Excerpt From Vendetta Ride, The True Story Of Wyatt Earp :
"
This ain’t the Old West you remember. Truth is stranger than fiction, it’s messier. Here, men live and die by their wits and
hardened hearts. You’d come here lookin’ for honest riches. Time it was done with you, you were a broken man who kept his head down and valued the comfort of a meager living. Or you became part of the great storm of it: a titan, a gladiator of the pistol. The storm would bend you whichever way you could bend. It broke you and made you into somethin’ you never wanted to see. This storm was bigger than the giants who rode it through. If anyone ever fought to change it, well, guess that’s how legends are made.
<>
Pa’s hands grasped thick rope reins. These were a strong farmer’s hands, rough and powerful. They were strong enough to handle the heaviest livestock you might find on a ranch. Two brown horses pulled our covered mud wagon in wild fury for Pella, Iowa. We rode in the dark of a cloudy day, under an endless heavy downpour through forest trail. Pa was exhausted. His eyes were dark and heavy. He beat his fatigue with the unbreakable will of hardened steel.
Five-year-old me slouched into the driver’s box, sitting beside him. I felt sorry for his having missed two nights’ sleep. It seemed an opportunity to prove myself a hero in the family. Pa’s hard eyes broadened a hair from their forward-focused squint, as to glare down at me through his thick blonde beard. But without looking at me, Pa knew in an instant which son it was and what I was up to. Likewise, I knew before asking what his thoughts were. “Wyatt, get back there,” he grumbled in a deep, gruff, solemn tone.
I looked up at him, refusing to squint as hard beads of rain pelted over my face. “You got no rest,” I said. “I can take over for a while.”
“You? Don’t be stupid—get back under cover! All we need is two sick kids.”
I looked about the darkened woods of northern Illinois. “Anywhere nearby a doctor might be?”
“Look like it to you?”
Pa wasn’t shouting at me to get back into the wagon. I perceived this as a sign of mild approval. Maybe he wanted me to take the reins. “I can do it, honest!” My excitement was in part motivated by my fear of what he might do if I irked him, or if I should fail to manage these strong horses down a rocky, mucky path. But only with confidence could I convince anyone of anything, being that I was so young. “What good are you if you get sick?”
“Get yer ass back there ‘fore I throw you in!” His fisted right hand budged toward me. Pa was scary when he got mad. We all knew not to push him on anything once his mind was made up.
I left the seat straight away, crawling back under full cover of storm-beaten canvas. The mud wagon was full of folded clothes, stored goods and old furniture. My family sat in a near-half-circle, facing each other. It was dead quiet. The only sounds were the rain beating on the canvas above our heads, the trotting of horse hooves and the grinding of wheels over dirt, pools and rocks.
Newton was my oldest sibling and half-brother, a young man by now. He sat on folded blankets beside two oil lamps. On a bench beside him sat my next-oldest brother James, next-next-oldest brother Virgil and younger brother Morgan.
Ma sat on a folded rug, tending to my sister. Martha was three years older than me. She lay on the floor by lamplight. Blankets were wrapped around her. Ma rubbed a wet cloth over her forehead. “Oh, Wyatt,” Ma remarked with a gentle shake of her head. “You should not bother your father. He has to concentrate. I know you meant well.”
I crawled over to look upon Martha to show her a brave smile. To inspire strength in her. Martha’s eyes were closed. Her breath was faint and she had the wheeze of an old hag. Her face looked pale. The way she lay—her head tilted to one side, as if she’d fallen loosely into that position—made her look frail.
“Don’t bother Martha, Wyatt,” Virgil said. He always knew what Ma and Pa wanted and expected it of me. I loved Virgil, of course, but it irked me when he got uppity.
“I’m not bothering her,” I said with a gentle voice and expressive sneer at Virgil. “Am I, Martha?”
“She’s too weak to answer,” Virgil stated as-a-matter-of-factly.
James looked between Virgil and me with gentle concern. He never liked to see us feuding. “She’ll be fine,” James assured me with a warm smile. James was never one to fret over such things, or to ever get worked up and argumentative. His philosophy was to remain optimistic on all things, never fearing the worst. Unlike Newton, who’d been something of a rebel in his younger years, James had learned to get his way with a cheery smile and some honeyed words. I always admired him for that. It made him seem slick and more refined.
“Of course she will,” Ma said, half speaking to Martha. “Just need to keep her warm. We’ll sweat it out of her. That’s how I beat the devil, more than once.”
“Wonder how much longer it is to Pella?” James inquired.
“Two days,” Newton replied. He sat still and stoic.
“We’re moving like the wind,” James pointed out. “Pa will probably have us there in half the time.” Pa had led us far ahead of the convoy we’d started out with. It seemed we were moving at incredible speed.
“Two days,” Newton repeated.
“Well, then,” Ma said, tidying Martha’s greasy gold hair, “we’ll just keep Martha warm and dry. Keep her spirits up. We’ll sing some songs, tell some stories. She’ll be fine.”
“Hear that, Martha?” I said in my sweetest voice. “You gotta keep your spirits high.” Martha turned her head with some effort. Her blue eyes opened narrowly to look upon me. “I knew you could hear me. We’re all here for you. I’ll be right here with you.” Martha didn’t smile. She was too weak. “You’re not gonna leave us for a long time, are you? We’d all be lost without you.” Martha’s dark eyes seemed to grin a little. But they fell weak and closed again.
"
Excerpt From Scribe :
" Here begins a new journal. Perhaps the last journal ever written by Rhodenian hand. My name is Elindres. Rhodekind has finally come to its end, as long prophesized. It still seems like I am caught inside some unimaginable nightmare, and will soon awaken, relieved to see our society alive and strong. But, this is no dream.
It just doesn’t feel entirely real, you understand. Three weeks now it’s been since that final day—the day when time as measured by rhodekind was eternally severed. I cannot describe the feeling. To all your life be a part of a greater whole which is suddenly no more. It seems akin to removing a newborn from a mother’s womb, and keeping it from her reach, perhaps. No, this is far worse. This is stark isolation amidst complete desolation. That and endless exhaustion. I just can’t sleep. Can’t rest. Can’t recharge. I am unsure if I have undertaken melancholia or have become ill. Has the great evil which devoured our kind cursed me to live on here alone, and to die of despair?
But I haven’t died. I eat. I breathe. I think. I walk. I’ve walked the many halls of this massive castle until my feet ached, nearly blistering. I’ve sat down just now to rest. Strange that I am so tired all the time while feeling so calm. There are no assignments waiting my pen. No deadlines to turn in my research. No one to answer to. Not anymore.
Not that I am entirely alone. There is me, my former master, and but a handful of scribes and servants—some in fair health, others not. Then there are—or I should say were—those who left. I suppose you are wondering of what assignments I speak of, and what a scribe even is. If you are of a race that can read the common tongue, or are a future scholar who has translated this text, then you are following this but are no doubt ignorant as of yet as to the purpose of this castle you find yourself in. Of what we did here. Why it mattered. I will attempt to explain this as briefly as possible so that you may follow my account of what transpired here three weeks ago. ...
"
Excerpt From Jimmy's Fat Flamingo :
" Jimmy snacked on rich appetizers while Uncle Lowell prattled on about politics, business and wealth management. He referred to a lot of secret clubs, swinging, illegal parties and something about human ritual sacrifice, but Jimmy wasn’t really paying attention. The more he learned about the state of the world the more it disgusted him. Something deep inside could never accept the corruption and injustice. Jimmy yearned for a better world, a fairer world. He mulled it over in his head but he could never resolve the problems of humanity. If only he could rip out the serpent infecting humankind and cut off its head. If only it were that simple.
He took some glances at the tables around him. These people were less burdened than most, fortunate beyond measure, yet they could still moan and groan about petty things, blissfully ignorant to the reality of most people’s lives—lives of sacrifice, struggling and despair. These were as heartless and soul-less people, like his Uncle Lowell. Every one of them, young and old, talkative or silent, beautiful or ugly. Only, Jimmy’s troubled mind had stopped troubling him. It was suddenly very quiet and peaceful. He found himself staring at a beautiful young woman, enchanted in a way he’d never been before, without even knowing her at all.
The beautiful young woman who’d stopped his heart was Jessica Hale, he soon learned by the chitchat at her table. She was dining with two friends, yet she was brutally alone. She smiled and nodded, but her eyes—those stunning blue hazel eyes were so deep, exposing a saddened and yearning soul which touched his own. She had long blonde hair, somewhat curled, neatly stylized, yet at the same time it flowed rather naturally down her back. She was a slender girl, but not thin like a rake. She had the right kind of curves. Her skin looked so tender and soft. Her manner was feminine and discrete. She was a proud lady, yet not artificial and spoiled like the others. No, she had a soul, bare for all to see.
But so sad, so terribly, terribly sad. It did not suit her. She looked like a princess who should be gleaming, and Jimmy felt he was the man to do it.
Uncle Lowell was still muttering away. Jimmy was mostly looking at him still, although blankly. Uncle Lowell seemed more passionate about educating him now, his eyes sharpened and voice almost human. It seemed that he had mistaken Jimmy’s distracted attention for deep contemplation on his words. He should have known better.
The lady of all his future dreams, Jessica Hale, excused herself from her table and left to powder her nose. Jimmy often wondered why women did so much powdering, so much so that they often excused themselves while dining out once or twice, or even multiple times, to re-powder their already powdered faces. As much as he examined Jessica Hale’s gorgeous face—through countless subtle glances—he could not understand how more powder could possibly improve anything. She was perfect, absolutely perfect in every way.
After she’d left the room Jimmy felt a sudden urge to follow after her. He needed a chance to meet her, away from Uncle Lowell, away from her yakking friends, away from the space between their tables. Jimmy excused himself and dashed away, leaving Uncle Lowell hushed mid-sentence, frozen with a stunned expression on his face.
He ran past the gold curtain, his elbow striking the arm of the formal bouncer. The man was so strong and Jimmy had charged ahead with such speed that his elbow was fetched by the powerful arm like it was a steel shaft. In an instant too sudden and too brief to react to, his feet were flipped up into the air and he landed onto his back with a huff. His breath was partially knocked out of him. The large bouncer gazed down at Jimmy, eyes wide in horror. Jimmy lifted his head. He caught a glimpse of the future Mrs. Jimmy Miller turning a corner. Her black high heels clicked away as she went: clok, clok, clok.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” apologized the fashionable oaf, lending a hand and hoisting Jimmy to his feet. Jimmy dusted himself off, straining to get his normal breath back. “Are you injured, sir?”
“Fine,” forced Jimmy. Talking was not easy at the moment. “All you did was stand. I did wrong. This never happened.”
“Not a word,” promised the worried bouncer, nodding.
Jimmy nodded and hurried on, after his enchantress. Only, his back felt rather sore, and breathing seemed to hurt a bit as well. His hair was even messier than usual. He was perspiring too much. His clothes were becoming disorderly, dirty, through the happenstances of this unusual morning. He walked at a comfortable speed. There was a slight stagger to his step, as if his body wanted to give up and collapse onto the floor. Jimmy pushed on, following the clok, clok, clok down a short hallway which opened to the restroom doors. He reached the door just s it closed. He stopped still, unsure of what to do next. There was a final clok, clok, clok, and then silence. She was now able to powder her nose, again.
What am I doing? thought Jimmy. Just wait out here like some creep? Krathead!
He seemed to do well with the girls so long as they made the first move. It seemed that every time he tried to meet a girl he’d goof it up and terrify the poor thing. Uncle Lowell had long advised Jimmy that his instincts were terrible and were best ignored, as they’d always lead him to misfortune. But Jimmy was a man of action, not inaction. It wasn’t in his nature to shy away from danger. No, he was the kind of man who faced things head on.
Suddenly, the door opened, and a gorgeous blonde in a white dress stepped out. Jimmy took a sharp breath and forced himself to face her and make his move. He had no plan and relied solely on his instincts. As she did not expect someone to approach her, she nearly walked straight into him. She stopped, their faces just inches apart, her eyes widening in alarm—too scared to react just yet. Jimmy opened his mouth and began speaking robotically, as to force himself through the task despite his nervousness. As he did, he realized this was not the same lady he had been following after. No, this one had pretty but normal eyes—not those deep ones that gazed out from the mystical depths of her soul. He also recalled that Jessica had been wearing a black dress, not white.
“I’m Jimmy Miller—I live at 108 Dank Street, apartment 2—I’m available for a date at your convenience.” While gazing into the woman’s wide eyes, he cringed. Not only had Jimmy embarrassed himself for no reason, but his pitch had come out like a formal resume. Jimmy was now frozen stiff. He wanted to speak, to explain and apologize to the poor girl, but his lips would not budge, nor would his eyes.
What is this, a seizure? he contemplated.
The young lady smirked tightly, her eyes narrowing behind him. She walked around him and left without a word. Clok, clok, clok went her heels, a bit cruder and less delicate that Jessica’s steps.
Jimmy shook his head, forcing himself to laugh softly at himself. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” he thought aloud.
“Excuse me,” said a man who’d come up behind him quietly. The tall fellow smirked to himself. He seemed amused to have caught Jimmy consoling himself after being turned down so coldly.
This was the icing on the cake. Jimmy lowered his head, squinting. Sucks to be you, Jimmy Miller. So sucks to be you.
Suddenly, the women’s restroom door reopened and none other but Jessica Hale stepped out, soon upon Jimmy. His eyes, low, raised up to hers. He was looking at her apologetically, prepared to explain himself, apologize and leave with what little dignity he had left. Her deep, enchanting eyes seemed to peer into his very soul, but he was prepared to accept that the greatest treasure he’d ever found was, alas, too good for him.
But before his lips opened, she looked him up and down approached him closer with an awkward but friendly smile. “Excuse me, are you the janitor? I hate to tell you this, but someone peed all over the women’s bathroom floor. It’s disgusting.” Her voice, like the rest of her, was enchanting. Jimmy felt himself melting, play putty in her hands. She could squeeze him any which way she wanted.
“Oh, I see,” said Jimmy with a defeatist tone. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you.” She started to walk away but stopped, stepping back to face him with a speculative expression. “You are the janitor, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. But, I will get him on it.”
“Oh. Alright then.” Again she started to walk away, but stepped back to face him with a somewhat tenser, mistrustful expression. “I notice you’re still here, just sort of, standing here.” Jimmy lowered his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. Bad day?” She seemed so sweet, actually concerned for a stranger’s well-being.
He felt himself falling—an actual feeling of freefalling from the sky, hopeless and helpless, unable to stop it from happening. It had never occurred to him before that ‘falling in love’ could be so literal of a sensation. “There was this lady that I was falling for, so fast, so hard. But I think she’s meant for someone else.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s happened to all of us. You’ll know the right one when she comes along.”
“Will you? How?”
Jessica smiled sharply yet dreamily. “You just know. There’s a spark, it’s magic.”
Jimmy found himself gazing helplessly into her dreamy eyes. Her words were like brilliant, sensual hands, caressing his heart—metaphorically speaking, that is. Powerless and happy to be, Jimmy let his words out naturally without thinking: “I love you. You, Jessica Hale. It’s you I’ve been longing for.”
Jessica’s face softened like putty, and from putty it reformed into a hard, tensely browed grimace. “What? Who the hell are you?” She stepped back, pointing at him. “I don’t know you.”
“Jimmy Miller. I’ve been dining with my uncle and I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are. I had to ask you out on a date.”
“But, you didn’t. You just told me that you’re in love with me. And before that you pretended to be a janitor.”
“No, I didn’t pretend...” Jimmy’s face contorted with frustration, fighting through an inability to explain himself. He knew was in the right, he just didn’t understand how.
“Stay away from me. I never want to see you again, do you understand?” She walked away, her heels going clok, clock, clok!
Jimmy saw the greatest opportunity of his life—a chance at true love and spiritual fulfillment—speeding away from him. “No,” he said aloud and ran after her. He scurried around her and stopped before her. “Please, just hear me out!” he begged her.
“I said, stay away!” Jessica reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of pepper spray, aiming it at him. Although obviously afraid of him, her hand wasn’t shaking all that much. She could spray it accurately into his eye sockets if she wanted to. Jimmy couldn’t help but be impressed.
Things weren’t going the way Jimmy had wanted. For the kazillionth time he’d startled a potential girlfriend. Jimmy was becoming concerned by the pattern. It was like some sort of love curse, dooming him to failure every time. Everyone he knew assured him that he was a sweet guy, a real catch. If only the women could see it that way. “I would never do you any harm,” he assured her, lifting his arms passively. “I only want to ask you out for a date.”
Jessica backed away another step, both hands clenching tight onto the pepper spray. “So, you really are just some goofy idiot?”
Jimmy contemplated his reply for his odd question. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded with a smile.
“Okay.” Jessica eased and shoved the pepper spray back into her purse.
“Okay, for a date?” Jimmy smiled widely, hopeful.
“Banger, no.” Jessica smiled, humoured by the suggestion.
This was not what Jimmy wanted to hear, but he felt he had nothing to lose by trying one last stab for true happiness. “Well, could you please tell me, if you would, what do you look for in a guy?”
“I like men, not boys. No offence. If a man can show me that he can handle responsibility and make something of himself, he has my attention. Otherwise, no chance.”
“I see.” Jimmy’s eyes lowered, but not in defeat. He knew how to win her heart, it just wasn’t something he ever would have done for any other purpose in the world.
“I’m sorry, I guess this whole thing was just a crazy misunderstanding. Some advice though: never ask a girl out the second she leaves the bathroom. It’s disrespectful, and kinda weird.” Jessica walked past him. Clok, clok, clok.
Jimmy watched her leave. She was so tall, her posture so straight, her stride so feminine, but not in a slutty way. She was a true class act. “Jessica Hale,” he said aloud. Saying her name and hearing it said made him smile. “Jessica Hale.”
“Excuse me,” said the tall man again, passing him by with the same amused smirk on his face.
“Jessica Hale.”
"
Excerpt From The Under-dwellers:
" I was all ready late when the rain turned to a brutal downpour. My rubber boots scurried down the creaking wooden steps of my apartment building and plunged through the splattering ponds and muck of the drive. My old blue Buick looked cleaner than it had in ages, heavy rain pounding off old layers of dirt at either side.
My black umbrella was caught in a sudden gust of wind and rain, snatching at the polyester and hauling at the slender metal ribs until they bent like cheap plastic. "Fuck!" I said, waving the broken umbrella at the wind as to swat whichever foul spirits cursed me with this wretched weather. I grabbed the rusted silver door handle and quickly took cover inside.
My purple Velcro jacket was drenched, my hair disheveled. I grabbed at the purple clips, pulling them from bunched locks of black hair. I shook my head to let my hair fall loosely at my shoulders. With a bitter groan, I drove down the twisting driveway and into the somber dark of this late afternoon.
I’d just made it onto the street when my cell phone started buzzing in my jacket. "Shit," I said. "What now?" I reached into my deep right pocket, pulled it out and flicked it open. "Hello?"
"Nicole?" It was my boss. I worked part-time as a web designer in an office space uptown. It was a cubical job, but it was creative work and had flexible hours, which was perfect for me.
"Joe!" I said. "I’m driving in a storm here!"
"You haven’t shown up all week," said Joe. "I wasn’t sure if you were feeling sick or..."
"What’re you talking about?" I said. "I finished the Linnar Inc. redesign last week--you approved it!"
"No, plans were changed last Thursday, remember? Cara’s baby came prematurely and so I reassigned the Green Avenue Project to you."
"Shit! I’m sorry, Joe--I’m on my way to rehearsal! I completely forgot!"
"I keep telling you to write these things down," said Joe. "Alright, I’ll get someone else."
"I’m really sorry, Joe!" I said. "It won’t happen again!"
"I think I feel Déjà vu coming on," said Joe. "It’s fine. I’ll call you when something comes up."
"Shit!" I said, shoving the cell phone back into my jacket. It seemed that my life had become a blur of changing schedules and conflicting obligations--a jarring riff-raff in the back of my mind that I was always trying to push aside so that I could get a moment’s peace. Between work, theater and charity at the homeless shelter--not to mention my schedules for dept payments and dealing with collections agency phone calls--it was hard to get any rest. Sleep deprivation only made it easier for me to forget things, and at this point I was immune to benzodiazepine.
The rain came hard, pouring down my windshield like a transparent outer skin. I couldn’t drive fast even if there weren’t any vehicles ahead of me. I could have called the theater to let them know I’d be late, but I was betting that I wasn’t alone. Not in weather like this.
Tall pine trees to either side of the road were bending like rubber. Streetlights were flickering. It was only getting worse.
A cracking sound distracted me from the road. I turned my head as a large pine tree fell over a power line just thirty feet ahead of me. I gasped, applying the breaks with caution.
The car slowed to a gentle stop as vicious sparks spat from a power pole beside me. The power was cut. A few cables held the tree from the road, but it was a scary sight. Its large branches shook in the wind as if they were twigs, the massive trunk bridled from both wind and gravity by these cords alone. I flinched as fat sparks erupted over my car.
Why do these things always happen to me? I thought. I’m cursed--have to be!
A couple cars passed around my car before I found the nerve to hit the accelerator. I watched in the driver’s-side mirror as the sparks fell over the roofs of the vehicles behind me. I couldn’t help but smile at the effect. There was something exciting about electricity, wondrous and even sexy in a perverse sort of way.
I didn’t get far before the rain grew even denser. At this point it was like going through a carwash. I was blinded at all sides. With the streetlights out, all I could see were two yellow lines. And soon, these were fading.
Slowing to a stop, I looked into my mirror in hopes of not getting rammed from behind by some lunatic driver.
Great, my life in all its splendor.
Turning my head aside in disgust, I saw shaking treetops outlined by the sun--or what little of it pierced through the heavy cloud. I remembered being ten years old, running through those woods with my friends in our raincoats. We hopped over ponds and laughed as spills of cool water dropped from branches high above. We were running from creatures that lurked about the caves and other dark places of the forest. But we were protected by our Guardians: they were half man, half bear, and no foul beast--no matter how evil--dared to tangle with them.
I smiled as I reflected upon this simpler and more joyful time. Chris was our leader and my best friend. We were neighbors, even though his family lived in that old mansion on a hill and mine in a renovated trailer. John and Katie lived further down the street. John was the shy artist and Katie the free-spirited rich kid. The four of us together was like mixing fire and propane: good kids who could only keep out of trouble when we were frolicking through the woods. We had that way of breaking each other’s inhibitions without even trying.
Put simply: it was magic.
I gazed upon what little of the treetops I could discern through the waving water when I noticed two tiny red specks glowing in the dark of the woods. But as soon as they had appeared, they vanished. My heart nearly stopped in nervous excitement. I looked closely, but couldn’t see anything now.
Glowing red eyes . Maybe they really did exist. Perhaps I was feeling over-sentimental, but I liked the idea that creatures of the wood--even wicked spirits--still existed: that such things weren’t bound to the past.
Without warning, a sudden WHAM! erupted behind me and my car slid aside, twisting around for the deep ditch below. I gasped, too stunned to react. The tires, still, scraped over the pavement near the ditch until the car came to a stop. My heart beat in my chest as I panted like an Olympic swimmer. Once my senses returned to me, I cried out: "Fuck!" I remained seated, gasping, faced forward in disbelief.
A moment later, knuckles rapped upon my driver’s-side window. I groaned, beside myself with outrage. I lowered the window, eager to see the imbecile who’d be driving in a downpour this bad, until I found myself gazing into the black eyes of a tall stranger in a dark purple raincoat. He looked to be middle-aged, but for his jet black hair and sharp eyes--which bore a familiarity that I couldn’t quite place. The rain eased a little but was still pounding hard off his shoulders.
"I’m sorry about that--it’s my fault entirely!" said the man. "Are you alright?"
"Ah, yeah," I said. "Fine. What did you do to my bumper?" I’d forgotten my raincoat and didn’t care to get drenched.
"Just a dent, far as I can detect," said the man. He reached under his raincoat and pulled out a checkbook. "Here, let me write this up." His arms reached into my car with it. I sat back in my seat, surprised by the sudden intrusion. He filled it out on the steering wheel. "Two thousand ought to cover it." He ripped it off and handed it to me.
"Ah, thanks," I said.
"Best to leave insurance out of it," said the man, tucking the pad under his jacket.
"How do I know it won’t bounce?" I said, raising a brow at him. "I’ve been burned before."
"The name is Nicholas Spidell, the majority shareholder of Spidell Enterprises. Trust me, I’m good for it." I wasn’t familiar with the name, but he didn’t leave me any room to comment: "Say, you look familiar! I know you from somewhere. ..."
"I doubt it," I said. "I’m pretty good with faces."
"But you do remember me, don’t you? Even if just vaguely?"
It seemed a strange concept to remember a person’s character with no visual semblance to it. I’d assumed it to be my imagination, but since he claimed to remember me, I found myself opening to the possibility. "Perhaps..," I said, narrowing my eyes upon his.
"Nicole, right?"
My eyes widened. "Well, yes!"
"I knew it was you!" said the man. "I was just speaking with an old friend of yours--Chris Walker!"
"Chris!" I said. "How is he?"
"That depends. His head is up and his assets are secure, if that’s all you mean. That is what a normal person would mean by such a question--but then, you’re not the typical Jolene Schmolene, are you, Nicole?"
"No, I guess not," I said with a smile. I was always susceptible to flattery, when it seemed sincere. "How do you know Chris--or me, for that matter?"
"We should discuss this indoors, somewhere warm and dry."
"Oh, ah, I’m sorry, Nicholas--"
"Call me Nick."
"Nick," I repeated. I felt something very familiar when I spoke the name, but I ignored it, trying to focus on the task at hand. "I’m late for my theater group. We have rehearsal today."
"Oh, that’s fine," said Nick. "I’ll just tag along! See you there!" He stepped away, into the rain.
I nodded, at a loss for words as I lowered the window. "Okay..," I replied afterwards, as it seemed I had little choice.
The rain had let up enough that the traffic continued. I pulled away from the side of the road to join in. Water swooshed through the air in the erratic winds like a Van Gogh painting. Streetlights were flickering on and off now as if society was fighting back against the storm.
Nick, I thought. Almost familiar. ...
"
Excerpt From Peril:
" Boots pelted like raindrops drizzling over crowded city streets, amidst frantic glistening red tourist shuttles and dazed street guards—who although donned authoritarian uniforms of hard grey leather jackets and face-shielding brown visors, merely looked on at the armed intrusion of their capital city. Hearts beat, mouths panted and bodies sweated. The weak fell behind, while the strong and motivated pushed on. Pedestrians not too swept up in the thick of the morning executive crowd flocking to their business towers froze with stunned expressions. Some were pushed aside with dire thrusts. An old woman collapsed onto a sidewalk, her posh golden gown drenched in a dirty pond on the white cement, with a frightened cry.
Air shuttles shot above, their bodies gleaming in the red sun like sparkling emeralds. The roars of their engines and the screaming of the air around them went unnoticed by Jason O’Connor, whose eyes were wide yet sharp as he ran hard, arms lifting and falling with the movement of his legs, like speedy clockwork. He kept an eye on those who kept up with him or even spurted ahead. It was of no surprise to him to see Swim Doxis in the lead, and Kyrus Lona—a young Terran with short black hair and keen, predator eyes—not far behind her. This was a race for the young.
Scurrying about the crowds were men and women of various races, shapes and sizes, but they all wore the same black uniform of titanium alloy shoulder pads, long trench coats and tall boots. Each held a pistol and fired loud, blue phasium—burning holes through pavement, florescent road signs or through several passersby at a time. Screams lifted only ever behind them, the faces around them forever new to their actions. Jason held a pistol tight in his right hand, but hadn’t fired it yet. He didn’t need more innocent deaths on his conscience. Not by his own hand, at least. Between keeping his team together, fixing his eye on the fleeting enemy and always watchful for an intervention by city police, his mind was rather busy for focussing on a single target anyway.
The distractions were immeasurable. Exotic and upbeat pop music burst from the speakers of a nearby entertainment complex while furious rebel music exploded from a stereo on a sidewalk where a group of young street dancers competed as a crowd of supporters cheered them on. Gigantic holographic advertisements lifted above the sidewalks, speaking about the latest teeth whitening solution, impressionable perfume or horn trimmer. Couples shouted and political groups rallied. A gang of young males with bitter expressions smoked cigar-like rolls of some intoxicating aroma which dizzied Jason’s senses a bit after getting a whiff as he breezed past them. Huzeel was a megacity of over a billion residents, and they were entering one of its most commercial intersections.
Even with all the commotion they left behind them, and bodies, police shuttles zoomed by without noticing. There were simply too many crowds, too many streets, too much fuss. Still, time was of the essence. Swim lifted her klavadier when she had a clear and safe aim of another target and took him out—a radiant blue blast striking into his back but not passing through his body. He fell, dead. Nice and neat. Swim set the standard for the rest, but although they tried hard to, none could match her. She sprang through a crowd of tourists and leapt over a flowerbed, bringing her bladed klavadier down on another. The slash opened his back from the shoulder to the loin, displaying his bones and organs for a moment before collapsing without a gasp.
“Five more at least!” said Jason to his team.
“Haven’t spotted Po yet!” said Swim.
“We need their leader alive if we’re to find him!” said Jason.
“Leave it to me!” Swim told the others, adjusting her weapon to stun while she ran. Her heightened senses, in being a Clairian, aided her in many ways. She could make almost anything look easy, when it came to combat at least. She darted ahead of her team.
Guess she was only holding back before, thought Jason. His chest felt sore, but he pushed on, making full use of his long legs. Screams broke out ahead of him and there were too many people about for him to determine what kind of trouble Swim was getting into. The six remaining officers now followed him, having abandoned hope of catching up to their Clairian superior. Several quick blasts broke through the bodies of multiple people before him, and for a moment time seemed to hold still. Without being able to see his attackers, he felt helpless in protecting himself. The others of his team broke away to take cover, preparing to return fire. Only Kyrus kept up with him.
“We gotta hit ‘em the second we can!” Jason told him.
“Yes sir!” said Kyrus. Few officers would be so formal while in such a chaotic mess, but Kyrus was rather unique. He was only seventeen and yet he was one of Swim’s most promising warriors. One might have thought him a trained soldier at this point, as his skills just kept improving. The second he had the opportunity, he made a shot. A target yelped, falling to his knees. A moment later, Kyrus fired again, ripping through the chest.
Just don’t let me lose him, Jason prayed to the Ancients.
Soon they were past the crowd, which broke apart and staggered for safely. Three remaining attackers were in the clear, firing about those of their team who’d taken to defensive positions nearby and fired back. One of the three was struck in the shoulder and fell to his back. Swim leapt out from behind a building, its wall hollowed out by enemy fire which had forced her behind it, and she shot down a second. The last man standing—the leader—turned his weapon to her but she took him out.
“Come on!” cried Jason to the rest of his team, waving them over.
Swim leapt to his side, striking the injured target with a stun shot. The leader moaned, head tilting to one side, but said nothing. He was a Polo, but not the one they’d sought.
“Get him up!” said Jason to Kyrus. The young warrior did as asked. Jason lifted a small black comlink to his mouth. “Bring the shuttle—we got what we need! How long? Come fast—hurry!”
Now that they were still and the crowds backed away from them, bodies massed about and the injured, moaning, they were an obvious threat to the massive city’s sights. Police shuttles breezed in for them. Officers left the shuttles, dressed in armoured black uniforms, and grouped together behind their vehicles. They lifted pistols, but did not shout orders or open fire. A slow, unpleasant roaring sound drew Jason’s attention above them. A long black air shuttle with various plates along it, which reminded Jason of depictions of ancient Viking sea ships, crept along the mulberry sky not far above them. It was marked with red alien lettering. Most Human races spoke Ashoren, but not all wrote it the same.
“Violators, lower your weapons slowly to the ground and place your arms behind your backs!” spouted a loud, commanding male voice from the black craft. “You are surrounded. There is no escape. We want this to end peacefully, without violence. Cooperate and we will not need to open fire.”
“Perhaps we should,” suggested Swim. “We can’t win a fight with these numbers, and the shuttle should be here any second.”
Jason maintained a cool composure while his brain stormed with a myriad of fears and ideas. He could taste the fear of the strong but shaken officers around him, mirroring his own. “No,” he said. “They could open fire on us when we attempt to escape.”
“We have a hostage,” said Kyrus, nodding his head to the unconscious Polo, limp in his arms.
“We’re not familiar enough with this world to take the chance,” said Jason, his words clear and calm, despite the trembling he felt inside—a spiking panic begging to break his fortitude like a glass wall. “We need the leverage.”
“I am giving you one final warning!” shouted the male voice from the large police craft above them. As it slowed, they saw two lines of blue energy emitters, a dozen to each size. “If you force us to open fire you will be killed. The targeting of this craft is computer-guided and each blast strikes with indiscriminate precision. All of you will die needlessly. I am giving you another opportunity to come out of this alive. Now, slowly drop your weapons and place your hands behind your backs!”
“Jason..,” said Swim.
“Shit,” said Jason. He lowered his weapon with some effort; it went against his instincts. Something inside warned him that if they left themselves vulnerable they were more likely to be shot down than with the chance of taking police with them. It defied logic, yet the sight of the well-armed police shuttle above them was enough to break any warrior’s mettle. A great unease overtook him and he realized that it was triggering something else, deep inside; something he’d long tried to bury.
No, he thought. Push it away. Focus. Need to think.
“Are you sure?” asked one of the more experienced officers. “If we leave ourselves unarmed they’ll move right in on us—”
“I know,” said Jason, lifting his weapon and aiming it at the police positioned behind a shuttle. “Keep your weapons on them, but do nothing!”
“And if that air shuttle opens fire on us?” asked Swim.
“If what they said is true,” said Jason, “we’d all be dead before we had time to react. The question is, how much faith they place in their computer and weapons systems over a split-second tug of a trigger button to take down some of their own. It could happen even after we were killed. We have to hold out.”
“You’ve received your final warning.” The emitters of the hovercraft lit bright blue.
“Sir,” said Kyrus.
“I see it,” said Jason. “Hold your gun to the leader, Kyrus. The rest of you, keep aiming at the police.”
“They will make a move,” said Swim, eyes focused on a far-away and mostly hidden target, as if she could drop him with ease. “The question is, in what form?”
The many policemen around them began to lift into the open, forming a rough circle around them. They began closing in with a very slow stride, pistols and rifles aimed with stiff yet often shaky arms. “Intimidation,” said Jason. “Wise tactic.”
“Any ideas?” asked one of the officers, voice childlike and breaking.
Jason took a deep breath. At this point it was all he could do to keep focussed, eyes avoiding the threatening vessel above. “Hold your ground,” he said. “No matter what. Never lower your weapons. Worst case, I’m guessing, we get stunned.”
“Or not,” remarked another.
“Here they come!” said Kyrus. The Pathfinder, the scout ship of the Shade Marauder—which had rescued Jason and his friends from their crashed landing three months ago—zoomed behind the police shuttle. It was large and spiked, quite a bit more intimidating of a spectacle than the police craft. Many heads lifted to it as its canons lowered and two bright blue phasium beams slammed into the craft. The police shuttle’s shell was breached and its nozzles lost their ignition. Just as it began to fall for them, a green gravitational beam shot at it and the craft was held still in midair. The beam moved it aside with a quick grace, lowering it upon an abandoned stretch of pavement beside a small park. Despite the care of the landing, metal still crashed with a thunderous scream when the beam ceased, shaking the ground under their feet.
Ancients, just get us back alive, prayed Jason. He knew of course, as so few did as of yet, that the Ancients were not the godly beings that everyone had been led to believe for thousands of years. Still, it felt comforting in a moment of crisis to believe that perhaps, somehow, someone might be listening.
The Pathfinder lowered to them, the ramp extending. Jason held his breath, tense.
One of the police officials, held still amidst his officers in a broad, circle formation, lifted a silver otoscope-shaped voice amplifier to his mouth and spoke: “Halt! Attempt to board that ship and we’ll open fire!”
“We have a hostage!” Jason cried back. His nerves finally got the better of him, but at this stage it seemed a wise move to assert their own position. “We have guns aimed back at you, not to mention our craft above you—more than capable of leveling your entire city! Let us go and none of you need die!”
“That is not an option!” hollered back the police official. “Final warning: do not board that vessel or we open fire!” The threat sounded earnest.
“Leave us to your space defences!” said Jason, sneering with annoyance in the man’s lack of logic. Of course, the Shade Marauder could easily outsmart their defences, but it seemed unwise for this man to bet that on the lives of his men. “Unless you lack confidence in their abilities!”
“You’ve been warned,” said the official. He and all the other policemen steadied their weapons at them. They appeared to be about fifty strong, ten armed with rifles, compared to the small band around Jason with pistols only. Not that it mattered, as a quality pistol was more than proficient against body armour, but it still made a formidable impression. Yet, compared to the heavily-armed and rather horrific sight of the Pathfinder lowering above them, it seemed brave to a foolish extent.
“Back to the ramp,” Jason told his officers. A second man helped Kyrus with dragging their unconscious hostage to the ramp. “Keep him for now; he gives us some leverage.”
“Yes sir,” said Kyrus, although the one man appeared frightened by the order to remain still while the others walked to safety up the silver ramp. Jason remained before his men in a protective stance, Swim and another brave officer beside him. The first officer up the ramp was just about to make it onboard when a barrage of blue phasium blasts impacted the ramp and ground around them. Several immediate injuries resulted, some fatal.
A force overtook Jason, his senses knocked away from the reality of what had happened for a moment. He found himself upon his left shoulder, blood gushing over his black clothes. He’d been shot through the right shoulder. The brave officer at his side lay dead with his limbs scattered in a pool of blood around him. The Pathfinder had began firing back the instant the police had opened fire, with multiple short bursts of silent blue laser. Their bodies fell with few gasps, as laser did not impact one’s body with a great force the way that phasium did. It was a neat, clean weapon. A few police escaped lethal shots, dropping their weapons and fleeing. The rest lay dead, scattered about the bloodied cement streets. Screams lifted from masses of pedestrians watching from a distance, all around.
Bad dream. Just a bad dream.
Swim lowered her arms to his. Although she was smaller than Jason, of average height and size for a Human female, her Clairian physique was impressive. She pulled him up the ramp with a quick stride, somehow applying little pressure upon his injured shoulder—not that he could feel much as of yet; no pain, only a feeling of disorientation and even disassociation; it hardly seemed real at this point, and part of him wondered if it was real. ...
"
Excerpt From Sector Storm:
" Derrile was completing his inspection of the regulation sub-system relay realignment. He stood alone in a desolate corridor, the nearest ceiling light flickering while the shimmering red and blue lights of his handheld modular scanner reflected off the intricate workings of the exposed access panel. Most would have preferred to have assistants carry out such a menial task, but Derrile knew how sloppy their work could be. Heading into Raedian space was no small matter and he wanted to be certain the new configurations would hold up under the strain of conflict. He knew not the details of their mission, nor did he care to. Less to worry about and all the better to keep his mind focussed on where it should be.
Being a K’tarra didn’t work against him, but he had little in common with his cousin Breema, whom most everyone onboard had taken to—not only for her good looks but due to her spirit, which was a breath of fresh air for this ship. Many crewmen were intimidated by her however, uncertain just how much of them she could read and might report back to their captain, as she was so gifted in her perceptive abilities, unlike Derrile. His tie to her made him a trustworthy officer, that and his dedication to perfection.
Derrile’s father was a hard man, a Resistance engineer who always got the job done. He never believed that Derrile had the wits to make it at anything in life, and so it had become Derrile’s ambition to prove his father wrong.
“Derrile!” shouted Sara Black, Chief Technical Officer, marching down the corridor like a militant princess. Her superior was her lover, Rashar. Above him was a captain who was rather taken by her himself. Everyone knew that the aging Ramis’ days were numbered and few would have the nerve to challenge Rashar for leadership. He was a great warrior, second-in-command and had many loyal followers. And so, Sara had set herself up pretty well.
“I’m almost done my inspection,” said Derrile, turning away to hide the sensitivity in his eyes. Long had he fancied Sara, as she was an attractive woman and Terrans were highly prized as lovers by K’tarra. Complicating matters further was his professional resentment for her promotion above him simply because she was Rashar’s girl. “Our new chief engineer is keeping his crew under a pretty strict regimen. Their full engine systems check was completed just under their assigned forty-eight hours and excellently—”
“Good to hear it,” said Sara. “Let me ask you, Derrile: where do your loyalties lie?”
Derrile turned to her. “Under yours, of course,” he said.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Don’t patronize me, Derrile! I know you’re fond of me, but I also know you resent me for succeeding you in the ranks.”
Derrile took a deep breath. He did not appreciate being placed in this position. He chose his words carefully. “I was hired by Rashar. I may disagree with his decision to promote you above me, but I respect him.”
“And, speaking hypothetically,” she said, “if there were to be a mutiny, who would you follow?”
“Rashar,” said Derrile, raising his chin. Such questions were not unexpected aboard a rogue ship. Answering could prove detrimental, yet not answering had its own pitfalls. Cautious men would claim to support every contestant. This earned them no real trust from any faction, however it kept one from getting demoted or even death-marked.
“Are you sure?”
Derrile decided to stick with the truth now so Sara could detect no lie in his face. “You know I never got along with Xorn,” he said. “And the captain, his days are numbered.”
Sara smiled. “You’re smarter than I thought,” she said.
“Indeed,” lifted the voice of Rashar. He stepped around the corner, eyes sharp upon Derrile. At his side were his two security guards, Lekk cousins of his.
Derrile swallowed hard and turned to him, eyes wide with sincerity. Thus, he was unable to hide the nervousness stirring inside, despite his firm composure.
“I like you, Derrile,” said Rashar. “You’re reliable, you stay out of trouble. You carry yourself well. But to tell you the truth, you’ve come to resemble a coward.”
“A coward?” said Derrile. Little else could have been more insulting aboard a rogue ship. Rashar was obviously testing him. Sara smiled at him with personal amusement, uncaring of how his response might affect him.
“You heard me,” said Rashar. “Whenever there’s a brawl, you move aside. A political conflict, you sneak away. The only time you showed any brass was when I promoted Sara to chief technical officer. And yet, even then you held back the full extent of your temper.”
Derrile could feel his bright red K’tarra blood gushing to his head. “If I had said, what I really thought,” said Derrile with a twisting sneer, “you might have killed me.”
Rashar smiled. “You misjudge my temper, Derrile. I only use it when it serves my interests. Killing a fine officer for offending me isn’t my style. If you had challenged me out in front of the other crewmen, well, perhaps I would have been forced to make an example of you. But kill you, no. You worry too much, Derrile. That’s your problem: you’re a crepehanger.”
“Maybe I am!” said Derrile. “So what? I do good work. I’ve always been loyal to you, Rashar. And if it came down to it, I’d stand at your side.”
“Even if it meant your death?” asked Rashar. “Are you sure you wouldn’t just back away like you always do?”
“I’m no fool,” said Derrile. “I think everyone knew this day would come—that you’d replace Ramis.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” said Rashar. “And there are no guarantees. He is the captain and his clout aboard this ship far exceeds my own. Fortunately for me, Ramis has made a fatal flaw in bringing these Alliance officers onboard. People are talking all over the ship, questioning his reasoning: ‘has he finally lost it? Is he going senile? Has he sided with the Alliance?’ This critical mistake will cost him his command, even his life.”
“It will come to that,” said Sara to Rashar. “You know what he’s like: proud, fearless. He welcomes death.”
“Like one of my own people,” said Rashar. “That’s why I respect the man. But we all know he’s getting too old, starting to make hasty decisions. He’s losing faith in his crew to handle our own ship. Once a leader loses faith in his men, his men lose their faith in him. The fool’s sealed his own fate.”
“When do we strike?” asked Derrile, swallowing hard.
“I’ll deal with Ramis,” he said. “Your role will be to distract your cousin, Breema. I don’t want her interfering, and it will keep her safe. After that, it’s simply a matter of sorting out his followers. The most loyal among them will have to leave this ship, one way or another.”
“Understood,” said Derrile.
Rashar smiled, slapping him hard on the shoulder. The size of the man, coupled with his brute strength, was nothing that Derrile ever wanted to stand against—even with a laser gun on his belt. “I’m glad I can count on you,” said Rashar. “Now, go to Breema. I don’t care how you distract her, just keep her talking.”
“She’ll suspect something,” said Derrile.
“Of course she will,” said Rashar. “She’s an empath. Just use your persuasion to keep her confused, as long as you can. Besides, she’s loyal to you. I doubt she’d turn on you for Ramis.”
“Because he’d be forced to kill me as a traitor,” said Derrile. He could feel his shoulder muscles tensing.
Rashar placed his powerful Lekk hands on Derrile’s arms and stared intensely into his eyes. “I can count on you for this, can’t I, Derrile? Prove your loyalty to me and it will be repaid, you have my word on that.”
Derrile nodded dizzily. In truth, he cared not who ran the ship when his life was on the line. All he wanted was some recognition and a share in the fortune, lest he got himself killed in the process. ...
"
"
This ain’t the Old West you remember. Truth is stranger than fiction, it’s messier. Here, men live and die by their wits and
hardened hearts. You’d come here lookin’ for honest riches. Time it was done with you, you were a broken man who kept his head down and valued the comfort of a meager living. Or you became part of the great storm of it: a titan, a gladiator of the pistol. The storm would bend you whichever way you could bend. It broke you and made you into somethin’ you never wanted to see. This storm was bigger than the giants who rode it through. If anyone ever fought to change it, well, guess that’s how legends are made.
<>
Pa’s hands grasped thick rope reins. These were a strong farmer’s hands, rough and powerful. They were strong enough to handle the heaviest livestock you might find on a ranch. Two brown horses pulled our covered mud wagon in wild fury for Pella, Iowa. We rode in the dark of a cloudy day, under an endless heavy downpour through forest trail. Pa was exhausted. His eyes were dark and heavy. He beat his fatigue with the unbreakable will of hardened steel.
Five-year-old me slouched into the driver’s box, sitting beside him. I felt sorry for his having missed two nights’ sleep. It seemed an opportunity to prove myself a hero in the family. Pa’s hard eyes broadened a hair from their forward-focused squint, as to glare down at me through his thick blonde beard. But without looking at me, Pa knew in an instant which son it was and what I was up to. Likewise, I knew before asking what his thoughts were. “Wyatt, get back there,” he grumbled in a deep, gruff, solemn tone.
I looked up at him, refusing to squint as hard beads of rain pelted over my face. “You got no rest,” I said. “I can take over for a while.”
“You? Don’t be stupid—get back under cover! All we need is two sick kids.”
I looked about the darkened woods of northern Illinois. “Anywhere nearby a doctor might be?”
“Look like it to you?”
Pa wasn’t shouting at me to get back into the wagon. I perceived this as a sign of mild approval. Maybe he wanted me to take the reins. “I can do it, honest!” My excitement was in part motivated by my fear of what he might do if I irked him, or if I should fail to manage these strong horses down a rocky, mucky path. But only with confidence could I convince anyone of anything, being that I was so young. “What good are you if you get sick?”
“Get yer ass back there ‘fore I throw you in!” His fisted right hand budged toward me. Pa was scary when he got mad. We all knew not to push him on anything once his mind was made up.
I left the seat straight away, crawling back under full cover of storm-beaten canvas. The mud wagon was full of folded clothes, stored goods and old furniture. My family sat in a near-half-circle, facing each other. It was dead quiet. The only sounds were the rain beating on the canvas above our heads, the trotting of horse hooves and the grinding of wheels over dirt, pools and rocks.
Newton was my oldest sibling and half-brother, a young man by now. He sat on folded blankets beside two oil lamps. On a bench beside him sat my next-oldest brother James, next-next-oldest brother Virgil and younger brother Morgan.
Ma sat on a folded rug, tending to my sister. Martha was three years older than me. She lay on the floor by lamplight. Blankets were wrapped around her. Ma rubbed a wet cloth over her forehead. “Oh, Wyatt,” Ma remarked with a gentle shake of her head. “You should not bother your father. He has to concentrate. I know you meant well.”
I crawled over to look upon Martha to show her a brave smile. To inspire strength in her. Martha’s eyes were closed. Her breath was faint and she had the wheeze of an old hag. Her face looked pale. The way she lay—her head tilted to one side, as if she’d fallen loosely into that position—made her look frail.
“Don’t bother Martha, Wyatt,” Virgil said. He always knew what Ma and Pa wanted and expected it of me. I loved Virgil, of course, but it irked me when he got uppity.
“I’m not bothering her,” I said with a gentle voice and expressive sneer at Virgil. “Am I, Martha?”
“She’s too weak to answer,” Virgil stated as-a-matter-of-factly.
James looked between Virgil and me with gentle concern. He never liked to see us feuding. “She’ll be fine,” James assured me with a warm smile. James was never one to fret over such things, or to ever get worked up and argumentative. His philosophy was to remain optimistic on all things, never fearing the worst. Unlike Newton, who’d been something of a rebel in his younger years, James had learned to get his way with a cheery smile and some honeyed words. I always admired him for that. It made him seem slick and more refined.
“Of course she will,” Ma said, half speaking to Martha. “Just need to keep her warm. We’ll sweat it out of her. That’s how I beat the devil, more than once.”
“Wonder how much longer it is to Pella?” James inquired.
“Two days,” Newton replied. He sat still and stoic.
“We’re moving like the wind,” James pointed out. “Pa will probably have us there in half the time.” Pa had led us far ahead of the convoy we’d started out with. It seemed we were moving at incredible speed.
“Two days,” Newton repeated.
“Well, then,” Ma said, tidying Martha’s greasy gold hair, “we’ll just keep Martha warm and dry. Keep her spirits up. We’ll sing some songs, tell some stories. She’ll be fine.”
“Hear that, Martha?” I said in my sweetest voice. “You gotta keep your spirits high.” Martha turned her head with some effort. Her blue eyes opened narrowly to look upon me. “I knew you could hear me. We’re all here for you. I’ll be right here with you.” Martha didn’t smile. She was too weak. “You’re not gonna leave us for a long time, are you? We’d all be lost without you.” Martha’s dark eyes seemed to grin a little. But they fell weak and closed again.
"
Excerpt From Scribe :
" Here begins a new journal. Perhaps the last journal ever written by Rhodenian hand. My name is Elindres. Rhodekind has finally come to its end, as long prophesized. It still seems like I am caught inside some unimaginable nightmare, and will soon awaken, relieved to see our society alive and strong. But, this is no dream.
It just doesn’t feel entirely real, you understand. Three weeks now it’s been since that final day—the day when time as measured by rhodekind was eternally severed. I cannot describe the feeling. To all your life be a part of a greater whole which is suddenly no more. It seems akin to removing a newborn from a mother’s womb, and keeping it from her reach, perhaps. No, this is far worse. This is stark isolation amidst complete desolation. That and endless exhaustion. I just can’t sleep. Can’t rest. Can’t recharge. I am unsure if I have undertaken melancholia or have become ill. Has the great evil which devoured our kind cursed me to live on here alone, and to die of despair?
But I haven’t died. I eat. I breathe. I think. I walk. I’ve walked the many halls of this massive castle until my feet ached, nearly blistering. I’ve sat down just now to rest. Strange that I am so tired all the time while feeling so calm. There are no assignments waiting my pen. No deadlines to turn in my research. No one to answer to. Not anymore.
Not that I am entirely alone. There is me, my former master, and but a handful of scribes and servants—some in fair health, others not. Then there are—or I should say were—those who left. I suppose you are wondering of what assignments I speak of, and what a scribe even is. If you are of a race that can read the common tongue, or are a future scholar who has translated this text, then you are following this but are no doubt ignorant as of yet as to the purpose of this castle you find yourself in. Of what we did here. Why it mattered. I will attempt to explain this as briefly as possible so that you may follow my account of what transpired here three weeks ago. ...
"
Excerpt From Jimmy's Fat Flamingo :
" Jimmy snacked on rich appetizers while Uncle Lowell prattled on about politics, business and wealth management. He referred to a lot of secret clubs, swinging, illegal parties and something about human ritual sacrifice, but Jimmy wasn’t really paying attention. The more he learned about the state of the world the more it disgusted him. Something deep inside could never accept the corruption and injustice. Jimmy yearned for a better world, a fairer world. He mulled it over in his head but he could never resolve the problems of humanity. If only he could rip out the serpent infecting humankind and cut off its head. If only it were that simple.
He took some glances at the tables around him. These people were less burdened than most, fortunate beyond measure, yet they could still moan and groan about petty things, blissfully ignorant to the reality of most people’s lives—lives of sacrifice, struggling and despair. These were as heartless and soul-less people, like his Uncle Lowell. Every one of them, young and old, talkative or silent, beautiful or ugly. Only, Jimmy’s troubled mind had stopped troubling him. It was suddenly very quiet and peaceful. He found himself staring at a beautiful young woman, enchanted in a way he’d never been before, without even knowing her at all.
The beautiful young woman who’d stopped his heart was Jessica Hale, he soon learned by the chitchat at her table. She was dining with two friends, yet she was brutally alone. She smiled and nodded, but her eyes—those stunning blue hazel eyes were so deep, exposing a saddened and yearning soul which touched his own. She had long blonde hair, somewhat curled, neatly stylized, yet at the same time it flowed rather naturally down her back. She was a slender girl, but not thin like a rake. She had the right kind of curves. Her skin looked so tender and soft. Her manner was feminine and discrete. She was a proud lady, yet not artificial and spoiled like the others. No, she had a soul, bare for all to see.
But so sad, so terribly, terribly sad. It did not suit her. She looked like a princess who should be gleaming, and Jimmy felt he was the man to do it.
Uncle Lowell was still muttering away. Jimmy was mostly looking at him still, although blankly. Uncle Lowell seemed more passionate about educating him now, his eyes sharpened and voice almost human. It seemed that he had mistaken Jimmy’s distracted attention for deep contemplation on his words. He should have known better.
The lady of all his future dreams, Jessica Hale, excused herself from her table and left to powder her nose. Jimmy often wondered why women did so much powdering, so much so that they often excused themselves while dining out once or twice, or even multiple times, to re-powder their already powdered faces. As much as he examined Jessica Hale’s gorgeous face—through countless subtle glances—he could not understand how more powder could possibly improve anything. She was perfect, absolutely perfect in every way.
After she’d left the room Jimmy felt a sudden urge to follow after her. He needed a chance to meet her, away from Uncle Lowell, away from her yakking friends, away from the space between their tables. Jimmy excused himself and dashed away, leaving Uncle Lowell hushed mid-sentence, frozen with a stunned expression on his face.
He ran past the gold curtain, his elbow striking the arm of the formal bouncer. The man was so strong and Jimmy had charged ahead with such speed that his elbow was fetched by the powerful arm like it was a steel shaft. In an instant too sudden and too brief to react to, his feet were flipped up into the air and he landed onto his back with a huff. His breath was partially knocked out of him. The large bouncer gazed down at Jimmy, eyes wide in horror. Jimmy lifted his head. He caught a glimpse of the future Mrs. Jimmy Miller turning a corner. Her black high heels clicked away as she went: clok, clok, clok.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” apologized the fashionable oaf, lending a hand and hoisting Jimmy to his feet. Jimmy dusted himself off, straining to get his normal breath back. “Are you injured, sir?”
“Fine,” forced Jimmy. Talking was not easy at the moment. “All you did was stand. I did wrong. This never happened.”
“Not a word,” promised the worried bouncer, nodding.
Jimmy nodded and hurried on, after his enchantress. Only, his back felt rather sore, and breathing seemed to hurt a bit as well. His hair was even messier than usual. He was perspiring too much. His clothes were becoming disorderly, dirty, through the happenstances of this unusual morning. He walked at a comfortable speed. There was a slight stagger to his step, as if his body wanted to give up and collapse onto the floor. Jimmy pushed on, following the clok, clok, clok down a short hallway which opened to the restroom doors. He reached the door just s it closed. He stopped still, unsure of what to do next. There was a final clok, clok, clok, and then silence. She was now able to powder her nose, again.
What am I doing? thought Jimmy. Just wait out here like some creep? Krathead!
He seemed to do well with the girls so long as they made the first move. It seemed that every time he tried to meet a girl he’d goof it up and terrify the poor thing. Uncle Lowell had long advised Jimmy that his instincts were terrible and were best ignored, as they’d always lead him to misfortune. But Jimmy was a man of action, not inaction. It wasn’t in his nature to shy away from danger. No, he was the kind of man who faced things head on.
Suddenly, the door opened, and a gorgeous blonde in a white dress stepped out. Jimmy took a sharp breath and forced himself to face her and make his move. He had no plan and relied solely on his instincts. As she did not expect someone to approach her, she nearly walked straight into him. She stopped, their faces just inches apart, her eyes widening in alarm—too scared to react just yet. Jimmy opened his mouth and began speaking robotically, as to force himself through the task despite his nervousness. As he did, he realized this was not the same lady he had been following after. No, this one had pretty but normal eyes—not those deep ones that gazed out from the mystical depths of her soul. He also recalled that Jessica had been wearing a black dress, not white.
“I’m Jimmy Miller—I live at 108 Dank Street, apartment 2—I’m available for a date at your convenience.” While gazing into the woman’s wide eyes, he cringed. Not only had Jimmy embarrassed himself for no reason, but his pitch had come out like a formal resume. Jimmy was now frozen stiff. He wanted to speak, to explain and apologize to the poor girl, but his lips would not budge, nor would his eyes.
What is this, a seizure? he contemplated.
The young lady smirked tightly, her eyes narrowing behind him. She walked around him and left without a word. Clok, clok, clok went her heels, a bit cruder and less delicate that Jessica’s steps.
Jimmy shook his head, forcing himself to laugh softly at himself. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” he thought aloud.
“Excuse me,” said a man who’d come up behind him quietly. The tall fellow smirked to himself. He seemed amused to have caught Jimmy consoling himself after being turned down so coldly.
This was the icing on the cake. Jimmy lowered his head, squinting. Sucks to be you, Jimmy Miller. So sucks to be you.
Suddenly, the women’s restroom door reopened and none other but Jessica Hale stepped out, soon upon Jimmy. His eyes, low, raised up to hers. He was looking at her apologetically, prepared to explain himself, apologize and leave with what little dignity he had left. Her deep, enchanting eyes seemed to peer into his very soul, but he was prepared to accept that the greatest treasure he’d ever found was, alas, too good for him.
But before his lips opened, she looked him up and down approached him closer with an awkward but friendly smile. “Excuse me, are you the janitor? I hate to tell you this, but someone peed all over the women’s bathroom floor. It’s disgusting.” Her voice, like the rest of her, was enchanting. Jimmy felt himself melting, play putty in her hands. She could squeeze him any which way she wanted.
“Oh, I see,” said Jimmy with a defeatist tone. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you.” She started to walk away but stopped, stepping back to face him with a speculative expression. “You are the janitor, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. But, I will get him on it.”
“Oh. Alright then.” Again she started to walk away, but stepped back to face him with a somewhat tenser, mistrustful expression. “I notice you’re still here, just sort of, standing here.” Jimmy lowered his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. Bad day?” She seemed so sweet, actually concerned for a stranger’s well-being.
He felt himself falling—an actual feeling of freefalling from the sky, hopeless and helpless, unable to stop it from happening. It had never occurred to him before that ‘falling in love’ could be so literal of a sensation. “There was this lady that I was falling for, so fast, so hard. But I think she’s meant for someone else.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s happened to all of us. You’ll know the right one when she comes along.”
“Will you? How?”
Jessica smiled sharply yet dreamily. “You just know. There’s a spark, it’s magic.”
Jimmy found himself gazing helplessly into her dreamy eyes. Her words were like brilliant, sensual hands, caressing his heart—metaphorically speaking, that is. Powerless and happy to be, Jimmy let his words out naturally without thinking: “I love you. You, Jessica Hale. It’s you I’ve been longing for.”
Jessica’s face softened like putty, and from putty it reformed into a hard, tensely browed grimace. “What? Who the hell are you?” She stepped back, pointing at him. “I don’t know you.”
“Jimmy Miller. I’ve been dining with my uncle and I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are. I had to ask you out on a date.”
“But, you didn’t. You just told me that you’re in love with me. And before that you pretended to be a janitor.”
“No, I didn’t pretend...” Jimmy’s face contorted with frustration, fighting through an inability to explain himself. He knew was in the right, he just didn’t understand how.
“Stay away from me. I never want to see you again, do you understand?” She walked away, her heels going clok, clock, clok!
Jimmy saw the greatest opportunity of his life—a chance at true love and spiritual fulfillment—speeding away from him. “No,” he said aloud and ran after her. He scurried around her and stopped before her. “Please, just hear me out!” he begged her.
“I said, stay away!” Jessica reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of pepper spray, aiming it at him. Although obviously afraid of him, her hand wasn’t shaking all that much. She could spray it accurately into his eye sockets if she wanted to. Jimmy couldn’t help but be impressed.
Things weren’t going the way Jimmy had wanted. For the kazillionth time he’d startled a potential girlfriend. Jimmy was becoming concerned by the pattern. It was like some sort of love curse, dooming him to failure every time. Everyone he knew assured him that he was a sweet guy, a real catch. If only the women could see it that way. “I would never do you any harm,” he assured her, lifting his arms passively. “I only want to ask you out for a date.”
Jessica backed away another step, both hands clenching tight onto the pepper spray. “So, you really are just some goofy idiot?”
Jimmy contemplated his reply for his odd question. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded with a smile.
“Okay.” Jessica eased and shoved the pepper spray back into her purse.
“Okay, for a date?” Jimmy smiled widely, hopeful.
“Banger, no.” Jessica smiled, humoured by the suggestion.
This was not what Jimmy wanted to hear, but he felt he had nothing to lose by trying one last stab for true happiness. “Well, could you please tell me, if you would, what do you look for in a guy?”
“I like men, not boys. No offence. If a man can show me that he can handle responsibility and make something of himself, he has my attention. Otherwise, no chance.”
“I see.” Jimmy’s eyes lowered, but not in defeat. He knew how to win her heart, it just wasn’t something he ever would have done for any other purpose in the world.
“I’m sorry, I guess this whole thing was just a crazy misunderstanding. Some advice though: never ask a girl out the second she leaves the bathroom. It’s disrespectful, and kinda weird.” Jessica walked past him. Clok, clok, clok.
Jimmy watched her leave. She was so tall, her posture so straight, her stride so feminine, but not in a slutty way. She was a true class act. “Jessica Hale,” he said aloud. Saying her name and hearing it said made him smile. “Jessica Hale.”
“Excuse me,” said the tall man again, passing him by with the same amused smirk on his face.
“Jessica Hale.”
"
Excerpt From The Under-dwellers:
" I was all ready late when the rain turned to a brutal downpour. My rubber boots scurried down the creaking wooden steps of my apartment building and plunged through the splattering ponds and muck of the drive. My old blue Buick looked cleaner than it had in ages, heavy rain pounding off old layers of dirt at either side.
My black umbrella was caught in a sudden gust of wind and rain, snatching at the polyester and hauling at the slender metal ribs until they bent like cheap plastic. "Fuck!" I said, waving the broken umbrella at the wind as to swat whichever foul spirits cursed me with this wretched weather. I grabbed the rusted silver door handle and quickly took cover inside.
My purple Velcro jacket was drenched, my hair disheveled. I grabbed at the purple clips, pulling them from bunched locks of black hair. I shook my head to let my hair fall loosely at my shoulders. With a bitter groan, I drove down the twisting driveway and into the somber dark of this late afternoon.
I’d just made it onto the street when my cell phone started buzzing in my jacket. "Shit," I said. "What now?" I reached into my deep right pocket, pulled it out and flicked it open. "Hello?"
"Nicole?" It was my boss. I worked part-time as a web designer in an office space uptown. It was a cubical job, but it was creative work and had flexible hours, which was perfect for me.
"Joe!" I said. "I’m driving in a storm here!"
"You haven’t shown up all week," said Joe. "I wasn’t sure if you were feeling sick or..."
"What’re you talking about?" I said. "I finished the Linnar Inc. redesign last week--you approved it!"
"No, plans were changed last Thursday, remember? Cara’s baby came prematurely and so I reassigned the Green Avenue Project to you."
"Shit! I’m sorry, Joe--I’m on my way to rehearsal! I completely forgot!"
"I keep telling you to write these things down," said Joe. "Alright, I’ll get someone else."
"I’m really sorry, Joe!" I said. "It won’t happen again!"
"I think I feel Déjà vu coming on," said Joe. "It’s fine. I’ll call you when something comes up."
"Shit!" I said, shoving the cell phone back into my jacket. It seemed that my life had become a blur of changing schedules and conflicting obligations--a jarring riff-raff in the back of my mind that I was always trying to push aside so that I could get a moment’s peace. Between work, theater and charity at the homeless shelter--not to mention my schedules for dept payments and dealing with collections agency phone calls--it was hard to get any rest. Sleep deprivation only made it easier for me to forget things, and at this point I was immune to benzodiazepine.
The rain came hard, pouring down my windshield like a transparent outer skin. I couldn’t drive fast even if there weren’t any vehicles ahead of me. I could have called the theater to let them know I’d be late, but I was betting that I wasn’t alone. Not in weather like this.
Tall pine trees to either side of the road were bending like rubber. Streetlights were flickering. It was only getting worse.
A cracking sound distracted me from the road. I turned my head as a large pine tree fell over a power line just thirty feet ahead of me. I gasped, applying the breaks with caution.
The car slowed to a gentle stop as vicious sparks spat from a power pole beside me. The power was cut. A few cables held the tree from the road, but it was a scary sight. Its large branches shook in the wind as if they were twigs, the massive trunk bridled from both wind and gravity by these cords alone. I flinched as fat sparks erupted over my car.
Why do these things always happen to me? I thought. I’m cursed--have to be!
A couple cars passed around my car before I found the nerve to hit the accelerator. I watched in the driver’s-side mirror as the sparks fell over the roofs of the vehicles behind me. I couldn’t help but smile at the effect. There was something exciting about electricity, wondrous and even sexy in a perverse sort of way.
I didn’t get far before the rain grew even denser. At this point it was like going through a carwash. I was blinded at all sides. With the streetlights out, all I could see were two yellow lines. And soon, these were fading.
Slowing to a stop, I looked into my mirror in hopes of not getting rammed from behind by some lunatic driver.
Great, my life in all its splendor.
Turning my head aside in disgust, I saw shaking treetops outlined by the sun--or what little of it pierced through the heavy cloud. I remembered being ten years old, running through those woods with my friends in our raincoats. We hopped over ponds and laughed as spills of cool water dropped from branches high above. We were running from creatures that lurked about the caves and other dark places of the forest. But we were protected by our Guardians: they were half man, half bear, and no foul beast--no matter how evil--dared to tangle with them.
I smiled as I reflected upon this simpler and more joyful time. Chris was our leader and my best friend. We were neighbors, even though his family lived in that old mansion on a hill and mine in a renovated trailer. John and Katie lived further down the street. John was the shy artist and Katie the free-spirited rich kid. The four of us together was like mixing fire and propane: good kids who could only keep out of trouble when we were frolicking through the woods. We had that way of breaking each other’s inhibitions without even trying.
Put simply: it was magic.
I gazed upon what little of the treetops I could discern through the waving water when I noticed two tiny red specks glowing in the dark of the woods. But as soon as they had appeared, they vanished. My heart nearly stopped in nervous excitement. I looked closely, but couldn’t see anything now.
Glowing red eyes . Maybe they really did exist. Perhaps I was feeling over-sentimental, but I liked the idea that creatures of the wood--even wicked spirits--still existed: that such things weren’t bound to the past.
Without warning, a sudden WHAM! erupted behind me and my car slid aside, twisting around for the deep ditch below. I gasped, too stunned to react. The tires, still, scraped over the pavement near the ditch until the car came to a stop. My heart beat in my chest as I panted like an Olympic swimmer. Once my senses returned to me, I cried out: "Fuck!" I remained seated, gasping, faced forward in disbelief.
A moment later, knuckles rapped upon my driver’s-side window. I groaned, beside myself with outrage. I lowered the window, eager to see the imbecile who’d be driving in a downpour this bad, until I found myself gazing into the black eyes of a tall stranger in a dark purple raincoat. He looked to be middle-aged, but for his jet black hair and sharp eyes--which bore a familiarity that I couldn’t quite place. The rain eased a little but was still pounding hard off his shoulders.
"I’m sorry about that--it’s my fault entirely!" said the man. "Are you alright?"
"Ah, yeah," I said. "Fine. What did you do to my bumper?" I’d forgotten my raincoat and didn’t care to get drenched.
"Just a dent, far as I can detect," said the man. He reached under his raincoat and pulled out a checkbook. "Here, let me write this up." His arms reached into my car with it. I sat back in my seat, surprised by the sudden intrusion. He filled it out on the steering wheel. "Two thousand ought to cover it." He ripped it off and handed it to me.
"Ah, thanks," I said.
"Best to leave insurance out of it," said the man, tucking the pad under his jacket.
"How do I know it won’t bounce?" I said, raising a brow at him. "I’ve been burned before."
"The name is Nicholas Spidell, the majority shareholder of Spidell Enterprises. Trust me, I’m good for it." I wasn’t familiar with the name, but he didn’t leave me any room to comment: "Say, you look familiar! I know you from somewhere. ..."
"I doubt it," I said. "I’m pretty good with faces."
"But you do remember me, don’t you? Even if just vaguely?"
It seemed a strange concept to remember a person’s character with no visual semblance to it. I’d assumed it to be my imagination, but since he claimed to remember me, I found myself opening to the possibility. "Perhaps..," I said, narrowing my eyes upon his.
"Nicole, right?"
My eyes widened. "Well, yes!"
"I knew it was you!" said the man. "I was just speaking with an old friend of yours--Chris Walker!"
"Chris!" I said. "How is he?"
"That depends. His head is up and his assets are secure, if that’s all you mean. That is what a normal person would mean by such a question--but then, you’re not the typical Jolene Schmolene, are you, Nicole?"
"No, I guess not," I said with a smile. I was always susceptible to flattery, when it seemed sincere. "How do you know Chris--or me, for that matter?"
"We should discuss this indoors, somewhere warm and dry."
"Oh, ah, I’m sorry, Nicholas--"
"Call me Nick."
"Nick," I repeated. I felt something very familiar when I spoke the name, but I ignored it, trying to focus on the task at hand. "I’m late for my theater group. We have rehearsal today."
"Oh, that’s fine," said Nick. "I’ll just tag along! See you there!" He stepped away, into the rain.
I nodded, at a loss for words as I lowered the window. "Okay..," I replied afterwards, as it seemed I had little choice.
The rain had let up enough that the traffic continued. I pulled away from the side of the road to join in. Water swooshed through the air in the erratic winds like a Van Gogh painting. Streetlights were flickering on and off now as if society was fighting back against the storm.
Nick, I thought. Almost familiar. ...
"
Excerpt From Peril:
" Boots pelted like raindrops drizzling over crowded city streets, amidst frantic glistening red tourist shuttles and dazed street guards—who although donned authoritarian uniforms of hard grey leather jackets and face-shielding brown visors, merely looked on at the armed intrusion of their capital city. Hearts beat, mouths panted and bodies sweated. The weak fell behind, while the strong and motivated pushed on. Pedestrians not too swept up in the thick of the morning executive crowd flocking to their business towers froze with stunned expressions. Some were pushed aside with dire thrusts. An old woman collapsed onto a sidewalk, her posh golden gown drenched in a dirty pond on the white cement, with a frightened cry.
Air shuttles shot above, their bodies gleaming in the red sun like sparkling emeralds. The roars of their engines and the screaming of the air around them went unnoticed by Jason O’Connor, whose eyes were wide yet sharp as he ran hard, arms lifting and falling with the movement of his legs, like speedy clockwork. He kept an eye on those who kept up with him or even spurted ahead. It was of no surprise to him to see Swim Doxis in the lead, and Kyrus Lona—a young Terran with short black hair and keen, predator eyes—not far behind her. This was a race for the young.
Scurrying about the crowds were men and women of various races, shapes and sizes, but they all wore the same black uniform of titanium alloy shoulder pads, long trench coats and tall boots. Each held a pistol and fired loud, blue phasium—burning holes through pavement, florescent road signs or through several passersby at a time. Screams lifted only ever behind them, the faces around them forever new to their actions. Jason held a pistol tight in his right hand, but hadn’t fired it yet. He didn’t need more innocent deaths on his conscience. Not by his own hand, at least. Between keeping his team together, fixing his eye on the fleeting enemy and always watchful for an intervention by city police, his mind was rather busy for focussing on a single target anyway.
The distractions were immeasurable. Exotic and upbeat pop music burst from the speakers of a nearby entertainment complex while furious rebel music exploded from a stereo on a sidewalk where a group of young street dancers competed as a crowd of supporters cheered them on. Gigantic holographic advertisements lifted above the sidewalks, speaking about the latest teeth whitening solution, impressionable perfume or horn trimmer. Couples shouted and political groups rallied. A gang of young males with bitter expressions smoked cigar-like rolls of some intoxicating aroma which dizzied Jason’s senses a bit after getting a whiff as he breezed past them. Huzeel was a megacity of over a billion residents, and they were entering one of its most commercial intersections.
Even with all the commotion they left behind them, and bodies, police shuttles zoomed by without noticing. There were simply too many crowds, too many streets, too much fuss. Still, time was of the essence. Swim lifted her klavadier when she had a clear and safe aim of another target and took him out—a radiant blue blast striking into his back but not passing through his body. He fell, dead. Nice and neat. Swim set the standard for the rest, but although they tried hard to, none could match her. She sprang through a crowd of tourists and leapt over a flowerbed, bringing her bladed klavadier down on another. The slash opened his back from the shoulder to the loin, displaying his bones and organs for a moment before collapsing without a gasp.
“Five more at least!” said Jason to his team.
“Haven’t spotted Po yet!” said Swim.
“We need their leader alive if we’re to find him!” said Jason.
“Leave it to me!” Swim told the others, adjusting her weapon to stun while she ran. Her heightened senses, in being a Clairian, aided her in many ways. She could make almost anything look easy, when it came to combat at least. She darted ahead of her team.
Guess she was only holding back before, thought Jason. His chest felt sore, but he pushed on, making full use of his long legs. Screams broke out ahead of him and there were too many people about for him to determine what kind of trouble Swim was getting into. The six remaining officers now followed him, having abandoned hope of catching up to their Clairian superior. Several quick blasts broke through the bodies of multiple people before him, and for a moment time seemed to hold still. Without being able to see his attackers, he felt helpless in protecting himself. The others of his team broke away to take cover, preparing to return fire. Only Kyrus kept up with him.
“We gotta hit ‘em the second we can!” Jason told him.
“Yes sir!” said Kyrus. Few officers would be so formal while in such a chaotic mess, but Kyrus was rather unique. He was only seventeen and yet he was one of Swim’s most promising warriors. One might have thought him a trained soldier at this point, as his skills just kept improving. The second he had the opportunity, he made a shot. A target yelped, falling to his knees. A moment later, Kyrus fired again, ripping through the chest.
Just don’t let me lose him, Jason prayed to the Ancients.
Soon they were past the crowd, which broke apart and staggered for safely. Three remaining attackers were in the clear, firing about those of their team who’d taken to defensive positions nearby and fired back. One of the three was struck in the shoulder and fell to his back. Swim leapt out from behind a building, its wall hollowed out by enemy fire which had forced her behind it, and she shot down a second. The last man standing—the leader—turned his weapon to her but she took him out.
“Come on!” cried Jason to the rest of his team, waving them over.
Swim leapt to his side, striking the injured target with a stun shot. The leader moaned, head tilting to one side, but said nothing. He was a Polo, but not the one they’d sought.
“Get him up!” said Jason to Kyrus. The young warrior did as asked. Jason lifted a small black comlink to his mouth. “Bring the shuttle—we got what we need! How long? Come fast—hurry!”
Now that they were still and the crowds backed away from them, bodies massed about and the injured, moaning, they were an obvious threat to the massive city’s sights. Police shuttles breezed in for them. Officers left the shuttles, dressed in armoured black uniforms, and grouped together behind their vehicles. They lifted pistols, but did not shout orders or open fire. A slow, unpleasant roaring sound drew Jason’s attention above them. A long black air shuttle with various plates along it, which reminded Jason of depictions of ancient Viking sea ships, crept along the mulberry sky not far above them. It was marked with red alien lettering. Most Human races spoke Ashoren, but not all wrote it the same.
“Violators, lower your weapons slowly to the ground and place your arms behind your backs!” spouted a loud, commanding male voice from the black craft. “You are surrounded. There is no escape. We want this to end peacefully, without violence. Cooperate and we will not need to open fire.”
“Perhaps we should,” suggested Swim. “We can’t win a fight with these numbers, and the shuttle should be here any second.”
Jason maintained a cool composure while his brain stormed with a myriad of fears and ideas. He could taste the fear of the strong but shaken officers around him, mirroring his own. “No,” he said. “They could open fire on us when we attempt to escape.”
“We have a hostage,” said Kyrus, nodding his head to the unconscious Polo, limp in his arms.
“We’re not familiar enough with this world to take the chance,” said Jason, his words clear and calm, despite the trembling he felt inside—a spiking panic begging to break his fortitude like a glass wall. “We need the leverage.”
“I am giving you one final warning!” shouted the male voice from the large police craft above them. As it slowed, they saw two lines of blue energy emitters, a dozen to each size. “If you force us to open fire you will be killed. The targeting of this craft is computer-guided and each blast strikes with indiscriminate precision. All of you will die needlessly. I am giving you another opportunity to come out of this alive. Now, slowly drop your weapons and place your hands behind your backs!”
“Jason..,” said Swim.
“Shit,” said Jason. He lowered his weapon with some effort; it went against his instincts. Something inside warned him that if they left themselves vulnerable they were more likely to be shot down than with the chance of taking police with them. It defied logic, yet the sight of the well-armed police shuttle above them was enough to break any warrior’s mettle. A great unease overtook him and he realized that it was triggering something else, deep inside; something he’d long tried to bury.
No, he thought. Push it away. Focus. Need to think.
“Are you sure?” asked one of the more experienced officers. “If we leave ourselves unarmed they’ll move right in on us—”
“I know,” said Jason, lifting his weapon and aiming it at the police positioned behind a shuttle. “Keep your weapons on them, but do nothing!”
“And if that air shuttle opens fire on us?” asked Swim.
“If what they said is true,” said Jason, “we’d all be dead before we had time to react. The question is, how much faith they place in their computer and weapons systems over a split-second tug of a trigger button to take down some of their own. It could happen even after we were killed. We have to hold out.”
“You’ve received your final warning.” The emitters of the hovercraft lit bright blue.
“Sir,” said Kyrus.
“I see it,” said Jason. “Hold your gun to the leader, Kyrus. The rest of you, keep aiming at the police.”
“They will make a move,” said Swim, eyes focused on a far-away and mostly hidden target, as if she could drop him with ease. “The question is, in what form?”
The many policemen around them began to lift into the open, forming a rough circle around them. They began closing in with a very slow stride, pistols and rifles aimed with stiff yet often shaky arms. “Intimidation,” said Jason. “Wise tactic.”
“Any ideas?” asked one of the officers, voice childlike and breaking.
Jason took a deep breath. At this point it was all he could do to keep focussed, eyes avoiding the threatening vessel above. “Hold your ground,” he said. “No matter what. Never lower your weapons. Worst case, I’m guessing, we get stunned.”
“Or not,” remarked another.
“Here they come!” said Kyrus. The Pathfinder, the scout ship of the Shade Marauder—which had rescued Jason and his friends from their crashed landing three months ago—zoomed behind the police shuttle. It was large and spiked, quite a bit more intimidating of a spectacle than the police craft. Many heads lifted to it as its canons lowered and two bright blue phasium beams slammed into the craft. The police shuttle’s shell was breached and its nozzles lost their ignition. Just as it began to fall for them, a green gravitational beam shot at it and the craft was held still in midair. The beam moved it aside with a quick grace, lowering it upon an abandoned stretch of pavement beside a small park. Despite the care of the landing, metal still crashed with a thunderous scream when the beam ceased, shaking the ground under their feet.
Ancients, just get us back alive, prayed Jason. He knew of course, as so few did as of yet, that the Ancients were not the godly beings that everyone had been led to believe for thousands of years. Still, it felt comforting in a moment of crisis to believe that perhaps, somehow, someone might be listening.
The Pathfinder lowered to them, the ramp extending. Jason held his breath, tense.
One of the police officials, held still amidst his officers in a broad, circle formation, lifted a silver otoscope-shaped voice amplifier to his mouth and spoke: “Halt! Attempt to board that ship and we’ll open fire!”
“We have a hostage!” Jason cried back. His nerves finally got the better of him, but at this stage it seemed a wise move to assert their own position. “We have guns aimed back at you, not to mention our craft above you—more than capable of leveling your entire city! Let us go and none of you need die!”
“That is not an option!” hollered back the police official. “Final warning: do not board that vessel or we open fire!” The threat sounded earnest.
“Leave us to your space defences!” said Jason, sneering with annoyance in the man’s lack of logic. Of course, the Shade Marauder could easily outsmart their defences, but it seemed unwise for this man to bet that on the lives of his men. “Unless you lack confidence in their abilities!”
“You’ve been warned,” said the official. He and all the other policemen steadied their weapons at them. They appeared to be about fifty strong, ten armed with rifles, compared to the small band around Jason with pistols only. Not that it mattered, as a quality pistol was more than proficient against body armour, but it still made a formidable impression. Yet, compared to the heavily-armed and rather horrific sight of the Pathfinder lowering above them, it seemed brave to a foolish extent.
“Back to the ramp,” Jason told his officers. A second man helped Kyrus with dragging their unconscious hostage to the ramp. “Keep him for now; he gives us some leverage.”
“Yes sir,” said Kyrus, although the one man appeared frightened by the order to remain still while the others walked to safety up the silver ramp. Jason remained before his men in a protective stance, Swim and another brave officer beside him. The first officer up the ramp was just about to make it onboard when a barrage of blue phasium blasts impacted the ramp and ground around them. Several immediate injuries resulted, some fatal.
A force overtook Jason, his senses knocked away from the reality of what had happened for a moment. He found himself upon his left shoulder, blood gushing over his black clothes. He’d been shot through the right shoulder. The brave officer at his side lay dead with his limbs scattered in a pool of blood around him. The Pathfinder had began firing back the instant the police had opened fire, with multiple short bursts of silent blue laser. Their bodies fell with few gasps, as laser did not impact one’s body with a great force the way that phasium did. It was a neat, clean weapon. A few police escaped lethal shots, dropping their weapons and fleeing. The rest lay dead, scattered about the bloodied cement streets. Screams lifted from masses of pedestrians watching from a distance, all around.
Bad dream. Just a bad dream.
Swim lowered her arms to his. Although she was smaller than Jason, of average height and size for a Human female, her Clairian physique was impressive. She pulled him up the ramp with a quick stride, somehow applying little pressure upon his injured shoulder—not that he could feel much as of yet; no pain, only a feeling of disorientation and even disassociation; it hardly seemed real at this point, and part of him wondered if it was real. ...
"
Excerpt From Sector Storm:
" Derrile was completing his inspection of the regulation sub-system relay realignment. He stood alone in a desolate corridor, the nearest ceiling light flickering while the shimmering red and blue lights of his handheld modular scanner reflected off the intricate workings of the exposed access panel. Most would have preferred to have assistants carry out such a menial task, but Derrile knew how sloppy their work could be. Heading into Raedian space was no small matter and he wanted to be certain the new configurations would hold up under the strain of conflict. He knew not the details of their mission, nor did he care to. Less to worry about and all the better to keep his mind focussed on where it should be.
Being a K’tarra didn’t work against him, but he had little in common with his cousin Breema, whom most everyone onboard had taken to—not only for her good looks but due to her spirit, which was a breath of fresh air for this ship. Many crewmen were intimidated by her however, uncertain just how much of them she could read and might report back to their captain, as she was so gifted in her perceptive abilities, unlike Derrile. His tie to her made him a trustworthy officer, that and his dedication to perfection.
Derrile’s father was a hard man, a Resistance engineer who always got the job done. He never believed that Derrile had the wits to make it at anything in life, and so it had become Derrile’s ambition to prove his father wrong.
“Derrile!” shouted Sara Black, Chief Technical Officer, marching down the corridor like a militant princess. Her superior was her lover, Rashar. Above him was a captain who was rather taken by her himself. Everyone knew that the aging Ramis’ days were numbered and few would have the nerve to challenge Rashar for leadership. He was a great warrior, second-in-command and had many loyal followers. And so, Sara had set herself up pretty well.
“I’m almost done my inspection,” said Derrile, turning away to hide the sensitivity in his eyes. Long had he fancied Sara, as she was an attractive woman and Terrans were highly prized as lovers by K’tarra. Complicating matters further was his professional resentment for her promotion above him simply because she was Rashar’s girl. “Our new chief engineer is keeping his crew under a pretty strict regimen. Their full engine systems check was completed just under their assigned forty-eight hours and excellently—”
“Good to hear it,” said Sara. “Let me ask you, Derrile: where do your loyalties lie?”
Derrile turned to her. “Under yours, of course,” he said.
Sara rolled her eyes. “Don’t patronize me, Derrile! I know you’re fond of me, but I also know you resent me for succeeding you in the ranks.”
Derrile took a deep breath. He did not appreciate being placed in this position. He chose his words carefully. “I was hired by Rashar. I may disagree with his decision to promote you above me, but I respect him.”
“And, speaking hypothetically,” she said, “if there were to be a mutiny, who would you follow?”
“Rashar,” said Derrile, raising his chin. Such questions were not unexpected aboard a rogue ship. Answering could prove detrimental, yet not answering had its own pitfalls. Cautious men would claim to support every contestant. This earned them no real trust from any faction, however it kept one from getting demoted or even death-marked.
“Are you sure?”
Derrile decided to stick with the truth now so Sara could detect no lie in his face. “You know I never got along with Xorn,” he said. “And the captain, his days are numbered.”
Sara smiled. “You’re smarter than I thought,” she said.
“Indeed,” lifted the voice of Rashar. He stepped around the corner, eyes sharp upon Derrile. At his side were his two security guards, Lekk cousins of his.
Derrile swallowed hard and turned to him, eyes wide with sincerity. Thus, he was unable to hide the nervousness stirring inside, despite his firm composure.
“I like you, Derrile,” said Rashar. “You’re reliable, you stay out of trouble. You carry yourself well. But to tell you the truth, you’ve come to resemble a coward.”
“A coward?” said Derrile. Little else could have been more insulting aboard a rogue ship. Rashar was obviously testing him. Sara smiled at him with personal amusement, uncaring of how his response might affect him.
“You heard me,” said Rashar. “Whenever there’s a brawl, you move aside. A political conflict, you sneak away. The only time you showed any brass was when I promoted Sara to chief technical officer. And yet, even then you held back the full extent of your temper.”
Derrile could feel his bright red K’tarra blood gushing to his head. “If I had said, what I really thought,” said Derrile with a twisting sneer, “you might have killed me.”
Rashar smiled. “You misjudge my temper, Derrile. I only use it when it serves my interests. Killing a fine officer for offending me isn’t my style. If you had challenged me out in front of the other crewmen, well, perhaps I would have been forced to make an example of you. But kill you, no. You worry too much, Derrile. That’s your problem: you’re a crepehanger.”
“Maybe I am!” said Derrile. “So what? I do good work. I’ve always been loyal to you, Rashar. And if it came down to it, I’d stand at your side.”
“Even if it meant your death?” asked Rashar. “Are you sure you wouldn’t just back away like you always do?”
“I’m no fool,” said Derrile. “I think everyone knew this day would come—that you’d replace Ramis.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” said Rashar. “And there are no guarantees. He is the captain and his clout aboard this ship far exceeds my own. Fortunately for me, Ramis has made a fatal flaw in bringing these Alliance officers onboard. People are talking all over the ship, questioning his reasoning: ‘has he finally lost it? Is he going senile? Has he sided with the Alliance?’ This critical mistake will cost him his command, even his life.”
“It will come to that,” said Sara to Rashar. “You know what he’s like: proud, fearless. He welcomes death.”
“Like one of my own people,” said Rashar. “That’s why I respect the man. But we all know he’s getting too old, starting to make hasty decisions. He’s losing faith in his crew to handle our own ship. Once a leader loses faith in his men, his men lose their faith in him. The fool’s sealed his own fate.”
“When do we strike?” asked Derrile, swallowing hard.
“I’ll deal with Ramis,” he said. “Your role will be to distract your cousin, Breema. I don’t want her interfering, and it will keep her safe. After that, it’s simply a matter of sorting out his followers. The most loyal among them will have to leave this ship, one way or another.”
“Understood,” said Derrile.
Rashar smiled, slapping him hard on the shoulder. The size of the man, coupled with his brute strength, was nothing that Derrile ever wanted to stand against—even with a laser gun on his belt. “I’m glad I can count on you,” said Rashar. “Now, go to Breema. I don’t care how you distract her, just keep her talking.”
“She’ll suspect something,” said Derrile.
“Of course she will,” said Rashar. “She’s an empath. Just use your persuasion to keep her confused, as long as you can. Besides, she’s loyal to you. I doubt she’d turn on you for Ramis.”
“Because he’d be forced to kill me as a traitor,” said Derrile. He could feel his shoulder muscles tensing.
Rashar placed his powerful Lekk hands on Derrile’s arms and stared intensely into his eyes. “I can count on you for this, can’t I, Derrile? Prove your loyalty to me and it will be repaid, you have my word on that.”
Derrile nodded dizzily. In truth, he cared not who ran the ship when his life was on the line. All he wanted was some recognition and a share in the fortune, lest he got himself killed in the process. ...
"
