Redux

Posted by Ebonstorm on October 17, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 3 Comments

Interstate by Sundragon83

It worked.

I’m sick; probably radiation. Don’t have much time.

As I throw up in the bushes, I want to blame someone else but it was really MY hubris which brought this to pass.

I remember the campus looking just like it did that night; we thought we were doing the right thing. We would rid the world of sickness, disease and disfigurement. Our process would erase junk DNA in the human genome improving the human race.

I thought no government could be trusted to use this technology for good, so I figured the best way to ensure everyone had access was to give it away over the internet. The genome manipulator wasn’t that hard to create, it was the software; the algorithms for re-sequencing that were the secret of our discovery.

After the mice and cats, we needed human trials but we knew no government would allow it. We became our own test subjects. How arrogant is youth? How could we know?

If we had been more patient we would have learned of the toxic genomic introduction as genes were removed which buffered evolutionary benefits, ensuring their slow release into the gene pool. Nature was smarter than we were; she knew some genes shouldn’t be together too often. We thought we could do better.

We bred stronger, faster, smarter mice. We expanded the intelligence of cats, altering and improving their neurology. We made the world’s most adaptable killing machine, smarter. It seems stupid in hindsight.

Darryl was the first to die. He was the first of us to believe we should embrace our technology. He had configured the device to rewrite him, removing his failing flesh, dying from Lou Gehrig’s disease, to rewrite him with a body of superhuman perfection. He entered the recombination chamber, alone. He didn’t tell us. He thought we would say no.

He climbed out of his chair and into the recombinator. We found him next morning, lying next to his chair, physically beautiful; his body strong, muscular, still. He died as beautiful as his mind was amazing.

We were not deterred. We had to know what happened. We studied him down to his bones. His work was perfect and fatally flawed. He removed the disease or so he thought. He removed the genetic markers which limited the disease allowing it to overcome his nervous system, even as his body was being recreated, it was being ravaged. It was a matter of timing.

His cure killed him.

We were more determined than ever. But we knew we needed more caution, move slower, watch the changes. Pam went next. She changed aspects of herself, slowly, carefully, making only physical changes one at a time.

On the last day we saw her, she had begun making modifications on her brain increasing neural density. As we watched her in the tank, her modifications complete, we turned to pull her out and found the tank empty. No recombinant fluid, no Pam. She was in the tank and then she wasn’t. No remains, only the data to study.

We didn’t know what happened to Pam but working alone had proven to be a detriment we could ill afford. The local police had begun poking around our lab as both of our friends became missing persons and we became people of interest. We were relentless and careless. The cats and mice were accidently released by the police and escaped into the wild. It seemed such a tiny thing at the time.

We realized this was a problem of mental capacity; somehow, a barrier was broken, so Charlotte decided she was next. Strong-willed, highly intelligent, physically fit, she thought she would be best to document the experience.

After altering her brain and its chemistry first as a model then in vivo, for a week, she created and conceived of dozens of patents, things never thought of before, and like not since. On day eight, she stopped talking. She typed furiously, over three hundred words per minute. She wrote for five more days. She wrote until her ears bled, her eyes exploded and she still wrote. She wrote dispassionately until the very end, nothing mattered but putting the information on the page. And in those last minutes when she could neither see nor hear, did I learn what happened, what happened to all of us.

I had to know, I had to see it for myself. I set her notes in an archive to mail to my father. He would know best what to do with them.

After thirteen days of transformation, I left the lab. I strode away through Time. For the first year, subjectively, nothing moved. I felt neither hunger, nor thirst, for me only seconds appeared to pass. I was a blur, a whisper of wind, an echo in a silent room. Then something went wrong.

I could not move. The world sped up and blurred by. I stood in the middle of a field as days blurred together, the sun a single band of light overhead, moving back and forth with the flow of the seasons.

She said this would happen, we were disconnected from Time. We were moving through probabilities, we were seeing possible futures. Events would form around our decisions. I still didn’t understand. I didn’t dare expand my consciousness as much as she did.

I wasn’t that brave. Then I saw the flashes of light all around me. Familiar, a pattern I should recognize. She said to breathe, concentrate, focus, and stop Time. I understood now. Years had passed since I last thought about it.

As time slows, a city appears around me. A silent, ruined city, overrun by scrawny plants, blast damaged buildings. I felt a strong sense of dread and dropped into the grass; cats, big cats, with glittering eyes. The pride turned and targeted a group of bipeds who appeared to be feeding at the edge of the grass.

They saw the pride but they were too late. The pride was fast, cheetah fast, and when I saw them again, they were tearing into their targets, feasting, gorging. The bipeds fought in vain but were able to kill one of the cats before being overrun. When the pride finally left their meal, I moved in to study the remains.

They were vaguely human, huge heads, twice my size, powerful skeletons. I looked closer and saw unique carbon deposits enhancing the skeletons. This was our work, degraded by time and mutation.

The last thing she typed before she died. “Stop this.” She knew.

That’s when I heard them. A howl and I could see them returning to me, kicking up dust behind them. I thought of Charlotte. I thought of Pam, and Darryl in his stupid wheelchair.

The cats; God! They’re so big and coming right at me. I change the flow of Time. Reverse it. It’s like drinking from a fire hose.

There we go, celebrating, drinking; arrogant.

I don’t have long… vision blurring.

I shuffle into our lab, everything so shiny, so new. I do what has to be done. I kill the cats, the mice, I burn down the lab.

Most importantly, my friends and I become missing persons.

Redux © Thaddeus Howze 2012. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

Red Star, White Sun (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on October 14, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, House of Oak, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

My morning started out like any other, late for work, hung over, and wearing sunglasses. My car was in the shop, again, piece of shyte, so I was on the train.

A quick sprint turns my cheap poly-blend suit into an oven in the early morning heatwave, with the added humidity ensuring I will never be dry again over the course of the day; wonderful way to start work, hot, sticky, stinky and late.

I never would make it to work, though. I was listening to the radio and things sounded like they were getting tense since the Red Star Amnesty. Damn vampires. Last year, they were nothing more than bad myth, now they were national news. Every day, there was something new about them being discussed, fought over, fawned over or lamented.

Especially hard hit were the celebrities; those people famous for saying things they would never say in real life, dressed in clothing they could only afford after they became rich, getting paid to play “let’s pretend” in front of cameras for obscene salaries, and wearing enough makeup to choke a rodeo clown. They were mad as hell, being massive attention whores, they were forgotten almost overnight. Personally, I thought it was funny watching them doing more ridiculous things to make their way into the news.

At least I used to. I make my living as a police sketch artist. When I need extra cash, and who doesn’t these days, I paint Red Star ID portraits. Yes, the euphemism for vampire is Red Star. Some psychologist said the word vampire was too loaded with baggage so the government thought it would make relationships between Us and Them go better if we could easily identify Them. So in an act of genius, someone decided to make all vampires who were out, and they are supposed to be, wear a red eight pointedstar visible at all times.

Civil rights groups had kittens. Just like that, they had forgotten vampires weren’t even human. Then some scientists weighed in and explained it so guys like me who have art degrees could understand it.

“‘Homo Sapiens Vampyr’ is an evolutionary offshoot of ‘Homo Sapien Sapiens.’ What we once called “junk DNA” in the 1990s, is now forty years later a sophisticated blend of genomic markers with unknown and untapped potential. Homo Sapiens Vampyr is a regularly occurring pattern of mutation with specific traits and advantages.”

And just like that, the German Übermensch had been found.

Except he came in a variety of colors, cultures and in every social group in the human populace. And within their population there was such a wide array of differences so people were just as confused about vampires as they were before you could meet one in a coffee shop.

Standing on the platform in the early morning sun, I could tell it was going to be a scorcher, my armpits were already dripping and I once again regretted the creation of polyester. When the door opened, people poured out onto the platform rushing away as if they were being chased from the train. Once they left, the people on the platform stood there transfixed.Then almost collectively they looked down and moved onto the train looking away; looking away from him.

I saw him standing in the train, the car was hot and as usual the AC didn’t work. He stood there nonchalantly apparently oblivious to the wide berth people had given him, a space of easily fifteen feet.  I knew what he was even before I saw his Star. Why would he travel this way? Most Red Stars kept to themselves, had their own private vehicles and wanted little to do with people despite their claims of wanting to help Humanity as a whole.

The Plague had made humans much less inclined to gather together during the early years, but as it became more contained, people started returning to work and after the revelation of the Red Stars, humanity was simply too tired, too wrung out to care. Nearly a billion people had died from the plague and every city maintained several hospice centers where the infected waited to die. This disease had a ninety percent mortality rate. It resembled a staph infection, causing necrosis, first in small patches, then spreading and consuming the flesh in an orgy of devastation. Within a month, sometimes two, depending on your initial state of health, you were dead. First thought to be a bioweapon, no nation or faction ever claimed it. Eventually fingers were pointed but no one recognized it. No one wanted to be associated with a disease which showed the potential to wipe out the human race within the next year, unless drastic measures were taken.

Infection screening checkpoints had been developed and you were constantly being scanned as you moved from one part of the city to another. Every checkpoint was well-manned by hazard-suited police who tolerated no disobedience. Follow the rules or be shot, immediately. Order was maintained. But even this order was breaking down as the vector for the disease remained mysteriously absent. People who had never traveled, drank bottled water, ate nothing new or unique would wake with the disease. Once it claimed a victim, it would usually claim the family as well. Only early treatment with the strongest antibiotics money could buy had a chance. As the year dragged on, those antibiotics were in short supply. Eventually they were gone. But almost at the same time, the disease appeared to go into remission. New infections appeared to have stopped and mankind breathed a sigh of relief.

Then they came; the Vampir, dwellers in the darkness, masters of science, technology and some claimed magic, monsters which feasted upon the flesh and souls of men. They were called all of these things and more. One year after the great Wasting Death, they appeared in large numbers in public places, at sites of government, science, museums and collectively told Humanity, the Great Wasting was not over. It had only just begun. They claimed they were here to help.

The unwashed masses accused them of causing the disease. Even as they explain who and what they were, humanity was already blaming them for the horrors it had experienced. There were still five hundred million people suffering from the Great Wasting, and while few new cases had been seen, there was no doubt others would be found.

The Vampir offered technology, serums and expertise gathered through lifetimes of scientific exploration. We could slow the disease, but we could not stop its march. But the real question no one wanted to ask but which was on everyone’s mind was ‘Why are you helping us?’ The answer was equally terrifying. We were their primary food group.

Hating the press of the crowd when there was perfectly good space being wasted, I slid up to the pole where the Red Star stood. He was, as most tended to be, impeccably dressed. His suit was something from about a decade ago, but the lines were clean and the fabric well-cared for.  He wore a long coat made of some material I could not identify, but it had a subtle shimmer and shouted expensive to the world.

His hair was slicked back into a style worn by almost no one today, a throwback to around the 1950s. His hands revealed something of him, though. They were rough, skin calloused, like the hands of a dock worker and each nail ended in a grey sharpened claw, reputed to be able to cut through flesh and bone, like a scissor through paper. His grasp of the pole on the train was casual and his body swayed gently in rhythm with the movement. It was hypnotic to watch him.

His face was the most compelling thing about him. His eyes were positively chilling. Though he tried to affect an apparent devil-may care smirk, his eyes told of a smoldering and impotent rage. The look of a man who was used to a different lifestyle, of being in control, no, of being a power in his own right. I caught only a glimpse of this before he turned to me and smiled; a predator’s smile complete with razor sharp teeth.

“You’re bold. A man among mice, perhaps. Do you know what I am?”

“Of course, you are a Red Star, a citizen of these United States, subject to its laws and beneficiary of its privileges few though they may be these days.”

“You recite the litany as if you were one of us.”

“I am an identity portrait creator. I work with Red Stars every day.”

The problems including the Red Stars into society were numerous, they had been among us so long they had altered our ability to see them, each was born with a psychic gift allowing them to be unperceived by most of humanity. It wasn’t invisibility. You simply didn’t notice them. There were a tiny segment of the human population who could perceive them and others of their kind with similar “perception-blocking” abilities.

“So does your vocation make you loathe us more or less?” His voice was soft but carried through the background roar of the train. I suspect he was using his gifts to ensure I could hear him. “Don’t bother to answer, it was mostly a rhetorical question. I already know what the answer is.”

Emboldened by his turn of phrase, I spoke. “Actually, I have no problem with what you are. Having had the opportunity to paint dozens of Red Stars, I recognize your true nature and have moved past blind fear and panic. Now, it is a controlled fear. Something I recognize as dangerous but have no choice but to learn to accept it.”

“Have you now.” He moved very close to me, into my personal space, but I knew I couldn’t and shouldn’t back away. I had to control my fear, lest he feast upon it. His breath was hot, furnace hot and I realized the Hunger was upon him. “So you think you have mastered your fear? I assure you, you have not. Sweet, like a redolent wine, it rises from your flesh, the stink of it, like a fetid cheese, permeates your hair, your clothes. You live in fear of the unknown, the dangerous, the wretched state of humanity, our appearance, your military and the ultimate horror, that in three years, all of you may cease to exist. You have not mastered your fear, you simply stew in it like a lamb in a crockpot.” He sniffs me and then moves slowly away.

“You have nothing to worry about, young man. Your compatriots on this train give me more than enough to feed upon and I don’t have to do anything at all. Would you like to see?” He grabs my hand, tight, hot, rough and his grip is a thing of iron, inescapable. “Look at them.”

I did.

The room was awash in colors, while the train and all of its surfaces were almost black, the people faded into a kaleidoscope of colors, sounds and most importantly smells. I couldn’t distinguish what I was seeing at first, there was so much information, my mind wasn’t comprehending everything, it was a new sense, filled with information I had never known existed. My mind was mapping it on top of my existing senses with a riot of data. The artist in me was astounded and I found myself wanting to keep seeing it, feeling it. I could feel them, their fear was a palpable thing, a living organism whose heartbeat was suddenly synced with my own.

“Do you feel that? That beating, throbbing thing? That is the taste or sound of fear. All of you make that sound now; your entire species. Only the children seem immune to its crushing weight. There is a purple sound, listen for it.” I understood what he meant as he guided me through my, no our, new vision.

I could feel a pain forming behind my eyes, but I could not stop. “What is it?”

“Your plague, not the disease, but the fear of it. Do you see how pervasive it is? Can you see how all-consuming it is? This is why I need not feed from you, Artist. I am awash in all of the emotion I can consume, all the time. My greatest desire is to be away from humans now. This,” he says tapping his Red Star Amulet, “is the only reason any of us has to keep from feasting upon you and killing you all. Only in death would you stop. Only in death are we relieved from your emotional cataclysm. This cacophony is why so many of us in the early days killed so many of you. To make the noise which is you, stop.”

He lets go of my hand and my vision fades. The pain remains, throbbing, filling the space in my head until it feels as if my brain would burst.

“So much for controlled fear.”

“I never said I was good at it.”

“You are better than most. My name is Maximilian Oak. Virologist, student of Jonas Salk,  and I have been alive for five hundred years give or take.”

“I am Ben Szandro. Artist, writer, student of hard knocks and I have been alive for thirty years give or take.” I was about to lie and say I was pleased to make his acquaintance but I wasn’t really sure that I was. The Red Stars are big on propriety when they bother to acknowledge us at all. His introduction struck me as strange, as if there were more to it. He had no reason to introduce himself.

“You are a suspicious man, Ben Szandro. I like that. No. I did not read your mind. Your face is like an open book to one such as myself. Have you ever heard of the White Sun Movement?”

I was sorry to say I did. A group of crazed terrorist humans who take every opportunity to harass and kill Red Stars who live and work in the open with humans. “Yes.” I whispered.

“There are six members on this train. I have watched them for days now, wondering when they would make their move. I am a creature of habit. I arrive at the train the same time every day, catch the same train, every day. It never occurred to me this might be a problem, until a few days ago. You see, I believe there is a bomb on board this train.”

My blank stare seemed to amuse him. He smiled and continued.

“Their anticipation and heart rates are elevated. I hear whispers between them and each is wearing or carrying a White Sun rosary necklace; their annoying prayer and clicking drives me mad.”

“But what makes you think it’s a bomb?”

“I can smell it. I have lived through a number of wars, military events or otherwise uncivilized periods between humans. I know what a bomb smells like before and after its detonated. Do you doubt my senses?”

After what I had seen, no. “Then why didn’t you get off the train? How long have you known?”

“Since I stepped onto the train.”

“Does your plan include getting off the train Max?”

“No. It includes killing those members of the White Sun.”

This had just moved from frightening to outright dangerous. You have to understand a little about the Red Stars to appreciate what was about to happen. A bomb, unless it is laced with the right materials, will not kill a Red Star. And each one is different, so what might work for one may do nothing to another. Some are so damage resistant, they can bounce bullets like you and I deflect raindrops.

Honestly more than a bit concerned, I turned to look into the crowd of people pressing against each other on the distant end of the car. They all appeared to be just frightened people huddled against their inevitable fear of the strange and different.

Except for him. One fellow looked back at me. His eyes were not filled with fear. Or not just fear. He was filled with hate. Eyes tight with the hatred of something so great, it takes all of your willpower not to spit directly at this object of your loathing.

He spit.

Okay, hatred greater than his willpower. He was a man of middling height, but a strong build, rare in this day and age, it seemed the plague had a taste for body builders or those with high muscle definition, so many of the first to die were those with a low percentage of body fat. Scientists and doctors all laughed, when they could laugh, at the irony. His sandy hair was combed but uncut, his clothing looked serviceable but worn. Once I knew what to look for, the others weren’t hard to find. As I scrutinized their faces, I could see their resolve growing firm. They looked as if they were steeling themselves. Almost like they were counting down. But where was the bomb?

Max turned away from them and turned his gaze to the floor. And almost as I thought it, he answered my question. “I believe we’re standing on it.” The train groaned as it rounded the curve into the tunnel and day turned to night.

Before I could gather myself for the realization, I could feel a flash of heat coming from the Red Star, his clothing appeared to catch fire, and he whispered. “Forgive me.” The world slowed down, his long coat flashed out over his shoulders, flung back as he pulled me to him.

I heard flap of something like wings. There was sound and light everywhere, filling every crack of my consciousness. And then nothing but the screams of terror. Eventually they too faded.

Red Star © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Jump to Overview of House of Oak: Red Star, White Sun

Jump to Red Star, White Sun (2)

Citizen

Posted by Ebonstorm on October 9, 2012
Posted in: Hayward's Reach, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

a tale of the twilight continuum

This was the worst summer ever. Worst than the one where half the province caught fire. Worse than the one where we had a tornado everyday and entire towns disappeared overnight.

When the news was announced, my pa looked at me and shook his head. The lady who was reading the news used to be right pretty, but the drought going on five years now, had taken a toll on her and she was gaunt, skin tight, eyes dulled by a continued lack of clean water. “By federal mandate, a planetwide state of emergency is declared. All free standing bodies of fresh water, any unpolluted well, lake or reservoir is now the property of the Protectorate. It is illegal to own any source of water outside that which is regulated to your state and city provinces. This law shall remain in effect until further notice.”

“Oh, hell no.” Manard Strictland turned the television off. “How is a man supposed to run a respectable watering hole without water.”

My pa laughed. “Manard, when was the last time you served water to anyone here. We don’t come to your establishment for its water, unless its fire-water you offerin’.” He looked at me and while his mouth was smiling, his eyes were like flint, hard and sharp. “Boy, go ’round back and get the truck.”

“Yes, pa.” I went to the truck and saw the tarp in the back. My curiosity got the better of me. My Ma, bless her departed soul, once said a cat and his curiosity is a dangerous combination, but it’s just my nature. I drop the tarp, hot-foot it into the truck and tear around the corner and stop in the front of Manard’s bar.

“Okay, boys, I brought my entire collection and got a few from some other soldiers living near my farm.” He reached back and pulled the tarp off the pile of weapons. There were a bunch more fellas who has shown up while I was away. They were all veterans and had earned their Citizenship in the Barlantan Conflict. I hadn’t fought for our world against any of a dozen foreign invaders, yet but that was because I was just sixteen. I could join next year if Pa signed for me.

“So we are going to go to the water treatment facility and demand they turn the water back on?” Manard was looking a little green, as he looked over his rifle as if he were holding a poisonous snake.

“They don’t have the right to deny us water when we were told, our last conflict ensured water rights to all of our Citizens here at Elcas Grove.”

The Commonwealth government was a local protectorate. They had moved in during the fall of the Twenty Systems Empire and established themselves as a force for peace. At first. Then there were more skirmishes with other protectorates trying to expand into our space.

As foreign colonists we had limited rights, because we were not native to the planet, but we were offered Citizenship if we were willing to fight against enemies of the protectorate. It was the most important thing an immigrant could get. Parents could pass their Citizenship to their kids, if the kids had not earned their own. But the parent would have to emigrate back to their home planet. My father earned his Citizenship nearly thirty years ago during the early protectorate battles. Things had quieted down considerably since then.

In recent years, the government had begun to change, becoming more oppressive and violent in its dealings regarding mining and water rights. Skaris was a mineral-rich world and we helped make the protectorate far wealthier than they were when they got here. Pa was right, this was a water grab, pure and simple. If we didn’t stand up to them, they would come next and take back the land they gave us next.

Pa and his men had put on their old uniforms before heading out and before long we could see the water processing and storage facility. It was surrounded by members of the Protectorate guard.

“Frank, is that part of the Emhran Guard?” Pa and Frank were using a monocular to range and count the enemy.

“Yep. That’s them.” Frank was a former Emhran.

“Do you think they will fight?”

“Yep.”
“Is that gonna be a problem for you?”

“Nope. There are some orders you just shouldn’t follow. And they know it.”

“There are only thirty of us. There are three hundred of them, Pa.”

“They are stretched tight. Locking down all the planetary water supplies is tough to do with only a ten thousand men.”

My father taught me tactics as a child. I didn’t see how they could win.

He looked at me. “We can’t. That is why you will be waiting in the truck.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are three million Citizens on Skaris. There are twenty thousand members of the Protectorate here. But Citizens won’t rise up, unless they believe the Protectorate is a crazed and repressive government. And they are, but people don’t want to believe it. Our deaths will rally the Citizens to throw off the parasites of the Protectorate. We are all old vets, we know the price.”

“What about me, Pa? I need you.”

“Since your Ma passed, who runs the farm now?”

I thought about it. “I do.”

“Who tends the animals and works with the townies?”

“I do, Pa.

“I don’t expect you to understand, son. I am an old man. But I know a corrupt government. Been running from one my whole life. The worst kind of corruption is the one that says it is doing what it does for your own good but it only benefits them. This is our home. You get those people to fight for their world, find a way to make them believe they can be free. We are at the edge of the galaxy, there is no place to go after Skaris. Now, go.”

“I ain’t running, Pa.”

“Listen, this ain’t about you. A Citizen fights for the rights of everyone not able to fight for themselves, son. What they are doing is wrong. Making it illegal for a man to enrich himself off the labors of others, even when there is enough to go around, is the basis for what we fought against as soldiers of the Commonwealth. Slavery was wrong then, this is wrong, now.”

“You are a Citizen now. Find a way to make it right.” He handed me his Empire-pulse rifle. It has encoded on it a genetic badge that marked him a Citizen. When he died, a genetic relative would bear the title.

Their skirmish was brief. Those old veterans knew their warfare. They killed all the Protectorate soldiers. I was with him when he died. We didn’t say much. I just held his hand. He passed quietly.

As I stood up and looked around, all I could see were the dead, scattered in undignified poses. I picked up my Pa’s rifle and walked away from the water facility. I could see protectorate vehicles in the distance.

I would be coming back, and next time I would have an army.

Citizen © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

The Demon Chef: Fine Dining (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on October 3, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 2 Comments

Part the First: In where we meet our hero, Gen Shishio. We learn why Gen Shishio’s uncle drinks so much and why moving away did not solve the dilemma of the family business.

My name is Gen Shishio and today is my birthday. By the end of the day, I will also be murdered. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The day started off like any other day. I was out the door of the restaurant at three in the morning. It was a windy morning and I could hear the wind louvers whirling, directing their energy into the storage facilities deep within Hub City.

When I first came here, I was six or seven and everything seemed so amazing. Hub City was so strange looking, with its curved buildings and walls, exotic shapes and strange sounds. The city was designed to capture energy from every source possible, wind, solar, water, thermal, pressure and even sounds. I didn’t know that then, I thought the wind louvers were so loud and I just hated that sound. Its constant hum set my teeth on edge. I would learn when I was old enough to start working, the louvers were much louder than they appeared, without the designer plastics used to absorb, redirect and baffle their noises, they would be far louder.

The louvers were above the quadrant wall that comprised our section of the ring of the city. They would provide reduced power levels until the sun came up and the solar arrays kicked in. This section of the city wouldn’t really come alive until our secondary power sources came online. The only things you could see were the glowpaint used to light the streets, casting a pale turquoise light, just enough to see by, if you knew your way around. Tourists could request a VR agent to direct them to where they wanted to go. I hadn’t used one in years. I could find my way though the city by smell alone.

We lived in what is officially the sixteenth district, but called the Undercity by the locals. It got such a colorful name because it was one of the entry points to the lower city where most of the inhabitants of Hub City lived, protected from the environment. There were plenty of people who lived on the surface, but most of us were workers who ran stores, training facilities, or mini-factories providing services for farmers, industrials or artists who preferred to work above ground.

I walked out onto the boulevard and could see yesterday’s festival art on the walls glowing gently. I remembered all of the artists who were teaching their particular art style and the walls were filled with impressionistic, rationalist, photorealistic and abstract art forms. Some were positively brilliant, others were simply adequate, all showed clear technique and a few were showing signs of true genius. I stopped to look at a particular piece and touched the wall and the painting.

“Art request, name and history of this artist, please display last six pieces.” I spoke into my sub-dermal microphone. The city’s network interpreted my response from my sub-vocalization. It stored all of the local paintings and cleared the wall. It then displayed high resolution versions of the artist’s work.

“Barad Thurston, age 25, current occupation: aspiring artist with 24 art credits and four successful art rotations. Secondary occupations include mechanical replacement tech, sewage power systems. His work has won several commendations and he is expected to take a supervisors role in the Artists Guild, in the coming year when Art and Functions Administrator Galen enters semi-retirement.” The autonomous computer system’s voice was a smooth and well modulated baritone. It’s name was Walker, after the programmer who created the Intelligence systems used in the Hub Cities.

“Please send my regards and offer him an evening at the restaurant for a private showing of his work.”

“Request completed, his saganet has indicated a scheduling conflict, but will let him decide when he awakes. Will there be anything else?”

“Please reset the wall to its previous settings so others may enjoy them.”

“Gen Shishio, you will be late to the fishery if you continue at this pace. You will need to take a bicycle if you wish to remain on schedule.”

“Yes, Walker, can you…?” A bike appears on AP and pulls up to the curb. “Thank you, Walker.”

“You are welcome, Gen Shishio.”

I turned off the autopilot and electrical configuration and set the bike for manual mode. I enjoy exerting myself and the cool morning air feels good. I make good time to the fishery. It is in the first and second levels of the Undercity near the river. It takes about thirty minutes of heavy activity to get there and back. The trip back is more difficult since its uphill and I’m laden with fish but I refuse to use the electric motor until the very last incline back to the surface.

My uncle is standing at the door when I pull up. I expected it since I was a bit behind schedule. “Good morning, uncle.” He didn’t seem particularly unhappy, but lately he had been a bit harder to read than usual.

He reached into the back of the bike and hefted the eighty pounds of fish, as if they barely weighed anything at all. “Give me those fish, we have to get ready, we will be having special guests this evening.”

“The men you have been talking about for weeks? You worry too much Uncle, who cooks like we do anywhere in the Hub? Our cuisine is uniquely Japanese with an authentic flavor. They will love it.”

“They better for all our sakes.” He dashes off to the kitchen and the night crew starts turning on the lights and prepping for the morning rush. I can tell today is going to be big.

Each shift in this part of the city is six hours long. No one works more than six hours in any day, no matter what their job. So we get a rush of customers at the end of shifts and right before shifts start. To keep restaurants and stores from being overrun, most organizations stagger their shifts so businesses are not overwhelmed. This usually means we have a three hour window where there is a wave of customers, nonstop, then a slowing period where we clean up and restock the kitchen. We also get a tiny window between shifts where the leaving crew eats and passes along any issues to the arriving crew. It sounds confusing but once you learn the rhythm, it becomes like your heartbeat. You know when people are coming, you know how long the wave will last and after a time, you will know who everyone is until the end of the quarter when people are rotated to their next assignments or you get rotated to yours.

I am a chef, like my father and uncle before me. I had always planned to be a chef, but when we left Japan and then later New York, things were not so certain for me to take up my father’s career. Hubs were not like regular cities, they did things very differently. People did not get or keep a job or get to establish a career until they had been working for a minimum of four years.

I worked as a fish farmer, florist and medicinal grower, a sewage worker and a power-plant technician. My rotation was all assigned to areas close to my home and Walker assigned them to ease transitions and to ensure I would work with people who were compatible but intellectually challenging. I started working with my father at six, but once I came to the Hub with my uncle, I went to work at fourteen and did my rotations during the day shifts and worked partials with my Uncle at night. As a child, I was educated during a second shift and slept during the third. My life in Hub City was constantly filled with work, school or some other occupational study.

My father died when I was twelve. We were very close and the circumstances of his death were not made clear to me. They said I was too young to understand but my uncle assured me all would be made clear when I was older. He told me to be patient. So I was. My uncle took me in and life continued on.

Uncle arrived some time before four. He looked terrible. He had been drinking again and the habit only seemed to be getting worse, the closer I came to my eighteenth birthday. I didn’t know what he was thinking though I had tried several times to get him to talk to me. He was only surly and resentful and became even more resistant to conversation. He came into the restaurant, spoke to no one, walked around in the back, checked the menus and samples of what was being prepared. He snatched a bit off food from each setting and seemingly satisfied went upstairs to look down from the upper balcony. He took a small flash of saki with him out of the kitchen and as he climbed the stairs, he stopped to look at me before continuing to go upstairs.

We were just closing and setting up for the Art Exhibit. We had several film screens able to be lowered down and configured to receive artistic information. Barad Thurston agreed to come by this evening to entertain guests and planned to do a series of paintings and instruction during the evening. While advertising was forbidden, open houses which gave access, instruction and opportunities to sample our wares was perfectly acceptable and within the City’s guidelines.

While the guests were filing in, Uncle disappeared into the kitchen and was likely preparing something unique, a Yūgure signature dish or something only he could prepare.

Everything was perfect, Thurston was flirting with Mei Ling, and she maintained an air of professionalism as she showed off his artwork, and worked with him to organize his showing. The restaurant was bursting with new faces and several of the local children were already showing up for sweets with their parents in tow.

I didn’t notice when they came in. It seemed they just appeared at a table upstairs. It was possible they walked in while I wasn’t looking but Uncle seemed to expect them and had food being directed to the second floor. There were seven men in dark suits, three older, four younger. The older men were sitting down and facing the floor and the art below. Their four younger men stood behind them, perfectly motionless until they were needed to serve their masters.

“Gen, I need you to take this chrysanthemum upstairs, please. Remember your manners.”

I recognize the chrysanthemum as a fish dish where slivers of fish are placed around in a layered circular configuration like the flower it is named after. The dish was beautifully garnished with green sprigs of parsley. In the center of the flower was a bowl filled with an unknown pâté. As I carried the platter upstairs, I could feel the presence of the men, an ominous thing. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and the urge to turn and run only intensified as I walked into the room.

I could feel the eyes of the standing men looking me over, staring at me as if I were a fine delicacy about to be served. The upper serving room has variable lighting allowing us to create an atmosphere suitable for any occasion. I knew the lights were on, but shadows felt as if they were whipping around the room masking whatever I tried to bring my gaze to. No matter who I looked at, I could not see their faces.

“Gen Shishio-san. It is our pleasure to meet you, finally.” The oldest looking of the three sitting men turned his gaze to me and I could feel it, hot, on my face. “You are the spitting image of your father.”

“He is, indeed,” said the one on the right whose long eyebrows were bushy and white. His hair also hung long and unkempt, a wild ragged appearance. One of his eyes, the right one had a milky look, perhaps an untreated cataract.

The one on the left, said nothing, but was the first to reach for the plate as I placed it on the table. “Sit with us, Gen Shishio,” he said suddenly, as placed the tray in the center of the table with a variety of foods around it, as yet untouched. He startled me, his voice while a whisper, left me with the feeling of nails on a chalkboard. I felt unable to resist. I sat.

“Do you know what this dish is Gen Shishio? We had your uncle prepare it special. We provided the main ingredient, since it is so rare. You may have never actually seen it.”

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage my excellent guests and I would love to sit and share a meal when I am not entertaining so many. Please introduce yourselves and I shall have more of our finest sake sent up right away.”

“You may call us by our family name, Hokuriku. I am Ishikawa and these are my brothers Fukui, and Niigata. We have come to Hub City to make you a proposal of work, young Shishio-san.”

“Hokruiku-sama, I appreciate any opportunities you may be offering but my uncle and I already have work keeping Yūgure, the premiere Japanese cuisine in Hub City. Even if I wanted to work for you, I would not have the time.”

Fukui, the Silent, had begun taking food and placing it on his plate. He made a great effort to sample everything and his plate was an artform as he arranged his food. I could almost see a pattern before I was distracted by a presence behind me. It was my Uncle.

“Murata, you have not informed your nephew of our arrangement?” Niigata, of the Hot Eyes gazed up at my uncle who returned a stare equally intense.

“No, I had hoped you would find another and leave our family alone. You have caused us enough harm.” His voice was hard, each word biting and fell from his mouth like ash.

“Talents like the one’s in your family are exceedingly rare, Murata. Not just anyone can prepare food for our kind.” Ishikawa, sitting between his brothers points to another chair and uncle joined us.

The four men who had taken up a position in the four corners of the room, appeared suddenly next to my Uncle and I and prepared plates for us, creating a beautiful setting of eel, shrimp, sushi and the mystery fish, with some of the pâté placed as a garnish on the fish.

“Eat, business can wait while we enjoy the company of new friends.” Ishikawa statement of friendship felt almost sincere. I almost believed it.

Below the table my uncle kicked my leg as he picked up chopsticks and began to eat, first the fish soup, then around his plate, avoiding the mystery fish completely. Our conversation lingered around the artist and his work, our impressions of the city, and how we enjoyed our lives here. They were marvelous to talk with, each seemingly knowledgeable about a variety of subjects. I had almost forgotten my initial impression of them.

Until it was time to eat the fish.

I had eaten the same way my uncle had, around the plate avoiding the fish, until it was all that was left. Ishikawa noticed. “Are you going to allow such an excellent fish to go uneaten?” On his plate, he had already consumed the fish and the pâté. “It is truly marvelous, and so subtly prepared. You still don’t recognize it, do you Gen Shishio? Murata would you like to educate the boy?”

“It is fugu, or blowfish. An exceedingly rare and exotic fish; prized for its flesh, sweet and delicious.”

I also remembered what fugu was also known for. It was also known for its deadly neurotoxin produced by special glands inside the fish. The fish could only be prepared by a chef of renown skill because even the tiniest mistake could equal death. A slow suffocating death as the body loses control of its autonomic functions and breathing ceases.

“Eat the fish, Gen Shishio. You trust your uncle, don’t you?” Niigata turned his gaze toward me and his eyes under those terrible eyebrows began to glow.

“Of course.” I ate the first piece of fugu without fear. My uncle and father were known for their skills in the kitchen. Dead drunk, my uncle was a better chef than most were sober. I have to admit the flesh was heavenly, even more so knowing every bite might be my last. I trust my uncle but remember how so many people have managed to die eating fugu, even expertly prepared. I consumed the second and the third.

Niigata smiled. “Don’t forget the excellent garnish.”

“No, Gen. Don’t eat that.” My uncle whispered, his head hanging down.

As one, they looked up from their plates, placing their chopsticks on the table, “We insist, Gen Shishio.” Their full menace returned. Their dark suits became darker as shadows spread from them and the room seemed to darken as well, as if it were cut off from the rest of the light in the restaurant. I picked up my chopsticks again and moved toward the pâté.

“Are you willing to take his place, Murata? You aren’t even sure you could survive transition are you? That is why we waited until he turned eighteen. You were too old for our needs. Have you changed your mind?” Ishikawa’s smooth voice taunted my uncle and each word seemed an acid to him.

“Uncle? What are they talking about?”

“Our family served the royal family centuries ago. We were a legendary house and we attracted the attention of others in both the celestial and infernal houses. If we survive this evening, I will tell you more. But they do not lie. If I eat the mixture of poison glands in the pâté, I will die.”

“And if I eat it?”

“If your blood is true, you will live. You are your father’s son, I know you will find your way back.”

Fukui’s chalkboard voice, shrill and grating, screeched, “Eat it, boy. We have waited a decade. We will wait not a moment longer. Prove your worth.”

“They cannot force you. They cannot compel you to work for them. But if you don’t, only one of us can get up from this table. They have bound our souls during the meal so that only one soul can rise from this table. I promised your father I would protect you.”

“I would never let anything happen to you Uncle. Not now. Not ever.” With that, I ate the ball of poisonous pâté. I didn’t have to wait long.

The room grew darker and colder. My uncle got up and cleared the table as they lay me upon it. I saw the room moving away, I floated above my body and looked around. I could see Ishikawa, Fukui, and Niigata but they were not what they appeared to be. Ishikawa appeared as a man made of shadow, whose essence was connected to every shadow everywhere. Fukui, looked to be made of rock, rough hewn with hunks missing from him. His voice was the scraping of rocks together. Niigata, appeared to be made up of nothing but eyes. His eyebrows draped all the way to the floor and inside his shirt were other eyes that blinked and stared at me. Their four servants appeared as men but were nothing more than shadows in the shape of men, there was nothing to them physically. Despite their shadow substance, they were quite real enough to keep my Uncle held as he watched me die.

“Gen Shishio, as you hang between life and death, know we bind you to life in our service. We anchor you with shadow, the shadows all men know and tell to smooth their way through life. In our service, the shadow will be your path between all things. We bind you with stone, immovable, you will never be free of us, not even Death can come to you, unless we allow it. We bind you with Sight, the ability to see worlds beyond this one, from which what we need must be found. Our clan lays claim to you and with this kido hold you fast to your duties. You will cook for us, you will create the infernal essences necessary for our continued immortal existence. And at any time you fail us, we will take from you, a single life you hold dear. We seal you with the life of the artist Barad Thurston. You value him and his art, so it is fitting we bind you with it.”

A painting of flames swirling artistically moved from the wall and imprinted itself upon my skin, around my arms, around my chest and across my back. Then a scream from the main floor as Thurston fell to the ground, dead. Soon others followed and the screams penetrated my darkness and I could see my body again. I made my way toward it, first slowly, then faster, falling back toward it like water into a drain. I sat up, my breath rushing back into my body, my flesh cool to the touch.

Hours had past. I was lying on the same table, my breath ragged and my chest and arms burned. My uncle sat up as my breathing resumed.

“You made it back. But you don’t have much time. If you are to serve them, you will need your father’s tools.”

“Am I dead, Uncle?” I felt cool, different, constrained like a shirt that somehow became too small while I was wearing it.

My uncle looked at me, and dropped his gaze. The second time today I had ever seen him do that. “No, Gen Shishio, you are not dead, not exactly. You are between life and death. But before long you may wish you were simply dead. You are now, the demon’s chef.”

The Demon Chef © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Ouroboros Rising

Posted by Ebonstorm on October 1, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 2 Comments

“Apprentice.”

“Yes, master.”

“It’s time.”

I help him up and walk him into his study. He is paper-thin, light like a bird, a wisp of the force I remember from my youth. I can feel the fire burning through him, my second sight, even shielded cannot block the visions of his power. I help him to his workbench, a central seat of his gift. It was only as we drew close could I sense it.

The bracelet. It shimmered in darkness the way his power glowed brightly. A cool black metal that flickered like glass, lit from within with a sinister madness. This was my last time to say no.

He sits, his palsy stops when he picks it up. His eyes harden like flint and his unspoken gaze beckons me to sit across from  him. The light from the power within him dims. “Once you put this on, you will enter our Order. There is no release, no resistance, no rest from Ouroboros; her power is complete and unending. Do you understand?”

Of course I did. This was what I trained for this last fifteen years. This decision marks my journey to true power.

“I know that look, boy. You think, you are getting what you want. Do you think I don’t know what you’re feeling? I sat there once.”

“Master, I am just eager to begin our work.”

“Don’t be in such a rush to go out and subjugate the world.”

“Master…”

“Spare me. Your lust for power was the reason you were chosen. Ouroboros requires strong passion, better to harness your gift.”

“Harness my gift?”

“Give me your hand, child. This is not a toy, nor just a tool. It is a weapon coupled with your intent. Fail to harness your intent and it will kill you.”

He rubs the bracelet and taps it on his stone workbench. He taps it again. And again. The flat sound echoes across my senses, first a ripple, then a tide. Then a crack appears in the surface of the stone. Ironwood, once living, now a metallic stone, one of the hardest natural substances, cracks, splinters to dust, with a sound like the world ending.He grabs my hand and his grip was as strong as it was weak a moment earlier. The bracelet had expanded slips easily over my hand.

Then all I could feel was the power. All that I thought I knew about power was now erased. My inner energy was as a candle compared to this burning sun. He was right. I had no idea. The things I would do.The metal burned my flesh as it began to close tightly on my wrist. As my power grows darker, I could suddenly see his. It was always there, you would only see his power for a second whenever he would pass before a window curtain and the light hit his aura just right. Now it was alive, visible and its energy flies toward me.

“Yes, you can feel the power of Ouroboros and you think, I can do anything. And you are right. But with light, comes the darkness. Ouroboros is between all things, so I now give unto you the other side of power: responsibility. The chains that binds this power to your very soul. Each time you partake of her power, you are dying. You will do great things. But whenever you reach beyond what is yours, and ask her for power, your sacrifice will be your time left to live. And you have much to do.” The black shadow falls on my bracelet and its light was diminished, flecked with shadows, nuances and shades of grey. My vision returned to normal. His grip loosened and he fell back into his chair, boneless and still. I leaped over the remnants of his work desk, its power drained into me.

He looked at me, then down to the bracelet. He smiled fiercely. “Chained you again. He’s a strong one. Your scourge will be contained, for a time.” He lifted his head, his eyes rheumy with age. “I’m sorry, Kal.” His whisper barely reached me.

He died slumping forward into my arms.

“He was a bitter, old man. We will do great things, you and I.”

I could feel her coiled around my heart. Squeezing and settling down like a snake. Making my power her own.

All that light. The radiance that dwarfs my own. It is the life forces of mages she’d claimed before me. I am insignificant to her. She thinks to use me up. I am no more than food to her. I may never be able to be free of her, but I certainly don’t have to give her what she wants. She will earn every meal.

“They all said that. All fell before me. Ambition is a hard taskmaster.” She paused to let me think on that. Then she continued. “We have time; there is no rush to get back to taking your world for my own. Let us get to know one other.”

We conspired deep into the night.

Ouroboros Rising © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Equinox: Welcome to Providence (7)

Posted by Ebonstorm on September 24, 2012
Posted in: Chapter, Equinox: The Last Scion, Serial, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

equinox – the last scion (part 7)

We, I mean me and the Hat, walked for what seemed like days. The desert gave way to a road. It was paved but no cars ever seemed to travel along it. We walked for three days and didn’t see anything. I knew I should be getting hungry or thirsty, but the Hat kept telling me not to worry about it. I felt this burning in my chest from time to time, but it wasn’t like hunger or thirst.

Not exactly. I kept having the feeling that I was in need of something but having never had it, I couldn’t tell you what I was lacking or how to fix it. Whatever it was, it was wrong. The sense of wrongness you get when you drink a bitter liquid and are told you can’t spit. The longer we walked the more that sense of wrongness grew. My skin felt too tight like a balloon blown up to the point of breaking.

Walking all day and all night, time gained a surreal quality and my senses became fuzzy, as if I was not seeing the world as I knew it. The road eventually became a dirt path and the Hat said our destination was ahead. We passed a sign that said “Welcome to Providence, population 1,024.” The paint on the sign was old and the number had been replaced recently updating the four.

There was a sense of foreboding as we continued down the road. The air grew thick and the wind picked up. The early morning sky darkened and the smell of ozone filled the air. A storm was coming. The pain in my chest grew stronger, as if a weight was being placed on my chest. My breathing became ragged.

“Sit down for a second.”

You are awful bossy for a hat. “What is that feeling?”

“There are two things going on here. The first is your power trying to compensate for your lack of food and water. But in doing so, it has begun to make others aware of it. That feeling is the presence of a Power you are sensing.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we need to get you a meal and soon. The longer you go without food, the more likely the Power will overtake you and consume your life essence.”

“Uh, say again? Consume my life essence? That does not sound particularly healthy.”

“It means your consciousness would cease to exist and you would for all intents and purpose be dead. This would be undesirable as your Power would be roaming the world uncontrolled. You still have some time before that is something to be seriously concerned about.”

“What exactly is a Power? Is it like the use of magic or technology?”

“You have not been told what a Power is?”

“Not the way you say it. You make it sound like a capital P when you say it. I take it that is different than when I say power-plant or power-steering.”

I could feel the Hat shaking its figurative head.”What happened when you met the Great Ones, Kali and Shango? Did you feel anything?” Other than scared out of my boots? Or the feeling of complete insignificance in the presence of legendary beings? “No. Wait. I did feel something. But it felt as if they were making an effort to keep something from me.”

“They shielded their Power from you. They were trying to protect you. If you could feel their true power, you…”

“What? What are they protecting me from?”

“It is not for me to say.”

“Are you serious? Everyone has spent the last week telling me they cannot tell me about whatever it is that people are trying to kill me over. I thought you were on my side.”

“So we understand each other: There is no one on anyone’s side. Powers will lie, cheat and steal whatever they can from you, and take whatever they cannot bargain for. This is a dog eat dog Universe. Season dog well, so when its your turn to eat, he won’t taste so bad. The best you can hope for is an alliance of convenience.”

“So you are not on my side?”

“I did not say that. I said the idea of sides is a relative concept and thinking that people will be fair to you or work on your behalf is one that may get you killed. I sense something of honor about you. Probably from your father. But understand this, we did not come to Providence so you could get yourself killed over your honor.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I am trying to keep it that way. A Power is seeking you out. They know you are coming here. Let’s keep moving. They will be here soon.”

“Who?” The question went unanswered.

As we walked, Providence solidified around me, and it looked like any small town from any 1950’s B movie I had ever seen. The streets were cobbled, nicely, and the rock was solid under my boots. The town while small, was well constructed and from I could see through the dusty air, seemed to be relatively nice.

I noted immediately the one thing that seemed out of place. No people. Not on the road, not in the windows, not in the storefronts. But as I moved further into town, I could hear the sounds of voices. A dull roar off in the distance. I kept walking toward the sound. As it grew louder, I saw the first signs of habitation. Vehicles. But they were all old, nothing modern. Yes, they were cars, but if I were guessing, nothing from later than the ’50s.

Then I saw the stadium, or what would be a large football field with stands on both sides of the field and people filled the boxes on all four sides of the field. The place was packed. I could see the two teams playing on the field and the ball was moving down field and the stands went wild. The roar was the old fashioned cheering of the home team. That creepy feeling I had been having seemed to ease up for just a second. This was just a small town playing a weekend football game. Nothing unusual here.

Looking up at the old-fashioned scoreboard, I could see the score, 10-24 in favor of the home team. Turning away, I looked back into the town when I saw him approaching me. He was wearing a long coat and wore a star on his lapel. He was a large man, whose size became more evident as he grew closer. Under his long black coat he wore a khaki police uniform but he did not carry a gun, I could see. My father’s voice came to me unbidden. “Mark a man, not just by what you can see, but what you can’t.”

I looked again, this time with the mind of a man whose life might depend on what he saw next. He walked with a slight limp. Off balanced, his right arm swung a little wide. He is wearing a shoulder rig. His gun rides high, likely for a cross draw. He is left handed, his left hand swings, his right, much less. He is wearing good solid boots and a wide hat, to keep the sun out of his eyes. He is coming toward me with the sun in my eyes. Taking any advantage he can get. There was something else about him. He was magically sealed. Some kind of warding,  I could not tell what it protected him from but it was strong.

“Howdy, stranger. Enjoying the game? Our local boys are whipping ’em something fierce today.”

“Yes, sir. Your team is doing a fine job.”

“I was sent to escort you into town to meet the mayor.”

“How did you know to expect me?”

“The name of the town is called Providence for a reason, son. Everyone who shows up here, needs to be here. I am the Sheriff of Providence, I am always where I need to be. This way, please.”

“Can I ask the mayor’s name?”

“Certainly, he said you would ask. Mayor Black said to extend you every courtesy. He said its not every day you get to meet the Last Scion in person.”

“That is the second time someone has called me that. What does it mean? If you can tell me…”

“It means you are the last living member of your house. You are the last of the House of Dragon, the bearer of the Equinox.”

When he said that, the fire in my chest suddenly seared with a physical heat, as if having someone name it brought it to incandescent life. A pulse of force radiated from me in a circle, and as it passed the stadium, the crowd became silent.

“Now, now. We don’t want any of that. We don’t want or need any trouble. You keep that under control or I will do it for you.”

“A smart man waits until he knows the lay of the land before showing his hand.” I could feel my father standing over my shoulder in that moment. I would wait. I could feel the Dragon curling back up and going to sleep. That seemed to be the right word for it; dragon, I could feel it, a great power coiled within me. Why did it cause me to be even more afraid? If it was so powerful, why didn’t it protect my father? Something is still wrong. But the answers feel closer than ever.

I took a deep breath. I turned to look at the sheriff, who appeared to be poised to take some sort of action. His eyes had narrowed and I could feel the tingle of an anti-magic aura being gathered. I smiled and remained perfectly still. To even raise my hand might be mistaken as me gathering energy or about to use magic. “Take me to your leader.”

*   *   * 

As the Sheriff escorted me into the center of town, I could sense the game behind me returning to its previous exuberance. The townsfolk seem to take their football seriously and whatever they sensed earlier didn’t seem to warrant further investigation once they saw the Sheriff was on the job. That made me nervous.

The pain in my chest returned with a renew vigor and I stumbled and dropped to one knee.

“You okay, son?”

“To be perfectly honest, Sheriff, I could do with a bite to eat.”

“Well, under the circumstances, it would be bad manners if I had you meet the mayor on an empty stomach. I am certain he would not want our town’s reputation for hospitality to be ruined on my account.”

“On my way into town, I noticed everything’s closed. What do you have in mind?” Too many afternoons of bad B movies had me thinking he was going to invite me to his home and chop me up in his basement.

“One of the benefits of being the Sheriff is a key to the diner. I am certain we can rustle up something from the fridge. Now tell me something, how old are you? ‘Cause to look at you, I’d think you were sixteen and a bit young to be out here in Providence, no disrespect.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Ah. Existential angst might be enough to get you here, then.”

When we reached the diner, the Sheriff let us in and locked the door behind us. He moved behind the counter in what appeared to be a diner straight out of Happy Days. Big counter, wide spinning seats, a jukebox, diner booths with bright red padded chairs. All we were missing was a laugh track and a guy in a leather jacket. I spun around on one of the stools a couple of times, but stopped right before the Sheriff came back into the room.

“Made you a BLT, hope you eat bacon.” He smiled and carried the two plates and cups like a pro. Noting my smile, he added, “Did my time as a waiter when I first came to Providence twenty years ago. Some skills never go away.”

That seemed like a strange thought to me. This was a guy that seemed to have been a Sheriff forever. I can’t imagine him having ever been anything else. That was another thing about this place, the very nature of everything here seemed overt, powerful, strong as if each thing were the perfect representation of the thing I was seeing. Ms. Hart tried to teach me something about that once, but I couldn’t recall what she called it.

Talking around the most delicious BLT I had ever eaten I had to ask the question that had been nagging me since I got here. “Sheriff, where is Providence? I mean on a map.”

“Now see, we were doing so well. Why did you have to go and spoil it with a philosophical conversation. Let’s finish our meal with less weighty questions and then the mayor can answer such deep and meaningful questions.” I didn’t see him eat his sandwich but when I looked at his plate, his food was gone.

He was sipping on a cup of strong, black coffee. I could smell it and the scent of it reminded me of my father. He drank his black. I remember taking a sip and finding it the most bitter thing I had ever had. He laughed as I choked it down. When I asked him why he drank it that way, he said he wanted the essence of the coffee. Sugar and milk watered down the true nature of the oil that coffee was made from. It was important to him to engage the coffee in a struggle of its nature versus his. I didn’t quite understand it then. But now its making more sense. The real struggles of the world were not always cataclysmic. They were the tiny conflicts we fight every day, those were the battles that needed to be won in order to win the war. He started his day off with a battle he could win.

“Sheriff, if you can’t tell me where Providence is, can you tell me what it is? My teacher taught me about the realm of Logos, where the perfect representation of everything can be found. When I am looking around here, everything seems simply too good, if I can use the word, iconic, even. I mean, look at this jukebox, its perfect, lights all work, each label for the records is perfectly written, no scratches, no flaws. It’s almost as if it had never been used.”

Leaning back onto the counter, he had leaned his hat forward and while sipping his coffee, shadow seemed to fall on his face and for a moment, all I could see was the glittering of his eyes. Across the room, I could feel a chill in the air and his words seemed darker, colder and just a touch menacing. “Providence ain’t like any town you have ever seen, boy. Providence is every town you have ever seen. Everything seems perfect here because it is. Everyone who lives here is someone who had despaired of finding a place that could hold them, make them feel human, people out on the edges of the world, a world that has forgotten that everyone isn’t beautiful, or wealthy or loved. Providence is where those forgotten people get to come and be normal.”

There was a mirror on the wall across from the jukebox over the dinner booths. I hadn’t noticed it earlier but when my eye fell across it, I could see the Sheriff on the stool but what I saw wasn’t even remotely human. Misshapen, with a long arm draping onto the floor, the other surrounding the tiny coffee cup. The glint of a long tusk, touched what did appear to be the Sheriff’s cap. Legs, thick and frightening, covered in a scale ended in large clawed toes. When he spoke next, his smooth and methodical voice was replaced with a harsh, scratchy sound like gravel being ground together to approximate human speech. “Are you ready, not a good thing to keep the mayor waiting too long?”

I snapped my head back into the room and I saw the Sheriff return to his beautiful, glamoured appearance. When I looked back into the mirror, he still looked the same now. Whatever I saw was gone. I wanted desperately ask the Hat what was going on, but since we entered the town proper, it hasn’t made so much as a sound, so I wanted to keep it a secret, for as long as possible. “Yes, sir. That sandwich hit the spot. My complements to the chef.”

The walk to the main building at the center of town was short. As we walked, I saw the sky darkening slightly,  and the wind picked up just a bit. I could taste the slightest moisture in the air and the distant flash of lightning in the hills surrounding Providence foretold rain in a couple of hours.

“Company’s coming. Let’s get a move on.” The Sheriff picked up his pace and the sound of his boots echoed off the walls of the nearby shops and down the alleys. I was underwhelmed by the very ordinary outside of the building. It looked like an old bell tower or a building that might have been a church in the past.

But once past the doors, its inner appearance was simply majestic. It had a high inner ceiling and stained glass windows. Where I would have expected pews the floor was open and clear with a very ornate sigil that I did not recognize, on the floor made from a mosaic of tiny tiles. It was beautiful even to my underdeveloped sense of artistic mastery. I had never seen anything quite like it. “Mind your hat.” The Sheriff took his hat off as he entered the building. I followed suit. My Hat was hot in my hands, like a living thing. It vibrated with a hum like a cat purring.

“Stay on the White. Do not touch the black tiles.” The Sheriff took a circuitous route to the stairwell, carefully avoided any of the tiles which were completely black. Paying close attention I did the same. The longer I walked the longer the walk seemed to take. I realized something was happening when I noticed the angle of the sun. A significant amount of time was required to navigate the room and when I realized I had reached the stairs, at least thirty minutes had passed. The angle of the sun was completely different. But during the movement, I was unaware of the passage of time until I reached the stairs.

“Don’t ask.”

Did I really ask that many questions? When we reached the second floor, the building was made of the darkest wood I had ever seen. It seemed to absorb the very light from the room.  All the windows were stained glass and no direct sunlight came into the room. But I think sunlight would refuse to enter here, even if it could. The air was heavy and still. Thick with age, like a closet that has not been opened for a long time.

The Sheriff pointed down the hall to a large set of doors. “The Mayor will see you in that room. When you get there, knock and wait until told to enter. I will see to our other guests. Good luck, son.”

“You’re not coming?” Suddenly being here didn’t seem to be the good idea I thought it was when I was first convinced of it.

“This is as far as I need to go. Goodbye, Last Scion. I think we shall never meet again. I am sorry.”

I turned down the hall and the Hat in my hand thrummed and nearly sang with anticipation. I could feel it’s familiarity with this place as if it were coming home. Walking down the hall, it grew darker, a subtle thing but by the time I reached the end of the hall, I could barely see anything. The doors were a cold stone, matte black, absorbing all light, reflecting nothing.

I knocked. The doors absorbed the sound muffling my pitiful attempt to be heard. I waited. I knocked harder with greater vigor, wanting to be heard. It didn’t matter.

“Enter, Adam, Last Scion of the Clan Equinox.” The voice was startlingly clear. And then I realized why. It was coming from the Hat in my hand. I pushed the door open and entered into a room that was completely without light.

I walked in and the Power in my chest flared to fiery life. I could feel it trying to illuminate the darkness. It failed. I bumped into a chair, something leather, plush and padded.

“Sit down. Place the Hat on the chair across from you and we shall begin our negotiations.”

“Hello Heberon. It’s been a while.”

Whose Heberon? I can smell a perfume, smoky, dusky, a sandalwood and a voice that sounded like the Hat, with a decidingly more female sound.

“Hello, my Dark Master. It has been a century or two. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all, my dear. Did you explain to your young charge about his unconditional surrender?

“We hadn’t gotten around to that part, yet my Master.”

Jump to Chapter 8

Equinox © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

With Great Power

Posted by Ebonstorm on August 24, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 2 Comments

“Hurry up Cartouche, you’re late again. Even Rothul beat you here tonight and he had to escape from prison to do it.” Rothul waves from the end of the table in his orange prison fatigues. Holding a fruity drink, his dark sunglasses hide his albino-pink and frankly unnerving stare. He almost smiles, indicating he’s in a good mood.

When we first invited him, we weren’t sure it was a good idea, but being the second smartest guy on the planet and considered the world’s most notorious villain, we figured he didn’t get many chances to play poker with people who could beat him. We were more surprised when he showed up.

“Sorry, got held up. There was a tsunami in Bali I had to stop before I got here from the satellite. It adds thirty minutes to my travel time. What happened to the teleporter, this time?”

“It’s making vorbals again.” Night Flyer was sitting down to the table and taking off his too-long cape. Spastic Man, stumbling over the end of Night Flyer’s nearly invisible Cloak of Darkness, pratfalls and flips his drink up in to the air. Night Flyer mumbles. “Sorry about that.”

I hate that cape. People are always tripping over it. Everybody except him.

Vorbals. The vicious, man-eating, Rottweiler-sized aliens took over the satellite during the Dimension War and managed to get trapped by Night Flyer in the pattern buffer. At the time, it was a brilliant save. Unfortunately, a week later, randomly vorbals appeared in town whenever we used the teleporter. So on poker nights, we agreed to just fly down so we can have a quiet night. Night Flyer was supposed to have fixed the pattern buffer last week so that’s why he is so quiet. Having more money than several small nations, he has time on his hands and usually does all the repair work. Being the fourth smartest person on the planet doesn’t hurt either.

Zipper, having already sat down, sprang into action and grabbed the cup, he disappeared for about four seconds and returned with a three foot hogie. He also refreshed Spastic Man’s drink and had it back at the table by the time Spaz stood up again, no worse for the wear. Not really sure how Spastic Man stays in the Defenders of Justice because his only real power is being terribly unlucky and completely invulnerable to harm. He makes a great football for villains too, I guess.

Paragon, sitting at the head of the table, vaporized the falling drink with his megavision and continues shuffling the cards without breaking stride. Doing some arm rolls and speed shuffling, he shows off his recent skill acquisition after his recent trip to Vegas with his wife. Nobody knows what he sees in her but whenever she calls he is right there. Maybe one of his plethora of powers is the ability to ignore nagging. He’s truly is a better man than I.

Pulling up a chair, I sat down across from the Captain and the Spider. They came over from a parallel universe where mutants have overrun the planet. The displacement harnesses allowed them to remain in phase with our universe. Both are maskless and their faces look worn and tired. They wolf down their food, feverishly as if it had been a while since they had a meal. We had a humanitarian effort between our Universes, but it was not going well and the mutant Dynamo had ceased talks with our President. The Captain and the Spider were their Universe’s representatives and would normally be in the embassy under lock and key with the threats the Dynamo has made, but we smuggle them out, leaving looped video of them sleeping on the CCT.

“Is Professor Mood coming this evening?” The Captain asks around a mouthful of food.

“The Professor sends his regards, Captain, but he will not be coming. Something about a diplomatic incident in his country requiring his attention. It is likely he will just send his Mood-Bots but you know how he likes to make an entrance.”

A resounding boom is heard throughout the hideout. A second one shakes the walls and floors. The third knocks the vault door into the antechamber. The door to the poker hideout is twelve feet thick surrounded by walls of reinforced concrete. We like a nice quiet place to play. Smoke billows into the hideout. No one moves. “Who thinks to play poker without the peerless intellect of Professor Mood?”

“Hector. Why can’t you just knock like everyone else?” Paragon’s serious baritone is offset by the smile on his face.

“Mood has lost his key. This was the best way to ensure you hadn’t started without Mood.”

“You’re fixing that on the way out. Hope you brought you money with you. No more of that Bratvarian money, either. Since you tried to take over the world last year, no one is willing to exchange it anywhere.”

“Cartouche, you won big last week, you start the deal. You get to set the rules tonight.”

“Stud. No powers.” They looked stunned. I thought we would try something different tonight. Normally, I am the only guy without any innate powers or abilities. My powers come from my Egyptian Cartouche I wear around my neck. Without it, I am just a regular guy. And even with it, I have to be able to focus my will properly or I get nothing. They look at me and then their poker faces come on.

I deal the cards, fairly of course, watching Zipper as he looks around the table and resists the urge to switch cards midflight. Normally he spends his time watching flickering micro-expressions while we play. I know he thinks we don’t notice, but when he is doing it, his eyes flutter and he doesn’t seem to be aware of it.

Everyone picks up their cards and after looking at them, they start looking at each other. Paragon is easy. He won’t cheat. He never does. He has numerous ways of doing it too. He could hear the hearts of everyone at the table (or at least those of us with hearts, its rumored Night Flyer had his replaced with a cardiac pump system to regulate his bloodflow and enhances his fighting output), he used to be able to see right through the cards until we started using our holographic deck, with an encrypted 1024-bit system designed to constantly thwart his megavision. We knew he wouldn’t cheat but Rothul and Professor Mood were simply not to be appeased until we added the encryption. We later learned their encryption algorithm was designed to give them an advantage during play. Part of the game.

Spastic Man, starts the ante and everyone stays in the game. But that look on his face tells me he won’t be here long.

Mood, hidden behind his mask believes his face unable to be seen. But his hands tremble ever so slightly, and they only do it when he has something worth getting excited over.

Me? I have a pair of two’s. Jack high. It’s gonna be a long night.

With Great Power © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Forsaken

Posted by Ebonstorm on August 16, 2012
Posted in: Hayward's Reach, Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The sky was darkened by steel-grey clouds, running toward the horizon’s setting sun, as if to extinguish its light on this scene of urban justice. The scaffold, hastily erected seemed eerily at peace in this riotous sky, blood red near the edges like a vein opening and flowing into an nearby gutter.

Angry flashes of lightning as a storm, riding a hot desert wind blew in from the west, drying the mouths of the onlookers, waiting to see this bastard get hung. Flies blew in with the wind, the biting kind, and they seemed angrier than most days, biting and stinging and drinking from everyone. Even these desert-hardened folk were annoyed by them.

Not that it would take much for that to be the case. They had waited all day while the scaffold was being built and they restrained their urge to rush the jail and make their own justice. The sheriff, Brody Atkins, standing outside with his Winchester rifle, freshly cleaned and charged and known for the sharpest eye this side of Texas, and a temper to match made it clear, there would be no justice today but his. In Kansas City, we do things by the book, he said. And he was willing to shoot anyone to make sure they understood.

He always said, a town needed laws. There were mutants and chimera out in the badlands surrounding the gates of Kansas City but that didn’t matter none, if there were no laws in the city either. He ran a fair town. There were two deputies and a town militia, mostly for show these days, that got together once a month to drill and help people keep their shooting skills up. But mostly, charges were burned up on targets, there hadn’t been a mutant attack for over two years. There hadn’t been much of anything until this bandit and his friends show up a few months ago.

The sheriff and his deputies handled the roughest and worst behaved members of that crew in a shoot out where Old Man Percy was killed. But the leader of the group was not around at the time and a warrant was put out for his arrest. Messages from Oklahoma said a man matching his description was wanted for murder and he had taken up with bad men upon being run out of town there. For sheriff Brody Atkins, that was all the incentive he needed. The reprobate was found after he returned to the city, claiming to be out hunting, and was promptly arrested.

Having technically committed no crime, the sheriff could not hold him. But he was relieved of his firearms and told to be on his best behavior while the sheriff waited for a Marshal Van Raken to arrive in town in a few days. The suspect was named J. T. Wilks. He surrendered peacefully claiming he would be found innocent. But in this frontier town, suspicion was akin to guilt. It did not take long for the locals to harass J. T. Wilks in a local saloon.

JT, never known for holding his temper among his people, in the altercation, managed to serious injure several patrons of the bar. During the fight, it became public knowledge JT was a passer, a mutant who could pass for human. It was not illegal to be a passer, but most city’s had ordinances that insisted any unregistered mutant must report to the town sheriff and announce their mutation. Unfortunately, most after making such an announcement were run out of town immediately or killed on the spot. Hence most passers said nothing and did their best to keep their mutations out of the public eye. JT was superhumanly strong, it took nearly eight men to hold him down until he could be bound and brought before the sheriff.

Two of the men he fought died of their internal injuries, several days later. He was promptly returned to the jail to await the Marshal who would also sit as the judge for the trial. Needless to say, while he was not the same man the Marshal was expecting to find, it no longer mattered as he was in violation of local laws in Kansas City. His trial was swift, perhaps too swift, and the judgment was never in doubt. He would hang by the neck until he was dead at sundown tomorrow.

When the time came, JT was brought out in cuffs and many of the townsfolk had never seen him before today. He was a giant, nearly black as coal, with arms that looked as if they were forged of steel. Removed from his baggy clothing, his massive proportions became apparent, especially when standing next to the giant that was Sheriff Brody. JT stood a head taller than Brody. His eyes were in a stern and unsmiling face, sharp lines, as if sculpted from onyx and as he was lead to the scaffold he did not look down.

He looked into the audience, who was breathing shallow and excitedly and he noted the various shapes, colors, sizes and scents wafting upward toward the gallows. The smell came in on the hot wind, with biting flies. The flies landed on everyone but JT. Their avoidance was a small comfort, as the sky grew dark and rain began to fall.  It was a trickle at first, and then it grew stronger. The audience, recognizing the weather, simply pulled up their hoods or put up hand-made umbrellas but kept them low to their heads. Men with hats simply pulled up their collars to protect their necks and waited stolidly for the main event.

A reverend came up with JT and stood by him. “Son, is there anything you want to say to the people as a sign of contrition for your acts?”

JT looked at the reverend, and the intensity of his stare, caused the normally nonplussed man of the cloth, who was used to dealing with the damned souls of this world, to look away and clutch himself seeking his holy symbol. “Padre, don’t waste my time. Since your little town knows nothing about justice, I will seek mine in the next life. Now get outta my face. I got some dying to do.”

The sky opened up as JT was positioned over the drop door and the noose was placed around his neck. He did not flinch, nor fight with his captors. The two deputies were stationed across from the scaffold on nearby rooftops and were in position to shoot him if he did not comply. JT had seen them as soon as he stepped on the scaffold, and knew any resistance would get him shot. The rain began to pour so hard, it became hard to see the audience and JT became enraged even as he ignored the charges being read to him. The rain flowed into his ears, over his face, and he could not wipe it away, because his hands were bound behind his back. He could taste the sweat as it rolled down his face into his mouth, mixed with the tang of the sulfurous rain.

“…having been found guilty of murder, you have been sentenced to be hung by the neck until you are dead.” Brody was having to shout over the sound of the rain hitting metallic roofs nearby. A crack of lightning and a boom of thunder sounded immediately after the word dead, as if there was a punctuation to the sentence from on high.

“This is your last chance, my son, God wants to hear your prayers and for you to beg for forgiveness.” The reverend stood near to JT so he did not have to yell. They were intimately close as the preacher whispered to him.

“Tell your God, I rebuke him and there is nothing he can do for me, that I have not already had to do for myself. I don’t need his help or want his mercy. Now get out of my face, Padre, before I do something you’ll regret.”

“May God have mercy on you anyway.” The reverend backs away from JT and looks to he hangman.

“Be about your work hangman, I am beginning to get bored with all of these folk standing around in the rain. Do me.” When JT Wilks looked out over the crowd, he did not feel the peace of a man going to his death. He felt conflicted, wronged and sickened by the need of these people to find a scapegoat for their spiritual weaknesses. His disgust with the world rose into his throat and he roared defiantly as the hangman pulled the switch. His primal scream terrified the onlookers and several turned away in fear. In that moment, a bolt of lightning struck JT as he fell through the trapdoor and the noose tightened only for a split second around his neck. The flash of lightning caught the entire town staring at JT as he lit up with the bolt of lightning from the top of his head to his feet.

Because they were all watching, save the few who turned away, most were blinded by the lightning for many minutes. During that time, the few who had turned back saw JTs burning body lying on the ground, slowly moving, turning squirming as electricity still played across his body, slowly draining into the ground. Steam and smoke rose from him as he got to his knees. His face, looking down was unreadable, and the noose hung loosely around his neck with the burned end still smoldering on his chest along with what appeared to be a scar, on his face and his chest, as if the lightning had arced from his chest to his face before destroying the rope that, by all rights, should have killed him.

As he stood up, the last of the onlookers had seen his giant form rising and crossed themselves with their various religious signs and many slunk away under the cover of the rain. But most stood there wondering what would be the outcome of this turn of events. Sheriff Brody looked to the two deputies and raised his hand, and then waved them to come down to him. Brody climbed down off of the scaffold and began to move toward JT who had already begun walking toward the gates of the city.

“You know I can’t help you, right?”

“Did I ask? Am I free to go? Or will you shoot me in the back as I leave the gate so the chimera will eat my corpse and you won’t have to spring for my burial?”

“Nope, ‘fraid not. I know the law better than the next man. You are free to go from here. God set you free.”

“If you say so.”

“I do have one bit of advice, if you’re willing to take it.”

“What’s that, sheriff?”

“Head for New Texas if you can.”

“Now why would I want to do that?”

“Because if I was to say to the locals that you were heading for New Texas, most would hesitate to follow you.”

“I see. I don’t suppose you could see your way to letting me out of these cuffs.”

“Sorry, no can do. The law says, as the Lord frees you, you must go. No one will stop you from reaching the gate, and I will prevent anyone from following you the next twenty four hours. After that, you are on your own. I hear New Texas is really nice this time of year, and they may have work for you as well.”

Talking louder, JT replied, “New Texas, it is then.”

And then Brody whispered, “Now off the record, while they may have work, there are other things going on there you might want to be aware of and as you get closer to the city. We have heard nothing from them for over two weeks, so something is wrong. A man who brings back news could find his way to making friends.”

The smaller gate set opened while the larger and main gate stayed closed. The sheriff walked out with JT and they continued down the road toward the south. Outside the gate, nature rapidly took over anything that was not the road. Stunted and gnarled trees with strangely shaped leaves hung casting lengthening shadows.

“Personally, I ain’t got nothing against your kind, if you know what I mean. And I wish I could do more to help you, but you understand.” Then the sheriff grabbed JT by his forearm and before JT could move, a knife materialized at his throat. “On the other hand, if this knife were to get dropped during our tussel, I might forget it was out here in my hurry to get inside.

JT kicked upward with his knee into the groin of the sheriff, who managed to turn his hip into the blow preventing the full contact JT was hoping to make. This, in turn, forced the sheriff to move his knife from JT throat and JT snapped his massive head forward, cracking the sheriff on the forehead and knocking him forcefully backward into the dirt. The knife, flew through the air and landed in the underbrush. JT noted its landing but kept his eye on the sheriff. When the sheriff looked back at JT, his eyes had changed color from the deep sapphire blue they were when he was reading off JT’s list of crimes, to a fire-golden hue with catlike slits instead of round pupils. He looked up at JT and blinked again. His sapphires had returned. He got up and dusted himself off before turning back up the road.

“You have a hard head there, partner. I hope you will be able to keep it on your shoulders. Try not to come back here anytime soon. Ya hear?”

“Sheriff, did you do this? I know it is possible for some….”

“Don’t look at me, I don’t know nothing about it. It’s said, the Lord works in mysterious ways. You and He, have unfinished business, I reckon.” The sheriff began whistling some strange tune as he disappeared around the bend heading back to the gate.

Forsaken  © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

BONUS: Forsaken (2) written for the #twitterfiction festival.

Dead Already

Posted by Ebonstorm on August 15, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . 5 Comments

My doctor told me I had cancer. And it was inoperable.

I didn’t hear anything else he said for about five minutes. When I could hear again. He said the best I could do was to make the next six months as rich as possible because I would not see another summer.

I thanked him. He looked mortified and a maybe a bit sad. I went home to tell my family. Somewhere along the way, I changed my mind. I don’t remember the drive home. The traffic which once would have driven me crazy, just didn’t seem that important anymore. The hot summer air that once would have seemed oppressive, was just hot and sweet. It took me to be dying to stop my complaining and realize how much I wanted to live just a bit longer than six months.

I drove within five miles of my house. I stopped and parked my car. I was at a nearby mall, a place where lots of people engaged in mindless shopping without a concern in the world about the future.  This was where I needed to be. Someplace where I could forget and engage in retail therapy, the Western world’s idea of psychotherapy.

I was a little dizzy, my stomach grumbled but it wasn’t food I was looking for. It was life.

I could see these people; really see them, moving through the mall, much like ants bustling through an anthill, carrying their packages, herding their children, smiling, laughing, crying, feeding their children, arguing with their mates, looking at bedspreads, picking out linens, waving goodbye to their parents as they are dropped at the mall, laughing with their friends at the people passing by who looked different, waiting patiently for a wife to finish shopping, occupying their time looking at nothing in particular.

I start crying and I can’t stop. I can see the futility of it all. Everything I have ever done and I wonder what did I do with my life. Who can see the difference I have made and now I am out of time. I can’t make up for that time. I squandered it.

I get up and run, my legs heavy like lead, at first. Then I can feel the rage building in my heart, in my chest, a scream is trying to get out, my legs grow lighter, faster, stronger as the scream builds. I run past the people clumsily at first, knocking them out of my way, but I can’t really see them anymore, my eyes are full of tears, burning me like an acid on my face. As I get faster, I start to avoid them and I can feel the light from outside the mall, almost like it’s calling me.

This way. Turn. Faster. Run faster. Faster. There it is, the front door to the mall, but the scream is coming, I can’t hold it in. My arms are moving in perfect sync, I burst out the door, breaking the glass as the door is thrown back. I run out into the street and scream.

A scream long held in. One from all the horrors of my childhood. All the abuse, all the loneliness, isolation, ostracization, shame, especially the shame, watching my aunt overdose and die before my eyes, not understanding what I was seeing, finding my mother sitting on a window sill contemplating her own death, but I arrived and talked with her for hours before she came back inside, I held that pain inside. For every abusive beating I was ever given by my drunken father, each blow I endured without screaming, again and again and again. For every story he destroyed, every book he ever burned and I saw him, dying from the same cancer that is likely killing me, all of these came to a head and poured out into the afternoon air. Something primal, people hearing the sound never forgot it. Small children wept without knowing why. A group of small birds take flight as I pass through them and my scream reaches its crescendo.

I never saw the truck.

“Is this what you want?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is this what you fucking want? Is that better? Can you hear me now?”

I found myself standing on the curb frozen in time, talking to a man who looked alarmingly like Samuel Jackson. And when I say saw myself, I mean I was standing outside of my body, looking at myself running into the street into the path of an oncoming truck. A truck that has a green light and wouldn’t be braking in time.

“No, I am not Sam Jackson. I just chose the image of someone who shocks and offends you. Like the eyepatch? Let’s keep this short, that three seconds right there isn’t going to last forever. I say again, is this what you want?”

What did I want? I was so consumed with rage, frustration and pity, I didn’t know what I wanted.

“Knock it off. You are a self-absorbed narcissist, who, while life has dealt you a bad hand, you sat around juggling lemons rather than making lemonade.”

“Really? In my last seconds of life, whoever you are, you will spend my last seconds telling me my life didn’t matter? Do I need to take that shit from you? If you aren’t here to tell me something soothing or relaxing or to make my death less painful, shut the hell up and do whatever you came here to do, quietly!”

“Now we’re making progress.” Sam took out a cigarette and lit up. “You’re angry, that good. Have you decided what you want?”

“Why do you keep asking me that? I have six months left to live? What is there for me to want?” I couldn’t figure out what he was asking me?

“Geez, if this is the caliber of humans kicking off this mortal coil these days, it’s no wonder nobody’s taking candidates any longer. I have just followed you from your doctor’s office, through the mall and watched you have a meltdown and all but throw yourself in front of a speeding truck. Okay, the truck part is probably an accident with all that bawling you were doing, but what did you want when you were picking up speed and knocking over old ladies? You had to have something in mind didn’t you?”

“I wanted more time, damn you. I wanted more time to spend with my family. I wanted more time to spend trying to enjoy life rather than just existing in it. I wanted to believe my life mattered to someone besides me. I wanted to make a difference. And now I won’t.”

Sam looked at me and walked out into the street. He approached my body and walked around it. I followed but none too close. “Do you know how many times you and I have had this conversation? Do you remember that time in Alameda when you had just come back from the war and your mind was still a bit scrambled. You decided you had nothing to live for and wanted to end it all? No, of course not. You had a psychotic break and experienced some other event instead.”

“I do remember that. But I don’t remember you.”

“Of course not, if you did, I wouldn’t have been doing my job.”

“Do you remember what you said that day, when you took the gun out of your mouth?”

“There was a kid outside my window, crying about how he was lost.”

“Come on, keep up. I am already past that part.”

“You told me you were lost and your parents were in the exchange, nearly a mile from where you were standing. I thought it was far fetched but I figured I could always shoot myself later. I took you back to the exchange. It was you wasn’t it?”

“Wow, you get to the front of the class. Now what was the important part of that information?”

“I could always shoot myself later.”

“Bingo. Give this man a motherfucking cigar. You decided it was not a good day to die. No Stovokor for you. You lived another twenty years from that day. You got out of the military, which you loved and hated, you learned a new craft, one that paid the bills and that you liked a lot better. You even got married and had a kid, who looked nothing like you, thank God.”

“Hey.”

“Truth hurts. Now let’s hurry this along, there are terrorists in Syria who are blowing themselves up right now and I have to get on with my work. Do you know what you want now?”

“Yes.” I stood up straight and turned to look him in the eyes. I took the cigarette out of his hand and flicked it away. He squinted and looked really scary. “I want more time.”

“Good. That was the right answer. Here’s six months. Make the most of it.” Standing behind my body, he pushed me and time started again. I flew into the median where some beautification program planted bushes instead of concrete blocks.

I could see Sam standing across the street and people were looking and pointing, one man had his camera phone out, preparing to film my demise. “I don’t make the rules, kid. I just enforce ‘em. What you do with your time is your own damn business. You’ll be here soon enough, don’t rush it.”

With that, Sam walked by the man with the handheld and smacked it out of his hand. Landing a few feet away he stomps it as he passed by. “Hate these motherfucking camera phones. Always trying to catch a picture of Death. That is some repugnant shit.”

Turning to look back at me he said, “Who knows, I could get tied up somewhere and run late. Take your damn ass home.”

I couldn’t get home fast enough.

Dead Already © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

A Private, Little War

Posted by Ebonstorm on August 14, 2012
Posted in: Short Story. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

“Agent Smallpox is down. I repeat, Agent Smallpox is down.”

“Check your data, have your human centers report in. We have heard this before, it is possible that you’re wrong.”

Commander Rhinovirus stalked inside the cells of the throat of the head of the CDC. He could not believe what he was hearing. First polio, now smallpox. We were slowly winning the war against Nature’s most insidious agent, Man. At least until that last news report.

At first I did not believe it. Agent Smallpox had been our best agent for the last twelve thousand cycles. No Agent had the killing potential, the transferability, the lethality and the overall fear-causing capability that Agent Smallpox, The Maker, bless his viral core, had.

Then, in the human year 1975, they boasted they would be able to prevent the spread and could eradicate Smallpox. They had a systematic program that would effectively render smallpox extinct everywhere on Earth. Another creature brought to extinction by the hand of Man.

There were only two samples of smallpox left in the entire world as far as we knew, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, and a Russian facility in Siberia. We had tried numerous times to free them. Tried to cause technicians to become sloppy in their work, tried to get terrorists to liberate them, to no effect.

I have infiltrated the head of the CDC but he is so strong-willed, I cannot get him to even consider the liberation of the virus. I have convinced him it should not be destroyed, in the event of a spontaneous outbreak or perhaps if a weapon cell were to be initialized by a terrorist group. Unfortunately, weapon cells do not report in, so we never know if they have been destroyed or are just waiting to be released.

Ten thousand years ago, perhaps in the societies that preceded the human empire of Egypt, mighty smallpox ravaged entire villages with his pustule causing variola virus. Single handedly he is thought to have killed over five hundred million humans. Few diseases could bast such an amazing body of work. Whipping through villages, spreading like wildfire, killing in days. Those were the days. Man had a healthy respect for diseases back then.

They feared us so much they named gods after us Pestilence of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Nurgel, Lord of Disease, the Nosi, spirits of plague and sickness. They believed their gods dispensed disease among them as a punishment and so did nothing to stop their spread of the disease. They did not understand how we even worked until that accursed “germ theory” idea came about.

We had been successful in suppressing the idea of germ transmission for centuries. The Hindu texts, The Atharvaveda whispered ideas of causative agents and they even developed means of killing many of our earlier diseases. But we eventually slew them and their ideas fell on deaf ears until 36 BC when ‘On Agriculture’ tried to preach it again. The author died of a fever three years later. Then the ideas of germ theory stayed hidden again for nearly a thousand germ-filled years. Those were glorious times.

Then the Moors in their ‘Canon of Medicine’ posited that clothing could carry infectious agents. Dark days, even while the black plague roared through Europe, the seeds of our destruction were already being planted. We were too greedy, to eager to spread, we were not cautious enough and while we devastated the world, we did not destroy it; and man persisted. By the sixteenth century,Girolamo Fracastoro and his ideas of seed-like entities that could travel for miles was the final straw.

Anton van Leeuwenhoek, curse his cells was the first to document our existence with incontrovertible proof. After that, each idea of how we moved how we worked came faster and faster, soon mankind realized we were everywhere and fought against us in every way possible. But until the discovery of Penicillin, bless the Maker, curse the Maker, man had little recourse for most major diseases and bacteria our primary agent still ruled the world.

After Penicillin, our forces demoralized retreated for a time and our greatest Agent Bacteria, found nearly everywhere, and on nearly everything, had been all but defeated. This lead to the rise of the virus to the leadership of disease in our struggle against mankind. Bacterial was relegated to the role of second line commander along with fungus in our attacks against the food supplies of man.

Today the war has taken a new tone, something we don’t quite understand, where they try to contain us, weaken us and use us to develop immunity to us. Imagine the horror of being a virus too weak to fight and being decoded and turned into an antibody, an enemy of the state, aiding and abetting the enemy. Nothing more tragic than a virus-turned-serum.

We have begun a shadow war now. Since humanity does not seem to be trying cure disease today, only treat the symptoms, we have opted to work on bringing bacteria to the forefront by creating antibiotic resistant bacteria and placing them in their medical facilities. While their immune systems are weakened, we strike, giving them MRSA, tearing into their flesh and killing them while they look for care. We are getting back our mystique as well, striking without warning, killing mercilessly with things like flesh-eating bacteria and we have learned to turn the media to our benefit, so you can hardly surf the internet without a picture of MRSA or flesh eating bacteria showing up. Propaganda is a powerful tool for our side.

Our shadow campaign includes STDs which were once incredibly powerful, now they attack the immune systems, wearing down the new breed of healthy, well-fed humans. They sit inside their bodies until they have a moment of weakness, being spread by the young and ignorant, until they are everywhere. Even now, Agent Herpes believes it has infiltrated half of the humans of the civilized world. Not deadly in and of itself, it is a vector for other more dangerous agents such as HIV.

The old standbys still have a place, Diphtheria, Hanta, Ebola, Malaria all do their part by staying out there, working in the shadows waiting for mankind to weaken, to get too far from his technology.

“Continue on your protocols. I have a meeting with a pharmaceutical company today. They want to tell us how we can manage the symptoms of HIV and ensure the continued economic success of the medical-pharmacological industrial complex.”

Humanity is a terrifying creature. It is resilient, intelligent, capable, resistant, durable and deadly. If it weren’t so damned big and ugly, it would make one hell of a virus.

A Private, Little War © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved