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LGBT-oriented short speculative fiction publishers
Since itâs Lesbian Visibility Day, here are three publishers I know of that cater to LGBT writers and readers/listeners of short speculative fiction. All of them are paying markets.
Anathema: Spec From the Margins is a tri-yearly magazine dedicated to publishing short speculative fiction and articles by LGBT writers of color (you must be both to submit work to them). Their rejections are some of the most helpful Iâve seen, pointing out various ways your story can be improved, and they encourage you to try again. Submissions are open year-round and all forms of speculative fiction are accepted.Â
Glittership is a podcast for reading aloud speculative fiction short stories by LGBT writers. Poetry is also accepted and they pay people to read the stories too.
Monsters Out of the Closet is a podcast focused exclusively on short horror fiction by LGBT writers. Not only are general horror stories accepted but episodes will follow special themes too, such as being lost, encountering doubles, the uncanny valley and gothic horror, and a Halloween special is made each October.
All three allow their stories to be read and listened to for free, so if you need some interesting new stories on the cheap, theyâre right there. Just be sure to offer some support. Â
GlitterShip Year Two out now! The second print anthology of the GlitterShip podcast is out. It includes my story, "Circus Boy Without a Safety Net." I share the bill with authors Nicky Drayden, Matthew Bright, Cat Rambo and Bogi Takåcs among others. You can pick up a copy here!
Our next aro-spec creator is Sebastian, better known on Tumblr as @gloriousmonsters and @mangledmouth!
Sebastian is a bisexual, autistic, aromantic trans man who is single-handedly covering many literary bases in producing original aro and queer short stories, novels and poetry. Aside from his Tumblr blogs, you can find and support more of his work at his Patreon. If you have a dollar or two youâre wanting to invest in worthy aro-spec talent on a less-regular basis, please take a look at Sebastianâs Ko-Fi!
With us Sebastian talks about identifying with the role of villainy in narrative as an aro creative, aromantic characters and grand emotional gesture, the divide between representation and self-expression, and some spectacular-sounding work-in-progress book titles! His investment in aromantic characters and characterisation shapes every word, so please letâs give him all our love, encouragement, gratitude, kudos and follows for taking the time to explore what it is to be aromantic and creative.
Can you share with us your story in being aro-spec?
It took me a while to realize I was aromantic, but it was one of the things that made me go âoh, that makes ⌠a lot of senseâ when I looked back at my childhood. I was a weird, isolated kid, so I didnât learn from bouncing off other children; I learned through stories.
One of my strongest early memories is of watching a poorly made Red Riding Hood film over and over again, belting out the lyrics to the (poorly written) villainâs song, called âMan Without A Heartâ. Cut to a year or so later, watching the Rodgers and Hammerstein Cinderella (still the best Cinderella, IMO), I was utterly fascinated by the villainess singing: âFalling in love with love is falling for make-believeâŚâ
I didnât know, that early, that I didnât feel romantic love. Not consciously. But there was something utterly, obsessively interesting about villains that sneered at love, who were called heartless, who challenged the narrative that there must always be a love story and it must come out right no matter what. I felt, on a deep level, that these people were like me somehow. The additional queercoding and common side-helping of mental illness helped - or didnât help, depending on your perspective. I grew up knowing, deep down, what my part in life was: I was the villain.
When I hit my rebellious age, it first came out by my saying, âBut being a villain doesnât mean you have to be wrong or unhappyâ. I began collecting villains like nobodyâs business, and writing stories that more and more often centered people whose character types Iâd only ever seen as villains. And from there we arrive at today!
Are there any particular ways your aro-spec experience is expressed in your art?
Recently, my brother (who is my sounding board for a lot of stories, as I am for him) looked at my books-to-write list and said, âNearly every idea you have is a deconstructed romance or strong non-romantic relationship.â
I love strong relationships, so I originally thought I needed to write people as love interests to get that; these days I feel more free to focus on whatever the heck I want, and being aro shows in everything. My current WIP centers a poly relationship where two of the partners are aromantic. Two people (often, but not always, a man and a woman due to my frustration with the âmen and women canât be friendsâ thing) who are the most important people in each othersâ lives and are platonic, show up over and over again in my novel ideas; I start with relationships that look like romances and then pull them apart. Part of this, I think, is due to my autistic âletâs take this into component parts and see how it worksâ tendencies; being autistic and being aro arenât cause and effect, for me, but they play well together.
When I write poetry, some of it deals explicitly with being aromantic, but all of it is non-romantic. It makes me kind of anxious sometimes to think of people interpreting pieces as being romo because theyâre about intense emotions; one of the biggest ways being aro is expressed in my writing is my constant attempts to show other feelings, connections and relationships than romance being worthy of big feelings and gestures. Iâll sometimes refer to myself as âaromantic but capital-R Romanticâ (i.e. Â extremely dramatic) because of that.
What challenges do you face as an aro-spec artist?
Iâm sure Iâll run into more problems as I try to take my increasingly aro and queer and ND works to professional markets, but at the moment my biggest problem is self-censoring. I sit at an awkward junction of having multiple identities I want to include in my work, and being ⌠well, someone who grew up obsessed with villains, who later on developed a decadeâs interest in slasher horror, and who still tends to write people who are perceived as, or see themselves as, villains. Awkward because I always have that voice in my head (helped along by some of the stuff I see on social media) going âthatâs not good rep! nobody will want to read this!â
But I know from experience that not writing from the heart (and look at that, I do have one after all!) doesnât end well, so Iâm working on getting good at writing my weird dark stuff and hoping Iâll find the audience for it. And I always leave a little bit of light in it, because I have another voice in my head, still saying, âjust because youâre a villain doesnât mean you canât be happyâ.
Itâs a weird sort of positivity, but it works for me.
How do you connect to the aro-spec and a-spec communities as an aro-spec person?
Following and submitting to this blog is part of my first attempts to actually join the aro-spec community. I tend to move slowly and be very nervous of talking to new people, but Iâve been trying to be more affirming of my aromantic identity lately, and seeking out other aros is part of that. Hopefully Iâll settle in a little more as time passes.
How can the aro-spec community best help you as a creative?
At the moment, people following and reblogging from my poetry blog @mangledmouth would be much appreciated. Itâs hard to get traction with poetry (especially if you donât write romantic poetry) and Iâd love more people to see my work. Iâm proud of a lot of what Iâve done, so check it out! Be warned that my love for horror and oddness turns up there as well, but thereâs nothing too graphic.
And Ko-Fi donations or small Patreon subscriptions are always appreciated.
Can you share with us something about your current project?
My current WIP (titled either The Night In Wanting or And One of Us Be Happy, depending on whether I go for the one that sounds better or the one that fits best thematically) is about a third done! Praise me, because Iâm really bad at finishing things, but Iâm still on track to wrap this up at the end of June. Itâs about a Weird Small Town and Sarah, a girl with a reputation for breaking hearts, who decides to date one of her best friends and actually try to make it work. Her attempts at being normal quickly get derailed when their townâs general weirdness turns hostile - attacks by creatures from the woods, unsettling amounts of rain, pictures changing when youâre not looking at them and a really pushy forest spirit trying to bargain with people for a heart. Her attempts at normal are further derailed when she figures out that her new boyfriend is also in love with a mutual friend, and that she might not feel love at all.
I love these characters, guys. This story is finally coming together after years and the three main characters - Sarah, Mags and Fred - have always been at the heart of it, no matter what shape it took. (Mags used to be a ghost, and the story went through a phase of being a Band AU of itself. Fred kept getting possessed, and thereâs a joke about that in the text now that nobody will get but me. And now you guys!) Itâs terrifying to write a YA thatâs not only poly, but focuses on an aromantic main character, but Iâm determined to make it work.
(This is is one of the most sweet/normal things Iâve worked on, despite the healthy dose of horror. Iâve also been writing snippets of a pet project called How The Child-Eater Became King, to give you an idea of the other end of the spectrum.)
Have you any forthcoming works we should look forward to?
I havenât got the release date for it yet (itâll probably be a while yet) but I recently sold a short story, Sabuyashi Flies, to Glittership. The main character, Sabuyashi, was originally aroace but turned out to be a lesbian ace during writing. (Characters often decide to come out while Iâm writing, which is always fun to handle. I mean that both sarcastically and genuinely.) Iâm already working on and off on the sequel story where she meets her future best friend Nathaniel, who is aro. Working title is Nat Luckless and the Girl Made of Beetles. Look for news about Sabuyashi Flies soonish and Nat Luckless whenever my slow butt manages to finish and (fingers crossed) sell it!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Episode #44 -- "The Need for Overwhelming Sensation" by Bogi TakĂĄcs
Download this episode (right click and save)
And hereâs the RSS feed:Â http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/
Episode 44 is part of the Summer 2017 issue!
Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here:Â http://www.glittership.com/buy/
 The Need for Overwhelming Sensation
by Bogi TakĂĄcs
 I am staring at the face from a thousand newscastsâthe gentle curve of jaw, the almost apologetic smile. Miran Anyuwe is not explaining policy. Miran Anyuwe is bleeding from a head wound, drops falling tap-tap-tap on the boarding ramp of our ship, the sound oddly amplified by the geometry of the cramped docking bay bulkheads.
âIâm looking for a ride out,â they say. They are not supposed to be on Idhir Station. They are supposed to be three jump points away, heading the accession talks, guiding Ohandarâs joining of the Alliance.
I uncross my legs and get up to my feetâone quick, practiced motion. I bow my head briefly. âEsteemed, I will inquire.â
 [Full transcript after the cut.]
Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 44 for August 22, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and Iâm super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is a reprint of âThe Need for Overwhelming Sensationâ by Bogi TakĂĄcs.
Content warning: Sex and BDSM
Bogi is an agender trans author who can be found talking about other peopleâs writing at http://www.bogireadstheworld.com and @bogiperson on Twitter.
 The Need for Overwhelming Sensation
by Bogi TakĂĄcs
 I am staring at the face from a thousand newscastsâthe gentle curve of jaw, the almost apologetic smile. Miran Anyuwe is not explaining policy. Miran Anyuwe is bleeding from a head wound, drops falling tap-tap-tap on the boarding ramp of our ship, the sound oddly amplified by the geometry of the cramped docking bay bulkheads.
âIâm looking for a ride out,â they say. They are not supposed to be on Idhir Station. They are supposed to be three jump points away, heading the accession talks, guiding Ohandarâs joining of the Alliance.
I uncross my legs and get up to my feetâone quick, practiced motion. I bow my head briefly. âEsteemed, I will inquire.â
They nod. Their smile intensifies just a little, as if someone repainted the lines of their mouth with firmer brushstrokes.
I dash inside, my entire torso trembling with fear of the sudden and the unexpected. I take a sharp corner and crash into Master Sanre. They steady me with both hands.
âIryu, breathe.â
I gasp.
âSlower. In and out.â
Their presence calms me. It only takes a few breaths.
âIryu, look at me.â
I stare up at them. Their eyes narrow, the lines of silver paint that I so carefully applied to their face in the morning crumple like spacetime clumps around a planet. The glass beads in their hair clack together.
âExplain whatâs wrong.â
I mutter, still tongue-tied from the sudden fright. Miran Anyuwe is outside and injured. Miran Anyuwe wants to hire us. Miran Anyuweâ
âWard the ship, then come outside. I will talk to them.â
They hurry outside, boots clanging on metal.
I exhale again. I focus on the power inside me, direct it outside and into the wards. My remaining tension eases up. Iâm not missing anythingâI will be able to look at my masterâs sensory logs later. I turn around and return to the open airlock.
I stop for a moment as I see the two of them together. They look so alike, and the resemblance goes beyond gender, appearance, the light brown of their skin and the dark brown of their braids. They have the same bearing, the same stance. Itâs clear both are used to effortless command. Miran Anyuwe commands an entire planet. My master commands only me and the ship.
Is my master more powerful?
Itâs not about the head wound, itâs not about the desperate urgency in Miran Anyuweâs gestures. It involves something innate that goes to the core of being.
I knew my master was powerful. But did I overestimate Miran Anyuwe?
Both of them look up at me, nod at me to come closer. I approach, unsettled.
 Miran Anyuwe is unwilling to explain. Details are elided, skirted around. Anti-Alliance isolationists, terrorist threats, an attack on Miran Anyuweâs life. I donât understand why they abandoned the talks and went back to their planetâsurely they knew they would present a better target there? Were they trying to pull off some populist maneuver? I find myself dismayed that my thoughts are moving along less than charitable pathways, but Miran Anyuwe clearly has something to hide.
I tell myself it is only the bitterness of disillusionment. But did I really want them to be that glorified, polished figurehead from the political news, that semi-deity with a charmingly pacifist stance?
I excuse myself; I start preparing for launch. My master can keep Miran Anyuwe company.
 These ships do not run on pain; thatâs a misconception. They run on raw magical power. It can be produced in any number of ways. Pain is just easy for many people.
Of course, itâs a matter of choice. Even those who find it easy donât have to like it.
           I like it. I need it. If I go without, my body protests. Maybe itâs about the need for overwhelming sensation; Iâm not sure.
As Iâm checking the equipment, I wonder why Iâm having these thoughtsâI think because of a foreigner on the ship, a potential need to explain. For all the newscasts and analysis articles, I know little about Ohandar. The focus is always on Miran Anyuwe, and the progress of the negotiations. I wonder if that means the Ohandar isolationists have already won.
I slow my all too rapid breathing. There will be time to get agitated later. First to get away from the gravity wells, to a relatively clean patch of spacetime while still on sublight. Then we can decideâthe client can decide. Miran Anyuwe has all the reputation credit in the world to pay. Of course, my master would nix all the dangerous maneuvers. I just hope Miran Anyuwe isnât up to something wrong.
I tug on straps, lean into them with my full bodyweight. They hold. They always hold, but itâs best to check.
I undress. A lot of magic leaves through my skin surfaceâIâd rather not burn my clothing. I never have, but it heats up and that makes me worried. Iâve already adjusted the ambient temp a few degrees higher, so Iâm not feeling cold.
The chamber is mostly emptyâmy master is a minimalist, and I like this: distractions do not help. The lines carved into the bulkheadsâcarefully, by handâare the same off-white as the bulkheads themselves. One day it would be pleasant to have wood, but I like this surface too: it reminds me of ceramics, some of our tableware from down planetside.
Master Sanre is setting up the frame: pulling it out from storage inside the bulkheads, affixing it. They work quickly; weâve done this so many times.
I say Iâm ready. Iâm eager to begin; we were stuck on Idhir Station for days upon days, our time consumed with administrative tasks. Iâm starved for a run, and we have the client of clients, safely ensconced in one of the bedchambers, but probably not yet asleep. Out on the corridor I felt their jitters, but this chamber is the best-warded on the ship. No distractions inside, no stray power leaking out and causing disturbance outside.
I lie stomach down on a fixed-position pallet and my master straps me in. I wriggle a bitâ everything seems to be in order. I smile up at them and they run a hand along the side of my face, smooth down my curls. I close my eyes for a moment and sigh a little. They chuckle.
âSo dreamy. What would you do without me?â
âI would be sad?â I volunteer, my voice thin and little.
They pat me on the shoulders.
They start with their bare hands, slapping, grabbing and pulling at the flesh. It is all quite gentle. I relax into the restraints and my muscles unknot. Whatever Miran Anyuwe is doing, I couldnât care less.
Heavier thuds on the sides of my back. I can tell the implements by feel. I wish we would go fasterâarenât we in a hurry?
Master Sanre fusses with the tool stand. They turn around, change stance. A whizzing sound through the air, a sharper pain. I yelp. Sound is good, it also helps release. We go on. On. My back burns. I groan at first, then scream. Tears and snot. Iâ
âWhatâs going on in here?â
Miran Anyuwe. Howâ The door was supposed to be lockedâ
           Did you forget to lock the door? My master sends me a private message.
           It locks automatically once the frame is disengaged, I think back over our connection. It should be encrypted, but now I am uncertain about everything.
Miran Anyuwe strides up to us. âWhat are you doing?â Their voice wavers with anger and fear. I try to crane my head to seeâI canât, but Master Sanre disengages the straps with a quick thought-command. I sit up, trying to suppress the shaking caused by the sudden halt. Iâm not sure where to put all the magic. I clumsily wipe my face and hug myself. Why is Miran Anyuwe so angry?
They stare at each other. I wonder if I ought to say something.
           You may speak, my master messages.
âPowering the ship,â I say. My voice is wheezier, wavier than Iâd like. This voice is not for strangers. My vulnerability is not for strangers. Not even for Miran Anyuwe.
âYou did not say you would do that!â
Do what? I am baffled. âPowering the ship?â
They glare at Master Sanre. âYou are hurting him!â
âEm,â my master says. âDifferent pronouns.â
Miran Anyuwe looks startled; they know they of all people are not supposed to make assumptions. I feel they are gearing up to apologize, then thinking better of it. Some of their anger dissipates.
They hesitateâIâve never before seen them hesitate, then turn to me. âIt will be all right,â they say.
âCould you please leave?â I am trying to be courteous, but the magic is pushing against my skin. This is not a point to come to a sudden stop. What is their problem?
âI am not letting them torture you,â they say, with a sudden shift of tone into media-proof reassurance.
I wish I could hit Miran Anyuwe. With so much magic, it is dangerous to even think of violence. I force down the thought. âThey are not torturing me. Please.â I wave my arms. My motions are increasingly jaggedâI know Iâm losing control. âI need to release the magic, please, could you please leave? Itâs dangerous. You shouldnât be in here.â
âI would listen to em if I were you,â my master says quietly. âIf youâre not leaving, I will escort you out.â They step forward.
Miran Anyuwe recoils. âYouâyou brute!â They yell at my master. Then to me: âI will protect you!â
This would be annoying or even amusing if I werenât about to explode. I hug myself into a ball. I think I am making a soundâŚ?
I donât see how my master grabs them and drags them physically out of the room. I can hear their huffs as they manually turn the lock.
Hurried steps across the room. My master is practically flying. Toward me.
Arms around me. I feel very small. âItâs all right. Itâs all right. Iâm here. Iâm here for you.â Holding me tight. âYou can let it go now. I will guide it. You can let it go.â
I howl, convulsing, weeping. The magic tears at my insides as it rushes out. My master will have things to repairâI am suddenly angry at Miran Anyuwe for this, but then the thought is swept away; thought itself is swept away.
Outside, the ship is moving.
 My master is so furious they have excess. They run up and down the length of the room, then just groan and push magic into the structure.
âNext time Iâll have to do that out the airlock or Iâll just fry the controls,â they say. Calm enough to sound cynical. They shake their head. Clack, clack. âIâll fix you up once Iâm steadier,â they say. âIt didnât seem to leave lasting damage. I wouldâve torn them in half!â
I seldom hear my master talk about violence. But I understand the source of their fury now.
I query the systems. Where is Miran Anyuwe? Pacing the corridor outside, apparently.
I close my eyes and lay back. I donât think I can face the client. I donât think I can face anything. How could things go this wrong?
âIâll talk to them,â my master says. âYou can rest. Iâll bring you your heavy blanket.â
They cover me up. I wriggle into the warm, weighty duvet, grab armfuls of it. Some things are eternal, unchanging. My master briefly caresses my head, fingers playing with my short curls. My muscles loosen up. I can feel that some of the tension leaves my master, too. I turn my head, peek out from the blanket to gaze at them. They look like Miran Anyuwe; but they also look like me, and this time I just want to focus on the latter. People have mistaken us for relatives before, and there is something deeply comforting in this.
âItâs not your fault,â they say. âNone of this is your fault.â
âBut⌠the door?â I find it hard to move my lips and tongue. My mouth doesnât work.
âThere was a malfunction.â They frown. âDonât forget that Miran Anyuwe is a magical person, too, if not so powerful as either of us.â
The message, unspoken: Be on your guard.
 Iâm back in our room, still resting, the soft upper layer of our mattress bending obediently around my aching flesh. Master Sanre repaired what could be repaired right away, then set the rest on a healing course. Iâm halfway to sleep, drifting in a white-fluffy haze, when the alarm sounds.
I get out of bed, hastily dress, walk to the control room like a baby duck unsteady on its legs. Teeter-totter. My master looks up at me, and so does Miran Anyuwe. I feel they had been arguing.
âWarships on our tail,â says Master Sanre. âWeâll need to jump soon, and hope fervently that they canât follow us.â
Weâre still on sublight, and moving much slower than our target velocity due to the unwelcome interruption. I grimace, try to gather my wits. The warships must be after Miran Anyuwe; we ourselves donât have enemies.
I sense my masterâs gaze upon me. âHow soon can we jump?â they ask.
âI can start preparing right away,â I say. I know the healing wonât be able to run its course, and I know thatâs also what my master has been thinking. But if we are hit by a mass-driver, there wonât be any healing in the world to repair our bodies.
Miran Anyuwe has stopped protesting. I want to grab them, snarl at them: If you think what you saw was bad, just see what happens now. Just watch. Will you turn your head away?
A shot whips past our ship: the sensors tell me everything in minute detail. I shudder.
Master Sanre tries to hail the warships. No response, just another shot. Deliberately missing? Intended as a warning?
Then a third, aimed head onâ
My master jumps up from their chair. âWe need to get out now!â
They tackle me, hug me to themselves, push me down on the floor. My face flattens against the cold floorboards, my mouth opens. I gasp for breath.
âNow!â they yell, and even without the familiar trappings, my body responds instantaneously, my mind rushes through the preparations of matter transposition.
Magic rises in me, floods me, streams outward, suffuses the ship. I scream with the sudden expansion of awareness, the pain of white-hot power running along my spine, I keen and convulse as my master holds me down, grabs hold of my power to direct it outwardâ
âwe jump. Arriving clumsily at our target destination, off the ecliptic, too close to the systemâs star. I cough, close my eyes to better focus on the sensors. I try not to focus on my body. Something feels broken, not a bone or two but a process itself; something biochemical knocked askew.
Master Sanre rolls to the side, still holding me close. We remain there for a few breaths, ignoring Miran Anyuwe. We get up, holding onto each other.
âWe need to jump into Alliance space,â my master says, âwho knows how fast they can follow us?â
Very few people can make an entire ship jump as rapidly as I do; my magic simply has an uncommon shape thatâs well-suited for this particular task. Miran Anyuwe doesnât know this. Our pursuers donât know this.
âIâll request a permit right away,â I say.
âIâll do it. You get ready to jump again.â
My master is still trying to get through to an Alliance comm station when the warships show up. I canât even make it to the power chamber. Pain unfurls, spreads out as I raise power; I flail and claw against my master who holds me strongly. The ship jumps.
 Iâm half dragged, half carried. Two voices wheezing. My master and⌠Miran Anyuwe?
They drop me down on the pallet, and the shape, the sensation identifies it to me. Iâm in the power chamber. Straps are pulled, tightened across my body.
âCan you do it? Can you do it again?â
It takes time to realize my master is speaking to me. I nod, teeth gritted.
âCan you do it?â Miran Anyuwe asks them.
âOhââ My master suppresses a curse. âDonât bother about me!â
âYouâre shaking.â
âOf course I amââ They raise their voice and it trembles. Suddenly I am worried: I need to bring this to a close, I can take the magic, but what about my master?
I grapple with words for a few moments before I am able to speak. âI can jump us to Alliance space without a beacon.â
âWithout a permit? Itâs illegal,â my master protests, but inwardly I know they are already convinced. The Alliance goons ask first, shoot second, not the other way round like the jockeys of these warships are wont to do.
âIâd take Alliance Treaty Enforcement over these people any day,â I say, knowing full well that they have magic-users just like me. I used to be one of them. I wouldnât be able to get out of harmâs way fast enough. More effort and I wonât be able to do anything at all, but one more jump I can manage, even against the gradient, against the oddsâ
The warships are back.
I strain against the straps and clutch at my master, scream at them to pull, pull because I canât generate enough power in time, and after their initial hesitation they do it, and I can feel myself pulled apart, space itself getting fragmented and torn, unraveling at the edgesâ
We are in orbit around Andawa, second-tier Alliance population center. We know this planet well. Itâs easy for us to jump here.
It will take the Alliance more than a moment to mobilize their forces. Andawa is peripheral, but not so peripheral as to be without protection. The enforcers will simply take a bit longer to arrive, jumping in probably from Central.
My master undoes the straps, their fingers working as their mind is busy hailing Planetside Control. I try to stand, fall into their arms. Miran Anyuwe is silent this time, but I can tell they are shaking, and not just with the side-effects of back-to-back jumps with no jump point, no beacon.
I make a motion toward them, then slowly collapse and fold into myself as my legs give way. My master topples down on the floor together with me, cradles my head.
The warships soon follow. I canât move. I canât jump. I canât think. I gasp and wheeze, try to push myself upright. My master pushes me back. âDonât,â they whisper next to my ear.
The enemies canât quite jump into our shipâthe wards still hold. They board the old-fashioned way, with lots of clanging and metal being cut. Where is the Alliance? Why are they so slow?
Before my vision gives in, I see black-clad commandos stream into the room. I see Miran Anyuwe crouch on the floor next to me, taking cover behind the box of equipment.
I donât understand what the commandos are saying. I only understand what my master is thinking.
On their signal, I roll to the side, bump into Miran Anyuwe, my arms around them. They smell of marzipan. I hold fast. Then I fall through space, through time, through awareness itself.
 Sharp, prickly grass. The sunlight scrapes at the back of my head when I open my eyes; I close them and shiver despite the warmth of Andawaâs sun. I grapple with the earth as I try to get if not upright, then at least on all fours. I canât even pull myself up on my elbowsâI lose balance, smear my face and arms with rich dark dirt. Andawa is a garden world.
Miran Anyuwe is speaking, has been speaking for a while now. I canât make sense of the words. They reach under my armpits and pull.
 Gaps in continuity.
Miran Anyuwe dragging me on some backcountry path and yelling at me, preaching that I shouldnât live a life of slavery. I try to say that I am not a slave, I serve my master voluntarily, without coercion. My speech turns into mushâmy mouth is too uncoordinatedâand in any case Miran Anyuwe refuses to listen. I canât walk unassisted, I can barely parse sentences and yet they are preaching to me, about how I ought not to be running away from freedom but toward it.
Whoâs running away, I want to say, but my systems checks are failing one by one, my biosensors are screaming.
 Words. Words. More words. Completely opaque.
 Iâm lying on the slightly curving floorâa shipâs bay? Entirely unfamiliar beyond the reassuring calmness of Alliance-standard. Miran Anyuwe is sitting next to me, their left hand on my forehead. I try to bat it aside; my entire right side spasms. I gasp, force steadiness on my breath, ignore all the warnings.
Miran Anyuwe speaksâthe sentences elude me. I want to turn and see, observe the crowd whose presences I can feel pressing on my mind, but I canât move; even my motions to shoo away Miran Anyuwe are little more than twitches.
Someone, a sharp bright voice, finally: ââŚa medical emergency, Captain, we need to intervene.â I miss the answer. Then the same person, slower, pausing after each word: âCaptain, you need to allow me.â
Miran Anyuwe withdraws; I sigh in relief. Someone crouches down next to me and oh I know this mind-template, so familiar I fight the urge to grab and latch onto it, in this sea of incomprehension where in every moment an eddy or whirl can cause me to drift away. Ereni magic-user, delegated to the Alliance; they donât call it magic, they have their own wordsâŚ
âSsh.â A touch on my chest. âYou are almost completely drained. I will help you if you let me.â
I murmur something, hoping it will be enough, hoping the intent would be clear. I reach to the Ereniâs hand on my chest, but my fingers fail to connect. Iâm not quite clear about where my body parts are situated at any given moment.
Warm egg-yolk-yellow power floods into me through their hand and my cells drink it in, desperate for nourishment. I can move. I can live.
Speaking doesnât come as fast. Where is my master, I think at the Ereni now that my thoughts can move forward, Is my master safe?
           ETA another twenty-five minutes, the Ereni thinks in my head. We are short on people to jump them here. The Isolationists have been apprehended and are being ejected from Alliance space. I look up at the Ereniâtheir appearance matches my mental impression of them. Black, thick-set, gender-indeterminate. They are still clenching their jaw. I know it takes a lot of effort to get exact numbers acrossâthis is not a high-magic area. I nod, appreciating the effort. They hold my hand, squeeze it. Just as I understand them, they also understand me, through the shared demands of magic and the hierarchies it often creates.
I sigh, look around. Across the room, a short, sharp-featured officer in the uniform of Alliance Treaty Enforcement glares atâme? No, at Miran Anyuwe. My interface works again, the error messages recede. The officer is a man, by the name of Adhus-Barin, with about half a dozen more lineage-names after his first. A nobleman from the Empire of Three Stars, one of the more socially conservative members of the Alliance.
âMaybe we can try this again,â Adhus-Barin says. He looks about as angry as a noble in a mere Alliance captaincy position can be expected to look, his auburn-brown skin darkening further. His systems are probably frantic, trying to avoid a stroke. âYou might wish to rephrase what youâve just told me.â
Miran Anyuwe seems proud as ever, but as my body processes the influx of magic, I can already tell the politician radiates fear, apprehension and⌠brokenness, somehow. An impression of someone caught in the act.
âI was escaping from the Isolationists who were after me,â Miran Anyuwe says, âI wouldnât have made it to Alliance space if not for these excellent people.â They nod at me. Am I supposed to smile, murmur thanks? I remain silent. They continue: âOne of whom doesnât even understand the Code of Life and Balance, I must say.â
What is that? If I hear one more word about how Iâm supposed to be some kind of slavery apologistâŚ
Adhus-Barin also glares at them. Is he waiting for Miran Anyuwe to incriminate themselves?
The politician continues, shifting pace as if realizing they are no longer talking to their home crowd. âAs you are no doubt aware, the Isolationists oppose our negotiations to join the Alliance, negotiations that I am leadingâŚâ They pause, uncertain for a moment. âBetween two rounds of talks, I returned to Ohandar, where I was summarily attacked, and after my attempted escape, even my security detail deserted me at Idhir Station, so I had to seek out a private vessel for helpâŚâ
âYour security detail betrayed you?â Adhus-Barin turns oddly mild, almost gentle. I donât have to pry into his thoughts to sense a trap being readied.
âThey were all Isolationists, they turned against meââ Voice rising. Miran Anyuwe is losing their cool.
âOh, those kinds of roughshod mercenaries donât appreciate going unpaid,â Adhus-Barin nods with empathy.
âWhat could I have done? The talks were almost over and the fundsââ They halt midsentence.
I stare. At Adhus-Barin smiling, his thin mouth turning up in almost a sneer, at Miran Anyuwe standing statue-still, with only stray tremors breaking through their rigidity.
The security detail going unpaid. Isolationists going unpaid.
âThank you,â Adhus-Barin says, âI do believe this will be enough.â
As if a dam breaking through, Miran Anyuwe starts blabbering, words tumbling over each other. The statue falling apart. âThe Alliance has to understand, the Alliance knowsâisolationist sentiment has always been strong on Ohandar, we had to show the populace that isolationism was extremism, we had toââ
âSo you backed the Isolationist movement, steered them into violence,â Adhus-Barin says, one step away from gloating. âCreated and funded your own rivals, so that you could point a finger at them and say, we are not like those people. So that you could revel in the position of the peacemaker.â
âThe Alliance knows! Donât deny it! The Alliance knows!â
âMay I?â the Ereni says, then waits for the captainâs nod. âThe Alliance knows. That doesnât mean the Alliance assents.â
âExactly as Officer EnisÄyun has it,â the captain nods at them again. âUndesirable allies often incriminate themselves during the accession process, as we have found.â He says it as if the Empire was innocent of all possible wrongdoing, and I wonder if Miran Anyuwe knows how the Alliance had taken its present shape, what had prompted the member states to create Treaty Enforcement, back it with real power and threat. I sneak a look at EnisÄyun, and the Ereni glances back at me, shrugs.
Miran Anyuwe mutters word-fragments, all sense lost in overwhelming anger, directed at us who thwarted the plan. We all gaze upon the spectacle. I pull my personal wards tighter around myself in case Miran Anyuwe lashes out.
Officer EnisÄyun asks to speak again, then gestures toward me. âThe esteemed leader might wish to thank the young mÄwalÄni here for saving their life.â
Adhus-Barin makes a face. The meaning is clearâhe would rather the politician would have perished, murdered by their own erstwhile allies. Let alone called esteemed leader, but then again the Ereni are fond of formality⌠and its ironic flipside.
EnisÄyun smiles softly. âWe will make sure that the young mÄwalÄni receives all due payment for services renderedâthough from whom might be uncertain at this pointâŚâ
Miran Anyuwe collapses.
âI thought they were warded from all outsideââ A voice from the back of the Alliance crowd, then another, âI warded them!â
A door seal hisses, and my master dashes in, the familiar clang of boots on ship-metal. âWere they threatening anyone? I felt they might be threatening someone, so it seemed safer to shut them down.â
âExcuse me?â Adhus-Barin seems utterly lost. Itâs that kind of day, the Ereni thinks at me and I suppress a chuckle.
âI have a policy of not interfering with clientsâ minds, but they severely disrupted my ship, interrupted the jumping procedureââ
Officer EnisÄyun is shocked in the back of my mind.
ââso I thought it would be safest to plant my safeguards on them just in case. They had no defenses to speak of.â
An understatement, recognized by everyone present as such. When did my master have time to do this? I consider the events of the day, fail to find the exact moment. An intervention performed off-hand, with a stray thoughtâŚ
As Adhus-Barin regains his calm and goes through the motions of the cleanup, organizing transport for Miran Anyuwe to Alliance Central where they will no doubt have to endure another round of castigation before getting booted out of Alliance space, my attention is elsewhere. I knew my master was more powerful, I tell myself, but I understand at the same time that itâs not about powerâor, rather, that power entails more than raw control. It entails being straightforward, honest, upright.
And I know that between the two of us, we donât need a planet.
Master Sanre offers me a hand and I stand upâthen they grab me, hold me tight to themselves, their tears trickling down my curls.
 END
 âThe Need for Overwhelming Sensationâ was originally published in Capricious #1 and is copyright Bogi TakĂĄcs, 2015.
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Episode #44 â âThe Need for Overwhelming Sensationâ by Bogi TakĂĄcs was originally published on GlitterShip
Strange as it sounds, someone actually paid me for poetry. And now you can buy the whole magazine like some kind of capitalist: GlitterShip: an LGBTQ science fiction and fantasy podcast, Spring 2017 issue.