Raccowrimo

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----EIGHTFOLD PROUDLY PRESENTS----
----THE 2014 RACCIE WINNER FOR----
----FAVORITE ONGOING SERIES----
----FAVORITE NEW TITLE-----
----FAVORITE DRAMA/ACRAPHOBE----
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---- ISSUE # 17    MAY 2015 ----
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------[8F-142]------
----SAXON BRENTON-ANDREW PERRON---
--MARY RUSSELL-TOM RUSSELL-COLIN STOKES--
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---- Editor, Tom Russell ----
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE

"Scraps of Paper Found in a Field,
 Provenance Unknown, April 1885" by Andrew Perron
Aftershocks of our previous number, or shall we say foreshocks? Films
from the future, reviewed in the past. Also, Andrew, seriously, enough
with the long titles.

"Beyond the Fields" Part 16, by Saxon Brenton
On the limits of meta and the syntax of trolls. Everything is better with mechs.

"Seven 'Gainst Thebes" Part 15, by Tom Russell
On the character of Ned Strife, and why Jack Peake is Ned's man,
through and through. A terrible and unholy steed, and the dangers of
riding with the raven-mocker.

"Empress of Pages" Part 4, by Colin Stokes
In which RACC's official Favorite New Writer continues his tale of
magic and daemons. On the power of a real name, and the two natures of
the Librarian.

"Doc in Space: an Untold Story of Docrates,
 the Mighty Supra Gato starring Docrates,
 the Mighty Supra Gato & Extra-Special Agent
 Steve Shooter", by Mary Russell
Oh, come on, Mary; you heard what I just told Andrew about those
titles! That aside, as she ever does, Mrs. Russell proves a delight
and a godsend.


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-- SCRAPS OF PAPER FOUND IN A FIELD, ---
--- PROVENANCE UNKNOWN, APRIL 1885 ---
---Copyright 2015 Andrew Perron----
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Dr. Clevinger poked her head through the door of the
humidity-controlled collection maintenance room. "You wanted to see
me, Charles?"
  "Ah, Aurora. Please, come in." Dr. Pendergast was bending over a
some scraps of paper, laid out on the sample analysis table.
  "That was quite a message you left in my voicemail," she said
mildly, pulling over a chair. "You seem, ah, much calmer now."
  "Heh. Apologies." He fluffed his bushy beard. "I felt rather foolish
when I realized - well, I should just show you." He pulled a
magnifying glass over on a swinging arm, bringing the bits of paper
into focus. "After relations with the Pulse broke down, a man brought
these in, claiming they'd been found in a field by his great
grandfather, circa the 1880s. I hadn't taken the time to process them
before - they seemed like obvious fakes. Now I'm not so sure."
  Dr. Clevinger leaned in. The text began on a ragged edge, but was clear.
[ first film release to come out after the war was a direct-to-video
documentary. "The Last Story" used on-the-spot recordings, news
footage, and interviews with the Blue Boxer, in an effort to construct
a narrative of what had happened. Though its conclusions were not
entirely accurate, it was very popular, and established much of the
terminology used ]
  Dr. Clevinger looked at Dr. Pendergast. "And you received these
before the Pulse War began?"
  He nodded. "This movie just came out. I saw a post online about it,
and it prodded my memory. I came back to the museum, dug these out,
and started sorting through them." He moved the magnifying glass over
to another sample. "Here, look at this one..."
[ t seems that the sense of "too soon" faded all at once, as two
different big-budget features came out in the summer of 2019. "War
Against the Pulse" was theoretically the more serious-minded, flirting
with Oscar-bait territory, but was critically excoriated for its
simplistic heroes and its complete refusal to acknowledge the
existence of China. "Invasion Day" had no ambitions beyond being a
satisfying action movie, and fulfilled them admirably; the final
battle of the Daylighters again ]
  She shook her head. "It seems almost too pat..."
  He nodded. "And some of them hint at... well..." He moved the glass
to the smallest scrap, ink badly faded, completely unreadable in
places.
[ ##### ####ghth Hive", the most critically acclaimed Pulse War movie
of all time, and indeed, one of the best-loved war movies of all time,
especially among post-revolutionary ####### ### ##### ######## and
integrated ###### by ############ ###thean directo ]
  She looked at him. He looked at her. As one, they turned to the last
scrap. This one, finally, had the top of the page, and a title: "Pulse
of the Century: A Cinematic History of the Pulse War, 2014-2114".
[ "The Pulse War" was, in many senses, a tribute to the Earth that
was. After the diaspora, many wanted to remember a time when
four-colors could triumph against all odds, and preserve the way of
life that now seemed so far aw ]
  Dr. Clevinger leaned in, running her fingers through her hair. "As
Dickens said, are these shadows of things that must be, or of things
that *might* be?"
  "I don't know." Dr. Pendergast fluffed his beard. "But we need to
tell someone."
  "Yes," she said. "But who?"



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-----BEYOND THE FIELDS-----
------Part 16------
---Copyright 2015 Saxon Brenton----
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   Deidre paused for just a fraction of a second before
surreptitiously waving for Joan to stand ready. Joan also noticed
Deidre's hand lingering near the holster that the angel knew Deidre
had concealed within her coat. Then Deidre announced in a clear,
decisive, and deliberately nasal voice, "We who are over here wish to
be over there."
   A humanoid creature clambered up from underneath the bridge. It was
large and green and had an oversized pickle-shaped nose, and for the
most part conformed to expectations about what a classic fairy tale
troll might look like. Idly Joan wondered how it had fitted underneath
such a small structure. Deidre stood her ground with apparent calm and
asked, "Hello Mr Troll. Are you the threshold guardian?"
   The troll looked at her and went, "Wassa threshold guardian?"
   A flicker of surprise crossed Deidre's face. "Uhm. A guard who
talks to everybody who reaches a certain location and judges whether
they're worthy of getting the secret knowledge they need to continue
their quest."
   The troll shook his head. "Nah. I'm just gonna eat you," said the
troll, and raised his oversized club to smash them.
   The human reached for her gun and Joan pulled her sword from its
other-dimensional scabbard. However before the angel could set the
sword aflame, a missile screamed over their heads from the woods
behind them, struck the troll, and exploded. The creature was blown
backwards and onto the bank above the creek in a most comical manner.
Three billy goats dressed in mech battle armour emerged from the snow
covered woods and began to fight - nay, engaged in awesome melee -
'gainst the troll.
   Deidre took one look at this, made a snap decision and told Joan,
"Okay, we're out of here," before jogging up along the creek and away
from the fight. Joan glanced at the troll. Incredibly he seemed to be
unharmed. He picked himself up and swung his club to land a resounding
blow against one of the mechs. Joan turned and followed Deidre, who by
now had reached a narrow point of the stream and jumped across to the
other side, and was scrabbling up the other side of the bank to rejoin
and continue along their original path.
   Deidre paused once she was safely over the crest of the hill and
out of direct line of sight of the fight they have left behind. She
looked back ruefully. "I think I put two plus two together and got
four. A pity it was calculated in binary."
   "No, I think you made the right choice," Joan said, sheathing her
sword. "The troll was tough enough to survive that first missile
strike, and be able to return as good as he got. Getting involved in
that fight would have been risky and chewed up some of our already
scant time."
   "Probably, but that wasn't what I was getting at," Deidre said,
shaking her head. "You remember how you said you didn't think this was
a dreamscape?"
   "Yes. And I stand by that assessment."
   "And I have no evidence to doubt it. But I don't think all the
death magic polluting the atmosphere is the only thing that's wrong
with this place. I've been to one or two worlds that are literal
faerie tales. And... Look, I can't say whether or not it's true about
the whole place, but when I saw that troll I realised: oh, that's what
I've been feeling, he's some sort of story archetype. I mean,
literally a character in a story."
   Joan finally saw what the mortal was getting at, as well as the
obvious flaw. "But even if he's part of a fiction... No, actually, if
*they* are part of a fiction," she amended, remembering the billy
goats, "they're not necessarily going to be aware of it."
   "Yeah, and that was my big mistake." Deidre looked both thoughtful
and determined. "Next time, if I need to try and game this system with
meta-textuality, I won't bother with talk about narrative function.
I'll just go straight to exploiting their biases and blind spots." She
shrugged. "To be honest, I've usually found that if your enemy's more
powerful than you, then using his own stupidity against him is a good
idea anyway, even in real life."


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----SEVEN 'GAINST THEBES-----
------Part 14------
---Copyright 2015 Tom Russell----
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Peake led the trussed-up girl out of the hut by a rope, and Skin of
Snake followed behind them. Peake gave a whistle, and out came a
shape. The shape was black, blacker than black, shifting like spots
afore your eyes, and then it- well, it didn't rightly become a horse,
but it took on aspects that more resembled a horse than any other
living thing. Looking at it made Skin of Snake feel sick. He looked at
Celine instead.
   "Girl rides with me," said Peake with sly but undisguised pleasure.
   Skin of Snake grabbed Celine by the shoulders and hoisted her up
onto the unholy steed; she seemed to weigh only slightly more than a
loaf of bread. A blur rushed past and through them both, and when it
settled, Peake had taken his place at the reins.
   "Begging your pardon, Mr. Peake," said Skin of Snake as he mounted
his own horse, "but won't you be getting there faster without a
horse?"
   This annoyed Peake some. "I would; I also can survive moving at
that speed. You and the girl can't. Would burn right up right quick.
Boss wouldn't like that none. Don't think you would, neither."
   "No, can't say that I would." He noticed that Peake didn't mention
what Celine would or wouldn't like none, but did not remark on it, and
did not look to see how she reacts; when you speak with the
raven-mocker, you choose your words and your glances with care.
   "Well, come on, then," said Peake. "Been a long time since the boss
had a wedding. And no one throws a shivaree quite like the boss and
the boys."
   "He's been married before?"
   "Wouldn't have said it otherwise," said Peake. "I been his best man
three times now. Ned likes his wives like his horses, wild and
unbroken. Problem is once he's ridden either, well, you can't break
something twice, can you? The horses he used to give to his brother,"
and here Peake crossed himself without irony, "and the wives of late
he's given to me." He shrugged. "I don't mind them after they're
spoilt, myself. One of the perks, I guess. The intangibles. Ned's
brother offered me a fair amount of money to turn my coat, and if it
were just about money, I would take it, sure. But the truth is, I am
partial to those intangibles. Makes me Ned's man, through and
through."
   Skin of Snake knew he would be expected to say something to this,
but didn't know what. And so he was glad when Adams appeared, as
scheduled.
   Peake brought his horse to a halt; standing still, it looked to be
shifting more than it had while in motion. He tipped his hat. "Mr.
Adams."
   "Hank's dead," said Adams. (Skin of Snake stole a glance at Celine.)
   "I should hope so," said Peake. "When I kill someone, I mean for
them to die from it. I let you live as a sign of respect, Mr. Adams.
One master of the art to another."
   Adams shifted his glance to Skin of Snake. "Is that Cain himself?"
   Skin of Snake pretended to hesitate, then, "I'm Ned Strife."
   "You're a dead man," said Adams. "The both of you. I'm
gonna-"
   Presently, Skin of Snake shot Adams in the shoulder. Adams
conveniently fell back, striking his head on a rock, and lapsing
quick-like into unconsciousness.
   "Well, you're a crap shot," said Peake sourly.
   "No, I shot to wound only. He's worth more to us alive, don't you
think, Mr. Peake? I take it he was with the party that stood against
our employer?"
   "Paul Strife's dead," said Peake. "Shot him myself."
   "So why is he here, if there's no more profit in it? Either he's
stupid- and presuming that this Mr. Adams is Dash Adams, well-known
back east for a streak of romance and whimsy, that could be the case-
or he might have information that we... you... can persuade him to
divulge."
   "I bet I could, at that," remarked Peake. "Smart thinking. You're
alright, Clay. Might let you borrow the girl for a night before I skin
her."
   Celine didn't say a word.


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---- EMPRESS OF PAGES -----
------Part 4------
---Copyright 2015 Colin Stokes----
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The Librarian exhaled quietly, a rather long-suffering sigh, and fixed
her burning golden gaze on the daemon before her. There was precious
little remaining to be said at this point; now that first blood was
drawn, he would surely expend his energies to the utmost in a bid to
either overcome her or merely escape.
   But the latter was ultimately impossible now, and she would make
certain he knew it. The Librarian opened her mouth at last, and in a
voice at once her own and yet not her own, intoned three words that
would shake the daemon to his very core.
   =Fn'ordh Rael Meredith.   "No," Fn'ordh whispered after a moment,
his face a mask of
disbelief mixed with despair.  "No, no, this cannot be, this cannot
/be/!  How?!  How could you know?!"
   =Did I not already tell you?= the Librarian returned, with the
slightest of smiles. =You will give me - or rather, you /have/ given
me - your secrets. Your true name the least among them.= Deliberately,
she moved to one side, leaving a clear path between Fn'ordh and the
summoning circle that was the only thing keeping him here - at least
in the technical sense.
   Fn'ordh felt the cloud of despair settle even further on him. The
meaning of the gesture was all too clear; with his true name, the
Librarian could simply construct a circle that would pull /him/ from
the Netherworld, instead of a random daemon. And hoping the knowledge
of that form of construction was /not/ already in her possession
seemed as vain and foolish as believing he could win a confrontation
with this golden-eyed nightmare.
   But confrontation seemed better than mere submission, at least for
the moment.
   The daemon's eyes flared with a rage that burned away that despair,
turning the fear in his belly into steel; and baring his teeth,
Fn'ordh focused that steel and called upon the Netherguard, feeling
the glossy black carapace envelop his body and the duller, flexible
mesh form between the armored plates. Donning the Netherguard took a
fair expenditure of his magical reserves, but in this case it seemed a
reasonable precaution - or more accurately, the only real chance at
victory here.
   =So this is your choice, then,= the Librarian murmured quietly, her
own golden eyes sparkling brightly as she watched the daemon's body
shift from that rust-red hue to a gleaming black. =Perhaps you will
meet my expectations after all.   Fn'ordh desired a rapid settling of accounts far
more than banter.
The moment the Librarian blinked, he threw himself forward into the
air - not toward the summoning circle, but directly at the lady
instead, fists clenched tightly.
   The Librarian met the assault on her person dispassionately, and with a
relatively quiet *clonk*, as her metallic cables whipped defensively
in front of her to form a large, web-like dome. The framework
structure absorbed the impact of the daemon's armored carapace rush
and then flexed sharply to send him quickly back the way he came,
drawing nothing but a soft grunt of protest at the rapid shift in his
personal velocity. Her keen eyes tracked his movements as he flipped
nimbly through the air and came to land on his feet once more; perhaps
some sort of magic, perhaps simply innate athleticism - there was no
way to tell just yet.
   Two entities had combined in order to form the being known as the
Librarian, yet they were not so completely fused as to be indistinct.
The remarkable AI once known as the Eighth Library regarded Fn'ordh
with a clinical kind of curiosity, content for the moment with taking
measurements and gathering data while keeping herself safe. The
humanoid part, who had given up her name what now seemed like ages
ago, regarded Fn'ordh primarily with irritation. She wanted her magic
back, and now she had a way - and a place, and a Thing with a capital
T - that would give her that which she desired. And this puffed up
'Lesser' daemon - maybe there was a Greater somewhere? - was standing
in her path. And she was /done/ with him.
   Fn'ordh was unaware of this, or at least the full extent of it. He
only saw the way the Librarian's expression seemed to cloud - just
slightly - before the thick cables forming that dome slid apart with a
metallic slithering sound, whipped backwards, and arced around like a
giant pair of scissors with a soft keening sound as they sliced
through the air with frightening speed. His backstep was faster, but
only just, the rush of displaced air pushing insistently against him
as if to remind him just how close he was cutting things; and he could
feel the steel in his belly starting to melt back into the hot grease
of fear.
   The Librarian's thick cables retracted into her robe with that same
serpentine sound as a host of tiny wires darted out to replace them -
too quickly for Fn'ordh to avoid! They fractured the Netherguard
plates designed to resist slashing and piercing attacks - not merely
stabbing, but /catching/, like tiny fishhooks!
   =SUBMIT,= the Librarian snarled, her golden eyes flashing with pure fury.
   And there went all of the steel.


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-----DOC IN SPACE------
-AN UNTOLD STORY OF DOCRATES THE MIGHTY SUPRA GATO-
--STARRING DOCRATES THE MIGHTY SUPRA GATO--
---& EXTRA SPECIAL AGENT STEVE SHOOTER--
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---Copyright 2015 Mary Russell----
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Doc was deep into his second afternoon nap when the distress smell
came in over the Mammal Militia's Global Scent Network. In minutes,
pausing only for a quick nibble, a few laps of water, and a visit to
the, ahem, sand pile, the mightiest of the three Los Gatos- that
would be Docrates, the Mighty Supra Gato, the mightiest being in the
universe, who took care not to disturb the slumber of the other two
Los Gatos, his brother and sister, the second and third mightiest
beings in the universe, don't ask which is which, really don't ask-
sped away to the FBI space station, in space, where Extra Special
Agent Steve Shooter of the FBI was waiting, in his FBI space suit,
because he was in space, to brief our mighty hero (who didn't need a
space suit, he can breathe in space) about the space bad guys who were
in space, possibly wearing bad guy space suits.
   Steve did just that, he briefed our mighty hero. The entire UN
assembly was being held hostage. On the moon. In an impenetrable
fortress. On the moon. The pizza smelled good. Impenetrable fortress.
Really good smelling. Not wasting any time, except for some tummy
scratches from the space station's leading forensic scientist, Mandy
Li, and the smellalicious pizza the Extra Squad had brought with them
but couldn't eat at the moment because they were in their FBI issued
spacesuits, but that was okay Doc would eat it for them and so he did,
Doc joined the squad in the FBI's space stealth jet, which makes you
invisible when you are in space, actually anywhere not just in space,
but mostly in space. They headed for the moon, which is also in space.
   Before reaching the moon, Doc exited the space stealth jet. He
would reconnoiter the impenetrable moon fortress. He moved in on the
compound. No sensors this far out. He flew closer. Nothing. He flew
closer. Then it hit. In his chest. He slumped to the dusty moon
surface and bounced up. He hit again, bouncing then skidding in the
low gravity. He stopped. He exhaled. He fought to sit upright.
Heartburn. The pepperoni sat in his stomach laughing at him. Ha ha ha.
Ha.
   Then he saw it. The way in. A small pockmark on the moon's pizza
face. Just inside the pepperoni- he began to regret eating all the
pizza, but he was still a kid back in those days, and pepperoni and
cheese are delicious- rather inside the false craterlet that reminded
him of pepperoni, he could see the glow of circuitry. He meowed the
space stealth jet in, because he can do that with his meows.
   The squad fell down the shaft and landed with soft thuds, because
it's the moon remember, low gravity, or do I have to explain that?
Thanks to Doc's supersonic tail they busted into the
not-so-impenetrable moon fortress, pretty darned fast. In fact, right
away. Doc and Steve rushed forward in the lead; the rest of the squad
right behind with sonic blasters and fists at the ready.
   Bam. Zap. Thwack. Thoom. Crunch. Pow. Smash. Splat. Pow. Smash some
more. Also, splat. Doc head-butted bad guys. Whoosh. He whacked them
with his faster-than-sound tail. Zap. Zap. Zap. Steve zapped them with
his sonic rifle. Krrrack. Crunch. Pow. Zap zap zap some more.
   The Extras were in bad butt fighting mode and the bad guys ended up
in bad butt shape.
   Doc whacked open the door to the cell where the entire UN General
Assembly was being held. It was a really big room, but a little
cramped for that many people who didn't like each other. Stay out!
Don't you dare cross this line. Cross at your peril. Your momma. Those
are the signs we can mention. This being a G-rated story, notice the
bad butt above. Doc took in the scene, then supersonic farted. The
entire assembly en masse, except for a bunch of exceptions, rushed
forward to welcome the mightiest being in the universe, not noticing
the smell because it shot right down the hall to the room where the
bad guys were currently trying hard not to breathe, talk about bad
butt shape. The Extras were back in their FBI space suits and didn't
notice the odor. The entire UN assembly by a slight majority declared
this day World Docrates Appreciation Day. They just had to figure out
what day it was, they forgot to bring a calendar, though they may have
had watches or something.


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-----SEE YOU NEXT MONTH-----
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