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I hate Hub City. I grew up here and I remember it being a better city then. But that is because I didn't know what I know now. My father was Vince Carlucci. I didn't know what he did for a living but we lived well and I never wanted for anything. I found out when I was a teenager, my father was a member of a criminal organization. But he always told me I could be anything I wanted and I wanted more than anything to be a cop. He laughed. Told me I would grow out of it. 

My phone rings. It's about eight. "Carlucci." 

"We need you downtown. It's him." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Forensics is gathering evidence, but it is pretty much a done deal. There was a witness." 

"I will be right there. Give me the address." 

I get out of bed. My loft is lit by the morning sun and I shield my eyes. The skylight is open and I tap it closed on the way to the bathroom. My bathroom has no mirrors. I turn on the shower and step into the scalding stream. My bathtub runs red. I don't look at it. I wash up cleaning up and emptying my mind of all thoughts. 

I never outgrew my urge to become a cop. I think it was the uniform. I graduated the Police Academy at twenty. My father and I stopped speaking moments after my graduation. He, of course, came to it. He had a reputation as an honest businessman to maintain. He was gracious that way. I found out later he and the Police Chief were friendly. They talked more than we did after that. 

I did my job, and he did his. Our paths rarely crossed, and to be honest, I preferred it that way. Until I made Detective, I never had anything to do with my father's business or his work. I now knew what he was. Scum. He and his friends moved drugs into Hub City and had a finger in every kind of vice the city had to offer. In the twelve years I was a cop, I watched the jewel of the Midwest, a burgeoning technology center slowly drown in illegal deals, both private and corporate, rotting the city from the inside out. 

From the outside, Hub City was still clean and beautiful, a city with millions of people living lives varying from wealth and opulence if you lived on the Northside, to squalor and filth if you lived on the Westside. It was very nice squalor and filth, relatively speaking, in comparison to some of the older cities like New York or Chicago, but it did not take away from the overall hidden menace our beloved Hub City held to its breast. We believed in our city. We believed it could be better. We were wrong. 

I drove through the city, on autopilot, and found myself knowing, without knowing where I was headed. When I got there I couldn't believe what I was seeing. A car, literally ripped in half. Bodies torn to shreds, pulped like hamburger. And one of them, I recognized. The son of a rival crime family. Dodonavich. The only part of him left intact was his head. The rest had been dragged across forty feet of concrete. 

"Nasty bit of work here." Peters was eating a donut. He had a flair for understatement. I could never understand how he could eat at crime scenes. 

"Is that Dodonavich?" Peter pointed with his donut. 

"Yes. This cannot get out. You know his father will go ballistic. Blood will run in the streets." 

"What about the witness? We can't keep him. We might be able to work up a minor drug charge but nothing that will hold him more than a week." He was reaching but I knew we needed some time. If this got out, it could escalate. 

"We have all the photo work done. We have all the samples. Do you need anything else, Peters? Sean White was the forensic head, and while he was talking to Peters, he was looking at me. Peters looked at me. 

"Give me ten minutes, and then you can cart all this stuff down to the station for a further workup." 

"Carlucci." The one voice I didn't want to hear and the one person who knew how to push all of my buttons. My former boss. 

"Yes, Captain." 

"Do I still pay you?" The same introductory joke when I haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. 

"Yes, and less every time you make that joke. Sir." 

"Any leads?" 

After I became a Detective, we opened a Special Crimes Division. Crime in Hub City had grown darker, scarier, more dangerous. We assumed it was just a tone, something that had rippled from the older cities and had made its way to the Hub. We started seeing experimental drugs, strange technology we couldn't easily identify, weapons we had never seen before. Our task force was created to investigate, understand and handle these kinds of crimes. We were good, my partners and I, there were eight of us, at first. At the end of two years, there were fourteen. In two more, there were twenty. Special Crimes was nearly one third of the budget of the Sixteenth Precinct. 

"I haven't had a chance to talk to the witness, but from reading the statement, he said it was done by a man. And this is the third incident in as many months, but the first with a witness. He said the man called himself Hyde." 

"Hide?" What kind of name is that? What is he doing 'hiding' from the police? Not the brightest light, I think he became Captain because of his connections. 

"No, Captain. I think he means Hyde as in 'Jekyll and Hyde.' 

"So our perps were killed by a bedtime story?" 

"I can't say, but I will poke around and I am sure we will be able to get something from the scene. We haven't been able to lift a print but its only a matter of time." 

"Well, keep me informed. Peters, you have the duty. Carry on." The duty meant being my police liaison and watcher while I conducted my investigation. 

I lost my badge in my fourteenth year. Excessive force. That was the story. It wasn't true. By that time, I was the second in command of Special Crimes. But they could not bury this story. It had been made public by no less than my father and his goons. I was let go. They did what they could for me, so I was able to not be completely disgraced. I did that to myself. I had to push the issue and investigated the people who framed me. Instead of vindicating myself, I was played and nearly implicated in a murder. My rep was nearly done. From super crime buster to nearly lunatic, Hub City's finest avoided me like the plague. 

So I became a private detective. Hub City had lots of crimes and I was the best detective money could buy. I had a knack for Special Crimes and eventually I got a call from Hub City's finest. Its been three years, since I left the force. My own investigations outside of the Hub City Police taught me things were even worse than I knew. When I recovered, I was being hired by the Sixteenth as a paid consultant. Same work, slightly worse pay. My paychecks just come signed differently now. I work for the same people, in the same department, making the same calls. Except I work in my own office and drink my own coffee. Much better that that swill at the station house. 

Its better this way. 

So those mornings I come in late, no one questions, much. They ignore the rumpled suits and the dark sunglasses. They assume I am just having a good time and forget how to come home at night. If I don't answer my phone, they figure I must be getting some, because strangely enough, I am more popular with women now than ever. I don't understand it. Half the times, I can't even remember their names. 

I circle through the wreckage, amazed at the catastrophic level of damage. They need a forklift to dig the engine out of the ground. The car looks as if it were torn apart by a bulldozer, shards of sharp metal are everywhere.  As I stand over Dodanovich's body, I am struck by a memory. 

"Wait, man, you don't want to do this. I got money, I will pay you whatever you want." 

I have had enough. "Peters, let's get to the hospital and talk to this guy. There is nothing left to learn here except for why this happened. 

Man, is this about the hookers? They were just hookers, man. 

"Peters, were there any other bodies?" 

"No, everyone in the car was accounted for, two shot out the car when he stopped it. The survivor said he didn't draw down on him so maybe that is why he was alive. The others tried to shoot him and he went wild." 

"The question is why?" 

"See if you can pull some traffic feeds and see if you can figure out where this car was coming from." 

"We got a call off one of the phones so we know about what time it got here." 

"Its a start. I'll meet you at the hospital." 

I miss the honesty. I miss being able to tell them what I really do at the end of the day. I miss being able to tell them how much I want to keep fighting the good fight with them. I do my part during the day, investigate those things I can help them with, and then when we go home, I wait. If He saw something, He comes. I can't stop him and I don't even try anymore. I tried once, when it first happened. I don't remember what he did, but when I came to, I was sleeping on the side of a lake about eighty miles outside of town next to the remnants of a deer. I did not drive there. More than half of the animal was consumed, bones and all. I had never seen anything like it. But I remember the feeling and I never tried it again. He talked to me, a sympathetic vibration, I could feel in my inner ear. 

He said, "Stop me again, and I will eat one of your friends, just like this. You cannot enforce justice in your city. There isn't enough fear. Stay out of my way." 

I called him Hyde. He liked it. We are going to come to blows. Its only a matter of time.

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

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If you commit a crime in Hub City, it's said the wind will carry your sin to him. Pray the police find you, before He does.

I was a policeman in another life. I can't say I was the best, but I certainly wasn't the worst. In Hub City, it was a brutal life, violent and often meaningless. I was bound by the law and told I would have to obey it to punish the guilty.

I watched the guilty escape more often than not. They laughed, they were bold. They were fearless. I had enough of that. Fate changed that for me. Now I am Hyde. And the guilty no longer get to pretend they are fearless. They fear me. And it is good.

I run, tireless, through the night. I can see them fleeing from the scene of their crime. A brutal thing; rape and murder of young coeds whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I found their prey dying in an alley, too far gone to save. I could smell their attackers all over them. I could see their scent in the air. They were high, a variety of toxins. That does not matter. Nothing can excuse them and nothing will save them.

I can feel my body changing, muscles growing, changing, growing faster. Bones hardening, leaping further and faster. I can see the fender of their car growing closer, I can see their excitement, they are smoking and drinking. They do not see me yet. My footprints tear into the hot tar of the night, my weight nearly three times that of a normal man, my muscle density nearly five times that. My skin is like iron, hard, hot, with a strange chemical stink, like oxidizing metal.

I leap, this time with the intent to stop their car. I land on the hood, from my high arc and drive their engine block into the ground. Their car folds up around me and the two in the front seat, shoot pass me through the windshield, showering me in shards of glass and steaming metal. I consider stopping them. I could have. I don't.

The three in the back seat slam against the front seats. The one riding in the center flies into the front seat and his head lands outside the windshield region. He lies there in shock. I can smell his fear. I can smell the guns in the back seat being drawn, the fumbling, the shock, the terror. I can see it, I can see the faces of the young women these monsters killed. I can feel their terror, smell it on their clothing. I can taste the tang of the blood of the women, still on their clothing.

I hear their guns being cocked. I stride forward, ripping the car in half, the tearing sound of metal drowns out the screams of the monster whose head is slashed apart by the car being shred beneath him. 

The two in the back seat mean to shoot their weapons. Their intent was initially clear, but as I tear through the car, they hesitate. Their hesitation is based partially in their belief of the futility of their action. The other is pure fear. They are unable to push their way through the fear which they are usually used to delivering not having.

In another two seconds, it no longer matters. I grab the muzzles of their guns and crush them around their hands. Bones crumble like tissue and their screams rub my nerves wrong, worse than nails on a chalkboard. I want them to stop. Stop screaming, stop, stop, stop.

They stop as I pound them into raw hunks of meat, bloody meat flying everywhere.

The third rider in the backseat was howling and clutching his wounds and bleeding profusely from his face as he sat outside the broken hull of the car. Once he saw me pound his friends into hamburger, he stopped screaming and whimpered quietly as I kick the door off the vehicle and exit. I walk past him toward the two leaders who were flung free. I pick up one. His head lolled to one side at an odd angle.

Dead. Broken neck.

The other, larger, stronger landed, rolled and had a terrible road rash. He got up. One of his hands was a bloody mess. It had been underneath him as he slid. The entire hand was gone, scrapped away as he slid. He reached for his firearm, but it was more than he could manage as I dropped his friend and walked toward him.

He said something, but I don't listen to dead men. There was nothing he could tell me.

I could see the lingering scent of all of the women on him. His hands reeked of violence, the smell of their blood, the oils of their flesh, their fluids were all over him. He lingered, he took his time.

I grabbed him, smacking his gun away. He swung weakly, striking me, but in my current rage, there was nothing he could do to me. I pick him up, raising him over my head and slam him into the ground. I hear his ribs snap. I put my hands on his back and press down. I then drag him across the ground, pressing him harder until a red smear begins to flow behind him. He screams and screams until his lungs were a smear on the ground behind him.

The last one sat in horror. Wiping the blood from his one swollen eye that still worked, he looked at me but realized I had no pity in me. He defiantly raised his chin to me.

I laughed and slapped him in the face, like the young woman he had planned to rape but lost his nerve. His nose was broken, like hers, his facebones shattered, like hers. His eye destroyed, like hers.

I bend over him, whispering. "Tell them. Tell them, these are my streets now. Tell them Hyde is coming."

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

My Warhammer 40k experience is coming along nicely. I have become inured to the blood and gore and now have one favorite that stands out, 'Daemonblood' by Ben Counter. The female character is fighting a lost battle along with an Ultramarine, and his soul is overtaken in front of her by Parmenides, Prince of Nurgle, Plague God. As Castus' soul was being devoured, he was struggling to stay connected to his memories as an Ultramarine, and I really loved how the author described the difficulties he experienced and his eventual failure. The woman, Aescarion, survives but spends the next twenty? years tracking this Ultramarine turned Daemon prince. He's been wreaking havoc as you can imagine. 

At the end, she meets Castus again and defeats him, but says to him, Look, dude, you will never be an Ultramarine again, but you have the chance to regain the light. And right before he dies, he confronts Parmenides and becomes once again Sergeant Castus of the Ultramarines. 

The story wasn't really about her, even though she took it as a personal affront, Castus' fall from grace, and made it her life's ambition to wipe him from the face of the galaxy. It was about him and his ability to regain himself, who he really was, right before the end. That was freaking awesome to me, and I was happy for him. 

"I managed to grind out an entire page of story Sunday night!", shouts the virgin writer. (Me. I have switched topics.) I was very proud of myself! My husband loved it, made me feel good. I know this sounds corny, but I felt something change inside, a tiny spark of confidence was born, perhaps? It felt good to see what I could do. It is slow going; I find that I analyze every word as it comes out on the paper. But, I don't care, because I was very proud of the results. 

Goatwater is updated every Tuesday!

If you don't dream any other day of the week, dream with me on Tuesdays.

Goatwater is written and illustrated by Tiffany Osedra Miller/aka Bassagirl.

Click here to read a transcript of this page: http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwaterbook_-_page_22.html

Click here to read Goatwater from the beginning:http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwaterbook_-_page_1.html

Click here to begin reading Goatwater from wherever you like: http://tiffanyosedramiller.com/goatwater_-_contents.html

Enjoy!

LIVE FROM KHENSET - Flash Winter hits during the evening, twins in hospital exhibiting elemental abilities.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - Local residence gather in square to remember the day of their transformation.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - Indigo skies show signs of a possible Flash Winter. Be on the alert.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - MOTHER GIVES BIRTH TO TWINS WHO EXHIBIT NO DETECTABLE ABILITIES. DOCTORS ARE BAFFLED.

I gotta say, reading Warhammer 40k has, so far, been a gross, hacking, slashing, eviscerating experience. I have been reading it for two reasons. I need ideas for imagery and short story formats. 

It has actually been pretty helpful as far as the formats. I am learning a lot. However, reading nothing but stories riddled with phrases like "a casual flick of its bladed leg licked out and eviscerated Brother Mellius quicker than the eye could follow. His shorn halves collapsed in a flood of red, but his bellows of pain were drowned out by the Angel's hateful shrieks", and, "the blood chunks of flesh and armour that fell to the ground were no longer recognizable as human", or my own personal favorite, "the Manskinner's army was nothing more than 4,000 mangled corpses and a lake of blood that was slowly draining away between the cracks in the plascrete", is giving me fracking nightmares.

Who wants to play 'Name That Incredibly Gross and Nasty Sci-fi Short Story?"

I seriously doubt my battle/action scenes are going to be that graphic, but it is nice to know I have options. I am really sleepy and it is only 7:38PM on a Saturday night. Pitiful. The craziness of my last few days, attempting to stay on top of my 'reading to write' research, and my three kids, two small ones and one big one, have me beat.

But I am the tortoise, you know? Slow and steady wins the race? No matter how much the slow is making you crazy? Damn, life is good.  

J.S. put me on the spot at ONYXCON today about not being on this site as much... so what I've been up to is shifting my focus slightly from virtual reality to Augmented Reality (AR).  

Augmented Reality (AR) technology has been in use since the 1990s, but a recognizable consumer market has only existed since 2009, driven by a growing demand for digital entertainment, smartphones and other mobile, camera-enabled devices such as iPads and handheld computers.  Mobile AR, which is only viewable through camera-enabled devices, overlays or adds graphics, sounds, other digital information and to the physical world.  Analysts predict that mobile AR will grow exponentially in the coming years, as more and more consumers purchase mobile devices and applications.  In fact, AR was listed as one of the top 10 emerging technologies in the MIT Technology Review.

So what I've been researching is the performative and visual languages of graffiti and breakdance (hip-hop) which abstracts and creates art from the urban experience.  Performance and motion capture, blended reality, and Wild Style abstraction reflects an evolving knowledge culture (graffiti, breakdancing, b-boying) that employs verbal, written, artistic, or performative representations of media in the body.  I'm comparing and contrasting this with capoeira.  Like capoeira, breakdancing or “breaking”  is known by quick and complex moves.  I discovered a cool article in Wire Tap magazine that compares and contrasts these similar art forms.

Bodies in motion effortlessly translate into symbolic, linguistic and spatial formulations. The performative language of graffiti – windup, tilt, float and freeze – generates dance poses and letters that are manipulated into recognizable forms. The wave (motion) becomes the letter S; arrows that are used to make letters aerodynamic are also gestures in dance routines, indicating directional or elemental forces in the environment.

Additionally, at the roots of these specialized forms, is African ritual and instrumentation.  Modern graffiti pioneers such as Rammellzee explored the futuristic, mythological and occult aspects of these art forms.  As the art makes its way into virtual and augmented game worlds or blended realities, it's important to explicate the ritual and language of these forms for younger generations.  Otherwise, they are consuming the basics, with no real substance or link to their histories.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - Unknown energy is felt amongst local residence. Indescribable light seen around Null Zone.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - An influx of Psychic Energy has bombarded the Cradle. The Turn and the Police have been deployed.

GOOD MORNING AND THANK YOU. LOOKS LIKE BLACK SCIENCE FICTION SOCIETY WILL BE AT ONYXCON!!!

I WANT TO PERSONALLY THANK EACH OF YOU THAT SUPPORTED US ON THIS EFFORT.

I ALSO WANT TO THANK THOSE THAT WANTED TO GIVE BUT COULD NOT AT THIS TIME.

I WANT TO THANK EACH AND EVERY MEMBER FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS AND JUST JOINING US ON THIS JOURNEY. THE OUTPOURING OF SUPPORT HAS HELPED REACH THE GOAL SO WE COULD ATTEND.

IF YOU ARE PRIVILEGED TO MAKE IT TO ONYXCON STOP BY OUR TABLE SO WE CAN GET TO KNOW YOU PERSONALLY. IF YOU ARE NOT, WE WILL MAKE A POINT TO TAKE PLENTY PICTURES AND VIDEO TO KEEP YOU INFORMED. GOD MAY NOT BE THERE WANT YOU WANT HIM, BUT HE IS ALWAYS ON TIME. THANKS FOR SHOWING THE GOD IN YOU!

SINCERELY,

JARVIS (J. BERNARD) SHEFFIELD

ADMINISTRATOR

LIVE FROM KHENSET - Within the last week there have been rising tensions in The Cradle.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - A skirmish over Vision Seeds has resulted in an casualty in the First Neighborhood. Broadcast in the shadow hour.

ONYXCON 3! AUGUST 19th & 20th!

The Entire event takes place at:
SOUTHWEST ARTS CENTER915 NEW HOPE ROAD ATLANTA, GEORGIA 30331
TIMES TO KNOW!
AUGUST 19th is the Day for The ONYXCON INSTITUTE and THE OFFICIAL ONYXCON ART EXHIBITION!The Art exhibition is from 6PM - 9PM and is free & open to the public. We will be honoring the late great writer of Popular Arts fiction, Mr. Dwayne McDuffie. Seewww.dwaynemcduffie.com for more info on this legend. 
ONYXCON INSTITUTE  - 9AM TIL 4PM  ARRIVE EARLY!The ONYXCON INSTITUTE costis $35 general admission. $25 with proper High School or College ID.


ONYXCON - The CONVENTION  is on Saturday AUGUST 20, 2011 from 11AM - 7PM.General Admission is $10. Ages 6-12 are $3. 5 and younger are free.
 Experience Vendors showcasing unique comic books/graphic novels, novels, video games, toys, promotional clothing (T-shirts,etc.), the Arcade, activities, games, displays, the Art Show, book signings, cosplay/masquerades, music vibes and performances! WELCOME  TO ONYXCON! 

The ONYXCON INSTITUTE will feature tutorials/workshops by professional Artist in 2D and 3D techniques common in todays comic book, animation, and film industries. There will also be presentations in writing techniques. Finally, there will be a panel Discussions on SEX & VIOLENCE in The Popular Arts & how both are approached, analyzed, challenged, embraced, and the impact on African Diaspora's creators and consumers of Popular Arts. THIS PANEL WILL CONTAIN LANGUAGE, SUBJECT MATTER, IMAGES, AUDIO, AND DISCUSSIONS FOR A MATURE AUDIENCE! PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED!

Only 16 years and older are admitted to the Onyxcon Institute with proper ID. Parent or Guardian must accompany anyone under 16. 18 and older are admitted to the Sex & Violence Panel. Anyone younger must present the approval of a guardian for attendance. e-mail to RSVP or for information: onyxcon@gmail.com

ONYXCON INSTITUTE

The ONYXCON INSTITUTE consist of workshops/tutorials and panels by industry professionals in comics, gaming, animation, writing, and various other areas of interest for the popular Arts community. 
ONYXCON 3 is proud to showcase the following presenters:

MSHINDO KUUMBA I Digital PhotoShop CS Master! 10AM -11:30PM
STEVEN BARNES   -  SEX & VIOLENCE in POP ARTS PANEL 3-4pm

TANANARIVE DUE  -  SEX & VIOLENCE in POP ARTS PANEL 3-4pm
AFUA RICHARDSON  - TECHNIQUES IN ILLUSTRATOR 11AM -12PM &  SEX & VIOLENCE in POP ARTS 3-4PM


TURTEL  ONLI  -  SEX & VIOLENCE in POP ARTS PANEL 3-4PM
MAURICE NOVEMBRE  3D rendering digital Maya &     THEATER 1- 2PM

RICH 'URAEUS' TYLER - Networking & Brand Building your Concept  10AM -11AM
N STEVEN HARRIS - Cenematic Sequence    BLACK ROOM 2-3PM
TENTATIVE- JAMES 'MASE' MASON - Building The STREET TEAM Video GAME!     BLACK ROOM 1-2 PM

I had to choose between burning eyelids/power nap and working on the short story while the guys were napping. I chose to soothe the burning eyelids first. However, I did manage to get some of the end-of-chapter exercises in my short story book done this morning. Baby #2 kept me company with his impromptu 6AM potty-training session. (Semi-successful session because he only pooped half of what he had in there. He laid in wait for his pull-up and then let out the rest).

Our internet provider was NOT on the ball with the internet connection today. To quote my husband, “Comcast can go eat a dick."  I am actually composing this blog post offline in preparation for when my Internet is once again functional. I have a list of about ten things to get done today. Work stuff, domestic stuff, all tasks I planned to complete online. As I peruse the list, only one of the items can be accomplished offline without making about fifty phone calls and burning up gallons of gas. 

Last week my eight hour electrical failure worked in my favor. This week my Internet failure is simply pissing me off. BUT, I did manage to sweat out FIVE whole sentences! No Internet connection needed.

 Chapter Four - The Gentle Art

Sitting in his personal tower, the Rex looked out over his wife's domain and for a moment, smiled. A smile filled with sharp teeth and massive jaws, his wife's favorite feature. The scent of wild life was rich and abundant and for a moment, he felt the urge to leap from the tower and stalk a wild surbuck, just for the thrill of it. 

He turned his back from the open window hesitantly, regretfully before making his way into the keep. Smelling the hyper-oxygenated air of Galtan II, one of the twenty Gaian super-moons of the Toranor System, the sting of bitter ozone reminded him, while this was where he now resides, it was not home.

It was the primary enclave of the Pan-humanity and Sjurani governments. It is also home-world to the Beteans, a plant and animal symbiosis, strange even by galactic standards. On this world of forests, whose great trees rivaled the skyscrapers of modern worlds, both in  size and complexity, the ambassador to the Imperium contemplated leaving home again under less than ideal conditions. 

While not exactly family-oriented, he had promised the Queen-mother once he had been awarded his genetic viability rating, he would have children to help perpetuate his beleaguered species. Entering deeply into the lair of the duchess, the hot air was still and smoky. This, of course, was the desired effect. One's home should reflect the nature of the revered Homeworld's beautiful tropical forest. 

Insect life flew abundantly through the air and were fed upon by the various primitive house lizards, which occasionally became a snack for one of the children in the middle of the night if there were no adults nearby. The Rex moved though the household, which had the appearance of an old-world Sjurani castle estate made with the most modern equipment. And while it looked primitive, the security systems of the building were state of the art. The Rex marveled at how well organized the household appeared to be; almost military in its precision. 

The lights of the audience chamber were kept at a low level allowing the eyes of the Family to maintain their hunting sharpness at night. The air was redolent with musks and other scents from dangerous animals of the local forest near the ducal estate of Shishe and the House Su-xing-qu. The Duchess insisted the surrounding countryside retain some of its wild nature and forced her hunt squads to travel deep into the nearby forest for prey. 

She sat amid a variety of cushions covered of various silks from the Qiandong Human province on the continent of Chen. The silks from the region were some of the finest in the quadrant and even though mechanically created silks seemed as good in quality, all Sjurani preferred the organic nature of true silk to anything created by machine. The claim was an awareness of the true nature of silk to their enhanced senses. The silk trade was one of the great businesses of the the House of Su-xian-qu. 

The walls were covered with a variety of wooden reliefs painstakingly carved from the dense hardwoods of distant forests and each window was shuttered with doors of exotic corals from the deep seas. The house was arranged with an artist's eye, with each element enhancing everything around it. A perfect balance of space, dimension, color, and art. The eye of the Duchess ensured the natural energies of her estate flowed freely enhancing reproductive fecundity. The household boasted three clutches in fifteen years, an extraordinary number considering the state of Sjurani reproductive politics. 

There was a quiet hum of activity until Essver entered the chamber and stood awaiting the attention of the Duchess. As he strode into the room, the lesser males quieted the children they were attending and retreated backward into the room. As he approached, Duchess Su-xian-qu spoke and the room grew silent. "Greeting beloved, I understand you are making plans to depart the system. But I say to you, nay I implore you to reconsider your plans. Your duties lie here, my mate. Your clutch is barely three standard years of age. They need thy strong influence for them to imprint properly. Thoomas can take care of himself. Your days of constantly gating all over the galaxy are over. I regret being the one to say these things to you. I know you value your freedom and I have done all I can to allow it." 

With a smile on his face and a light tone, Essver looked at the duchess, deeply into her terrible green eyes. "I say to you, dear Duchess, these tiny hellions can take care of themselves. The Nine Devils pray daily none die before they are able to evacuate the Seven Hells for these beasts to roam free in. Imprint on me? They are more likely to feast on me whilst I slept." 

Undeterred by his commentary on the strength and beauty of his children, she continued, "We have a duty, Dream-Singer, our people have been devastated by plague, war and now a pestilence of our own devising. Your genome is strong and produces healthy and viable offspring. There are too few Rex remaining who are able to do that in these days. The Gene Council has begun to consider taking samples of our clutches for gene bank profiles. The time for saving the galaxy one world at a time is over. You must save our people too." When she finishes her statement, one of the second husbands brings a youngster to the Duchess and she gives the child some meat from a nearby platter. The child, beautifully formed with scales of a glittering greenish gold, hungrily stuffs the food into his mouth and chews noisily. 

Essver watching this bonding ritual is only mildly repulsed and continues, "This is not about Thoomas, my lady, this is about our contractual obligations to the Imperium. We would be poor citizens if we did not employ our capabilities to the benefit our families as well as the Triune Council. My Queen-mother, three starred general, though departed, would be unhappy to know her son turned completely away from the Gentle Art before his two hundredth birthday. Would you be the cause of such personal shame for me?" Essver paused for a second, before making the next pronouncement. "I will consider turning fully toward the First Trade upon the completion of this assignment." Essver was actually very good in the First Trade, and had made several fortunes even as he performed his work in the Gentle Art, or working with Thomas Wilks and his human interpretation of the Gentle Art. 

A look of deep sorrow crossed the reptilian face of the Duchess and looked as if she wanted to say something that would sooth her mighty Rex but knew no words for what must come next. The Duchess raised her arm and several distant doors opened and some shadowed forms had begun to move into the room. Their scent and their movement indicated their youth. The glinting of their scales reinforced that supposition. 

Strong forms in a variety of colors, golden, red, green and teal scales approached him and he recognized them as they came into the light. They are all dressed in ceremonial armor and weapons. Essver knew this was his first clutch with the duchess. These were the survivors. Of the original twelve, seven survived to adulthood, the others lost to disease, weakness, carelessness or put down by the Duchess herself, if they were unfit. 

They were approximately fifteen cycles and ready for their final adulthood rites. Several of the middle clutch and almost all of the youngest were upset as the seven surrounded their Rex in the center of the audience chamber.They would be forced to watch as their siblings became adults. "They need you, my Rex," she began, with her voice louder and more angry, "today you are here for their blooding and passage into adulthood, but your next brood will need you again. You cannot risk being lost before they are adult. They will need you to provide for their genetic stabilization and their social status. We are slaves to our genetics. Without you, your children may not be able to become parents themselves, should they survive." 

The children moved gracefully as they gathered their weapons together. Sword, spear, axe, ranthip, each chose weapons according to their body types, mental prowess and physical power. They were all graceful killing machines, trained since they were five to be the best warriors the next generation of Sjurani could want. 

Ten years of vigorous and aggressive combat, tactics and military education was their birthright. Essver was proud of his children as they surrounded him and prepared to show him their fighting skills. He would try his best to kill as many as possible. It was the Sjurani way. Only a fight, where they believed they might die would galvanize their genetic potential into actuality. 

As he dropped into a combat stance, he activated his force shield and flex sword and whispered while the blood-fury filled his veins "Show me, my children, your Gentle Art." 

* * * 

When Essver received his summons, he had already said his goodbyes to his mate, her lesser husbands, and his clutch and was already at the spaceport making the final preparations and checking the dossiers of new Pilots recently released from the Universitas Magistrorum et Humanitas. 

He had a slight limp from a deep cut his first son had made in his leg. It was a minor inconvenience he would heal on his way to the Lorissi system. He had a number of other smaller, less challenging injuries. A day of bacterial cellular regrowth and he would be fine. Four of his first clutch would be able to become parents. Their injuries were serious, however, and would require weeks in regeneration chambers. But the genetic activation took place. Two died and one would become a sterile male. This group was considered wildly successful by Sjurani standards. The Duchess was already considering to which families they would become affiliated with.  

The University was the final training facility for homo sapiens conscientia, mechanical sentients of the highest order capable of being created by the combined sciences of the Triune governments of Pan-Humanity, the Sjurani and the Beteans who initially inhabited Galtan II. These mechanical humanoids work with soldiers of the Resurrection Corps and using modern psychometric tools maintain their humanity after the rigors and trauma of dying, potentially repeatedly in their line of work. These mechanical sentients function as Pilots, technologists, scientists and companions to their Soldier. Fully aware of themselves and their work in the Imperium, the Conscientia are highly paid and highly regarded in their own right and have made significant advances to the program during their long term study, analysis and support of the Corps.  

There were several promising Pilots but only a few would be ready in time and none would have been assigned a ship in time for this trip. Essver did not let this deter him and had several ships of his own to draw from during his time as a mercenary. All had been kept fit and ready in case of need, so he would use the most heavily armed of them, Glorious, as a base while he and Thomas sought the stolen Frame. It could also be refit to mount the Frame facilities in less than a day. He made several calls and the Glorious would be ready in time to transit to the fleet. He also made a request to the University's dean to have several of the more promising students prepared, reviewed and the best of them made ready in a week to send to Lorissi, once issues had been settled there.  

The communique arrived by an Council messenger while he was checking the Glorious and the messenger was officious and upon delivery retreated without much pomp, but surprising all the same, since Council messengers were rarely seen at the space docks of Rekein. His wardrobe had already been delivered to the Glorious and he chose his most impressive uniform, which was festooned with medals from his time as a leader of both a Sjurani ground assault team and as a mercenary commander in the employ of the Sjurani Council. Armed with his tribal weaponry, as effective as their modern equivalents but covered with more ornate and beautiful constructions, he arrived at the Council headquarters in the center of the Triune City of Rekein at the required time.  

Led into the council and announced it was a long time since he had heard his full title: Triune Ambassador to the Imperium, Essver Dream-Singer, of the People of the Sjurani, son of Minru, son of Daor the Terrible, warrior-poet of Galtan II, Sjurani Rex, mated to the nugongjué, the Glorious Pielienhis (pe-le-en-hiss) seeking the audience of the Phoenix and the Triune Council.  

The room was ornate, as is the habit of the Sjurani, covered with a variety of artworks, metalcraft, stonework reliefs reflecting ancient heroes of legend, of every caste and every race. The chamber had been held on one of the Greatships of the Sjurani fleet that landed here and was over twenty thousand years old. It had been moved to this location as the center of government for the Sjurani, Pan-Human and Betean Councils. The Phoenix stood and her august plumage was in full release with her arms outstretched. Her coloring was brilliant and each feather a work of natural art and genetic manipulation blended perfectly. Her proportions were strong and even indicating her supreme heritage and likelihood of descent from the greatest heroes of the Phoenix line, the Flame King and the Summer Queen, the first of the Line of the Phoenix. While she was a Phoenix and he a Rex, he felt some level of attraction at a subconscious level. He could also feel her powerful operant psychic presence even though his psychic potential was limited to physical expressions of power.  

The Phoenix was small in comparison to Essver, but it did not stop her from being physically imposing. Her two Raptors, armed with dual pulse pistols, flex-swords and the highest quality flex-field armor stood vigilant even though they were actually more ornamentation than true defense. The courtroom, was liberally sprinkled with a variety of defensive technologies, mechanical sentience, and a good portion of the Sjurani council were capable and armed warriors themselves. She stood nearby as she paced in front of Essver who was in a supplication position on one knee in the center of the council chambers.  

As he had entered she had been speaking about the Corvan government and their recent loss of a squadron of Resurrection soldiers and their support troops due to poor intelligence. It was bad enough to have been using them against the Dalrothi on the edge of the Imperium, but to irrevocably lose nineteen to the True Death was unthinkable. Now they wanted to take the one survivor, who had lived for two years in completely inhospitable surroundings and through over twenty deaths without a Pilot and accuse him of treason?  

This soldier, Wilks and his Frame were a treasure trove of data that simply must be recovered. He was sent to Bel-ha to allow his suit's information to be downloaded and for him to experience psychological support of the type the Bel-ha's superior technology could provide. He was the perfect example of the superiority of this program and why we must be allowed to continue to develop it further. The Imperium was the primary client of the Resurrection Corps, but the technologies created allowed this group to manufacture something of lasting value to the Imperium and take their rightful place as quality sentients in the eyes of the elder galactic races, who considered Pan-humanity to be upstart races at best and vulger abominations at worst.  

She turned her sharp eyes toward Essver and he could feel her psychic might pressing against him. "You must recover that Frame, there is no alternative. Use all means at your disposal to discover what has happened to the technology. We sent a recovery team to Brennan 326 and nothing remained of Those That Served. In the proper procedure, Majoris Wilks disposed of any remains that survived the crash, and the normal automated self-destruct procedures. We must continue to maintain our patents and you will see to this, Ambassador."

She paused, considered a data-tablet handed to her by a minor functionary and continued. "On another note, since you are making a trip to the Bel-ha Collective's main planets, we would like you to establish a connection to the planet and see if it will be possible for us to establish a more solid trade arrangement. We already get many of our nanite programming from their world but the distance simply makes it difficult for us to maintain our relationships. We would like to establish one of their facilities, complete with scientists, on Galtan II near the Resurrection facility. That mission is both a cover and a secondary objective. Recover that soldier and that Frame."  

She stopped for a moment and shuddered, her feathers fluffing and spreading. "I understand he is your friend as well," she began, "I am happy to hear he has survived his ordeal and I have reviewed your service records together and find that you have both been extremely successful and fruitful as agents of Pan-Humanity and the Sujurani. We are at your disposal. What would you ask of us?"  

Essver considered himself and then raised his eyes. "Your greatness, the Corvan Fleet is leaving today and will arrive in four days in Bel-ha space. The Corva are going to expend a considerable amount of energy to make the jump in that short a time. The fleet commander, Admiral Lolikai has requested an opportunity to speak with me, in regard to our people and continued good will between the Imperium and our tiny piece of the Empire."  

Making eye contact with the Phoenix, he declared, "I believe the Imperium values the durability, accessibility, and resourcefulness of our agents. I do not think this Admiral will want to do anything that will risk that relationship considering the quality of the success of our operations in Imperium Space. I have all that I need, save a new Pilot. One will be selected, outfitted and sent to Lorissi in less than a week. Thank you for your generosity and I will return with our technology and our Soldier. You have my word."

Allegedly, scientists have recently received transmissions from what may be an alternative future Earth. So far the only proof, besides the strange radio waves that have entered our atmosphere, is a Science Fiction Novel called Renpet.

Although, many of the transmissions have already been collected and published as a Sci-Fi novel, there have been many more transmissions. Transmissions from a town called Khenset...in our near possible future.

LIVE FROM KHENSET - In Georgia there is town called Khenset. Two neighborhoods are always in a constant struggle with one another.

I added the 'baby' part because I am a dork. Two things happened today that were good. 

1. The electricity went out in my apartment for EIGHT hours today, allowing me to pick up my short story research material and get to reading uninterrrupted. If you are having a hard time keeping away from the internet, distractions and whatnot, I suggest you try losing the electricity. It really worked because I had no other choice! 

2. My husband gave me "Let the Galaxy Burn" today for inspiration, a collection of science fiction short stories. Warhammer 40,000 series. He is a huge fan, the bookcase is full of these things. Seriously, a lot of reading to do.

I am researching so much because this will be my first work of fiction, ever. I come from the romance genre, sue me, so this is way out in left field for me. But it is a challenge, and I do like those. Wish me luck.

Did anyone feel that little nip in the air this evening? It was delicious! I am on the East coast, so I've been enjoying the swamp that is DC for the last month. The little chill brought back so many summer evening memories...

I digress.

I guess my tip for the day is (from the novice, I know): Send your ideas to the gym until they look like Lou Ferrigno. Night!

I picked this book up yesterday at Barnes. How To Write a Short Story by SparkNotes. I always flip through before I buy, and I liked. I am already working on the first exercise. The book is only $7.95 and cheaper used from other sites. 

What else would I would like to share? Oh, yes. I learned right away that I don't need to put down as much material as I first thought. I learned the difference between a short story, a novella, and a novel. I was falling into the novella category, at first, but my true intent is to write a short story. Such a relief. This is the perfect starting point for an extreme novice like myself.

I was frustrated at first at not being able to sit down here at the computer and write immediately, but I find that I don't need to become a stressed out maniac and get it ALL done right away. I am just starting my adventure, I can't off myself at the very start. I'd be like that black guy who gets it right at the beginning of the first Jurassic Park movie. Pitiful. Then I would lose all motivation, and my short story book would find a nice drawer to live in. 

I am happy today because I got in this post before 8PM AND I am not drooping with exhaustion. I am excited because maybe soon I will have some actual material to share. 

ALMOST FORGOT!! I just discovered this today. If you have children, grown or not, you will appreciate this book, "Go The F*** to Sleep". I was about to pee on myself in the bookstore, I was laughing so hard. Sam Jackson delivers the narrative for the e-book version. If you've already heard of it, you can pass on the click. Enjoy!