Jupiter 39: Hegemone

Table of Contents

Jupiter XXXIX : Hegemone

Editorial

Blocked

Simon Fay

Rendezvous

Alessio Zanelli

Without Doubt

J. Rohr

Climbers

Alessio Zanelli

Gap Years

Robert Thayer

The Kiss Of Farewell

Alessio Zanelli

Alien Encounter

Graham Keeler

Signals and Sentiments

Tyler Winstead

The Ghost Writer

Steve McGarrity

Contributors

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Jupiter XXXIX : Hegemone

January 2013

Jupiter is edited by: Ian Redman

Write to Jupiter at: Jupiter, 4 Stoneleigh Mews, Yeovil, Somerset, BA21 3UT, UK. or e-mail to: editor@jupitersf.co.uk Further information from www.jupitersf.co.uk

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Submissions: Stories to 10,000 words. Poetry to 25 lines. Artwork - cover and for use with stories, please send examples first (copies).

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Copyright (2013) for this collection, Ian Redman. Published at Smashwords. Rights to individual contributions remain the property of the relevant writer/artist. The views expressed in Jupiter are not necessarily those of the editor or of the magazine or publisher. Any resemblance between any of the characters depicted and anyone alive or dead is purely coincidental.

Editorial

We have moved! Any postal communications must be done using our new address shown on the previous page. Whilst we have set up a redirect, I would hate to lose any correspondence.

So, what have we got lined up this issue? Another good one I think, Daniel has provided a fantastic colour cover image and we welcome Alessio back with some more poems.

There are six great stories for you, from future (and past) earths to far flung new worlds. These stories are full of strange objects, space ships and future cities, and yet at their core they’re all about people, their reactions to the world and the things life throws at them.

Enjoy!

Ian

editor - Jupiter

Blocked

Simon Fay

She tosses her rucksack onto the ground in front of these two strangers as though they’re old friends waiting for her arrival. I’ll be back with a drink.

She hadn’t asked to sit down.

Blondes aren’t your type.

Americans aren’t yours.

I’ve been meaning to expand my horizons.

The Yank’s greeting doesn’t so much ignite the competition between the men as much as it douses a can of petrol on the crackling fire they call their friendship. Boys will be boys. The taller one pushes a low barstool out from the table with his foot by way of welcoming the woman to her seat. You’ll have to excuse my friend, he doesn’t like Americans.

Nobody does, the two ends of her mouth perched on her cheeks.

Maybe you can win me over, the smaller man says.

Who says I want to? As she leans forward to open a pouch on her rucksack the smaller man notices the cube shaped pendant dangling on a chain over the dip between her milky breasts.

Never mind, he says dramatically, She’s a Blockhead.

By way of confirming this she slides a beer mat decorated with a picture of The Block off the table, and slips it into the open pouch of her bag.

The bigger one laughs, feeling this marathon against his friend turn into a sprint in which he’s darting ahead.

I find that term offensive, her smile not flickering, her eyes not dulled.

He hates Blockheads more than he hates Americans.

Man, I thought Irish guys were supposed to have charm.

I should have guessed by the rucksack. A pilgrim for The Block, the smaller man shakes his head.

You guys don’t appreciate what you got.

Sure we do.

This one doesn’t.

My name’s Phil.

Sarah.

Rupert.

Hands are shook, everyone making a conscious effort to grip hard.

A Blockhead, Phil mourns the loss of his respect for the woman – Sarah – with a long sup of his beer.

An alien object, the size of a shopping mall, of unknown origin, a perfectly shaped cube, moved from god only knows where in the universe and floated – not fell, floated – down from space and landed in Dublin city – your home – an enormous block of perfectly shaped granite landed like a feather in Phoenix Park, and you’re not the least bit impressed by that?

Yeah? What’s it done lately? Phil knows well that The Block hasn’t done anything for twenty-seven years, eleven months and thirty days.

Phil’s not easily impressed, Rupert explains, then shifts the conversation away from his friend, personally, I think it’s stunning. There’s not a country in the world that didn’t claim a shot at understanding the damn thing, how the hell it floated and where the hell it came from. Thirty years of poking and prodding it and no explanation other than – yep – it’s made out of granite and it sure as hell is a cube.

Phil bites his tongue through Ruperts monologue, fully aware that he’s waffling and happy to lie to get into the girl’s pants. Codes of friendship sometimes serve as elaborate guidelines on how to torture each other. Rupert had taken his position, to love The Block, Phil was still resigned to smashing the thing, Yank or no Yank.

It’s comforting for you, Phil rolls his eyes, That there’s something you don’t understand. You think people were scared when The Block first showed up? Imagine how scared they’d be if we knew everything. I don’t blame you for taking comfort.

Sarah’s eyes do not leave Phil and her smile does not fade, though her manner becomes cautious and detached, like she’s looking at him through a sheet of glass.

Phil’s a deathbed Catholic, Rupert, kicking himself for redirecting the conversation back to Phil.

Is that right Phil? Sin, sin, sin all the way till a priest shows up for the last rights then apologise for being rude to so many tourists?

I’ll go to hell before apologising for that.

They all sit quietly for a moment till Sarah startles them with a burst of laughter. You two really hate each other.

Only all the time, Rupert says.

We’re going to need more drinks, Phil stands, patting pockets for his wallet.

Stop pretending to look for it, Rupert hands him a twenty

Phil takes the money bashfully and mentally notes that Rupert has scored another point, Cheeky, he thinks, and makes his way to the bar, feeling every second he’s away from the girl whom he’s left with the competition, his friend.

Feckin’ Blockheads, a drunk at the bar giggles to his buddy.

He sees the drunk fling a beer mat at the girl which buzzes by her ear like a fly – she scratches the ear – and the missile goes unnoticed.

You with her? they ask. Looper pilgrims.

Phil thinks, She is a looper pilgrim, a blockhead, travelling all the way from The States on her own just to see a big lump of granite.

And then he thinks it again, She travelled all the way from The States on her own to see a big lump of granite.

Anyway, he shrugs off their comment with a diplomatic, Blockheads’ gotta drink too. With that sentence, he feels a line drawn down himself splitting him in two. He doesn’t like that she’s into the lump of granite, but he’s protective of her. He decides, I’m the only one who’s going to slag her about The Block, not some drunks at the bar. As he’s thinking this, they fling another beer mat, this time hitting the target on her cheek. As Phil thinks, Rupert stands. Rupert’s broad frame expands to make him a bull, his size more intimidating than anything he could say. The drunks at the bar turn away from him in a sulk. Another point to Rupert, Phil notes. As he seats himself across from Sarah he feels small sat beside his friend. That Irish charm again, he rolls his eyes to the drunks. Sarah, she’s still smiling, though her eyes have lost a spark.

Rupert says you’ve never been to The Block.

Rupert’s very generous with information.

Rupert says you’re never going to The Block.

Rupert’s smile is starting to piss me off.

We’re going to The Block.

Have a nice time.

You’re coming with us.

Over my dead body.

She laughs that laugh again, no less startling this time.

Phil’s hand tightens on the square shaped pint glass – he knows that Rupert senses his opportunity to steal her away once and for all.

"We’re getting a bottle of wine. If Phil’s coming I’ll make it two. We’re hopping the