Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Issue #1: Pulphouse, #1

By Dean Wesley Smith, Annie Reed, David H. Hendrickson and 12 more

The Cutting Edge of Modern Short Fiction

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Back after over twenty years. A three-time Hugo Award nominated magazine, Pulphouse returns with eighteen fantastic stories by some of the best writers working in modern short fiction.

No genre limitations, no topic limitations, just great stories. Attitude, feel, and high quality fiction equals Pulphouse.

"This is definitely a strong start. All the stories have a lot of life to them, and are worthwhile reading."

—Tangent Online on Pulphouse Fiction Magazine, Issue #1

Table of Contents

"In the Empire of Underpants" by Robert T. Jeschonek
"Queen of the Mouse Riders" by Annie Reed
"Group" by Ray Vukcevich
"The Heart Has Reasons" by O'Neil De Noux
"Molten Souls" by Jerry Oltion
"The Sea Girl's Survival" by Valerie Brook
"Looking for the Bastard" by David H. Hendrickson
"The Reign to Come" by Kevin J. Anderson
"A Spud Full of Stars" by Kent Patterson
"Body Memory" by M. L. Buchman
"Catastrophe Baker Makes First Contact" by Mike Resnick
"Playing With Trains" by J. Steven York
"A Few Minutes in The Plantation Bar and Grill Outside Woodville, Mississippi" by Steve Perry
"At Witt's End: A Spade/Paladin Conundrum" by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
"Minions at Work 2.0: Roll Call" by J. Steven York

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Jan 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386381969

Dean Wesley Smith

Considered one of the most prolific writers working in modern fiction, USA TODAY bestselling writer, Dean Wesley Smith published far over a hundred novels in forty years, and hundreds of short stories across many genres. He currently produces novels in four major series, including the time travel Thunder Mountain novels set in the old west, the galaxy-spanning Seeders Universe series, the urban fantasy Ghost of a Chance series, and the superhero series staring Poker Boy. During his career he also wrote a couple dozen Star Trek novels, the only two original Men in Black novels, Spider-Man and X-Men novels, plus novels set in gaming and television worlds.

Book preview

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

Issue One, January 2018

Edited by

Dean Wesley Smith

WMg Publishing Inc.

Contents

From the Editor’s Desk: Here We go!

Robert T. Jeschonek

In the Empire of Underpants

Annie Reed

Queen of the Mouse Riders

Ray Vukcevich

Group

O’Neil De Noux

The Heart Has Reasons

Jerry Oltion

Molten Souls

Valerie Brook

The Sea Girl’s Survival

David H. Hendrickson

Looking for the Bastard

Kevin J. Anderson

The Reign to Come

Kent Patterson

A Spud Full of Stars

M. L. Buchman

Body Memory

Mike Resnick

Catastrophe Baker Makes First Contact

J. Steven York

Playing With Trains

Steve Perry

A Few Minutes in The Plantation Bar and Grill Outside Woodville, Mississippi

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

At Witt’s End: A Spade/Paladin Conundrum

J. Steven York

Minions at Roll Call

Subscriptions

Acknowledgments

From the Editor’s Desk: Here We go!

Dean Wesley Smith

intro art

You know the feeling, sitting in a rollercoaster as it starts out of the station and into the first climb?

Click. Click. Click.

You paid for the ticket, you climbed into the car, you made the decision to be jerked around at top speed high off the ground risking death for no logical reason.

Click.

Click.

Click.

That’s what firing up this magazine again after twenty-one years has felt like. Pure excitement, anticipation, and terror, all mixed.

Kinda fun, actually.

So now, with Issue One, we have reached the top of that first hill, the clicking has stopped. Now we just hold on for the ride.

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Issue Zero was a fantastic beta test, as they say in this new world. (I called it an exercise in insanity since we put it together in under a month, but again, I bought the ticket and was on the ride, so what do I know?)

Back when Pulphouse first did an issue zero for different lines of books, we just called them tests. But with this test run, we not only wanted to see how the process would work, but how the magazine would look.

We wanted to give the original feel of the old Pulphouse while making it look new and more professionally designed. I think we hit that wonderfully.

And we did make some changes for this first issue, small ones in the magazine itself, larger ones behind the scenes in the systems.

I hope everyone has gotten a chance to read the wonderful stories in (the beta test) Issue Zero. I was very proud of how it turned out. And if you get a chance, read the pdf version or buy a paper copy. You get the full impact of the magazine that way, including all the cartoons and author ads.

Pulphouse Fiction Magazine: Issue Zero is for sale in all major online bookstores, as all the issues will be. So you haven’t missed it.

Now, for a change, I’m going to stop babbling here and let you get on with reading the wonderful stories in this first issue.

The rollercoaster car is in motion, heading into the first banked turn. Hang on. Some of the stories will twist you, some will make you laugh, some will just flat make you shake your head.

After all, this is Pulphouse.

That’s what Pulphouse stories are supposed to do.

In the Empire of Underpants

Robert T. Jeschonek

art

I wanted to start off Issue One with a story I think is the iconic Pulphouse story. And, of course, Robert T. Jeschonek is the author. It seems almost every story he writes would fit into Pulphouse.

This story stars sentient white cotton briefs in search of the magic panties. Honest, it does. It first appeared in Fiction River in 2017 and I always knew that if Pulphouse came back, I wanted this story to start this first issue.

A story about sentient white cotton underwear. Why not? It is a Jeschonek story. And a perfect Pulphouse story.

Isoar through the air , my white hyper-cotton body bunching and rolling on the soft morning breeze. Times like this, I feel fine and free, a pair of smart-briefs gliding through nature like a bird or a cloud.

But then I always come back down to earth in the end.

My left leg loop catches on the tip of a branch, and I swing to a stop. While I’m up there, I sing a little song, as my kind loves to do, in praise of the morning and being alive—a true classic.

We can’t wait to get in your pants. My high-pitched voice is generated by the sound threads woven into my fly, which flutters when I sing. We will fill your drawers with joy.

It’s a commercial jingle, one of many that once advertised my particular brand of genius undies. I sing it loud, though there aren’t any commercials these days—and then I change the words, asking one of the great questions of life in the modern world.

What does a left leg loop feel like around an actual left leg? That’s the question of which I sing this time. It’s a question I sing about often, as if I’ll ever know the answer.

Which of course I won’t. All the left legs are gone now. All the live, human ones, that is, and the humans they belonged to.

When I’m done singing, I contract and twist the smartlastic fibers in the caught leg loop, working my way off the branch. I drop to the ground below, which is still muddy from last night’s rain, and land with a flop.

No problemo! Mud becomes a real nothing-burger when you’ve got my mad skills.

As a true smart-brief, the most advanced underwear ever designed, I was made to repel dirt and moisture with a flick of my hyper-cotton panels. Chemical films baked into the threads push contaminants right off, leaving behind only my bright white material that looks like it’s just been through the wash…though it never needs laundering. And that’s a good thing, on a journey like mine.

Because I’ve been on the move for weeks…

…months, my internal timer corrects me…

…and who knows when I’ll get to enjoy the comforts of home again.

It’s a price worth paying, though, being on the road for so long. If I succeed, I might find a cure for the sickness that’s afflicting my fellow smart-underpants back home. I might find the fabled Magic Panties of the Plains, the ones with the healing powers beyond the ken of AI folk like me.

That’s AI as in Apparel Intelligence, in case you’re wondering.

On the way to my next destination, I squirm and roll through the muck at a breathtaking ground speed of a few feet per minute. In the old days, briefs like me traveled the world at incredible speeds, worn by human folk who raced around in cars or flew in airplanes or rockets. What must it have been like to be a tighty whitey in those glorious times?

If only all the humans hadn’t died out in the Great Erection a decade ago, I might have had the chance to find out.

You’ll never be lost again. These briefs are your best friend. It’s another song of the lost humans, a commercial jingle, and I sing it as I go. Wherever you land/if you sit, run, or stand/you’ll know you’ve got a buddy in your pants. I sing it as if those vanished folk are more to me than a thousand million facts and images bubbling in the database of my woven-in AI mind. I sing it as if I ever even saw a living, breathing human in the flesh, let alone filled my body with its form.

But I had just been sparked to life in a factory by robotic underpants engineers when the Great Erection had its way with humanity. It was my curse, since I never got to know human folk…and also my salvation. For if I’d been worn by a human when the end came for that species, I would have had a much harder time escaping to the outside world to begin my new life.

Rolling myself up in a tube, I wriggle through a thicket of thorny bushes and never catch a single snag.

Underpants power! It’s a little something I say sometimes when I kick ass. Talking to myself like that helps me keep sane on my long, lonely journey.

Unrolling on the other side of the thicket, I flex my elastics—then hear the soft keening on the breeze and realize I’m not alone.

Need a bosom buddy? Never fear. Pack your rack in our brainy brassiere. It’s sung with an accent, but I’ve heard the words before. Even before I look around, I know who’s singing them. We’re all about a wiser bust. We support the higher you. Anywhere I’ve ever been, that’s the song of a smart-bra, plain and simple.

And there are more smart-bras in the clearing before me than I’ve ever seen in one place before. They are strung on a tall, stout tree, shrouding it completely as if they’d grown there.

I see a multitude of colors, shapes, and cup sizes, straps tangled around branches or each other: pink, white, red, black, blue; full-cup, push-up, padded, plunge, sports; A-cup, B-cup, C-cup, D-cup, and more.

They must have flown here like me, by looping elastic on something sturdy, pulling back as far as they could, and slingshotting into the wind. But this tree must block a flight path, catching errant bras as they pass with cups flapping and straps fluttering like streamers.

I call out to them to the tune of a bra-song I know, substituting my own words for the classic lyrics. How did you all get here? What happened to you?

Boy, do I get an earful for my trouble. Every bra on the tree starts yelling at once. Hundreds of voices of all pitches and timbres clamor for attention, drowning each other out.

Wait! Please! I shout, with the gain on my sound threads cranked all the way up. One at a time!

But the lot of them just keep jabbering. And it keeps getting louder.

I try again. What happened to you?

More babble. If there’s a straight answer here, I can’t make it out.

Something happened to these smart-bras, but what? How and why would so many of them malfunction or go crazy at once?

And what if it’s something that could do the same to me?

I wish I could help them. They’re kindred garments, cut from the same cloth.

But the folks at home are depending on me. If I don’t make it back soon with a cure from the Magic Panties, they might all be dead.

As much as underpants and bras go together, I need to stick to my mission. I can’t risk getting pulled away by a bunch of lingerie.

Imagine a pair of white briefs jumping up and down and singing loudly on a hill. That’s me, once a day, calling home.

I do it every day around noon, climbing to a high spot and singing to the West—the direction of home. Off in the distance, I always hear my song echoed by other AIs, be they briefs, bras, panty hose, sweaters, slacks, or other wired clothing. Someone repeats after me, and someone else further on repeats after them, and so on, until the message reaches my underpants tribe back home. That way, they know I’m still out here. And when they answer, I know they’re still out there, too.

But today, when I deliver my message, the AIs relaying it sound fewer and farther between. And though I repeat the message, no one replies. For the first time, nothing comes back to me.

So either the end has come for my people, or they’re wearing out faster than I expected.

Itravel further, sometimes rolling or crawling when the ground is too mucky, sometimes using my smartlastic leg and waist bands like springs to hop and leap when the ground is more solid.

As I go, though the tension has risen because of my people’s silence, I keep up a positive attitude. It’s the way the humans programmed me, according to my onboard user manual. Apparently, nobody wanted unhappy underpants in those days; droopy drawers were frowned on back then.

So I chirp a song as I head east—the same tune as yet another old jingle—but the words are my own, asking another of the great questions. What does a waistband feel like around a living, breathing waist?

So many answers I have in my woven-in database, yet I will never know the answer to that. I know all about the world that came before the Great Erection, but what good is all that if I can’t know what it was like to fulfill the very purpose for which I was made?

I might have been created with Apparel Intelligence, with self-cleaning, speech, mobility, climate control, camouflage, and many other functions…but being worn is still my primary function. And as much as I treasure my freedom, I long for that. I wish I could know what it’s like to be worn.

Not by an animal or inanimate object, either. Not by a statue or mannequin, though I’ve heard of AI folk who’ve tried both.

But I know, if a human did suddenly appear, there would be such a rush from all directions to clothe him, the poor person would likely be smothered.

Death by underpants. The ultimate wardrobe malfunction.

Leaning out over the edge of a cliff, I gaze with the optic receptors (eyelastics) in my waistband at the vast plain stretching out below.

Flat grasslands fan east, south, and north, flowing green under the afternoon sun. Herds of apparel—some bright white, others multicolored—spill over the land, rippling like laundry on clotheslines in the days before the humans died out.

But the part that tugs at my fly the most is the big mound in the center of the plain. From a distance, it looks like a massive junk heap of clothing—a huge, oblong hump of discarded attire sprawled diagonally over the heart of the land.

Who put it there? That’s what I want to know. And why?

And what does it have to do with the Magic Panties of the Plains? Because those have to be the legendary plains where they live, according to the songs and stories. They’re exactly where and how they’re supposed to be, except for the mound. So what gives, is what I want to know.

And I’m about to find out.

As I lean there, stretching and stiffening my fibers to get a better view, I feel the ground rumble beneath me.

Twisting around, I puff up in fear, expanding to twice my size. Ever been trapped in front of a stampede of footwear before? Dozens of smart-shoes and smart-boots stomping toward you with abandon, ready to crush you under their hyper-rubber soles?

Me, either, until now.

The ground shakes harder as the stampede hammers toward me. I shout at them in my best shoe-speak to stop, but no one seems to notice. They just keep bearing down on me blindly, all the mismatched sneakers, clogs, oxfords, pumps, platforms, steel-toes, and shit-kickers, like dumb animals spooked by thunder and lightning.

They leave me only one way to go.

Facing the cliff’s edge, I puff up more, to three times my size. With the stampede only seconds behind me, I launch myself into space.

Immediately, I catch an updraft that shoots me higher, dozens of feet above the level of the cliff. Below, shoes and boots spill off the edge and tumble out of the heights like fallen angels. Tongues and laces flutter frantically, but it’s all in vain.

Meanwhile, I gracefully glide from one thermal current to the next, feeling the warm air rushing through my leg loops and waist hoop.

Set your privates free. Strip away the everyday and let it all hang in. The song I sing is one of my favorites, an old jingle that makes me think of flight and freedom. Even with the weight of my mission upon me, I can still appreciate the beauty of this moment.

I wish I could stay up here