"Grandfather, how did the Old World end?"
My son's son, a boy by the name of Jeremy, was a curious boy. Curiosity in a land where flesh-eating zombies have been a reality since I sired his father upon his mother is not a good thing, and I'd told my boy so many times- but to no avail.
I sighed. "There aren't many of us left that remember the Old World. If you managed to ask all of us that question, you would get as many answers as you would people. That's because what brought about the end is not just one thing, but instead a lot of little things coming together and having a big effect when together."
"Like when streams and creeks flow into rivers?"
"Like that, but bigger. Flood-like, really, if it really gets going."
The light of the fire in the hearth briefly reminded me of being that boy's age, when my own grandfather--who grew up without electricity--told me about how everything could change like a flood overnight.
"So, what did you do?"
This was now, again, a harsh world like my grandfather's was in his youth. No need to keep him from the truth; the sooner he knew what he'd need to do, the better he'd get at doing it.
"My part began in an elevator, at a convention, in the summer just before everything went wrong. This was long before I met your grandmother. I'd been pulled into the center of a long-running conflict, one I'd had to deal with all my life, and over the winter before I received proof that the people I'd been fighting had committed all sorts of crimes against me and my people for longer than I'd lived through lies and other bad things."
"So, what did you do in that lift thing?"
"This convention had a small gang, part of the larger group of crooks, do a very big get-together every year. They stayed in the hotel where the convention took place. I followed the two leaders into an elevator and waited for everyone else to get off. As soon as the doors closed, I drew my gun and shot them both--one shot, each, to the head--and got off on the next floor. They never saw it coming, as they both assumed that no one had a real gun due to the gun bans in place. Both died instantly."
"No zeds?"
"No zeds yet. Just living targets, all deserving." I said as I patted the old CZ-82 sidearm in my lap. "Yes, my boy, with this very one." I smiled. Well over 60 years later, and I still feel the greatest satisfaction from those first two kills.
Showing posts with label Story Start. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story Start. Show all posts
Friday, October 2, 2015
Friday, July 3, 2015
The Harp Incident-01
It began with an emergency recall from my holiday in Colorado, and no sooner did I get on the helicopter than I get a tablet shoved into my hands.
"The Agency apologizes for the interruption, but this is a Black Swan event at Code Black severity." Control said, "I've taken the liberty of clearing your schedule, as this matter is now your top priority."
That meant trouble, severe trouble. Now, "Black Swan" isn't Agency jargon; that's mainstream talk for "an unforseen event of significance". "Code Black", on the other hand, was jargon and it meant "Crisis Event of Clear and Immanent Danger"- the sort of thing that you'd see James Bond sent in to handle.
"The video provided to you occurred four hours ago, and it would have come sooner but it took that long to recover it and get it to us." Control said, and I watched a video out of Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. I watched a 10 minute long video montage from the camp's security cameras of a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man wearing blue jeans and a plain T-shirt attack the camp and bust out all of the prisoners held there. He got shot more times than I could count and didn't even blink, let alone react or suffer apparent injury. When guards closed to bring him into melee, he tossed them aside like rag dolls- and gently so. He broke secured doors with inhuman ease. He wore no armor, used no tools, and walked out as casually as he walked in.
"Part of the reason for the short duration is that, as part of his assault, he found and destroyed the security command center. That included the hardware that recorded the camera footage. We have a partial reconstruction, and more is in the work. However, review of the attacker showed that he has an online presence exhibiting hostility to U.S. foreign policy, and recently disappeared in Baja California for a month before returning from wherever he went- and has not said anything concrete about that month of missing time."
"Do we have a profile on this kid?" I said, curious to see if Control's done the homework.
"Compiling, and should be ready soon."
"What's the objective?"
"Bring this kid in." Control said, "The cleaners are already on site. You're going to Miami, as we expect the young man to depart from Cuba right away. Make your personnel selections within the next five minutes; they will meet you there."
"The Agency apologizes for the interruption, but this is a Black Swan event at Code Black severity." Control said, "I've taken the liberty of clearing your schedule, as this matter is now your top priority."
That meant trouble, severe trouble. Now, "Black Swan" isn't Agency jargon; that's mainstream talk for "an unforseen event of significance". "Code Black", on the other hand, was jargon and it meant "Crisis Event of Clear and Immanent Danger"- the sort of thing that you'd see James Bond sent in to handle.
"The video provided to you occurred four hours ago, and it would have come sooner but it took that long to recover it and get it to us." Control said, and I watched a video out of Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. I watched a 10 minute long video montage from the camp's security cameras of a blond-haired, blue-eyed young man wearing blue jeans and a plain T-shirt attack the camp and bust out all of the prisoners held there. He got shot more times than I could count and didn't even blink, let alone react or suffer apparent injury. When guards closed to bring him into melee, he tossed them aside like rag dolls- and gently so. He broke secured doors with inhuman ease. He wore no armor, used no tools, and walked out as casually as he walked in.
"Part of the reason for the short duration is that, as part of his assault, he found and destroyed the security command center. That included the hardware that recorded the camera footage. We have a partial reconstruction, and more is in the work. However, review of the attacker showed that he has an online presence exhibiting hostility to U.S. foreign policy, and recently disappeared in Baja California for a month before returning from wherever he went- and has not said anything concrete about that month of missing time."
"Do we have a profile on this kid?" I said, curious to see if Control's done the homework.
"Compiling, and should be ready soon."
"What's the objective?"
"Bring this kid in." Control said, "The cleaners are already on site. You're going to Miami, as we expect the young man to depart from Cuba right away. Make your personnel selections within the next five minutes; they will meet you there."
Friday, April 3, 2015
Lord of the Arena-01
"Well, this match is certainly going to show up on the recap for 'Gearhead Gladiators' tonight."
This is the moment that 50 thousand people paid $50, minimum, for a seat in Minneapolis' North Star Stadium to see: a Division Alpha free-for-all match between a dozen of the best road warriors in North America. Amongst those title card heroes was a local boy done good: Eric Anderson, "The 30 Second Ace", originally out of the Brainerd Lakes area and coming out of the post-collapse feuding that happened in the wake of that collapse over 20 years ago. He became an overnight sensation when, at one of the regular Amateur Night events conducted as undercard events sanctioned by the International Autoduelist Association (and its regional and local subsidiaries), he took out the other five competitors in 30 seconds- something never before done.
Now, with 11 other veterans and champions, he's looking to win another main event and take home another big purse. So do the 50 thousand fans in the stands. In a world where most people, once again, live outside the cities farming, ranching, or doing vital work in small towns having one of their own fighting in the arena is a big deal. Anderson's become a folk hero to an entire region, and the expectation to win is huge.
On the livestreams covering the event, marking time before the match starts, are the usual talking heads--including peers not competing tonight, for one reason or another--going over recent events and things like the cars that the fighters chose to use. "...and Anderson's debuting a new variation of Mills Motors' Wolf line of cars. This is an arena-optimized mid-sized car, featuring a pair of miniguns recessed into the forward compartment ahead of the power plant, and a flamethrower mounted aft over a minelayer. The responsiveness is top-quality, with great braking and acceleration, making this a car inspired by fighter jets instead of minitanks. That Bill's Gun Shop sponsorship is making itself felt with this one."
As for Eric, he--along with his opponents--sat in the launch bays arrayed around the arena, waiting in their cars. He could hear the crowd out there, despite the doors being closed. He had no idea what configuration of obstacles would be present in the arena--standard practice for such events--or what elevations levels would be present (ditto), and neither did the others. All they knew for certain was what the promoters told them in the event briefing: "No three-dimensional interactions." (i.e. no need for turrets or thick armor top and bottom), "No open floor." (requiring a mobile vehicle), "No long distances" (favoring short-range weaponry and rear-mounted arms), and "No personal pre-match inspections." (you go into the match blind)
Under those constraints, and knowing what the arena could do, Eric and his team decided to go with maximum dogfighting capability and play to his strengths- at the cost of playing into his reputation. Neither he nor his team could be certain as to what his opponents would do, but Eric kept one of the best tacticians on staff and that man would be in the team's box watching the action as it happens.
Eric saw the ready light go on, and the announcer begin the ritual of introductions. Soon the bay doors would open, and the match would begin.
This is the moment that 50 thousand people paid $50, minimum, for a seat in Minneapolis' North Star Stadium to see: a Division Alpha free-for-all match between a dozen of the best road warriors in North America. Amongst those title card heroes was a local boy done good: Eric Anderson, "The 30 Second Ace", originally out of the Brainerd Lakes area and coming out of the post-collapse feuding that happened in the wake of that collapse over 20 years ago. He became an overnight sensation when, at one of the regular Amateur Night events conducted as undercard events sanctioned by the International Autoduelist Association (and its regional and local subsidiaries), he took out the other five competitors in 30 seconds- something never before done.
Now, with 11 other veterans and champions, he's looking to win another main event and take home another big purse. So do the 50 thousand fans in the stands. In a world where most people, once again, live outside the cities farming, ranching, or doing vital work in small towns having one of their own fighting in the arena is a big deal. Anderson's become a folk hero to an entire region, and the expectation to win is huge.
On the livestreams covering the event, marking time before the match starts, are the usual talking heads--including peers not competing tonight, for one reason or another--going over recent events and things like the cars that the fighters chose to use. "...and Anderson's debuting a new variation of Mills Motors' Wolf line of cars. This is an arena-optimized mid-sized car, featuring a pair of miniguns recessed into the forward compartment ahead of the power plant, and a flamethrower mounted aft over a minelayer. The responsiveness is top-quality, with great braking and acceleration, making this a car inspired by fighter jets instead of minitanks. That Bill's Gun Shop sponsorship is making itself felt with this one."
As for Eric, he--along with his opponents--sat in the launch bays arrayed around the arena, waiting in their cars. He could hear the crowd out there, despite the doors being closed. He had no idea what configuration of obstacles would be present in the arena--standard practice for such events--or what elevations levels would be present (ditto), and neither did the others. All they knew for certain was what the promoters told them in the event briefing: "No three-dimensional interactions." (i.e. no need for turrets or thick armor top and bottom), "No open floor." (requiring a mobile vehicle), "No long distances" (favoring short-range weaponry and rear-mounted arms), and "No personal pre-match inspections." (you go into the match blind)
Under those constraints, and knowing what the arena could do, Eric and his team decided to go with maximum dogfighting capability and play to his strengths- at the cost of playing into his reputation. Neither he nor his team could be certain as to what his opponents would do, but Eric kept one of the best tacticians on staff and that man would be in the team's box watching the action as it happens.
Eric saw the ready light go on, and the announcer begin the ritual of introductions. Soon the bay doors would open, and the match would begin.
Friday, January 2, 2015
The Boy Who Burned the World-01
Chester Lame was a most unfortunate boy. His father abandoned him before his birth, and his mother followed shortly afterword, leaving him at an anonymous turn-in site at a hospital. His name was the result of a doctor who had no love for bastards, which he was presumed to be, and noted an obvious deformity in him. His life thereafter was to be condemned as as Ward of the State, passed from foster home to foster home, and he found nothing but the worst that Mankind has to offer a unwanted boy. As he endured, he grew, and as he grew he soured and turned bitter. By the time he emerged into his youth he was far from the fresh, full flower of manhood many other boys he encountered had become. He hobbled, he had scars in too obvious places, and he long had lost his sense of empathy for his fellow man- being beaten, abused, and battered routinely for years does that to a lot of children.
So, when one of the mean old men teaching at his high school ordered to stay after class, Chester was not in the mood to suffer this intrusion.
The door shut, leaving the two of them alone. "You are not here due to any fault of yours." the old man said, "Whether or not you are here due to any merit remains to be see. As I too was once like you, I shall do you--and I--this courtesy and get straight to the point."
"I appreciate that, sir." Chester said, witholding his contempt as best he could.
"I need not access your student file, or do any other research into your background to date, to recognize someone done wrong by life itself- one seething with anger, and unable to do anything about it. Yet you want it, and will pursue whatever routes you can to get it. Though no one in the Administration can prove it, we all suspect that the incidents of maiming and crippling of those known to abuse you and later suffering accidents with acids or other chemicals are your work."
"Interesting." Chester said, "Go on, sir."
"I require an assistant. You require a patron to shield you. If you are half as intelligent as you think you are, then not only do you see through this meeting for what it is, you will also accept the offer I am about to make to you."
Chester's eyes said all. The old man, far more experienced in such subterfuge, long ago mastered body language and other manipulative arts. This was not the first seduction-as-recruitment operation he performed, so he felt no fear in doing this so boldly.
"Assistant with what?"
"Why, what else, Chester? Revenge, using some of the most powerful means Man has ever possessed."
Chester could not conceal the excitement in his eyes. "I'm in."
So, when one of the mean old men teaching at his high school ordered to stay after class, Chester was not in the mood to suffer this intrusion.
The door shut, leaving the two of them alone. "You are not here due to any fault of yours." the old man said, "Whether or not you are here due to any merit remains to be see. As I too was once like you, I shall do you--and I--this courtesy and get straight to the point."
"I appreciate that, sir." Chester said, witholding his contempt as best he could.
"I need not access your student file, or do any other research into your background to date, to recognize someone done wrong by life itself- one seething with anger, and unable to do anything about it. Yet you want it, and will pursue whatever routes you can to get it. Though no one in the Administration can prove it, we all suspect that the incidents of maiming and crippling of those known to abuse you and later suffering accidents with acids or other chemicals are your work."
"Interesting." Chester said, "Go on, sir."
"I require an assistant. You require a patron to shield you. If you are half as intelligent as you think you are, then not only do you see through this meeting for what it is, you will also accept the offer I am about to make to you."
Chester's eyes said all. The old man, far more experienced in such subterfuge, long ago mastered body language and other manipulative arts. This was not the first seduction-as-recruitment operation he performed, so he felt no fear in doing this so boldly.
"Assistant with what?"
"Why, what else, Chester? Revenge, using some of the most powerful means Man has ever possessed."
Chester could not conceal the excitement in his eyes. "I'm in."
Friday, October 3, 2014
The New Barbarians-01
The end, for me, was liberating. Many years of skulking in the shadows, carefully crafting opportunities to cull cancers from the population, now came to an end. No more need to hide away what I really am, and so when the burning ended I emerged ready to carve out my place in this restored world. Using my bolthole as a base of operations, I quickly and effectively terminated--or is it re-terminated--the zeds I encountered within a five-mile radius of my bolthole. Boy, am I glad for all those hours at the range; I got near-perfect one-shot-one-kill ammunition efficiency when engaging zeds.
By the following Spring, I found that I kept my radius clear of hostiles. Food and other supplies were still good, but resupply would become necessary sometime during the coming months because I had not the space to stock for more than a year at a time. During the warmer Winter days, I scoped out some nearby cabins and found them both intact and uninhabited. I found one near a lake, well out of sight, and relocated there before the season turned to Summer. Once I settled in, and dug out a new bolthole, I went about scavenging. Ammunition, fuel, food, and other supplies I managed to recover from other boltholes I established as well as from failed hides that I cleared out. So, when Summer arrived, I was ready to go when an opportunity arises.
I had a radio. I monitored it. I heard from desperate folks within reasonable reach of my location, so I went to them. Typical fools. Unprepared, out of supplies, and freaking out now that their world is gone and somehow they survived it. My conditions were the same: "I'm the boss. You do as I say, and I let you live. Pack your shit up and follow me, or I'm leave you to get eaten."
Twelve interventions I made over the Summer, and three did not come with me. I refused two due to their being human cancers that somehow survived the burning of the world; I kneecapped them and let them suffer the indignity of getting eaten by zeds. One refused me, so I shot the man of the group and that got the rest in line. I put them all to work around the household--and yes, I now lead a household--getting ready additional space for living and storage for the winter.
That Winter took its toll. Foolish women and wimpish men acting like children didn't take well to living as their grandfathers did, so I showed no mercy in punishing them. I made examples of them, and once made I took pains to bind the rest together by blood: I took the best women as wives and began making my own heirs. I coined our household "Lakeside Hold", and when one of my wives addressed me as "Master" I went with it. The old world was dead, and with it the unnatural and toxic ideas that could not live without its artificial substitutes for real life. Natural Law abhorred the decadence I hunted in the shadows, and now once more the world is as it once was: a world where family is all, blood is life, and everyone knew their place- or else.
I remembered an article in a magazine from years before, when this was a nascent movement. "The New Barbarians" they called us then. Well, they're all dead and gone and we are thriving. If this is the new barbarism, then I am the new chieftain of the resurgent clan: Clan Thorson.
By the following Spring, I found that I kept my radius clear of hostiles. Food and other supplies were still good, but resupply would become necessary sometime during the coming months because I had not the space to stock for more than a year at a time. During the warmer Winter days, I scoped out some nearby cabins and found them both intact and uninhabited. I found one near a lake, well out of sight, and relocated there before the season turned to Summer. Once I settled in, and dug out a new bolthole, I went about scavenging. Ammunition, fuel, food, and other supplies I managed to recover from other boltholes I established as well as from failed hides that I cleared out. So, when Summer arrived, I was ready to go when an opportunity arises.
I had a radio. I monitored it. I heard from desperate folks within reasonable reach of my location, so I went to them. Typical fools. Unprepared, out of supplies, and freaking out now that their world is gone and somehow they survived it. My conditions were the same: "I'm the boss. You do as I say, and I let you live. Pack your shit up and follow me, or I'm leave you to get eaten."
Twelve interventions I made over the Summer, and three did not come with me. I refused two due to their being human cancers that somehow survived the burning of the world; I kneecapped them and let them suffer the indignity of getting eaten by zeds. One refused me, so I shot the man of the group and that got the rest in line. I put them all to work around the household--and yes, I now lead a household--getting ready additional space for living and storage for the winter.
That Winter took its toll. Foolish women and wimpish men acting like children didn't take well to living as their grandfathers did, so I showed no mercy in punishing them. I made examples of them, and once made I took pains to bind the rest together by blood: I took the best women as wives and began making my own heirs. I coined our household "Lakeside Hold", and when one of my wives addressed me as "Master" I went with it. The old world was dead, and with it the unnatural and toxic ideas that could not live without its artificial substitutes for real life. Natural Law abhorred the decadence I hunted in the shadows, and now once more the world is as it once was: a world where family is all, blood is life, and everyone knew their place- or else.
I remembered an article in a magazine from years before, when this was a nascent movement. "The New Barbarians" they called us then. Well, they're all dead and gone and we are thriving. If this is the new barbarism, then I am the new chieftain of the resurgent clan: Clan Thorson.
Friday, July 4, 2014
The Reluctant Doomsayer-01
I heard the impossible. I heard a knock on the door. I should hear nothing after that last seizure. I should be dead, blissfully dead.
The door knock. I heard it a second time, and then a muffled--but irritated--voice.
I got up and answered the door. I saw a man that looked like Christopher Walken, but too young to really be him, and too much like a well-known role of his, for it to be him.
"You're Michael." I said.
"Clever monkey." he said, and he pushed past me into my room, shutting the door.
"I'd tell you to not be afraid, but that's obvious, and before you ask: I had a hand in the first one, but the others didn't have my guiding hand, and the me portrayed isn't actually mad with Him. Just a story, albeit one with some truth to it."
"Well, that explains why I'm not quite dead yet."
"Look at you." he said, "Undone by a heart attack, brought on by all this stress felt due to a lifetime of frustration."
"You're not here to chit-chat." I said.
He smiled. "True, I'm not. I'm here on His behalf, and He has an offer for you."
"Go on." I said, sitting down.
"Your fellow monkeys finally got on His bad side, again."
"Well, I doubt I'm being asked to do the righteous smiting thing. Your kind is far better for that."
"I see why He picked your name out of the hat, as it were." Michael said, "You're the Final Prophet, if you accept. Your task will be to give the final warning to repent before the Judgement."
"This sort of negotiating seems far more reminscent of a gangster film than a proper negotiation. Nonetheless, what happens should I refuse."
"Death, and not the sort that relieves. Total and eternal severance from Him. You think you folks go mad being alone too long now?"
I quickly put the dots together. "Okay. And what's on offer for acceptance."
"If you're lucky, a remnant of your kind will get back on His good side and be allow to start over after the mass exterminations, and you--assuming you hold up your end--are guaranteed eternity in blissful serenity."
The door to my room exploded inward, and another man who looked like Christopher Walken walked into the room.
"Not. Funny." he said to the other one, and in a smooth motion snatch me up and took me away. Since Kansas is well behind me at this point, I just went with it. Some time soon thereafter, he sat me down and stared at me.
"Did you decide?"
"Nope. I figured it had to be a trap, because you folks who are still on God's side don't negotiate. You just deliver news or execute commands."
"True. That said, there is something He wants you to do, and you're not dead yet because this work is yours, like it or not."
"Let me guess: I'm to warn the world of God's impending wrath?"
"Correct."
"Any help forthcoming from His end?"
"You don't die, yet. Other things to come as required; do your part, maintain faith in Him to handle the rest, and everything will go well."
"Lovely."
The door knock. I heard it a second time, and then a muffled--but irritated--voice.
I got up and answered the door. I saw a man that looked like Christopher Walken, but too young to really be him, and too much like a well-known role of his, for it to be him.
"You're Michael." I said.
"Clever monkey." he said, and he pushed past me into my room, shutting the door.
"I'd tell you to not be afraid, but that's obvious, and before you ask: I had a hand in the first one, but the others didn't have my guiding hand, and the me portrayed isn't actually mad with Him. Just a story, albeit one with some truth to it."
"Well, that explains why I'm not quite dead yet."
"Look at you." he said, "Undone by a heart attack, brought on by all this stress felt due to a lifetime of frustration."
"You're not here to chit-chat." I said.
He smiled. "True, I'm not. I'm here on His behalf, and He has an offer for you."
"Go on." I said, sitting down.
"Your fellow monkeys finally got on His bad side, again."
"Well, I doubt I'm being asked to do the righteous smiting thing. Your kind is far better for that."
"I see why He picked your name out of the hat, as it were." Michael said, "You're the Final Prophet, if you accept. Your task will be to give the final warning to repent before the Judgement."
"This sort of negotiating seems far more reminscent of a gangster film than a proper negotiation. Nonetheless, what happens should I refuse."
"Death, and not the sort that relieves. Total and eternal severance from Him. You think you folks go mad being alone too long now?"
I quickly put the dots together. "Okay. And what's on offer for acceptance."
"If you're lucky, a remnant of your kind will get back on His good side and be allow to start over after the mass exterminations, and you--assuming you hold up your end--are guaranteed eternity in blissful serenity."
The door to my room exploded inward, and another man who looked like Christopher Walken walked into the room.
"Not. Funny." he said to the other one, and in a smooth motion snatch me up and took me away. Since Kansas is well behind me at this point, I just went with it. Some time soon thereafter, he sat me down and stared at me.
"Did you decide?"
"Nope. I figured it had to be a trap, because you folks who are still on God's side don't negotiate. You just deliver news or execute commands."
"True. That said, there is something He wants you to do, and you're not dead yet because this work is yours, like it or not."
"Let me guess: I'm to warn the world of God's impending wrath?"
"Correct."
"Any help forthcoming from His end?"
"You don't die, yet. Other things to come as required; do your part, maintain faith in Him to handle the rest, and everything will go well."
"Lovely."
Friday, January 3, 2014
Homsar Delgana and the Dogs of Sirius-01
Deep in the void of space, a teardrop-shaped starship cruised from star to star. This was the Howard, a Campbell-class cruiser of the Patrol seconded indefinitely to Agent-At-Large Homsar Delgana--its sole crewman and occupant--who laid in repose in his quarters meditating upon matters great and small while the autopilot handled the routine of interstellar travel.
A klaxon activated, and Homsar let forth his special sense of perception. He sensed, as if bodily present, that a transmission on the emergency band now reached the Howard. In moments, Homsar awoke and rushed himself to the cockpit; this was important enough to handle awake, and not merely by way of mental technique.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is the R.S.S. DeCamp, calling all Patrol vessels within range. We are under attack by unknown hostiles, counting 30 ships. Our squadron is in disarray, and we request immediate assistance!" Homsar immediately checked the Patrol network; no vessels were within range other than his own, none that could arrive in time. Homsar repeated the signal to the nearest Patrol base, and then strapped himself into the pilot's chair.
"DeCamp, this is the Howard. Light up your beacon and hold fast. Help is on the way. Over."
Homsar faintly heard his name said in the background, followed by cheering. "Hurry, Howard, they're a lot stronger than your usual pirates. Over and out." Homsar threw open the throttle, and at maximum thrust the Howard closed the distance within minutes. As he approached the DeCamp's position he projected his sense of perception forward to acquire up-to-date intelligence. What he sensed was an orbital fleet battle in the Sirius system, where a hostile flotilla ambushed a Patrol squadron near a heretofore ill-known planet and its moon. The ambush broke the Patrol formation, in part because this was a training cruise for Patrol cadets and in part because the Patrol had no reason to expect hostiles in this area of space, but failed to destroy any Patrol ships yet; despite being outnumbered a little over two to one, and getting hammered hard, so far the Patrol cadets have held their ground.
Homsar found the squadron commander, the captain of the DeCamp, a Commander Sprage- an aging Patrol fleet officer, now relegated to teaching these new recruits, whose best years were well behind him. Yet those best years were during the Algolian War, and Homsar remembered Sprage from his youth as one far more respected than he is today.
"Commander Sprage!" Homsar said over the comm, "Come in."
"This is Sprage actual." Sprage said, relieved, "I'm holding it together here, trying to get my ships back in order, but it's damned tough."
"I'm coming in 45 degrees above your plane at 9 o'clock." Homsar said, "I'm going to slice away at the outer edges and push them back to you. Regroup in a tortoise shell formation and switch over to close-range bombardment."
"Understood." Sprage said, and he gave those exact orders to the squadron. As Homsar stated, he entered the fray high over the DeCamp's position off the port bow. He switched over to the maneuver drives, going inert, and ripped into the three nearest hostile starships. Between his own fire and that of the Patrol vessel he aided, those ships got knocked out of the fight and attempted to disengage. Homsar wouldn't let them, and drove them inward instead. He repeated this maneuver several times, putting the hostiles between his fast-acting cruiser and the Patrol's well-armed ships. The result was that several of the hostile vessels got sunk, a few more disabled, and the rest broke away and fled for home. Neither Homsar nor the squadron decided to pursue. The disabled ships got boarded by Patrol Marines, and despite fierce resistance they too were overcome; most of the hostile crews died, with only a handful still alive for interrogation.
Afterwords, on the DeCamp, Homsar met with Commander Sprage and his subordinates.
"We managed to collect the remains of the enemy vessels destroyed, and prize crews are aboard the captured ones. We'll make for Sirius Prime from here and turn these over to the Patrol office there." Sprage said, "On behalf of all of us, I'd like to thank you for coming to our aid."
Homsar waived it off. "As if I wouldn't come." Homsar said, "You know better, Commander."
"That only means that nothing more important hadn't come to your attention." Sprage said, and then one of the crewmen entered the room.
"Sir, one of the prisoners requests parley. We believe it is the ship's captain."
Sprage stood up, but the crewman stopped him. "No, sir, not with you. He wants parley with Agent Homsar."
Homsar gave the young cadet the look that said "And he wants to speak with me why?" The crewman then said, "He said 'Dragonsworn', sir.", and that was enough for both Homsar and Sprage.
A klaxon activated, and Homsar let forth his special sense of perception. He sensed, as if bodily present, that a transmission on the emergency band now reached the Howard. In moments, Homsar awoke and rushed himself to the cockpit; this was important enough to handle awake, and not merely by way of mental technique.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is the R.S.S. DeCamp, calling all Patrol vessels within range. We are under attack by unknown hostiles, counting 30 ships. Our squadron is in disarray, and we request immediate assistance!" Homsar immediately checked the Patrol network; no vessels were within range other than his own, none that could arrive in time. Homsar repeated the signal to the nearest Patrol base, and then strapped himself into the pilot's chair.
"DeCamp, this is the Howard. Light up your beacon and hold fast. Help is on the way. Over."
Homsar faintly heard his name said in the background, followed by cheering. "Hurry, Howard, they're a lot stronger than your usual pirates. Over and out." Homsar threw open the throttle, and at maximum thrust the Howard closed the distance within minutes. As he approached the DeCamp's position he projected his sense of perception forward to acquire up-to-date intelligence. What he sensed was an orbital fleet battle in the Sirius system, where a hostile flotilla ambushed a Patrol squadron near a heretofore ill-known planet and its moon. The ambush broke the Patrol formation, in part because this was a training cruise for Patrol cadets and in part because the Patrol had no reason to expect hostiles in this area of space, but failed to destroy any Patrol ships yet; despite being outnumbered a little over two to one, and getting hammered hard, so far the Patrol cadets have held their ground.
Homsar found the squadron commander, the captain of the DeCamp, a Commander Sprage- an aging Patrol fleet officer, now relegated to teaching these new recruits, whose best years were well behind him. Yet those best years were during the Algolian War, and Homsar remembered Sprage from his youth as one far more respected than he is today.
"Commander Sprage!" Homsar said over the comm, "Come in."
"This is Sprage actual." Sprage said, relieved, "I'm holding it together here, trying to get my ships back in order, but it's damned tough."
"I'm coming in 45 degrees above your plane at 9 o'clock." Homsar said, "I'm going to slice away at the outer edges and push them back to you. Regroup in a tortoise shell formation and switch over to close-range bombardment."
"Understood." Sprage said, and he gave those exact orders to the squadron. As Homsar stated, he entered the fray high over the DeCamp's position off the port bow. He switched over to the maneuver drives, going inert, and ripped into the three nearest hostile starships. Between his own fire and that of the Patrol vessel he aided, those ships got knocked out of the fight and attempted to disengage. Homsar wouldn't let them, and drove them inward instead. He repeated this maneuver several times, putting the hostiles between his fast-acting cruiser and the Patrol's well-armed ships. The result was that several of the hostile vessels got sunk, a few more disabled, and the rest broke away and fled for home. Neither Homsar nor the squadron decided to pursue. The disabled ships got boarded by Patrol Marines, and despite fierce resistance they too were overcome; most of the hostile crews died, with only a handful still alive for interrogation.
Afterwords, on the DeCamp, Homsar met with Commander Sprage and his subordinates.
"We managed to collect the remains of the enemy vessels destroyed, and prize crews are aboard the captured ones. We'll make for Sirius Prime from here and turn these over to the Patrol office there." Sprage said, "On behalf of all of us, I'd like to thank you for coming to our aid."
Homsar waived it off. "As if I wouldn't come." Homsar said, "You know better, Commander."
"That only means that nothing more important hadn't come to your attention." Sprage said, and then one of the crewmen entered the room.
"Sir, one of the prisoners requests parley. We believe it is the ship's captain."
Sprage stood up, but the crewman stopped him. "No, sir, not with you. He wants parley with Agent Homsar."
Homsar gave the young cadet the look that said "And he wants to speak with me why?" The crewman then said, "He said 'Dragonsworn', sir.", and that was enough for both Homsar and Sprage.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Expedition to the Silver Mountain-01
Midsummer’s Day, Year 50 of the New Era.
To My Lords of the White Tower,
At the beginning of this Spring I received from My Lords an urgent call to return to the Tower. I obeyed without delay, and upon arrival I immediately went into a closed session with the Council. There I received a briefing from the Council that a divination penetrated the stronghold of a defeated enemy from generations past, and within that place my brother diviners at last found the location of a great and powerful artifact long known to be of value to the People of the White Tower. It could not pass into the hands of the Enemy.
I knew, at that moment, why the Council summoned me. The diviners could not use their powers to bring forth this old artifact, as they could not gain a firm connection to the object to bring it forth. Due to the distance from the White Tower, and the importance it holds, haste became required and that meant trusting the matter to a brother ready and able to into the field and operate on his own initiative towards the goals given to him. It could not be put to anyone other than I—Colleb, Brother of the Loremaster College—and I humbly accepted The Archmage’s command to seek and recover the old artifact for the White Tower.
The war we fought with the old demon cult in the years following the Coming of the Azure Flames meant that our post-war expansion, and the ways we created to move around our lands, did not go there. It did mean that we kept a series of garrisons there for a time, and since then more of our people settled around the old dominion of the cult. It seemed natural to use the citadel nearest to the objective as my base of operations, so I immediately took the way to Citadel Argent and established an office there.
Citadel Lord Eloc understood without unnecessary explanation as to why I was there, or what I required. He and I had worked together previously, and came to a mutually-beneficial understanding in those years prior, so gaining his assistance took only some reciprocation on my part. (I will specify what that became below.) Unfortunately, Lord Eloc could not come along, as his duties at that time required the whole of his attention—you, My Lords, will recall the Enemy’s incursions elsewhere in that region—but he did detach his protégé to serve me as he often did.
I shall not waste time on the details of my organizing of the expedition. Following old practice, I conscripted all of the idle and excess men in the area and put them through a round of drill and training while I got the logistics organized and planned my approach to the old cult lair. Once armed, armored, equipped and satisfied with preparations we left the citadel and struck out for the cult’s lair by 15 days into the Spring.
To My Lords of the White Tower,
At the beginning of this Spring I received from My Lords an urgent call to return to the Tower. I obeyed without delay, and upon arrival I immediately went into a closed session with the Council. There I received a briefing from the Council that a divination penetrated the stronghold of a defeated enemy from generations past, and within that place my brother diviners at last found the location of a great and powerful artifact long known to be of value to the People of the White Tower. It could not pass into the hands of the Enemy.
I knew, at that moment, why the Council summoned me. The diviners could not use their powers to bring forth this old artifact, as they could not gain a firm connection to the object to bring it forth. Due to the distance from the White Tower, and the importance it holds, haste became required and that meant trusting the matter to a brother ready and able to into the field and operate on his own initiative towards the goals given to him. It could not be put to anyone other than I—Colleb, Brother of the Loremaster College—and I humbly accepted The Archmage’s command to seek and recover the old artifact for the White Tower.
The war we fought with the old demon cult in the years following the Coming of the Azure Flames meant that our post-war expansion, and the ways we created to move around our lands, did not go there. It did mean that we kept a series of garrisons there for a time, and since then more of our people settled around the old dominion of the cult. It seemed natural to use the citadel nearest to the objective as my base of operations, so I immediately took the way to Citadel Argent and established an office there.
Citadel Lord Eloc understood without unnecessary explanation as to why I was there, or what I required. He and I had worked together previously, and came to a mutually-beneficial understanding in those years prior, so gaining his assistance took only some reciprocation on my part. (I will specify what that became below.) Unfortunately, Lord Eloc could not come along, as his duties at that time required the whole of his attention—you, My Lords, will recall the Enemy’s incursions elsewhere in that region—but he did detach his protégé to serve me as he often did.
I shall not waste time on the details of my organizing of the expedition. Following old practice, I conscripted all of the idle and excess men in the area and put them through a round of drill and training while I got the logistics organized and planned my approach to the old cult lair. Once armed, armored, equipped and satisfied with preparations we left the citadel and struck out for the cult’s lair by 15 days into the Spring.
Friday, August 24, 2012
The South American Incident-01
Bogota, Columbia.
Ken waited until the very end to get off the flight he took from Moscow. As he walked into the terminal, he saw the woman who summoned him waiting there, holding a sign that bore his full name. He smiled, walked up to the woman and embraced her in a mighty hug.
"Marisol!" he said, "It's good to see you!"
Marisol, a head shorter than the American, had to stand on her toes to reach him. She kissed him on the cheeks.
"I am glad that I reached you. You are so hard to find."
Ken smiled. "I move around a lot."
Marisol took Ken in one arm and lead him down the terminal towards the baggage claim area. She nodded to one of the nearby uniformed men, and he spoke into a walkie-talkie.
"My security detail will join us shortly." she said.
"Detail? I heard that you married well, but I had no idea-"
"My husband is one of the bravest men in Columbia, a judge known to resist the cartels."
Ken chuckled. "That has to be why you couldn't talk on the phone."
"Indeed, it is. Our old friends said that you hadn't changed since university, so I knew that if I could find you-"
"-I would come to your aide. True."
The two of them soon found themselves flanked by plain-clothed men with the gait and demeanor of bodyguards.
"Let us wait until we get into the car before I explain further why I need your help. For now, just tell me why you were in Russia. For a woman? For a friend?"
Marisol stared into Ken's eyes.
"Or was it something...more personal?"
Ken sighed. "Gregor. I tracked him down to St. Petersburg. I finally got him in Moscow. I got my ring back when you called. It's good that you called when you did because it gave me the cover I needed to escape his family."
Marisol gasped. She noticed a string around Ken's neck, and a ring under his shirt.
"I remember." she said, "Gregor just laughed when the police arrested him for Keiko's murder."
"Diplomatic status means nothing to a Kalashnikov rifle in my hands."
Marisol nodded. This was the Ken she remembered from her university days all right.
Ken waited until the very end to get off the flight he took from Moscow. As he walked into the terminal, he saw the woman who summoned him waiting there, holding a sign that bore his full name. He smiled, walked up to the woman and embraced her in a mighty hug.
"Marisol!" he said, "It's good to see you!"
Marisol, a head shorter than the American, had to stand on her toes to reach him. She kissed him on the cheeks.
"I am glad that I reached you. You are so hard to find."
Ken smiled. "I move around a lot."
Marisol took Ken in one arm and lead him down the terminal towards the baggage claim area. She nodded to one of the nearby uniformed men, and he spoke into a walkie-talkie.
"My security detail will join us shortly." she said.
"Detail? I heard that you married well, but I had no idea-"
"My husband is one of the bravest men in Columbia, a judge known to resist the cartels."
Ken chuckled. "That has to be why you couldn't talk on the phone."
"Indeed, it is. Our old friends said that you hadn't changed since university, so I knew that if I could find you-"
"-I would come to your aide. True."
The two of them soon found themselves flanked by plain-clothed men with the gait and demeanor of bodyguards.
"Let us wait until we get into the car before I explain further why I need your help. For now, just tell me why you were in Russia. For a woman? For a friend?"
Marisol stared into Ken's eyes.
"Or was it something...more personal?"
Ken sighed. "Gregor. I tracked him down to St. Petersburg. I finally got him in Moscow. I got my ring back when you called. It's good that you called when you did because it gave me the cover I needed to escape his family."
Marisol gasped. She noticed a string around Ken's neck, and a ring under his shirt.
"I remember." she said, "Gregor just laughed when the police arrested him for Keiko's murder."
"Diplomatic status means nothing to a Kalashnikov rifle in my hands."
Marisol nodded. This was the Ken she remembered from her university days all right.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Star Whacker-01
I’m known as “Mr. Smith”. I’m what Randy Quaid calls a “star whacker”. I am a man that very powerful and influential entities contact when one of their human resources ceases to be an asset and becomes a liability, and these entities enter into a contract with me to remove that liability. I provide a desirable service, performed in a professional and confidential manner, that permits deniability to my clients and for which I receive rich compensation.
I came to my profession by a career path that is uncommon to those in my profession. Most of my peers either come organically out of a street-level background in organized crime syndicates, such as the Mafia, or they come artificially out of a professional background in the Intelligence community, such as the C.I.A., and as such they possess a certain set of tells and habits that easily identify them to others.
I am one of the more unusual individuals, as I came out of a calm civilian background with an ordinary suburban community and no known ties to either the government or the criminal underworld. I have no military experience, no criminal record, and no secrets from my youth or adolescence that an interested party could use against me- nothing recorded, anyway. What I have is a decades-long study of crime, espionage, and related knowledge; I used what I learned to develop and perfect my practices. This includes the very everyday cover identity that I use to mask my operations: I am a columnist, with degrees in Journalism and Political Science, and a blogger.
My secret is the same as that of my peers: I am a psychopath. I am aware of my pathology, and I have been since I was a child. I have long since learned how to fake the empathy that ordinary people possess, through a combination of the study of body language and my time studying psychology as part of a larger self-education in theater—specifically, acting—that I undertook as an extra-curricular while in college.
Like most, I understand that I am a predator. Unlike most, I sincerely believe that my predation is for the benefit of the species. I got noticed when I successfully disappeared an embarrassing has-been celebrity that emerged from my hometown a generation before, and long-since became a laughingstock. I researched my target as I pushed behind the scenes for that target to come back for one of those ridiculous inspirational talks to high school students.
I used an acquaintance to procure the narcotics necessary to subdue my target, without his knowledge, and I then used the target’s assistant to get them introduced into the target’s bloodstream- again, without the assistant’s knowledge. When the target went into cardiac arrest while on stage, I leaped forward and began administering medical aid; I gave one of my best performances on that day, making it seem as if I were doing the procedure correctly, and kept at it until the target’s death became certain.
I received a postcard at a post office box that I rented under an assumed name three months later. Without leaving prints, I read the card; I left the card in the box, having read the instructions in it, and scoped out the location of the dead drop location. A man in an off-the-rack suit left a wrinkled brown paper bag next to the base of a tree. That night, I retrieved it; inside was a note with yet further instructions. Two days later, I retrieved from another dead drop location $1 million in unmarked, non-sequential U.S. bank notes- and a note of appreciation. By the weekend, I found myself on an audio-only Skype call with the patron that paid me.
“Please,” I said, “you may as well call me ‘Mr. Smith’ for now.”
That, reader, is how I broke into the big time of the assassination game. As for the assistant and the addict, I framed them for the celebrity’s death. After all, someone had to be blamed, so I might as well have set that up beforehand to ensure that no attention came to me. Risky, but worth it.
I came to my profession by a career path that is uncommon to those in my profession. Most of my peers either come organically out of a street-level background in organized crime syndicates, such as the Mafia, or they come artificially out of a professional background in the Intelligence community, such as the C.I.A., and as such they possess a certain set of tells and habits that easily identify them to others.
I am one of the more unusual individuals, as I came out of a calm civilian background with an ordinary suburban community and no known ties to either the government or the criminal underworld. I have no military experience, no criminal record, and no secrets from my youth or adolescence that an interested party could use against me- nothing recorded, anyway. What I have is a decades-long study of crime, espionage, and related knowledge; I used what I learned to develop and perfect my practices. This includes the very everyday cover identity that I use to mask my operations: I am a columnist, with degrees in Journalism and Political Science, and a blogger.
My secret is the same as that of my peers: I am a psychopath. I am aware of my pathology, and I have been since I was a child. I have long since learned how to fake the empathy that ordinary people possess, through a combination of the study of body language and my time studying psychology as part of a larger self-education in theater—specifically, acting—that I undertook as an extra-curricular while in college.
Like most, I understand that I am a predator. Unlike most, I sincerely believe that my predation is for the benefit of the species. I got noticed when I successfully disappeared an embarrassing has-been celebrity that emerged from my hometown a generation before, and long-since became a laughingstock. I researched my target as I pushed behind the scenes for that target to come back for one of those ridiculous inspirational talks to high school students.
I used an acquaintance to procure the narcotics necessary to subdue my target, without his knowledge, and I then used the target’s assistant to get them introduced into the target’s bloodstream- again, without the assistant’s knowledge. When the target went into cardiac arrest while on stage, I leaped forward and began administering medical aid; I gave one of my best performances on that day, making it seem as if I were doing the procedure correctly, and kept at it until the target’s death became certain.
I received a postcard at a post office box that I rented under an assumed name three months later. Without leaving prints, I read the card; I left the card in the box, having read the instructions in it, and scoped out the location of the dead drop location. A man in an off-the-rack suit left a wrinkled brown paper bag next to the base of a tree. That night, I retrieved it; inside was a note with yet further instructions. Two days later, I retrieved from another dead drop location $1 million in unmarked, non-sequential U.S. bank notes- and a note of appreciation. By the weekend, I found myself on an audio-only Skype call with the patron that paid me.
“Please,” I said, “you may as well call me ‘Mr. Smith’ for now.”
That, reader, is how I broke into the big time of the assassination game. As for the assistant and the addict, I framed them for the celebrity’s death. After all, someone had to be blamed, so I might as well have set that up beforehand to ensure that no attention came to me. Risky, but worth it.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Sheepdog-01
A man, beaten and bloodied, sits on the stoop of a ruined house. About him is a scene of carnage—corpses litter the yard, cars and motorcycles lie wrecked about the property and the trees are the worse for it—and besides him a small schoolgirl clutches him as she sobs a river of tears. He has in hand a pad of paper and a pen, with which he writes furiously. Sirens howl in the distance, signaling the approach of the police as well as the fire department and the ambulances. Atop the paper one easily reads first “AFFADAVIT”, and then “THIS IS A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD”.
* * * * *
Kathy Berglund had everything she desired. She married an ambitious businessman from a wealthy, respectable family. She had a successful line of novels, written under an ambiguous pen name, that she just transitioned into the thriving digital publishing world. She had two strong, healthy children and housed them in a dream home out in a fashionable lakeside property that had all of the benefits of a rural cabin without being removed from urban center of her—and her husband’s—career. Unlike many of her friends from college and high school, she still the enjoyed a reasonable expectation of security and prosperity, so—as a good friend—she helped them as best she could.
This compassion, coupled with her own talents, once had her in the arms of another man- a man that remained firmly fixed in Kathy’s heart, a man that she remained friendly with after she left him and a man that was soon to arrive at her idyllic home to join her family and friends in celebrating her eldest child’s 5th birthday. She saw him in the distance, riding up toward the house on a motorcycle, as she stood on the backyard deck overlooking the lake. He waived, and once more the same excitement that drew her to him all those years ago rushed through her being.
She went inside and grabbed her husband. “I saw him!” she said, giddy, “He waived to me from across the lake.”
Kathy’s husband, Reginald, just chuckled. This wasn’t the first time she’s seen her old boyfriend since they got together. They’d met up plenty of times since Kathy accepted his wedding proposal. She had plenty of chances to run back to that man, yet she always came home to Reginald. Once he met the man, he understood why Kathy loved him so much- and why she left him. He holds his own warm regards for the man, so he didn’t mind that Kathy had him come to their daughter’s birthday party. So, after getting a pair of beers, he followed his wife out the front door just in time to see him come up the driveway and park the bike. Kathy ran up to him, threw her arms around him and kissed him as if they were still the lovers they were when she was in college- and Reginald just smiled, chuckled and shook his head.
As soon as Kathy let the man come up for air, as it were, Reginald approached and put a beer in the man's hand. "I see that Kathy's given you a warm welcome, Ken." he said, "Ellie's waiting for you inside. We hadn't told her yet, but I doubt that we'll need to."
Just then, the birthday girl crashed through the front door and ran out to meet their guest. "Uncle Ken!" she cried, "You're here!"
It's a rare thing to see two men share knowing, appreciative glances at each other, but these two did.
"That's right, honey." Reginald said, "Our sheepdog is back."
Kathy Berglund had everything she desired. She married an ambitious businessman from a wealthy, respectable family. She had a successful line of novels, written under an ambiguous pen name, that she just transitioned into the thriving digital publishing world. She had two strong, healthy children and housed them in a dream home out in a fashionable lakeside property that had all of the benefits of a rural cabin without being removed from urban center of her—and her husband’s—career. Unlike many of her friends from college and high school, she still the enjoyed a reasonable expectation of security and prosperity, so—as a good friend—she helped them as best she could.
This compassion, coupled with her own talents, once had her in the arms of another man- a man that remained firmly fixed in Kathy’s heart, a man that she remained friendly with after she left him and a man that was soon to arrive at her idyllic home to join her family and friends in celebrating her eldest child’s 5th birthday. She saw him in the distance, riding up toward the house on a motorcycle, as she stood on the backyard deck overlooking the lake. He waived, and once more the same excitement that drew her to him all those years ago rushed through her being.
She went inside and grabbed her husband. “I saw him!” she said, giddy, “He waived to me from across the lake.”
Kathy’s husband, Reginald, just chuckled. This wasn’t the first time she’s seen her old boyfriend since they got together. They’d met up plenty of times since Kathy accepted his wedding proposal. She had plenty of chances to run back to that man, yet she always came home to Reginald. Once he met the man, he understood why Kathy loved him so much- and why she left him. He holds his own warm regards for the man, so he didn’t mind that Kathy had him come to their daughter’s birthday party. So, after getting a pair of beers, he followed his wife out the front door just in time to see him come up the driveway and park the bike. Kathy ran up to him, threw her arms around him and kissed him as if they were still the lovers they were when she was in college- and Reginald just smiled, chuckled and shook his head.
As soon as Kathy let the man come up for air, as it were, Reginald approached and put a beer in the man's hand. "I see that Kathy's given you a warm welcome, Ken." he said, "Ellie's waiting for you inside. We hadn't told her yet, but I doubt that we'll need to."
Just then, the birthday girl crashed through the front door and ran out to meet their guest. "Uncle Ken!" she cried, "You're here!"
It's a rare thing to see two men share knowing, appreciative glances at each other, but these two did.
"That's right, honey." Reginald said, "Our sheepdog is back."
Friday, February 5, 2010
Dawn of the Dragonsworn-Part 1
Homsar Delgana still remembers the end of the last war as if it were yesterday. He was there when the final strikes occurred, and he was in the thick of it putting axe to skull and blasting fist-sized holes through chests. He'd long ago transformed from a frightened, but outraged schoolboy-turned-guerrilla into a hardened, veteran soldier and spy- one worthy of being inducted into the inaugural cohort of the Republic's elite operatives. Now in his prime, Homsar lay in repose aboard his personal ship as it shot through the ether, clad as is usual for him now in his dull gray uniform.
"Homsar!" a voice said, "You there?"
Without moving, without anything other than a thought as firm as disciplined as the body that housed it, Homsar answered: "I am."
Had there been any witnesses, they would've seen nothing and heard nothing. Telepathy required no such obviousness.
"Are you busy, son?" the voice said, "If you're up to something, I'd rather not bother you."
"No, sir." Homsar said, "I'd only just returned the remains of Gunner's Mate Fritzhof Holm earlier today to his family on Earth. Until your call just now, I'd been mulling over what to do next."
"The last of the Oklahoma's men, right?"
"Correct, sir."
"I've told you more than once that you don't have to be so formal anymore, son, so I'm thinking that you actually do that to needle me."
Homsar smiled.
"Admiral, you didn't contact me for a social call. You have something on your mind, so let's have it."
"Do you remember the incident involving the Sixth Hospital?"
"Yes, I do." Homsar said, thinking of his old pals and their kids- and the nurses they married after meeting in a hospital, "I'm quite glad that we've fixed that problem."
"I've gotten an update from the Missing Personnel inquiry."
"They didn't retrieve the remains, did they?" Homsar said, seeing where this conversation will go.
"No. Commodore Jackson got orders for the next push before he expected, and had to pull out before he could complete the job."
"Bring your men on the beam."
A moment later, Homsar noticed the presence of two others.
"Agent Delgana?" said a younger voice.
"Alex. Good. Iassc, are you there?"
No words, as such, but rather the telepathic equivalent of an affirmative nod.
"Good. Now, Lieutenants, brief me properly. Be as complete and conclusive as your intelligence allows."
They did. In a blur of thought, as language would slow the process too much, they put forth the facts of the incident--a hospital unit fell under enemy attack, and the husband of one of the nurses deserted to save her; when his fleet caught up to him, they found the entire planetary and orbital structure smashed to pieces and an abbatoir on the surface; orders to link up for another campaign arrived before the fleet could finish its inquiry and they never found the remains of either their pilot or his wife--and a development that may be related: reports of raiders hitting colonies and shipping in that area spiked within the last year.
Still without moving, still in repose, Homsar reached out to the controls of his ship and set a course for the very planet where this sad incident occurred so many years ago.
"I accept your request, Admiral." Homsar said, "As for you two young men, you did just fine."
"Homsar, I hadn't made any requests of you yet." the old man said.
"Your request came in loud and clear when you told me about the incident. I'll stop over there and recover the remains. While I'm there, I'll look into these raiders."
A sense of relief fell over the telepathic link.
"Over and out, Admiral." Homsar said, and he severed the link. A moment later, he emerged from his repose and took a short walk about his ship. He went back into the hold and inspected his armor, weapons, and other materiel; he felt certain that, as he so often encountered, things would go wrong- so he might as well be ready for any such scenario. With a smile of well-earned satisfaction, he enjoyed the thought of showing--again--exactly how and why a man has to earn that dull grey uniform.
"Homsar!" a voice said, "You there?"
Without moving, without anything other than a thought as firm as disciplined as the body that housed it, Homsar answered: "I am."
Had there been any witnesses, they would've seen nothing and heard nothing. Telepathy required no such obviousness.
"Are you busy, son?" the voice said, "If you're up to something, I'd rather not bother you."
"No, sir." Homsar said, "I'd only just returned the remains of Gunner's Mate Fritzhof Holm earlier today to his family on Earth. Until your call just now, I'd been mulling over what to do next."
"The last of the Oklahoma's men, right?"
"Correct, sir."
"I've told you more than once that you don't have to be so formal anymore, son, so I'm thinking that you actually do that to needle me."
Homsar smiled.
"Admiral, you didn't contact me for a social call. You have something on your mind, so let's have it."
"Do you remember the incident involving the Sixth Hospital?"
"Yes, I do." Homsar said, thinking of his old pals and their kids- and the nurses they married after meeting in a hospital, "I'm quite glad that we've fixed that problem."
"I've gotten an update from the Missing Personnel inquiry."
"They didn't retrieve the remains, did they?" Homsar said, seeing where this conversation will go.
"No. Commodore Jackson got orders for the next push before he expected, and had to pull out before he could complete the job."
"Bring your men on the beam."
A moment later, Homsar noticed the presence of two others.
"Agent Delgana?" said a younger voice.
"Alex. Good. Iassc, are you there?"
No words, as such, but rather the telepathic equivalent of an affirmative nod.
"Good. Now, Lieutenants, brief me properly. Be as complete and conclusive as your intelligence allows."
They did. In a blur of thought, as language would slow the process too much, they put forth the facts of the incident--a hospital unit fell under enemy attack, and the husband of one of the nurses deserted to save her; when his fleet caught up to him, they found the entire planetary and orbital structure smashed to pieces and an abbatoir on the surface; orders to link up for another campaign arrived before the fleet could finish its inquiry and they never found the remains of either their pilot or his wife--and a development that may be related: reports of raiders hitting colonies and shipping in that area spiked within the last year.
Still without moving, still in repose, Homsar reached out to the controls of his ship and set a course for the very planet where this sad incident occurred so many years ago.
"I accept your request, Admiral." Homsar said, "As for you two young men, you did just fine."
"Homsar, I hadn't made any requests of you yet." the old man said.
"Your request came in loud and clear when you told me about the incident. I'll stop over there and recover the remains. While I'm there, I'll look into these raiders."
A sense of relief fell over the telepathic link.
"Over and out, Admiral." Homsar said, and he severed the link. A moment later, he emerged from his repose and took a short walk about his ship. He went back into the hold and inspected his armor, weapons, and other materiel; he felt certain that, as he so often encountered, things would go wrong- so he might as well be ready for any such scenario. With a smile of well-earned satisfaction, he enjoyed the thought of showing--again--exactly how and why a man has to earn that dull grey uniform.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Dawn of the Dragonsworn-Introduction
The Chronicles presents its first science fiction story, a planetary romance by the name of "Dawn of the Dragonsworn". It begins with veteran agent Homsar Delgana landing on a planet where personnel went missing in the last war, only to find that the planet is inhabited and that the natives have in their custody the child of the missing personnel. Things go wrong from there. The first part goes live tomorrow.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Paladin-Part 1
James ran as fast as he could to the White Tower. The Archmage called for him by name, and there was no way that he would let the savior of the people down by not making haste, yet he did stop—briefly—to wonder at the impossible shape of his master’s home and his people’s citadel. This artifact from his people’s homeland was a tall tower wrought of white steel that his people cannot replicate now. It rose from a wide base, narrowed in the middle and then expanded again at the top to hold a broad disk wherein the Archmage worked his arcane art- and ruled the lands that are now known as his domain. From this place, the order that his elders bought with blood and magic emanated, like the waves that go forth from where a rock hits the water- order that now fell to him, and to his generation, to not only maintain, but expand.
James hurried into the White Tower, making hasty—but routine—salutes to the guards and ritual-like interaction with the man-like metal construct standing motionless at the base of the White Tower’s lift. Moments later, James emerged into the Archmage’s chambers atop the White Tower, and there waiting for him was the very man himself- and his ever-present aide, David.
The Archmage—none that knew his name ever told John what it was—made no attempt to hide his venerable age, or to mask the frailty that came with it. Yet even James felt the power in his body, and one look at the eyes made clear that the Archmage still had the full power of his mind firmly in hand. As for David, he seemed as solid a man as he was when John last got this close to him- five years ago, when John began training as a warrior, sometimes under David’s direct tutelage.
The Archmage beckoned James to approach, and John did, nervously.
“Calm yourself, my boy.” The Archmage motioned for David to bring over some water.
“I called you here for good reasons this day.”
James saw that, in addition to some water, David brought over a tunic.
“Harold Arthur James,” the Archmage said, “you’ve proven your worth as a warrior, ready and able to handle the work ahead of you, and it is for that reason that I have called you here.”
David presented the tunic to James, a tunic as blue as the clear-blue sea in the bay just west of the Tower with white accents like the foam on the waves when that sea turns rough. Inscribed on the chest is the device of the White Tower, and on the back sigils in a tongue that James knew not ran down in a column- but James knew well what this meant.
“I name you to the Company of the Tower.” the Archmage said, “The first of your generation to do so, and I hope that you will show the way for those that follow you.”
“Congratulations Jimmy.” David said, as he dressed James in his new tunic, “You deserve this. You’re ready for it.”
James let his eyes go wide and his mouth open, betraying his youth.
“This is such an honor, Masters!” James said, saluting, “I am very grateful.”
The older men chuckled, and then David said “We make this known tonight, when the Tower Festival begins, but there is no harm in wearing your uniform now. Your elders already know, and as I speak your family gathers your things and brings them here to your new home.”
The Archmage turned to David. “Let us be for now, and go below to help prepare.”
“Of course, old friend.” David said, and he made for the lift.
Once alone, James poured water for the Archmage, again for himself, and waited. A moment thereafter, the Archmage took James around the circular room and pointed out a window towards one of the distant mountains that lay well east of the White Tower.
“You are not one for idleness, James, so I shall not insult you with mere guard duty.”
The Archmage paused, drinking.
“That mountain has many names, but in the tongue of the old empire its name is ‘Silver Top’, due to the silver-like shine from its summit. Before the Rain of Azure Flames that ruined the world, a tragic figure fled the land and was last seen running for Silver Top.”
James listened, attention fixed wholly on his master.
“His name is George Felton. He was once a student of mine, many years ago, but he—like the whole of his generation—believed that self-indulgence was a virtue, mistook money for wealth, and eschewed the true purpose for his existence. He rose to some prominence before the Rain of Azure Flames, being both a magician and an alchemist, using an underhanded team of expendable minions to frame his enemies for crimes that he ordered. He did so because he believed that all of his crimes were necessary to ensure that he became lord of the land here, and with lordship in his hands he could forcibly reform things to his desire- to his will, and his benefit, alone.”
“I assume, master, that this Felton ultimately failed? You mentioned that he fled for that far-off mountain.”
Both James and his master emptied their glasses. As James poured more water, the Archmage answered him.
“Indeed, he did fail in time, but not before he did much damage. He used the secrets I taught him to aggrandize much temporal power, and that included create a personality cult about himself. Using this as a weapon, he scoured the lands of his enemies, but always from a distance sufficient to afford him the ability to deny the actions of his followers. By now Felton had a cunning understanding of the madness that afflicted the old empire, and he used it with increasingly ruthlessness and boldness.”
“So, how did he fail?”
The Archmage smiled. “I saw that he became obsessed with worldly power and influence, and in so doing he had lost sight of the universe- he lost all perspective of things. So I moved to contain him and his influence, to quarantine him, and with the help of the other Masters I did so. Then I let some of my other students, including your parents, know what went on and how to deal with it. They organized the victims of Felton against him and his minions, and after a long time of tension we led an assault on his mansion and burned him—and the sickness that he brought—out of the land. Many of his minions died in the struggle, but many more fled with him into the mountains, and the Rain of Azure Flames did not exterminate them.”
The Archmage saw that James quickly drew the intended conclusions.
“The many monsters and fiends we’ve contended with since your birth, for which your father and his friends fought and died to defeat, are somehow tied to Felton and his cult. I’ve seen this after conferring with the Masters; these mutants and other enemies, somehow, target us specifically. They know us—your elders—by name. For the good of our people, this connection must be confirmed or denied, and if confirmed then we must bring the fight to them.”
James finished his glass.
“I accept.” James said.
The Archmage smiled. “I am pleased, James.”
The Archmage moved half-way across the disk-like room and retrieved something from a box that seemed almost as old as the man himself. Covered by a cloth, James could not tell what it was that his master held in hand. As he got close, James watched his master unveil the object and revealed it as a headband; a silver disc with a sun-like device inlayed in gold, fixed to a strong band of black cloth.
“Tie this about your brow.”
James took the headband and tied it on as ordered, centering the disc on his forehead directly over the point that he knew as his “third eye”.
“James, tonight I shall announce your entrance into the Company of the Tower. I shall also announce the expedition for Silver Top, which I shall place into your command. The band about your brow shall mark your status of command, but that is not all it shall do for you.”
James let his eyes speak his question for him.
“You are a young man of fine quality, James, but you are yet a youth and untried. This task shall try you greatly, but I am not without compassion; the band you now wear will, when you need it, be there to help you find the way.”
James smiled.
“There is another part to this task, James. I saw that there is, out there, a great and awesome power. It wants to be found, James, and I want you to find it- before our enemies do. I want you to find it and bring it back for us. Yes, it is somewhere out there, beyond the walls and the pacified bawn. It lies in the wilderness, amidst the chaos now rampant in the world, and I am unable to retrieve it myself- nor are the Masters, or your elders. Only one of your generations has the means to retrieve it now, which is why I place this burden upon your shoulders, James.
James now realized the full extent of the duty before him, and still he smiled.
“Gladly, my master.”
James hurried into the White Tower, making hasty—but routine—salutes to the guards and ritual-like interaction with the man-like metal construct standing motionless at the base of the White Tower’s lift. Moments later, James emerged into the Archmage’s chambers atop the White Tower, and there waiting for him was the very man himself- and his ever-present aide, David.
The Archmage—none that knew his name ever told John what it was—made no attempt to hide his venerable age, or to mask the frailty that came with it. Yet even James felt the power in his body, and one look at the eyes made clear that the Archmage still had the full power of his mind firmly in hand. As for David, he seemed as solid a man as he was when John last got this close to him- five years ago, when John began training as a warrior, sometimes under David’s direct tutelage.
The Archmage beckoned James to approach, and John did, nervously.
“Calm yourself, my boy.” The Archmage motioned for David to bring over some water.
“I called you here for good reasons this day.”
James saw that, in addition to some water, David brought over a tunic.
“Harold Arthur James,” the Archmage said, “you’ve proven your worth as a warrior, ready and able to handle the work ahead of you, and it is for that reason that I have called you here.”
David presented the tunic to James, a tunic as blue as the clear-blue sea in the bay just west of the Tower with white accents like the foam on the waves when that sea turns rough. Inscribed on the chest is the device of the White Tower, and on the back sigils in a tongue that James knew not ran down in a column- but James knew well what this meant.
“I name you to the Company of the Tower.” the Archmage said, “The first of your generation to do so, and I hope that you will show the way for those that follow you.”
“Congratulations Jimmy.” David said, as he dressed James in his new tunic, “You deserve this. You’re ready for it.”
James let his eyes go wide and his mouth open, betraying his youth.
“This is such an honor, Masters!” James said, saluting, “I am very grateful.”
The older men chuckled, and then David said “We make this known tonight, when the Tower Festival begins, but there is no harm in wearing your uniform now. Your elders already know, and as I speak your family gathers your things and brings them here to your new home.”
The Archmage turned to David. “Let us be for now, and go below to help prepare.”
“Of course, old friend.” David said, and he made for the lift.
Once alone, James poured water for the Archmage, again for himself, and waited. A moment thereafter, the Archmage took James around the circular room and pointed out a window towards one of the distant mountains that lay well east of the White Tower.
“You are not one for idleness, James, so I shall not insult you with mere guard duty.”
The Archmage paused, drinking.
“That mountain has many names, but in the tongue of the old empire its name is ‘Silver Top’, due to the silver-like shine from its summit. Before the Rain of Azure Flames that ruined the world, a tragic figure fled the land and was last seen running for Silver Top.”
James listened, attention fixed wholly on his master.
“His name is George Felton. He was once a student of mine, many years ago, but he—like the whole of his generation—believed that self-indulgence was a virtue, mistook money for wealth, and eschewed the true purpose for his existence. He rose to some prominence before the Rain of Azure Flames, being both a magician and an alchemist, using an underhanded team of expendable minions to frame his enemies for crimes that he ordered. He did so because he believed that all of his crimes were necessary to ensure that he became lord of the land here, and with lordship in his hands he could forcibly reform things to his desire- to his will, and his benefit, alone.”
“I assume, master, that this Felton ultimately failed? You mentioned that he fled for that far-off mountain.”
Both James and his master emptied their glasses. As James poured more water, the Archmage answered him.
“Indeed, he did fail in time, but not before he did much damage. He used the secrets I taught him to aggrandize much temporal power, and that included create a personality cult about himself. Using this as a weapon, he scoured the lands of his enemies, but always from a distance sufficient to afford him the ability to deny the actions of his followers. By now Felton had a cunning understanding of the madness that afflicted the old empire, and he used it with increasingly ruthlessness and boldness.”
“So, how did he fail?”
The Archmage smiled. “I saw that he became obsessed with worldly power and influence, and in so doing he had lost sight of the universe- he lost all perspective of things. So I moved to contain him and his influence, to quarantine him, and with the help of the other Masters I did so. Then I let some of my other students, including your parents, know what went on and how to deal with it. They organized the victims of Felton against him and his minions, and after a long time of tension we led an assault on his mansion and burned him—and the sickness that he brought—out of the land. Many of his minions died in the struggle, but many more fled with him into the mountains, and the Rain of Azure Flames did not exterminate them.”
The Archmage saw that James quickly drew the intended conclusions.
“The many monsters and fiends we’ve contended with since your birth, for which your father and his friends fought and died to defeat, are somehow tied to Felton and his cult. I’ve seen this after conferring with the Masters; these mutants and other enemies, somehow, target us specifically. They know us—your elders—by name. For the good of our people, this connection must be confirmed or denied, and if confirmed then we must bring the fight to them.”
James finished his glass.
“I accept.” James said.
The Archmage smiled. “I am pleased, James.”
The Archmage moved half-way across the disk-like room and retrieved something from a box that seemed almost as old as the man himself. Covered by a cloth, James could not tell what it was that his master held in hand. As he got close, James watched his master unveil the object and revealed it as a headband; a silver disc with a sun-like device inlayed in gold, fixed to a strong band of black cloth.
“Tie this about your brow.”
James took the headband and tied it on as ordered, centering the disc on his forehead directly over the point that he knew as his “third eye”.
“James, tonight I shall announce your entrance into the Company of the Tower. I shall also announce the expedition for Silver Top, which I shall place into your command. The band about your brow shall mark your status of command, but that is not all it shall do for you.”
James let his eyes speak his question for him.
“You are a young man of fine quality, James, but you are yet a youth and untried. This task shall try you greatly, but I am not without compassion; the band you now wear will, when you need it, be there to help you find the way.”
James smiled.
“There is another part to this task, James. I saw that there is, out there, a great and awesome power. It wants to be found, James, and I want you to find it- before our enemies do. I want you to find it and bring it back for us. Yes, it is somewhere out there, beyond the walls and the pacified bawn. It lies in the wilderness, amidst the chaos now rampant in the world, and I am unable to retrieve it myself- nor are the Masters, or your elders. Only one of your generations has the means to retrieve it now, which is why I place this burden upon your shoulders, James.
James now realized the full extent of the duty before him, and still he smiled.
“Gladly, my master.”
Paladin-Introduction
"Far west of the Necromancer's domain, where the Sons of Ken arose, stood the White Tower of the Archmage and the domain that he ruled- and the nation that he ruled as a philosopher-king. Amongst the first generation to come of age under his rule was Harold Arthur James, the man that came to rediscover something once known and lost in the days before the Cataclysm, a way of virtue, that again became known by just one word: Paladin. This is the story of how H. A. James became the first Paladin of the White Tower."
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Stalker-Introduction
"In the years immediately after The Great Scouring, before the Wars of the Damned, there came abominations and other things changed by the Scouring. One of them was the Stalker, father of his race, a cunning hunter and killer of others changed by the Scouring. This is the story of his emergence from the wilderness, and how he entered the Annals of Man."- the Chronicles
This is a post-apocalyptic adventure story. Featured are mutants, zombies, survivors and plenty of cunning. I hope that you enjoy it.
This is a post-apocalyptic adventure story. Featured are mutants, zombies, survivors and plenty of cunning. I hope that you enjoy it.
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