Del Sol SFF Review

There was a fire in space. The bone-white rock and soul-black sky were gashed with crimson as the U.S. ship  Prospice  glided down, retrorockets blazing, to the lunar surface. Smoke and dust billowed up and hung, nearly weightless, like pillars to commemorate the landing; but the massive engines gave no roar—no murmur—of a triumph. The flare of color faded, and the silence stayed. Bob Evans, mechanic, squinted out the porthole. “Gad dang it, Baruk, how the hey d’you land so close to the airlock without hittin’ nothin’?” Rivka Baruk, pilot, peeled off her aviators and said matter-of-factly, “Same way I do everything, Bob: like a badass.” “All right, people.” Tim Farmer, only person present with a gun, gave a brisk hand-clap. “Let’s suit up and get in there. Joe, you hang close to me, all right?” “The penis mightier than the sword, baby!” Rivka cracked a smile. “I think you mean  the pen is , Joseph.” “I like my way better.” Joe N’Donza was a journalist with  Rolling S...

Waking, on his back, Saufir discovered he couldn’t move. His senses: sight, sound, taste, smell touch, they were dim, distant, vague; this had happened before. He opened his mouth to draw in deep breaths, made an attempt at stretching. Trying to roll to his right hip, he failed; to his left, failure. He went limp and fell back asleep. When he woke the second time there was pressure on his eyelids; a rubbing in circular motion. He asked “Who’s there?” and the rubbing stopped. He’d tried earlier to open his eyes and failed. His head was rolled gently, side to side, then back. A deep voice said “Saufir.” Saufir stayed perfectly still, and when he heard nothing more he spoke: “I can’t open my eyes.” The rubbing started again – little circles – and he said nothing; the pressure increased, moved to the corners of his eyes, to his nose, cheeks, mouth, chin, back to his eyelids and his eyebrows, then stopped abruptly. He waited, managed to open his eyes and raise himself up on an elbow. He loo...