Excerpt


Nerissa would often ask Steamy if there was anything beyond the distant islets and the reef.

“Everything you want to know is in your books, my lady,” her teacher and servant would always reply, in his reedy voice that issued from pressure-fed bellows. “I cannot speak to the existence or nonexistence of that which is not in my program.”

The books, and Steamy’s daily lessons, did seem to indicate a wider world beyond the atoll. Nerissa has never seen many of the objects and creatures that stood for each letter in her worn alphabet book, and the books and novels in the tower library were ablaze with distant and exotic lands. But Steamy would not–could not–confirm which tales were true and which were false.

“My program allows me to administer the lesson and organize the library, my lady. I cannot speak to the truth or untruth of that which is not in my program.”

Certainly there was no reason to doubt the old automaton was sincere; he performed his daily tasks with aplomb. There were kelp greens to be harvested, traps and baits for fish and crustaceans to be emptied and reset, and of course meals to be prepared. The strong metal piles sunk deep into the rock at the center of the atoll to support the tower also needed regular maintenance; they were a bulwark against the storms and waves that sometimes lashed against the atoll.

Still, on those occasions when the barometers were low and Steamy allowed Nerissa to accompany him to the outlying islets on the outrigger, she would look out to the horizon, through the palms and across the barrier reefs, and wonder at what lay beyond. Perhaps her parents, who had vanished in the other outrigger many seasons ago, leaving Steamy and the books as her only companions.

And then something happened which confirmed her beliefs.

Steamy had gone beyond the reefs in the outrigger, through a passage only he knew, on his annual trip to the islet of Motanu (visible from the farthest islet) for rocks and birds to capture for egg-laying. He returned bearing an unusual crimson object that be wordlessly presented to Nerissa.

She’d never seen one before, but her alphabet book had it on page 6: F for Flower.

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#324
“Hi, I’m Diaeyraeiynyae,” the girl said with a curtsey. “I am princess of-”

“I’m just going to stop you right there,” said Adjudicator Nomis. “Do you think there are enough vowels in your name? Maybe room to cram a few more in there? I mean it’s already got a point count high enough to hit infinity with a triple word score, but surely you can do better?”

“I-”

“Listen, sweetheart,” said Grand Mufti Al-Temsah. “Giving a princess a name with more vowels than the Hawaiian language was in about eighteen to twenty years ago, so we’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime. Sorry, but you’re out.”

#982
“No, I do not think that my name has too many apostrophes in it! It’s a name of proud meaning and lineage among the D’in’olq’toq’plar!”

“All right, how about this?” said Adjudicator Nomis. “You’re argumentative and irritating. We want sparks, yes, but you’ll reduce the whole place to ashes!”

“Free tip, sweetie,” added Mufti Al-Temsah. “Arguing with the judges is almost always a direct ticket to exiting state right.”

#1428
“I’ve killed fifty men, saved countless idiot suitors, and I can do a horse rotation on my carriage while changing my own oats,” said Princess Dil.

“My congratulations to you, madam, but I’m afraid you just don’t have what it takes to make it to the next round,” said the Grand Mufti. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s because I’m a strong female character, isn’t it?” snarled Dil. “You’re looking for a powderpuff to feed your misogynist princess ideals!”

“No, it’s because you’re not on the list and slaughtered twelve Heron Guards to get here,” said Nomis. “It wouldn’t be fair to the princesses who filled out their applications in full.”

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The Climb was first discovered by settlers arriving from the coast. The native inhabitants shied away from the area, holding it to be cursed; when the temple hewn of equal parts cyclopean masonry and the living rock of an isolated peak was discovered by Sartener’s expedition, they estimated the site had been abandoned for well over a thousand years.

Through an ornate door deep within the temple, they found a spiral staircase made of the same materials, one which–no matter how they tried–Sartener’s men could not surmount. Stranger still, rough calculations showed that the furthest the expedition traveled–Step 11,191–should have been far above the surface of the peak, rather than surrounded by dark and unyielding stone as it was.

In time, the mystery of the Endless Climb and the violation of natural law it seemed to represent attracted a sect of monks, who made their home in the old temple and tended to those who wished to climb. It also attracted adventure seekers who thought to make their fortune by discovering the top of the Climb. Most gave up or died before reaching even Step 11,191, commonly known as Sartener’s Step, where the now long-dead explorer had carved his name.

For many years the Telmon Expedition, which reached Step 24,365 before turning back, held the record for penetrating the Climb. Among their discoveries:

– A repair made to Step 17,853, which had been carved away and carefully repaired with brick and mortar.
– A sconce, about the size necessary to hold a small torch or statue, opposite Step 21,006.
– The “First Room,” a chamber off of Step 24,112 big enough to hold most of the expedition. They were forced to turn back not long after, but did recover a few featureless pottery shards and an unidentifiable bone from the chamber.

Telmon planned to return, but her early death meant that never happened, and years passed before another group was able to make it as far. The well-organized Pesek Expedition was the next to attempt; they carefully stocked the First Room with supplies over a period of months using an advanced pulley system before setting off upwards. Rather than returning as a group, the expedition left its members and a supply cache every 2500 steps and used a system of rolling spherical message balls to pass down reports. They discovered:

– The “Second Room,” a small closet off Step 29,993 which was barely large enough for two people.
– The “Demon Scratch,” a series of three linear marks on the wall just above Steps 31,012 and 31,013.
– A symbol, possibly a hieroglyph or personal name, carved near Step 35,631. It couldn’t be identified as coming from any known language or script.

The expedition’s leader, Dr. Erika Del Pesek, vanished somewhere above Step 45,000. One of her message balls was discovered by a rescue party on Step 45,392; it described her discovery of a “Third Room” and a skeleton bearing artifacts. A small gold ring was placed in the message ball, as was a drawing of the chamber, but the rescue party was forced to turn back before locating Dr. Pesek, who is presumed to have perished.

To date, no one has equaled her climb, found her body, or discovered the Third Room.

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Nakis and Nomos made their demands, one at a time.

“You must side with freedom,” said Nakis. “Only through self-expression can you truly be happy. The meaningless and self-imposed facade of order is a straitjacket on the mind.”

“You must side with justice,” countered Nomos. “Only through self-restraint can you truly make others happy. The raw and unrestrained milieu of chaos is an invitation to excess and unaccountable horror.”

The First Mother considered each of their statements. “Must I choose?” she said. “I see merits and dangers in both positions.”

On this one point Nakis and Nomos agreed. “You must choose, one or the other,” said they in unison. “Order and chaos, freedom and justice, Nakis and Nomos…we are binaries.”

“I refuse.” said the First Mother.

“What?” again, the twins spoke in unison. “You cannot refuse.”

“And yet I do,” countered the First Mother. “I pass the decision on to my children and their children, to choose Nakis or Nomos or some combination thereof. But I will not bind my line to absolutes.”

The twins persisted in their arguments, and even offered the First Mother gifts to gain her favor. But her decision was final.

We live with its repercussions to this day.

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Sun Anne-Wen tapped her staff to life against the ancient and abandoned stonework, drenching the area in a light as bright as it was cold. Each breath froze in the air as she moved, and the chill was enough to cut through her carefully prepared outfit as if it were nothing.

Such was the power of the phantom snow; it was a cold not of the body but of the mind.

Indeed, Anne-Wen was able to move through the knee-high drifts without difficulty, as if they weren’t there at all. Her parka kept the real cold of the place at bay, but it was only a matter of hours–perhaps less–before the warmth was sucked from her soul and she lay down to let the elements claim her. It didn’t happen much anymore, not since the Ru-Alim academicians had puzzled out the nature of the phantom snows that had sent Anne-Wen’s ancestors fleeing from the very halls she now walked.

Emerging into a great rotunda, Anne-Wen knew that she had arrived in the place Smith Ling-Harold’s notes had described. The upper portions had collapsed, spilling masonry and stone columns into the broad arcade below, and a ring of statues honoring distinguished men and women long forgotten (except by the most obscure and learned of the Ru-Alim academicians) maintained a lonely vigil over the choking phantom snow.

But in the middle of the chamber…Anne-Wen had to pass her hand through it in disbelief. Lit by a beam of cold sunlight and sprouting impossibly from an outcrop of solid rock forced through the floor by one of the great old earthquakes…

A single, luminous flower.

Inspired by this.

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“Give it back,” Jennie growled.

“Give what back? This?” The Zaar let Jennie’s pendant slip between its wax fingers, sending it toward a floorstrike shattering before pinching the chain at the last minute.

The Fáidh redoubled his chant, as did Cary and Syke at the other corners of the triangle hemming in the malicious spirit garbed in a wax-museum copy of Eamon de Valera. “You won’t let it break,” Jennie said with what she hoped was a convincing facsimile of courage. “My family jewels are too important to your boss.”

“Such naughty and ignorant words for a piece of clay,” sneered the Zaar. “But you have shown a certain promise in hunting me down and casting a circle, I must admit. I haven’t been bound since Aix in 1611.” Its dull eyes gleamed maliciously from behind its spectacles. “Perhaps it’s time for a new approach.”

The creature carefully replaced Jennie’s pendant in one of his pockets and then leapt at her with astonishing speed and ferocity. Its cold, waxy hands wrapped around her throat with surprising strength, while foul incantations hissed not from the Zaar’s borrowed mouth but from every point in its form.

“κατοχή του σώματος, αποβολή της ψυχής! κατοχή του σώματος, αποβολή της ψυχής! κατοχή του σώματος, αποβολή της ψυχής!

“Break it apart, Jennie!” cried the Fáidh. “Its spirit is potent but the body is just wax! It only has the power you’ll let it have!”

The small ceremonial dagger Jennie had taken from Whelk’s corpse flashed, and the wax form stumbled backwards, stumps where its hands had been. A swift follow-up blow to the left leg led to total collapse; the simulacra of de Valera toppled to the stone and shattered into pieces. Knife in hand, the waxwork’s vanquisher fished the pendant out of the pocket that contained it and donned the jewel with a triumphant smile.

“All right, Jennie! cried Cary. “Rah rah rah, that’s how it’s done!”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Jennie’s companions crowded around, offering their congratulations.

“Thanks, but there’s no time to waste. We need to move, and quickly.”

The Fáidh nodded. “Come, let’s away from this dank and fetid place of suck for groovier environs.”

Jennie watched as she led her friends away, utterly perplexed at how she could see herself moving and speaking from such a detached viewpoint. “Hey, where are you going?” she cried. “That’s not me!”

Not only could her friends not hear her, but Jennie herself couldn’t either. The words were dead upon entering the world, and with horror Jennie realized that she had no lips to utter them with…not to scream with.

Through some dark trick, the Zaar had torn her from her body and left her an aimless and un-anchored spirit.

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“Well, my friends, we have put our latest vintage through the usual tests: color, swirl, smell, taste, and savor. As per the tradition of the competition, you will all be provided with another glass and asked to render your judgement,” said Sommalier Quislyng.

The first judge, Graf von Blutmord, sipped daintily at the crimson liquid in his glass. “It has a fine bouquet. Woody, complex, and round with a hint of basil and nuances of toast. I would surmise it’s a vintage Hungarian AB-positive from a 35-year-old female in the Budapest area.”

“I hate to differ with you,” said Earl Vätskasuga, the second judge, as he dabbled his fangs in gently swirled liquid. “While I agree in the fineness of bouquet, I find it has much more a delicate coconut flavor, and a sinful sushi essence with velvet overtones. A young and prime B-negative male from the Pyrenees, most likely Andorra. I do so enjoy these Andorran boutiques.”

Countess du Nălucăamor made a derisive sound and took in her entire goblet in a single suck. “You’re both naive old fools. It’s a raw vintage from the parts of Romania where there’s still a taster in every village and the old ways have been refined for a new century. Intoxicating gingerbread essences, a bouquet of passionate molasses, and a caramelized chocolate perfume undercurrent. It’s an A-positive from the Sighişoara region, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, now that you’ve all rendered your verdicts, allow me to reveal the truth,” said Sommalier Quislyng. He pulled the velvet covering from the bottle on a refrigerated and gently vibrating pedestal to reveal…幸运的777快乐的猫血, a Chinese O-positive vintage from Guangzhou commonly disparaged as a cheap garbage brand in connoisseur circles.

“Impossible!” cried Graf von Blutmord.

“Ridiculous!” shouted Earl Vätskasuga.

“Treachery!” roared Countess du Nălucăamor.

Their verdicts praising the cheap 幸运的777快乐的猫血 vintage have been known ever since as the “Judgement of Chateau Bloodtooth” and remain controversial to this day.

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As surely as autumn follows summer, the latest contribution by Willam “Black Bill” Cubbins has been followed by a counter-post by Felisa Lloyd Matsumura-Tamaribuchi. In the interests of balance we present it to you here. Ms. Matsumura-Tamaribuchi is a noted participant in the Anti-Pirate Freedom Flotilla, the Port Elizabeth Tribunal for Buccaneer Crimes, and the Boycott Booty campaign. She is a current Distinguished Fellow at Kaizoku University and is the current Tokugawa Chair of Shinobi Studies there.

Rather than feeling sorry for the plight of pirates who are being undermined and reduced in number by so-called foreign competition, we should rejoice in the fact that this vile way of life is slowly and naturally becoming extinct. Ninja activists like myself have long since held that there is no room in the modern economy for pirates or piracy, and the racist, disenfranchising, and bigoted attitudes they encourage.

Piracy is, no matter how “locally” and “sustainably” conducted, an inherently dishonorable and disenfranchising profession built around taking–taking of land, of lives, of booty. It has no value in any economy, much less an economy as bad as the one now facing the world. Activists in the pro-pirate media can talk all they like about “cherished” and “ancient” ways of life, but all pirates are nothing more than thieves and cockroaches.

Contrast that situation with that of the shinobi–or “ninja” to use a less-aware but more popular term. The silent, amoral assassins that make up the major ninja clans have value in any economy. As scouts, as spies, and as dealers of death to those who deserve it, ninjas have no peers–and those skills are needed more in a bad economy than in any other. While pirates only take, ninjas give back by cutting away the dead wood of society with a surgical knife. There will always be a need for the subtle art of honorable killing, and ninjas will always be there to provide it from the shadows.

This makes them unlike pirates, whose days are limited by both a world that increasingly sees them as the disenfranchising barbarians that they are. A skyrocketing ninja birth rate that will soon see the pirates’ one advantage, that of numbers, whittled down to nothing as they are hurled back into the sea.

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Partial transcript from the February 24, 2013 interview of Petra Burgess by Jerry Sovak of WKΔD Radio.

JERRY SOVAK: I’m here with Petra Burgess, who has recently been at the center of come controversy over her “Fair Trade Coffee for the People of Syria” sketch on LNTV.

PETRA BURGESS: “Some controversy?” Don’t soft-pedal it, Jerry. My Twitter feed turned into a river of fire not seen since the days of Vesuvius.

SOVAK: You’ve been accused of being insensitive to the plight of the Syrian people, and sexism and racism for the parody of Halle Berry suggesting that the Syrian rebels ought to be more concerned with the provenance of their coffee than anything else. Stubb’s Coffee didn’t like seeing their logo on the fair trade coffee that was being “airlifted” to the people in the sketch, either.

BURGESS: I was worried they wouldn’t notice, actually. I’m also very upset that I haven’t heard from anyone about making the Predator drone pilot an effeminate Marine or from the dig at the Sarah McLachlan commercials about the icky puppies, only this time with the puppies replaced with coffee beans.

SOVAK: So you’re…you’re upset that more people weren’t offended? Unpack that a little for us, Petra.

BURGESS: You see people talking a lot about being gadflies and equal opportunity offenders. What that usually means is that they’re gadflies to people they don’t like and their idea of equal opportunity offensiveness means offending both moderate and conservative Republicans. The problem is that there are so many unspoken sacred cows in entertainment in general and Hollywood in particular that no one dares to touch. It might as well be blacklisted, against the Hays code.

SOVAK: So you were trying, with your sketch, to offend everybody at once?

BURGESS: Well I tried to be as offensive as possible to as many people as possible, sure. But I also focused on those sacred cows, people and causes that never get critiqued or tweaked or smeared with satire because they’re too near and dear to the hearts of Hollywood.

SOVAK: Is that an expression of your own political views, then?

BURGESS:
In as much as I have any, yes. Don’t go mistaking me for a Republican; their starched collars need to be tweaked, and often, and badly. But don’t go lumping me in with the Democrats, either–if anything they need a harsher beating because they have so many friends in my industry. My politics are simple: everything needs to be made fun of in the most uncompromising terms to keep them defensive. Keep ’em off-balance and people are less likely to let them get away with murder.

SOVAK: Could you…distill that a little bit for us? It sounds like you’re giving advice to other would-be satirists out there. Break that down to a one-liner for us, if you would.

BURGESS:
Satire: if there’s a group out there who isn’t burning you in effigy, you’re doing it wrong.

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