particularly useful on a desert world like Djinnistan, but became a popular “trout gun” for the mountain streams of Houris. It was also used as a “barracuda gun” on more violent water-worlds like Design and Dancer.
Besides being wildly creative, Peris were also prolific. A Peri female was capable of having one baby a year for 280 years out of a normal 320-year lifespan. That’s how you end up with baby names like, “Another Danged Boy Number 152” whom I may talk about later in this epic tale.
A second main form of Djinnistani Freak is the Winged Djinn race of humanoids with hollow bones and avian wings. These people are capable of extra-vehicular flight within the atmosphere, creating slaves capable of reaching all sorts of difficult-to-reach places on jungle planets, mountainous regions, and extra-large air spaces aboard some of the largest cargo cruisers in space.
These winged beings were the most numerous peoples residing on Houris, Pan, and Eblis. They were second only to the Peris on Djinnistan, and even the third most common residents of the magma-filled world of Surtur.
The hulking and sulfurous Afrits were a unique race designed to have fire-breathing capabilities. They were not blessed with high intelligence, but they made excellent warriors, and even better artillery pieces. They were capable of vomiting napalm-like material from their own stomachs as far as half a mile away with deadly accuracy. They were also fire-proof enough to survive a direct hit from a plasma rifle fifty percent of the time. Of course, they were most common on Surtur, but found on all the worlds of the Djinnistan System.
So, this was the planetary system that Arkin Cloudstalker, Black Fly, and Lazerstone came to in order to invade, with just the three of them to conquer the entire star system.
Catch a Falling Star 