News Deadpool Deadpool, Kidpool, and Lynda Carter Want to Get Rid of Sick Kids By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on December 12, 2024 Screenshot: Ryan Reynolds/Marvel Studios Comment 0 Share New Share Screenshot: Ryan Reynolds/Marvel Studios It’s the holiday season! A time for caring and giving, and for Ryan Reynolds, creating a short as Deadpool hanging out with Kidpool (who, in Deadpool & Wolverine, was played by his then-seven-year-old daughter, Inez Reynolds) to raise money for the Canadian charity, SickKids. The video, set on a snowy rooftop, includes several festive F-bombs as Kidpool and Deadpool hang out in Santa’s sleigh (Santa’s whereabouts remain unknown). Deadpool explains that he wants to get rid of sick kids (not by killing them, don’t worry!) but says that since he and Kidpool are R-rated, they need some family-friendly help. That’s when Lynda Carter shows up, in what will likely be the only on-screen DC and Marvel crossover we’ll ever get. After Deadpool calls Carter a… wonderful woman… she does the classic spin around. You’ll have to watch to see what she changes into, but don’t get your hopes up too much; as Deadpool references in the clip, lawyers are gonna lawyer. The clip is cute and also supports a good cause. The ask is for folks to donate to the SickKids Foundation before Christmas, with Reynolds and his wife Blake Lively matching donations up to $500,000. Check out the clip below. And as Deadpool might say, have a Merry F*****g Christmas![end-mark] The post Deadpool, Kidpool, and Lynda Carter Want to Get Rid of Sick Kids appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts Young Adult Read an Excerpt From Kate Pearsall’s Lies on the Serpent’s Tongue A girl who can smell the lies of others uncovers the incendiary mysteries of her small Appalachian town. By Kate Pearsall | Published on December 12, 2024 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from brand new YA fantasy novel Lies on the Serpent’s Tongue by Kate Pearsall, a companion to Bittersweet in the Hollow—out from G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers on January 7. Everybody lies. And in knowing their lies, I become the keeper of their secrets.As Caball Hollow slowly recovers from a tumultuous summer, the James family must also come to terms with their own newly revealed secrets.18-year-old Rowan James has spent her whole life harboring unpleasant truths—that’s what happens when you can smell lies on the teller’s breath—and building walls around herself to block them out. Like her younger sister, Linden, who can taste the feelings of others, Rowan has long struggled with her gift, which has taught her that everyone distorts the truth, and no one is who they seem to be. So when her old rival Hadrian Fitch shows up on her front porch—bloodied and bruised and asking for the kind of help only she can provide—her first instinct is distrust.Except Hadrian’s attack isn’t the only strange occurrence. Now small items are disappearing, but rather than report the losses the owners act as if their missing things never existed. Rumors of a new monster prowling the Hollow begin to swirl. But how can Rowan smoke out the culprit in a town full of secrets? And worse, how can Rowan trust beautiful, solemn Hadrian when every other word he speaks has the distinct burnt smell of a lie? “What do you see in the tea leaves, Linden?” I ask. Maybe if I know what monsters haunt her dreams, I can help to slay them. But there are so many possibilities, from moths’ wings to river rapids, and I’m not sure where to begin. Linden clears her throat before she blinks and looks down into the dregs of her cup. “It’s a person,” she says at last, her eyes wide and shining in the low light when she meets mine. “Falling, and falling, and falling.” I watch her face as she seems to get lost in her thoughts for a moment, then gives herself a little shake, smiling gently when she realizes I’m staring. “I’ll be all right,” she insists. I brace for the foul scent of a lie, but it doesn’t come. And in the back of my mind, I’m still not sure if that means she’s telling the truth or my ability is failing me again. “Let’s try to get some sleep.” She nods toward the stairs. “We’ve only got a few more hours until morning chores. * * * I’m up before the sun, pulling my thick barn jacket tighter against the biting whisper of cold that tries to slide down the collar like a snake in a mouse burrow, seeking hidden warmth to steal away. There’s a promise of winter already in the air this early in the day, a crisp freshness beneath the acridity of burning leaves wafting from the next holler over. I shut the kitchen door behind me, then tuck my hands up into my sleeves and away from the nibbling chill as I make my way to the coop to let out the chickens, too stubborn to break out my gloves in September no matter how cold it is. Morning chores are among the worst on the farm and often include getting head-butted by impatient goats looking for breakfast, hunting down the eggs our bantam hens like to hide in the rafters, and shoveling shit out of animal pens. All of which should have been the responsibility of our farmhand, Hadrian Fitch, had he not taken off at the end of August, emptying his room over the carriage house without so much as a word and disappearing just as suddenly as he’d arrived the year before. I warned Gran not to hire him. He showed up in his ripped jeans, untamable dark hair, with tattoos crawling up his neck, and a fiddle case under his arm. Then softened her up with some story about searching for his long-lost brother that wasn’t even a fraction of the whole truth. From first glance, I knew he was trouble. I’m glad to have seen the back of him. Every single word that boy said was untrue. I’d rather clean the barn every day for the rest of my life than catch the lies that fall from his lips like ash. A memory appears unbidden in my mind: Hadrian leaning against the counter just inside the kitchen, wild curls even darker in the shadows. I was at the table, eating a breakfast of streaky bacon and fried eggs, focused on soaking up the runny yolks with a hunk of last night’s cornbread, when he came in. Buy the Book Lies on the Serpent’s Tongue Kate Pearsall Buy Book Lies on the Serpent's Tongue Kate Pearsall Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget “You hungry, son?” Gran asked from the stove, where she was frying up more eggs in bacon grease, scooping a little over the top until they were perfectly cooked. “These are almost ready. Grab a seat.” “I’ve got to see to the sheep first, ma’am,” Hadrian said. “But if it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I need to take the truck out to the feed store in Rawbone. We’re running low on hay pellets and wood shavings.” The sharp scent of a struck match, sulfur and burning wood, hit me, and my head jerked up. But he wasn’t looking at Gran. His eyes were locked on me like a challenge. “Well, that’s just fine,” Gran answered, turning her full attention back to the stove. “You know where to find the keys.” I caught the tiny smirk before he grabbed the truck key from the hook by the door and headed back outside. I dropped my fork and pressed my hands against the table, the stench of the lie roiling my stomach and forcing me to my feet to follow after him. He was nearly to the gate of the sheep pen when I stepped out onto the porch. The flower boxes were right there, and I didn’t even think before plunging in my hand and taking aim at the back of his head. The first dirt clod missed, sailing wide and nearly hitting Linden as she wheeled the old red bike out of the barn, but it got his attention. He spun around to face me. “If you can’t be bothered to tell the truth, at least keep your stinking lies from spoiling my breakfast,” I yelled. More than anything, I wanted to sink my fingers back into the mud and knock the smug look off his face. Hadrian lifted a single dark brow, a gleam in his mossy green eyes. “What are you on about now?” He feigned confusion. “You told Gran you needed the truck today to go to the feed store.” I ground the words between my teeth, giving up any attempt at resistance and chucking another handful of soil at his head. This one only missed by inches, raining dirt into his hair. I stalked down the steps toward him. “But you and I both know that’s not true. So where are you really going?” “Rowan, stop.” Linden dropped the bike and grabbed my arm. “You know what Gran said,” she whispered, reminding me of the edict to stop accusing Hadrian of lying or suffer the consequences. Gran had long grown tired of our feud and told me in no uncertain terms that if I had time to distract him from his work, then I had time to take on more work of my own. And they were always the worst jobs, too, like cleaning out the chicken coop or the grease trap at the diner. My blood still boils at the way Hadrian winked at me over Linden’s shoulder. Then I shove the memory away, forcing my attention back to the here and now. The sky is just beginning to lighten, the outline of the rolling mountains surrounding Bittersweet Farm sharpening into focus, as I walk the fence line, checking for damage. A weak fence is an open invitation to predators, but ours is woven through with the protective bittersweet vines that give the farm its name. Some claim it rose from the earth of its own accord. Though the first known James ancestor, Caorunn, was said to have a special talent for coaxing just about anything to grow. I spot a frill of orange on the trunk of an old oak near the edge of the pasture and venture closer to investigate. It’s a cluster of chicken of the woods mushrooms, Laetiporus sulphureus, still fresh. Tender and bright. I flip open the small blade of the foraging knife I keep in my pocket and cut away several of the ruffled shelves it formed. It typically grows on dead or dying oaks, though not always, so I make a note to keep an eye on this one, before it can cause any trouble with the fence. When I make my way back to the house, I pull off my muck boots on the porch and open the back door. The air smells like Gran’s famous cathead biscuits, and the heat of the oven has chased the early autumn bite from the air. Mama and Gran sit at the table, a pot of coffee between them. “You out there doin’ all the chores alone again?” Gran asks as she blows over the top of her mug. “Your sisters are meant to help.” “School starts early enough, let them sleep in a bit,” I say, dropping my bounty of mushrooms on the counter as I make my way to the sink to wash up. I’m the only one who doesn’t have to worry about getting to class on time anymore or staying up late to do homework. Mama glances up at me as she surreptitiously rubs her thumb across something shiny, then tucks it back into her pocket. The shadows under her eyes look darker in the glare of the overhead light. Linden isn’t the only one who isn’t sleeping. I pretend not to see the small circle of the pendant, like I always do. She stopped wearing it after she and Daddy split, but she still carries it with her, reaching for it like a talisman when she thinks no one is watching. I’m not sure if it’s love or regret that haunts her. The story goes that Daddy gave Mama the necklace on their first date. By then, he’d already eaten lunch at the Harvest Moon every single day for a month, trying to work up the courage to ask her out. Until one day, when Mama asked him if he was ever going to. He told her he’d found the necklace at a thrift store for a couple bucks and the swan engraved on the front made him think of her. In truth, he’d been saving a sizeable chunk of his meager pay since the day he met her to buy it from an antiques jeweler up in Charleston. It took a few months for her to realize the pendant was a locket with a hidden catch. When she finally opened it, a piece of paper with the words I’m already in love with you scrawled across tumbled out, and by that point, she felt the same way. They’d been together ever since, until last year, when Mama traded their love to save Linden’s life. I grab a golden biscuit from the pan and try to pull it apart without burning myself or getting scalded on the steam that escapes. After dropping both halves into a bowl, I smother their soft middles with a scoop of thick, peppery sausage gravy from the cast iron skillet on the stove. “You should eat something, too, Odette,” Gran murmurs across the table. “I will,” Mama promises. It’s not really a lie, but it’s clear she doesn’t mean anytime soon. Gran and I exchange a look over her head. The loss of appetite, I suspect, is the guilt eating away at her. She hasn’t said as much, but I know she blames herself for keeping the secrets that put Linden in danger when all she’d wanted to do was to protect her. “I don’t have to tell you”—Gran starts, settling back into the old wooden chair with both hands wrapped around her mug—“how I blamed myself when my sister took off. Zephyrine was so young when your granny Sudie passed, I think I took to mothering her whether she wanted it or not. I knew something was wrong toward the end. She looked plumb exhausted, and she was barely eating, but she’d already stopped talking to me on account of all my meddling. After she left, I let my own guilt stop me from going after her. When I think of all the time I wasted when I could have been looking for her.” Gran pauses, shaking her head. Decades ago, she and her sister had a falling-out, ostensibly because Gran didn’t approve of the man Zephyrine was dating, but the real issue went deeper than that, to differences in how they thought we should use our gifts and our knowledge. Zephyrine trusted the man who she thought loved her with her secrets, and he used them against her. He used her to save himself, like a sacrifice to an old god he didn’t understand, though maybe a deal with the devil would be more apropos. “I might have found out a lot sooner that she didn’t leave of her own accord. Sitting around stewing in your own juices don’t do no good for nobody. You need to decide what you’re gonna do about it.” Gran pushes out of her chair and makes her way around the table. “I know what that kind of guilt feels like, but I’m not just going to sit by this time. Accept it or change it. Those are the only choices. Now that I know where she is, I’m going to do everything in my power to get her back.” She pats Mama’s shoulder as she moves toward the stove. “So, if biscuits and gravy aren’t to your liking, let me fix you up something else.” I slide into Gran’s empty chair, and Mama meets my gaze across the table. “You look so much like your father.” Her smile is a heavy thing, weighted with equal parts joy and sadness. Her words aren’t strictly true, either. My ink-dark hair and bright blue eyes are James family traits, but she searches out the pieces of him in each of us. His freckles on Sorrel’s skin, the exact shape of Linden’s smile, the curve of Juniper’s jaw, the set of my eyes. They can never quite add up to the whole, no matter how hard she looks. “Did I ever tell you that I used to sit with him whenever I had a free minute during my shift? And sometimes when I didn’t,” she admits, lifting her eyebrows. “He listened like every word I spoke was a revelation. We created a whole world, he and I, one that existed only for the two of us. I would never take back the deal I made to save your sister, but I know why the Moth-Winged Man accepted the trade. A life for a life. I killed something that day. Something I can never get back.” I stare into the deep blue of her eyes and realize it’s not the regret or the guilt that keeps her up at night. It’s grief. “Your gran has hope now of finding Zephyrine. But I have to abide by my bargain. We don’t always get to keep what’s most precious. Sometimes we have to let it go.” Mama squeezes my hand, then leaves the kitchen while Gran is busy at the stove. Zephyrine loved the wrong man, and it cost her dearly. Mama loved the right man and still lost. Their stories might be vastly different, but the end result was still the same. We don’t talk about our abilities. As many folks make their way down the garden path to the summer kitchen late at night, careful not to wake wagging tongues as they seek out cures for what ails them, none of them really want to know the truth. It’s one thing to believe there might be more to the world than what’s known, yet quite another to have it confirmed. People turn dangerous when confronted with something that challenges their worldview. Scorch marks mar the old log cabin wall from where long ago some disgruntled customer decided the best way to deal with a witch was the old-fashioned one. There’s a reason we don’t trust easy. It’s a lesson we’ve learned well enough over the generations. Excerpted from Lies on the Serpent’s Tongue, copyright © 2024 by Kate Pearsall. The post Read an Excerpt From Kate Pearsall’s <i>Lies on the Serpent’s Tongue</i> appeared first on Reactor.

Books Poetry 12 Poems That Break the Silence on Disability and Illness Exploring the complexities of living with chronic illness and disability. By Holly Kybett Smith | Published on December 12, 2024 Comment 0 Share New Share November 14th through December 2oth marks Disability History Month in the UK, where I’m writing from. As a chronically ill writer myself, I thought this would make a fine opportunity to share and celebrate poems that centre disability and illness in their themes. These poems are earnest, brutal, and sometimes hard to read. But they’re incredibly important, communicating experiences that are often talked-over and ignored. If you’re disabled or chronically ill yourself, you may resonate with what they have to say. (Or you may not—everyone experiences illness differently.) If you aren’t, I hope that these grant you insight into our lives. Frequently, it isn’t pity we are looking for: it’s empathy, and the right to take up space. “I’m rewatching the She-Ra episode where Glimmer gets sick for the first time” by Arianna Monet and I keep mistaking the screen for a mirror. By which I mean, I too was onceadolescent and unconquerable:purple hair; a body unmarked by pain.Then, the bright unholiness of onset… I haven’t watched She-Ra (yet), but the experience at the crux of this poem is one I can relate to intimately, as a young person whose health unexpectedly started to decline. There’s a kicking-and-screaming sort of defiance to the narrator’s words, a refusal to be happy about the situation, which simultaneously makes me feel heard and optimistic about carrying on. “It’s going to hurt” by Sandra Simons “Brave soul,” says the radio“Beauty,” says the radio“It had to be like this,” says the radio… A more melancholy poem than the first, Simons’ verse follows its narrator in second-person through an unspecified and vaguely-alluded-to illness. Despair approaches, and is held at arm’s length with dark and speculative imagery. “ANAMNESIS” by Leslie McIntosh Hidden chambers in the blood.The staircase haunted by my own ghoststhat treat me lovingly, like a guest,a family member from far away… There’s a certain sense of reification—unfamiliarity with and estrangement from one’s own body, despite being unable to escape it—that McIntosh evokes beautifully in this poem. Anamnesis—the process of recollection—becomes an experience on a cellular level for the poem’s narrator. “The Moon and the Yew Tree” by Tory Dent This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.The trees of the mind are black. Their irregular branches,like broken arms backlit from MRI dye, offset by yearning… Written in dialogue with the poem of the same name by Sylvia Plath—utilising excerpts and replying to them—Dent’s poem narrates in haunting verse the anxiety of a fatal illness. Diagnosed with HIV at 30, Dent knew this experience intimately and wrote of it extensively. Her second poetry collection, HIV, Mon Amour, pays it particular focus. “Self-Portrait as Self-Care Mantra” by Elizabeth Theriot Head tilted back, eyes to the light, I squeeze single tears of moisturizer from the glass jar: forehead, cheek, cheek, a cross, martyr mystic blessing that promises to unblemish me… We’re often told to take care of ourselves when we’re sick. But when you’re always sick, the tenets of self-care grow blurry and complex, identity-forming and identity-robbing. Theriot—who has an Ehlers-Danlos syndrome—explores the nuance of these feelings in this poem. In her essay “Common Surfaces,” published in the Crab Orchard Review, she says, “I want to keep up. I want to indulge in the full experiences of my life without injury or embarrassment. I don’t want to miss out, though I feel that I often have—that a sort of gilded normalcy exists right beyond the reach of my fingertips.” This is a sentiment I—and I’m sure many others with chronic health conditions—can relate to. “The Man with Night Sweats” by Thom Gunn I wake up cold, I whoProspered through dreams of heat  Wake to their residue,  Sweat, and a clinging sheet… In simple, spare verse, Gunn evokes a uniquely isolating experience that comes with being ill: waking up alone and in pain. The title places distance between the narrator and his identity—“The Man with Night Sweats” sounds as though it refers to someone else—but that distance shrinks with every line. “Emerald Spider Between Rose Thorns” by Dean Young How absurdto still have a body in this rainbow-gored,crickety world and how ridiculous to be given onein the first place, to be an objectlike an orchid is an object, or a stone,so bruisable and plummeting… In contrast with “The Man with Night Sweats,” “Emerald Spider with Rose Thorns” is baroque and maximalist in its use of language. Published in 2013, two years after its author received a heart transplant, there’s an air of disbelief and celebration in each word. But at the same time, a sharpened sense of vulnerability. “bad road” by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha Some times everything    everythingeverything    every thinghurtslike a church belllike a call to prayerand it calls me to praythis painbreathing into any place that doesn’t hurt… There’s a particular anguish that comes when a loved one wants to help you with your chronic pain, only to realise that they can’t make it magically go away. Unlike an acute injury, there’s no remedy that will cause the symptoms to vanish; only methods of mediation and compromise that make getting through the day a little easier. On the loved one’s end, there can be denial. A desire to research, to say “well, maybe if you tried this…?”—because it’s hard to accept that sometimes things are just the way they are. And on the chronic person’s end, there’s almost a feeling of guilt: of failure, because these things haven’t worked and now their loved ones feel bad. It’s a complex situation, and Piepzna-Samarasinha captures that complexity beautifully. “Monster” by Jason Irwin Priestsand soothsayers were summonedwith their incantations and blessings.But the monster lived, consumed our lives,and became something other —a manifestation of our fears. This striking poem makes use of Gothic imagery to explore the fear that comes with being seriously ill. The titular monster is a shifting thing, appearing wherever the narrator looks as the locus of his anxieties. “blood·sugar·canto” by ire’ne lara silva this is what they will not tell youand this is what you must knowif you hear nothing else i sayhear thisyou cannot live in fearyou cannot heal in fearfear will never make you stronger Diabetes—according to these 2021 stats from the CDC—affects an estimated 11.6% of the U.S. population. Despite that, it’s a topic rarely explored in poetry. In bleak yet defiant verse, silva discusses the harsh financial realities that come with chronic illness—finding a hopeful note to end on. “Earth, You Have Returned to Me” by Elaine Equi Can you imagine waking upevery morning on a different planet,each with its own gravity? Sometimes, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. A new medication proves effective after years of fruitless trial and error; symptoms go into remission; an accessibility measure is granted that immediately improves your quality of life. “Earth, You Have Returned to Me” captures that feeling in exquisite fashion. “A Body’s Universe of Big Bangs” by Leslie Contreras Schwartz Even while the body sleeps, a jaw slackenedinto an open dream, inside is the dramaof the body’s own substances meeting Examining the body on a cellular level, Contreras Schwartz meditates on the million complexities that allow us to exist, however imperfectly, as humans in the world. This poem is a reminder that the body is a miraculous thing. [end-mark] The post 12 Poems That Break the Silence on Disability and Illness appeared first on Reactor.

Movies & TV Star Trek: Lower Decks “I [BLEEP]ing hate the multiverse!” — Star Trek: Lower Decks: “Fissure Quest” This may be the single nerdiest episode of Star Trek ever produced… By Keith R.A. DeCandido | Published on December 12, 2024 Credit: Paramount+ Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Paramount+ It finally happened. Mike McMahan and his band of lunatic writers have finally done it: the single nerdiest episode of Star Trek ever produced. This episode finally brings the dimensional fissure plot to a climax—though not yet to a resolution, as that will come next week—as we finally, for the first time since “Crisis Point 2: Paradoxus,” look in on William Boimler, the transporter duplicate of Brad Boimler, whose death on the Titan was faked and he joined Section 31. Apparently 31 has sent him on a covert mission to find out why these fissures are happening. He’s got a Defiant-class ship, the Anaximander, and he’s got himself a crew of alternate versions of familiar characters, all refugees from the various parallel universes he’s bopped into over the course of this mission. And this is the (first) nerdy part: the crew includes, from various alternate realities, Curzon Dax (who is constantly practicing with his bat’leth on the bridge, to everyone’s annoyance), T’Pol, Garak (who is a Starfleet physician in his reality, though we see evidence of his Obsidian Order background), an Emergency Medical Hologram that is patterned after Julian Bashir, and nine different Harry Kims. To the credit of all and sundry, they got everyone back. Jolene Blalock—credited only as “Jolene”—voices T’Pol, the unexpected, welcome, and triumphant return of the actor who played the only grownup on Enterprise. Garrett Wang voices all the Kims. And Andrew J. Robinson and Alexander Siddig voice Garak and holo-Bashir—and, wait for it, the two of them are married. Reader, I squealed. So many shippers and fanfic writers are gonna watch this episode and jump up and down on their couches. Robinson has already confirmed in the DS9 documentary What We Left Behind that he was totally playing Garak as flirting with Bashir, and to see this particular take on the relationship is a joy. Especially since the Cardassian and the hologram bicker just like a married couple and yet still act exactly like Garak and Bashir. The Anaximander continues to bop through fissures and try to find the origin of them. For his part, Boimler is suffering from a bit of multiverse burnout, which is a spectacularly unsubtle but still hilarious commentary on the proliferation of multiversal storylines in contemporary popular culture. Throughout the episode, Boimler bitches that the different realities are so lazy, just slightly varied versions of his home universe. This is writ large with the Kims, as, with one exception, every single one of them is still an ensign—itself a nice commentary on the absurdity of Kim’s lack of advancement throughout the seven years of Voyager, despite his crewmates getting promotions at various points. And then that’s turned on its ear when it’s the one promoted Kim, a lieutenant, who goes rogue and nearly destroys the whole mission. Before that happens, though, we find the source of the fissures, and it’s not a malevolent one! One of the alternate realities has a Lily Sloane and a Zefram Cochrane who created, not a warp drive, but a trans-dimensional drive. Sloane—wearing a version of the Starfleet uniform from Enterprise—is captaining the Beagle, a ship that is exploring strange new dimensions, seeking out variations on old life and old civilizations. And yes, just when you think they had to have blown the entire budget on the voice actors they already got back, we get Alfre Woodard doing the voice of Sloane. Bliss. We see the Anaximander pick up two new crew members over the course of the mission before they finally find the Beagle. One is Lieutenant Harry Kim. The other is a Beckett Mariner who is an engineer and who absolutely hates away team missions and who prefers to stay quiet and follow orders and tinker in engineering. She’s still Mariner, mind you, but this one obviously focused on engineering at the Academy and likely didn’t have all the trauma the mainline Mariner did. At one point, Boimler bitches Sloane out, saying what she’s doing isn’t really exploring, it’s just rehashing, and Sloane gets to come back with a magnificently Star Trekkish response: seeing the variations in other realities is allowing them to explore the human condition, to see how the people are both different and the same in each reality. And of course, relationships develop. Garak and holo-Bashir are from two different realities, but they’ve found true love. (One of their arguments is over which reality they’ll live in once the mission is over.) Dax and T’Pol have what seems to be a contentious relationship à la McCoy and Spock, the emotional and free-wheeling Dax constantly grousing about the emotion-suppressed Vulcan. That storyline has a sweet, lovely ending involving the Dax symbiote and a mind-meld, beautifully written by scripter Lauren McGuire and performed by Jolene and Fred Tatasciore (who voices Dax, since we never really saw Curzon except in a brief flash in DS9’s “Emissary,” and he had no dialogue). Sloane is also correct that we get insights into the characters we know. For Garak and Bashir, it’s being able to move the homoerotic subtext of their relationship to the foreground—which is more of an out-of-the-box thing with it being easier to portray such on a 2020s streaming service than it was on 1990s commercial television (especially with an executive producer back then who was against the entire idea). For Mariner, it’s simply seeing a version of her that doesn’t self-sabotage, that doesn’t cover her insecurities with banter and lunacy and semi-cruel comments (though she still has plenty of insecurities), and who is a damn good engineer. For Kim, we get the possibility that maybe Janeway had the right idea keeping him an ensign, as the one who was promoted turns out to have let it go to his head, and he almost destroys the multiverse. And we see an extremely unhappy Boimler. While a lot of it is an excuse to bitch about the repetitive nature of multiverse stories (when speculating on who is responsible for the fissures, Boimler angrily says, “they’re probably a hacky evil version of someone we all know! A reverse Picard or a Borgified Kirk or, fuck it, I don’t know, human Worf!”), it also shows that Boimler is not happy as an agent of 31. He would rather be doing proper exploring like his counterpart on the Cerritos. (Not that the Cerritos actually does that much exploring, but the grass is always greener and all that…) Lieutenant Kim’s arrogant stupidity blows up the Beagle and causes a nasty feedback loop that will destroy everything. The only solution is to channel it all into one universe—destroy one rather than destroy all. (The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one, cough cough.) Boimler tells Mariner and Sloane to have it be the universe he’s from, because he trusts his transporter twin and his friends, Mariner, Tendi, and Rutherford, to figure out how to solve it. That’s a lot to put on four junior-grade lieutenants (five, really, but William Boimler doesn’t really know T’Lyn), but it is their show. Though this is also the second week in a row where those five barely appear. Despite the near-total lack of the regulars, with only alternate takes on Boimler and Mariner and very little of Tendi, Rutherford, and T’Lyn, this may be my favorite episode of LD, simply because, as I said, it’s so incredibly nerdy. Yes, it’s almost entirely fan-service, but that fan-service is also in service of the actual story, which is still very much the best kind of Trek tale. In particular, it follows one of Trek’s most noble tropes: the thing you think is evil and horrible turns out to be not so bad and the problem is solved by people talking to each other and coming to an understanding. In the closing moments, when alerting the Cerritos to what’s happening, William also sends a message directly to Bradward explaining the situation. “He’ll know what to do,” William says confidently. When Mariner expresses skepticism, William adds, “Yeah, as long as he doesn’t freak out.” Cut to Bradward freaking out and a “To be continued…” title card. To be fair, until receiving that message, Bradward thinks William is dead, which William probably didn’t take into account… Looking forward to the grand finale (in more ways than one, sigh) next week. Credit: Paramount+ Random thoughts T’Pol was last seen in Enterprise’s “These are the Voyages…” Curzon Dax was last (and only) seen in DS9’s“Emissary,” though a version of him was seen (merged with Odo) in DS9’s “Facets.” Garak and Bashir were last seen in DS9’s “What You Leave Behind.” Kim was last seen in Voyager’s “Endgame.” Sloane was last (and only) seen in First Contact. The Anaximander is named after the pre-Socratic Greek philosopher who was one of the first known astronomers, and who also firmly believed that the Earth was the center of the universe. One of the funniest throwaway lines in the episode: Lieutenant Harry Kim saying, “Whoa whoa whoa—there are more than two dimensions?” We see alternate versions of the Khwopians from “Much Ado About Boimler,” but these are nasty and mean and put our heroes in a jail cell. Boimler’s beard has fully grown in, and now it looks just like the one his alternate-universe counterpart had in “Dos Cerritos.” Also the brief glance we got of Rutherford in “Upper Decks” indicated that he had given up growing his beard, and this episode confirms it, as he remains clean-shaven. Finally, a minor bit of trivial housekeeping. In the comments of my review of “Fully Dilated,” critter42 pointed out that I left someone off the list of people who have played the same role on four different Trek TV series: Wil Wheaton. I totally forgot about Wheaton voicing Wes Crusher in the flashback in “Old Friends, New Planets.” So just add to that list Wil Wheaton as Wes Crusher: TNG (series regular), Picard (guest star), Prodigy (recurring regular), LD (guest star). [end-mark] The post “I [BLEEP]ing hate the multiverse!” — <i>Star Trek: Lower Decks</i>: “Fissure Quest” appeared first on Reactor.

Books Five Books Five SF Stories About Space Traders and Transport The perils of hauling freight through the cosmos cannot be overstated. By James Davis Nicoll | Published on December 12, 2024 Credit: Marshall Space Flight Center/NASA Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Marshall Space Flight Center/NASA Recently, the entire world was rocked by an astonishing development, the consequences of which may well have global implications. The news services have spoken of nothing else1. I speak, of course, of the announcement that in order to secure the future of his creation, the venerable tabletop roleplaying game Traveller, Marc Miller has transferred all rights to Mongoose Publishing. Traveller allows players around the world to create tales such as this: a baroness, an army major, a mid-grade bureaucrat, a non-commissioned marine, and this guy who somehow failed out of “criminal” who pool their resources to purchase a used freight starship none of them have the skills to operate, decorate it with the photos of their five friends (all of whom died in the Scout service), and live their dream of shipping, I don’t know, cheese from Rhylanor to Sabruse. As previously discussed, independent traders are a rich source of opportunity—if not for wealth, then for adventure. Being independent, they may roam wherever they choose. Many have complicated backstories that could come back to haunt them. Starships being a hole into which one pours endless funds, independents are frequently more greedy than cautious. Writers have not overlooked the narrative potential of the tramp starship. Such tales abound, of which these are five classic examples. “Milk Run” by Robert Sheckley (1954) (Collected in Pilgrimage to Earth) The only flaw in the AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service business plan is that nobody currently wants their planet decontaminated. Offered a lucrative contract to deliver an assortment of animals to the Vermoine solar system, AAA Ace owner Frank Arnold sees no reason not to sign the ominously forbidding contract. After all, Arnold won’t be flying the AAA Ace starship. Co-owner Richard Gregor will. Time being of the essence, the pair barely have time to make rudimentary alterations to their ship before Gregor must set off for Vermoine. Once underway, Gregor discovers that his cargo has daunting life support requirements. Failure to rise to the occasion could doom the poor animals or worse, doom AAA Ace’s profit margin. Or, just perhaps, doom Gregor himself. Sheckley wrote a bunch of AAA Ace stories. Did Arnold ever learn the value of due diligence? He did not. Did Gregor tire of his partner’s lack of common sense? He did not. It’s almost as though Sheckley saw no reason to interfere with a successful story formula. Postmarked the Stars by Andre Norton (1969) The Solar Queen’s past commissions have had a lamentable tendency to include undocumented, life-threatening complications. A simple mail run may not be the most profitable contract, but surely it is a safe one. Or so cargo chief Dane Thorson thinks, until he is drugged and replaced by a double shortly before the Solar Queen lifts for backwater Trewsworld. He manages to stagger back to the ship, where he finds his double… Dead of a heart condition. What was the double’s nefarious plan? It soon becomes obvious. Among the goods being mailed to Trewsworld: animals. The double planted a device that induces reverse evolution. A distressing fraction of the animals are descended from aggressive carnivores. The Solar Queen is now delivering monsters to a world ill-prepared for them. I honestly don’t know if AAA Ace or the Solar Queen had the worse track record of fulfilling contracts successfully. In the Solar Queen’s defense, nothing they ran into could have been avoided with a little research. Who expects a smuggled monsterizing ray? Space Angel by John Maddox Roberts (1979) Experienced spacer Torwald has no difficulty securing a berth for himself on the independent trader Space Angel. Torwald even arranges a position for chance-met poor orphan Kelly. Torwald’s timing is perfect. The Space Angel has only just secured a contract for which success is assured: a quick run to Alpha Tau Pi Rho/4 to retrieve diamonds of unusual size, diamonds whose location is known only to their client Aleksandr Strelnikov. The malevolent alien Sphere who has been hiding on Alpha Tau Pi Rho/4 is a complete surprise. Recognizing that the humans could be a useful asset in its plan to conquer the universe, if only to provide the mobility that Sphere otherwise utterly lacks, Sphere tempts the humans with the promise of ample compensation. It’s another can’t-lose proposition, just as doomed as the first one. Space Angel’s star drive causes uncontrollable diarrhea. That’s a bold creative decision. So is Roberts’ decision to write a book whose meandering plot reads as if it were generated by dice rolls on a tabletop roleplaying game random encounter table. Rimrunners by C.J. Cherryh (1989)2 The Company War is over. Alliance and Union won. Conrad Mazian, commander of the Earth Company Fleet, rejected the peace. Now Mazian and his loyalists prey on Alliance and Union shipping as despised pirates. Bet Yeager defected from the Earth Company Fleet years ago, but fear of exposure haunts her every day. After a string of bad luck, Bet is willing to gamble on joining the crew of intelligence ship Loki. Unlike most starships, Loki’s crew aren’t family but strangers who can barely work together. This is too bad, because they will very soon encounter a Maziani ship. Survival demands unity. To achieve that, Bet will have to do something she has not done in years: trust her crewmates with her darkest secret. It’s been years since I read Downbelow Station (which documents the end of the Company Wars) so I don’t know if Union and Alliance offered a general amnesty to Company Fleet service members who switched sides or at least surrendered. Given that one of the central players was ex-Fleet, it seems logical that they would. Bet’s situation suggests they didn’t—or if they did, she didn’t feel she could take advantage of the amnesty. Trafalgar by Angélica Gorodischer (1979) Charming raconteur Medrano Trafalgar entertains his friends with amusing tales of his adventures trading on alien worlds, rambling accounts told over endless cups of coffee. His starship is but a clunker and from time to time Trafalgar’s exuberance overcomes his caution, but Trafalgar excels at running away. Thus far, this has been sufficient. His friend might ask “where did a 20th century Argentinian businessman get his hands on any starship, clunker or not?” Readers might ask as well. That would be rude. Worse, it might bring an end to the tales, and those are so very amusing. There are many stories I could have mentioned, even after excluding ones mentioned in previous essays3. If particularly glaring examples come to mind, feel free to mention them in comments below.[end-mark] I assume. Maintaining my grueling writing schedule (reviews, essays, and bon mots), not mention frequent animal-petting-acceptance testing, keep me busy. Let me just check the news… Great Scott! Someone shot the Archduke Ferdinand! ︎This is another Cherryh novel whose in print status is oddly ambiguous. Publisher Grand Central Publishing seems to think it is in print. Various booksellers disagree. I have a Cherryh project slated for 2025 and I expect this problem will keep on being bothersome. ︎Witches of Karres is excluded due to Schmitz’s unfortunate decision to provide the protagonist with a nine-or-ten-year-old love interest. Nothing happens but still, what the hell, Schmitz? ︎The post Five SF Stories About Space Traders and Transport appeared first on Reactor.