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Friday, August 1, 2014

The Golden Age of Sci-Fi is still underway, after all

After some wriggling, Anacharsis Grimes emerged from the maggot's unpleasantly oily interior, and plopped onto the floor.  . . .  He had, prior to committing himself, read the PDF instructions but, during the last fifty pages, his patience had flagged. The text, a laborious translation from Korean, had been interspersed with austere lists of non-linear equations. These formulas were requisite for the conversion of Calliphora vomitoria into corridors wide enough for human beings to slither from point A to point B.
. . .
"Your stomach won't stand a flight in a Life-Swan either," Toby said with boyish logic. "And it's very dangerous."
"Not as dangerous as staying put."
"What do you mean? Have you planted a bomb?"
Anacharsis could not disguise a blush.
"You have, haven't you?"
"Of course, I haven't," Anacharsis said irritably. "I'd never been able to get one past security." He decided not to mention the pilots murdered in their sealed cockpit, and his reprogramming of the shuttle's flight path.
. . .
The Life-Swan shifted impatiently. Anacharsis touched its neck. He too was counting the minutes. Uncharacteristically, he availed himself of one to think. "Why don't you come with me? There's plenty of room for two."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Well, you know," Anacharsis cleared his throat. "I'm not a monster."
"I am." Toby glanced at his useless legs. "I'm an ungrateful little freak. That's what my mother always tells me."

__Philip Murray-Lawson, Superman's Last Flight, in the anthology Emanations: Foray into Forever, Brookline, MA: International Authors, 2014 (see)