Clash of the Geeks
Clash of the Geeks
Copyright © 2010 by John Scalzi.
All rights reserved.
Individual Contents
Copyright © 2010 by their respective creators.
All rights reserved.
Cover illustration
Copyright © 2010 by Jeff Zugale.
All rights reserved.
Interior design
Copyright © 2010 by Desert Isle Design. LLC.
All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
Introduction
Hi there. I’m Bill Schafer, the head honcho and person most likely responsible when things go wrong at Subterranean Press. For those of you unfamiliar with us, we’ve published the likes of Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, John Scalzi, Wil Wheaton—those last two names are important, here—and a whole host of other fine folks. You can find us at
www.subterraneanpress.com
. But this time I’m not here to pitch Subterranean to you.
First, check out the glorious, mythology-raddled cover of this little e-chapbook. Thanks go to Wil Wheaton, John Scalzi, and (artist) Jeff Zugale for it. Add the other good folks on the cover to the mix, and you’re in for a gonzo combination of fiction, near-nonfiction (see John’s interview), epic poetry (Pat Rothfuss, what were you thinking?) and even a bit of computer geekery—all based on a simple question: What the hell is actually going on in that picture, with Scalzi as an orc and Wil on a Unicorn Pegasus Kitten? You’re about to find out.
You may rightly wonder what brought all of these fine odd folks together, and I’m proud (I’m not entirely sure that “proud” is the best word here) to say it’s my wife, Gretchen. Six years ago she was diagnosed with lupus, an autoimmune disease that afflicts far too many people, and is far too unknown, with research underfunded. Lupus has had a profound impact on Gretchen’s and my life. She’s no longer able to work—she was a fine School Psychologist when we started dating—and our routine includes an overabundance of doctor’s appointments and tests, not to mention the toxic drugs (chemo and those used to stave off organ rejection) that she must now take on a regular basis. Couple this with overarching fatigue and pain that is regularly off the charts, and Gretchen faces a life with quiet strength and dignity that would leave many others, myself included, feeling defeated, dispirited, and demeaned. That she fights against this disease every day is only one of the reasons I’m so proud she’s chosen to share her life with me.
This chapbook is our effort to help in the fight against lupus, to help those who endure the disease, and those who work for a cure. We’re offering this for your enjoyment without cost. But if you like it, please donate. All proceeds go to the Michigan/Indiana affiliate of the Lupus Alliance of America. We’ve made it easy by setting up a page to process your donations through Paypal. You can find it at
http://unicornpegasuskitten.com
. Every little bit helps.
I’ve kept you from the chapbook proper long enough. Enjoy, and thanks for your support in the fight against lupus.
All my best,
Bill Schafer
SubPress
Table of Contents
—John Anealio
The Last Unicorn (Pegasus Kitten)
—Wil Wheaton
—Patrick Rothfuss
—Scott Mattes
This Is the Way the World Ends
—Catherynne Valente
The complex identity of the
archetypal hero,
a fictional treatise with
unicorn pegasus kittens
—Rachel Swirsky
The Scalzorc/Clown Wheaton/Kittytrice Auditions
A One Act Play
—Stephen Toulouse
—Bernadette Durbin
The Making of the Unicorn Pegasus Kitten Art:
A Transcript of an Interview with John Scalzi
The Last Unicorn (Pegasus Kitten)
Wil Wheaton
The path was narrow and small volcanic pebbles threatened to slip his feet from beneath him at every twist and turn, throwing him down the side of the firespire mountains, but Izlac was not afraid. He was focused on his mission, the fate of his entire Scalzorc clan resting on his leathery green shoulders, and falling a thousand feet down the side of a mountain would be a welcome death, should he fail to defeat the Wee-tin he knew waited for him in the Bentclaw Pass.
“This is your task,” his master, Rek, told him. “Mount Kryuzhire
is waking, and the eggs will soon blast into the sky. Whoever leads the hatchlings away will command them, and if not us, then the vile Wee-tins will.” He spat on the ground and cursed under his breath. “We have waited many years for this hatching, and you are our Chosen rider. You are our last and best hope, my apprentice.”
He put his giant hands on Izlac’s shoulders, and fixed him with a serious gaze. “You are our future.”
Izlac heard a low, angry rumble, as if the mountains themselves were growling at him. He pressed himself against the uphill side and held onto a sharp outcropping until the shaking passed. A lesser warrior would be frightened, he thought, but he was not afraid. He looked out across the valley and spied his once-proud village: the wall around it was broken and crumbling from years of unprovoked Wee-tin attacks. The forest he explored as a child was a black tangle of scorched earth and charred logs that were once trees. The pen where the UPKs once lived was empty, though he could see his brothers and sisters, tiny specks that appeared black from this distance, moving around as they prepared it for his triumphant return.
He pulled his hand away from the rocks, and saw that it was bleeding from his grip. He smiled without humor, and continued his journey up the mountain.
•••
He made camp without a fire in a mostly-level alcove beneath the mouth of the Bentclaw Pass, and ate a meal of uncooked meat until he could eat no more, and threw what was left over the side of the mountain. This was a traditional ritual, the night before a battle in the Bentclaw Pass, and he’d taken care to save enough, going hungry on the second day of his journey, to perform it.
“On the fifth day, you will be near Bentclaw Pass,” Rek had said, “and you are to eat until you are full, throwing the rest off the mountain.”
“Why?” Any orc who wasted food would be punished, severely.
“It is a tribute to those who have fought and fallen before you, to feed their spirits. It is also to remind you of the importance of your task: you will not need food for the journey home, because you will make it on winged back, or you will not make it at all.”
Izlac hefted the meat in his hand and squeezed it until blood began to ooze out, just as it had earlier in the day. He thought of all the great warriors who had come here before him and the few who had returned. But he was not afraid; he felt exhilarated. He would be victorious. Izlac would save his people.
He bellowed “Ghlag’ ghee Baâkun!” and threw the meat with all his might. He watched a thin tail of spray follow it in an arc, as it disappeared into the darkness down the side of the mountain. When he was certain that it was gone, and the spirits of his ancestors had been fed, he thanked them for their sacrifice, and begged them to guide him in the coming battle.
He placed his axe and shield on the path, lay down next to them on the hard ground, and waited for sleep to arrive. It came slowly, as if it, too, had to climb the mountain to reach him.
In the dream, he was a boy, and Rek was barely a man. It was Choosing Day, and he stood in the pen with the other boys who had just come of age. A score of UnicornPegasusKittens, still in their cages, waited to be released.
“It is Choosing Day!” Rek cried.
“Choosing Day!” They replied in unison.
“All but one of you will fall. One of you will be Chosen to be The Rider. Be brave. Do not be afraid! You are warriors!”
“Warriors!” They bellowed, in small voices that had yet to mature but did not tremble.
Rek lifted his axe high and brought it down on the chain, dropping the gates and releasing the UnicornPegasusKittens. They burst from their cages, howling and caterwauling, and took to the sky, nearly blocking out the sun as they circled above. All around him, the other boys fell to the ground.
Izlac looked to his left, and saw his childhood friend Kal. “You will be Chosen, Izzy,” As Kal spoke his face split open, spilling blood down his chest. Spinning to his left, he faced his twin brother Mak, whose chest was torn open. “We all knew it would be you, Izzy,” he said, tearing his heart from his chest, “it was always going to be you.” He bellowed “Ghlag’ ghee Baâkun
!
” as he threw it into the sky, where it was caught in mid-dive by a UnicornPegasusKitten who landed at Izlac’s feet.
The world went silent, but for the sound of Mak’s still-beating heart. He looked back at Mak, and saw that he had become a baby, held by their mother, who sobbed. He looked away, and found himself on the mountain, now a man, surrounded by the bodies of those who were not Chosen. Their blood ran, like a river, down the path and over the side. He reached to touch it, but it flowed away from him. His father walked out of the Bentclaw Pass, atop the now-raging torrent of blood.
“You are Chosen, my son,” he said, more softly than he ever spoke in life, “it is a great honor for our family, and a terrible price for us to pay. Do not forget this day. Do not forget your brother.”
“I am not afraid, father,” he said, in a voice he hadn’t heard since he was a child.
Before his father could reply, the bloodriver surged and frothed and carried him over the edge. Izlac ran to the edge of the path, the blood spreading before him, never touching him, and looked over, into darkness. The sound of Mak’s heartbeat echoed up the steep, basalt cliff.
Izlac woke from the dream with a start, covered in a greasy sheen of cold sweat, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a visceral reminder of Mak’s.
“I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid,” he spoke to the wind, as it whipped up the mountain and swirled dust all around him.
The wind spoke back, with the voice of a UnicornPegasusKitten, distant and mournful. Izlac wrapped his arms around himself and leaned up against the rock wall of the alcove. Sleep did not claim him again that night, and for that he was grateful.
•••
Dawn broke over the valley, casting red and gold light across his village, and the destruction around it. Izlac picked up his axe and shield, and did his morning exercises. He heard Rek’s voice commanding and correcting him, as it had since Choosing Day. His axe was an extension of his arm, his shield light and ready.
His exercises completed, he looked back at his village. A thin line of smoke climbed out of the chimney from one of the few houses that had not been destroyed in the last attack.
“I will be home soon,” he said. He turned, and began to climb the twisting, narrow path toward the Bentclaw Pass.
As day neared its end, the ground beneath his feet began to level out, and the tall walls around him grew steadily farther apart, until he knew he had reached his destination. Mount Kryuzhire belched smoke into the sky, covering the Kryuzhire Valley with a grey blanket. Dark red lava ran down its sides, and the air smelled of sulfur and something he could not identify, but knew he would remember for the rest of his life.
There was a beating of wings, an angry scream, and the Wee-Tin Rider burst through the cloud, climbing upward above him. The smoke swirled in tight, spiraling eddies, and trailed behind him as he raced into the sky. He wore the traditional armor of the Wee-Tins: bright red shoulderpads, a mask of terror and horror painted across the chest. The sheer
wrongness
of the armor was something taught to all Scalzorc warriors, but all the lessons and tests and drawings he had seen did not prepare him for just how disgusting and horrifying it was when seen with his own eyes…yet he refused to
look away.
