Hub City Blues

Cryptic (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 2, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Clifford Engram, Short Story. Tagged: aliens, Clifford Engram, conspiracy, cryptids, government, Guild of the Sigil, Illuminati, Investigator, magic, mediums, New Age Pulp, Paranormal, psychics, pulp, style, ufos. 5 Comments

“The dead do not hurt you; only the living do.”
― Tess Gerritsen, The Sinner

No disrespect to Ms. Tess Gerritsen, but she isn’t in my line of work. You see, I investigate the strange, the unusual, and the impossible.

For example: the dead are quite capable of putting a beating on a fellow with the right motivations and incentives. Let’s say you’re dead and a guy promises he can bring you back to life. By guy, I mean necromancer and by dead, I mean recently killed, less than four or five hours. He says it’s going to take a little time and he starts off by making you his undead thrall. In an effort to escape that state you work for him, taking care of nosy interlopers.

Like me.

Being a necromancer and more than a little dishonest, he neglects to tell you that he won’t be able to bring you back to life and after a few weeks as an undead minion, you sort of forget you wanted to be a real boy again. Being dishonest, he won’t remind you, either.

You remember he is in charge and there is a reason you listen to him but you can’t remember and end up doing what he wants because its all you can remember to do in your brain-decayed state. So yes, the living can hurt you. But the dead can do a pretty bang up job, too.

Speaking of crazed necromancers with no moral compunctions about raising the dead for just about any reason, my host is about to start ranting in three, two, one…

“Mr. Engram, I am happy to find you made your way down to see us. I am sorry about your accommodations. So difficult to get mausoleums really free of that stench of death of which you are far too familiar with, I’m sure.”

I hate being underground. The fact that so much of my work takes me there makes me question my occupation, regularly. Now let’s add the mysterious theatrical nature of my enemy, the pinching of my new shoes and kneeling in my freshly purchased suit and you have a cocktail for really pissed off public servant.

I make my living debunking supernatural events, mediums, psychics, and charlatans. But the irony doesn’t end there, because most of the time what I investigate is just someone trying to get over on the ignorance of their fellow man. Sometimes, and more often of late, there is an event that cannot simply be explained away as swamp gas, late night pizza, or an overdose of medication. I know magical things happen and most magic is at best, dangerous in the wrong hands. I have never known anyone who had the right hands. Anytime I’ve seen magic and its real, its influence is always corrupting, its purpose nefarious, and its results deadly to the innocents in the crosshairs.

“I thought this was a lodge meeting and I was turned around. You know all cemeteries look the same in the dark.” I wasn’t feeling anywhere near as sparkly as I was trying to sound. Mystery voice’s goons worked me over pretty good when they caught me outside. Creepy fellows, too. Never said a word. They gave me a solid beat down. They were strong and fast.

“Come now, Mr. Engram, you know you are exactly where you meant to be. You have been following me for quite some time. Still looking for the Prussian boy, eh? I will save you the time. Yes, I do have him. Kidnapped him right off the street, in fact. Do you know in this time of birth control, population management and two career families, the seventh son of a seventh son is very hard to come by. Bring him to the crypt. All will be revealed, Clifford Ingram. Very soon, indeed.”

I can barely see where we are going, but my cold-handed friends seem quite capable of making their way around. The mausoleum was barely lit with smoky candles and filled with the scent of ceremonial sage. I tried to take a better look at my handlers. The dim light did not fill me with confidence. Their eyes were almost entirely white, their jaws slacked and hair unkempt. They showed dark bruises where I managed to get a few blows in before I was overcome. One fellow’s jaw was clearly broken, and in a position which should have been incredibly painful. He did not seem to be distressed in any way.

I could only assume I was in the hands of the living dead.

The crypt opened into a wide room where nine robed figures stood around two wide stone tables. On one table, lay the Prussian lad I was sent to find, on the other a woman I did not know. Her suit was expensive, her feet were bare, but in torn stockings. Her white blouse had blood on the front of it. The right side of her face was swollen, her eye completely shut and purple. Her hands were bloody, her knuckles raw. She did not go with them quietly. Her chains lay slack and she seemed to be asleep. At any other time, I might have considered her pretty, but right now I held myself away from thinking anything about her. She might not survive the next few minutes.

The boy looked good, no injuries I could see. He also slept. His snore told me he indeed had allergies, probably exacerbated by the coldness and moldiness of this underground lair.

The thing which had my attention after I checked out my client was the arrangement of the room and the object they were all standing around. It might have been a lava lamp in another life, but there was something wrong with the blobs moving around in it. They were too active, too colorful. I felt uneasy as I stared into it. The green glow did not seem even remotely healthy to be near.

“Mr. Engram. May I introduce you to our organization? We are the Guild of the Sigil.” He walked up to me and put his hand on my face. I could not see into his hood, so I only had my impressions to work from. He was a tall man, powerfully built, his robe showed his massive form, barely contained within. The others in the room were equally impressive specimens, making me wonder if I should be spending more time in the gym. These guys must have a hell of a cult-gym membership plan.

He grip my chin, turning my head, his robe was made of a finely crafted linen, with decorations woven, likely in silk, throughout it. I tried to follow the patterns, but it slipped uneasily from my consciousness. These weren’t ordinary clothing. They had spells woven into the fabric, but I couldn’t discern what they were meant to do.

His sleeve slipped out from under the robe showing a fine cufflink and well-tailored jacket. His shoes showed both corresponding wealth and little wear, even at the heel.

He reached into my shirt and pulled out my necklace. That surprised me. Normally no one is able to see it, sense it or even be aware of it. And what that necklace held should surely never be in hands such as his. He pulled it over my head, as if he could sense it’s nigh-indestructible nature.

“It’s everything I expected.” He was looking at the small stone on the chain. He turned away from me as if my purpose had been served and walked back to the lava-lamp of doom. “Don’t worry Mr. Engram, all will be revealed in a moment. Or would you like to tell me what you have already figured out since you got here? You are, after all, what your agency calls an ‘Intuitive’.”

I must admit I was feeling a bit conflicted and despite my lack of struggle, don’t get the impression I was not upset. It just didn’t make sense to use up my strength before I had decided what I was going to do. I was still learning.

“Tell me your name. At least this way I can stop calling you ‘The Mysterious Voice’.”

“My name is Abrams, Walter Abrams. I have no fear telling you, Mr. Engram, because you will serve my every whim before this night is over.” His voice was coiled menace as he stood before his strange orb.

“You might not want to bring my necklace too close to your lava lamp. It might react badly, Mr. Abrams.”

“Do you know what this is?” He held the necklace and stone out moving them slowly toward the orb.

“No, it’s just a family heirloom given to me by my aunt before her passing.” I lied.

“And we were doing so well. You have been so honest up to now. Don’t ruin it. Tell me what you know and we may have room to negotiate.” He turned to one of the other robed figures, “Brother Hawk, I have need of you.”

One of the men stepped forward, his robes covered with hawk images, which appeared and disappeared as he approached the orb. “I live to serve, Brother Obsidian.”

“With this, we are one step closer to bringing the servants of our Dark Master home. Are you prepared to herald his arrival?”

Brother Hawk pulled out a knife something with a small curved blade and lay it across his left hand. With a quick movement, he pulls it across his hand and lay it upon the lava lamp. The lamp began to throb with a deep purple light, in what appeared to be a heart beat-like rhythm. It sped up and Brother Hawks body began to tense as he threw back his hood. His face was twisted in a paroxysm of joy.

Phoenix_DRAGON_Phoenix_by_nachtwulf

I watched as his hair grew long, down his back, first blond, then white. His nails grew both on his hands and bare feet. A beard appeared on his face as it aged, grew wrinkled, his body, once mighty, grew wizened. The orb’s beat grew faster and faster and Hawk’s aging accelerated until in a single gasp he threw himself from the orb and fell to the ground, a cluster of dusty bones, hair and skin, still wearing a very fine robe.

I knew this was going to be one of those days I charged overtime.

Time to get to work.

End of Part I.

Paranormal 2

Onward to Story number 2: Cryptic (Part 2)

30 Cubed – 30 short stories, 30 characters, 30 days

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 1, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30. Tagged: 30 character challenge, 30 cubed, arts, badges, books, contest, ebonstorm, fantasy, fiction, horror, literature, nanowrimo, nashostomo, science fiction, short story, Thaddeus Howze, writing. 1 Comment

For the last couple of years, I have participated in a variety of writing challenges to spur my creativity (and quietly drive my wife to distraction). My favorite three were 30 Short Stories in 30 Days or NaShoStoMo, NaNoWriMo, and the 30 Character Challenge. Since I haven’t seen any announcements (and I have a backlog of stories to complete) I thought I would combine two of my favorites together and get 30 cubed. 30 stories, 30 days, and create 30 new characters in those stories. I am hoping to have other people see my banners and join in for the fun. If you are interested, please let me know and we can collaborate, talk about the process, and share stories.

This contest only has two rules: Any story you write has a minimum of 200 words. Yes, that would be flash fiction, but since it was allowed in the past, we will just run with it. The second challenge is to have 30 stories at the end of the month. Some days will be harder to fill than others and that is okay. This is not meant to stress you, but to challenge your creativity, your willingness to go out on a limb with a story and trust to your ability to create. As far as characters are concerned, you can include a profile (a paragraph will do) at the end of the story discussing the protagonist (or antagonist, if they are more interesting). There is no genre limit but I will be writing science fiction, fantasy and horror as my main genres. You write whatever is moving you, of course.

At the end of the month, if you are able to complete the challenge, we will have some badges for you to put on your site showing your participation in the event. Have fun!

If you are web savvy, you can place one of these markers at the end of your postings. I will make a few other themes when I get a moment.

Day 1: Cryptic (1) – Introducing: Walter Abrams, Cultist Sorcerer

Day 2: Cryptic Part (2) – Introducing: Clifford Engram, Paranormal Investigator

Day 3: House of Oak: Red Star, White Sun (9) – Marcus Darby and the Sherak in White

TRAITS

Setting the fire inside the warehouse seemed like such a good idea at the time.

Paulo 7 hated Master Zie-Mac-Ken. The being was reprehensible. More cruel than the average Cyric, Zie-Mac-Ken took pleasure in abusing every Human he held psychic dominion over.

Humanity once had an empire of fifty beautiful worlds for a thousand years.

The Cyric Columbus found our most distant outpost of two million souls. He mentally dominated the entire planet in secret, alone and in a single year. Their Trait of Domination allowed them to conquer their planet’s other, more numerous, intelligent species, enslave them and reach the stars in a sinister symbiosis. We were no match for them.

Our species Alpha Trait of Adaptability couldn’t trump theirs. It got us to the stars, but in a contest… Individualistic, the Cyric don’t cooperate well. They tended to live alone so it took thirty years for them to conquer the Outer Worlds. Only on the Core Worlds with their dense populations were Humans safe. Two hundred years and the Core hadn’t rescued us.

It’s said, once enslaved, no species ever escaped. Without a choice, we adapted.

Paulo toiled at the Resource Warehouse for twelve years and had been both re-educated and sanctioned by his boss for being difficult. Gene-engineered by one of the Cyric’s other slave species, Paulo was adapted for his life as a laborer on Cyris Prime. He hardly noticed the extra labor.

The Cyric promoted docility using subliminal sonics applied to everyone on the farm, hidden in music, piped everywhere. Its harsher cousin, re-education was used as a punishment.

Re-education bypasses normal barriers of attention and became a painful form of brainwashing. Paulo was often scarred, his mind permanently altered. His father died due to the constant pressure caused by the mental assault. Paulo refused to surrender and paid a terrible price. But Paulo’s resistance revealed a flaw.

The impulse to attack the easily squished and diminutive Cyric masters was overridden with a powerful fear. Psychographs are permanent conditioning able to cause any Human, even the stronger Remaps, to break down into a blob of whimpering flesh. With the Cyric Alpha trait boosting the psychograph Cyric were able to control any number of Humans without effort.

Until the day when Paulo imagined a bonfire with Zie-Mac-Ken in the center of it. He felt no fear; there was no dry mouth, no dread or awe-inspiring terror. It seemed so obvious in hindsight.

As a Remap, every aspect of Paulo’s psychic conditioning was thought accounted for except for aberrant behaviors. The Cyric didn’t have insanity traits, so such weren’t even considered among their slaves. Paulo 7 was more than aberrant. He was a closet pyromaniac. Fearful of the danger, his mother had trained him to keep his fascination hidden.

Cyris was a forest world, rich in organic chemicals, a flammable, pharmacological paradise. Ever vigilant, even in his private moments, he had never considered fire and Zie-Mac-Ken in a single thought, until today. He tried it a few more times. Nothing.

He drew Zie-Mac-Ken’s ire to force him to try to bind him mentally. As long Paulo immersed himself mentally in flame, he was able to move, if only a tiny bit. Then, a little more each day. It took a year until he was ready.

On the last day of harvest, warehouse nearly filled to the ceiling, he sent everyone home early. He took the unbelieving Zie-Mac-Ken to the warehouse floor. It resisted and raged as he tied it to a pallet of Rin-Ba, the most beloved food of the Cyric.

He knew the Cyric had Called out for help. Too late. As the Rin-ba ignited, he left the warehouse. Having turned off the fire suppression systems, Paulo heard the screams as the fire spread. His only regret was he wouldn’t get to watch.

Adaptability, he thought. It’s how we reached the stars. It’s how we’ll take them back. Paulo 7 whistled a jaunty tune all the way home.

Strong Winds Here

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 28, 2013

Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: Celestial Heaven, Di Qui, ebonstorm, Emperor in Jade, kungfu, martial arts, myth, Mythic Qin, rice, Shu Wang Lung, terrace, Thaddeus Howze, WPLongform, wuxia. Leave a comment

a tale of Mythic Qin

The sun rose over Wu Bay province and the rice fields were full and green, terraces overflowing with bounty. Only the encroaching thunderstorm on the opposite horizon spoke of an ominous change by midday.

A farmer sat on a rock, his wide brimmed hat tipped forward blocking the rising sun. His coat was long and thick keeping out most of the morning chill, but its tattered edges spoke of a long relationship with the tiny man beneath its folds.

Wooden clogs cover the bottom of his feet raising them out of the mud on the edge of the road where he sat on a stone looking eastward. He reached into his coat and pulled out a rice ball wrapped in waxed paper. He slowly and methodically unwraps it, as if it were a ritual, performed with reverence, for no one in particular.

He bit the ball of slightly sweetened rice and inhaled its fragrance. It still smelled of the field of its birth, redolent with earthy scents…jasmine high on the hills over the farm, its scent passing through the rice, on its way down into the valley below.

The farmer heard the man approaching long before he saw him.

A giant, whose footfalls, were as thunder on this tiny road, his every step leaving a crater of mud surrounding each foot.

He wore wooden armor, painted lacquer, a fiery red with persimmon flowers, tiny yellow buds, decorated it in bold swirls. His arms and legs were uncovered and showed massive thews flexing powerfully in the morning sun. He wore armored gloves and boots, of a matching blood red, which shimmered with their own sinister light.

He carried three weapons, a short sword, worn at his waist, a long slightly curved sword at his hip and a long, beautiful carved spear in his left hand. The characters on the shaft of the spear, would flicker in the sun, making different words which reflected the mindset of its warrior.

This morning, the word “magnificent” flashed on and off slowly, as its majestic master strode like a god across the earth.

“Good morning, sir.” The old man remained impassive and unmoving beneath his hat.

“Morning. Yep. It is. You look a bit out of place young man. No wars in these provinces for quite some time.”

“I am not here for a war. I am Shu Wang Lung, I am the Fist of the Emperor and legendary dragon master. Surely you’ve heard of me?” The warrior took off his helmet and turned face, left and right showing off his stunning profile.

A final bite of the rice ball is chewed slowly and thoroughly before answering. “Nope. Never heard of you.” The old man opens his wax paper back into a flat disk, before he begins refolding it, his hands flowing easily through the hypnotic pattern until the paper was a fan-like shape, complete with ridges. He then proceeds to fan himself as the morning sun heats up the air. In a few moments he takes off his jacket.

Shu Wang Lung undeterred by the slowness of the old man response, paused meaningfully before replying. “Forgive me, I have been rude. Please tell me your name, father.” He bowed his head and put his helmet under his arm.

“I am Di Qui, traveling farmer, at your service.” He raises his hat and bows with a flourish.

Shu Wang looked at the tiny man and a strange look crossed his face, as if he might not be sure what he heard. “Master Qui, what does a traveling farmer, do?”

“He farms, young warrior. I farm, then I travel.” Di Qui noticed the look on Shu Wang’s face still registered a lack of understanding. “I travel the land teaching and learning farming techniques to communities. For a modest fee, of course.”

“Oh, you’re a charlatan. I passed someone many days ago promising to cure a town of their rat problem, only to leave the rats and steal something more precious. The people were very angry and hired me to return their children. That charlatan received swift justice.”

“They executed him?”

“No, he is now the town rat-catcher. He will be free to leave when the rats are gone. Since his jutsu worked on children, but not rats, they figure it will take him a few years before he will complete his sentence.”

“What brings you to this humble province? I don’t live here so I am unsure of the name. I know it because of the unique pattern in its rice fields. When you grow old, your memory isn’t as reliable as it should be.” Di Qui took off his hat and scratched his head, almost as if he thought he might be able to scrape his way to the memory of the province’s name.

Shu Wang, stood to his full seven feet in height and spoke with a booming voice: “Go to where the tip of the White Spear Mountain, appears on the spring solstice. In the village of Dà Fēng, the Celestials will come seeking an audience with gods.”

“Dà Fēng, yes that’s the name. They say it means Land of Strong Winds. What is that you recited?”

“A Seer gave it to me. He told me it was my destiny to be the next chosen by the Celestial Court. He told me the recent shooting star meant Ovir the warrior had fallen in battle and they would need a new champion. Someone brave, fierce in battle and a proven leader. As the Fist of the Emperor, I have been all of those things.”

Di Qui’s looked at the knight and wondered if he might be just a bit addled. Then he thought about his own reason for being here and thought better of it.

“I was certain there would be others. It isn’t everyday the Seat of the Celestial Heavens descends to find a new god-to-be.” Shu Wang stared up and down the twisted road of Dà Fēng finding not even a sign of habitation in the town.

“They will be out this way shortly, this is their rest day and most will stay in bed for as long as they are able. I always rise to catch the sun. I have a confession to make.”

The armored knight turned away from the road and focused his dark eyes on Di Qui. “I too, am here seeking an audience with the Celestial Heaven.”

“But you’re old. Not just anyone can get a seat in the Celestial Heaven. One of the criteria is you have to have become immortal before you can even be seen. Meaning no disrespect, but you have not aged well. Not at all. Sir.”

Di Qui got up from the bolder he was sitting on and moved his coat to a place a few feet from the jagged spar of rock. “Move that rock.” He pointed at it with his long but strong looking arm.

Shu walked over to the boulder, walked around it for a second and pushed it with his hand. It was about his waist high above ground and three or four feet wide. He pushed the rock from all four sides, one at a time. The ground around the rock wiggled, a bit at first, then on his second pass, he was able to roll the rock up out of the ground and rolled it to the old man. He smiled because he was sure the old man had not expected him to be able to do it.

“Very impressive. You do have the strength of a hundred men. As the legends have said.”

“You said you never heard of me.”

“I did, didn’t I. I was mistaken.”

“What else have you heard, old man.”

“You have the fastest draw in the land, no one’s iajitsu is quicker and more precise than yours. It is said you could cut the wings from a fly and return your sword to its sheath before the fly lands on the floor.”

“Go on.”

Di Qui put his hat back on his head and leans against the rock. “They call you the Twice-Born. You have slain ten thousand men in battle and with the dark power of your spear, when mortally wounded, one of the ten thousand you have slain will die again in your place. You rise from the field of battle, slain, but alive.”

Shu Wang Lung, also put his helmet on his head and his eyes took on a tight squint, only a slight twitch of his hand revealed its lethal intent.

The old man reaches into his coat and pulls out a piece of candied fruit and puts the end in his mouth. “Your greatest feat, and the thing you believe will make you the chosen one is your pact with the essence of metal itself. No weapon forged of steel can harm you. Your defeat of the God of the Forge in a battle of strength and steel forced him to grant you this pact.”

“So, you know who I am. I am sorry for what I am about to do.”

“Before you give me the gory details, let me make myself comfortable and then I will listen intently. I promise.” Di Qui grabs the stone and lifts it into the air over his head. He takes it back to the hole it came out of and returns it, orienting it so that it is completely flat and more comfortable to sit on. The boom as he slams the rock into the hole, echoes off of several of the valley walls. It now only came up to Shu Wang Lung’s knees. Di Qui goes to get his heavy coat and sits back down on the rock. Looking up at Shu Wang Lung he notes the look of horror, and smiles.

“You are the Earthmover. An immortal who wanders the world changing the landscape for farming.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Stronger than ten thousand men. Older than the trees of any forest in Qin. As wise as the Emperor in Jade.”

“That is a subject of much debate. On Earth as it is in the Celestial Heaven.” A voice powerful and rich filled the air before them and a throne surrounded by fierce-looking contingent of men slowly came into view. The man sitting in the throne wore an armor of beautiful dark green jade. His gaze was also a warrior’s gaze, penetrating, like staring into the sun, one resisted the urge to avert one’s eyes. “Only two? I had hoped there would be more.”

“Your entry requirements are a bit much for most to aspire to Oh, Emperor in Jade. I am Di Qui.”

“And I am Shu Wang Lung.”

One did not give a title to the Emperor in Jade, for names and titles meant nothing to him. He was knowledge and wisdom itself. He knew of these men, their gifts and their powers. It was he who sent them here posing as seers in different guises.

“Begging your pardon, Oh Emperor in Jade, how will you be choosing between us? I hope it will not be combat, because it has been a long time since I have held a blade of any kind.”

“I know, Old One, but I have need of a champion. With Ovir gone, our battles grow more perilous and there is a chance we may not beat back the darkness before dawn.”

Both men bowed their head, knowing of the prophecy of the Never-dawning Day.

“Are you saying you cannot fight at all, grandfather? Or that you prefer not to?”

“Are you requesting a demonstration of my fitness?”

“No, no. I saw you move the rock there. Quite impressive and legends speak of your fantastic strength. What if you were needed to protect the Celestial Heavens? Would you be up to the task?” The Emperor in Jade strode forth toward the two of them, his height and weight between both of theirs, but his energy, his aura was otherworldly, he was clearly a thing not of this world.

“Shu Wang Lung, I need you to attack Master Di Qui. I need to see if he would be able to bring a value to the Celestial Heaven.”

“Forgive me, Master Qui.” Shu Wang bowed and stabbed his spear into the ground. There would be no need for this.

The characters on the spear shifted and had begun to change their message. “Overconfident” the characters flickered again in the morning sun. Di Qui reached into his pocket and pulled out his paper fan and put his candied fruit in his other hand. He nodded.

Shu Wang Lung drew his sword, a blur of motion, his underhand cut sweeping through the air where Di Qui stood. His stroke, perfect slices cleanly through the hat of the old man, the separate sides falling to the ground. Di Qui is not there. Before the hat touches the ground, Shu Wang’s sword is again in its sheath.

Eight inches from where Shu Wang Lung struck, the Earthmover stood fanning himself, biting down on his candied fruit stick. Shu Wang’s eyebrow rose but he did not drop his guard, turning slightly to adjust. He struck again, this time focused, two slashes where he thought the crafty master might be standing, just to be sure. The first slash missed and Shu Wang was certain his second would find purchase. Di Qui held out his candied fruit and blocked the blade, holding it at bay. Shu Wang turned the blade trying to slide away from the tiny piece of fruit but the old man flowed with him keeping the blade away by sticking his candy to it. As Shu Wang Lung struck again, the candy seemed to harden and his blow could not land.

“You are very good at dodging and blocking, Master Qui. But a war cannot be won by candied fruit alone.”

“It is very good candied fruit, Emperor of Jade.”

The Emperor in Jade smirked and continued. “Nevertheless, I still require more than sticky fruit to strengthen the Seat of Heaven. Show me.”

Di Qui turned and bowed to Shu Wang Lung. “Please forgive what I am about to do.” Shu smiled and looked at Di Qui as he would a favored uncle and winked. “I understand.”

“No. You don’t”

Shu Wang Lung woke in the bottom of the valley, nearly two miles from where he was standing. The stream he landed in flowed into his mouth and nose and helped him to regain consciousness in about a half an hour. While he napped comfortably, Di Qui and the Emperor in Jade walked down to where he was resting. They woke him when they arrived.

“You left your spear.” Di Qui handed Shu Wang his weapon. The spear was smooth, no character markings adorned its surface. Its silence spoke volumes.

“What happened? How did I get here? How did my armor get so banged up? Why do I feel like I have rolled down a mountain?”

The Emperor and Di Qui didn’t say anything initially, only looked up to the side of the overhanging spear of the legendary White Mountain and at a small gash about a quarter of the way up the mountain. There were several deep depressions at regular intervals leading all the way down to the river and stopping abruptly.

“We have decided that Master Di Qui, will be going with us. Though he is armed with only a candied fruit stick and a paper fan, we have deemed it…sufficient.” The Jade Emperor turned and walked back toward his glowing ethereal throne. “Hurry along, Master Di Qui.”

“I will be there in just a moment your majesty.” The old man helped Shu Wang Lung to his feet lifting him as if he were light as a feather. “I owe you an apology and I would like to make amends if you will let me. You see, I think the Celestial Heaven is in need of me for certain kinds of things. Agriculture is changing and I believe I can do more for the people working here than solely on the ground. So I propose we share the duty.”

“How would we do that?”

“Since you live to fight, and during the winter the nights are long and terrible, the fighting for the dawn to return must be as great as it can be. During those peak months of martial delight, I relinquish my seat in Heaven to you. During the spring and summer, I take up the duty and return to Heaven after spending the fall and winter at the harvest and teaching our fellows the secrets of agriculture. The nights are shorter during the summer and the winds are strong. I imagine I can handle the struggle during the short summer nights.”

“Do you suppose the Emperor will mind?”

“No, I don’t think he particularly cares as long as the help is there when he needs it. In the worst case, I will call you my assistant because I am old and feeble and can’t get around like I used to do a thousand years ago.”

“Only two questions left, Master Qui.” Both men make their way to the portal of the Seat of Heaven.

“What might they be?”

“How did I get this many dents in my armor?”

Di Qui quickly puts his fan back into his jacket. “I told you before this is a land of strong winds. Let’s just say, armor wasn’t meant to protect you from mountains. And the second?”

“This armor was supposed to be indestructible. You can’t just get anyone to repair this, you need a master. Do you suppose the God of the Forge holds a grudge?”

Blood Orange

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 26, 2013

Posted in: Fiction, Short Story. Tagged: blood orange, ebonstorm, Faceless Mage, Fayro, island, Ngato, old salt, pirate, shipwreck, storm, surviving the storm, Thaddeus Howze, WPLongform. Leave a comment

The storm was the worst I’d ever seen. The sea swelled up on all sides, as if the entire ocean had come alive with a taste for man.

After five hours, a smasher, the largest wave, larger than any of us knew was possible, rose up from the port side and flipped the Red Hawk over in the middle of the night.

I was an old salt, experienced with the sea in all of her mercurial natures; I knew I would die out here one day. I always thought it would be at the hands of some bloody Royal in their dapper booties swinging onboard, pistols flaring, my mates screaming an’ cussing a blue streak.

That was the only way for an honest pirate to die. A ball to the chest knocking you to your back. A sword thrust through the gut, the stinking breath of a man in your face happier that it’s you than him, his viscous smile the last thing you see as you head to hell.

That is how I expected to die. It’s how, if there were gods for pirates, not saying there were mind you, but if there were, that’s how pirates pray to die.

What we never want is to be washed overboard in a storm with a good ships gear flying around you. Watched the spar flapping around the deck, as it knocked my mates into the sea, skulls busted open, lines on deck flew through the air, almost as if they were alive tangling barefooted men and dragging them to the Locker, choking, screaming their fury to a uncaring ocean.

No, there was only one thing worst than drowning at sea, the quick rush of water choking off your breath, the red hot burning in your lungs, then blackness. It was surviving your ship going down into that inky darkness.

It was surviving the storm, clinging to what was once your home. To a piece of something that took you places, gave you the opportunity to carve your way into history. Your ship is more than just your home. It becomes a piece of what you are.

Scrubbing its decks, you become intimate with its sounds, creaking, moaning against the sea, you learn to hear the leaks while you sleep, and how to find them whilst you bail out the presence of the sea. Your mistress. Your second love. You are married to your ship. But you are in love with the sea. But like any mistress, she is temperamental and liable to kill your wife if you aren’t paying attention.

When the storm broke two days later, there was almost nothing that would tell me the Hawk and her sixty men had ever existed, excepting me. And the Banarabas would soon take care of that this time of year.

It was hot, hellishly so. And this being summer, I would have my pick of ways to die, since I had the foolish notion to cling to life past my ship sinking and surviving the storm only to bake in the summer sun.

I did have the unhappy alternative of being eaten by yellow fin sharks, which in three or four more days might seem a happy alternative to dying of thirst. I saw a number of them a day after the Hawk went down but the strong currents of the Banarabas pulled me away from the ship.

Having always been slight of build perhaps they decided I was just a bit to skinny to be a good meal worth their time. Now my captain on the other hand, if they could find his rotten crotched ass, and didn’t die from one of his numerous diseases, would have had a grand meal indeed. Only man I know who would seek a healer, only to be told they were only able to cure six of his eight or nine acquired ailments. Quiet as it was kept the Hawk kept on the move to keep his pecker from rottin’ off. A different healer in every port or so it was said.

After the third night, my water was close to running out but I had a bit of hope. Not too much, a pirate learns early to keep expectations low, that way you’re never disappointed. The Great Bear pointed north and if I reckoned the map and the path of the storm, we were in a region peppered with islands capable of keeping a man from starving to death, maybe even with enough trees to try making a raft or canoe. I didn’t have much more than my boatswain knife but I had been shipwrecked with less.

Now, all I had to do was to let the current do its work. I entered into the last race every sailor dreads. A race against death. Would it be the sun, would it be the sharks, or would it be madness, sunstruck, drinking seawater screaming madly into the burning sun until I went blind.

The scrap of wood I was floating with held out for eight days. Then it waterlogged and began to sink. I took off my pantaloons and tied off the ends and blew them up, filling them with air. The nasty fabric was oiled and held the water out turning them into water bouys. I tied them around my waist and floated on my back. I pissed into my second water canteen and choked back that piss on day nine. On day ten, I finished the rest. I kept my eye on the horizon.

I kept turning myself over during the day to protect myself from sunburn. Yes, I was already black as night and my hair was nappy and encrusted with salt but the sun at sea makes no distinctions ’bout color, and will happily burn my teak skin as easily as it would Northerners. By now, one of those blond berserkers would be in hell, skin burning and blistering, and sea water only makes it worst.

I counted my blessings few as they were.

Then I had one more. I could see an island in the distance. At this level in the ocean, it was only about six or eight miles away but the current was pulling me in the opposite direction. I hadn’t had anything to eat decent in days. The last thing I ate was a small yellow shark that decided I might be big enough to test and I happily cut out his eyes and feasted on his sweet flesh. I ate my fill before I let the rest float off. That was six days ago. The others decided to steer clear.

I turned over and began my slow swim against the current. I watched the sun rise and set before I was a mile or less away from the island. As the darkness settled in I focused on the stars and kept swimming. I arrived in the middle of the night with just enough strength to pass out on the shore.

I woke with the rising tide splashing into my mouth. The day was already half gone. It was cloudy and smelled like rain, but it was mostly just the threat of rain, my weather knee confirmed my suspicions as I limped up the beach and put my pants back on. The ground was a rough mix of course sand and sharp seashells. No paradise this. Once I had a chance to look around I realized the only benefit the island was going to offer me was a dry, shark-less place to die.

The shoal around the outer edge of the island was only about a half mile wide, it turned into a sheer cliff face, easily a hundred feet tall in some places, a bit more in others. I couldn’t tell what was on top of the cliff but I could see roots and vines stretching over the side and even a few trees growing out of the cliff face.

Circling the island a few times, I realized I was going to have to climb up one of these sheer cliffs. It wasn’t as if I had many choices. What little strength I had left would desert me soon. I wasn’t a spring chicken but I had grown accustomed to living and not prepared to just lie back and die just yet.

On my next circle of the island, I sought any sign of water flowing down from the top of the cliff. If there were roots, trees, maybe there was a freshwater spring. It wasn’t uncommon on islands like these. One side of the island had more roots and vines running down the face of it. I decided there might be water underneath that cover and it might make the climb a bit easier as well.

I rested during the night underneath the section of the cliff I was to climb that morning. As I woke, in the early morning, droplets of water fell from the vines above me. First a trickle then a stream. I drank that stream until it dried up. As it tapered off it continued to dribble down the wall. I licked water from the rocks until it dried. My blistered lips never tasted anything as sweet.

I dreamed of home. I hadn’t thought about Lindon for at a score of years. My daughter’s likely full grown and wouldn’t have good words for her baba even if she knew where I was. We didn’t get along. She was always telling me I was too old to be out raiding the king’s ships. She was just like her mother, inclined to give me her opinion of everything whether I wanted it or not. My second wife was also of that nature, so she and my daughter got along well.

When she married I came to her wedding and got no love for the visit. My being drunk probably didn’t endear me to her husband and the brawl that broke out when my mates had a bit to drink did cut her festivities short.

No more time. These old bones have to climb now or not at all. I see her face before me as I start climbing. I promise I will come to see her if I get out of here. Now all I have time for is making my way up the cliff. The rock face has plenty of handholds. The early climb is easy enough for a half-starved old man to manage.

The sun is on the far side of the island for the first half of the day. I don’t see it’s light until the early afternoon. Once it crests the edge of the rock face it was as if a club had struck me full on in the face. My skin burned anew, having grown accustomed to the shade and my arms and legs weakened. I struggled to hold my position.

Sweat beaded up on my brow in the first few moments. The weakness went all the way through me, and for a moment, I entertained letting it take me. But the habit of living went through me again. I kept going. But I was slower, more deliberate. I was dreaming while I climbed.

“Ngato, we aren’t supposed to be here on the pier.” I was terrified. Ngato just smiled his toothless grin and plunged ahead.

“Hurry up, Fayro, there are blood oranges at the end of this journey, remember?” His energy and enthusiasm were contagious and was swept up in the moment when I remembered how delicious blood oranges were.

The pier was crowded with travelers from all over the Twenty Kingdoms and each more fantastic than the one before. We saw the legendary Faceless Mages, who wore burkas to hide their entire bodies except for their golden glowing eyes. They were reputed to be so hideous, to see them without their masks was to die, one’s blood turned to ice in your very veins. As I ran by them, one looked at me and met my eyes. I could not look away, I remember that stare, a look so deep, for a moment, my short life passed before my eyes. I stood there transfixed.

This moment of inattention probably saved my life. Ngato had run ahead and as he was going to the trade ship, T’nipr, a draft horse was spooked and broke away from his handlers and ran up the pier knocking people and products in every direction. Ngato was one of those things taking flight.

I saw what was about to happen and I rushed to try to save my friend. As I tried to run to him, the Faceless Mage reached out and grabbed my arm. His grip was steel; squirm as I might, and I was used to escaping adults, I could not break free. I watched as Ngato fell over the side of the pier between the great Royal ship Nekinesser. The Royal Marines turned to look but did nothing to help him.

His screams, as he was crushed against the pier wall and the hull of the Nekinesser haunts me still. The Faceless Mage released me but put his hand on my shoulder.

“Can you help him?” I pleaded with the enigmatic mage.

“No, little one, where your friend goes, none may follow. But know he feels no pain now. Weep no longer.” The mage reached down and touched my forehead. He looked off into the distance.

“You will know a life of hardship. Of suffering. Long voyages filled with adventure, the hatred of men and the love of women. You will outlive all of those things. You will find yourself lost and without hope. On that day you will remember me and my gift to you. What you lost will be found.”

We walked to the edge of the pier as the Royal Marines brought Ngato’s body to the top of the pier. The Faceless Mage stood there with me at his side and no one paid us any never mind at all. The Marines waited until the body could be recovered and taken away.

I went to them to thank them for their gentle treatment of my friend. “Excuse me, sir. I am Fayro bin Anyro and I wanted to thank you for recovering my friend for a proper burial.”

“Didn’t do it fer you, lad. Twer up to me, he would rot there he would’ve. The boatswain didn’t want yer friend attracting damned birds, shittin’ all over our cargo. Now move along before I has to get nasty.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. No respect for the dead. I spit on his boots and turned away. I heard the ring of steel slipping from its sheath. I waited expecting to be struck down.

“Don’t.” the whispered voice of the Faceless Mage wafted over my shoulder and landed on the Royal Marine and his sword froze midstroke. I glanced over my shoulder as the Faceless Mage approached the man.

“He will out-live you by thirty years from this moment. Fate has already decreed this, I have spoken his doom, would you interfere with this?”

“No.” The nasty bravado was gone, only the sound of a frightened man could be heard. “Go, Fayro of Anyro, go to your fate.”

I had tears in my eyes and the journey to Ngato’s house seemed all too short. Ngato mother clutched his broken body. I tried to explain what happened but she could not be consoled. Her wails trailed me home, the prized blood orange which took us so far from home was forgotten. I vowed to never eat another.

I had climbed another third of the way, but without rope, I could move no faster. I finally reached the foliage and what appeared to be a tree growing from the side of cliff face. It probably once was on the top plain area and its deep roots have allowed it to stay connected even after the cliff eroded away around it. Before the sun set, I made my way to it and after testing it, used some of the short vines and roots to belay myself there for the night.

I had stopped sweating right before sunset. I would need water and a lot of it very soon. One more day either way.

I felt every one of my three score summers come dawn’s first light. From my height on the cliff face, I could see much farther than I had been able to at any other time since I arrived. There were no other islands within view and the sea was turbulent and troubled. That meant it might be a long time between rescues.

I caught as much of the morning run-off as I could, almost able to drink my fill. The water renewed me and gave me confidence my flagging strength had sapped away. My hands trembled with exertion. Even with the hardening of sea life and swinging a Sanri sword for years, my callused fingers were aching with this final effort. It seemed the very rock resisted my efforts to climb, I slipped more than once. The last thirty feet were the most treacherous and I did my best to make fewer mistakes than I had earlier.

I reached the very lip. As I put my left hand onto it, I slid it along the top to test the resilience. It would hold. But I had reached the limits of my endurance. Try as I might, I could not lift myself to the top. My body began to tremble, then quake.

My breath came fast, my heart pounded in my chest. I held myself there by my will alone.

I became a pirate because I hated the King’s Marines. I wasn’t that fond of the King either, to be honest, but he lived five countries way from our land of Nicenar and was only the ruler because his armies had conquered this region two or three generations ago. Our people refused to resist his tyranny because the country was peaceful and tribal warfare had been reduced in his reign.

But my father called it the peace of the grave. The king had not improved our land, only impoverished it by taxing it to death. My father became a pirate to strike back at the king and his allies. In the beginning they ignored us because we were so few but our knowledge of the waterways gave us an advantage and made us bold. And for the last twenty years, other nations joined our pirate war and the King was forced to acknowledge our efforts.

The last five years had almost seemed as if it were going to be worth having spent nearly two score on the deck of a ship somewhere. The King’s strength lie in his navies and their ability to suppress populations by bringing armies and Marines to those locations. Without the ability to support his occupation troops, areas under his control became bolder. The pirate hordes had grown numerous and well armed, making each conflict more dangerous for the Royals than it had in quite some time.

My time on the Red Hawk was both challenging and fruitful. The Captain, Olie Modo, fat, vile and disgusting as he was still led the Hawk well and fairly. His plans more often than not worked exactly as promised and when they didn’t he improvised well. It is not a surprise he would be taken out by a storm, and not the Royal Navy. He was a force of nature himself.

“Eat it. Unless you want sailor’s sickness.” the ship’s doctor stared at me while motioning at the shriveled blood orange in front of me.

“I don’t eat those. I vowed never to do so in memory of a friend.”

The doctor reached into a barrel and pulled out three more, only a bit less shriveled than the one before me. “I’m touched by your devotion. And if we were going to be out here for only a few more days, I would let you get sick until you get home. But we will be out here for weeks. You will need be fit enough to swing a sword and do your job, so will you eat the oranges or do I have to make you?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Nor do I want to. I am responsible for your health and until we can get some limes, which I prefer, these blood oranges will have to do. Now eat.”

The rind is tough, difficult to peel, the scent of it fills my nose and my eyes water. Each bite, even as dry as these had become was still a tiny slice of heaven. The doctor stood there drinking his rum and mumbling about the quality of pirates these days.

I slipped from the edge.

I thought I had recovered enough. I knew I would have to try before the sun got overhead. Once that happened I was done for and I knew it. Bracing my feet, knees tight, I pulled myself up to the edge, but the light of the sun and a flock of birds I startled flew toward me, filling my eyes with blinding light and the thunder of wings.

I fell back.

Someone caught my arm. A strong grip. Firm. Resolute. They lifted me as I would a small child and brought me into a bear-hug. Billowing fabric rustled in the wind and flapped around my shriveled form. It was the burka of a Faceless Mage.

“You made it, brother. I was told to expect you.”

“Do I know you, Master Mage? I didn’t care in that moment, I was so relieved to be standing on solid ground, surrounded by trees, grass and what appeared to be a small bubbling spring in a nearby cove.

“Yes, Fayro. It’s me Ngato.” He took off his mask and reached into his mouth. He removed his hand and revealed and his telltale gap of his four missing top teeth, kicked out by a mule when he turned twelve. In his hand was a piece of wood or ivory shaped like teeth.

He smiled that devil’s smile which always preceded us getting into trouble. He popped his teeth back in and slid his mask back on.

“Ngato, I saw you…die. How can you be here with me?” Sitting down in the cove, I filled my canteen and washed my face, my hair, my arms and cleaned myself up. Ngato said nothing until I was finished.

“Feel better?”

“Much.”

“Walk with me.” We walked out of the cove and out into the sun. My nakedness did not bother me. I was happy to be free of those clothes. We walked out and began walking toward the cliff. I was filled with apprehension. Then it passed almost as mysteriously as it appeared. I knew what it was.

“Do you want to see?”

“Do I have to?”

“No. But it helps.”

I looked. There was below me, far below me the shape of a man, bedraggled, bearded, haggard, his mouth tight, defiant even in death. An old man past his prime, now past beyond all caring.

“We never did get that orange…”

“Funny, I just happen to have one right here under this robe.” He pulled his hand from out of his sleeve and a perfect round, fully ripe blood orange almost magically appeared. He tore it in half, sundering its perfect shape with an almost savage glee. He tears into his half with juices running down his chin.

I copy his movements feeling free and a sense of exhilaration I haven’t known in a long time. “Care to explain the robe?”

“It’s a long story.” he smirked, chewing noisily.

“I hear I’ve got time.”

Image: Pirate in a Storm, 2006, © Peter Lee (Peterconcept) a DeviantArt artist.

Übermensch

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 24, 2013

Posted in: Chapter, Hayward's Reach, Short Story. Tagged: Army, Übermensch, France, Germany, goddess, Luftwaffe, Messerschmidt Me 262, Nazi, Normandy, soldiers, SS, World War II. WPLongform. Leave a comment

a tale of hayward’s reach

I found her behind our lines in a field not too far from a downed Messerschmidt Me 262. We had pushed the Germans back out of Paris and had retaken the countryside in early September. I thought she was a local who had been injured when the plane crashed into her house, but she seemed shell-shocked and could barely speak. She was staggering around in some colorful rags and we took her into the improvised field hospital.

We did not have any doctors yet, it was still too soon after taking the territory, so I was the lead medic in charge. We lost Jenkins, the only other medic, so I was working two shifts tending the wounded as best I could. Ronowski was a good kid with his hands so I put him to work cleaning and tending lesser injuries while I did what I could for those who looked like they might make it.

The camp was an old church that hadn’t taken too many bullets and kept us out of the rain. It rained nearly every day. The Parisians were nice though and shared what little food there was. No one knew the strange woman, so we assumed she wandered from a nearby province.

She was a right pretty thing, five foot ten, but in her shocked state she seemed diminished and she let me lead her quietly. A French woman, Martinique, likely a Resistance member helped me tend her and we put her in the back rooms of the church.

After we cleaned her up, we noticed she did not have a scratch on her, even though her clothing had been destroyed, she was unmarked. We tried every language we could scrounge up in camp, but she did not seem to have any words at all.

We went out to check through the wreckage of the Messerschmitt and marveled at its technology. We took sketches of the design of the vehicle, its engine and the strange containment devices that were in the bomb bays. Both were broken but they did not appear to be bombs. Once we were done, we returned to the church. We were expecting to be reinforced.

Later that evening, we made a breakthrough with the blond haired woman. After saying my name and tapping my chest, she finally seemed to get some sort of recognition. She tapped herself and said “Helga.”

After that, she became a member of the camp, helping with anything and everything. She still didn’t talk much but she would smile and occasionally laugh if others were. She followed Martinique around everywhere and the woman graciously tolerated it.

A week after Helga got here, she came running to me and grabbed me. She tried to draw me with her. I picked up my rifle and told Lewis and Franklin to come with me. We double-timed it to a barn and what we saw inside stopped us in our tracks.

We opened fire on it without even questioning what it was because it was ripping Martinique’s chest open and eating her vitals. At first glance I would have thought it was an insect except it was the size of a man, and its claws were tearing through Martineque’s bones as if they were twigs.

Our bullets bounced off its shell as if it were armored. It drew its antenna back and turned around, broke down the wall of the barn and sped off down the road.

Lewis pulled Helga away from Martinique. He said, “what the hell was that?”

My mind was racing, in this war, I had seen a lot of things but nothing like that. “I don’t know, but when it comes back, I intend to give it a much warmer reception.”

“How do you know its going to come back, Sarge?”

I looked at both of them and then looked down at Martiniques’ body. “Because we are where the food is. We are the food.”

We got the townspeople together and explained to them what happened. They did not believe it at first, until the saw the body, and a barn full of holes and no target. I thought until our reinforcements arrived, we would be better off if we stayed closer together, so we took over the small number of homes near the church and established a perimeter and guards. Everyone was issued a weapon and taught how to use it. No one was go anywhere alone. Helga was the only person who did not have a weapon, she refuse to even touch one. After Martinique’s death, she would talk to no one, nor stay with anyone but me.

We put a call out on the radio, trying to get an ETA on the backup but we were told it would be a couple more days, so we would just have to tough it out and make due. We put a machine gun nest in the center of the complex to offer a complete field of fire and had snipers in two of the tallest buildings. Nothing we could do but wait. It didn’t take long.

I am not sure what made me go out that evening but I felt compelled to walk the perimeter and talk to the men. They were in good spirits and except for the two who had seen it, joked about the idea of a bug hunt. As I was walking back to the church I had the strangest sensation of being watched. I turned to look down the road but I couldn’t see anything. I slept with a pistol in my hand.

Around 0400 hours, I heard gunfire, and sat up off of the pew I was sleeping on. It was rifle fire, likely one of the patrols. Then I heard the screaming and I was up and running.

There were only twenty soldiers left and they were all accounted for, so it was likely one of the locals. We ran out and made it as far as the central machine gun station, when one of the snipers launched a flare. We saw Jean-Claude, one of the cooks, running toward us and then before he could move more than a dozen steps, he was sliced in half from behind. The insect was back, and he brought friends. Dozens of them.

Williams, our church sniper had already begun firing and the rest of us bellied up to the sandbags at the machine-gun nest and opened fire with our M1 rifles. Our bullets struck the creatures but only the machine gun seemed to have the power to bring them down easily.

“Concentrate your fire in pairs. Snipers, cover fire only. Somebody get me a damn grenade.”

“Coming at ya, Sarge.”

One of these cockroach looking things made a dash across the courtyard toward the church and began to climb the wall toward the sniper position.

We tried to knock it down but the armor on its back was too strong.

“Petrelli, there is one coming up the wall right at you!”

There was a scream as the monster crested the wall and a single shot.

Petrelli looked over the wall, gave the thumbs up and kept firing. We held the ground until dawn and had taken no casualties. Or so we thought. When we canvased the area, there were three spots where human blood had been spilled but no humans were found. There were dozens of creatures killed, but they took the bodies, every single one, except for Petrelli’s kill. Then the real bad news followed.

“All of the food in the camp is gone, Monsieur. I don’t know how they did it, but there is nothing left anywhere. The grounds are picked clean. Only what we had with us in the church is left. They ate every chicken, every goat, every wheel of cheese anywhere.” Pierre was beside himself.

Corporal Lewis and Petrelli had taken the body of the monster from the roof and were looking it over for weaknesses. We looked at our ammo and realized we could not have another fire-fight like last night. We simply did not have enough ammo. Only the machine was without fear of running out. The rest of us were down to fifty or sixty rounds apiece. That would not last long in a sustained firefight.

“Right between the center of the head seems to work best.” Petrelli’s New York accent was thick and it was something the group used to tease him about. “I guess that works no matter who youse are.” They laughed. But real fear crossed all of their faces.

“I think we are going to have to make a stand here inside the church. Its got the strongest walls and the fewest windows. I want you to board up everything you can. Use the pews and anything else you can scavenge from town. They don’t seem to like the light so avoid the shadows. Remember, they got Martinique when she surprised one in the barn.”

“Sarge, I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears, Lewis.”

“Maybe we can lure them where we want them. And use something besides bullets to kill them. We don’t have napalm but we do have gasoline so we could make Molotov cocktails. They seem as flammable as anything else.”

“Fine, get a detail and get on it. But that is a plan that will happen while they are far away and while we still have lots of bullets. No sense having any flaming ones running through the camp.”

The next few hours were desperate as we did our best to fortify our positions before nightfall. Helga seemed strange and distracted but she worked as hard as anyone to prepare before dark.

We were hunkered down with two squads outside on rooftops for sniping and close protection. We were using shotguns, inside the church and had built a bunker in the center. Our more powerful weapons were outside to try and kill the larger and more aggressive creatures first. Both groups outside could see and cover each other, and had plenty of flares to get through the night if necessary. We had also stationed lanterns down the road and anywhere else we thought the creatures might come from.

With no more food left in town, we knew they would be coming for us.

They came after midnight. They were not shy, they simply came right down the street, one after another, they came down every street from every direction. We shot flares, we threw Molotovs, we burned them, we shot them, we stoned them with traps, they fell into pits, and they still kept coming.

We fought them until four. They would fight, close us retreat, and they did this again and again. Our bullets grew lower and lower. We would soon be down to handguns and shot guns. The two machine guns were still loaded but when they started shooting it took everything we had to keep the enemy off of them. We were down to our last grenades as well. One or two more waves and we would be fighting them hand to hand.

Sniper Team Alpha died first. The creatures saved the best for last. Some of them could fly. They swooped down and simply picked them off in rapid succession. The men managed to kill three more before being dragged away into the darkness. We provided cover for Sniper team Bravo, and pulled them into the church. Our last machine-gun was setup in the doorway to the church which faced the street.

He ran out of bullets at five to five. Our shotguns held them at bay, lacking the power they made up for it in damage dealing. By five thirty we had killed sixty or so right up to the walls of the church. The waves had stopped. It seemed only the last of the creatures were coming. But these were bigger and tougher and could only be killed with a direct close hit to their chest or face. If you were that close you were likely to be getting killed. Petrelli bought it like that. Shot one bastard clean in the head and was sliced apart for his troubles. I want to go like that. Clean.

We had put the townspeople behind us in the church with small arms and they helped when they could. Suddenly the wall behind us exploded and they were being grabbed and dragged away. Helga leaped into the crowd of the creatures and began to bludgeon them with her fists.

Each hit caused a creature to explode into blobs of disgusting flesh. We did not know what we were seeing and we did not care. The last twelve of us rushed up behind her and pointed our shotguns into the masses wherever she wasn’t. One of the biggest of the bastards, grabbed her with his claws and I expected him to rip her apart like Petrelli. She screamed and the sound literally turned him into jelly before our eyes.

We fought for another hour, the creatures must have been desperate because they kept coming and fought more savagely, with greater rage. We lost five more after that. All but seven of the twenty townspeople were lost or missing.

Helga seemed to be slowing down, her strength waning. But she did not stop and neither did we. We were so focused that I did not see one coming in behind us. It was a big one. Lewis having only one grenade left, threw himself onto the creature and the grenade detonated under him. Blasting the creature and us. No one saw Helga move. One second she was outside, the next she was in front of me. She took shrapnel that was meant for me.

She fell back into my arms and looked at me. There were shrapnel wounds in her chest, stomach and legs. I could hear small arms going on behind me but they gradually stopped. I looked at her and wondered where she came from, who she was, what she was. And none of that mattered. She saved us.

They told me later, she was a prototype of a German super-soldier that was intercepted and shot down near us. The insects were also a weapon, likely on the same craft. It seemed her memory had been lost in the crash and she only remembered her name. There was some talk of taking her body and dissecting it for science, but no one could find her when they went looking for her later.

When the war ended, we heard of several super-soldiers who had been released into the war, but were all believed to have been destroyed or killed depending on their nature. I returned home, tired from the war, just wanting to forget it happened. My parents had taken care of my little house and it was just the way I remembered it. I flopped down onto my bed and remembered Helga. A wind whipped up and the tree outside my window shook its leaves. The window opened up and a woman landed gently on my bedroom floor.

“We are no longer enemies. And I have never forgotten your kindness.”

I ran to her and she swept me up in her powerful arms. How does one begin to forget a goddess? I did not intend to even try.

Image: DAYTON, Ohio — Messerschmitt Me 262A at the National Museum of the United States Air Force. (U.S. Air Force photo)

The Last Divide

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 12, 2013

Posted in: Fiction, Short Story. Tagged: Amalgam, blogging, digital divide, ebonstorm, Internet after Death, social media, technology, technorati, Twitter-after-Death. 1 Comment

The Internet spawned many an unusual technology but none as strange as the Death-Web; a way to allow users to communicate after death with notations, salutations, benedictions and predictions pre-programmed before a person died; a message-in-a-bottle through Time.

Its early adopters were people who knew their impeding time drew near and wanted to leave data-rich missives to loved ones. The terminally ill found it to be of great comfort knowing they could leave messages on anniversaries, birthdays and other important milestones.

But like all things internet others soon found unexpected uses for the idea and began leaving predictions of the future, sometimes of technology, others of faith, some of war and occasionally a well-connected master gardener or farmer might leave a local almanac of planting seasons.

Eventually, it found followers among the technorati who wanted to have an opinion about everything even if they had already died. The technorati and futurists predicted technologies decades into the future and configured the Death-Web to release them upon their death. Keyword algorithms would release their predictions either on the date they were programmed for or in concert with news from active data streams indicating their prediction had come true sooner than expected. To be fair, most tech pundits weren’t good at prognostication, but as more of them passed on, that changed.

Living wills were composed on the Death-Web with pre-programmed videos of people mooning hated relatives and leaving vast fortunes to a favored cat or dog. Cuckolded husbands were told off by browbeaten wives, dark secrets revealed to angry children who could no longer take revenge on loathsome parents. As terrible as these things seem, beautiful things were left as well. Graduation videos, songs for anniversaries, still-living eulogies delivered by the Dead at their own funerals.

The Death-Web grew along side the internet, a morbid shadow mimicking life so well, after a while, it began to have an existence all to itself, with predictions for everything from weather, to the stock exchange, world politics and even celebrity gossip. Ten years of Oscar predictions and the Death-Web was always better at picking movies than the living were.

At some point the Live-Web and the Death-Web began to share information, at first tangentially, communication with the Dead were marked as such. Then invisibly, without fanfare, without people being made aware, the Dead were again, among the living. Software algorithms were written which could take an existing stream of social media and extrapolate from the Dead’s living stream of choices what choices they might make of new things and ideas. These Amalgams of the social media of a now Dead person, could continue if they chose, to share, curate, and even hold limited conversations with the Living.

Then people began to realize something strange. Not that this wasn’t already strange; something really strange. The Dead were right more often than the Living about almost everything.

No one was sure why this was true. Was it a side effect of people only willing to be honest when they had no stake in the game? Were people who knew they were going to die, revealing secrets they would never tell anyone while they were alive? This was a talk show subject of statistical debate for nearly ten years, while the Death-Web grew larger and more accepted worldwide. As families continued to support and pay for services for the Dead, programmers began creating software for the Death-Web at the same rate as any other environment. Companies started developing and harnessing infrastructure for this aberration-turned-engine of prediction.

And then, in a series of events, a group of stockbrokers joined the Death-Web unexpectedly. No one would have noticed them except for their social media streams right after their deaths, predicted an epic crash of the stock markets. All of them. They were dead when their predictions were seen but they had been written while they were alive. At least at first. After their buffered accounts had emptied, their accounts continued to predict the market with alarming accuracy. The source of these predictions could not be ascertained, the only thing known for certain was their accuracy. Soon their calls of collapse were being re-shared, repeated, even cast as news among the Living. And as the market reacted, confidence teetered. Something needed to be done.

Tech-seers, who managed the accounts of the Dead, sought out tampering because before this trinity, predictions were accurate but sporadic. The stopped clock metaphor was liberally applied. The Stockbroker Trinity’s predictions were not a single event but a stream of events which predicted the slow transformation of the economy and the eventual failure of commerce from a single series of purchases of stock. They told who would make the stocks buys, why they would, and what the result would be. The Tech-seers found no explanation and repeated the mantra “The Living guess, the Dead know” and continued in their work. Their research revealed no tampering and yet these three brokers would consistently predict the stock market for the next two years. After their deaths. Accurately. In a way no living person had or could. They became more successful in death than they ever were in life.

The government monitored the Death-Web much like they did any other social media network. Initially, no one considered anything said there to be of any import, but as time progressed, the Death-stream was a better predictor of human behavior than anything seen before it. Local skirmishes, the next meme, the next great celebrity, the Death-Web was a form of social consciousness, un-tethered from the meat which once created it, unconstrained, un-repentant and alarmingly accurate. No one was ever able to take credit for its capabilities, and once the Deathstream software was ubiquitous, freely given away on the Internet, it was unable to be stopped. It has become a network unto itself.

When the three brokers and their attendant social media streams predicted the market more accurately than living economists, this was not lost on national security agencies, which made every effort to find the companies involved in their predictions and quietly derail their corporate structures in a effort to prevent the impending economic collapse. Their efforts were successful and the predictions of the three brokers, for a time were broken. The Trinity was dead. Again.

The CEO and the board of directors of the corporation upon whom the blame was being placed for this barely averted collapse were killed in a plane crash in the Swiss Alps. Though the outcome was considered tragic, the problem was resolved to the satisfaction of the three-letter agencies worldwide.

The stock market did not collapse and the Death-Web, now behind closed doors called the Seer-web, had proven its value as a potential tool of social management. For another decade, Humanity and its data shadow moved in step, one arrogant in life, the other truthful in death. And three-letter agencies everywhere trembled in fear; for what can you hold over the Dead to keep any secret?

Photography: Foggy Bridge © Slarba/Petri from Finland; an artist on DeviantART

Pax Cyridian

Posted by Ebonstorm on March 8, 2013

Posted in: Chapter, Hayward's Reach, Short Story. Tagged: Cyridia, genetic engineering, genome, Hayward's Reach, insect, Ona, Pax Cyridian, Penrose, recombinant DNA, spasm, Twilight Continuum. 1 Comment

a tale of the Twilight Continuum

Hanging from the side of a building, cloaked in shadow, I could see the lights from the police roachsters sweeping the warehouse district and knew that we could not stay here long. I tried to visualize a route that would take me back to the city core but from here, every route was the longest route. Cyridian was not made for ease of driving but for optimal grazing for our bugs to maintain their bulk and their health.

Cyridian was designed by the city’s founders to be as ecologically friendly as possible with the industrial complexes as far from the city’s living quarters as possible. Closer to the inner rings were the commercial and educational service areas and then within the center of the city were the living quarters for bugs and people in the direct center.

I patted the internal dash of my Bug and she warmed the internal energy centers of her power plant. She did not activate her bright-lights, she was a nocturnal species capable of seeing easily in the dark. I put on my sensor band, so I could see what she was seeing. Her vision spanned the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums, she was an omnivore, so she hunted and foraged on plants when other prey was not available.

“Run, run?”

“Not yet.”

“Far to run. Must run soon.”

“Stay still. We have to wait until the time is right.”

“Wait, wait.”

She was never the most patient vehicle. Her parent insects were adapted because they were strong and amazingly intelligent. She was one of the few breeds capable of true interaction. For most people Bugs were just an analog for machines. So much so, they used the default activation codes designed by the breeders. “Bug On,” was the code phrase used to activate the systems of the Bug control interface. Most never created or updated the control system or password. It was not for security, because no one stole here, it would have been to personalize or empathize with the vehicle.

Cyr-Bugs were never truly embraced by most of the humans of Cyridian. Our subtle racial dislike of insects followed us from Earth. Despite the fact that the Cyridian insects have allowed us to have a lifestyle that embraced nature, remain peaceful and have a life completely dedicated to living in harmony with the world, many Cyridians were never in love with our symbiotic partners.

“Okay Ona, go fast to quadrant seven. Stay off the road.”

“Bump, bump, okay Penrose?”

“Yes, Ona, bump, bump. I am strapped in.”

Ona stretched her legs and tumbled into the underbrush. It was a very bumpy and rough ride. But the advantage was hers because the police roaches simply had to go around. Around on Cyridian meant many miles of alternative pathways like an old maze puzzle. Ona rarely got to travel this way because my job simply did not give me the time to let her roam like I would have wanted. As a matter of fact, it’s my job that put me in this position in the first place. I am a gene-engineer. I change bugs into conveniences for the people of the Empire. I’m not used to people shooting at me, or trying to kill me. Perhaps a bit of explanation is in order. I went to work this morning…

“Penrose, I’m seeing some organic components missing from your warehouse stockpiles,” shouted my boss from his desk pit. He didn’t even wait for me to slide into my desk before making demands. I saw that Barry, my co-engineer, hadn’t even shown up for work yet. Brown-nosing the boss does have its perks.

“I’m right on it. It has to do with the last alterations I made to the Series 19 upgrades. I will check the data right after I grab some crabs.”

“Bring me a couple back,” he mumbled and went back to whatever he was doing on his multiple terminals. Passing his pit, I looked down and saw some new recombinations he was working on, ugly designs to my sense of aesthetics but he had customers who loved his carapace work.

I tapped into my desk system as I walked by and looked at the reports he flagged in my heads up display. I didn’t recognize any of these requests. I got to the kitchen and picked up five or six crabs, a local insect delicacy, flash fried and coated in a dusting of sugar.

“Run a trace on these requisitions, please.” My computer would put a marker out on them and inform me where the organic components went. It was a bit of a concern because of the quantities being rerouted. Enough for fifteen or twenty Bugs. The components were the organic interfaces used to control or interact with a Bug’s system.

Since many of the systems in our buildings were created with or by or supported by the local insects, any that require our interaction had to be fitted with a control interface. The control interface technology was one of the things we created here.

The flag came up indicating the resources ended up in a facility at the very edge of the city, about fifty klicks from here, as the dragon flies. Driving will take about one hundred klicks. “Boss, I’m going to have to go out there. The system that authorized it requires a personal code to access. I am going to have go during working hours, because they barely have any comm systems out there at all. It’s one of the newer installations.”

“Do what you need to Penrose. I have seven new carapaces I need you to look at before you go, though. Can you do it at lunch?”

I had left Ona out to graze and found her sitting in a field, eating into a nest of what we called su-mona. They resembled Terran termites in that they burrowed underground and fed on woody materials. But each was the length of a man’s arm and had complexes that could spread for dozens of miles. They were a primary source of food for Ona’s species and one of her personal favorites.

The park center was a common grazing area and without the constant effort of Bugs, it would grow out of control in a matter of days.

“Penrose, I found su-mona, want to share?”

“No thank you, Ona. Will you be done soon? We have a trip to go on.”

“A long one, yes?”

“Very. Over two hours.”

“Can Ona run?

“As fast as you like.” She hurriedly chomped down the rest of her termites. There was goo all over her face. Using her pelipaps, she wiped it away as quickly as she can she said, “Ona is finished.”

I climbed into the carapace chamber organically crafted out of her mighty exoskeleton. I slid in and she formed a ridge to support my back. I put on my sensor band and could see the road through her eyes. She took off down the road at over 95 kilometers per hour.

When we arrived at the warehouse, it was mid afternoon, there had not been much traffic, so Ona really could move as fast as she wanted. It had been great to allow her to show off her speed. She was not nearly as fast as roaches who could reach speeds of 150 kph, but only for short bursts. Ona could do what she did all day long. Beyond the edge of the city, her ancestors still roamed free and could be quite dangerous to visitors of our world.

If you came to live on Cyridian you were given genetic modifiers which made you emit an odor considered unpleasant to most of the more aggressive animals of the planet, and armed with Bospor stingers, you were safe from the rest that might still eat you.

The warehouse was closed up and no staff was available to accept my query for entry. I slid out of Ona and walked up to the wall of the warehouse. The building was created out of the traditional silkstone but it seemed to have other properties. I licked the building and my chemical mods indicated there were traces of other toxins on the outside of the building. I was immune to anything the planet had to offer. I had to be to work with the number of toxic insects we handled to do our jobs. I found the toxin to be a strange one because it was not found in most of the insects local to the area.

Ona normally settled into grazing once we arrived at an area, but she seemed reluctant to move from where she stopped. She waved her palps around and put them into her mouth to taste the air.

“Ona? What’s wrong?”

“Bad genes here.”

“Whose work is it. Is it mine or Barry?”

“Barry’s taste.”

Each engineer has a signature to their work. There are only five or six of us in Cyridian and we have marked our work to ensure stability and accountability in design.

“Trouble. Danger.” That made me nervous. Ona is one of the larger and more dangerous predators on this planet. If she was worried, we might be in trouble.

I walk back to Ona when two roachsters pull up behind her and two law enforcement agents got out of the vehicles. Ona turned around and eyed them. The roaches were calm and did not respond to her veiled threat. “Can we help you Gene-engineer?”

“What seems to be the problem, officer? I came out here to investigate a technical requisition supply issue.”

“This warehouse is restricted.” The officer seemed strange to me. He kept his hand on his Bospor pistol. The second officer stayed next to his roachster.

“Perhaps I have been misinformed.” Ona, bristled when I walked back to her.

“Penrose. Not good. Something wrong.”

“I know, but we have to go.”

Then there was a booming from the warehouse behind us. The roachsters backed up with the amazing speed they are capable of. Ona leapt away from the warehouse and landed facing it.

“Okay, that doesn’t sound normal.”

“We are going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”

The booming happened again but this time the wall exploded open and the law enforcement officer is crushed instantly by the falling wall debris. The speed at which it happened shocked me, but Ona was already in motion. She grabbed me and wrapped me in the energy dampening material inside her chassis and backed away from the hole. The other officer got out of his roachster with his Bospor pistol drawn.

The creature that came out appeared to be a variant on Ona’s design but much bigger. The modifications included increased chassis armor, stronger leg designs and several other surface mods I did not recognize. But I knew weapon work when I saw it. This was an illegal mod.

“Run, run, Penrose?”

“No Sweetie, not yet.”

The second officer jumped out of his roachster. He directed the first roachster to try and remove the debris from his downed partner. The roachster tried to lift the debris, but it was designed for speed not strength. The illegally modified creature looked out of the hole at the roachster and roared.

The officer fired on the creature. The Bospor pistol launched a round from the gun with a huff of highly compressed air. The Bospor stinger flew at over eight hundred feet per second. The tiny blob landed on the creature. Nothing happened.

Impossible.

The Bospor was the most toxic animal on the planet. Quiet scavengers, nothing ate them and they were non-aggressive. Their only defense is their deadly neurotoxin launched with series of gas-launched spines. The powerful neurotoxin kills everything with a nervous system on Cyridian. It is why they we modified them as weapons.

“Now we run, Ona.”

The gene-mod opened one of its ports on the side of its massive body and a coughing ejection of phlegm struck the officer. He began to smoke and scream immediately and ran backward until he fell down. Then he turned into a pile of smoking organic mess. The creature coughed again and one roachster was struck in the side, the other backed up and turned its turret on to the gene-mod. It fired two chemical backed Penranol projectiles. Both organic projectiles struck the gene-mod. One bounced off of the dense carapace, the other stuck and burst into flame. I had seen enough.

We ran as fast as we could. When we reached the next civilized part of the industrial area we tried to call back to my office with no success. Barry might have already left. I tried to reach his comm badge but he didn’t answer. I heard the alarms of roachsters as they approached our position. Ona began to fidget and I touched her to calm her down. As the roachsters surrounded us, I began to get the impression something was terribly wrong.

Barry gets out of one of the roachsters. “Hello, Penrose. I see you found out about my project.”

“That monstrosity is yours? What happened to do as little harm as possible?”

“That was before Venris Tel Corp offered me 50 million credits to build them an organic tank. Then it became “Do less harm to your planet and more to others for the proper funding.” Barry sneered at me. “You think you’re better than me.”

“You realize you just confessed?”

Barry looked around at the cops and laughed. “These guys? They work for me. They help me keep things under control and they get a nice piece of the action.”

“Penrose…” began Ona

“Not now, Ona.”

“You and your talking car. You talk about me, but making a car that talks is the real crime.”

“It’s because they are not cars, they are living things. That’s what happened on Earth, we began to treat the world as a commodity.”

“So you make your freak car?”

“Yes, I wanted something that I didn’t have to say ‘Bug On’ to get it to activate to.”

“Penny…”

“Not now, Ona.”

“No matter, what I’ve done will make me fantastically rich, but only if you don’t survive to tell people. Gentlemen, if you please.”

I began to hear a rumbling sound, rhythmic and growing stronger, fast. The roachsters turned to face down the road and put their bright-lights onto the road.

“Penny, we should go.”

“Yes, Ona, I think you’re right.”

The Gene-mod barreled into the center of the roachsters, shooting its acidic phlegm with abandon. Ona had backed up away from the road, until she was out of line of sight. The acid bombs landed on several of the roachsters and their agonized shrieks filled the air. The gene-mod had a burn all over its top carapace but was otherwise undamaged. It barreled into the other roachsters and there was the brittle sound of carapace against carapace contact.

The roachsters chosen for their speed and savage temperament slashed into the gene-mod and the battle was joined. Ona and I used the distraction of them fighting for their lives to run for ours.

We managed to make it to the working ring and I tried to reach the Central Administrator. I left Ona to graze while I made my way into the building complex. Barry, being my boss had rescinded my access to the office. I would have to make a run to the center of the city.

I could see the headlights of the roachsters searching for me. I guessed that meant Barry was still alive. We turned into the park and made good time. We stayed off the roads where the roachsters had a speed advantage and crept the city’s overgrown grazing areas. I had to put a visit into the Sector Chief, personally. She lived in the central region, on the west side.

It took us fifty minutes and four close calls before I had to leave Ona at the edge of the center region. The roads were pedestrian friendly but less so for Bugs.

“You wait here, Ona. Stay under cover. I’ll be back for you soon.”

“Okay, Penrose. I wait here.”

I started toward Lanris Corli’s place and realized I didn’t know what I was going to tell her. I didn’t have any evidence. Using the scent glands of the Pinaris beetles we created organic street lights by attracting and feeding the bioluminescent insects over certain areas of the street. We used other kinds of glow-paint for areas that needed to stay lit but relatively insect free. It took me about five minutes to reach her domicile, a lovely spincast place made from the silk of a Wayran moth, one of the projects I headed years ago. I knocked on the door. It took about a minute for her to answer.

“Gene-engineer Penrose at your service, ma’am.”

“Cut the crap, Penrose, why are you at my door this late?”

“Well, I have evidence of a plan to weaponize our technology and sell it off-planet.”

The sleepy look vanished from her face. In retrospect, I think I should have paid closer attention.

“Come in Gene-engineer. Let me get dressed. Tell me the rest.”

She invited me in and vanished into her bedroom. I explained about the gene-mod and it’s rampage. When she came back out she was dressed in her Civil servant uniform of blue and gold. She was also carrying a stylish chemical pistol of Old Earth manufacture.

“I didn’t want this, Penrose. We were trying to get them off planet, before anyone noticed. If we could’ve had one breeding pair and the gene-mods no one would have been the wiser.”

“There is more than one of those things? I guess this means you have to kill me, now.”

“It doesn’t have to be, there are potentially several clients who would pay for our genetic technology, which has no equal in the Empire. Killing you would be a waste of a very important irreplaceable resource.”

“So why the gun?”

“I can’t have you running out of here before you hear my offer. There are always other administrators you could have confessed to who would been appalled to know what you just suggested to me.”

“You could have gone the seduction route? Made me believe we were going to be friends. After befriending me you could have killed me. It’s what the Nornian spider does with its multiple mates over the course of its lifetime.”

“You need to get out more.” Her phone rang. “I see. I will take care of it.” She hung up. “Barry’s dead. It looks like your value just shot up. But we have a problem.”

Pointing at the gun, “I’d say we have two. If you plan on having my help, you need to put that away. Its making me nervous. You won’t like me nervous.”

“It’s my insurance, don’t get any ideas. The gene-mod is out of control and heading toward the center complex. If anyone gets a clear look at it, we might be in trouble. The police will open a breach in the shield and attract some native fauna in. We’ll claim this creature is one of them and cover it up before anyone can investigate.”

“I want Barry’s share.”

“Getting bold, are we?”

“No, I am thinking I won’t have much of a career on Cyridian before this is over, so I’m just thinking ahead. Especially if I help you with this.”

“Alright, let’s go.” As we stepped out of the doorway into the courtyard, the streetlights flickered. The streetlights were comprised of clouds of the local fireflies, genetically inclined to stay near pheremone emitting sites scattered throughout the city. Working with nature, we don’t imprision the insects. They were free to come and go but between the pheremone and the nectar, they provide light sufficient for our modified vision. Then the lights went out. But that only happened when a predator approached. Lanris had only a split second of warning. She looked up right before the gene-mod landed its massive bulk right on top of her head, killing her instantly. She managed to get off a single shot.

In that split second, when the lights fled, before it arrived, I realized what was happening and leaped into the brush, running for my life. They made the damn thing able to fly? What were they thinking? And with a stealth mode, no less? That was insane!

The gene-mod was right on my tail. It knocked down trees and steel-like bamboos as if they weren’t even there, fibrous splinters raining down all around me. I could smell its power plant, it was overheating, flying was probably not the ideal movement for it. If I ran fast enough, maybe it would run out of energy and have to stop and rest.

Yeah, right.

I could hear it getting closer and closer, I looked back only once and could see it’s crazed look as its bright-lights locked onto my position, I ran into the brush to obscure its vision, even for second. If I could just make it back to the park, I could hide from it. It had no major sensory mods I could see, so I could escape while the police, the real police handled it.

But I wasn’t going to make it. I could smell it just seconds from me. There was a crashing sound coming from my left and a tree dropped right behind me. It caused the gene-mod a moment of hesitation, but it bit right through the tree. Then another tree landed behind me and a third.

Who is throwing trees behind me?

When I came to the clearing where Bugs awaited their owners, there were no Bugs there, including my own? Where was she? It was not like her to move too far once I told her I was coming back. She would have stayed near a feeding station. I was going to die here. On level ground there was no way I could outrun it.

I turned and ran anyway. I heard the buzz of two approaching roachsters. I did not know whose side they were on, so I just ran away from them too as the gene-mod burst out of the underbrush. These weren’t just roachsters, these were Hunter-seekers, killers designed to destroy bugs that breached the shield. They were big, strong and fast, some of the deadliest things we ever engineered. So dangerous, they were only released into areas that had been overrun because they killed everything they came in contact with. Once they had neutralized all threats, they were destroyed with internal toxin bombs. One-use creatures unable to be bred, except under the most ideal conditions. There were never more than four or five available any more since we perfected the shield and pheromone technologies.

With lightning speed, they turned their attention to the gene-mod with their bright-lights flashing all over the area as they battled the monster. Their flashing blade mouths, tried to cut into the carapace of the gene-mod but most of their blows were scratches in comparison to the injuries it dealt. But these were no ordinary roachsters. Their nervous systems amped to the highest degree, most of the gene-mod’s attacks missed their mark fully.

But the battle was far from equal. I looked on in horror as the full extent of the gene-modifications began to show. It began to regenerate its injuries. Regeneration was rarely added to any genestruct because there were too many potentials we wanted to avoid. Unnecessary cancers and ‘regrettable immortality’. Cells that divide too often sometimes became cancerous. And immortality can be inconvenient if you were seeking to kill a creature to prevent it from passing on its immortal genes. The potential to destabilize an ecosystem was too great, hence its name ‘regrettable immortality’.

I hoped the police were trying to get something bigger to fight with because with the venom, acid, armor, speed, flight and regeneration mods this thing was boasting, it would kill us all before the next day was done. One Hunter-killer went down under the super-strong legs of the gene-mod, speared through in four places and pinned into the spin-crete beneath.

I couldn’t think of anything I could do to stop this. While the last Hunter-killer got a few more wounds in, the brush behind it began to move. I saw several Beetles, the most common of the auto-bugs used here. Each is carrying a tree in its front leg set. They surround and set upon the gene-mod with the trees, each swinging the tree limb as if it were a willow wand. The concussive booms stagger the gene-mod with each blow, but it continues its relentless assault on the Hunter-Killer.

Then I saw Ona. She came out of the forest and she was singing. Rubbing her pelipaps together she makes a series of strange but beautiful sounds, and when she does the other auto-bugs increase their assault. The gene-mod turns and grabs one of the auto-bugs, a female, and sprays it’s toxic venom. She screamed horribly, convulsing while she died.

The others hesitated and the Hunter-Killer got in a final strike before it was cut in half by the slashing jaws of the gene-mod. It struck the genestruct in the eye with its sword-like forearms. The strike is deep, a few inches to the left and it could have been mortal. The Hunter-Killer’s arm broke off and the sword-like claw remained embedded in the eye socket of the gene-mod. The other auto-bugs renewed their attacks but not nearly as durable as the Hunter-Killer, each was cut down, one after the other.

Once it’s done, it turned toward me and advanced slowly. There were only a few times I had regretted my occupation. Once, before I was completely gene-modified to live on Cyridian, I was working with a spasm-fly and was bitten. No one knew I hadn’t completed my modification so I spent a half a year in a spasm chamber, immobilized in a stasis field so my muscles didn’t pull the flesh from my bones. That was the lowest point in my technical career. I had few other regrets. The occasional lack of family bit deep, but with my gene-mods, I would live to be a nice two hundred or so, (or would have until today) so I always thought I would have time.

The gene-mod approached and I knew I was seconds from death. The only question was how. Venom? Acid? Stomped to death? I hoped it would be quick. I was not looking forward to be stomped to death. Then I heard that whistle again and the gene-mod turned again.

Ona. What was she thinking?

It turned away and I could feel my bowels growing weak. Being close to dying really made bodily control a challenge.

Ona stepped away from the brush and approached the gene-mod. But she was bigger, redder, and her eyes had a particular gleam I had never seen before. Then I remembered. This was her maternal combat mode. Mothers, when their young are in trouble, change and become dangerous killing machines. On this world, multiply that by five.

She flew.

I mean, I knew she could do it, I had just never seen it. She flew fast. She slammed into its side and knocked it off its feet. Ona is big, much bigger than the roachsters, and she used her bulk to her advantage. She landed on its underside and stabbed her sword-like pedipalps into it undercarriage, near the base of the legs, and severed its ability to control two of those legs. She bounded away as it uses its outer carapace wings to flip itself over.

It landed with a grunt and fluids sprayed out from underneath its legs, the two damaged ones are barely able to hold up the carapace in the back of the creature. Its carapace was dragging the ground. It’s down but not out.

The genestruct turned to face Ona with its good eye and I am on its blind side with the sword hanging out its eye. As long as the claw remained in its eye, it could not regenerate the tissue. The creature sprayed both venom and acid from its weaponized glands. Ona leaps forward dodging the venom but getting hit with the acid. Using her strong back legs, she sliced forward and cut off the wing casing covered with acid. She howled, a sound I have never heard her make before.

She and the genestruct circled each other and tentatively attacked each other but neither has an advantage. Ona was slowing Her injuries were taking a toll on her. The genestruct was slowly regenerating and soon able to raise itself on its hind legs. Ona scurried around onto its blind side and rushed it, slashing along the region between the carapace and the legs. She is able to get a good and solid wound. The beast roars and explodes into action. It cut deeply into her side armor, pushed her back before it moved away from her. She had damaged it seriously. The genestruct stopped moving and fell over with one set of legs unable to move. Ona was badly hurt as well. She bled from a dozen injuries all over her carapace and undercarriage. I ran over to her and tried to stop the bleeding.

“Penrose, run, run.”

“I can’t Ona. I can’t leave you. Now get up. We have to go.”

“Penny, I can’t run. Go now. Ona loves you. Ona dies for you.”

The silence was oppressive. It was never quiet on Cyridian. Insects were always talking here. Anything near this battle realized they were in the presence of something terrible and hoped to avoid drawing attention to itself. Even scavengers, normally bold, made no attempt to approach. Ona’s quiet and ragged breathing was the only thing I could hear. Her internal plant was already offline.

Then the sound of a powerplant restarting echoed across the forest. The brightlights of the genestruct came back on. Weak and flickering, but they slowly got stronger. I hear the coughing of the acid cannon being prepared to fire. I couldn’t let that happen. Ona couldn’t move yet.

I jumped up and tried to draw its fire. Confused and with only one good eye, it chose me and fired. The acid blob, hit the ground near me and part of the splash landed onto my uniform. Designed with genetic constructs in mind, the uniform neutralizes most of it, but the quantity overwhelms it and my flesh bore the rest. The pain was excruiating. I fell forward as my legs gave out, face down into the underbrush.

But for the first time since it happened, I was glad of the spasm-fly attack. I was in stasis for six months. During that entire time, my nervous system was under assault, being constantly stimulated without relief, everyday until it was brought under control. I learned my threshold for pain. And while this certainly was terrible, it was nothing compared to that six months.

I screamed. I cursed, I raged. And I got up.

“I’ve had about enough of you.” The gene-mod coughed, and sputtered as it tried to repair itself. I could hear its power plant as it struggled to stay online.

It was dying.

I limped up to its blind side, and I could hear its inquiry sounds as it tried to figure out where I was. I knew these sounds. It was looking for someone to help it. Designed to have someone support it, its injuries led it to believe someone should be helping to repair it and those chirps of query meant it was expecting someone.

I saw the Hunter-Killer leg hanging out of its ocular cavity. I reached up, grabbed the end of the leg, and reorienting it, pointed it directly into its brain. The thrust is brief and the green ichor of the construct’s blood covered me in one final surge.

It did not resist. There was a sound like a sigh of relief and the creature eased itself into a resting position. I looked at the creature and saw it was covered with pain mods, all over its armored carapace, used to control it. They were inflamed. Something drove this creature to rage. But what?

“Hello Gene-Engineer Penrose.” The voice was familiar and despised. I turned around and in the early morning light I could see his well-dressed and diplomat’s outfit with a tiny remote in his hand. He also had two burly Junantra guards, genetically modified supermen at his beck and call.

“Ambassador Cohen.” I spat blood out of my mouth. “So all that interest in my work a year ago was not as harmless as I thought.”

“You wound me, Penrose. You should be happy I took an interest in your work and had such avid supporters amongst the populace.”

“So you could make this poor thing?”

“That poor thing has killed sixteen roachsters, all six of the hunter-killers left in the city, and two dozen other assorted vehicles. It was one of the finest killing machines ever made, even on this world. And it’s mine.”

“I know. It’s worth millions.”

“Billions, my good man. We made them in breed-capable pairs.”

“You are the final link in the chain aren’t you. You made the off-world connections.”

“Yes, and once we collect our genetic material from this one, for breeding, we will be on our way. So sorry about your car.” One of the Junantra guards walked over to the creature’s mouth and began extracting vital genetic chambers that could be used to breed the creature. The ambassador and the other guard walked over to me and helped me to my feet.

“And what about me.”

“That depends on you. The Human Race is still out there conquering the Universe and needs minds like yours to help it. I know you are a pacifist like all of your people here, but think of the potential value you could bring to our kind with your organic war machines.”

“I know. I would be paid handsomely to destroy life all over the galaxy for fun and profit. No thanks.” My blood was flowing down my leg, off of my arm and head.

“I am afraid I cannot allow you to leave knowing what you do.”

“I am afraid I am not asking to leave.” With blood on my hands, I reached out and slashed both the ambassador and the Junantra on the neck with my razor sharp nails. Working with gene-constructs, you occasionally have to have the ability to defend yourself. I had been weaponized during the time I was in the healing chambers. Such work was not common knowledge. It was necessary to save my life. Living here, being stronger and faster is a survival technique. On Earth, I would have been superhuman, here, I was just a faster, more agile snack.

Since being infected with spasm-fly venom, my survival altered my body as the potent virus has remained part of me. Living as an SP-V, I lived a life suffused in constant agony as my nervous system is antagonized by the virus, but I can control the spasms and constrictions with the help of the anti-viral gene mods inside my body.

The ambassador and his guard were not so fortunate. It tool only a few seconds for them to double over in pain and for their muscles to begin to pull back on their bones until they start to snap. An agony so great, they were rendered speechless as their vocal cords tore themselves in their throats. Every beat of their hearts, passed the weaponized virus into every cell of their bodies. Only being in a medical facility allowed me to survive the spasm-fly virus. Without immediate medical attention, their bodies will be turned inside out in a matter of minutes and I realized I left my comm badge with my car; in my dying car.

The Junantra died first, his superhuman strength is no asset here. His grunts are terrible, but brief. The ambassador dies only minutes later. The second guard hearing something, rushed to their aid, and with a quick slash he died a few minutes later.

I went over to Ona and saw she is already dead; my beautiful Ona, my first best friend. I will make you again, my dear. You have been far better to me than most humans I know.

I sat down with her and watched the sunrise. Looking over at the ambassador, I felt no regrets. Since he was the last of them, it should make it easy to clean up and ensure creatures like this one are never made again. With any luck, the Council will be able to investigate fully and hunt down the other one and see that it’s destroyed.

I came here to Cyridia to get away from the violence of the Empire. Here, everything is trying to live, eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. I can live with that. That’s nature. But to kill each other for money. That’s an obscenity any way you look at it.

Just because I live on a planet full of peaceful people does not make me a pacifist.

I was tagged by Balogun Ojetade for this bloghop and I appreciate him taking the time to help promote my work.

The rules of this blog hop are simple and sweet: 1. Answer ten questions about your current Work In Progress on your blog; 2. Tag five writers / bloggers and add links to their pages so we can hop along to them next.

So, here goes – enjoy!

What is the working title of your book?

The working title is – Insurrection: War in the Twilight Continuum. The cover image is showing the intelligent AI starship, Traveling Light.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I wrote roleplaying game materials for a variety of games over the past twenty years. My last campaign was a space opera storyline I never had the opportunity to finish. It was a vast story spanning millions of years and hundreds of alien races. The initial play was fantastic but before I could fully develop it, my son was born and gaming went straight out the window. I looked at its as a chance to develop the universe further because one of the problems with science fiction and particularly the space opera genre is trying to figure out where in your vast universe do you start your story and how do you get your reader invested quickly.

I decided to start small with a single human soldier at the edge of the empire, stumbling onto a secret which could potentially stagger the status quo. The problem for him is, the human race is but one of many races in the Empire, for the most part, unnoticed and relatively insignificant in the overall scheme of things. Pan-humanity, while boasting some level of technological advancements did not even make it into space by themselves. They were rescued by other aliens during a time of planetary crisis and became refugees of the empire. Needless to say, Pan-Humanity has a lot to prove in this highly populated, technologically advanced, species divergent (and often prejudiced) galaxy of sentient life.

What genre does your book fall under?

The genre would be science fiction, with a sub-genres of space opera, military science fiction and maybe just a taste of social science fiction. The story deals with an aging galactic empire getting frayed around the edges, with alien species desiring to break away from the stagnant edicts of the empire toward unlimited expansion. The empire, while old is still quite powerful, but younger species are fomenting revolution and have help from an unknown alien presence intent on destabilizing the empire for their own benefit.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Haven’t given this a lot of thought because I don’t think about my writing in terms of other media, but the main character Major Thomas Wilks would be able to be played by the magnificent Idris Elba (as seen above in his Pacific Rim role).

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

“Major Thomas Wilks, of the fabled Resurrection Corps of human soldiers stumbles across a secret during a military operation which threatens to bring the already unstable Corvan Hegemony to the brink of war; but who is going to believe a Human, even an immortal one, could know something able to affect an empire that has existed for over a million years?”

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My book will be published under my own imprint of Ebonstorm Media, in conjunction with Creative Enigma Enterprises.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

The first outline and draft of the manuscript was written for NaNoWrimo in 2010. I successfully completed the challenge but was only halfway done, so I continued to write for the next two months. In February 2011, I began editing and rewriting. I have been working on and off with the project every since, producing my first collection of short stories in December 2011 called Hayward’s Reach. While I was writing Insurrection, ideas for short stories began to sneak out and eventually found themselves in Hayward’s Reach, making it a sort of prequel to the story in Insurrection. My goal is to be printing Insurrection in September. I am currently editing the second draft and adding things which escaped me in the first draft.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Books I think about while I am writing are Jack L. Chalker’s, Saga of the Well World, David Brin’s Uplift Saga, Ian Banks’, Culture novels and the works of Dan Simmons’ Hyperion Cantos are all inspirations.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

My family keeps me inspired to write by reading, enjoying and promoting my work to everyone they know.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Insurrection, Resurrection and Conflagration deal with a variety of science fiction themes, artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, advanced technology, alien life, and space travel but those are not the themes that most interest me (though I do love an awesome spaceship). What most captivates me is the idea of an empire of alien races of which Pan-Humanity is simply one among many.

What would our role be in a galaxy filled with intelligent, hard-working, dedicated, and often very alien life? How would we adapt? Could we finally learn to get along in the face of alien species, dangerous environments, and the challenges of competing in the ultimate Darwinian environment, a potentially hostile galaxy, or will we revert to type, fighting among our even more diverse selves?

You can get a taste right now, no waiting necessary: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, The Gentle Art, and where the story where it all began, Hayward’s Reach

Below are the links to the next chain of authors. Be sure to bookmark their sites and add their new releases to your calendars.

H. Wolfgang Porter: Science Fiction, Fantasy, Sword & Soul;
Ds Brown: Science Fiction, Fantasy
Dr. Cherie Ann Turpin: Scholar, Erotica
Nalo Hopkinson: Science Fiction, Fantasy, Erotica
Derrick Ferguson: Pulp; Mystery; Thriller

Keep an eye out for the latest release of Milton Davis and Balogun Ojetade, The Steamfunk! Anthology

More Tales of Tech Support (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on February 14, 2013

Posted in: Humor, Short Story. Tagged: airplane, carnivorous plants, deathray, ebonstorm, emporium, fantasy, Farnsworth's, humor, monster, pulp, science fiction, short story, Short Story. Tagged: dealership, Todd. Leave a comment

“Hello ma’am, Farnsworth’s Monster Emporium and Death-ray Dealership, how can I help you this morning?”

“No ma’am we were not aware of any defects in our “Instant Piranha” product line. Yes ma’am, you are supposed to put them in water.”

“Yes ma’am, technically beer is a liquid and if you should drop some of the pellets into beer or punch, they might be activated for a few minutes.”

“No, ma’am, we were not aware of that fact. Locked on in a death grip you say? Right after leaping out of the beer… Can I escalate this call to a manager? Please hold.”

“Good morning, sir, Farnsworth’s Monster Emporium and Death-ray Dealership, how can I help you?”

“No sir, we don’t offer free de-zombification. I understand your assistant has been turned into a zombie. We do recommend right in the instructions, that proper safeguards have to be taken around children and pets.”

“Oh, your dog, too? I’m sorry sir, you will have to pay for our service to de-zombify your assistant. It has a rather long duration, sir. Six to eight weeks if no further applications of the product are applied. Yes, sir he will be fine. It does not have any long-term effects, unless you want it to. Zombies are very susceptible to suggestion. Yes sir, you could use it to get rid of his smoking habit.”

“Yes, we do have a truck able to come for around decontamination but the service is only for our deluxe support customers. Are you a member? I can sign you right up. No sir, I can’t help you regarding your employee’s pay schedule. I imagine being a zombie will cut into his office effectiveness. Please hold.”

“My tech guide says he will still be capable of following simple instructions. Yes, he will probably still be able to get your coffee. He should not be tuning any death-rays or other more dangerous equipment. In case you hadn’t read through the manual completely, there will be a brief period where the zombified will hunger for human flesh. Last for a day or two, so you might want to restrain them during this time. No sir, if you have been bitten already you cannot catch our patented zombi transformation thorough such contact.”

“They have thankfully short memories sir, you should be able to leave that closet in a few hours. No sir, we assume no liability for anyone your assistant or dog may bite before you are able to get them under control. Good luck. Thank you for your patronage, sir.”

“Good morning, sir, Farnsworth’s Monster Emporium and Death-ray Dealership, how can I help you?”

“Yes sir, this is Todd. You were just on the phone with me? Ah, you used Professors Wilbur and Orville Wright’s NO-FLY Aerogel. Afraid of flying, I see. While this is not a recommended use, I am glad to hear the product worked as advertised.”

“Yes, sir, there are a few side effects. Let me check. You will be immobile for quite some time, at least an hour. The aerogel is super-light but incredibly strong. No sir, it won’t suffocate you. Your breathing will dissolve the gel and be converted into oxygen. This conversion will also speed the breakdown. No sir, while you are encased you won’t be able to be harmed by almost anything. You’re rolling down a hill. Into an intersection. I am sorry to hear that.”

“Can I have your account number? Sir, as a purchaser of NO-FLY Aerogel you are entitled to a retrieval and pickup as long as you are in the continental United States. Can you activate your GPS? You voicedialed. We’ll track you manually, sir. Please hang on while I transfer you to Tracking and Retrieval. We’re glad you are happy with the product, sir. No sir, that semi won’t be able to hurt you for another 50 minutes. If you’re lucky, it will knock you off the road as well. Good luck, sir. Please hold.”

“Farnsworth’s Monster Emporium and Death-ray Dealership, Helping the Ordinary Evil Genius Succeed. How can I help you, today?”

“Carnivorous plants? Can I have your account number please? I see you are a regular customer. You have made some recent purchases which concern me, ma’am. Do you know which brand is rampaging out of control at the moment, ma’am? The last sales were the Venusian Blood Drinkers and Dr. Ripper’s Boneshredders. Please calm down, ma’am. There is nothing I can do about your cat. Is it the red package with the blue plants or the green package with the red plants.”

“It’s important ma’am. With the red package, I tell you to keep your pets indoors, make sure you lock the fence to your yard until we Fed-ex the proper Venusian defoliant. If it’s the green package with the red plants running wild, I am obligated to inform the nearest superhero team, and if the plants have consumed more than the regulated number of minions or authorized counter-agents, I may be required to inform the local police force as well. Please check again.”

“The red package. That’s good. Get out and stay out of your garden. I’m sorry about your cat. Ma’am I am going to have to suggest you get your prescription checked when handling our carnivorous plant line. I have shipped the defoliant and it will arrive tomorrow. Can we get you anything else while I have you on the line? Thank you, ma’am.”