Del Sol SFF Review

Clad in heavy mail, draped in his royal banner, standing tall in the stirrups of his palfrey, Robert the Bruce wields his battle axe above his head. Sunlight catches the blade as it is suspended, inert for an eternal moment, before gravity and the kinetic energy of a kingly arm will inevitably make it split open the miserable head of Henry de Bohun like an overripe watermelon. Once there can be no more doubt as to the twain halves of Bohun’s head never meeting again, a colourful backdrop choir, consisting of fifteen hundred Scottish soldiers in full highland garb, which will only be invented several hundred years later under English rule, bursts into song with Dolby surrounding clarity: “Wha, for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or Freeman fa', Let him on wi' me!” Beneath the firm rock of the immovable Stirling Castle the boohooing English army is irresistibly forced back over the Bannock Burn.  The Bruce and his choir start co

With the coming of dusk, Sunshine appeared. Dressed in a striped red and yellow suit, his skin the color of shadows invading Taipei, he checked his golden watch. His powers were strong, but Order still bound him, and the contract stated the deadline for collection loomed seven hours from now. Midnight.  Sunshine strode forward to the apartment where the borrower of a ray of light lived.  Taiwanese students from a nearby high school gaped at him as he passed them in twisting alleys winding through the neighborhood. He nodded a greeting, his wide smile revealing pale white teeth. Of humankind, he loved youth most, their fire for rebellion against the rules of civilization an intoxicating stimulant. During the short moments he risked wandering the world under the cover of darkness, he sought out ways to inspire the young to reckless abandon and havoc. His persuasion of choice: art. Five years had passed since the borrower had signed his soul away in blood. A great work of literary achieve

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” the old man mumbled. When the elevator reached the bottom of the deep pit, it groaned and shook. The AI’s smooth female voice rang out inside his ear canals, reminding him to watch his step. The door laboriously opened, and he stepped out in his hazmat suit. The signpost in the dimly lit cave told him he was 1,500 meters below the earth’s surface. The strong, pungent odor of chemicals filled the subterranean air, mixed with God knew what. He dragged himself toward the sinister-looking polytank with the Bamboo Inc. logo on it. Above the surface, Bamboo Inc. touted itself as a paragon of ecological virtue. Its former CEO, a big-time donor to whatever party happened to be in power, even served as environmental minister in the previous administration. Yet deep below the earth, far from prying eyes, things painted quite a different picture. Unbeknownst to the public, in the subterranean pit, the supposedly eco-conscious company was dumping toxic wastes twenty-four/

     I am Cabot. My ward is eight-year-old Benny Lanz, orphaned during the recent coastal retreat of the continents. His parents, cybernetic engineers Dr. Emilio Lanz and Dr. Patricia Bosworth, were washed away into the Atlantic Ocean after the third tsunami of 2090. They left the infant Benny in my care. As Dr. Lanz and Dr. Bosworth had no extended families — all had perished in the pandemic of 2062 — legal and administrative authorities had no choice but to relinquish care of the boy to me, as instructed in their respective wills. I was fully equipped to raise, educate, and yes, protect Benny Lanz for the duration of his life, unless he specifically — upon attaining adult status — released me from my contractual obligations, in which case I would be decommissioned, something that did not concern me one way or the other. I was not the first one tasked to raise an orphaned child. Indeed it had become all too commonplace, given the environmental and societal upheavals of the last few de