TRANSMISSION SCUMM | Planet Scumm Issue #7 Pre-Order Release

Illustration by  Alyssa Alarcón Santo

Illustration by Alyssa Alarcón Santo


FROM ISSUE #7, “TRANSMISSION SCUMM”


Anyhoo, pity the poor galactic denizen in this merc's crosshairs. Now, the latest reports from across the galaxy. 

Speaking of ragers, culture correspondent Donald Jacob Uitvlugt comes to us this week with a run-down of the latest in alternative genocide. It's called
"Dance Dance Apocalypse," and it's sweeping across imperial hegemonies small and large. For some, dance isn't just a way of life, it's a way of saving a life—or millions. 

If the jumpin' and jivin' nightlives of the colonized don't interest you,
Frank Smith's latest might. In "The Nearest Far-Away Place," we get a wrenching-yet-hopeful tale of one aging spacer's quest for love—or something like love—among the stars. This one moved even a cold soul like mine, folks, and I don't have a particularly strong grasp on this so-called "mortality."

Planning a vacation to your nearest phantom planet or quarantine zone? You're certainly not alone, this time of year. But whether it's a hike through an abandoned pathogen lab or a picnic on a mass grave, it's important to remember that apocalypse preserves are delicate former ecosystems, easily disturbed by the introduction of self-replicating lifeforms. Nature correspondent Rebecca Gransden gives us just such a cautionary tale in "Zone 59."

From the politics desk is Aaron Emmel's latest, an exclusive peek at the inner workings of a conquered planet. In "The Perpetual Empire," Emmel follows a resident of the North American Subjugate, in a society that views compassion as the ultimate sign of weakness. Scummy doesn't think you're weak if you love, baby, but he just loves to make you weak, if you know what I mean! I'm talking *compromised immune system*, my pretties.

Noah Lemelson's "At the Border Post" gives us a first hand account of that age-old profession: guard duty. Guarding what? Guarding who? Who knows—*that's* who! The bosses aren't telling and we don't want to know. Though now that I mention it, your pal Scummy has had a guard or two on him back in the day. Yep, I was in the slammer. The hoosegow. The big hard-to-escape box place. And even though we were on opposite sides of the whole detention question, I respected the hell out of those guards. Not enough to, like, *not* kill them, but still. *Respect*.  

Finally, let's have a little chat about Hailey Piper and her most recent report, "Reptile." Time anomalies might be a common occurrence for the well-to-do in the galactic core, but on some backwater plan- ah. 

Oh, uh, sorry folks. I've got more to say about this crackerjack story, but it appears some sort of—what would you call this—*intergalactic mercenary* has burst into my recording studio. Blaster drawn, no less! I'm going to sign-off for now, so remember: If it isn't undulating in panic and trying to remember just who Scummy pissed off recently, it isn't... Planet Scumm!  

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