A Consortium of Worlds No. 1: A Consortium of Worlds, #1

By Courtney Cantrell, Thomas Beard, Jessie Sanders and 4 more

A Consortium of Worlds is your window into Consortium Books's outstanding stable of speculative fiction authors. A Consortium of Worlds is a showcase of new and innovative voices in all types of fiction from a publisher dedicated to allowing every writer his or her own voice.

There are no slaves to trends or what's-hot lists here, only writers imagining newer and brighter vistas of unseen tomorrows, untold yesterdays, unknown todays, and untouched worlds of pure imagination.

A Consortium of Worlds is a quarterly speculative fiction magazine showcasing the talents of Consortium Books's array of authors.

In this issue you'll find stories by: Jessie Sanders, Joshua Unruh, Thomas Beard, Becca J. Campbell, Courtney Cantrell, Bailey Thomas, and Aaron Pogue.

In addition to riveting fiction, you'll find reviews of all types of speculative fiction. Our expert reviewers will take a look at novels, comic books, TV shows, or movies that you maybe haven't heard of but will wish you had.

This issue is Volume 1 of the quarterly magazine. Approximately 35,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Masked Fox Productions
• Release date: Oct 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497719002

Courtney Cantrell

Courtney Cantrell was born in Texas and grew up in Germany. At age 12, she penned her first novel: a one-page murder mystery. (The gardener did it.) By age 17, she had finished two full-length sci-fi novels. After earning her bachelor’s degree in English/Writing from Oklahoma Christian University, Courtney worked as a missionary in Germany for six years. She then returned to Oklahoma City to begin writing full time. As of 2012, she has completed ten novels in multiple genres. Courtney lives with her husband, their cat, and an assortment of cross-cultural doohickeys. She is a founding artist at ConsortiumOKC.com, a contributing editor at writing advice site UnstressedSyllables.com, and a regular blogger at her own courtcan.com.

Book preview

Letter from the Editors

To Our Intrepid E-venturers,

~

You may think you’ve purchased yourself a particularly thin e-book. We’ve got news for you: It’s nothing remotely as banal as that. Oh, don’t get us wrong, we’re pretty impressed with humanity’s ability to move bits of information into space and then back to earth to various and sundry devices you can hold in your hand. We’re even more impressed that all that positively sorcerous activity happens faster than the speed of thought. We’re actually quite thankful that all this effort was put into place so that we could get these bits and bytes into your device of choice. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

But it isn’t an e-book you’ve purchased. Or even a magazine. Or an e-zine. You’ve purchased yourself something akin to a crystal ball. A scrying device.

No, wait! It’s better than that! It isn’t just the ability to see into the future or past. It’s more like a shiny, super sci-fi piece of machinery four-color superhumans might use to peer into all possible futures, all possible pasts, all possible universes!

What you’ve purchased for your three greenbacks is a Technicolor Dream Machine powered by the raw ore of imagination and with a hookah in the dash so you can inhale the heady smoke of myth.

You’ve got a window into a Consortium of Worlds. If you enjoy reading it half as much as we enjoyed putting it together for you, your dendrites and neurons will alight with the fire of ten thousand suns. Get ready to be blinded by the light.

~

With Tingling Excitement,

Joshua Unruh

Courtney Cantrell

Editors

~

PS: We’re going to do it to you all over again in just three months. Best prepare yourself now.

The Prop Room by Jessie Sanders

In The Prop Room, Jessie Sanders brings an economy of expression and a deep understanding of character development to a tale of unrequited emotion. Suppressed romanticism pits itself against austere practicality. The soft life challenges the daily grind. Against a futuristic backdrop in which cool common sense is vital for survival, Sanders paints a character struggling to justify not only his presence but also his very existence...even to himself.

~

Michael reached for the blue button but hesitated just a fraction of an inch away. He read yet again the stark grey stenciling on the door before him: Propulsion Room. He could already hear the hum of the engine through the thick slab of steel. It was not where he belonged. But he wished he did. He was just waiting to get caught.

Well, are you just going to stand there staring all day or what? It was a brusque voice behind him.

He twisted around to find Jamie Thoreau coming up behind him, her rusty red toolbox in hand. He shrank back from her.

She reached across his chest with her free hand and punched the blue button. The door groaned and rolled open.

Who are you? What are you doing here? she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

Michael M— he cut himself off. He didn't want her to hate him right off. Better not to let her know who he was until absolutely necessary.

She glared at him suspiciously, but finally she pushed past him and into the prop room. And what are you doing down here, Michael Mmmmmm? she asked, drawing out the M of his missing surname.

I heard your assistant got transferred to the bridge to work on radio transmissions. I heard you were looking for a new assistant. He wrung his hands together anxiously. He had never seen Jamie up close before. Her forearms bulged with more muscle than Michael had in his whole body.

The toolbox was set down with a metal clang. Jamie rummaged through it for a moment. Then she dropped to her knees and started unscrewing a panel in the floor. Yeah, the little blabbermouth couldn't shut up. I felt he might be better suited to a job that required him to talk all the time. You're not a blabbermouth, are you?

Michael was staring at a wisp of hair that had fallen out of her thick french braid. He finally realized that she was staring at him. Huh?

Jamie shook her head and returned to her task. Obviously not. Well, that'll be an improvement, at least. I guess you already know I'm Jamie.

Yes. He paused then said, I've heard about your father's work.

If you say anything bad about him, I'll punch your face in, Jamie said, not looking at him.

Michael knew she was serious. He involuntarily touched his nose, trying to imagine it out of joint. I saw you the other day, upstairs. You were fixing a ventilation shaft. He remembered how out of place she looked, dirt-streaked overalls among a sea of suits. She had immediately caught his eye. She was so confident. She wasn't impressed by all the wealthy and powerful around her. And at that moment Michael had realized that she was truly the one in control. Maybe she was invisible most of the time, hidden among the bowels of the ship, but she was the one who knew how to keep the ship running. Without her, the suits would be useless.

You work upstairs? she asked.

Sort of, he replied, suddenly wishing he hadn't brought it up.

What did you do up there?

Nothing, Michael said.

Nothing? Jamie asked. What are you good at?

Nothing, Michael said again.

Nothing? she repeated, more incredulous than ever. You can't get on this ship if you're not good at anything. And you're definitely not a Re-gen.

Michael looked down at his shoes. He knew that he wasn't much to look at. And even though the recent hard times had forced him to lose a lot of weight, he was still chubbier than ninety-eight percent of the people on board. How could he admit to Jamie, the physics genius who had graduated from college at the age of thirteen, that the only reason he was here was because he was rich? Everything he attempted he failed, whether it be math, politics, or sociology. He had tried, certainly, but everything challenged him to capacity. Pure wealth and status had allowed him to survive. But what was that to Jamie? I know I'm not much, but I try hard.

You try? Well, I suppose that should count for something, she said, her voice laced with disdain. Seriously though, Mikey, what are you worth?

Was she searching for something to respect about him, or was she just baffled by his presence? Either way, Michael couldn't satisfy her. I...snuck on board...before we left. Which was partly true. It had been his father's idea, and his father who had made sure that he wasn't found until it was too late to turn back. But maybe at least this way it made him look clever.

That's disgusting. Jamie muttered a curse, then lifted the panel from the floor. A large puff of steam rose from the opening. Jamie waved her hand to dissipate the haze.

Yeah. Now I have to make myself useful. He tried to look penitent. He wondered if she knew that they were almost the same age. He had recently turned eighteen; she was nineteen or twenty. They were two of the youngest on board—she chosen because of her brilliant skills, and he because of his father's scheme. Pretty disgusting. He hated himself almost as much as he figured Jamie did. The Re-gens were around their age, but they were kept in a separate level. Their mission was to keep themselves in shape and be ready to expand their roots whenever they landed. They were all very pretty, very strong, and very proud. They didn't have time for people like Michael. Michael was, if anything, homely. Homely and useless.

Jamie grumbled deep in her throat. Look, it's too crowded in here to take my whole toolbox. I need room for my elbows. So you're going to hand down tools as I call for them. Think you can handle that?

Michael nodded dumbly.

You screw up, you're out of here.

He nodded again. I'll do my best.

She dropped down into the hole.

Michael took a deep breath of the thick, hot air. It smelled like sweat and grease. Just a few levels above him roamed the men in tuxedos, swirling their champagne and avoiding deep conversation. They were having a meeting that was really a party where they pretended to discuss problems and delicately chose to ignore the fact that they really had no idea what was going on. They sniffed their sterile air as if it were not processed through a dozen filters before it reached their nostrils. Michael felt safer down here, knowing Jamie was with him and in control. She may not like him, but surely she could protect him if something went wrong.

He heard Jamie clanking and grunting, ejaculating a few swear words when something didn't do exactly what she told it to. She had a way with mechanics, but even they sometimes were more stubborn than she.

The room was tiny and cramped, full of wires that ran this way and that, out of circuit boards and around poles and into little black boxes around the walls. He had expected it to be dirtier down here, but everything sparkled and gleamed. And it was very tidy; nothing was out of place. Huge pipes, thicker than Michael's waist, rumbled over his head.

The windows down here were smaller, dirtier. Michael could hardly see the deep black sky. The windows above were wide and clean and everywhere. It was like they wanted to force Michael to look outside whenever he turned. For now he wedged himself safely between two control panels, facing away from the windows. But he still knew it was out there, behind him.

A curse and the sound of a boot kicking metal issued forth from beneath him.

Michael wondered, if they were the last two people left on earth, would Jamie take up her responsibility and help him rebuild the human race?

Jamie's hand came stretching forth from the hole in the floor, like an undead from a grave. It was covered in grease, the nails worn down to stubs, a long thin scratch across the back where she had gotten too close to a moving part. Oy! Mikey boy! Can I get my wrench or what?

Oh, sorry, he replied. He went over to her tool chest, which was balanced precariously across two big knobs, and rummaged around, finally producing a wrench, which he placed in the grimy hand.

About time, she said. I don't have time for slackers. Pick up the pace.

Michael looked down at his hands. They were perfect and white, with a mole by his left pinkie that no one noticed except for him. He grimaced and placed his thumbnail in between his