Dekarna Triumphant: Part 2 of 3


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Continued from Part One.

Part Two: Reign of the Reptile

August 2030.

When Mags and Patches stepped out of the Bêlit and set foot on the beach, a formation of reptiles awaited them. Dekarna stood at attention to one side, and the younger warriors stood in two ranks of three. The blunt ends of their spears were planted in the sand. The stone tips gleamed in the sunlight. The youths resembled a military squad summoned for review by its commander, and the effect was not lost on Mags.

The smuggler raised a fist in salute. “Long live the resistance! You lot are looking top-notch! Sorry I’m late, but I brought prezzies.”[1]

Patches relieved herself in the sand and kicked it into a pile to cover her waste. Busied with the task, she did not notice the grimace that clouded Dekarna’s face.

Walking back and forth in front of the juveniles, Mags assessed her troops. “I see you don’t have any problem making weapons. Those knives are to die for! You gotta make one for me.” She clapped her hands together once with a resounding smack. “Now, my little angels, are you ready for something in a higher caliber?”

Dekarna struck with her spear.

It would have impaled a normal human, but Mags’ reflexes were faster. The spear tip sliced open the skin on the back of her head and ripped out chunks of her hair on its way through.

With even more speed than she had moved underwater to kill the octopuses, Dekarna pulled back the spear and struck again.

Mags dropped into a crouch to avoid the strike. Her fingertips plunged into sand. Adrenaline pumped into her blood, counteracting the disorienting first blow.

The juveniles stormed her. They toppled her and rolled her into the water, screaming battle cries in their mother’s native tongue.

Patches joined the fray. She sprinted after the troop and leapt onto the back of a young reptile’s head. Her claws sank into his scales.

He stumbled under her weight and fell face-first into the wet sand at the lagoon’s edge. The force drove him a meter forward, carving a wet gouge into the beach and scraping away his facial features.

Before the rut could fill with water, the fallen warrior’s siblings abandoned Mags and focused their rage on Patches. They formed a semi-circle around her, brandished their spears, and squawked at her in a challenge no ears on Earth had heard in more than seventy-five million years.

With the chaotic precision of a flock of birds, they ran from Patches, past their mother, toward the tree line, and into the jungle.

Mags rose from the lagoon. “Patches!” She spat through the saltwater clogging her airways. “Patches! Take the little ones!”

The angry calico gave chase.

With the back of one hand, Mags wiped snot from her face and flung it into the water. “Leave the boss bitch to me.”


Patches pursued the reptiles into the jungle. She had eaten lizards before, and her overgrown assailants meant little more to her than fast-moving snacks on legs. The tropical underbrush whipped her face. She ignored it.

Cats are ambush predators, no strangers to single-minded patience when hunting. Although Patches had herself been ambushed by the juveniles, her relentless focus remained undaunted even by the tangled plant life and insect swarms she plowed through.

The scent trail and thumps of running footfalls led her out of the chaotic undergrowth and onto a hunting trail trampled flat by months of use. Her speed increased on solid ground. The scents grew nearer. The sounds grew closer in her tuft-filled ears. Patches poured on the speed like a miniature cheetah, like a lioness chasing down a larger animal to feed her cubs.

Without warning, Patches’ world fell out from under her. The trail gave way, and she plummeted into a trap.


When Meteor Mags first battled Dekarna on Tannis, the pirate was armed to the teeth, including tear-gas grenades and her favorite Benelli shotgun, and encased in two layers of armor—one of which was her indestructible bodysuit woven from Patches’ hair.[2] In that fight, the newborn sextuplets had been too young to pose any threat, so Patches teamed up with Mags and focused her ferocity on Dekarna, too.

On Isla Salida, Mags stood alone, up to her thighs in water, with the sun in her eyes, and severely under-dressed for the occasion. Still, she had not left the relative safety of the Bêlit unarmed. From twin holsters on her hips, Mags pulled her pair of custom Desert Eagles, one in each fist, and fired.

Tumbling through the gritty seawater had not been kind to the pistols. Both misfired.

Mags tried a second time. “Fuck!” Without releasing her grip on the pistols, she glared at Dekarna. “Bring it, you crust-filled cunt! You and me!”

With a roar, Dekarna hurled her spear.

Mags dodged it. The evasion cost her a second—just enough time for her enemy to charge first. Mags ran to meet Dekarna head-on, but the water slowed her advance.

The two combatants collided with a force that knocked them off their feet.

Mags struck with her pistols, like clubs. But Dekarna outweighed her, and the reptile had months of experience hunting in that environment. Mags choked on seawater under the onslaught. Her fury was no match for her opponent’s.

Dekarna’s tail wrapped around the smuggler’s torso and pinned her tattooed arms to her sides. Tighter and tighter it squeezed, compressing Mags’ rib cage, making it hard to catch a breath.

Dekarna landed a savage blow on Mags’ skull.

The pirate’s world became a blur, then blackness.

Dekarna could have killed Mags then and there. The death would have given her some satisfaction. But a quick, unconscious dying would have brought no suffering to her prey.

As Dekarna dragged Mags’ motionless body ashore, she fumed over her memories. Too many in her life had used and abused her, including her former commander. Every time she came close to achieving freedom, someone else came along to enslave her.

She chose the mammal she had captured to pay the price for those injustices. Dekarna intended to make Mags suffer until the final agonies of her dying breath, and to prolong that moment for quite some time.


The juveniles’ trap for Patches resulted from of a month of planning with their mother. Dekarna knew the seven of them together could never defeat a well-armed spaceship. Instead, she constructed the ruse of remaining under the octopuses’ control and loyal to the smuggler—until Dekarna’s prey was drawn out of the ship and lulled into a false confidence. Then, with her primitive weapons, she could win.

Dekarna never believed she could kill Mags with one unexpected blow. She and her brood built a plan—a plan to catch the mammals off-guard, separate them, and exterminate them.

Her plan went well. She had not attained the rank of Major for nothing.

Dekarna’s children led Patches down a pre-determined path. They knew the well-worn hunting trail like the scales on the backs of their hands.

Dekarna helped them dig the trap three meters deep. She showed them how to carve branches into sharp sticks and plant them vertically in the bottom of a pit so the spikes would impale any animal who fell. She taught them to cover the pit with leaves fallen from the tropical canopy, so a foe would not detect it in a chase.

Seconds after Patches fell in, the young reptiles emerged from leafy shadows to stand around the hole, raise their spears, and chant a raucous, birdlike chorus that could not be translated into human speech, except for the word victory. They lit torches and tossed them into the pit.

Their celebration reached Dekarna’s ears. She called her children to join her.



Where the fuck are my octos? It’s my first thought when I wake up.

Next: I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be staring at a strand of skinless, barbecued rats right in the bloody face. Christ, there’s more of them. Roasted rats on ropes and smoked serpents hanging from the—

Wait. Why are the trees upside down?

Nevermind. It’s just me.

That’s why there’s blood dripping into my left eye from my split lip. I don’t even want to know how bad it is. When I probe with my tongue, the teeth behind the lip feel loose. Without thinking about it, I try to wipe my eye.

Jesus bloody fuck. I can’t move my arms. They’re bound by rope, and rope connects them to my ankles. More rope has me dangling from a tree branch. The ground’s a meter from my head. “Patches!”

My kitten doesn’t answer. Instead, my captor steps into view. That fat fucking cow.

“You stupid snake! You slimy, overgrown pile of frog shit! Let me the fuck down! I will rip off your arms and piss on the stumps!”

She doesn’t like that. Nope. Not one bit. She hits me with a well-carved staff I don’t have time to admire before it’s leaving bruises on my legs, belly, and arms. Whose idea was it to weaponize these lizards, anyway? “Gah! Stop, you whore! Puta madre! Fucking stop!”[3]

She does.

The blood’s been rushing to my head for I don’t know how long. It’s still light out, and not just from the bonfire. The burning wood chokes me. Heat singes my tail.

Judging from the sun’s position—which is right there, yeah?

Nope. It’s over on that side.

It’s all over the place.

Fuck me running. I feel like a drunk bitch who can’t focus on what’s in front of her face. The surrounding jungle is a buzzing blur. The ground and the sky spin so fast I can’t tell which I’d rather puke on.

Maybe both. My guts give it their best shot.

The shit gets in my nose. I gag and cough.

With one hand, the lizard brings me to a halt. The world keeps spinning around her.

She says some shit to me. I know by the inflection. I can even make out some of the words. I’ve touched her mind briefly, thanks to my octos. My babies had the ability to translate any language, human or otherwise, to any mind they included in their weird experiments. I guess I picked up a few things.

What I think she’s telling me is that she killed my fucking octos! She’s bragging, strutting back and forth, yelling at me, and I think how nice it would be if she did one of those villain monologues while I sort a way out of this mess.

She doesn’t.

That slut wasn’t born yesterday. For all I know, she’s older than me. Nobody knows how long these lizards live. It could be hundreds of years, like a tortoise.

For a moment, while she picks up the knife, my blood-addled brain recalls the missing member of my island entourage: the ichthy.

Last time I was here, I set free a cybernetic ichthyosaur, and he was supposed to be working with the octopuses to keep the island safe from intruders. Yes, the same useless octos I can’t hear at all anymore. What the hell happened here?

The lizard pinches a patch of skin on my upper arm like she’s testing it for something. Her claws draw blood. She holds firm. She slides an obsidian blade into my skin, like she’s slicing a roast, or peeling an apple, and I can’t help but scream.

I thrash and try to kick.

She snaps her tail around me and holds me in place.

I hate her so fucking much. What is she doing to my arm?

She steps away and holds a trophy to my face. Something wet slaps me, and I can’t make it out until she pulls it back.

My skin.

I know it’s mine because it has three of my star tattoos, and on the other side it’s raw and red and dripping, and my arm is screaming like a cat caught in a Cuisinart. I might be bleeding to death.

She holds the skin to her teeth and rips it in half. She chews it twice with her open mouth and swallows.

“Bitch! You are fucking dead! Do you hear me?” But I can’t move, and I can’t even tell if the words make sense anymore.

She eats the rest of it.

I barf again on my own face, but only bile.

Those dickheads Patches was chasing step out of the forest. Where the fuck is Patches?

I only see a couple of them, but I smell and hear the rest. They stand around the fire, chattering, like they’re blessing their blades in the flame. Where the hell did they pick that up?

I don’t know if they understand the curses I hurl at them, but I know the looks in their eyes. They surround me. They stink like rotten meat. Dekarna grabs my tail and pulls it. Hard.

They go at me with the knives, and the pain is even worse than before.

Goddess help me.

[1] “Prezzies” meaning “presents”.

[2] The bodysuit was a gift from Tarzi and Celina on Mags’ birthday in 2029. See The Battle of Vesta 4.

[3] “Puta madre” literally means “prostitute mother” but is typically translated as “motherfucker”.

Childhood Reading: A Memoir


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A month ago, I mentioned the reading group I joined in kindergarten. Mom recently saw that post, and we compared memories.

One reading program I recall with mixed feelings. It was part of the St. Louis County Public Library’s summer schedule, and I participated at the Daniel Boone Branch where I later held one of my first jobs as a “page”, sorting returned books and putting them back on the shelves.

That job was noteworthy in my teenage years not only because I worked with one of my best high-school friends, but also for being the time when I met Pete the janitor. Pete was also the library’s bouncer from time to time, since he was one of the few male employees in a sea of middle-aged and elderly ladies, and he wasn’t afraid to step up to disruptive patrons and tell them to knock it off or get the hell out.

As a page, I often stayed late after the library closed to chat with Pete in the parking lot. He must have been twice my age, and he turned me on to all kinds of 1970s rock bands. Some I couldn’t find in the library’s collection of vintage, vinyl records, so he let me borrow them from his personal collection. They blew my mind.

Pete was one of two guys I knew like that as a teenager. The other was Jim, who worked as a waiter on the same graveyard shift at the Denny’s restaurant where I got a job as a dishwasher right after graduating. Jim was a huge Led Zeppelin nut with an impressive collection of bootleg concerts on vinyl he let me borrow. For a brief time, I got into going to record conventions because of him and discovered all kinds of awesome live bootlegs for Zep and other bands.

But years before all that, the library had a summer reading program where kids would commit to a goal of reading 100 or more books, enter the authors and titles on a postcard-sized paper, and take it in to get a stamp or a star sticker. Staff tracked every kid’s progress on larger cards that were on display, and there was some reward for kids who read the most books.

I don’t recall the prize because I never once won that contest. After a while, I realized it was impossible, despite my voracious reading habits. I was competing against kids my age who were reading books entirely chosen from the youngest reading levels in the library, short books about Seeing Spot Run and other engrossing topics.

Meanwhile, I chose books from the adult-level science fiction shelves and college-level nonfiction books about animals, space, and history. They took a lot longer to read! So, if you looked at the cards in the library, I was a total loser. I accepted that as my fate and kept reading what I wanted to.

In sixth grade, my teacher created an advanced reading group for a handful of students in his class. I don’t recall all the kids’ names, but we read stuff way beyond a sixth-grade level, including Mutiny on the Bounty and at least the first two books in Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy. If I recall correctly, we ran out of time to finish Second Foundation, but I read it on my own.

That teacher was James Schwab. The group was one of the best things to happen to me in elementary school, and Mr. Schwab remains one of the greatest teachers I ever had. He knew I needed more advanced material to engage my mind, and he provided a supportive environment in the reading group, clarifying things, answering questions, and helping us find our own answers in the adult-level books.

Mr. Schwab was one of the kindest, most trustworthy adults I ever met, and I constantly asked him questions about how the world worked. For example, I noticed that if I had salt crystals on a metal spoon and breathed on them in the cold, my breath fogged up the spoon except for tiny circles around the salt. Why did that happen? What was going on? Who could I ask but Mr. Schwab?

It turns out he didn’t know the answer, and he told me so. He also suggested we do some research on it.

I was accustomed to adults who always acted like they had all the answers, and even by sixth grade I had come to suspect that many adults had no idea how anything worked. They only wanted to preserve the illusion of their authority. Mr. Schwab was one of the first grown-ups I ever met who would just flat-out admit that he didn’t have a clue about something but would also take an interest in discovering with me what the answers were and could guide me in my quest to learn.

Somewhere around that time, the school district contacted my parents to inquire about having me skip a grade, based on my test scores. My parents declined the offer. For many years, I was angry about that decision. I was beyond bored with lessons targeted at my grade level, and I believed that skipping a grade would have put me in more intellectually challenging classes where I would feel more engaged.

Later, Mom explained to me that she felt I was mentally ready to skip a grade, but not socially. I’ve never been happy about that, but she might have been right. I would have been in classes with people hitting puberty a year before me, with all my elementary-school classmates a year behind me. My social skills were admittedly underdeveloped at that age, and they have always lagged behind my other skills.

On the other hand, maybe being in a grade that better suited my early cognitive development would have also improved my social development, since I might not have been so bored and angry about being bored in every single class all the time. We’ll never know, will we? What I do know is that I absolutely hated high school, even in the “advanced college placement” classes I took in my later teens, and I was perpetually getting in trouble for my rebellious attitude.

My high-school experience totally turned me off from college after graduation, even though I could have received a scholarship for a free ride to at least one university just based on my test scores. By high-school graduation, I had more than enough of dim-witted adults trying to force me into their molds and make me memorize meaningless stuff, then write nonsense about it.

Not all my teachers were bad. Mrs. Michelle Rodgers, my first guitar teacher, is forever an angel in my mind for demystifying music in general and the instrument that would become my reason for living for more than twenty years. Mr. Dave Jenkins, my speech-and-debate team coach, was so awesome that I have always considered him more a friend than a teacher. Mrs. Judy Buschmann and I had such great conversations about literature after her class that I was constantly late to my next class. I gladly ignored all scolding for being tardy if it meant I could talk to her about art and writing and critical thinking for a few minutes longer.

Mrs. Buschmann also founded my high school’s first Writing Center, a room full of computers in the late 1980s equipped with WordPerfect software. She enlisted me to be her assistant to help kids my age brainstorm, compose, and write their papers for various classes. It was so long ago that I don’t even bother putting the experience on my résumé anymore, but it undoubtedly informed my future as a freelance editor who helps people develop and publish their books.

So, thank you to the teachers, librarians, and other adults who helped me expand my literary and musical horizons at a young age. Life ends up being about so much more than what you expect as kid, or your standardized test scores in school. Sometimes it boils down to what inspired you and who encouraged you along the way to discovering your future.

Trim, the Cat Who Circumnavigated Australia


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Matthew Flinders was a sailor, explorer, mapmaker, and navigator who served in England’s Royal Navy and once sailed with William Bligh after the events recounted in Mutiny on the Bounty. History remembers Flinders as the man who gave Australia its current name, and for completing the first circumnavigation of that island continent.

But history also honors the cat who made that voyage and many others with Flinders. If you visit the Mitchell Library in Sydney, you will find a statue of Flinders and, very near to it, a plaque and statue of Trim, the black-and-white feline adventurer who was born on a ship at sea and enjoyed waging war against one of the true terrors of nautical life: the pestilent vermin who sought to eat the sailors’ food.

The first time I read about Trim, it was in the hilarious and detailed history of Australia, Girt by David Hunt. Today, I was reminded of Trim while reading the small but delightful 100 Cats Who Changed Civilization by Sam Stall. Each short chapter tells the tale of a noteworthy cat, from the first known cat to be named thousands of years ago to exceptional cats of the current century, from cats of well-known authors and heads of state to cats in recent popular culture. Trim’s chapter is the second to last.

I highly recommend both Girt and 100 Cats Who Changed Civilization, but their summaries of Trim’s life pale in comparison to the affectionate memoir penned by Flinders himself. You can read it for free online at The Flinders Papers.

With a little exaggeration, as cat lovers are prone to make, and a great deal of love and respect for his sea-faring companion of many years, Flinders describes Trim’s travels, travails, and triumphs. I sometimes worry that my fiction stories involving a space-traveling cat living with interplanetary rogues and brigands will strain the reader’s suspension of disbelief. But when reading Trim’s story in Flinders’ own words, and the stories in 100 Cats, I am reminded of the great variety of character and capability to be found among felines, many of which defy our stereotypical ideas about what cats can do, and feel, and accomplish.

Flinders’ memoir about Trim ends with an epitaph. Here are its final lines:

Many a time have I beheld his little merriments with delight,

and his superior intelligence with surprise:

Never will his like be seen again!

Trim was born in the Southern Indian Ocean, in the year 1799,

and perished as above at the Isle of France in 1804.

Peace be to his shade, and

Honour to his memory.

—Matthew Flinders, 1809.

KDP: Hardcover Beta Review


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In case you missed my post from last month, I was invited by Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) to participate in the beta version of their new program for producing print-on-demand hardcover books. I promised you an update when the first, physical proof arrived. Guess what came in the mail today!

All I can say is that the book looks and feels amazing. It’s sturdy and way more substantial than I expected for a smallish 150-page book. The print options I chose were for white paper and a gloss finish on the cover.

Some folks believe you should use cream paper for fiction, but I have produced books in both cream and white, and the white paper looks and feels better to me. I also find the high contrast with black text makes white paper easier to read. I’ve produced books with both matte and glossy covers, and I tend to prefer the shiny gloss that really makes the colors vibrant. But matte finish is also nice, and I’ve gone with that several times when it felt right.

The binding is beautiful inside and out, and I love the way that about a quarter-inch of the cover color and design is visible inside the book when opened, where the cover wraps around the edges.

I think authors will be pleased when this hardcover option is available to everyone. I already feel the urge to make hardcover editions of about half a dozen of my books. I’d love to release the first Meteor Mags Omnibus in hardcover, but at more than 580 pages, it exceeds the maximum page count of 550 for a KDP hardcover.

Besides page count, authors will want to consider price points and profit margins. My paperback edition of The Singing Spell has a wholesale printing cost to me of less than USD $3. But the printing cost for the hardcover is $7.28. (Again, this is for a 150-page book. Longer books will cost more.) To sell the hardcover and make a reasonable per-unit profit on Amazon, I needed to price it at $14.95, as opposed to the $6.95 price for the paperback and the $2.99 bargain price for the Kindle ebook edition.

This doesn’t make much of a financial difference to me, since I design my own books, but authors who need to pay a designer to format the cover for a hardcover edition will want to consider whether they can recoup the additional expense with hardcover sales at a higher price than the other editions. Will their target market be willing to spend the extra bucks for a hardcover? It’s a question I can’t really answer for anyone without market research.

Either way, I expect my fellow authors and readers will be impressed with the quality of these hardcover editions, and I’m looking forward to the day when this program is no longer in beta testing but available to all self-publishers using the KDP platform.

Update: The hardcover edition of The Singing Spell is now available on Amazon.

Dekarna Triumphant: Part 1 of 3


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Here is a draft of a new Meteor Mags story, in three parts.

Episode 30 in The Adventures of Meteor Mags and Patches.
© 2021 by Matthew Howard. All Rights Reserved.

Held against her will on a South Pacific island, the last surviving soldier from a race of evil space lizards reclaims her mind from her tentacled, telepathic captors, trains her children as warriors, and triumphs over her greatest enemy: Meteor Mags.


For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours, they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.

—Henry Beston; The Outermost House, 1928.


Prologue: Into Their Graves

August 2030. From the Letters of Meteor Mags.

Dear Great-Gramma,

Patches and I are on our way back to Earth. The last visit didn’t work out so well, but at least my ribs healed since then.[1] Back in May, I promised to supply the reptiles on Isla Salida with weapons, food, and whatever else they need to become my personal death squad under the control of the octopuses I left to watch over them.[2]

Before I left, I ran into Fuzzlow and Donny. They don’t talk much about losing their drummer and our good friend, Batalla, in that colossal clusterfuck on Vesta last year.[3] But they’ve kept busy on Ceres, helping with the reconstruction, getting in Celina’s hair, and composing new songs.

Lonso invited the guys to join his interspecies band, but Donny and Fuzz don’t want anything to do with jamming in a cephalopod-controlled groupmind. I explained to them how awesome it was to play with Lonso’s traveling freakshow on Ceres, but I suspect the boys think I am too mentally unhinged to be a reliable source.[4]

They might be right. Not everything has gone according to plan with the octos. Besides the weird states of mind I’ve experienced since mentally merging with their mama last year—goddess rest her soul—some of them tried to kill me and Patches and Plutes on Titan a couple of months ago.[5]

I chalked it up to a misunderstanding and moved on, especially since no mind like theirs has ever existed, and they are still, in so many ways, like children: haphazardly learning, making mistakes, taking some lumps, and getting sorted about their place in the universe.

Donny and Fuzznuts are less inclined to forgive my tentacled toddlers. And I get that. Everybody’s baby is someone else’s monster.

I wasn’t shocked when the boys brought up recording another album as the Psycho 78s. You know how they are. “Come on, Mags! It’ll be great!” Nevermind that I have a million things to do right now. Fuzz said, “When are you not busy?”

I was like, “I’ll be free about four days after I’m dead.”

“Fuck that.” Donny tossed me a beer.

They’re good guys, as far as guys go. A good beer, too. I didn’t recognize it. Definitely not one of the brands I stole by the shipload to keep our cozy dwarf planet stocked. Not one I ever drank in the Belt, either—and I’ve been to every bar in the System. I asked where they got it.

“We made it,” said Fuzz.

“Get out.”

“For real,” said Donny. “We’re thinking of opening a brewery and music venue here.”

The conversation turned to who would play there, and all the Ceresian bands that have been inspired by Dumpster Kittens, and how the new community center is nice but maybe not rowdy enough for our taste. Pretty soon, they had me agreeing to appear onstage.

What can I say? I love those guys, even if I give them hell. I’d never say it to their faces, but I expect to outlive them, and I’d like to jam with them as many times as possible before I end up shoveling dirt into their graves.[6]

If I’ve learned one thing about life in one hundred and six bloody years of existence, it’s that you need to enjoy the people you have while you have them, because you never know when they’ll be gone for good.

Anyway, I think I made them happy. They gave me and Patches a case of bottled homebrew for the road, and I hugged them and kissed their cheeks.

Then it was time to go. What with all the nonsense of the last month and that mess on Mars, I’m way behind on my promised visit to the island.

But I’m sure my octos have it all under control.





Part One: The Fall of the House of Octopus

May–July 2030.

One hundred and forty million years before humans first walked the Earth, octopuses lost their shells. Without the stiff enclosure that protects other mollusks, the eight-armed marvels could squeeze their bodies through any tube or crevice larger than their beaks.

This ability helped octopuses find shelter from predators. But given their innate curiosity, it also got them into plenty of trouble. Still, they survived, adapted, and evolved into hundreds of species. It wasn’t until 2029 that a new stage of octopus evolution introduced another survival advantage that also allowed them to get into all kinds of unimagined trouble: telepathy.

When Meteor Mags—with help from Patches and Tarzi—assisted the hatching of that first generation of genetically altered baby octopuses in an abandoned asteroid laboratory, she inadvertently changed the future of marine biology. But the change did not happen overnight. During their first year, Mags’ “babies”, as she liked to call them, met other members of the space pirate’s crew, started a rock band, gave concerts and influenced societies on Ceres and throughout the Asteroid Belt, and terraformed Titan with the help of a mysterious, multi-dimensional object.[7]

In May 2030, Mags took fifty of her babies to Earth for the first time. She enlisted them to control the mind of one of her enemies who recently had babies of her own: Dekarna, the former second in command of the forces of space lizards Mags fought so many times. Mags intended for the reptiles to become her private warriors and the guardians of one of two installation sites planned for the free-energy system she wanted to bring to Earth.[8]

The mission’s fifty octopodal volunteers had a second motivation. They knew their lifespans were short, and their identity as a groupmind would die without a new generation to carry on their unique lineage. Only in Earth’s oceans could they find potential mates to spread their genes far and wide, and, through telepathic instruction, perpetuate their identity and all they had learned about the universe.

In June 2030, the cephalopodic swarm began courting the local octopuses in the South Pacific waters surrounding their adopted island home of Isla Salida. Competitors could not match their hypnotic songs, transmitted from mind to mind. Potential mates swooned, in their gelatinous way, seduced by the allure of higher intelligence and the survival advantages it offered.

But octopus reproduction does not end well for the parents. Males who offer sperm are often strangled to death in the process or eaten soon thereafter by the females. Mothers live longer, laying hundreds of eggs and watching over their clutches until the hatching.

Even then, a female octopus abandons eating during her single-minded attention to her eggs. She begins a time of starvation and senescence that reduces her focus, clarity, and mobility. Her aquatic world fades around her as she uses what little energy she has left to tend to her unborn descendants. Their birth signals her death.

Mags failed to account for these realities in her plans. She did not consider how the reproductive imperative encoded in her octos’ genes meant they would be diverting their attention and ending their lives.

In July 2030, thousands of fresh octopus eggs piled up on the stones and coral around Isla Salida. As the male adults died off, and the expectant mothers ignored their task of controlling Dekarna, Mags’ plans came undone.


July 2030.

Dekarna crouched on the rocky edge of a cliff high above the outer edge of Isla Salida. Her clawed, naked feet gripped the stone. Her prehensile tail was straight and stiff for most of its length, balancing her body weight in her hunting stance. Only the tip of the tail slowly swept the air, back and forth.

Her right hand held a wooden spear. Dekarna had shaped one end to a lethal point using fragments of rocks beaten to a sharp edge with other rocks. Her children lacked her skill with making weapons from the island landscape, but they were learning.

The thought of her offspring brought what passed for a smile among reptiles: scaly lips pulled back ever so slightly, formidable teeth exposed, and a forked tongue flicking in a delicate dance.

The tongue, like a snake’s, picked up the scent of prey. Mammalian megafauna had never colonized the island, but rodents flourished, along with many species of birds accentuated by seasonal colonies who temporarily nested on the cliffs to lay delicious eggs and hatch easily devoured younglings.

The island also provided a steady supply of smaller reptiles who basked on its sunbaked stone, snakes who stretched up to five meters in length, and hordes of scurrying, skittering insects who often exceeded the size of a human hand and provided protein for Dekarna’s brood. Combined with the bounty of fish, eels, and mollusks in the adjacent waters, the island’s biodiversity made it a predator’s paradise. Dekarna and her children ate well, ate often, and thrived.

Dekarna allowed the sun to heat her blood. It charged her like a battery. She was not exothermic like the island’s native reptiles. She generated her own warmth. But even a monstrous reptile from space could enjoy a beautiful day.

Her tongue flicked again to taste the salty spray of seawater as it bashed against the lithic boundary between island and ocean.

All her life, she had dreamed of such moments. Born in outer space and conscripted into military service, she rose in the ranks due to her courage, ferocity, intellect, and dedication to the cause of reclaiming Earth for her species, to making a new home of the blue planet they had left for the stars so many millennia before.

Her dream drove her onward, from boot camp to battlefield. No matter what hardship or humiliation she encountered, she held the dream of a home planet in her teeth and would not let it go.

Her commander had destroyed her dream through his incompetent obsessions, and she had only come to Earth through the machinations of the space pirate known as Meteor Mags.[9]

Dekarna flicked her tongue again. A low, rumbling growl escaped her throat. She had not thought of her commander nor his nemesis in—how long? Her pupils expanded and contracted. How long?

She struggled to remember. She shut her eyes and let the awareness overtake her.

The accursed smuggler! Behind closed eyes, Dekarna saw flashes of her military career, her long-dead commander and how he inseminated her fallen form on the battlefield. How he almost got them both killed. How Meteor Mags—

The dragon roared. Dekarna gripped the spear in both hands and crushed it in her grip. She bent it until it broke and shot splinters in every direction.

The smuggler. The smuggler and her octopuses. The degradation at her hands. The mental slavery—not just Dekarna’s, but the only creatures she had ever loved: her children.

Dekarna hurled the broken pieces of her weapon to the ground. She did not, at first, realize her insights into her situation were the result of the octopus matings and the subsequent loss of control. She was too busy racing down the rock formations, crashing through the tropical forest below, trampling everything in her path and screaming orders to her offspring to meet her.

Had the smuggler wanted a death squad? Fine, thought Dekarna in her native tongue. She will have one. But the death will be hers. The reptile crashed through the underbrush onto the beach.

Dekarna’s children gathered around her. She told them the truth, and she saw in their eyes they also were free from mental captivity. She guided them, and they helped her make weapons to destroy their captors.


Dekarna plunged into the sea. Her tongue thrashed the saltwater in search of only one scent: octopus. Her tail propelled her. In one fist, she held a new spear. Strapped by animal skin and handmade rope to her forearms and upper legs, blades knapped from shards of volcanic obsidian caught the sunbeams penetrating the shallows. They went fully black as the light faded.

In a matter of minutes, Dekarna found the first clutch of eggs.

When the mother octopus sensed the reptile’s approach, she squirted a blast of ink. Octopus ink is meant to do more than obscure a predator’s vision. The substance contains scents intended to fool a beast into thinking it has suddenly found food rather than a murky cloud.

Dekarna was not fooled. Her muscular swimming carried her forward, through the cloud, to her target.

Near the nadir of her lifeforce, the mother octopus moved too slowly to put up a fight or escape. The photoreceptors and color-changing cells in her skin camouflaged her, making her nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding stone. The precaution did not save her.

Dekarna’s spear struck like a lightning bolt. The pointed tip pierced one of the octopuses’ three hearts and its central brain.

Dekarna ripped the spear from the gooey head and struck again. When she drew the weapon toward her mouth, the impaled octopus came with it. Frantic motions of eight independently thinking arms waved away the monster in a final attempt to protect the clutch.

Dekarna snapped the arms into her jaws and destroyed them. The remaining hearts and eyeballs burst in her mouth. She spat out the beak.

The eggs offered no defense against her attack. Dekarna speared them, smashed them with her tail, and—anchoring herself with one hand gripping the underwater rock formations—stomped them into a gel that dispersed in the agitated sea.

Flush with satisfaction, Dekarna sought her next target. She made her way around the island’s perimeter. The infanticide repeated itself dozens of times, punctuated only by the reptile’s need to rise to the surface for air. She gorged herself on her kill as she carried out her mission.

Before she was through, she considered an alternative. With the fresh taste of octopus in her mouth, she decided to let a few clutches survive. The eggs would not hatch immediately, so why not save a few for later, as a treat for her children? They could eat the embryonic octos raw or cook them over fire on the beach. What greater pleasure could life offer than feasting on one’s enemies?

Dekarna snatched a mouthful of eggs but did not swallow. She carried them to the surface and climbed onto land. After shaking herself like a dog ridding its fur of water, she squatted in the sand and urinated to mark the location of her larder.

She took her dinner home.


Kilometers away, a monster roamed the ocean. Twenty meters long and with enough electrical power to sink a fleet of manmade ships, the cybernetic ichthyosaur feared nothing.

Before he met Mags, he spent countless years in isolation, imprisoned underground in a tank fashioned by his captors and creators, with nothing to keep him company but the decaying corpse of his mate.[10]

The parts of him that were biological rather than mechanical remembered the seas by instinct. But his ancestors had died out millions of years before, and the shapes of seabeds and coastlines, even the positions of continents, had changed so much since prehistoric times.

He propelled himself through a herd of a hundred hammerheads. They scattered and gave him a wide berth. Hammerhead sharks hunted with electrical receptors in their flattened snouts. But the electricity from the ichthyosaur signaled something too large to eat, something that could only mean their deaths if they interfered. Sharks had not survived multiple mass extinction events by being foolish.

The ichthyosaur ignored them. The waters near Isla Salida gave him plenty of opportunity to study their species. His curiosity about what else swam in his new kingdom led him farther and farther from the island.

Undeterred by the greatest, coldest depths, and capable of producing his own light, he cast his enormous eyes on sea floors never seen by humans. Strange creatures thrived in the sunless terrain. Nearly one hundred percent of the energy required for life comes in one form or another from the sun. But a tiny fraction capitalizes on energy from below, from the planet’s brutally hot, metal core and the magma surrounding it, boiling, churning, bursting through the crust.

The ichthyosaur discovered multicellular civilizations with no central brain. He studied geothermal vents where raw, savage chemistry assembled itself into the fundamental proteins for new life: the same processes responsible for his most distant ancestors’ creation.

The ocean revealed her secrets to her king, and he was pleased. He set off spectacular lightshows as he rose from the depths, bringing illumination to the eyes of species that had never seen the sun.

He didn’t feel angry like Dekarna. The octopuses subjected him to far less severe mental control. Truth be told, he adored Mags and required little encouragement to help her. If not for the smuggler, he would have remained trapped in the tragic crypt where he was made.

Still, the octos had kept him on a leash. As their influence faded, the invisible leash grew longer and longer. Eventually, he found its breaking point.

Then he was gone.

The ichthyosaur broke the waves to splash the surface. His massive tail, beating side to side, shot him out of the water. His metallic skin caught the sunlight. A trillion beads of water sliced the silver reflection into gleaming diamonds. A spray like stars exploded then fell from the sky.

He missed his friends on the island. He had lived without anyone to play with for a long, long time, and the mollusks and the mother reptile were good company.

Flocks of a dozen bird species caught his eye. He had never seen their kind before. They divebombed the surface to plunder a frenzied school of herring, a bait ball herded by air bubbles and driven toward the sky by dolphins in a sophisticated hunting maneuver.

The ichthyosaur swam closer to observe the conflict in detail. Leaving vortexes in his wake, he resolved to pay a visit to his old friends.

But first, he had more empire to explore.


August 2030.

Isla Salida’s August weather brought nights a bit too cool for the reptiles’ liking, but daytime in that dry season offered uninterrupted hours of direct sunlight. The sun kept the island warm at an average high of twenty-five degrees Celsius, like a pleasant Spring day, and made the surrounding waters just as balmy.

Dekarna’s youngsters frolicked in the surf at the edge of the black-sand lagoon lining the inner curve of the crescent island. Though not yet as tall as her, each one had reached at least one meter in height. From the shore, while carving a tree branch into a strong, smooth staff, Dekarna admired the half-dozen lives she had brought into being.

Like kittens, they played at battle to sharpen their skills. Some hunted the silvery, darting fish in the shallows. Their shrieking and chirping amused their mother, until a dark spot appeared in the sky and grew larger.

Months before, on Tannis, Dekarna saw a similar speck descend from the stars. She had been soundly defeated at the hands of Meteor Mags, and that defeat led to her enslavement on the island.[11]

Dekarna raised her sword-filled mouth and roared a warning. All across the island, from one crescent tip to another, echoes of rage called her warriors to attention.

Never again would they be enslaved by the smuggler.

[1] For Mags’ disastrous previous visit to Earth, see Antipodes.

[2] As detailed in Small Flowers.

[3] See The Battle of Vesta 4.

[4] Mags performed on Ceres with Alonso’s band in Small Flowers.

[5] As shown in The Crystal Core.

[6] Mags’ expected, though not guaranteed, lifespan is 200 years thanks to the magic ring she inherited from her great-gramma.

[7] As told in Red Metal at Dawn and subsequent adventures such as Small Flowers and The Crystal Core.

[8] See Small Flowers for more detail. Mags’ failure to install the second unit appears in Antipodes.

[9] For her commander’s folly, see Red Metal at Dawn and The Battle of Vesta 4. For Mags’ machinations, see Small Flowers.

[10] See Hunted to Extinction for the ichthyosaur’s backstory, and his liberation at Mags’ hands in Small Flowers.

[11] See Small Flowers.

Reflections on Being Microchipped by Bill Gates after a Year of Isolation


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On Wednesday, May 26, I got the second dose of the COVID-19 vaccine. That was at 1 p.m. Expecting to feel like crap for several days, I fortified with a six pack of Voodoo Ranger IPA while clearing my calendar and to-do list of all obligations. I’m glad I did, because after an evening nap, I woke up around midnight with a shitty fever and chills and aches all over, and my arm feeling like someone hit me with a 2×4.

The most annoying thing was probably that I have not been sick in so many years that I’ve lost count, except for a brutal sinus infection four or five years ago. During the pandemic and related societal lockdowns, many more people have been working from home, and from the anecdotal accounts I’ve read online, many of them are discovering that they get sick a lot less often (or maybe never) when they aren’t spending all day trapped in an office with those wonderful disease vectors known as coworkers.

I’ve been working from home since 2005, first as an employee for a small merchant services company, and then as a freelancer since 2007. It was a few years before one day it dawned on me that I couldn’t remember the last time I had so much as a cold. I did get one cold since then, after taking an airplane to visit family on the other side of the country. Believe me, I absolutely hated that cold. It made me angry!

As the vaccination rate in the USA increases and people look forward to returning to some semblance of normalcy, I am less than thrilled about the normalcy of people standing in my personal space while in line at the store. I have become a big fan of people covering their faces and keeping their distance from me.

I recall a moment a few weeks before the nation started to wake up and realize we had a serious virus to deal with. I was in line at the grocery store, and ahead of me were an adult male and a child. The man bent over and wiped a glob of snot from the kid’s face with his bare hand, then proceeded to touch the counter and the credit card reader. Ugh. I wanted to burn the entire store to the ground with the sterilizing power of a flame thrower. The last thing I need is some stranger’s kid’s snot germs all over my hands.

So, while it will be nice to not worry about being killed by a virus because of a simple mission to buy beer and food, I am not looking forward to returning to normal if it means returning to snot-covered card readers.

Anyway, my stupid fever and aches persisted for days. The aches went away first, after about 48 hours. The fever/chill thing gradually decreased in intensity, but it didn’t go away until maybe late Saturday or early Sunday. I lost track of time a little bit because I slept so much. Like last Thursday? I slept through most of it. Friday and Saturday were also a blur of naps, one after the other. I was glad for the Memorial Day holiday, because I needed that buffer to catch up on life.

Now I feel back to normal and ready to get on with things. It was annoying as hell feeling sick, especially as the result of something I intentionally had done to my body, but I guess it was better than dying on a ventilator in a hospital.

I will point out one other weird thing about this experience; namely, how a public health emergency became so stupidly politicized. If you follow current events at all, I don’t need to explain what I mean, so here is just one tiny example.

When I got the first dose back in April, the guy who gave me the shot asked me, “What have you heard about the vaccine?”

I said, “I’ve heard everything from ‘It’s no big to deal’ to ‘Bill Gates is going to microchip me.’” After all, that’s the kind of crazy shit I’ve heard, and he asked what I heard, not what I thought.

He replied, “I don’t like Bill Gates, but I am a Libertarian,” and proceeded to explain to me what being a Libertarian was all about.

First, I have a recent Master degree in Public Administration, which is the study of government and policy in practical terms of both how things get done and the consequences. I’ve published books on the topic, including books on public health policy. I know I don’t look like a guy with a graduate degree in public policy. I know the way I dress and my antipathy for shaving my face make me look like some kind of aging punk rocker dude who probably dropped out of high school to be in a band and live in a van in your parking lot. But I really did not need a lesson in what Libertarianism involves. I’m all set on that, thanks.

Before anyone starts hating on this guy in the comments, he volunteered as a subject in the clinical trials, and we wouldn’t even have a vaccine right now if not for people like him. If he wants to talk politics for a second before stabbing me, I’m definitely cutting him some slack.

But what the fuck does someone’s political party affiliation have to do with getting vaccinated? If I take my cat to the vet to get her shots, I don’t give a damn if the veterinarian is a Republican, Democrat, Communist, Anarchist, or whatever! It’s as irrelevant to the situation as the vet’s religion. Methodist, Satanist, Buddhist—I don’t care! It’s all bullshit anyway. Just give my cat her shots so she can be healthy and happy and safe for as long as possible.

All I can say is that this past year has revealed many fundamental problems in our society, and few of those revelations leave me hopeful for our future. But what I am hopeful about is that in the very near future I might be able to go out to have a couple pints and shoot a game of pool without worrying that it might kill me, and maybe even make a casual friend or two in my new city. For that, I’d consider a few days of feeling like garbage after a vaccine to be a price well paid.

Reflections on Writing The Martian Revolution


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My recent story about the Martian revolution in 2030 is a fairly quick read at only 16,000 words, but it took six months to finish. I’ll tell you a bit about what happened along the way—both the challenges and successes—but let’s start with the two main lessons I learned.

First: The more moving parts you have, the longer it takes to assemble the machine. When plotting a story with two or three characters in a limited setting, you have fewer things to keep track of. Seven years ago, I used to crank out first drafts over a weekend, from 5,000 to 15,000 words long. They took a lot longer than that to revise, but most of the first drafts went quickly.

Those were simpler times in The Adventures of Meteor Mags and Patches. Episodes had only three to six main characters in only one or two settings. Plus, I was free to make up things as I went along, because so much of the “universe” was unexplored, and I could invent unresolved plot threads on the fly to set up stories I wanted to tell in the future.

As the series progressed, it encompassed many more characters and settings, and those dangling plot threads needed woven into the fabric of everything we already knew about Mags’ life and her solar system. When writing about any event or character, I needed to bring my internal continuity editor on board to make sure I hadn’t contradicted any previous facts in the more than 300,000 words of established history.

Plus, I chose more ambitious settings as I went along. I started with what you might call “stock footage” for the early stories: things I’d seen in movies and comics that I basically stole or used as blueprints. But after boiling those stolen bits in my own kettle of ideas for a few years, they became a stew with a flavor all its own.

As a result, I sometimes needed to step back from writing the story and return to planning—which leads me to the next lesson. The suggestions I’ve given other writers for years once again proved their usefulness. Finding renewed success with so many of my basic methods reinforced my confidence in publishing them for a wider audience.

In My Life as an Armadillo, my recent book about writing and workshopping, I assert that writer’s block is a myth, because you can always write something—and I give suggestions about the fundamental, foundational pieces of writing you can do behind the scenes to overcome any feeling of being stuck.

I needed to take my own advice a bunch of times for The Martian Revolution. I reached points in the narrative where I realized I had not fully developed my own understanding of a setting or character. I needed to step back and write about those things “off the record”, behind the scenes. That empowered me to come back to the main narrative and write through several scenes and character-driven moments from a deeper understanding and keep moving forward.

Not that I wrote it all in order, from start to finish. Instead, I started from a series of scene synopses built from several thousand words of notes I’d compiled while writing earlier stories that led up to these events. From the scene summaries, I picked whichever I felt most emotionally drawn to when it was time to write.

The challenge of that approach is that you end up whittling down the unwritten scenes to the ones you feel the least emotionally involved with. But that helped me discover, as it has in the past, what it would take to get me emotionally involved in those scenes. After all, if I am not captivated by a scene as the writer, what hope is there of involving any readers?

To get to the emotional core of some things, I did a ton of exploratory writing and description of characters—not just physical descriptions, but about their true motivations, their likes, dislikes, strengths, flaws, histories, relationships with and feelings toward each other, even things that remain unspoken in the narrative but formed a subtext for my own understanding of these characters.

All of that takes time, and no one really gives you credit for doing it as a writer, just like no one gives you credit for studying an instrument for years and practicing for untold hours after giving a great concert performance.

But it wasn’t like I spent every day of six months working on one story. I published the previous collection (The Singing Spell) in October 2020, but then I needed to move at the end of January and didn’t have a place lined up. So, I packed all the stuff that would fit into a rented 10×10 U-Haul truck, threw out everything else, and drove to another city a couple hours away. I hoped for the best, but total disaster was also a possiblity.

The resultant upheaval of my life made it difficult to focus on my story, so I decided not to worry about it. I found solace in writing about something every day. During my week in a hotel, I used my mini-tablet and wireless keyboard to type thousands of words of ideas for the next couple of episodes. During the subsequent saga of three weeks with no Internet in my new place, I revised and edited the collection of essays about writing and workshopping that became the book I published in March 2021. Sometimes I just wrote letters to friends to gather my thoughts.

Plus, my neglected blog needed a shot in the arm, and I had a million things to do to get my new life started and reconnect with my clients. In the meantime, I let The Martian Revolution simmer on the back burner of my mind, and every now and then I felt inspired to make more notes about it or write a scene. Those notes and the extra time proved helpful when I got around to finishing the first draft in mid-March 2021.

I never saw this as being “blocked” as a writer. It was more of a question about where to direct my writing and editing energies on any particular day during a series of life challenges that disrupted my groove. It helped that I had multiple ongoing projects to choose from, some of which were more analytical, some of which were more creative and free-flowing, and all of which were in various stages of development from brainstorming to hammering out a final draft.

Maybe that is the third lesson. I often meet writers who are struggling with a single work, and they feel disheartened when they run into obstacles in their life or with the story itself that prevent them from making progress. But if you have a few irons in the fire at the same time, you can usually find one that strikes your fancy on any given day. Not everything in the universe depends on your finishing your current novel or short story when you have a few of them to tinker with at once. Having options gives you freedom, and having options you truly care about means you can always find something to write.

glass octopus


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My sister sent me a couple of octopus-related housewarming gifts after I got to Tucson a few months ago. One is this adorable glass octo from the Ukraine or something. The packaging had Cyrillic writing all over it. Basically, it’s the same letters in the Russian alphabet, which is fitting because the telepathic octos in my fiction series started a band with a tribe of lost Soviet space monkeys. This glass octo now lives under the monitor for my work computer, next to the cute Patches memento my art teacher made for me back in 2013. Yes, there is a solar system where mutant octopuses, space monkeys, and outlaw cats can all be friends and rock out in a band—at least for as long as I have anything to say about it.

Update: My sister says you can find the creator of this glorious glass octopus and many other creatures at

Three Changes at Kindle Direct Publishing and Amazon for Self-Publishers


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Three changes are taking place this month at Amazon’s platforms for self-publishing. Two involve Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP), and one is happening at the Media On Demand platform that replaced the old CreateSpace function of selling compact disc albums.

Media On Demand is terminating compact disc sales, apparently due to a lack of demand and the increasing market preference for digital streaming and downloads. I’m sad but not surprised. Although my wholesale cost for each of the two music albums I made available on CD was only $4.99, I felt the retail price where I could make a decent per-unit profit was too expensive at $17.95. CDs are nice, but that price always seemed unrealistic to me. On June 4, CDs will no longer be available from Media On Demand, including wholesale copies to the creators, so creators will need to stock up if they want copies before then.

Next, KDP has begun offering print-on-demand paperbacks in Australia. This requires authors to adjust the pricing of each of their POD books for that market. That’s an easy process inside your KDP account, but since I have around thirty books in print, it took me about an hour to make all the adjustments. Still, I’m excited about this development.

Finally, KDP is currently running a beta version of the ability to make print-on-demand books available in hardcover! (Note: The linked pages for this program might only be currently available to KDP authors who have been invited to the beta program and are signed in to their account.) While not available in all international markets, they will be available in the USA and a few other countries. Many of my fellow authors will be excited if this works out, because my self-publishing customers often ask about hardcover editions.

The new hardcovers won’t be the kind with dust jackets. Instead, they will be “case laminate” hardcovers. Casewrapping is common for specialty books and textbooks, where the image is printed on a material that is wrapped onto the hard binding and glued in place, not a removable paper sleeve.

From a technical perspective, this new format will require some graphic design software skill, because formatting a cover for the casewrap is more complex than just clicking a button! Compared to a paperback cover, the casewrap cover must be created at dimensions both wider and taller so the printed image can be wrapped around the hard binding. It also means there is extra width to account for the “folded” area on each side of the spine. To help cover designers implement these changes, KDP provides a cover dimensions calculator which will also generate a PDF or PNG template to use as a guideline, and the templates are created specifically for your book’s trim size and page count. That is handy!

I spent a couple hours tonight re-doing the cover to Meteor Mags: The Singing Spell and Other Tales, getting a new ISBN and barcode for the hardcover edition, uploading and reviewing the files, and ordering a physical proof copy. I will update you on how it turns out, once the proof arrives. My understanding is that “author copies” will not be available for hardcovers. Those are the copies an author can order at wholesale price, which you already know if you have a POD paperback with KDP.

So, goodbye compact discs and hello hardcovers! And hello to Australia! Feel free to share your experiences with these changes in the comments on this post.

The Martian Revolution: Part 4 of 4


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Continued from Part 3.

Part Four: End Game

The Rendezvous

Mags and Patches arrived at the hub to find it locked down. Between the two of them, they made short work of the lobby door, ignoring the alarms they set off and the dead bodies they encountered. When they found the elevator required a code, Mags put a couple dents in it with her stolen steel-toed boots.

The criminals destroyed a different door and took the stairs instead. With pauses to catch her breath and clutch her ribs, Mags grumbled the whole way.

When they arrived at the entry to the room Tarzi had invaded, gunshots greeted them. Mags stopped beside the door and took cover behind its frame. She said, “Take the point, tough girl.”

Patches burst into the room. She leapt onto the helmeted face of one of Rosalia’s goons who was shooting at Tarzi. She howled as she destroyed him.

Mags stepped in. Her bullets sent the last of the grey-clad enemies to their graves.

Tarzi shouted, “Mags! Patches!”

The smuggler ejected a magazine and slammed a fresh one into place. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He paused to observe her blood-soaked, shredded Port Authority uniform. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing a little murder can’t solve. Jesus tapdancing christ. Is that Rosie?”

“Yeah,” said Tarzi. “Mags, I didn’t—”

“You traitorous bitch!” Mags knelt beside the corpse. She gripped it by the collar of Rosalia’s uniform and pulled the lifeless, shattered face close to hers. “Don’t you ever fuck with my cat!” A cascade of vulgarities went unnoticed by the single ear still attached to Rosalia’s head.

Mags released the collar and let Rosalia fall to the floor with a thud. “Where the hell is Shondra? When I get my hands on her—”

“What do you mean? The last I knew, she was on her way to set you free.”


Tarzi filled her in on the events of his imprisonment and release.

“Holy crap,” said Mags. “If she didn’t make it to my cell, then where is she?”

“Couldn’t say.”

Mags considered the new information for half a minute, pacing back and forth and cursing under her breath. “Alright, T-man. Let’s put this high-tech hub to use and call her.”

Mags no longer had her phone, but she was not one to forget anything numeric. She switched on a console and entered Shondra’s private number.


The Treaty

Shondra’s face filled a two-meter-wide screen with a pleasant smile. “Hello, kitten.” Her eyes drifted over Mags’ shoulder to Tarzi, then past him and around the room. “Looks like you have it all under control. The hub is secure? Are we plugged in and ready to take control?”

Mags slammed her fist on the console. “Goddamnit, Shondra! You told Tarzi I was delusional! A psychotically delusional bitch from hell!”

“Are you disputing that fact?”

Mags frowned. “You could have said it more nicely.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie. You are an astoundingly beautiful and musically gifted… totally delusional, psychotic hell beast! You’re practically feral!”

Mags purred. “That’s more like it.”

“Where’s Rosie?”

While Mags and Tarzi focused on the video call, Patches wiggled her butt and leapt onto a machine in the corner. Quietly tapping its screen, she set up an encrypted group message that included Celina, the Dumpster Kittens, and anyone else’s address she remembered. An extended claw softly clacked on the glass while one paw pad typed a message.

sup niggaaaz. chillin lika villin on marz. Patches snapped a photo of her fuzzy face in extreme close-up, framed by blood-smeared walls and corpses behind her. how u like me now. She tapped “send”.[1]

Patches sprawled before the monitor as dozens of messages lit up.

sall good, she typed. back n da crib soon. xox. Despite the flurry of replies, she rested her chin on one paw and closed her eyes. Her whiskers twitched as she listened, with her mind half asleep, to the call with Shondra. Patches liked her human friends, but people failed to understand the importance of frequent napping. They were all so busy. Except maybe Donny.

“Listen,” said Shondra. “That’s how it needs to be. You don’t get to pay the cost to be the boss. I already paid it. What you get is a friend on Mars who agrees that Earth can fuck right off.” Her eyes followed a few flicks of Mags’ tail. “You and I need to work together, not against each other.”

Mags stamped her foot. “Everyone gets access to the free-energy system. But we keep the K Drive between you and me. No one else gets that tech.”


“And I can come and go as I please on Mars without fake passports and all this sneaking around like a common criminal! I want a full pardon from the New Martian Coalition. That goes for my whole crew, too.” She swept her arm as if they were all there with her.

“Mags.” Shondra leaned in. The camera went out of focus for a second before she snapped into place as sharp as ever. “Don’t think so small. I’m prepared to sign a treaty with Ceres and officially recognize whatever weird social experiment you have going on there. Now will you quit fucking around and go install the rest of your system? If we want to light up this planet, let’s not take all goddamn day!”

Mags shouted, “Fine, Shondra! I’ll do it! Fuck!”

“That’s great. We need to put out a broadcast about it. How long will it take?”

“It takes as long as it takes! We’ve gotta go halfway around the twatting planet!”

“Call me when you’re done, then. I’ve got places to go. People to execute.”

“You took my phone!” Mags kicked a rack of servers so hard that sparks flew. Shondra’s face flickered. “Me voy a mear en los hoyos![2] You’re lucky I have a backup on my ship! Four hours,” said Mags. “Four fucking hours! Then I’ll call you.”

“My favorite words.” Shondra leaned closer to press a button, and the screen went black.

Mags put her hands on her hips. “I swear, Tarzi, that woman will be the death of me. Let’s hope she doesn’t run this planet like a dominatrix.”

Tarzi said, “Didn’t you do that for a while?”

Mags waved one hand in the air with too much energy to be convincingly dismissive. “Lies! All of it lies.”

“What about Madame Meteor’s House of Humiliation?”

“That comic book was completely unauthorized!”[3]

“The art was pretty good.”

Mags broke her rage to smile. “The art was stellar. So were the outfits.” She racked a bullet into the chamber and holstered her stolen pistol. “Come on, Patches! Time to go.” Mags could not see where Patches was napping, but she followed her nose. “Wake up, lazy butt! We’ve got a planet to power!”

Patches opened one eye halfway. Her nictitating membrane covered most of it.

Mags saw the messages on the monitor. “Oh, shit!” She scrolled up to glance through them all. “Everyone at home is freaking out!”

Home, thought Tarzi. Funny she should use that word for Ceres. As Mags’ fingers flew across the touchscreen Patches had used, Tarzi said, “Please tell me she encrypted that message.”

Mags snapped at him. “She’s not stupid! Even if her spelling sucks.”

“I think she does it on purpose. How many people did she call ‘nigga’?”

“Fucking everyone!”

“Good girl, Patches.” Tarzi rubbed one tuft-filled ear between a thumb and finger.

Patches purred and slowly swept the tip of her tail across her throne.

“You are such a bad influence on her.” Mags finished an update to everyone on the calico’s distribution list. A parade of celebratory emojis marched up the screen as replies came in. Donny sent an eggplant and a trio of water droplets.

Mags slapped her forehead. “We have the most advanced extraterrestrial communication system in history at our fingertips—and Donny is sending icons about ejaculating!”

“At least he seems happy.”

“If he were any happier,” said Mags, “I’d have him euthanized.” She drew herself to her full height. “Let Shondra’s people clean up this mess. Are you two ready to go?”


The Installation


Aboard the Bêlit, on the way to the installation site, Mags changed outfits. She stripped off her ragged, filthy Port Authority uniform and tossed it aside. “I need a skirt,” she said. “Here’s the problem. The Martian north and south poles are covered in ice caps, and we’ve got reason to believe there’s a massive subterranean lake under the south.”

She rifled through drawers and flipped through clothes on racks in her trio of closets. “If we install a SlimRod there, we potentially interfere with water-mining in the region. Or the miners might break the damn thing. We don’t want to mess with all that. Besides manufacturing, water mining is the next big moneymaker. Ceres is back to making trillions, but we haven’t even come close to tapping the full market potential.”[4]

Without deciding on an ensemble, Mags returned to the console to bring up a pair of digital maps. She swept a hand across them. “Point is, Shondra found two other permanent locations that can work. One of her crews installed the first unit to the north. That leaves the second for us. We’re en route to the Leibnitz mountains on the rim of the Aitken base—far enough from the glacial ice to relax for a few years, but close enough that the math wasn’t total brain surgery.”

I was typing a message to Hyo-Sonn. “That’s nice.” I didn’t give a donkey’s fuck about where we were going. I just wanted the day to be over.

Mags found legwear to match her skirt and plopped on the edge of her bunk to pull on her stockings. “Tarzi, we’re talking about the oldest known meteorite impact in the history of the entire solar system! Aren’t you even the least bit excited?”

I set my tablet in my lap. “Thrilled.”

Mags picked up a mirror from her bedside and started fixing her makeup. “I know this isn’t how you planned to spend your birthday. Shit, my b-day last year sucked so fucking much I can’t even believe it. How many of our friends were killed? And they died on my watch.”

She slammed down her eyeliner and applied black and bright-red lipsticks until the center of her colorful pout was accentuated in scarlet. “I promise I will make it up to you. Someday, a few years from now, you’ll realize this was one of your most important birthdays. We’re in the center of it all, making it happen. Or trying to, at least.” She stood and swished her tail. “Let’s make history.”[5]

“I’m sorry to be a downer. This is all just so fucked up.”

Mags set a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Rosie. She was my friend, too.”

I never could stay mad at Mags for long. How many times had she nearly gotten me killed? But there we were. I set my hand on hers. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” she said. “But you did have a choice. And you made the right one.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Being right doesn’t make life any easier. But it’s better than being dead wrong.”

When I didn’t answer, she reclined in the captain’s chair and fidgeted with the straps and buckles on her thigh-high boots like I wasn’t even there. I loved that about Mags. She had a way of letting me know she’d always be there for me, but she would totally fuck off if I needed time to myself.

“So,” I said, “tell me more about this bloody awesome mountain range. Sounds like it’s freezing.”

No matter that I’d been on Mars for half a year and studied files on every crack and crevice of its known geography. Patches jumped into my lap and purred. I pet her while Mags told me what I already knew.

Sometimes it’s just nice to be with friends.

We ended up outside on the ice, and I can’t even tell you how cold that mountain was, or how insane Mags was for wearing a skirt. The wind was like a frozen steel blade cutting me from every direction.

Not that it mattered to Patches. She frolicked like we’d been dropped onto Tahiti or something. I love Patches, but how does she do that? Meanwhile, my bollocks were clinking together like ice cubes in a cocktail, and my cocktail was rapidly shrinking to a shot glass.

Mags hammered her SlimRod into place, shooting sparks in every direction across the snowy iron dust all around us. I knew the song she sang to keep a beat while hammering, but I never thought I’d see a planet liberated to it.[6]

When Mags finished, she invited Patches to step up and turn it on. The fate of a planet—maybe the entire solar system—relied on a single cat’s decision to interrupt her winter wonderland and flip a switch.

Patches yawned. She stretched in the snow. Her fluffy paws allowed her to walk on the surface like a lynx. She sniffed the SlimRod and bobbed her head up and down, never quite touching the object. Patches wrinkled her cheeks and held her mouth open slightly, pondering the scent with the Jacobson’s organ in the roof of her mouth.

Springing onto her hindlegs, Patches gripped the switch in her forepaws and pulled it toward the ground. She activated a system that changed Martian history forever. The planet broke its ochre silence and hummed an unfamiliar tune.

Mags shouted, “Hang on, Tarzi,” with no indication of what I should hang on to. The hum built to a roar. A shockwave smacked the planet. All three of us fell into the snow.

Like an orchestra tuning up before a performance, the shockwaves aligned on the perfect pitch—the perfect note to power a planet.

Two seconds later, I didn’t hear it at all. The note propagated through Mars and became a part of it, an invisible character in the background. A ghost.

A ghost that would power everything.

Mags got to her feet and snapped a photo of Patches sprawling on the ice and flecks of red stone at the base of the SlimRod. She sent it to Shondra. Mags spoke a message for the voice-to-text translator. “All plugged in here. Just in time for your little speech.”

She put the phone up her skirt. A flash went off. I did not even want to know. A second later, she said, “Let’s go watch her on the big screen.”


The Broadcast


Aboard the Bêlit, I dropped into the co-pilot’s chair. Patches filled my lap. Mags switched on the pair of meter-wide monitors atop the console and adjusted the volume.

Two identical portraits of Shondra filled the screens. Mags handed me a beer, cracked open one for herself, and kicked back in the captain’s chair.

“People of Mars,” Shondra began. “My fellow Martians. Today is the end of history and the beginning of a new era. From now on, Mars will govern itself. Our laws will be our own. Our economy will be our own. Our pride as the number-one extraterrestrial producer of goods will be our own. We will be one planet. One people. One victory.”

Mags adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “Good slogan.”

“Forces,” Shondra continued, “loyal to corporations on Earth, butchered some of the leaders of our revolution. Those forces have been dealt with, and we will no longer tolerate such interference from Earth, nor from her corporations. But I beg you to learn to live in peace with your neighbors, regardless of former loyalties. Now is the time for Mars to become one planet. One people.”

“And,” I said, “one hell of an energy source.”

Mags said, “She’ll get to that.”

“We are not,” said a pair of massive Shondra faces, “merely equal as Martian citizens. We are equal in power. Within twenty-four hours, the new administration will begin distributing a new technology. This tech is a simple piece of electronics you can install in your house or on your land, and it taps into a global energy system you can access for no cost. It can power a home or a farm or a mine, using an open-source converter.

“Our government will provide hands-on support for both personal, home installations and larger commercial applications. But make no mistake. We intend to bring free energy to everyone on our planet, and our projections show this is an achievable goal within half a Martian year.[7]

“The local offices of the Port Authority and the Passport Command are now under the control of the New Martian Coalition.”

Shondra’s eyes went up and to the right, as if she were trying to remember. I’m sure it was unconscious that she licked her lips while thinking.

“Oh. My name’s Shondra. You might know me from the shipyards. I’ll be in touch every twenty-four hours until we get this sorted.” Her playful smile disappeared, and she raised a fist. “Long live the resistance.”

The broadcast ended. The screens went black.

Mags laughed and shook me by the shoulder. “Is that it? No love for the brave defender of freedom and his felonious feline friends?”

She stood before I thought of a comeback. “What a fucking rip-off!” Mags faced the blank monitors with her hands folded behind her back, and her tail whipped everything in its reach. Eventually, the whip settled, and her fingertips rested on the console. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Tarzi, I’ve got a two-room suite booked in a hotel that Shondra doesn’t know about. They’ll cook us anything we want, even late. I mean anything. Are you hungry?”

I said, “Starving! I could eat a slow-roasted maggot off a whale dick.”

“It might be on the menu. How about fish and chips?”

“That,” I said, “sounds perfect. Let’s get the hell out of here.”


Epilogue: The Cake

5 July 2030.

“Happy birthday, T-man!” Mags strolled into the master suite with a chocolate-swirled cheesecake in a chocolate crust on a platter. Lines of caramel glaze and walnut pieces adorned the top. “I heard this was your favorite.”

“Oh, fuck yes,” said Tarzi. “How did you get that at three in the morning?”

Get it? I fucking baked it for you!” She set it on a table between two chairs.

“Yeah, right.”

“I have friends in the kitchen.”

“Where are the candles?”

Mags laughed. “You are so demanding! Check this out.” From a pocket on her skirt, she pulled three joints. “Why blow out candles when you can light one up?” She gave him a doob. “Make a wish on that, motherfucker. One for Patches, too.”

Patches leapt onto the table, snatched up a joint in her fuzzy jaws, and jumped to the floor. She ripped into the spliff and chomped with wild abandon, rolling on her back in the debris and trapping green flecks in her tri-colored fur.

Mags pulled something else from her pocket. “Forks!” She stabbed hers into the cake. “To Mars and her stupid revolution, I say ‘Fork you, bitch.’”

Tarzi plunged four plastic tines into the cake. “This whole forking planet sucks.”

“You don’t like it here?” Mags held out a lighter and lit his joint, then hers.

“Fuck no.” Tarzi took a deep inhale, held it, and released it. “Oh, that’s some good shit.”

“Have I ever given you anything that wasn’t?”

“Not even once. But Mars can sod off. I am so sick of paperwork. I want to go home.”

“To Earth?”

“Not Earth. It hasn’t been home since my parents died. I did talk to their lawyer, though. Signed some papers. I own the property and the rights to their publications, and they had a solid life insurance policy.[8] That’s nice, don’t get me wrong. But do you know what I want?”

Mags leaned in. “Tell me.”

“I want to be closer to Hyo-Sonn.”

Patches shredded the carpet.

“And you and Patches, too! I mean, thank you for setting me up on Mars. It definitely helped me get my head together after all the shit that happened last year. But my future isn’t here. It’s with you and my friends.”

Mags sat back in her chair and flicked ash on the carpet where it charred a black scar then burnt out. “Tarzi, you and I have a lot in common. We both had to grow up way too soon and deal with shit no kid should ever deal with. But you know what?” She took a puff.

“What’s that?”

“You dealt with it. I’m proud of you, little man. But I don’t think it’s nearly as proud as I could be.” She scooped a chunk of cake and paused before shoveling it into her mouth. “This is just the beginning. Happy birthday.”

Tarzi lifted a mountain of sugary calories. “Does that mean you’ll take me back to Ceres?”

Mags swallowed her mouthful and stabbed the dessert again. “Tarzi, I will take you to Ceres or anywhere else you need to be, and I will stand by your side as far as you want to go in this life. May the goddess have mercy on anyone who gets in our way. You’ve kicked more arse than anyone your age should need to, and I love you for it. Always have.”

“Thanks for saying that, Mags. I love you, too.” Tarzi took a bite. “Oh, fuck, that’s good. Did you bring any rum?”

[1] Patches has been a huge fan of gangsta rap ever since she merged minds with Mags in Red Metal at Dawn. She also loves texting her friends—especially Tarzi—since no one but Mags can understand her when she talks.

[2] Spanish for, “I will piss in your eye holes!”

[3] Madame Meteor’s House of Humiliation first appeared in print in the Asteroid Belt in 2026. Mags publicly disavowed any involvement with its production.

[4] One of the main Ceresian exports is water extracted from the pockets of its sub-surface ocean, purified, and sold to various interests in the system. The 2029 super-tornado destroyed many of the water-mining facilities, but the reconstruction of Ceres in 2030 restored most of them to capacity.

[5] Mags quotes the 2004 song Let’s Make History by The (International) Noise Conspiracy. On her favorite album, Armed Love. Örebro, Sweden: Burning Heart Records.

[6] Mags likes to sing John Henry when she installs the SlimRods. The first verse is:

John Henry, when he was a baby

sittin’ on his mama’s knee,

picked up that hammer in his little right hand,

said, “Hammer’ll be the death of me, me, me.

Hammer’ll be the death of me.

The song is a traditional ballad about the U.S. folk hero John Henry, a railroad steel-driving man who challenged an early steam drill to a contest and won—but died in the process.

[7] A Martian solar year is 687 Earth days. Shondra is promising planet-wide access to the new energy system in roughly one Earth year.

[8] Tarzi was contacted about his late parents’ estate via voice mail by their lawyer in Hunted to Extinction.

Of Mars and Moms: A Memoir


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It’s the week of Mother’s Day, and I’m currently working on a new story about a couple of moms, so this seems like as good a time as any to tell you that Mom occasionally drops by this blog to see what I am up to.

No, she doesn’t much care about comic books, experimental poetry, or the violent, profane fiction I torment the rest of you with on a regular basis. But she does care about her boy who has long since outgrown boyhood and is rapidly approaching his 49th birthday. So, I’d like to give some credit where credit is due.

This blog wouldn’t exist without Mom. Besides the fact that I wouldn’t have been born without her, she helped me get a jumpstart on reading at a young age. I was way into superheroes and dinosaurs by the time I hit kindergarten, and if not for Mom’s infinite patience with reading dinosaur books with me when I was a child, I wouldn’t have been conversant about stegosaurs and pachycephalosaurs while I was still in pre-school.

As a result, my kindergarten teacher must have thought I was some kind of child prodigy, because I was enlisted into an advanced reading group that deciphered complexities of the English language such as “See Jane run” while the rest of the class had nap time. Let me assure you: I was no prodigy. I only had some advanced reading comprehension, and a decent memory of things I’d read—both of which eventually served me well in slacking my way through high school.

Besides dinosaur books and basically any book about animals, space, or history, I had a youthful passion for comic books. That love did not diminish in my teenage years! But by then, times had changed.

In the mid-1980s, comics experienced a cultural shift. No longer were they relegated to the magazine racks of convenience stores and drug stores. Shops dedicated entirely to comics appeared, and the publishing industry responded by creating “direct market” titles meant solely for distribution to those shops. You might take comic shops for granted now, but they were a pretty big deal at the time.

When I was old enough to legally have a job, I picked up a gig as a golf caddy on the weekends to make a few bucks. The work itself truly sucked on a Saturday morning, but some of the old golfer guys tipped me nicely, and I’d leave the place with cash in my pocket. I wasn’t old enough to drive, so Mom would pick me up.

Our first stop? The comic shop. While Mom patiently waited, I discovered series and back issues that to this day remain among my all-time favorites.

Those reading experiences undoubtedly shaped me and influenced my future as a writer, editor, and that apex (or possibly nadir) of human evolution we call a comic-book blogger.

Mom, if you’re stopping by today, thank you for putting up with learning how to pronounce all those dinosaur names back in the 70s, for making sure I always had plenty of books and comics to occupy my mind in the 80s, and for encouraging me to keep exploring my creativity all the way into the 2020s.

You rock!

The Martian Revolution: Part 3 of 4


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Continued from Part 2.

Part Three: Sacrifices

The Cell

Meteor Mags awoke in pitch blackness and felt herself for injuries. She discovered every item of her clothing had been removed. The tape around her ribs was gone. She touched one ear lobe then clasped a hand to her chest, just below the neckline. Her fist closed on nothing. Even her jewelry was gone.

“Son of a bitch!”

Reflexively, she put one finger to the bridge of her nose to adjust her glasses. They were gone, too.

“Fuck me dead.”

The phone stashed in her bra, the knives strapped to her calves and forearms, three small-caliber pistols hidden along her curves, and the circuitry in her jewelry—all of it gone. No way to contact Tarzi, no way to summon her ship. No way to—

“Where the hell is Patches?!”

Mags comforted herself by turning her ring around her finger, then holding it in place. “The only way they’d take you is by chopping off my goddamn finger.” She considered the fact. “Shondra must have strip-searched me. Rosie would have definitely chopped the finger. That fucking whore.”

Mags cradled her forehead in one palm and shook her head. “I can’t believe I trusted that cow!” She sobbed once, and again, then filed away the emotion to be reviewed later—or maybe never. Mags pulled herself to her feet and slumped against a brick wall that offered all the warmth of a glacier. “Shondra,” she said, “what’s your game?”

She smacked the wall with her open palm, made a fist, and shook it in the darkness. “You cunts! If you hurt Tarzi, I will end you! Do you fucking hear me?!”

No one answered.

In a darkness where not even her catlike eyes could gather light, Mags began running her fingers over every centimeter of the enclosure. She pressed her nose to within a millimeter of the surface, seeking any scent she could find. At first, the only sounds her ears picked up were the pulse of her heart, the flow of her breath, and the barely perceptible padding of the balls of her feet as she made her way around the room. Beyond that, past the edge of human hearing, the electromagnetic hum of her prison whispered to her above the dull roar of the city.

She felt her way around the frame of the only exit. Her side of the door held no hinges and no hint of the locking mechanism. Just a slab.

By her estimation, to claw through the miniscule crevice around the edge of the door and pry it open might take two-hundred years—assuming they fed her enough calcium to keep her nails growing.

If they didn’t give her food or water at all? No more than ninety-six hours before total, catastrophic organ failure. For cats, at least.

“Fuck.” Mags abandoned her probing and sat cross-legged on the floor. She pressed her palms together and the tip of each finger to its opposite. She tried to focus on Sarah. “Angel, can you hear me?”

She reached only silence.

“Octos? Are you there?”


“Pick up!”

Still nothing.

“Unreliable sons of bitches!

Immediately, she felt bad for saying it. She was, after all, one of their three mothers.[1] No one understood more than Mags that sometimes a person, or a fucked-up mutant cat hybrid type of person, or even a cephalopodic groupmind needed to wander off for a bit without being disturbed. “Sorry, babies. But if you get this message, call me. Shit just hit the fan on Mars.”

While she waited, Mags cursed the unresponsive door until she was hoarse. Then, like any sensible feline, she curled in the corner for a nap. Her stream of consciousness became non-verbal. Something like a movie made of emotions, memories, and fantasies played in her mind.

One eye remained half open. In her sleep, her ears twitched, alert as radar dishes—searching, hoping for a signal.


The Basement

Through a pair of metal doors, Shondra burst into the garage below the ground level of Tarzi’s prison. She ran down a concrete ramp. “Get ready to roll!”

Twelve of her elite awaited her. They snapped to attention and disappeared, four at a time, into three armored vehicles arranged in a line like a convoy. Only Shondra’s driver remained outside her vehicle, saluting.

Shondra shouted, “Let’s go!”

“We got a problem, boss!” Despite her warning, the driver obeyed Shondra’s command, climbing into her seat and starting the engine.

“Make it quick!”

“All the blocks from here to prisoner extradition are a fucking war zone. The radio’s lit up with reports of fires and buildings collapsing in the streets. There’s no guarantee we can get through.”

“Fine,” said Shondra. “We do it anyway. We have a political prisoner to free, and a couple of flaming speedbumps are the least of our worries. Move out!”

The driver gave the order.

Powerful engines built in the finest shipyard in the solar system roared to life. The convoy sped to the garage exit. The wide metal door, half a meter thick, raised at a coded electronic signal from Shondra’s driver.

Here we come, kitty. Shondra opened a panel on the dashboard, found a box of ammunition, and began refilling her empty magazines. Hang on.

As Shondra’s vehicle reached the exit, a blast with the light of the sun pulverized the wall above the garage door. Stone and cinder block pelted the transport in a torrential sheet so dense it stopped the forward motion and buried Shondra alive, along with everyone else inside.

She gripped her driver by the shoulder and shook the senseless body. Blood ran from its forehead. “Damn it!” Shondra lowered the window on her side. An avalanche of dust and rubble poured into her face, onto her lap, and down around her feet.

Shondra choked and coughed. To the survivors in the back seat, she shouted, “What the hell are you waiting for? Dig!”

Sunset came to Mars. It gilded the stone above Shondra’s crew with a fiery glow before vanishing into blackness. By the time the crew got free and dug out the lead vehicle, Shondra was far too late to save Mags.


The Captain

“Passengers of Tycho Airlines, flight two thirty-six, this is your captain speaking. Thank you for joining us this evening. We’re on the final approach to the city of Hevelius. Please stow all carry-on items in the overhead bins or beneath your seats and return your seats to their upright positions.

“We’ll be encountering a bit of social unrest on the ground. We have reports of mass looting, urban riots, and armed insurrection. I see—fires. Fires everywhere. What the—

“Folks, we don’t know for sure what’s happening, but please remain calm. Flight attendants will come by in just a second to collect your—

“What the fuck? Is that a rocket from the surface? It’s coming right at us! Mayday! Mayday! Two thirty-six to tower, requesting emergency—

“Get the hell off me and fly, motherfucker! Mayday!

“What? My mic is still on?”


The Station

Oblivious to her trajectory, an unconscious Patches smashed into an airplane. Her body punctured the hull, and the collision killed everyone aboard—some upon impact, some who were sucked out of the plane into the sky, and others when the wreckage screamed down to the ground and exploded.

Members of Patches’ human crew had called her a living weapon. But they had never seen her become a lifeless projectile, nor imagined the damage she could do in that state.

Patches would never know about the plane, but it slowed her ascent. She reached the apex of a graceful arc, fell under the spell of artificial Martian gravity, and rocketed back to the surface.

Hevelius was the largest city on Mars. Where Patches landed was a matter of luck. She could have crashed into multi-family housing, or the commercial district, or a park. Instead, she plummeted into a power station.

The force of impact shattered the generators’ metal housings and sent a fiery sphere of shrapnel expanding in every direction. It destroyed a city block and shut off the power to dozens of neighborhoods.

In the crater, a web of electrical wires still connected to subterranean backup generators cradled Patches. Where the explosion severed them, arcs of lightning sprang to life, crackling white, outlined in blue. The energy leapt across her fur, overcame its carbon-based resistance, and lit up the calico cat from the inside.

The surrounding neighborhood was fortunate that annihilation came first, because the caterwaul Patches unleashed would have made a grown person wish for death. Nothing of its kind had been heard on Mars nor anywhere else in the solar system.

A ball of lightning held Patches in its center. Her body levitated as she screamed, and all her mental faculties and her heartbeat clawed at the door of oblivion. Her neurons fired erratic signals. She convulsed in the air with her eyes as wide as two black planets in twin halos of green, and her limbs thrashed like swords in a cyclone without sense or reason.

Circuit breakers kicked in. The lightning ended. Patches fell through the cables and tumbled into the crater’s dark heart.

She landed on her feet.

From Patches’ point of view, Rosalia’s betrayal took place only a second before. Fresh hate filled her heart. Patches scrambled to the surface, leaping from one dead wire to the next, sinking her claws into plastic sheathing, relentless and unstoppable.

When she got to the surface, she ran a paw twice over one ear. For a golden moment, she allowed the sunset to grace her whiskers. Then she broke into a run.

The fading sun cast a rusty orange glow in the final moments before dusk. It drew a cat-shaped shadow on the streets. The shadow turned into a blur and vanished into the complex crevices of Hevelius.


The Subway

Patches rubbed her cheeks against a building’s corner—first one cheek then the other with increasing intensity until the flesh beneath her fluff smashed into the brick. To an outside observer, the ritual would have looked painful, but Patches loved it.

Pain had not troubled Patches since July 2029. Back then, on the brink of death, she awoke in a tank of bubbling energy that channeled the entire power of a planet-sized moon into her.[2]

She had neither requested nor desired that fate, but it was hers, and she accepted it. What did any cat need to deal with but the present moment?

She never mourned the absence of pain. If Patches had been born as any mammal except a cat, she might have found a reason to be thankful she could still feel pleasure.

But rather than feel grateful, Patches assumed that pleasure was her due, that objects and sentients who brought her pleasure simply did what the universe had declared to be her birthright, and no one should take those pleasures from her.

Patches worked herself into a frenzy, biting the spot she scented with the glands in her face, standing on her hind legs to carve long gouges with her foreclaws. All around her, war blossomed into being.

Looters plundered Hevelius. A rocket launcher turned a storefront into a fireball. Lights and gunfire and propeller noise from overhead battled small-arms fire, Molotov cocktails, and chanting, surging crowds. Bodies in Port Authority uniforms, ship-builder’s gear, and makeshift guerilla outfits fell from windows and dropped from aircraft. Mutilated corpses littered the streets.

No matter.

War, as far as Patches could discern, was humanity’s natural state. She assessed the tableau of destruction and suffering. She might as well have been observing a cloud or the erratic motions of a butterfly in the wind. They were not things she could affect nor cared to, merely natural objects to be avoided on the way to her purpose.

Patches folded back her ears and ran at top speed through the chaos. The buses had stopped running, but many trains still ran. Patches followed the signs to a platform underground. She had only three seconds to study the subterranean maps before an explosion from above shook the station.

Chunks of the collapsing ceiling fell around her. The dust rendered everything invisible—everything but the light of an oncoming train.

Seeing the station falling to pieces, the train’s engineer decided to skip it and keep moving. The train smashed debris to the sides, denting its hull and sending up a shower of sparks and flame as metal and stone crashed together against the sides of the tunnel.

Patches waited at the edge of the platform, but the train did not stop. Her eyes narrowed to slits in the incoherent light and murky dust clouds. As the train sped past, she launched herself, dug her claws into its metal exterior, and held on.

The tunnel walls slammed past her. She pulled herself closer to the hull. In the narrowest of passages, her indestructible hair and spine carved a groove into the concrete wall. Darkness swallowed her and the steel monster she rode, but she held fast.

Unseen from her underground vantage point, towers sprang onto the horizon: the Port Authority building where she had been captured, the surrounding structures which made up its prisons, and—though Patches did not yet know it—the communications hub that would be Tarzi’s destination.

Once the train passed the obliteration of the station where Patches boarded, she focused on the station markers. The train stopped at none of them and continued its frightful course without regard for a schedule. Patches chattered. The wind whipped away her voice. When she saw the stop for the Port Authority buildings approaching, she prepared to jump.

She hit the ground on all fours, but the momentum rolled her head-over-heels until she smashed into a monolith. Upon its surface were engraved three large words: Port Authority Administration. Patches arched her back, bared her teeth, and hissed.

She sniffed the ground for Mags’ scent in an ever-widening circle until she picked up the trail. She picked up Tarzi’s, too.

Patches had never known the love of biological brothers and sisters. At birth, she was separated from the other kittens in her litter. But to the extent that she realized Mags thought of her as a cub, then Tarzi must also be Mags’ cub. That meant they were nestmates, cubs from the same litter.

She lost his trail. It led away from the Port Authority building then vanished into the unknown.

But Mags’ scent was as plain as day.

Patches licked a paw between each of its claws. She weighed Tarzi’s life against every living being—human or otherwise—on Mars. Three times, she ran the paw over one ear.

She made her decision. If anything bad had happened to Tarzi, Patches intended to soak the red planet in the blood of her enemies until it drowned.

Some sins could never be forgiven. Some things broke so badly they could never be fixed. But Patches anticipated some small satisfaction to be gleaned from murdering every last person who had fucked things up.

She knew Mags would feel the same way.

Such were the thoughts of a rather large and fluffy calico cat as she followed her best friend’s trail and pondered the fate of a faithless planet.


The Door

Mags’ captors had not imprisoned her in the same building as Tarzi. Her impregnable cell occupied a ten-story monolith near the spaceport favored by visiting officials from Earth. It was a convenient location for the Port Authority to hold those prisoners who required extradition to Earth for legal or political reasons.

The criminals inside could only hope for one of two ways out: deportation or death. No one had ever broken into the prison. No one had ever escaped.

No one had ever told Patches.

All through the prison’s hallways, alarms blared like klaxons and flashed lights from their perches on the walls. Along one path through the facility, a stream of blood spread until it met the walls and pooled at their edges. At the head of the crimson river ran an especially purposeful cat.

Mags awoke to the screech of tortured metal. She sprang to her feet. Every hair on her body stood straight up.

Like nails on a steel chalkboard, Patches’ claws tore at the cell’s metal door from the outside.

After the initial shock, Mags pounded on the door. She could not see nor smell her kitten, but she knew. She shouted, “Patches!”

A howling whirlwind scaled the door and ripped apart its lock and hinges. They fell like dead birds to the prison floor. Their gleaming reflections caught Patches’ eyes, and she pounced on them.

She sprang away as the steel slab flew from its frame, over her head, and down the hallway. It slammed to a stop against a wall. From the empty doorway, Mags’ naked left leg extended, parallel to the floor.


Patches sauntered to Mags’ side, rubbed against the leg planted firmly on the floor, and arched her tail. She sought Mags’ eyes and mewed.

“Baby kitty!” Mags scooped her calico into the cradle of her arms and rubbed her face into mounds of fluff. She listened as Patches rapidly chattered about her adventures across the Martian landscape.

“You did great, kitten. Where’s Tarzi?”

Patches told everything she knew.

“I have an idea where he’s headed. Did you kill anyone my size?”

Carrying her cat, Mags followed the trail of blood that led to her cell. She inspected the leaking bodies one-by-one until she found a reasonable match. She set down Patches and stripped clothing from a corpse. “One thing I love about the Port Authority,” she said. “They hire a lot of women. This one’s almost my size.”

Mags dressed in a dead woman’s clothes and tugged them into place where they didn’t quite cover her generous curves. Blood and gashes ripped by Patches’ claws marred the grey, woolen cloth. Mags struck a pose. “How do I look?”

She purred at the response. “Then it’s just you and me.” Mags plundered the dead for weapons and ammo. Racking a bullet into a stolen pistol’s chamber, she said, “That’s more like it. Let’s descend into the maelstrom.” [3]

They set off to find Tarzi and racked up a double-digit body count along the way. Thirty minutes later, smudged with soot and rust-colored dust, splattered with blood and bits of strangers’ organs, they arrived at the base of the communications hub.

Tarzi’s scent told them they had found the right destination.


The Bargain

Tarzi hoped to meet Mags at the hub. Instead, he confronted Rosie and her elite personal bodyguards, all heavily armed. The young man withdrew around the doorframe and shouted. “Don’t shoot! It’s me, Tarzi!”

They shot anyway.

“Will you bloody stop and listen for a minute? Rosie!”

She shouted back. “What do you want?!”

“I want to help,” said Tarzi. “I want to help you take over Mars.”

“I already have. Get lost!”

“Not even close. You need me. I’ve been on the streets, and this whole thing is turning into a disaster! It’s a disaster I can help you with. But,” said Tarzi, “the whole deal is contingent on freeing Mags.”

Rosie said, “Not a chance.”

“You can’t send Mags to her death and expect any of this to work. The riots aren’t shit. You’re asking for all-out war with Ceres and every outlaw in the Belt—without much help from Earth.”

“We can handle a few pirates.”

“Not these ones. And definitely not Patches.”

Rosie shouted, “Your little cat is gone! Don’t be stupid.”

“If you think you got rid of Patches that easily, you’re so fucked in the head that your IQ might go up when she eats your skull. You should be crapping your pants right now, wondering how soon it will be until she—”

“Tarzi! If I set Mags free, the first thing she would do is come to kill me. She isn’t one to forgive and forget.”

“She’ll never do either. She’ll never agree with you about your deal with Earth. She will hate you ’til the day she dies.”

“That makes me feel a whole lot better. She stays locked up.”

“Rosie, Mags hates the idea on principle. She likes to talk real loud and make a scene about her ideals. But if you show her a profit opportunity, all that goes out the window. You will never have her love. But you can appeal to her greed.”

“Why would I give her anything?”

“The free-energy system. She wants it. You need it. It’s a bargain.”

“I’ll get Shondra to make it.”

“The fuck you will,” said Tarzi. “Who do you think let me out of my cell?”


“Shondra hates your fucking guts. She sent me here! Shondra plans to kill you and take over. If you want the energy system, you need Mags.”

Rosie pondered.

Tarzi pounced on the silence. “You want the economic boost from trading with Earth. But if you can provide free, unlimited power to any rock you want, think what that means for the future of mining and manufacturing! If you let Mags do this one little thing she really, really wants to do, then you create a space-based economy with unlimited resource potential. Do you want to rule Mars, or do you want to rule the entire bloody solar system?”

“She’ll still want to kill me.”


Rosie said, “Will you talk to her?”


“Yes, you! What do you plan to say to Mags to convince her to go along with this plan of yours?”

Tarzi paused. “Let me think for a minute.”

He seized the lull in conversation. Tarzi slowed his breathing and imagined his favorite Swans album playing at top volume.[4] The brutal rhythms calmed him. Time stretched out. In what would look like a blur to the human eye, he stepped into the room with his pistol raised and put a bullet into the helmet of the nearest guard.

The guard’s head snapped back in slow motion. Individual bits of shrapnel and drops of blood began to break away from the helmet. The fragments and splatters barely expanded before Tarzi fixed the next guard in his sights. He fired again. A bullet pierced the second guard’s faceplate. Tarzi shot a third time.

Rosalia and her remaining guards pulled their triggers. Millimeter by millimeter, fingers squeezed. Bullets entered the air and slowly, deliberately, advanced on paths to where Tarzi no longer stood.

He dove for cover, but not before he sent one more bullet to its destination.

[1] The octopuses’ biological mother was an octopus also, but because Mags and Patches were present for their birth and merged minds with them and their mother, the octopuses consider the felonious felines to also be their mothers.

[2] In Patches the Immortal.

[3] Mags quotes a song title that belongs to both Radio Birdman and Wo Fat.

[4] The Glowing Man, by Swans.

pure nostalgia: Marvel Team-Up #2, 1972


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Marvel Team-Up #2 is a riotous mix of 1970s superhero nonsense and insanely dramatic confrontations between the Human Torch and Spider-man. The villains take control of Spidey’s mind and turn him into a weapon against his friend, Johnny Storm.

Script by Gerry Conway, pencils by Ross Andru, and inks by Jim Mooney.

Oh, the pathos! My suspension of disbelief is only hampered by the fact that Spidey was, by that point in comics history, established as being so strong that a punch from him should have killed Torch immediately. Spider-man isn’t strong on the level of Hulk or Thor, but he packs a wallop that could take off your head.

Regardless, this scene inspired me to use a couple panels as ink studies for chisel-tip markers I’d recently acquired. They create broad, angular lines but also finer lines when rotated 90 degrees. I found I could get a mix of bold shapes and detail lines if I worked at the appropriate scale for the brush width.

Chisel-tip Sharpie Marker study

I cut the pages from my sketchbook and hung them in a prominent place where I see them a few times a day, as a reminder. Sometimes I feel so wrapped up in and trapped by all kinds of stuff, focused on negative things about what’s wrong while my brain tries to solve problems, that it’s nice to have a buddy like Torch: someone willing to yell sense at me when I totally lose the plot. Someone to remind me who I am.

Johnny Storm stands his ground even when mind-controlled Spidey is trying to kill him. Sure, Torch could crank up his flames, “go nova”, and incinerate Spidey to a pile of ash. But it wouldn’t be enough for Torch to save himself. He wants to liberate Spider-man, too. That’s true friendship.

The friendship and occasional rivalry between these two heroes has been going on since the 1960s, and I enjoyed Jonathan Hickman’s treatment in his run on the Fantastic Four. When the Human Torch ***spoiler alert*** dies to save our universe from an invasion, Spider-man takes his place in the FF. Spidey honors his old pal’s last will and testament, and also completes a lifelong dream of joining the FF, a dream that began in the very first issue of The Amazing Spider-man where a much more inexperienced and arrogant Peter Parker tried out for the team—and failed. One especially heartfelt tale on Hickman’s run has Spidey share with Johnny’s nephew, Franklin, about how Spidey lost his uncle, too.

Second marker study of a panel from the same issue.

I got so into Marvel Team-Up #2 that I cut up a copy in really poor condition I got for fifty cents. It’s a crazy expensive comic in better condition, but it retails for about $5 in the condition I found it. I definitely got more than $5 worth of artistic inspiration from it, doing a few other ink studies and also the first painting in my 2013 dream journal series which has a partially visible underlayer of panels concerning the argument between Spidey and Torch, a battle not just for their bodies and their minds but the very essence of their friendship.

Dream Journal #1: Anger

Panels of their conflict fill the angry rift running from the upper left corner to the bottom right of the painting. Over them, I painted and textured layer after layer, including found objects from small pieces of hardware to a dead, dehydrated lizard I found on my porch, adding color washes until they became like a soothing balm for the raging argument below, brushing and pouring and splashing until a peace came over me and I knew that despite what had happened to them, Spidey and Torch would be okay. Their lives and friendship had been torn apart by anger, but they would heal. Their friendship would heal.

In that sense, the painting became a way for me to work though some dark things that had come up in my dreams until I could see the light again. It wasn’t just about anger, as I later titled it. It was about regaining one’s senses and overcoming that emotional disruption.

Another of my dream journal series of paintings began as a collage of the same issue’s cover and random interior images, plus a few add-ins from other comics I was sacrificing on the altar of art at that time, including beat-up copies of Marvel Team-Up #5 and #16. The central panel is a John Byrne and Karl Kesel illustration from a six-issue DC series in the 1980s called Legends.

Collage of comic book panels on canvas.

Spidey’s dialogue “Face it, creeps! This is the pay-off!” appears twice, which suggests I had not one but two copies of Marvel Team-Up #2. But maybe the second occurrence comes from a different and far less expensive Spider-man reprint issue, from which I repurposed a bunch of pages.

Later, I added more and more layers of paint and texture until the original collage was almost entirely obscured. The collage centered on a panel where a character thought, “Perfect! The master will be well-pleased!” Over the years, I kept adding to the canvas, trying to bring it closer to some perfect form. I awoke one morning to see what I had wrought upon the canvas in an inebriated, late-night state.

Dream Journal #9: Perfection

“Perfect,” I said. “Perfect!” Then I laughed like a maniac, probably convincing my neighbors that a real-life supervillain lived next door, because I could not keep a straight face while trying to say, “The master will be well-pleased.”

Years later, I still say this to myself when I feel stressed about some artistic decision. It makes me laugh and reminds me to not take things so dreadfully seriously. But I’ve also learned to build in a buffer of time to step away from decisions made in anger or fear before carrying them out, then come back to them a day or two later with a fresh perspective.

Do I see improvements I could make before acting? Have I realized some potentially negative outcomes I didn’t consider before? Could I improve the ways I plan on communicating with others about the situation? Do I need to do some research to back up my convictions or expose places where I might be wrong?

Then let’s attend to those things now, before we damage friendships and end up punching each other’s lights out in some science-fiction hallway where our actions only serve the villains who seek to destroy us.

Collector’s Guide: The original issue appeared as Marvel Team-Up #2 in 1972 from Marvel Comics. It was reprinted in the far less expensive Spider-man Megazine #2, which you can get for about $2. It also appears in black-and-white in the Essential Marvel Team-Up, Volume 1.

The Martian Revolution: Part 2 of 4


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Continued from Part 1.

Part Two: Knight’s Journey

The Torture


Handcuffs bound me. Two goons in grey shoved me down and shackled my ankles to a metal chair that was bolted to the floor below a single incandescent bulb. The room smelled like piss and puke. A single vent the size of a postcard near the ceiling had given up on moving the air. Blotches and splatters of dried blood decorated the walls. To one side, a stainless-steel tool chest with a dozen drawers held contents I preferred not to imagine.

Shondra dismissed the soldiers with orders to guard the thick metal door, shut it behind them, and rested her bum against the tool chest. She raised one eyebrow as if my silent glare amused her. “This is one of the places where the Port Authority deals with pirates.” She lit up a smoke, took a drag, and held it out to me. “Have you met any pirates?”

The offered cig repulsed me. Not the smell of smoke. Just the offering. I spat on the floor. “Mags will fucking kill you.”

Shondra threw back her head and laughed. “She might!” Then she leaned in closer. Her eyes drilled into me. “Your precious Mags is a psychotic bitch from hell.[1] A murderous ball of boundless rage. And you know what?” Shondra ran a hand between her thighs and shivered. “It’s one of the things about her that turns me on. Not to mention that frisky tail. The way she paints her lips in red and black. Maybe she’ll smother me to death in her massive titties. Would that make you happy?”

“Sod off, slag. You are sick in the head.”

“Tarzi, you don’t know the half of it. Take this fag before I smoke it myself.”

What the hell. If I was about to die, I might as well have a smoke.

No sooner did I have it in my cuffed hands than she lit another. She said, “You don’t like me very much.”

“Fuck no I don’t. I’ll like you less when you’re torturing me to death. So let’s get it over with, you scab-faced, knob-gobbling, herpes magnet!”

Shondra looked around the room as if she were noticing it for the first time. “Is that why you think you’re here?”

I blew smoke at her. “Fuck you.”

She brushed ebony curls away from her face. “Such fire! No wonder Mags likes you. She tells me wonderful things about her favorite nephew, did you know that?”

When I didn’t answer, she continued. “Have it your way, then. I will show you the implement of pain I’m about to use on you. And I promise you, Tarzi, after the twisted shit I do to you with it, you will beg to cooperate.”

I expected her to open the drawers of the torture toolbox. Instead, she slid her hand into her pocket and withdrew a single object.

“This key,” she said, “unlocks those cuffs and leg irons.” She rested her other hand on the pistol at her hip. “And this nine-millimeter will send you to an early grave if you try to fight me. I suggest you relax. There are some things you don’t know, and we need to have a little chat. A meeting of the minds. Got it?”

“Not in the slightest,” I said. “You want to let me go?”

“Not until you listen to me. But I think you’d be more inclined to listen if you weren’t chained to that goddamn chair.”

I held up my hands. “Fine.” Maybe I could have tried to meditate deep enough in that moment to slow my perception and grab her pistol, then put it to her head before she realized what was happening. But that solution left me with a locked door and guards on the other side, and no clue about the building’s entrances and exits. I decided to listen.

Shondra unlocked the shackles then the cuffs, though she held her pistol to my temple for the latter. She stepped away, out of range of my fists, and holstered it.

I let the fag dangle from my lips while I rubbed my wrists. “What’s this all about, then?”

“Rosie’s got big plans for Mars. I’ve played along to protect my interests. But the truth is: Mags is right. Fuck Earth and fuck the mega-corps. I hate them all. We don’t need them sinking their fangs any deeper here. We need to cut them off. Stake them in their goddamn hearts like vampires. Now is the time for a truly independent Mars. Don’t you agree?”

I dropped the fag end on the floor and ground it out with my heel. “I do. Keep talking.”

“Rosie’s been good to you, and she’s been good to me. She’s been good to Mags, too, in her own way—at least until today. But that sly cunt will be good to anyone so long as it advances her goals. When they’ve outlived their usefulness, they can kiss their arses goodbye.”

“You’re trying to tell me you’re any different?”

“Tarzi, Tarzi, Tarzi. Do you think Mags is any different?”

We locked eyes. As angry as I was with Shondra, I could see what Mags found attractive about her. Not just on the surface, but the way her eyes glistened with amusement and a savage confidence that the entire universe, including me, was her plaything—a toy to bring her pleasure. It was a quality I’d seen a million times in Mags’ eyes, and Patches’, too. A feline view of life.

I said, “Mags is different. She has an agenda, but it isn’t all about her. It’s about her friends.”

Shondra applauded. “You are so perceptive for a little boy!”

“I’m not a little boy, you fucking hose-beast, and you know what? This is the shittiest way I can think of to spend my sixteenth birthday. Get to the point!”

Shondra laughed. “Happy Birthday!” She looked me up and down like a piece of meat in a market. “Mags would never forgive me if I gave you birthday spankings. But come see me in a couple years, and I might blow out your candle.”

She set her hands on one arm of my chair and leaned in until her face almost touched mine. Her perfume smelled like sandalwood and tobacco. Underneath ran her natural scent, a hint of sweat and engine oil. I could have counted her eyelashes and the flecks of green and brown dancing in her hazel irises. She was way too close.

“The point is,” said Shondra, “we’ve all got goals, and we all use people to the extent we can get away with. You, me, everyone. In this case, Mags’ goals and mine converge. The person who has outlived her usefulness is Rosie. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”

I gestured for another smoke. “Great ethics lesson. What does all this have to do with me?”

“Everything, Tarzi. You’ll help me take down Rosie and do it in such a way that she becomes a martyr to the cause of Martian liberation—the kind of liberation both Mags and I want. And, I suspect, that you want, too.”

“Rosie has the entire Martian Resistance behind her. You want to take on all of them?”

“Just a few. Rosie, her bodyguards, her inner circle. All in a way that implicates Port Authority loyalists in her death, so that when I step up and take her place, the movement will rally around me. Instead of Rosie assuming control of Mars—” She pantomimed a curtsey with a nonexistent skirt. “I will.”

“Just like that?”

“We’ll have a bit of bloodshed first. Right now, all over Mars, my people are responding to Rosie’s little coup.”

“You were right there in her office! You could have stopped her!”

“Right,” said Shondra. “And I could have had my hide perforated by bullets or wound up in chains like you and Mags. No thank you. But when the dust settles, I need propaganda. A touch of disinformation. The important thing is unifying the people and the Resistance behind something they already want and are willing to fight for: our liberation. With Rosie gone, the movement will gravitate toward a natural leader.”

“Mags plans on being that leader.”

Shondra cackled. “Mags is fucking delusional! Listen to me, boy. She’s bitten off more than she can chew. She has her hands full with Ceres, and there’s no way she can control Mars, too.”

“You can?”

“Tarzi, I absolutely can. As head of the shipyards, I am the most powerful industrialist on this godforsaken rock. I have political connections and powerful friends, and I’ve treated my workers well. They would go to war for me, and they are proving that right now, from the major cities to the settlements. No one knows Mars better than me, and no one else—not even Mags—has the resources and cash to make this happen.”

I hated to admit it, but Shondra was making a hell of a lot of sense. I shrugged it off. “Great, then. You’ve got it all sewn it up. What do you need me for?”

Shondra licked her lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”


The Exit


After she finished explaining, Shondra knocked on the door with a rhythm that must have been a code. When the door opened, a guard stood to each side. She shot one in the face. Before the second could react, she shot him, too.

Shondra handed me the nine-millimeter. It felt good in my hands. Perfectly balanced. A comfortable grip. It didn’t surprise me that a builder of her caliber would have great taste in firearms. She’d probably made Mags’ custom Desert Eagles.

Shondra pulled two magazines from her belt. “Armor piercing. You’ll need these.”

My shirt pocket held a copy of the map she’d given me, which she had not drawn herself. It was a printout of the facility’s fire evacuation plan. She’d highlighted a path in bright yellow. It began about halfway up the fifty-story building and snaked through a series of corridors, through fire doors and stairwells, and ended outside at ground level.

I’d already memorized it—a task that should have taken ten minutes but, when Shondra shut up and let me concentrate, took ten seconds.

I pocketed the magazines in my cargo pants. “You need to free Mags. Where the hell is Patches?”

“I don’t know, but she’s—”

At the thump of heavy, running footfalls in the hall around the corner, Shondra pulled a second pistol from a shoulder holster.

Three guards. The first one who came into view, Shondra dropped with a headshot. She missed the second, but I put two rounds into his torso. The third guard halted just out of sight around the corner. I fired three shots through the edge of the wall.

A scream, and the body fell into view, lifeless on the floor.

Shondra said, “You should conserve your ammo.”

“You should aim for center mass.”

She blew nonexistent smoke from the barrel of her pistol.

The gesture brought a smile to my face. “You’re as crazy as Mags.”

“I doubt that.” Shondra stepped over the bodies and advanced around the corner, keeping watch while I worked. “Hurry up! You need to go. Go!”

I raided the corpses for extra firearms and magazines. “Promise me you’ll set her free.”

Shondra said, “If you think anything can keep me from seeing my kitten again, you’re insane. Now get out of here.”

I did. In my wake, a series of explosions belonged to Shondra, creating a diversion. The fire alarm went off. It bought me time to get to the ground floor, and I only had to shoot six people to do it. At the bottom of the stairs, I sprinted for the exit door.

I hit it so hard I bounced off.

I stumbled and spun and was lucky I didn’t fall on my face. The goddamn thing was supposed to be open!

Several floors above me: shouts and footfalls. I tried the door again. Nothing. Had the system malfunctioned? I heard explosions outside. Was the door blocked by debris?

I didn’t have a clue. But the last place I needed to be was trapped between a sealed exit and an angry mob of guards and prisoners.

I ran back up the stairs to the floor above.


The Yard


The door on the second story opened to reveal a courtyard full of prisoners and dozens of guards, bounded on one side by the building and surrounded on the remaining three sides by a two-story fence. On the two corners farthest from me, sentry towers held more guards and swivel-mounted machine guns that could sweep the entire enclosure.

Those guns were, for the moment, silent, despite intermittent bursts from semi-automatic rifles in the towers. I supposed the sentries didn’t want to strafe the crowd with so many of their own caught in it, fighting for their lives in hand-to-hand combat.

I needed to get through the chaos before the tools in the towers changed their minds, and before the crowd in the interior stairwell reached the door at my back. The gate in the fence between the towers seemed like the best escape route. Judging from the surging tempest of bodies already there, a cluster of inmates had reached the same conclusion.

I ran down the concrete stairs and into the melee. So much for a clean getaway.

I pushed my way through, trying to take advantage of any brief opening in the mob, dodging the fights around me as best I could.

It wasn’t good enough. I caught a fist in the side of my head, and the force nearly broke my neck. I stumbled and fell against a guard, only recognizable from his uniform’s rough, grey wool. I clawed at the fabric and struggled to remain on my feet. What I saw of his face before he shoved me away was a red, misshapen disaster missing half its teeth.

I would have fallen again, but the bodies pressed even closer. The people in the stairwell joined the crowd as their fight spilled out of the building, through the door I’d taken, and down into the yard. In every direction, a mosh pit without music lost any semblance of sanity and became a violent blur.

God, the stench of it. Even the rusty Martian wind couldn’t sweep away the fermented sweat, the breath from mouths full of rotting teeth, the piss-stained prison uniforms that hadn’t been cleaned in years and barely held on by their last synthetic threads. I pressed toward the gate, clambering up and over people where I could—people hardly recognizable as individuals but one seething blob of muscle and hate.[2]

In the moments where my head bobbed above the crowd, casual slaughter confirmed my decision to go through it instead of attempting to scale the fence. All along the iron perimeter, prisoners began to climb the bars. Many of them had no choice. People at the edges were being crushed against the enclosure.

Climb or die.

The tattered rags of their orange uniforms hardly clinging to their bodies didn’t surprise me. In my months of snooping through Port Authority files when I was supposed to be working for Rosie, I learned that a PA prison was just about the last place in the system where you want to be held. Torture was common. Food and hygiene were not.

Those orange rags scaling the fence made easy targets for the men in the towers. The machine gunners, freed from the fear of killing their fellow guards on the ground, swept the fence with abandon. Bullets shredded the prisoners. Some held on by one hand, grasping an iron bar as their last breaths left their bodies. Their flaps of skin snapped like tattered flags in the dusk before falling to the ground.

The killing cowered no one. It only fueled the rage of the living.

They were no longer alone. Outside the gate, a second crowd gathered and also appeared to be trying to destroy the barrier. Between the chaos, gunfire, and the setting sun, I caught only glimpses as the mob alternately swallowed me and spit me up.

I could perceive this much: The crowd outside wasn’t the grey of a PA uniform. It lacked any uniformity at all, and that told me it was either part of the underground resistance or Shondra’s people. Or both.

It hit me just how meaningless those distinctions had become. What the hell had Rosie and Shondra done?

Rosie held one of the highest positions in the Port Authority, but she was also a leader in the resistance. Shondra had organized her workers into a separate fighting force, but her shipyards worked hand-in-hand with the Port Authority while covertly supplying the resistance and making things for Mags.

Many people from those different factions worked side-by-side and lived in the same neighborhoods. The only differences were the colors of their uniforms and who signed their paychecks. But few of them were happy with the way things were run on Mars, and who was running them, and all those pent-up tensions had been set off like a bomb.

It all came to me in a flash I had no time to ponder. A sentry tower exploded, showering the scene with iron shrapnel. I caught a piece in the shoulder, and it sliced me open. The riot drowned my cry. Before I knew it, strangers crushed me against the gate.

At least I’d made it that far. Someone’s hand covered half my face, but through one open eye I saw a man outside reloading an RPG, presumably to take out the second tower. If that tower went down, I could climb the fence—as long as I wasn’t smashed into a puree against it.

I drew my pistol. Without much room to aim, I shot the man behind me. His hand fell from my face and gave me space. I shot the guy behind him in the head. A grey-clad fist from beside me landed in my stomach.

Since I’d met Mags on that fateful night exactly two years before, I’d been hit, strangled, captured, shot at, bombed, crashed, toppled from cliffs, set on fire, and landed in more than my fair share of fights. But I had never been punched as hard as that guard hit me.

Three bullets in the torso were his reward. I couldn’t even breathe.

But I could climb.

No sooner had I gripped a vertical bar in the iron fence than the second tower burst into a ball of fire and metal shards. It was louder and closer than the first one. The blast hit so hard that everything around me faded to a muffled, indistinct blur. The cuts and bruises from the explosion didn’t register at the time. I was so amped on adrenaline that I don’t even remember climbing the fence.

The next thing I knew, I hit the ground on the other side. All around me, people shouted and pumped their fists in the air. I was the first over the fence, but not the last. Bodies landed beside me, some on their feet. I stumbled forward, and someone caught me.

I couldn’t hear what she said, but her lips formed the words, “You’re a free man, comrade!”

I raised my fist in salute. “Long live the resistance!”

Someone went for my pistol. I swung my fist blindly to the side and throat-punched my assailant. That crowd was no safer for me than the last. I pushed forward, away from the gate and the yard, into the streets of Hevelius.

Night fell on Mars.


The Hub


Approaching the hub, I ejected a magazine and replaced it. Mags was nowhere in sight. I put the thoughts of the people I’d killed far from my mind and took a second to appreciate the island of calm around the hub. Few if any of the average citizens knew the true function of the tower disguised as an agricultural administration building.

Shondra certainly knew, and she knew my PA clearance would give me access, assuming Rosie had been so busy setting off a revolution that she had not yet changed the codes. According to Shondra, Rosie intended to use the hub to control all Martian media broadcasts for propaganda purposes. Shondra wanted that power for herself. Whichever one of them could control the hub would command the flow of information for the entire planet.

Mags’ idle conversation at brunch seemed a lot more prescient to me then.

I typed a code on the panel beside the ground-level entrance and pressed my right palm onto a flat sensor.

I was in.

I passed an automated retina scan in the lobby, but no one guarded the metal detector. I climbed over a railing and went around it. From the other side, I saw dead bodies crammed underneath the reception desk. I didn’t recognize their faces, but the PA uniforms marked them as lobby staff and security.

Sucked to be them. I hoped I wouldn’t end up the same way.

An elevator took me to the top floor. The whole way up, I crouched in a corner, pistol drawn, ready to blast anyone that appeared on the other side of the door. But no one did.

I crept down the hall until I came to the main room. Inside awaited wall-to-wall racks of servers and consoles that could assume control of all Martian communications and media, from the radio towers at spaceports to the streaming news channels and satellite data.

Shondra had warned me. I knew I’d find Rosie there.

[1] Shondra has in mind the 2004 Horrorpops song Psychobitches Outta Hell. On Hell Yeah!, Los Angeles, CA: Hellcat Records.

[2] Tarzi lifted the phrase “muscle and hate” from Nitzer Ebb’s 1987 song, Join in the Chant. On That Total Age, Mute Records (UK) and Geffen/Warner Brothers (US).

Anyone Can Self-Publish a Book—Right? Not Necessarily.



A few times a month, aspiring authors contact me for advice on projects they have already begun, and they usually want me to help them self-publish their first book through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing program (KDP). Most of the time, these authors face challenges that can be summed up in one sentence: They do not know nor understand the technical requirements for KDP, nor how to meet those requirements. In all cases, these authors have been lured by the oft-repeated idea that now “anyone” can self-publish. This idea is both true and false, depending on how you look at it, so I want to give you some insight about why it can be false, and how it can be true.

Saying that “anyone” can do something is part of the problem. Consider these statements: Anyone can play a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. Anyone can play basketball like Shaquille O’Neal. Anyone can be an astronaut. Anyone can be a university professor who lectures about quantum mechanics.

See the problem? All these professions require years of study, training, and practice. They require technical skills and long-term dedication to the craft. While I enjoy reading the works of Richard Feynman, Stephen Hawking, and other noted physicists, I will never be on their level of understanding the subject. I don’t even want to spend the time learning the math required to have an intelligent conversation with them. And if you put me on a basketball court with NBA players, I would get my ass handed to me. Heck, a bunch of random high schoolers could defeat me on the court.

But I’m pretty good—though not great—at making music with a guitar. People who are lured into self-publishing by the “anyone can do it” mentality remind me of all the times I was asked by someone during my twenty-plus years of performing, “Show me how to play that.” People assume that if you make something look easy, then it must be easy, so surely you can show them how to do what you do in a couple of minutes. But they don’t realize how much they don’t understand about rhythm, harmony, scales, and the language of music, and they definitely don’t realize how long you need to train your hands, muscles, and brain to play an instrument.

My experience in the world of self-publishing is no different. Someone might say, “Show me how to make a Kindle ebook,” but they don’t have the most basic software skills that take anywhere from hours to years to learn. Someone might say, “Help me set up my book on KDP,” but they have files that are completely unworkable for technical reasons they do not understand. They often do not know the language or terminology needed to even explain the problems. They have no idea what “image resolution” means, or what “Styles” are in MS Word, or the basic conventions for a properly formatted manuscript.

One author asked me on the phone about an “Izbin”, and I didn’t know what he was talking about. He was trying to pronounce “ISBN” like an acronym. That was somewhat less frustrating than the people who ask about “ISBN Numbers” without realizing the “N” in “ISBN” stands for “number”. I often wonder if they use their “PIN Numbers” to operate “ATM Machines” in a universe where the usefulness of acronyms has been destroyed by redundancy.

When it comes to printing paperback books, the problems compound. Have you ever tried explaining a “bleed” to someone who has no background in graphic design? I’ve encountered freelance “designers” who still don’t understand how to set up their files to meet bleed or resolution requirements, and “designers” charging way more than I do per hour but don’t have the first clue about the technical requirements for paperback covers. They might be talented artists whose creativity surpasses mine, but they don’t understand making books.

It isn’t like I was born with this knowledge or learned it all in a day. My first print-on-demand paperback in 2013 left a lot to be desired in terms of design and editing, and I’ve since taken it out of print to save myself the embarrassment. My first full-color art book was rejected by the printer for technical problems, and I couldn’t fix it for the life me, no matter how many hours I spent. It wasn’t until I had another year or two of experience that I was able to re-open the old files, realize what the problem was, and fix it in about five minutes. That five-minute fix took me years to build up to.

Then we have the problem of quality. The biggest complaint about self-published books is that the writing isn’t very good and has never been professionally edited. One author contacted me because she was upset that her ebook wasn’t selling on Kindle, and she asked if I had any marketing advice. I looked her up on Amazon, found her book, and used the “Look Inside” feature to see what she was trying to sell. The text had a ton of obvious spelling, grammar, and punctuation errors on the very first page. Plus, the cover was unappealing, and the description in the Amazon listing was even worse.

As is so often the case in my line of work, it fell to me to be the bearer of bad news and explain to the author all the ways in which her design, description, and the text itself were sending huge red flags to potential buyers. Everything about the book screamed, “Don’t buy me!” Fortunately, I was able to help that author with copyediting, formatting, and a cover re-design. Now she has a book she can be proud of.

I understand authors with a do-it-yourself mentality. If I didn’t have the same mentality, I wouldn’t be where I am today. But I came to the world of self-publishing with a few decades of experience in writing as a professional, making art as a hobbyist, and using relevant software in both capacities. And you know what? My first book still sucked. Despite all I had learned, I had miles to go before I could competently make a book, even farther before I could communicate all the requirements to others, and farther still before I could lead an entire project team in a logical, organized way where things went smoothly.

In the years since, I’ve focused on helping other authors. I’ve looked for ways to share what I’ve learned or put my knowledge and experience to good use so other authors can experience the profound joy of holding in their hands a book they made and can be proud of—and confidently sell. Even so, that rarely happened without a team.

While it might be true that “anyone” can self-publish, few people can successfully do it on their own. A team might include an editor, a graphic designer or illustrator, a marketing consultant, and even a ghost writer or co-writer. Since all those people tend to speak their own language, the team usually needs a project manager, too—not the author, who probably does not speak any of those languages fluently, but someone who can help everyone involved stay on target because he knows the entire process from start to finish.

Can anyone do what I do? Sure. It is far from impossible. I encourage my fellow authors to get into it all the time. But people getting into self-publishing for the first time rarely realize just how much there is to know, and they become easily frustrated when they encounter obstacles during the production, or if nobody wants to buy their book.

Maybe anyone can play amazing guitar like Joe Satriani, but it isn’t necessarily easy or quick to get there. Believe me. I tried to learn a few of his songs and still can’t do them justice even after months of practice. Even if I could compose and shred like Satriani, he never goes on stage without a team to support his performance, from his fellow musicians to the stage crew and his management team.

Maybe anyone can do what Satriani does, but only if they are willing to invest the years of study and practice, take the time to find a team to help them succeed, and persevere in an insanely competitive marketplace. They should also be willing to accept that their first album might not be their greatest album, but it can be a learning experience and a steppingstone to truly great things.

For more insights into writing and becoming a better writer by workshopping with others, check out my recent book My Life as an Armadillo. For a quick orientation to the world of self-publishing that will save you from a lot of headaches and wasted money, see A Passion for Planning. Good luck on your writing journey!

The Martian Revolution: Part 1 of 4


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Here is the first part of my pre-publication draft for a new Meteor Mags story.

Episode 29 in The Adventures of Meteor Mags and Patches.
© 2021 Matthew Howard. All Rights Reserved.
16K words. Science Fiction > Action > Adventure.

Torn between conflicting factions in the Martian Resistance, Mags’ unofficially adopted nephew Tarzi spends his sixteenth birthday in a struggle to survive. Betrayed and imprisoned on Mars by people they once thought were friends, Mags and Patches vow to soak the red planet in blood if that’s what it takes to rescue Tarzi and change the political structure of the solar system. But not everyone is who they pretend to be.


Though my soul may set in darkness,
it will rise in perfect light.

I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.

—Sarah Williams; The Old Astronomer to His Pupil, 1936.


Prologue: Sixteen Bullets

4 July 2030. Tarzi.

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, dear Tarzi. Happy birthday—

You know, some small part of me hoped for a cake with sixteen candles. Maybe a chocolate cheesecake. A pineapple upside-down with cherries. Even a lousy white cake with cream-cheese frosting would do.

Instead, I got a nine-millimeter pistol with fifteen armor-piercing rounds in an extended magazine.

The sixteenth bullet waited in the chamber when I slammed a fresh magazine into place, but not anymore. It took out the first guard. I think I got two more. Then there’s the round lodged firmly inside the skull of my former boss, Rosalia—unless it exited the back of her head.

It’s hard to say for sure. She fell behind a server rack, and I can’t see much from here.

That was one hell of a lucky shot.

It helps that I can slow time. It does not help that half a dozen rough motherfuckers keep shooting at me with semi-automatic rifles. I hug the ground and listen. They don’t seem to mind wasting ammo. If they aren’t careful, they’ll shoot this room to bits. Then we’re all fucked.

I count the bursts of rifle fire and try to anticipate when they pause to reload. The console I’m hiding behind should buy me a few seconds.

After that?

Probably the end of my last birthday.

Fuck this noise. I can take a few of the bastards with me.

To a merry life, then.

And a short one.


Part One: Opening Moves

The Arrival

3 July 2030.

Meteor Mags and Patches arrived on Mars in the Bêlit. The Puma Broadcasting Network played Jerk of All Trades by Lunachicks.[1] Mags said, “That’s my jam!” She raised one hand to make the sign of the devil and danced beside the captain’s chair until the song finished.

Patches sprawled on one side in front of the exit. Her eyes narrowed to slits. Her bushy torso rose and fell in a rapid rhythm.

Mags said, “Are you excited to visit the birthday boy? He’ll be happy to see you.” She adjusted her hair and touched up her makeup in a mirror. “Can’t have Shondra seeing me looking like a dog’s breakfast.”[2]

But no amount of makeup could hide the bruises from her failed mission to Earth, nor the stapled laceration that ran through one eyebrow and past her hairline. She squirted liquid morphine on her tongue to dull the ache in her cracked ribs.[3] A slow warmth crept through her veins.

Patches mewed.

“Whatever, baby. Not all of us are invincible, and that shit hurts.”[4] Mags knelt beside Patches and scratched both sides of the fuzzy calico face. “Let’s go meet Shondra. It’s the middle of the bloody night here, but we’ll have lunch with Tarzi tomorrow. Maybe we can get some kisses before bedtime.”

Mags grabbed a passport for Margaret Reid and tucked it into a zippered pocket on her military-issue tactical pants.[5] They weren’t the sexiest thing to meet Shondra in, but they were comfortable and functional. After getting nearly blown to bits in Africa twenty-four hours earlier, Mags craved comfort.

The pair of feline adventurers locked down the ship and went to find their hostess in the Martian shipyards. Patches scampered ahead, sniffing here and there, chasing bugs and clawing a few pieces of Shondra’s property that would never recover. She looked over her shoulder to see if Mags was keeping up, then bolted to the other side of the street.

“Wait up!” Mags paused and held an arm against her ribs. “Goddamnit, I’m getting old. Wait up!”[6]


The Sleepover

As the owner of the Martian shipyards, Shondra easily afforded several apartments on Mars. Some she used to entertain customers. Some she kept secret between her and various lovers. Some were quiet places to get away from it all, purchased under aliases and known only to her. None of them was quite so luxurious as her private quarters within the shipyard.

Mags held a rocks glass filled with rum and settled onto a red velvet chaise lounge. Patches jumped up beside her. “Shondra, you live like a queen! Sorry about the cat hair.”

Shondra said, “Patches doesn’t shed half as bad as you. Every time you come around waving that tail of yours, it takes the maids an entire day to vacuum.”

Mags patted the lounge beside her. “That’s not even true. Come sit with me.”

Shondra finished at the mini-bar, and her silhouette strode across the massive windows overlooking the shipyards. For a silent moment, she turned her back to Mags and took a sip while enjoying the view of her empire. Below, the nightshift workers toiled in sprays of sparks from arc welders and the glow of halogen lamps. Above, the gleaming stars.

Eventually, she sat on the edge of the lounge and clinked her glass against Mags’. “To empires.”

“So long as they belong to us.”

Shondra took a sip. “Do you like it on Ceres?”

“Shondra, I love it! It sucked so bad when the old place on Vesta got wrecked, but my girls are doing amazing things on Ceres. It’s a dream come true.”

“I’m happy for you.” Shondra ran her fingertips up and down Mags’ thigh.

“What about you? It seems like you’ve got it all on Mars.”

Shondra’s eyes sparkled in candlelight thrown from the end table next to the lounge. “Not everything. There’s a certain kitty I wish would visit more often. But I make do. I’m a firm believer that you can have it all in life. You just can’t have it all at the same time.”

“Words to live by.” Mags took a gulp and laid back on the lounge, balancing her drink in her lap between her crossed legs. “Something is missing, though, isn’t it? I can tell just by looking at you.”

“Can’t sneak anything past those bright green eyes of yours.” Shondra took a drink. “The truth is, Mars is my dream come true. But the dream is tainted. I’m sick of our laws and government being controlled by Earth. Mars can govern itself. I won’t be happy until she does.”

“Cheers,” said Mags.


Mags said, “I’m here for Tarzi’s birthday tomorrow, but you know I am down with the Martian liberation. It’s been on my mind a lot this year. It’s the next big step to system-wide freedom from Earth’s interference. Let’s make it happen. You and me. Rosie can help.”

Shondra held out one hand. When Mags set hers in it, Shondra ran the backs of her nails over Mags’ wrist. “Are you ready for a revolution?”

Mags shivered. She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember that Danko Jones song? Revolution—and Then We Make Love.”[7]

Shondra slid onto Mags. “Why wait?” She kissed the smuggler’s neck.

Mags winced. “Take it easy! I fucked up my ribs yesterday. Look, they’re all taped up.”

“I’ll be gentle,” said Shondra.

Mags set her drink on the end table. “Alright, then.”

Patches leapt off the lounge. She sauntered into the kitchen where Shondra had set out a pair of bowls. She was well-fed and napping on the bed for two hours before Mags and Shondra finally snuggled under the sheets and went to sleep.

Sunrise came early.


The Lunch

4 July 2030.

Kepler Mall sprawled across the Martian landscape. It shared one border with the rest of Hevelius, and the Port Authority considered it to be legally within city limits. But the three sides jutting from the city’s eastern-most boundary drew on the map a jagged explosion of commerce the local government struggled to keep up with.

Shoppers relied on global positioning data from the Martian Satellite Network to navigate the labyrinth of shops rising two hundred and fifty stories into the sky at its highest point. Wrapped around the peak in loops and dips, a roller coaster offered Mars’ bravest tourists a ride they never forgot.

In 2029, shopping in the mall without MSN data became a fad. After three months of people dying of starvation and thirst in obscure corridors, the Port Authority put a brutal end to that past-time. Much of the video was suppressed, and many of the bodies were never found. Within two weeks of the crackdown, the mall once again became a cheerful place that pleased its shareholders.

Mags and Patches met Tarzi on the scenic balcony of the Crimson Crane, a restaurant on the top floor serving breakfast twenty-five hours a day. Even after the installation of artificial gravity and a manufactured atmosphere, Mars retained its red tint. The planet’s iron burnished the underbellies of clouds, blazed on mountains in the sun, and frothed in ice-cold rivers running from the polar ice caps into once-forgotten stream beds.

Mags switched off her satellite connection and stuffed her phone into the pocket inside her bra. “They’re tracking us.”

Across the table, Tarzi slid a palm-sized disc onto the surface between them. “They were.”

“Nice.” She leaned back in her café chair and relaxed. “Did you ever think about what it would take to assume control of a massive building like this?”

“I always think about that over breakfast,” Tarzi lied. “But control what? The perimeter so no one can get in or out? The people inside so chaos won’t erupt? Buying the politicians and corporations who really control the thing?”

Mags purred. “Now you’re asking the important questions.” She lowered her voice as their waitress approached for the second time. “Don’t forget about the flow of information. In a system like this, data and media are your main weapons. If you control communication—”

The waitress sidled up to the table with three plates and a smile for Mags. “You had four eggs over easy and three slices of raw ham?”

Mags took one plate. “Thank you, dear. The dish of liver, you can set on the floor. It’s for my cat.”

Tarzi claimed the third plate of beans, bangers, eggs, and toast. His black cup of coffee stood in contrast to the sugary beast Mags ordered, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and cinnamon. When the waitress was out of earshot, he said, “Probably a plant.”

“Definitely a plant.” Mags sipped the hot espresso and wiped the whipped cream from her upper lip with the back of one hand. “Every business owner and employee in this mall is Port Authority, whether directly employed or financially backed. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“I was wondering,” said Tarzi, “if Patches could make eating liver sound any more disgusting. What is she doing?”

“She isn’t rolling in it, is she?” Mags checked. “Liver’s gross, but it has massive nutrients. Along with the heart, it’s one of the first organs a cat eats when she takes down prey.”

“Right,” said Tarzi. He eyed the chunk of sausage on the end of his fork, then set it down.

“Happy birthday,” said Mags. She raised her cup. “To my favorite nephew.”

Their glasses clinked together. “I thought Anton was your favorite.”

“He’s definitely Sarah’s. Do you remember what it was like to be his age?”

“Sure,” said Tarzi. “The day I turned fourteen, I met a homicidal pirate who whisked me away on a series of random space adventures. Ever since then, it’s been a blur.”[8] He savored a sip. “Great kids, though. The stuff they’re doing in Dumpster Kittens totally slays.”

“Did you hear the Toilet Gator single?”

“Dunny Croc,” he quoted, “lives in a secret place.”

“It’s the kind of place that you can’t escape!”[9]

“Hell no, it isn’t. You need to market that. If I can’t have a Dunny Croc t-shirt by next week, then what the fuck are we even doing out here?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Mags shoveled an entire slice of ham into her face, chewed three times, and swallowed it nearly whole. She sat back and crossed her arms behind her head. “You wouldn’t want to manage the entire publishing catalog of Two Black Roses Records, would you?”

Tarzi laughed. “Not in a billion years! Who is your second choice?”

Before Mags could reply, a drone interrupted. Like a miniature helicopter, it flew up and over the balcony railing and zoomed straight for the table.

Mags drew a pistol from inside her leather jacket before Tarzi even moved. But before she pulled the trigger, a familiar voice stopped her.

“Hi!” said Rosalia. “Happy birthday!”

Tarzi said, “Thanks, boss. How are things?”

“Great,” Rosalia replied from kilometers away. Her voice came through the drone’s speakers, and the drone’s camera sent video to her of Mags and Tarzi. “Listen, I hate to bother you, but can you come to the office for a minute?”

Mags holstered her pistol. “Give it up, Rosie. It’s the kid’s birthday!”

“I’m really sorry,” said Rosalia, “but I have a gift for you, and I want you to have it before I go away. Something’s come up, and I need to leave the planet in an hour. If you come in for a few minutes, you can have the whole rest of the week off!”

Mags frowned.

Tarzi said, “You drive a hard bargain. We’ll be over on the next shuttle from the mall. Alright?”

“See you soon.” The drone disappeared over the edge of the balcony.

Mags said, “She’s got some nerve, calling you in on your day off. We had plans!”

“Relax,” said Tarzi. “She’s awesome to work for, and she’s giving me a week off. It’s like five minutes from here on the shuttle.”

“Fine,” said Mags. “Let’s go visit the wicked witch!” She shoved another slice of ham and a couple eggs into her mouth and washed them down with half of the sugary, caffeinated monster on the other side of her plate. She tossed a wad of cash onto the table and waved to their waitress on the way out.

On the way to the shuttle, Mags and Tarzi cracked sarcastic jokes and laughed at recollections of their adventures over the past two years: the first time they met Donny and he tried to kill them, the time they fell into a cavern full of octopus eggs, the time Tarzi made fun of Mags and she repaid him by pretending to be permanently disfigured.[10]

Settling into her seat, Mags said, “Good times.” Patches crawled into her lap.


The Conspiracy

Rosalia’s office on the forty-fifth floor of the Port Authority Administration building had expanded since 2029. Back then, in a government post Mags’ bribes had helped her acquire, she was the secretary to the Chief Administrator, and she reported directly to Kaufman. But after Kaufman abandoned his post to join Mags’ pirate crew—an endeavor Rosalia assisted—a much more pliable man replaced him.[11]

That was no surprise to Rosalia. She had planned on it for years, played no small role in making it happen, and exploited it to her every advantage. Besides manipulating the Port Authority to the benefit of the underground resistance, besides leaking whatever information she felt would be useful to her for Mags to know, Rosalia redecorated. She knocked out walls between offices until she had the space of half a dozen rooms to herself on one corner of the forty-fifth floor. To maintain the new Chief’s feeling of superiority, she had his office re-done the same way, but with twice as much space.

The palatial results were an obvious waste of the PA’s budget. But who was there for anyone to complain to? Certainly not the Chief and his right-hand woman who had a knack for keeping him fat and happy with the spoils of power. And the government on Earth? In 2030, humanity’s home planet had enough troubles of its own, and a few hundred million dollars siphoned by corruption was the least of its worries.

When Mags arrived with Tarzi and Patches, they stepped into the second most opulent office in the Martian government.

“Damn, Rosie! I love what you’ve done with the place!” Mags admired the oil paintings on the walls of the foyer, any one of which could have paid a miner’s pension for generations, and the largest of which cost more than the gross domestic product of some Earth nations.

Rosalia hugged her. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to sell me Blue Poles?”

Mags laughed. “Not a chance. That piece has sentimental value. I can get you a good deal on a Monet, though. What’s with the goon squad?”[12]

Half a dozen guards stood silent, three on each side of the doorway.

“Don’t mind them,” said Rosalia. “Something’s come up, and I could use the extra security. Tarzi! Happy birthday!”

“Thanks, boss.” He held out his fist for a bump, and she met it. “How’d you find us at the mall? I had a signal blocker with me.”

Rosalia raised a finger in a fake scold. “That’s illegal.”

“What isn’t?”

“True enough. I sent my drone to the floor where there was a signal void. Your sitting on the balcony was luck.”

Mags said, “We like to dine in style. Is Shondra here?”

Rosalia’s amiable façade cracked for a fraction of a second. “How did you—”

“She has a unique scent. Now I know something is up. Why don’t you tell us what’s really happening?”

Rosalia said, “Follow me.” She led them from the foyer to the corner of the building, where a rosewood desk bigger than a coffin awaited. Behind it, two walls of windows overlooked Hevelius.

Near the far corner of the desk, Shondra reclined in a chair. She filed her nails with an emery board as if she had not a care in the world. Her face lit up. “Maggie!”

“Long time.” Mags gave her a peck on the cheek. “Do you mind telling me what’s so important that you had to interrupt my breakfast?”

Rosalia sat behind her desk and clacked her painted nails on its lacquered top in a staccato rhythm. “The Chief Administrator is dead.”

“Dead?” Tarzi stopped behind a seat. “What happened?”

Rosalia said, “You want to sit down for this.”

Mags sat directly across the desk from Rosalia, with Shondra on her right and Tarzi taking the spot on her left.

Patches rubbed her cheeks on the corner of a cardboard box on the carpet below one window. Satisfied with the packaging, she climbed in and made herself at home. She curled into a nap. Her fuzzy tail covered her nose.

Rosalia said, “An hour ago, I killed him. The body’s still in the office, but let’s just say the Chief isn’t taking any calls right now.” She relished a rare pause where both Mags and Tarzi were stunned into silence. “In other news, I’ll be moving into a bigger office.”

Mags broke into laughter. “Rosie, what the hell were you thinking? Hahaha! Don’t get me wrong. I thought about taking him out myself. But to what end? There’s no guarantee that you get promoted into his position. Not with the old-boys network in the PA.”

Rosalia rested her elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve gained the support of people in high places. The resistance will take care of any local opposition. A majority of the Martian people want me in that position, and Earth’s authorities will back me up.”

Shondra said, “Rosie’s been busy.”

“I guess so,” said Mags. “Still, I’m a bit peeved that all this happened without talking to me first.” She lit a stolen cigarette. “Any deal with Earth is probably fucked. The last thing they want is the Martian independence we’ve been working on for years.”

“No, they’re on board with the plan,” said Rosalia. “Earth is prepared to sign a new trade agreement with Mars once I take over.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Mags. “You’re not making a treaty with them, are you?”

Rosalia said, “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Earth will retain control over some things. Shipping. Trade. Interplanetary policy.”

“Fuck,” said Mags. “Basically everything? Fuck those arseholes! Earth needs to stay the hell away from Mars! You can’t trust any of those warmongering, baby-raping idiots! What are you—”

Shondra interrupted. “Mags, relax. This deal means a hell of a lot more money.”

“Fuck that,” said Mags. “If we want to get rich, then we put a boot in Earth’s arse and do things ourselves!”

Rosalia’s smile disappeared. “I knew you’d feel that way. That is why you’ve been chosen to be our representative to Earth. Our negotiator.”

Mags choked on a puff of smoke. “What? I’m the most wanted felon on Earth! They only want me dead or in chains.”

Rosalia said, “Precisely. But I solved that, too.”

“How? With a pardon?”

“Not quite,” said Rosalia. “Let me show you.”

In later years, Meteor Mags could never put her finger on exactly what prompted her to spring into motion. Was it, she wondered, something about Rosalia’s scent or inflection? The unexplained presence of the guards? The interruption of her meal? Sheer instinct?

Mags was out of her chair and lunging over the desktop toward Rosalia when the first tranquilizer dart hit her. Fired by a guard behind her, its metal tip sank into her backside and spit poison into her veins.

In the same moment, Rosalia’s fist smashed a button atop her desk. It sprang a trap for Patches. Two halves of a transparent sphere erupted from the floor, supported by metal arms that slammed the halves together, enclosing the calico’s cardboard box.

Mags’ hands went for Rosalia’s throat.

Rosalia kicked her chair backward. On her way to the ground, she fired a second dart that caught Mags in the meat below her collarbone. The back of the chair smacked into the floor. Mags’ trajectory took her over Rosalia to smash into the window behind her.

Mags struck the glass but landed on her feet. The sedative made her stumble. Before she could resume her attack, the office lit up like a lightning storm.

Inside the transparent sphere around Patches, a fury of electric current seized the cat with tendrils of white outlined in blue. Patches swung her claws until they shredded the remnants of the box trapped with her. Levitating in the center of the sphere, she could not reach its perimeter to destroy it.

Her feline howls drowned out all but the roar from Mags’ throat. The smuggler pounced on Rosalia.

Tarzi tried to leap to his feet, but he was tackled by a guard and taken to the ground. A stranglehold ended his shouting.

Mags straddled Rosalia and swung her fists. The blows fell without her typical strength. “I will kill you!” She took punches from Rosalia to her stomach. Though her eyes flashed with fire, Mags’ body betrayed her. She slumped forward and fell face-first onto her opponent.

Rosalia rolled the body to one side, cursing with the effort. She gripped a fistful of Mags’ hair and held the brigand’s head to the light surrounding Patches.

Spit streamed from the sides of Mags’ mouth and down her chin. Her eyes blazed, but she could not move or shout.

Rosalia said, “Thank your so-called nephew for this. He told me how Patches got deactivated last year by electricity.” [13]

Patches contorted within the ball of energy. Her legs struck out at unnatural angles. Her hair stood on end. Patches’ scream made Mags’ blood run cold in her veins.

Light and shadow performed a twisted ballet across Rosalia’s face, mirrored on Mags’ pale skin. “You should have joined us. You should have taken the deal.” She held Mags’ head firmly in her grip and forced the pirate’s green eyes to meet hers through the tears. “You brought this on yourself.”

Patches’ struggling came to an abrupt stop. A cylinder rose from the floor and swallowed the transparent glass bubble around her. Rosalia released Mags and assumed a place at the window, which she opened with the touch of a button.

The cylinder shot Patches into the sky.

“So much for your familiar,” said Rosalia. “She’ll soon be in orbit—far, far away. And you will be on Earth. A price for peace.”

Tears ran down Mags’ cheeks. She could not curse Rosalia, but Tarzi did. The young man wished unspeakable things upon Rosalia and her ancestors—until a soldier choked the sound out of him.

“Strip-search her.” Rosalia indicated one of her guards with her finger.

“I’ll do it.” Shondra set down her emery board on the arm of her chair for the first time since the confrontation. “I know her tricks. You do not want to try to disarm that bitch, even passed put.”

On the floor, before Tarzi’s eyes, Shondra removed all of Mags’ clothes and her hidden weapons. She said, “Let me take the boy. He knows things about her crew that can help us.”

Rosalia said, “You can have him. Get me something useful.”

Both Tarzi and Mags were carted off in chains—one struggling the whole way, and one completely unconscious.

Patches was nowhere to be found.

[1] From their 1995 album of the same name on Go-Kart Records: New York.

[2] “Dog’s breakfast” is Australian slang for an absolute mess.

[3] Mags was injured in Antipodes, which took place on 2 July 2030.

[4] Patches became indestructible in 2029, in Patches the Immortal.

[5] Mags has a huge collection of fake passports under aliases that are variations on her name in several languages. Mags’ great-gramma often used this same alias.

[6] Mags turned 106 years old in November 2029. Due to her magic ring, her expected (though not guaranteed) lifespan is 200 years. When she says she is getting old, she means really frickin’ old.

[7] On Wildcat. 2017, AFM Records: Schwalmstadt, Germany.

[8] Tarzi’s fourteenth birthday is the first scene in Old Enough.

[9] The complete lyric to Toilet Gator, which Mags and Tarzi quote here, appears in Small Flowers.

[10] These events were chronicled in Old Enough and Red Metal at Dawn.

[11] See The Lost Crew of the Volya IX for details of Kaufman’s desertion and Rosalia’s assistance in his escape.

[12] Mags’ ownership of and sentimental attachment to Jackson Pollack’s Blue Poles appears in The Ryderium Caper. It was a favorite of Gramma Margareta’s, and the poles inspired Mags’ free-energy system.

[13] As told in Daughter of Lightning.

We3: Home Is Run No More


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Every now and then, I read a tragic story that breaks my heart, but no comic-book adventure has ever broken me so relentlessly as We3. A friend who isn’t really into comic books got into Grant Morrison thanks to the live-action show Happy—based on the four-issue series of the same name published by Image—so I’ve been digging into the Morrison archives. Along the way, I realized I’d never read what many people consider to be one of Morrison’s best works, if not the best. We3 is an action-packed story brought to life by Morrison’s long-time artistic collaborator Frank Quitely, and though I’ve enjoyed Quitely’s artwork for years, he outdid his own genius on We3. Before we delve into the book, let me just say that this story features one of my all-time favorite things: a cat who absolutely kicks ass.

The cat’s given name is Tinker, but she is only referred to in the story as “2”. Tinker is part of a team of three normal animals who have been surgically altered and had their brains messed with so they can become killing machines encased in high-tech armor to perform military missions and assassinations instead of having human soldiers do the job. Joining Tinker in this horrifying experiment are the dog Bandit—referred to as “1”, and the only one of the three to re-discover his real name in the story—and a rabbit named Pirate (“3”) because of a black spot over one eye.

Each of these animals was someone’s beloved pet before the story began. Instead of telling the reader this fact through flashbacks or exposition, the creative team shows it much more powerfully with “lost pet” flyers on the covers of each issue. When you realize what has been done to these hapless animals, the covers hit like a punch to the gut.

When the higher-ups decide that these lost and kidnapped animals need to be killed—decommissioned, per orders—the three of them escape their containment facility and run away. Their combat modifications and training make them dangerous to society, so the military pursues them. One of the many tragic aspects of this story is that the trio doesn’t mean to be dangerous murder machines. These animals were forced against their will to become horrors in the service of the same humans who want to put them down.

Nowhere is this more strongly portrayed than through Bandit’s canine emotional crises. Bandit truly wants to be a good dog. He wants to protect his beloved animal allies in We3 and also help humans, but he is forced into situations where his combat programming takes over and he kills humans. In the aftermath of the killings, his simple, mournful repetition of “Bad dog” hits home more powerfully than pages of dialogue or narrative captions could ever do.

Tinker does not share the dog’s remorse. She thinks the whole thing stinks. When Bandit tries to save a human body to convince himself he is a good dog, Tinker bluntly tells him the man is dead. As the two animals fade into the horizon while arguing, the panels reveal the human is annihilated from the waist down. In a combination of graphic images and minimal, broken dialogue, Morrison and Quitely set up the tension between the cat’s no-nonsense and apparently correct assessment of the situation with the dog’s potentially delusional idealism.

Each animal’s cybernetically enhanced speech pattern says volumes about them. On the first read, I had trouble understanding their speech, but it all became clear to me upon the second reading. Bandit the dog is haunted by regret over what he has been made to do, and he struggles to lead his “pack” in a volatile and untenable situation. Pirate the rabbit is the most simple-minded of the trio, only speaking in one-word sentences, but that doesn’t stop him from delivering a heart-wrenching reminder to his comrades that they are friends and are all in this together. Sadly, Pirate’s speech degrades into mere electronic noise after he suffers an injury.

Cat-lover that I am, I especially enjoyed Tinker’s dialogue. Her feline disdain for just about everything is expressed through the word “Stink”, rendered as “ST!NK” or, when she is really angry, “!SSST!!!NKK!” Compared to the peaceful rabbit and optimistic dog, Tinker appears to be the least bothered by all the killing. She seems at times to revel in it. Tinker is also the group’s cynic who doesn’t believe the trio will ever find a home, because “home” no longer exists for any of them—a point of contention that leads to an argument with Bandit.

And what is home? What does “home” mean to Bandit after all the awful things the team has endured? To the dog, home is a simple concept. “Home is run no more.” Home is a place where these involuntary machines of war can find peace and rest, and that is Bandit’s hope for We3. But as the story progresses, it’s impossible to escape the feeling that Tinker is right, that home and peace will be forever denied these unfortunate animals because of what’s been done to them—and what of their lives and identities have been stolen from them.

Quitely employs many innovative and dramatic approaches to action. A video by Strip Panel Naked does a good job of analyzing the groundbreaking visuals in this story, so check that out. Regarding the page where Tinker hacks and slashes her way through a series of panels filled with his enemies, I am reminded of what Scott McCloud taught in his book Understanding Comics, where he asserts that part of the magic of comics is what happens—but is not shown—between the panels, allowing the reader to fill in the blanks. Quitely gives us two-dimensional panels rendered in 3-D with Tinker in action, demonstrating how the cat is a fast-moving agent of destruction. While Tinker’s opponents exist entirely within the panels, she flashes like lightning through the spaces between them.

Go, Tinker! As Bandit says in a dramatic moment, “Gud 2! 1 Protect!”

Quitely also does amazing things with panels-within-panels to show a sequence of fast-paced actions in a slow-motion strobe effect, and he often employs elements of the scene’s environment to create panel-like divisions, such as rendering trees in all black to create dividing lines, or using the metal structure of a bridge to divide a series of movements across that bridge.

For a few pages, Quitely captures the narrative in an insane number of more than one hundred tiny panels to show footage from multiple security cameras in the containment facility—only to present a spectacular release from all that claustrophobic tension by finishing with a two-page double splash where our heroes burst into the night.

We3 has been collected in paperback, hardcover, and a second hardcover “deluxe” edition with ten new pages of story. But I recommend you read We3 either in digital format or in the original stapled comic-book format so you can see all the amazing two-page spreads without any part of them disappearing into the gutter of a bound book. Like I said in my recent review of the Bendis/Maleev run on Daredevil, it is a rare and beautiful thing to see a comic book story where script, art, and overall design are perfectly married for maximum narrative and emotional effect. We3 is one of those perfect unions.

Collector’s Guide: It’s hard to find the original three-issue printing, but you can easily find a reasonably priced collected paperback on Amazon. Current prices on the deluxe hardcover are ridiculous. Instead, I suggest getting the $10 digital edition so you can fully appreciate the two-page spreads.

guest column: Ego and the Insect



I wrote this short piece from the point of view of Meteor Mags while brainstorming ideas that eventually became The Hive (now published in the Singing Spell collection). I’m not convinced everything Mags says about insect minds is correct, but she did become the queen of a hive of space wasps and telepathically bond with them in 2030. Maybe she knows what she’s talking about! For a more scientific analysis of ant communication, see the fifteen-minute video “The Insane Biology of Ant Colonies“.


Ego and the Insect

Sitting quietly, doing nothing. The seasons change. The wind blows by itself. [1] Your ego is just along for the ride. It likes to grab the wheel and try to take over. It likes to think it’s in charge. But it’s about as in charge as a waterfall or a dandelion. It’s more like the sound of a waterfall or color of a dandelion. It’s a facet of the organism. If you put enough connections in that electrified chunk of fat you have in your skull, then group it with similar organisms—Boom! You get ego as naturally as a flower blooms, or a star explodes.

The ego, the “I”, the “me, me, me” of this monologue everyone constantly carries on—it’s an effect of the organism. Fantasy is what the ego does in its spare time, though you could argue the entire ego is a fantasy, a story, an interpretation based on limited sensory input and demonstrably faulty thought processes.

The result is that the ego’s fantasies are indistinguishable from reality. They feel just as real. The emotional content is just as vivid. Fantasy can be irrational, but our understanding of reality is already anything but rational.

And when we dream, we have irrational fantasies which our minds have difficulty distinguishing as unreal when they happen. Dreams can exert powerful sway over an individual’s choices in life, from how their day goes all the way to major decisions that decide the fate of nations.

The brain is predisposed to nonrational structures and narratives. It makes its own as dreams, and it experiences them as a second reality. Some people become aware they are dreaming and even control the dream. That’s no different from a child knowing she is playing pretend but deciding how the narrative goes.

Ego arises naturally from the organism at a certain intersection of brain complexity and social complexity, and fantasy arises naturally as an aspect of ego.

Group organisms such as ants, bees, and wasps might have an ego, but it involves the social part of the equation more than ours, which we experience as individual brain function. The “I” of an ant colony arises from the same forces as ours but is experienced on a group level, by the whole group as one. We might never find a single ant who identifies itself as “I”, as a separate ego.

That doesn’t mean the colony’s ego is nonexistent. Just as we could never take out one of our brain cells and expect a single cell to identify as an ego, the ego of the ant colony is not obvious or tangible to us. But neither is the mind of another human. We have language to speak to the egos of other humans, but we don’t have the ant’s mechanism for communication, which is largely based on scent.

If you could receive and transmit ant scents, and your neural cortex processed them the same way ants do—in other words, the interpretation process and mental results were identical to theirs, not a translation by us—then you would have a good shot at truly communicating between your ego and the ant colony ego.

The challenge is understanding how the individual ant processes and interprets all that sensory data. By watching ants’ actions, we get a sense of the conclusions they draw about social status, threats, and food locations. But what is the subjective experience? Do they see an image in their mind? Do they smell things in some order that conveys meaning?

You would need to plug a receiver into your olfactory center and process the scent. But you would need an ant to teach you how to interpret.

How do ants learn their language of pheromones? How do bees learn the meanings of their dances?

The individual ant or bee does not receive teaching from another individual. It is born into the ego of the group. The bee doesn’t learn. The bee knows. The most important part of that knowing resides in the group’s ego, not inside the individual bee. The meaning of the language is stored in the group.

[1] Mags paraphrases a haiku by the Zen poet, Basho: “Sitting quietly, doing nothing. Spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.”

indie box: Wolfskin


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Wolfskin is one of a couple dozen miniseries written by Warren Ellis for Avatar Press, a company founded in 1996 and which does not shy away from graphic violence, gore, vulgarity, nudity, and countless variant covers. You’ll find all five in Wolfskin, brought to life by artist Juan Jose Ryp, who collaborated with Ellis on several titles such as No Hero and my personal favorite, Black Summer.

Just in case anyone thought Avatar was publishing “family-friendly” books.

The titular, barbaric character hacks and slashes his way through a hell of a lot of people, occasionally pausing to rage against what he calls “machines”, which includes firearms and apparently anything mechanical. Wolfskin resembles Conan in his brute force and (questionably) superior moral code compared to the people around him, although Conan’s big gripe was not with machines but with sorcerers. And where Conan felt his god Crom was more or less disinterested in human affairs, Wolfskin’s god Wrod is available to assist with a lifeforce and power boost when Wolfie eats some magic mushrooms.

It wouldn’t be a Warren Ellis comic if someone didn’t take drugs and see god.

Wolfskin’s first three-issue series is a straightforward tale that revels in its own savagery. One of the things I find most amusing is Ellis’ take on the gratuitous shower scenes for women in basically every science fiction movie and plenty of superhero comics written by guys to indulge other guys in the “male gaze”. The better part of one issue consists of conversations Wolfskin has with a series of visitors while he bathes naked in a woodland river. He eventually steps out of the water for some full-frontal nudity featuring his uncircumcised dong that dwarfs even Dr. Manhattan’s bright blue wang.

You didn’t think I was going to post the dong page, did you?

I can’t help but feel Ellis and Ryp are satirizing pointless female bathing scenes, but it’s also funny because the poor guy can’t even wash up in peace without weirdos dropping by to pester him with their messed-up schemes and dubious stories—which is exactly how I feel as a bachelor who has his showers interrupted by everyone from landlords and maintenance people to neighbors and delivery drivers who can’t find someone else’s apartment without help.

Anyway, Wolfie gets so irate that he can’t even monologue, exposit, or make sound effects.

As long as we don’t have anything to read, let’s play Megadeth albums and look at pictures.

Wolfskin is the kind of bad-ass I love to read about, whether male or female, and he has a follow-up miniseries called Hundredth Dream in which he once again totally rages against the machines by destroying the hell out of them. Ryp didn’t draw that one, but the art still kicks ass.

Locals with a problem. This might require violence!

Hundredth Dream is also a straightforward tale of battle and bravery, but with a steampunk vibe thanks to technology that is at once futuristic and primitive.

Despite a few dialogue-heavy scenes, Ellis avoids the traditional narrative captions and expositional thought balloons of your typical superhero comic. Many pages are wordless, and sometimes Wolfskin goes several pages without saying much more than “Fuck!” I find it not only hilarious that Ellis got paid to write that dialogue, but also how much more realistic it feels compared to, for example, Chris Claremont’s X-Men characters who couldn’t walk down a simple flight of stairs without hundreds of words of self-examination, existential pondering, and plot summary floating around their heads.

He’s downright talkative on this page.

I’m not putting Claremont down; it’s just a totally different approach to scripting. Ellis scripts in a way that doesn’t so much direct his artists as it does unleash them. With a draftsman like Ryp, it’s probably best to just throw a couple scraps of raw meat at him and let him off the chain. Bryan Hitch, a longtime Ellis collaborator, once joked in an interview about how Ellis scripts have incredibly simple statements to cue the artist for massively complex splash panels, such as “The fleets engage.”

They sucker-punched me with expositional dialogue while I was enjoying the view!

If I had collaborators like Hitch and Ryp, I’d have them engage the fleets all day long. Their visual sensibilities are far beyond mine. The Ellis approach has undoubtedly infected my fiction. But instead of putting the descriptive burden on a penciller, I delegate that work to my third-person narrator, allowing him to paint a picture even if the dialogue is only a few profanities.

It just feels more real to me that way. I mean, when was the last time you injured yourself and launched into a longwinded exposition about your problems and what led up to them? Probably never. Like Wolfskin, you most likely exploded into some convenient curse words without much forethought. Maybe later, while talking to a friend, you explained for a couple hours about how your entire life story revolves around that injury. But in that case, you had crossed over into a Brian Michael Bendis comic! It certainly wasn’t Wolfskin.

Wolfskin and its Hundredth Dream sequel are like fun popcorn movies, just as long as you don’t mind getting blood all over your snacks. You won’t need to ponder the cosmic or bleeding-edge tech concepts Ellis employs in many other works. Just sit back, enjoy the mayhem, and savor every line of the ultra-detailed art. May Wrod have mercy on your soul!

Collector’s Guide: Wolfskin appears in single issues with variant covers to choose from. I especially enjoy Ryp’s wraparound covers. The standalone Annual also appears in a two-volume TPB that collects the first series plus all the single issues of Wolfskin: Hundredth Dream. Amazon has digital versions that collect the first series (including the Annual) and the second series.

Bryan Hitch on Justice League


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While everyone else was obsessing over “The Snyder Cut”, I skipped all that and dug up some Justice League issues featuring Bryan Hitch, whose work I loved on The Authority, The Ultimates, and Fantastic Four. Here are the highlights.

In 2000, DC published a “100-Page Spectacular” called Heaven’s Ladder, written by Mark Waid and brought to life by the comic-art dream team of Hitch on pencils, long-time collaborator Paul Neary on inks, and the incomparable Laura Martin on colors. The story begins on the microscopic level as The Atom does microsurgery on viral DNA, then expands to truly epic scale as the most massive spaceship I’ve ever seen steals Earth from its orbit.

Bigger than big, as only Bryan Hitch can render it.

The epic scale is why I recommend reading this book in digital format instead of the perfect-bound paperback format. In the paperback, too much of the art is swallowed by the gutter, the area of book pages that “disappears” near the spine—not just Hitch’s masterful two-page spreads, but even some of the dialogue. It would have worked much better in print if DC broke it into smaller issues in standard, stapled comic-book format so we could open the books all the way to see everything.

Still, the visual splendor is undeniable. What is there not to love about Wonder Woman being a total bad-ass and taking on a fleet of spaceships, wrangling one with her lasso and steering it on a collision course with a planet where it explodes, leaving her to emerge from the flames with a look that wordlessly says, “Is that all you’ve got?”

Lassoing a spaceship?! Go, Diana!

This tale has many great moments like that. I especially love Superman’s line of dialogue as the team goes into combat, where only three words lend all the emotional punch that’s needed on a perfectly rendered double-splash page.

“We’ll handle god.” Nuff said!

Without giving away the plot, I’ll say that Waid’s script includes many thought-provoking concepts, including how different sentient races conceive of the afterlife in different ways. It’s a “thinking man’s” Justice League story, but if you think about it too hard, some of it makes no sense. For example, members of the League are forced to become exposition machines to explain to the reader what is being seen on the page, even when it seems improbable that they would understand the crazy cosmic stuff they are looking at.

Thanks for the exposition, Atom! Where we would we be without you?

Plus, Waid’s use of “science” concepts conveniently ignores plenty of science in service of the plot. For example, a bunch of planets are held in place by some kind of hand-waving gravity thingies, but if planets were really as close to each other as depicted, their gravities would rip each other apart. Worse, the Earth is removed from its orbit and *spoiler alert* gets put back in place at the end. But what about the moon? I can suspend my disbelief to think a giant spaceship took Earth away, even without the ship being crushed into a sphere by its own massive gravity. But I can’t believe that the moon would be waiting for Earth when it got back. The moon would be long gone!

If you can kick back and enjoy the spectacle without overthinking it too much, if you’d love to see the Justice League in a cosmic-level battle drenched in glorious color and eye-popping art, give Heaven’s Ladder a shot.

I looked into more of Hitch’s work on Justice League, and my favorite story is a multi-issue drama where a legendary Kryptonian god named Rao comes to Earth with wonderful gifts and apparently benevolent purposes. He turns out to be a scumbag, and the conflict is not just interplanetary but involves a bit of time travel, too.

Cue the arrival of more god-level starships by Bryan Hitch!

Even with Hitch writing and penciling, we get “sciencey” stuff that ends up making no sense. The thing that bugged me most was how it’s clearly stated that part of the evil plan involves genetically altering humans, but the plot conveniently sweeps that detail under the rug by saying the solution to stopping Rao’s control over humans is an electrical blast. I am willing to suspend my disbelief in favor of the old trope that electricity can do anything—and look awesome while doing it—but you can’t genetically alter the human race then just ignore that.

So, like Heaven’s Ladder, the Rao storyline is one to be enjoyed for its epic scale of conflict and jaw-dropping artwork, just so long as you don’t require your science-fiction to be consistently scientific when it might get in the way of advancing the plot.

Finally, I read the first arc of Justice League that Hitch wrote after the “Rebirth” nonsense at DC. I call it nonsense because DC realized they had screwed up some things with the New 52 and decided the solution was to reveal that Dr. Manhattan from the totally unrelated Watchmen had been altering DC history, leading once again to a complete overhaul of the hapless “DC Universe”.

“Excuse me while I try to talk Superman into doing Superman stuff.”

This is such a stupid idea and such a horrible use of Watchmen characters that I get angry just thinking about it. Back in the 1980s, DC revamped their whole universe with Crisis on Infinite Earths, and it seemed like a decent idea at the time—even a dramatic, exciting, and original one. But now, every time DC sees declining sales, the big bosses decide they need to do some pointlessly convoluted mega-event to give all their comics a simultaneous makeover. Let’s have an Infinite Crisis! Let’s have a Final Crisis! Let’s have a New 52 relaunch! Let’s have a Flashpoint! Let’s have a Rebirth! Let’s reboot everything all the time!

Let’s give me a frickin’ break, DC. All you need to do is write awesome stories with awesome art about awesome characters. The constant reshuffling of the DC Universe every few years is garbage. I don’t usually rant on this blog, but this is a major flaw that Hitch needed to deal with in the pages of Justice League. Suddenly, we have a new Superman who is really the old Superman from an alternate universe, and he doesn’t want to do his world-saving job because he is married or something, so the League needs to talk him into it, despite Batman not trusting him because it isn’t the right Superman. Please, make it stop. Even Marvel has been infected by this mentality now. Stop revamping and smashing “universes” together!

It was cool the first time. Now cut it out!

To Hitch’s credit, he did the best he could with the flaming pile of dog crap that DC management left on his porch. The result is a bunch of characters who don’t talk or act like the characters we’ve known for decades, but more like they are in a vintage Authority story using different costumes. Batman acts like Jack Hawksmoor. Wonder Woman acts like Jenny Sparks. It kind of worked for me because I loved Hitch’s run on The Authority, but I felt like this “Rebirth” version of the League wasn’t really the League at all.

Still, the story looks absolutely amazing even though Hitch didn’t draw it. One of my favorite moments is Wonder Woman’s first scene in the adventure, where once again she is portrayed as an absolute bad-ass, a goddess you do not want to mess with. Behold.

“I’m here on a mission of peace… which involves kicking major ass with a lightning bolt!”

Hitch ignited a fanboy crush on Wonder Woman I didn’t know I had! And even the new/old Superman gets some awesome moments, too. Is Hitch’s work on Justice League an indispensable part of my collection? No, but it looks so damn good that I can’t avert my eyes, and it includes memorable moments for these characters in the kind of grand conflicts that made The Authority such a joy to read. It’s a mixed bag, but one worth looking into if you want to see the League save the universe in style.

Collector’s Guide: JLA: Heaven’s Ladder appears in the 2011 reprint or digital format. Hitch was working on JLA (1997) around the same time. The Rao storyline in Justice League of America is in single issues or hardcover. Justice League after the “Rebirth” appears in single issues or TPB.