BLOGS

The Consortium ship drew nearer, its missiles and energy batteries subjecting the Horseman to a merciless barrage.

            The hammering force of the enemy's assault reverberated through every section of the ship, fissuring decks and bulkheads. Explosive power surges erupted from bridge consoles, multiple shockwaves sweeping Mingana off her feet, sending her head first to the deck.

            She blacked out. When she came to seconds later, Povich was kneeling over her, his face fraught with concern. “Captain!”

            Mingana glanced about with disoriented eyes. The bridge was a smoke-clogged shambles. Crew members not wounded or dead labored intensively to maintain besieged systems. A few lay curled on the deck, traumatized and oblivious to the screaming chaos around them.

            Povich helped Mingana to her feet.

            The captain dabbed at a patch of wetness above her left brow, and came away with blood on her fingers.

            “Batteries are down. We did all we could,” said Povich.

            Mingana shook her head despairingly. “But it wasn't enough. We failed.”

            The raucous suddenly ceased and an alien image popped up on one of the few working interface screens on the bridge. The alien's face was broad and jowly with a snout nose, wide mouth and dark, sunken pits for eyes.

            The species was different, but Mingana could almost smell the stench of Consortium arrogance wafting through the screen.

            “Captain Mingana. Are you alive?” The alien inquired, sounding almost bored.

            Mingana stepped a bit unsteadily to the interface. “I'm alive. You must be the captain of the ship I'm trying to annihilate.”

            “I am,” replied the alien.

            “Good. Do me a favor. Bring your ship to a complete stop so I can ram it.”

            The Consortium captain  tilted his head a gesture that would have been taken as curiosity in a human. “Amazing and commendable is your ability to spout levity in your final seconds. If your treachery did not result in the destruction of a Consortium ship, with all hands lost, I would be content to simply capture your vessel and enslave you and your crew.”

            “Then why are you talking to me?” Mingana asked.

            “I wish to inquire about the Duke.”

            “The duke is dead.” Mingana raised her chin. “By my hand. In fact I'm responsible for attacking your ships. It was me alone. No one else. My crew was not aware of my Resistance affiliation. Kill me. Spare my crew.”

            After a lengthy pause, the Consortium captain spoke. “Trading a single life for the hundreds snuffed out in your devious attack? The death of Duke Rassellin alone is worth three times that many lives. Not a fair balance, Captain. Not a fair balance at all. Goodbye, Captain.”

            The alien's image faded away.

            Mingana shut her eyes, whispered a farewell to her family and waited.

            “Captain, another ship is inbound,” a sensor specialist announced breathily.

            Mingana's eyes snapped open.

            Povich rushed to a working tactical interface and his face lit up. “It's a Calaar war cruiser!”

            ***

            A second Calaar cruiser flashed out of jump space. Both ships opened fire on the Consortium vessel. Missiles, interspersed with pulsing slashes of point range fusion beams, drenched the enemy ship in a throbbing star hot cauldron.

            The Consortium ship launched a spread of missiles and attempted to withdraw. A small percentage of Consortium missiles weaved through the Calaar ships' defensive screen to strike home. But they did little damage. The Consortium ship's objective was to escape. But the Calaar cruisers could not allow that...not with an orbiting city in jeopardy. Even if the Calaar leaders had been warned of the very imminent danger to their lives and evacuated, the Consortium captain could still strike the city out of cruel spite.

            Huge explosions chipped away at the Consortium ship's hull. The ship veered off course, its shield reduced to impotence beneath a punishing barrage. Less than a minute later, the ship stuttered to a full stop. The Calaar cruisers ceased fire and took up flanking positions beside their crippled quarry.

***

            Mingana witnessed the confrontation on an interface screen and plopped down in her chair, her body sagging with relief.

            Povich stood next to his captain, clearly fatigued. “That was a very timely intervention.”

            Mingana nodded. “Very timely.”

            The Consortium ship surrendered. Mingana had to commend the Calaar for their restraint in not finishing it off. She sure as hell would have. That's why the Calaar were more civilized. Humanity had so much to learn from them.

            “I told you no happy farewells,” Mingana said to Povich.

            Her Second broke out in weary laughter.

***

            Justine Mingana stood on the balcony of the tallest tower in Kitroor, a city located on a Calaar colony world called Ir't. Even as she reveled in the beauty and grandeur of this alien vista, her mind lingered billions of light years away, on a far less important world. Earth remained a constant and vivid picture in her thoughts. She missed her family so much, her heart ached. When she looked up, her longing for home intensified. A thousand Calaar warships of all sizes and classes filled the aquamarine  sky. They were part of a grand fleet tasked with retaking Earth. 

             She spotted the Horseman directly above, resplendent in all of its refurbished glory. Eight months ago, after being rescued by those Calaar ships, she held very little hope that the Horseman could be salvaged for more than a few spare parts. Her hosts on I'rt had exposed their human guests to the gracious, compassionate kindness typical of the Calaar. They had also kept Mingana informed of developments on Earth. She was saddened to hear that Admiral Casey was killed in a U.N. airstrike, and that Ot^^^ had been captured and executed a week later, putting a nail in the Resistance's coffin. She was consoled that the Consortium mass destruction weapon carried on her ship was in Calaar hands. The weapon was a singularity-generating device. A planet-bombardment missile would have been its delivery system. Had the device been deployed, in concert with those launched by the two Consortium ships, a vast orbital city would have been snared in an artificial black hole and reduced to the size of a pinhead. Mingana shuddered at the sheer scale of a such a catastrophe.

            Her eyes narrowed to fierce slits. Soon the Consortium occupiers and their human lackeys would be receiving their just desserts. The Calaar did not promise that the fight for Earth be easy. But they did promise victory.

            “Captain.”

            Mingana turned to see Commander Povich standing at the balcony entrance, accompanied by Lt. Winter and Lt. Commander Kochran. The three regarded their captain with optimistic gazes.

            “Your ship and crew awaits,” said Povich with humorous flourish. “Shall we take back our planet?”

            Mingana presented a wolfish grin. “By all means, Commander.”

“The probe is sending target updates,” said Commander Povich.

            “Bring it up,” Mingana ordered.

            Instantly, images of an enormous oblong structure orbiting a world striated in vibrant bands of colors unfurled on half the interfaces on the bridge. According to Consortium data, a city the size of Australia existed within the silvery, sun reflective shell of that structure. Population figures ran as high as a billion. Mingana was curious about the planet, but had no data. Her mission was the orbiting city. If the Consortium and U.N. Command wanted her to have information about the planet they would have made it available to her. She exhaled a mirthful breath and tightened her focus on the target.

            After a few moments, she gazed over at Duke Rassellin, who stood next to Helm.“Looks as impregnable as ever.”

            “Not a very encouraging assessment, Captain,” the Duke said dryly.

            “It wasn't meant to be encouraging or discouraging,” said Mingana. “I'm just making an observation. That city is encased in material denser than a neutron star. Are you certain that whatever we're delivering will crack it?”

            “Oh, the package will do more than crack it,” Helm inserted with unshakable confidence. “Much, much more.”

            “At least let me take a look at this wonder weapon,” Mingana requested.

            Helm narrowed a reproving gaze. “Captain, we've been over this...”

            “I know.” Mingana huffed. “Eyes only. And I don't have those eyes. This is a senseless restriction placed upon me.”

            “As an officer of the U.N. Fleet...an officer under orders...it is not your place to question or criticize U.N. directives,” Helm said with a sharpness in tone he had never used up to this point.

            Mingana hid a smile. After her repeated lack of deference and, more often than not, overt displays of contempt toward the observer, she had finally gotten a rise out of the bastard.

            Rasellin stood silent, staring at the captain. Whatever thoughts lurked behind that uncomprehending alien mask of a face, he gave no voice to them. “I will be in my quarters.” He pivoted and departed the bridge, his bodyguards in tow.

            After a moment of studying the orbiting city, Helm turned away. “Let me know if the probe reports any change in the target's status.” He too left the bridge, his pace brisk.

            Povich walked over to Mingana. “You shouldn't antagonize him,” he whispered.

            The captain smirked. “What's he going to do, confine me to quarters? This mission is far too critical.”

            “He could very well remove you, and place me in command if he doesn't want to take over,” said Povich.

            “But he won't.” Mingana raised a brow. “He values crew morale, and nothing could be more demoralizing than an observer dismissing a captain in the middle of a mission.”

            Povich considered his captain's point and walked away to check on a nearby station.

            Mingana leaned back in her chair, resting her chin on the back of her knuckles. It won't be long. Soon, our objective will be achieved. And if we fail...we die.

***

            Two years out of the Academy, Justine was posted aboard an Atlas system patrol boat as an engineering specialist.

            Atlas boats were ships based on a Calaar design. They were small, sleek vessels with aerospace  and warp capabilities. But what made Atlases special was that they represented the first class of advanced, galaxy standard vessels to be indigenously manufactured.

             A month earlier, humans lacked the technological capacity to assemble galaxy standard ships. Such ships had been supplied by the Calaar for human use.           Now, thanks to Calaar tutelage, humanity was able to establish an interstellar-level tech base...albeit at the lowest tier, but that was a start. A year later, Earth began manufacturing Explorers, larger spaceships equipped with ion drives for deep space travel. Visionaries pictured the day when the first Earth ship would reach the galaxy's core. Justine shared that grand dream. Being on the fast track, she was promoted to a lead engineering position on an Explorer ship. But the galaxy's core remained a centerpiece in her mind when she was off-duty. So much so, that she approached her captain and requested a transfer to the U.N. Technology Development Institute, a research-development facility established on Earth through human-Calaar collaboration.

            The UNTDI, in a sense, was part of a weening process. The Calaar had done a great deal for the human race, actively laboring to create conditions where humans could thrive. Now, it was time for humans to take charge of their development. No longer would the Calaar transfer technology to Earth. Humans were now left to figure out a way to upgrade themselves. The Calaar provided the blueprint to help humans build tools to reach the promised land of top tier status. Humans could either follow that blueprint or lapse into stagnation. The UNTDI promised to be the catalyst that would propel Earth forward and Justine wanted so desperately to be a part of it.

            “You have been a highly valued member of this crew,” her captain had told her as they conversed in his office. “But beyond that, quite frankly, you are the best engineering officer I've ever had. Are you sure you want this?”

            Justine spoke without hesitation. “Very much so, sir.” Her rigid expression softened. “UNTDI is where I belong.”

            After a minute, the captain relented, cracked a sentiment-filled smile and folded his hands on top of his desk. “So be it, Lt. Mingana...Justine. I can see that short of remapping your brain wave patterns, there's no changing your mind. I'll draw up transfer documents, plus a glowing letter of recommendation.”

            Justine's face brightened. “Thank you so much, sir...”

            A shipwide alarm intruded on the moment. A message from the bridge filled the captain's office.  “Captain, four unidentified vessels have appeared on sensors...they are not Calaar!”

***

            Captain Mingana walked the decks and levels of her ship as she usually did...as her crew and guests expected. She enjoyed seeing her ship's every nooks and crannies. The highlight of her tours was interacting with crew members who, if normal protocols were adhered to, would rarely see their captain in person. Mingana had never been one for protocols, at least the ones she deemed useless.

            After leaving the engineering wing, her favorite section of the ship, she ventured toward the weapons control rooms. Twelve Consortium guards were posted in the corridors leading to the third weapons room. She had not a clue how many more guards were inside the room itself. She ran surveillance on Duke Rassellin's people at the beginning of this mission as they boarded the ship. Frustratingly, her officers could not get a count of the Consortium guards because they wore scramblers, a type of distortion inducing countermeasure designed to obscure monitor and sensor imagery. And since Observer Helm did not allow crew members to be present when the Consortium guests boarded, Mingana had no physical eyes to give her the count she needed. Imagers inside the third room were inactive, again on Helm's orders, leaving that area the only blind spot on the ship, surveillance wise.

            The guards were protecting the weapon from prying gazes...the weapon soon to be deployed against the orbiting city. Rassellin brought his own specialists to operate the weapon, displacing Mingana's staff. 

            What the hell type of weapon was on her ship? she wondered obsessively. She walked past the armored guards, keeping her stride casual, even as her mind churned with feverish curiosity.

            Lt. Commander Kochran met the captain when she entered the forth weapons room.

            Weapons specialists paused to acknowledge their captain. Mingana met their gazes with an approving nod.

            The weapons room was not Kochran's domain, but Mingana needed the engineering officer and his equipment in the area for a special assignment.

            “What've you got?” she asked.

            Kochran led the captain to a bulkhead at the far end of the weapons room. A saucer shaped deep probing sensor was attached to the bulkhead. He glanced at data on the sensor's display strip. “Same high level gravity readings but no source has been pinpointed. The jamming frequency they're using is off the charts.”

            “So far, all we can deduce is that the weapon is gravity-based,” said Mingana.

            Kochran rubbed the back of his neck, his expression grim. “So far. I've calibrated the sensor probe to the highest setting I can squeeze out of it and it still hasn't detected anything new. I'll keep tweaking it.”

            Mingana sighed. “Do what you can. Determining the nature of this weapon may provide a pathway for us to disable it. Otherwise, we'll have to stick to our original timetable.”

            “I just hope that damn observer doesn't nose his way down here,” Kochran snarled.

            Mingana's tone matched the engineer's distaste. “Oh I highly doubt he'll be interested in visiting this area, not when he can be on the bridge keeping a keenly watchful eye on me.”

            Kochran chuckled at the logic. “I guess I really don't have anything to worry about.”

***

An alien resembling a hairless feline appeared on the primary bridge monitor five hours after the battle ended. “Inhabitants of Earth. I am Opesil of the Enlightenment Group. We represent the 3rd Consortium. We have liberated your planet from the Calaar. Do not be fooled. The Calaar pretended to be your allies. Their supposed generosity and goodness was a sham. They had every intention of stripping your planet of its precious resources and enslaving you. Unfortunately, the Calaar threat is far from neutralized. They will launch an effort to regain this system and reinstate your species under their diabolical control. We will not let that happen. Forces of the 3rd Consortium will remain in your system for the time being, providing protection and assistance. Rejoice humans. Rejoice in your liberation. Let this day be a day of celebration for now and hereafter.”
Fearful silence smothered the bridge. Justine held her breath, her eyes agape with shock. She looked to her captain, who tried to maintain a dispassionate face, but trembling lips betrayed his effort.
The bridge crew had witnessed a battle five hours earlier and the sheer savagery and intensity of the clash left everyone in a state of shock. The outcome of that terrible encounter compounded their shock with horror.
One hundred Consortium ships appeared out of warp just inside the solar system. The Calaar had gradually drawn down their presence in the system. Originally, their ships numbered five hundred. Now, there were only twenty five left, stationed around Earth.
The Consortium force attacked those remaining Calaar ships and glaring pulses of space combat lit Earth's skies like lightning.
The Calaar ships fought valiantly, destroying over a dozen Consortium attackers. But valor availed only so much in the face of superior numbers. The Calaar force died to the last ship. The Consortium never bothered to take prisoners. Of course, the Calaar ships never offered to surrender.
Earth vessels in the vicinity remained on the sidelines, their crews fixated witnesses to an immense slaughter.
Justine's ship was positioned midway between the sun and Earth. On one hand, she completely understood why her captain had not given the order to intervene on the Calaar's behalf. He was protecting his crew. The Earth ship, even with its cutting edge, galaxy standard composition would have have been blown out of space. On the other hand, she wanted badly for her ship to enter the battle and inflict as much damage as possible on those Consortium invaders. God, how she hated the captain at that moment for not giving the order. How she hated feeling like a coward! But most of all, she hated this Consortium with a passion that made her blood boil.
When Consortium ground units landed on Earth, they hunted down and executed every Calaar they could find. And then they consolidated their presence. A month later, it became clear to humanity that this protection Opesil spoke of had become a full fledge occupation.

***

Captain Mingana ordered a full stop and the Horseman emerged out of warp, its attitude thrusts reversing in an emergency deceleration. Helm, standing on the opposite side of the bridge, peered in the captain's direction. “What's going on, Captain?”
Mingana pointed to blips on a sensor interface. “Long range probe picked up ship traffic. It's likely a Calaar patrol.”
The observer walked toward the sensor station, a frown forming on his face. “How many ships?”
“Five,” said Mingana. “They're spread out twelve light minutes apart, which definitely conforms to a Calaar patrol formation.”
“Why are we stopping?” Helm demanded. “We're too far out to be detected.”
“Do you know what kind of ships those are, Observer?”
Helm sniffed as if the question were elementary. “S12 cruisers, the Calaar's primary deep reconnaissance vessels.”
“Correct,” said Mingana, but with a very obvious qualifier in her tone. “However, the Calaar upgraded their S12s. They have range-boosting and spatial disruption sensors. In five minutes they would have picked up our warp signature. Our best...no...only option is to remain stationary until that patrol passes.”
“Now, we're behind schedule,” Helm stated none too pleased. “How long do we have to wait?”
“Until the patrol passes,” Mingana repeated, mentally rolling her eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, Captain,” Helm ordered impatiently. “Then resume motion, but at an initial minimum impulse.”
“Even at minimum we could still be detected,” said Mingana.
“Then we'll be detected.” A flash of fervor intensified the observer's expression. “And the Calaar will send every ship they have after us. Either way, this vessel and its crew will carry out the mission. We will do what the Consortium has tasked us to do and we will do it within the proper timeframe. Understood, Captain?”
Mingana uttered a lethargic reply. “Loud and clear, Observer.”

Justine looked suitably unassuming in her lime green civilian tank top and blue jeans. Her hair, normally braided while on duty crowned her head, unfettered like a black cloud.
She walked down a bustling Chicago street, projecting a mood as carefree as the weekend revelers around her. But inside, she seethed. The U.N. Authority and its enforcement arm, U.N. Command had just established control over Earth, with Consortium backing. With the Authority's ascension every damnable ill that had plagued Earth before the Calaar's presence was returning in despicable increments: economic disparities, racial and ethnic bigotry, gender discrimination, religious fanaticism, crime...
And to make matters worse, a U.N./Consortium propaganda machine had been established, extolling the virtues of the Consortium and its puppet regime, while denigrating the Calaar and their supporters. Anyone espousing an opposing viewpoint were branded subversives and tended to disappear.
The Consortium continued to kill any Calaar left on Earth. As for the Calaar's human allies...well rumors abounded as to their fate, dark rumors of underground internment/torture/death facilities...
Justine shook herself back to the here and now.. She was nervous enough as it was. She didn't need her resolve to be degraded by runaway thoughts.
She stopped in front of a bar with a CLOSED sign in the window. This was the place. She took a breath and entered. The interior was dim and empty. She ventured to a banquet room in the back to find it filled with men and women. Most sat in chairs set up for the purpose. Others stood. All eyes were directed to the purple-skinned long necked, quadruped standing on a small stage.
The Calaar's eyeless, bulb-shaped head seemed to brush across every face in the room. Justine froze when the alien's sightless gaze leveled on her and stopped. It was if she were being scrutinized in some fashion. Unlikely. She relaxed, chalked it up to imagination and surveyed the people around her. She recognized a few men and women from the military. She even spotted a fleet admiral.
“To those who do not know me,” The Calaar began, its voice flowing from a vocal orifice at the base of its neck in soft ripples. “I am Ot^^^, former aide to the Master Administrator.” Ot^^^ referred to his superior whose title and function were the equivalent of a governor.
With a degree of melancholy, Ot^^^ added: “I may be the only Calaar left on your planet.” The Calaar paused, its body rigid as a statue. “The Consortium has drastically reduced our numbers in this sector, but not our determination. They caught us by surprise, but we are not beaten.”
At that second, the fleet admiral Justine saw in the crowd, stepped onto the stage and stood next to Ot^^^. His piercing dark eyes swept the audience. “Hello all, I'm Admiral James Casey. What the distinguished aide is trying to say is that the Calaar, in the wake of their defeat, has to regroup. Currently, they're occupied on multiple fronts in a war spanning a good chunk of the galaxy. We don't know when they'll come back to liberate us from these Consortium thugs, but they will return. In the meantime, for those of us in attendance today, the nucleus of what I anticipate will be a growing worldwide resistance, we're going to take up arms against the Consortium and strike blows for our freedom until the Calaar returns. Hopefully, we'll have run these bastards off the planet and out of the system before then.”
The room erupted in cheering. When it subsided, the admiral spoke for a few more minutes, his words ringing with encouragement, hope and a strident desire to inflict as much damage upon the enemy as possible. Afterward, the meeting became a strategy session which Justine vigorously participated in.
At one point, Casey took Justine aside. “I know who you are, Justine Mingana. I've read your file. You're an outstanding officer.”
“I don't know about the outstanding part,” Justine said, very much surprised that anyone this high ranking was remotely aware of her existence. “But I won't be an officer for long. Based on what I've seen here today, I'm quitting the military and joining the resistance.”
The admiral regarded Justine solemnly. “I had a feeling you would make that decision, Lieutenant. But I need you to reconsider.”
“Reconsider?”
“We need military personnel committed to the Resistance to remain in the military.”
Justine nodded slowly as the logic of the admiral's request sunk in. “You want us in places where our position and access will be of use to the resistance.”
“Precisely,” Casey beamed. “Are you still interested in resigning?”
Justine spared a moment of thought. “Alright. I'll stay in. I do have a question: who is this 'we' you refer to?”
The admiral gestured to the Calaar, who stood on the stage staring...so to speak...in Justine's direction.
“Ot^^^ also read your file,” said the admiral with a wink.

“We're 26 hours 43 seconds to target range,” Commander Povich reported from the data on his pad. “22 hours until our rendezvous with the Consortium ships that will be joining us.”
Captain Mingana nodded and looked at Duke Rassellin who requested...or demanded rather...that information.
The Consortium representative raised his feline head, but kept his eyes on Mingana. “Good. In five hours my technicians will begin the activation sequence that will power up the weapon. The weapon will be drawing a portion of its power from this ship. I know that you would prefer that life support not be compromised. I leave it to you to determine the systems you deem nonessential enough to afford power losses.”
“Thank you for the heads up, Duke.” Mingana turned away from Rassellin and faced Observer Helm. “I'll be in my office. It looks like I have some determining to do.” She walked away before Helm could voice or gesture his approval.
Four minutes later, Mingana shut her office door and tapped her desk com.
Lt. Winter's face popped on the wall screen.
Mingana tapped an encryption sequence before speaking. “Lieutenant, we have our timetable: 22 hours.”
“That's when we initiate?” Winter asked, anticipation radiating like twin spotlights from her eyes.
“No, not at that precise second.” Mingana rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Just be ready. Wait for my word.”
“I will...and Captain.”
Mingana focused on Winter's image.
“I'm ready. I've been ready for this for years.”
“Me too,” said Mingana, her tone edged with iron. She cut the transmission and plopped down in her desk chair. For several minutes she tried to manage the churning fears and doubts that threatened to stay her hand, abort this mad endeavor. Because that's what it amounted to: madness. But someone had to do it. Someone had to challenge the Consortium in a way that it had never been challenged by humans up to this point. Mingana seized her trepidation and pounded it into impotence. Now, was not the time for second thoughts. She came this far. There would be no turning back.

***
Protests against authoritarian governments across the world were met with overwhelmingly brutal responses by regime forces. In Justine's own country, Cameroon, the government had instituted all sorts of legislation curtailing free speech and non-violent expression. The Consortium had no hand in how Earth regimes governed their nations. Its representatives were content to sit back and allow a privileged minority of humans a freehand to do what it took to safeguard Consortium interests.
In such tense times, Justine worried ceaselessly about her parents and brothers. After a four month run along the fringe of the solar system commanding a patrol ship, much needed leave time brought Justine and her crew back to Earth. An encrypted transmission showed up in her message feed. She read it and her heart jumped with excitement. After more than a decade, the Resistance had finally contacted her.
Very little had been heard from them since the U.N. crackdown four years earlier that resulted in the arrests and executions of over ten thousand suspected Resistance members, in addition to the destruction of hundreds of Resistance bases of operations across the system. Many times, Justine worried that her affiliation, if exposed, would result not just in dire consequences for her, but her family as well. Those were the moments when she reminded herself that most of all, that what she did in service to the Resistance, was for her family...not that she had done much if any service other than being a silent mole. Now, she had an opportunity to prove her mettle.
The message told her to arrive at a lake front restaurant in Chicago at 1300 hours. Justine arrived five minutes early. On the dot, the very admiral she met at the Resistance meeting years ago, sat at her table. Of course, he was no longer an admiral. Dressed in a fashionable button down shirt with creased slacks, Justine wasn't sure what kind of public face the man sitting across from her presented in his daily life.. James Casey volunteered nothing to sate her curiosity. Instead, he spoke without preamble. “Captain Mingana, we have a mission for you, a mission you may not survive, but if successful will do considerable damage to the Consortium. Do you accept it?”
“Hell yes. Need you ask?” Justine replied with bravado.
The former admiral's lips parted in a sliver of a smile. “First of all, you're being promoted to a new command. You'll be captain of the Horseman, a Hercules-class ship.”
Justine's brow rose. “That's no trivial promotion. Hercules-class ships are deep-space capable with practically no limitations in their warp capacity.”
“A vessel of that class could travel to the galaxy's core if need be,” Casey agreed. “Fortunately, you won't need to go that far. There's a city...an orbiting city...located in Calaar space. A conference is scheduled to be held at that city in three months. The entire Calaar leadership, along with the highest ranking of their military officers, will be in attendance. Consortium planners have hatched a plot to assassinate everyone at that conference using a weapon of mass destruction. The problem is, we have no idea what kind of weapon it is, only that its frightfully powerful.”
“Most weapons of mass destruction are,” Justine commented flippantly.
Casey planted his elbows on the table. “This one is uncommonly lethal I'm told.”
A waiter appeared with menus. The former admiral accepted a menu and ordered a glass of red wine.
Justine asked for water and waited for Casey to continue when the waiter departed. “U.N. Command has chosen the Horseman as the ship from which this Consortium weapon will be deployed. Two Consortium ships, each carrying a similar mass destruction weapon, are scheduled to join the Horseman. It seems it'll take three such weapons to destroy that city.” A nasty little smirk played across the Casey's face. “U.N. Command jumped like an over eager grasshopper at the opportunity to participate in a joint outing with the Consortium. They want so badly to prove our worth to our so-called masters. Success or failure, what you accomplish on this mission will reduce U.N. Command's credibility, in the eyes of the Consortium, to dirt.”
“What exactly will I be accomplishing?” Justine asked, intrigued.
The waiter returned with glasses of wine and water. The former admiral took a sip of wine and continued. “You're going to foil that weapon's deployment, neutralize anyone in your ship who gets in your way, destroy the two Consortium ships, make contact with the Calaar, and turn the weapon over to them.” He raised a finger. “And not to worry. I've arranged for Resistance members to join your crew. They'll occupy key positions on your roster. A good portion will be Shipboard Marines. Not as many as I would have liked, but enough for your purposes.”
“Why not warn the Calaar about this imminent danger to their leadership?” Mingana inquired.
“Because the Consortium controls all hyper-range communication in the solar system.” The former admiral set his glass down. “Not even the most boot licking of humans have that kind of access, and if we did try to send a signal beyond the system, it would be flagged and traced in an instant.” He gave the captain a grave look. “The fate of the Calaar's leadership and the lives of millions of innocents hinges on you.”
Justine sighed. “No pressure.” She leaned back in her chair. “When do I report to my new ship?”
Casey smiled. “When is your leave time up?”

The orbiting city filled every interface on the bridge. Less than an hour from target range, the mood on the bridge was electric. Mingana stood in front of her chair, fixated on the central interface while Duke Rassellin transmitted the city's coordinates to those of his people in Weapons room 3 in charge of operating the Consortium weapon. Helm paced the bridge's lower section, rubbing his hands in anticipation. Povich walked from station to station ensuring that everything flowed smoothly leading up to the weapon's deployment.

            “Consortium ships, Hrizer and Kemirt are inbound,” announced a sensor specialist. “ETA, twelve minutes.”

            Mingana switched images on her personal interface and watched real time footage of both Consortium ships approaching the Horseman at max impulse. She turned partially and met the eye of an officer at the weapons station named Daoud.

            The weapons officer motioned a subtle nod.

            Mingana nodded back and returned her attention to the interface. Casually, she strode to a console behind her command chair. As she activated a control panel, she glanced up to see Helm watching her. If the observer was curious about why Mingana was at the console, he didn't show it. If anything, he was clearly preoccupied with other matters.

            Mingana looked away from the observer, and began typing on a keypad.

            “Captain,” Helm called.

            “Yes, Observer?”

            “Is everything alright?”

            Mingana replied without looking at the observer. Her fingers continued to blur across the keypad. “Never better, Observer.”

            “Captain, communication is down,” said Povich, his brow crinkled in puzzlement.

            Both Helm and Rassellin faced the Second.

            “We have neither outgoing nor incoming communication.” Povich leaned forward, gleaning data from a com station interface. “Diagnostic isn't revealing anything. Must be a momentary glitch caused by cosmic radiation.”

            “I'm not interested in guesses, Commander,” Helm said, his jaw clenched tight with tension. “Find out exactly what's wrong and fix it.”

            Mingana regarded the observer with a hooded gaze. It wasn't Helm's place to give orders to her crew. It was even less appropriate for him to adopt a berating tone while doing so. Normally, she would have pulled the observer aside for a word. But, after what she had just done, nothing that came before this fateful moment mattered. The Rubicon had been crossed.

            A dozen Shipboard Marines in polished navy blue armor suddenly stormed onto the bridge, their weapons raised.

            Rassellin's bodyguards reacted swiftly, leveling their blasters on the marines. Duke Rassellin reached for the jeweled-handled ceremonial knife sheathed at his hip.

            “Stand down, Duke!” Mingana shouted. “Tell your guards to drop their weapons!”

            Lt. Winter approached the captain with an extra firearm in hand, a KR auto-shotgun. The captain accepted the weapon and aimed it at Rassellin.

            “Captain! What the hell are you doing?” Helm exclaimed, in gape-mouthed shock..

            Povich froze, his eyes flashing skittishly between armed parties. “Captain...what's going on?”

            “It should be obvious to you, Commander Povich,” Rassellin said, slowly, defiantly drawing his blade. “Your captain is a traitor.” He threw a cutting glance Helm's way. “And your U.N. Authority vetted her. Pitiful.”

            Mingana cocked the KR with attitude. “Duke Rasellin, you're not in a very tenable position. Plus, I just implemented an executive override, shutting down all communication, further isolating you and your people on this ship. If you want to avoid the shitstorm I'm prepared to rain on you, I strongly advise you and your guards to surrender.”

            Rasellin huffed in a manner of laughter peculiar to his species. “I love these colorful human metaphors.” The Duke appeared thoughtful. “Why don't we do this instead. You and every traitor backing you will surrender to me. You will undo this executive override and then I turn you over to Observer Helm's custody. He'll detain you and your accomplices and we resume our mission. The alternative is we kill you on the spot. You choose.”

            Mingana stared at the Duke as if the other had gone certifiably mad. “Drop your weapons, now. I will not make that request again.”

            Rassellin's blade glowed like silver fire. “Neither will I, Captain.” He screamed an utterance in his native tongue and both of his guards opened fire.

            Dark, scorching iridescence streamed from the guards' blasters, ripping into three marines before the rest retaliated.

            Marine M82s pulsed furiously. Carbon-jacketed rounds smacked into the Consortium guards' armored suits with no initial debilitating effects. Projectile impacts staggered the guards, but they continued firing, dark energy stabbing like black arrows into marine armor.

            Mingana dove behind a console and popped up, triggering her KR. Massive titanium shells spurted from her auto-shotgun's barrel in deafening rapid fire reports. A guards head snapped back, his faceplate holed by a shotgun shell that burrowed halfway into his skull.

            Bridge crew scrambled for cover. Two officers and a specialist, caught in the crossfire, tumbled to the deck in bloody heaps.

            Rassellin charged toward the nearest marine. His energized blade flashed, plunging hilt deep into the marine's neck guard.

            The marine let out a wet gurgle as Rassellin extracted the blade and swung swiftly to his right. The blade's molecular edge sliced effortlessly through the armor, flesh and bone of a second marine, lopping off an arm at the elbow.

            The Duke started to lunge toward another marine but a spatter of M82 bullets peppered his torso, stopping him short.

            Mingana rammed her KR's muzzle into the side of Rassellin's head and squeezed the trigger. A third of the Duke's head erupted in a globular fountain of brain and bone fragments from the KR's thunderous discharge.

            The marines poured combined fire into the last Consortium guard. The guard somehow remained upright, despite a raging welter of rounds gouging hot divots out of his near impenetrable armor.

            “Everyone down!” Lt. Winter shouted.

            Mingana and the marines hit the deck as Winter launched a grenade from her M82.

            The grenade struck the tottering guard square in the chest and detonated. The blast turned the guards torso into a steaming crater. Shockwaves reverberated through the bridge like an assault from giant invisible sledgehammers.

            Observer Helm rushed to his feet and grabbed a dead guard's blaster. He pointed it  at Mingana, but his grip on the alien weapon lacked surety. Panic flared bright as torches in his eyes. “Put your weapons down!”

            Mingana trained her shotgun on the observer. Her surviving marines did the same.

            “Don't be an idiot, Helm,” Mingana growled. With adrenaline pumping through her body like wildfire, and impatience gnawing at her discipline, she hoped she could suppress a burning compulsion to blow the observer's head off.

            “The Consortium are our allies...our...our...friends,” Helm stammered, the blaster shaking in his hand. “They rid us of the Calaar, gave us our planet back...and this is the gratitude you show them?”

            “Gratitude for what?” Mingana bit off, her face twisted in ridicule.. “For returning us to the same instability that wracked our world before the Calaar came? The Calaar helped us...”

            “They hobbled us!” Helm cut in, displaying teeth like a cornered wolf. “They took away out ability to solve our own problems, tackle our own challenges.”

            “We weren't doing an effective job of that in the first place,” said the captain. “Hell, too many people with the power to effect change had no interest in doing so. Too much profit to be made maintaining a status quo that condemned billions to poverty and suffering. But I'm not going to waste time arguing the pros and cons of Human-Calaar relations with you.” Mingana stepped forward with very meaningful intent. “Drop that blaster.”

            Helm wisely chose not to test the captain's resolve. Despairingly, he lowered the weapon and let it slip from his fingers to clatter on the deck.

            Lt Winter rushed forward to pick up the blaster while a marine slapped cuffs on the observer.

            Mingana gazed gravely at the dead and wounded marines sprawled on the deck and sighed wistfully. Over half down against two guards and a puffed up VIP.  She knew the Consortium soldiers would be a formidable challenge with their durable armor and powerful guns...but she hadn't imagined that they would be this difficult to bring down even with upgraded assault weapons. She reached down to pick up Duke Rassellin's knife and appraised it with a grudging respect. The blade still glowed with lethal energy. She glanced at the ill fortuned marine with the amputated arm, knotted her brow in sympathy, and gestured to an officer. “Get a medical team up here.”

            The officer like the rest of the bridge crew looked a like frightened rabbit.

            “Now!”

            The officer moved promptly in compliance. Although, it was clear his obedience was motivated more by the automatic shotgun in Mingana's hand than her status as a superior officer.

            Mingana couldn't help but to be amused by the irony. Here she was a captain leading a mutiny on her own ship. “Listen up,” she announced to the entire bridge. “As you've no doubt gathered, our mission has changed. We no longer work for the Consortium. Some of you may be fine with that, others not. Those  of you who are not, step forward. I promise no harm will come to you. You'll simply be confined to quarters. The rest, we have work to do and all I'll require from you is one hundred percent  loyalty, one hundred percent commitment.”

            Five crew members stepped forward. Two marines immediately escorted them from the bridge.

            Two of the five operated critical systems, as did the ones who were deceased.

            Mingana rubbed her brow. She would manage..

            She noticed that Povich hadn't budged, but the critical set of his face offered no guarantee of support..

            “Commander?” She said, solicitously.

            Povich frowned. “You've put me in quite a predicament, Captain.”

            Mingana conceded with a guilty nod. “Let's talk, Second...if you're still my Second.”

            Povich offered no hints.

Three hours crawled by.

            Mingana had gone straight to the bridge after the weapons room seizure. She ignored her marines' insistence that she stop at sickbay to get her arm treated. She had the medics meet her on the bridge instead.

            Stripped down to a sleeveless black undershirt, with burn-treatment gauze covering her tricep wound, Captain Mingana stood beside her chair, eyes glued to an interface.

            The Consortium ships had dropped into extended sensor range. As was mapped out before the mission, neither ship would make contact with the Horseman until they were within ten million miles of the city.

            Mingana brought up schematics of both ships. They were roughly crab shaped vessels, each one slightly larger than the Horsemen, with shields powerful enough to withstand sustained bombardment from the most lethal of ship-killing missiles. Those shields, however, were only effective when they were up. At the moment those ships lay bare, like lions bereft of teeth and claws. The key in this operation was timing. Hit them while they were weak. Hit them hard. Mingana licked her mental chops, savoring the slaughter she was about to inflict.

            “Consortium vessels have crossed the strike threshold, Captain,” Commander Povich reported, facing a gridded tactical interface.

            Mingana acknowledged her Second's announcement with a crisp nod. She tapped an comm function on her chair. “Lt. Commander Kochran, status.”

            “The packages are ready,” came Kochran's confident voice.

            “Thank you.” Mingana turned to a senior combat officer. “Launch.”

            The officer tapped keys on his console. “Yes, Captain. Initiating launch. Release in five...four...three...two...

***

            Two thermal nuclear missiles exited the Horseman at velocities approaching light. They were human built with Calaar cloaking emitters embedded in their warheads.

            Shortly before the Consortium occupied Earth, the Calaar added upgraded stealth to their capabilities, giving them a slight edge over their enemies in that area. The missiles were not simply swathed in light deflectant bubbles, they moved in subspace, further masking their existence from opposing optics and sensors. Fortunately, the Resistance's sole Calaar member, Ot^^^, had overseen the salvaging of a few new generation cloaking emitters. Afterward, the Consortium swept the solar system clean of any traces of Calaar technology.

            The first Consortium ship became a pitch black cutout at the heart of a massive glare of hell light when the first missile struck it. A cascade of released nuclear fury cooked the ship, reducing it to a crumpled, smoldering husk. What remained of the vessel drifted powerlessly  in the void. The second missile was knocked off of its trajectory by the pummeling effects of the first blast, sustaining just enough damage to short out its stealth function.

            The missile emerged into full visibility five seconds before terminal contact with the second Consortium ship...which was more than enough time for the ship's close range defenses to respond.

            Mingana watched her interface, the ecstatic thrill she felt witnessing the first ship's demise replaced by sickening horror as the second missile's cloak failed. A glittering salvo of close-range defense fire blew the missile apart in a blinding massive glow that quickly subsided like a snuffed out candle flame.

            Mortified silence seized the bridge. The mission could only succeed if both enemy ships were destroyed. Mingana had to stop that second ship at all costs. All costs!

            “Prep ship to ship missiles,” she ordered. “Move forward to engagement range, full impulse.”

            Commander Povich didn't bat an eye when he relayed his captain's orders. Neither did anyone else on the bridge for that matter. Yet, they all knew that the Horseman, a human built vessel, stood little chance in a head to head encounter with a product of advanced extraterrestrial technology. But doing nothing at all to prevent the deaths of billions was certainly not an option.

            Twenty Dragon Flare ship to ship missiles shot out from the Horseman's launchers, slicing a deadly path toward the Consortium ship. One by one the missiles vanished in a frenetic maelstrom of precision enemy counter fire.

            Emitter nodes pimpling the enemy ship's hull spat incandescent lashes of energy toward the Horseman.

            The human ship bucked violently as impacting beams speared explosively into its hull. Followup anti-ship missiles tore glowing gashes in the Horseman. Atmosphere plumed from numerous hull breaches, crystallizing in the freezing vacuum.

            Bridge lighting and well over two thirds of interface screens blinked out. Auxiliary power had suffered substantially. Barely enough backup lighting clicked on to adequately alleviate the bridge's shadowy darkness.

            Operations consoles sizzled and sparked from pernicious power surges.

            “Guidance systems have suffered critical damage,” Povich reported, more calmly than the situation warranted. “Breaches are on every level...overall life support is at 80 percent, but that number is dropping.”

            “Casualties?” Mingana asked.

            “Eleven dead...so far. Twice that number injured according to sickbay data.”

            The captain dropped a dejected gaze. More losses under her command...but she could not turn back. She refused. “Maintain target lock on enemy ship. Keep firing.”

            “Most of our batteries are inoperable,” Povich said with a heavy grimace.

            Mingana looked determinedly at her Second. “Then we'll use the batteries we have left, and when they're exhausted or destroyed, we'll come at that ship with fists, feet and teeth if need be.”

            Povich gazed appreciatively at Mingana. “If need be. It's been an honor serving with you, Captain.”

            Mingana smirked. “Likewise, Commander. But no happy farewells just yet. I want to at least bloody their noses.”

            The Horseman and Consortium ship exchanged volleys. But the Horseman's missiles were knocked out of space faster than they could launch. By contrast, every missile cast by the enemy ship penetrated the Horesman's paltry defense screen with contemptuous lack of effort. More breaches opened up the length and breadth of the Horseman's hull, a few so deep as to gut entire levels. Crewmembers not incinerated in the blasts were sucked out into space in raging windstorms.

“You're Resistance?” Povich asked when he and Mingana stepped into the captain's office.

            Mingana nodded.

            “For how long?”

            “Years. But, this is my first operation.” The captain perched on the corner of her desk, arms folded. “And I intend for it to be successful.”

            Povich cocked his head. “What is this operation?”

            “To prevent this ship from using the weapon that will wipe out that city,” Mingana replied. “Also, we have to destroy the Consortium ships that'll be joining us. And and then we make contact with the Calaar and deliver this weapon to them.”

            “Sounds...overly ambitious,” said Povich.

            “It'll be easier with your participation.”

            Povich shook his head, his gaze smoldering with frustration. “Damn you Captain for dropping this trouble in my lap. My intention since the Consortium arrived in our part of the galaxy was to keep my head down, don't make waves, and do my duty.”

            Mingana said nothing. She watched her second deliberate.

            “In fact, I'd always considered the Resistance to be pursuing a futile enterprise.” Povich threw his hands up. “I mean, how in the hell can we, mere humans, take on a colossus like the Consortium? What could we possibly achieve? What kind of blow could we inflict on them?”

            “There's one way to find out,” said Mingana. “And it sounds to me like you want to be on the inflicting end.”

            Povich blew out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I do, Captain.”

            “Are you with us?”

            Povich stared deeply into his captain's eyes. “I'm with you, Justine Mingana. I still think what the Resistance is doing is folly, but I'll join this mission.”

            Mingana displayed a relieved smile. “Thank you, Arie. I'm sorry for plunging you into this situation.”

            Povich gave his captain a sly look accompanied by a skeptical grin. “No you're not.”

***

            Mingana led the assault on weapons room 3 while Povich remained on the bridge. Povich protested, expressing deep concern for his captain's safety, and offering to lead the assault, given his greater ground combat expertise. But Mingana turned him down on principle. She had put a portion of her crew at great risk, with the possibility that her ship and everyone on board, Resistance and non-Resistance alike could be destroyed. She could not in good conscious enjoy the safety of the bridge while her shipboard marines faced the danger of taking on Consortium guards. The Resistance entrusted this mission to her and she intended to carry it out at the fullest measure. And if she were killed, Povich would take command and finish the mission.

            Mingana ordered that the marines be armed with heavy weapons and a disproportionate amount of explosives. She was able to muster up to fifteen extra marines to augment the thirty two who were part of the Resistance. The marines who refused to participate in the mission, she ordered restricted to quarters.

            Two marines emerged into the corridor wielding Tactical Arena mini-rocket launchers.

            They triggered rockets before the guards in the corridor outside of weapons room 3 could react. Both rockets struck the guards and exploded, shattering their armor and killing them instantly. A marine tossed a disk shaped charge and it landed inches from the weapons room 3 door. The door opened and as Consortium guards rushed out into the corridor, the charge exploded. The explosion's force slammed with point blank ferocity into the guards, scattering them like confetti. Three lay still in the corridor, two others, struggled to their feet, appearing disoriented.

            Mingana rushed ahead of her marines and targeted the nearest wounded guard with her KR. A torrent of shotgun shells blazed from the weapon shearing into damaged parts of the guard's armor, penetrating flesh.

            The guard's movements ceased in a bloody instant.

            Lt. Winter finished off the other guard with a savage burst of her mini-rocket launcher.

            Winter held back her over zealous captain and signaled a marine forward. The marine pointed a launcher and shot a grenade into the weapons room. A blast sounded and ash gray smoke gusted out of the weapons room into the corridor.

            Marines stormed into the room. A crossfire of dark energy beams greeted them. A marine flopped lifelessly to the deck, his head blasted to red vaper by a well placed energy beam. The marine behind him spun practically full circle as energy beams lacerated his upper body. A lance of energy thrust like a fiery blade into Lt. Winter's side. She cried out in pain as she stumbled to the deck.

            Mingana fired her KR, unleashing hot metal on the position where that shot came from. She saw a Consortium guard go down, but she wasn't sure if it was her doing. Two marines with Beringer 50 cals swept the area. A third marine fired a rocket before being cut down in a volley of energy.

            The rocket collided with a bulkhead and the subsequent explosion upended a guard in a searing swell of fire, smoke and debris.

            Mingana knelt protectively over Lt. Winter, pumping shells from her KR in every direction. When her clip ran empty, she expelled it and slapped in a full one with expert precision. She fired several more thumping bursts, hitting a Consortium guard in the chest.

            A marine appeared and helped the captain drag Winter to the cover of a nearby partition. Energy beams sizzled past Mingana. A beam grazed her gun arm. That minor brush tore through the interlocking ballistic mesh of her flak jacket, marking her skin with a deep blistering burn. The captain clenched her teeth at that hot, scathing patch of pain. She switched her KR to her other hand and fired blindly around the partition. The gun's brutal recoil nearly threw her arm out its socket. More explosions from grenades and rockets rang out in deafening succession. Black smoke clogged the room. The enraged or anguished voices of Consortium guards and marines carried above the churning raucous of combat. Mingana didn't know exactly when the silence set in. For a few seconds, the rapid, drumming of her heartbeat filled her head as if she were locked in an echo chamber. And then a marine called out: “Clear!”

            Mingana checked on Winter.

            Wisps of smoke spiraled from a glistening wound in the lieutenant's side. Winter tried to project a certain unflappability, but intense pain sabotaged her effort. She let out a ragged groan.

            “You're going to be OK, lieutenant,” Mingana assured the woman, gently squeezing her hand.

            Winter managed a wry smile. “I...hope so, Captain...because I'm not done kicking ass.”

            Mingana grinned in agreement.. “Neither am I.” She rose slowly, cautiously, taking a look around the room.

            Marines were circulating about, assessing their kills. Ten Consortium guards and five Consortium technicians had occupied the weapons room. All of them lay scattered on the deck, dead. Six marine fatalities, from what Mingana could make out; four wounded. Her shoulders slumped. Another battle won at a terrible cost. But the mission wasn't over yet.

Molecular geometry of plastic deformation. Subplot (a): snapshots of the deformation mechanisms, pure CF, for increasing strain. Fibrillar yield is characterized by intermolecular slip (see the circles highlighting a local area of repeated molecular slip). Slip leads to the formation of regions with lower material density. Subplot (b): snapshots of the deformation mechanisms, mineralized collagen fibrils, for increasing strain. Slip initiates at the interface between hydroxyapatite particles and tropocollagen molecules. Slip reduces the density, leading to the formation of nanoscale voids. Courtesy of Nanotechnology

Topics: Biology, Materials Science, Carbon Nanotubes, Nanotechnology

Nanotechweb:
Nanomechanics – the whole is more than the sum of its parts, Anna Demming

Plastic fantastic? Quasicrystal deformations and bending observed

Topics: Materials Science, Nanotechnology, Quasicrystal

Physics World: Brittle quasicrystals become ductile at the nanoscale, Tim Wogan

Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO/J.DePasquale and NASA/JPL-Caltech and NASA/STScI

Topics: Astrophysics, Big Bang, Cosmology, Science Fiction, Theoretical Physics

Scientific American: Did the Universe Boot Up with a “Big Bounce?” Clara Moskowitz

I had a great time on Genesis Science Fiction Radio with William Hayashi for the July 29th Episode.

We talked about the jinx of talking about a future projects too early, the use of beta readers and much more during a two-hour discussion where we talked about books, breaks in creativity and beyond.

CLICK HERE FOR THE LINK

Recently, on another social media platform people were say how we need to stop taking hand me downs from Marvel & DC. Here was my response. I also would like to know what you think.

I don't have that much of a problem with Marvel and DC characters. I tend to think there is room for both mainstream and independent. Personally, I only buy independent for the past 10 years. I purchase indie comics, videos, books 90% of the time. We need to stop looking at this in the same old manner. Where mainstream falls shirt there is an opportunity for indie creators to fill that niche market. 

Please listen to what animation legend Ralph Baski has to say about it.https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WApcUBcVMos

If you are serious about getting some things done holla at the admin at: blacksciencefictionsociety.com and let's get some work done.

Image Source: Carlos Fiorentino | Design Education & Research

Topics: Climate Change, Global Warming, Politics, Research

American Association for the Advancement of Science:
Science Can Ease Human Rights Effects of Climate Change, Andrea Korte

I found myself sitting in my living room, with a view of my neighbors home several hundred yards away, like most Sunday evenings. Then everything changed. After blinking and rubbing my eyes, I noticed a change in scenery. My neighbors home was no longer there. My four acre estate's scenic view, however was still scenic, albeit now all wilderness. I began turning on the electronic devices that I use almost solely for maintaining a link to the outside world and as I suspected, none of them were working. Next, I ran outside to confirm my hypothesis.
I grabbed my pistol, put on my clothes and stepped out the door and walked a hundred paces in order to give myself a vantage point for a good 360. All around me save for my homestead was wilderness. A thick forest dense as if nothing could live here. That theory was disproved when the howls of animals familiar and strange cried out into the night. The fourteen breeding pairs of dogs, with their six litters of puppies, I kept in a kennel fifty yards to the rear of the house, answered their wild brethren, adding their yips and howls, to this irregular, eerie chorus of the night. Where was I?
Realizing I'd better quiet them, I went back in the house and exited through the rear. It was a necessary precaution, as walking around outside even armed, was not to be risked for the foreseeable future. Once inside the kennel, I was greeted with the relieved barks of my pack. I inspected each stall and found none of the animals harmed. I decided that I wanted all the puppies in the house with me. Both terrier pairs, one of my mastiffs, my greyhound and two of the pitbull pairs had litters. Forty two puppies out of forty five born ( I had high survival rates ), plus twelve parents., the sires would be necessary for the extra security. I couldn't keep them indoors forever, that was close to five dozen animals, but if I was where I thought I was I'd need fortifications, sturdy ones, anyway. Once those were built, they could go back outside.
First, I took the females and the puppies indoors. I didn't have much in the way of furniture in the living room, just two sofas, two recliners, a coffee table and a books shelf. There was now room for all of them as I overturned the furniture and barricaded the front door. I only used two of my five bedrooms, so I'd put one litter and mother on each room and keep the largest three downstairs, plus all the sires (who would stay in the kitchen).
"Mr. Richards," a firm contralto uttered.
"Ms. Gonzales," I answered, relieved in fact. I'd forgotten that she was here late. April Gonzales was the woman who ran the cleaning service I used. She was about a dozen years younger that my thirty nine and a smart and resourceful woman.
She owned and operated a cleaning service with twelve cleaners, the profits from she used to pay her way through college. She often bragged that here business would have a dozen branches with a dozen cleaners by the time she was my age. I believed her as the only reason she was here due to the fact that one of her workers called out and she didn't get the message until Saturday. A woman to keep her word she showed up Sunday at three. When I kidded her about her duty to God, she said that keeping her word was an important part of that duty.
A frighteningly competent woman she not only cleaned along with her staff, she did most of the admin work herself and had enough mechanical aptitude to handle the maintenance of her cleaning machines. The fact that she was here meant my chances for survival improved greatly. So I started talking about what I thought our situation was, as much for myself as for her.
"Do you now all those alternate history novels I'm reading?"
"You mean like if Robert E. Lee shot Lincoln?" she asked. This she delivered with more than a trace of sarcasm.
"Not quite, and not everyone who writes those novels is a conservative, but yes."
"So where are we?" she asked.
"I'm not sure, but this seems to prove a theory about alternate timelines I read about in a story. That theory being we travel back and forth between timelines so similar that we don't notice, save that something is out of place, like a piece of paper or a grocery item you swore you bought.
Perhaps there's even more of a difference, like someone only you remember, that all of your friends or acquaintances don't. Maybe that's because you changed timelines, but maybe that's because they changed timelines, but that goes without saying," she rolled her eyes and I continued.
"It may be possible that person went to a timeline that is very different from their homeline, like for example, a person you remember from a long time ago, no one else remembers, despite the fact, that as this theory hypothesizes, you are traveling through timelines on a regular basis. That person may have a greater flux or variable range, and tends to get sent to far away timelines, you only know them from a period of relative stability."
"You mean we're those people?"
"I hope not, but yes." I answered.
"How do you know that we're not just back in time?"
"Let's have a look at the moon," I said ushering her to the window. The moon was full and I held my finger up to measure then explained.
"The moon is away from us at a quarter inch a year."
"You measure the size of the moon in the sky regularly?" she asked incredulously.
"Well, I didn't just read the story yesterday." "You're too weird for me."
"I know, but bear with me."
"Can you figure a way out of this?"
"I'm afraid no one alive has the technical skill."
"Then let's just figure out how to survive."
That was Ms. Gonzales for you. She was a competent and able woman but not given to abstract thought. She no doubt understood every word I said and then decided not to give a hoot.
"Well, we need to protect the property. But we also have to survive the night. So grab those old wooden chairs and start breaking them down, use a screw driver and keep two legs intact. The rest we'll use to add to our supply of fire wood. I'm going to unlock the parking break on the Volvo wagon and push it to block the back door.
"Won't we be trapped in," she interrupted.
"No, I'll sleep with the keys in my left front pocket. We'll each pack a bugout bag and take them with us if the house is overrun. We'll put the motorbike on the roof of the wagon and ride it as far as we can then continue on the bike if we have to."
"Got it."
"I'm going to build a large fire to keep animals at bay. Then we'll go to sleep. Here take this," I said giving her the forty-five on my waist and a brief tutorial in it's use. The I went to get one of my other pistols, also a forty-five.
" I also want you to meet someone," I called for my house dog, a husky with one of four grandparents being wolf.
After building the4 fire. I bought in the sires. I told Ms. Gonzales to go down to the basement where there was a small range. I gave her a more thorough explanation and had her shoot for an hour then we turned in.
The next morning, our second day and first full day, I began the wall after tending to the fire. I took all the male dogs and the non-nursing females and took them to a spot one hundred paces from the home, just past the kennel. I then had every dog stand ten yards apart, forming a line of defense two hundred and twenty yards long. I stood ten yards behind them with a shovel and gave the order to dig. Once they had dug wholes twenty four to thirty six inches deep, I had them stop, then moved them over a yard and had them dig again. This process we repeated, with me going over their work. After about fourteen hours, there were post holes, adjacent to each other for a quarter mile. In between supervising the dogs work, I had dug a pit shoulder deep, twice as long as my six feet and half as wide, about four hundred and thirty to four hundred and fifty cubic yards. I covered the whole thing with a tarp and laid the largest rocks I could find on each corner.
Since it was apparently summer, we had about fifteen hours of sunlight. Which was why I built another large fire. Then I took six dogs back to the house with me ordering the remainder to stay. I hitched a trailer to my BMW and loaded some lumber I had made into poles for selling. Each was about nine feet long and about nine inches in diameter. I'd need almost sixty seven hundred, about sixty six hundred and seventy eight to cover my four acres. We'd already dug four hundred forty yards, leaving a little over twelve hundred yards exposed. I had four fifty piled near my shed and I brought thirty with me this first trip. I napped for four hours inside after loading the lumber then spent the next ten hours pounding the posts into the holes. At about two minutes per post, and a half hour to load the trailer, I'd placed a hundred and ten poles covering eighty two and a half yards of a sixteen hundred and seventy yard perimeter. I left up the lights I had jury rigged to poles and tended the second fire, I had set and headed in. Seeing that Ms. Gonzales had tended the first fire I turned in around two in the afternoon and slept until ten am on the fourth day.
Two more days of hard labor saw that we had a wall six feet high covering three hundred thirty seven yards. The rest of the wall I made of rock and dirt slightly ahead of the remainder of the perimeter. What would have taken me three weeks alone, I was able to do in eight more days of back breaking labor. In a week I'd dug post holes and began working on the posts to fill those with. In just two short weeks we were relatively secure.
April, we had since stated calling each other by first names, had taken on many responsibilities. She learned to cook the combination of human and dog food, that I tended to feed my animals over store bought. She helped to mix the concrete that I used to line our miniature reservoir and later the second larger reservoir I dug. She even poured once I was comfortable no animal could randomly penetrate our defenses. Finally, she made most of our fire hardened bricks.
Over the next few months we made a home for ourselves. I collected enough rocks, during that time to ring our house with a stone wall that was nine feet high replete with mortar made from materials that I had stored as well as scrounged. I was able to do this by clearing the forest that edged our house. I was able to do this safely by standing on a ladder near our wall and shooting anything that strayed too close. This solved our food problem and insured animals gave us a wide birth. When I wanted to chop wood or collect rocks, I had April stand on the ladder and cover me. Then the dogs helped me drag it back in.
By winter I had foraged enough wild grains, berries and nuts to see us through. So, we holed up in our new home; which I had determined through astronomy and the identification of the flora and fauna, some long extinct in our world and others as familiar as my left hand, to be roughly our time period, the second decade of the twenty first century give or take a decade.
We were so well provisioned I only went out to get firewood and train and exercise the dogs. Thus April and I spent our evenings by the fireside chatting. She was a charming Latina of African and Indigenous American parentage, out family histories were far more similar than I, a disciplined student of history ever realized. This ritual continued, even after we distilled enough alcohol to supplement the several hundred gallons of gasoline I had, making the fireplace a luxury rather than a necessity. Always attracted to her, but never overstepping my boundary as her client, I found myself conflicted when she approached me on the night we had determined was New Year's Eve.
"We may be the only humans on this world."
"We'll make more," she whispered.
"What kind of lonely existence would we condemn them to, go marry that homo erectus over there," At that she laughed.
"We both have needs."
"But we have to use these," I pulled out a condom from my robe.
"Okay."
I carried her to my...our bedroom, where we spent the night.

Chapter 1: Late Arrival

He came home too late; they’d already been through, looting as they went.
His very home was pillaged, wrecked, and broken.
Seeing the blood on the walls, he knew they’d slaughtered his family; when he found his wife and children, their bodies cut and busted, and their heads spiked to the wall, he fell on his knees in the shards of pottery, and didn’t feel the cuts.
He went hot and cold, saw red and black, and fell forward.
When the two men who’d stayed behind to watch for him finally entered the remains of his home, he never felt the shackles and blindfold they put on him, before the larger man slung him like an empty sack over his shoulder, and carried him away.

***************
It was dark when he woke up, and his eyes took a moment to adjust until he could finally see at the very least the outlines of things.
The sun was setting, and the cell they put him in was full of lengthening shadows and strengthening wind.
His mouth was dry, and his clothes were too thin for the cold, and the place reeked of waste.
When he tried to sit up, pain smacked his forehead and sent him rolling onto his side, moaning and wincing.
“So you’re alive.”
The raspy voice, coming from a dark corner of the cell, startled him, and despite his brain pounding against his skull, he scrabbled like a crab to the opposite corner.
The raspy voice gave a raspy laugh.
“Who are you?” the new prisoner said.
“One who was, and is no more, as you will be soon.”
“Where am I?”
“In the land of great kings, and now, you are underneath the ground, soon to be a part of it.”
“Why are you talking nonsense? Is now the time for riddles?”
The face that belonged to the raspy voice slowly emerged and fixed itself in the last ray of sunlight. It was scarred and lumpy, misshapen to the point where it was barely human, and its eyes were filmy with opalescent mucus that glinted in the dying light.
Its smile, even with missing teeth, was feral, and the overall impression was one of insanity.
The new prisoner flinched at the grim visage.
“That’s where you’re wrong, friend. Look around you; time is all we have, and even that is running out.”
“Please, please tell me what is this place?”
“The land is called Raama, a city in the midst of deserts on one side, and jungles on the other. Its ruler is named Kahi, a woman who believes herself a goddess, and every ten years, she picks a village, slaughters its women and children for their blood as a preserving sacrifice, and imprisons and enslaves its men, burning them in high pyres when they can no longer be of any service, according to her whim.”
“And yet you are here, rotting in this cell along with me, and speaking in riddles.”
Again, the raspy laugh.
“I am her brother. I tried to stop her; when I couldn’t do it with reason, I tried to do it with steel, but her power over men is great, and they captured me. They beat me for hours, tortured me for days, and finally threw me in here, to be forgotten and die.”
The new prisoner took that in, saying nothing at first, but then the sun was gone, and the man’s face still haunted him, though now it was back in darkness, invisible to the eye, but he still wasn’t sure the man wouldn’t attack him, and he was afraid, so he said something else to keep her brother talking, so he would know where he was.
“What should I call you?”
“Call me spirit, for soon I will no longer be flesh.”
More riddles; actually, a rephrased repetition of an earlier one; he was better off not talking, but he had to know, since his family was dead.
“This…ritual…of your sister’s, does it work?”
The raspy laugh ended in a coughing fit, then a long silence.
The new prisoner, resigned to his fate, leaned back against the cold stone, and closed his eyes, thinking he would get no answer, when it came out of the utter blackness.
“When you see her, you tell me.”

Chapter 2: A Meeting of Minds

For days, they languished, catching what vermin they could between the barely edible meals and tepid water.
Whole days passed in silence, sleep, and more silence.
The new prisoner, no longer new, began to lose weight and weaken.
Kahi’s brother was somehow holding on; the swelling on his face was down, and his voice was stronger, but still husky.
To count the days, he broke pieces of dirty straw and stuffed them in a crevice that let in air between the stones.
“What purpose does that serve?” Spirit asked.
“It gives me hope.”
The well-worn laugh raspy laugh followed that, though the man who was doing it still kept to the shadows, even during the day, as if he could no longer tolerate even the shades of light that warmed his seemingly sightless eyes.
The new prisoner wondered if he was in fact blind already, or going blind; he’d pushed his face into the last patch of light as if he were a traveling player hitting his mark. He would’ve asked, but the thought of Spirit being able to see him anyway while blind would’ve disturbed him more.
He chuckled inwardly at his flight of fancy, and dismissed it; there were bigger things at stake.
“You said I would see her.”
“She knows you are here, and she is in no hurry. After you do, you may wish that you had not, so don’t be too eager, my friend.”
“You believe she has powers?”
“She does.”
“But you believe she’s mad.”
“I believe her ‘ritual,’ as you so delicately phrased it, has made her so.”
“Before she sends for me, tell me what happened between you.”
Spirit, little more than a brighter shadow I spite of the late afternoon sun shining through the thick bars in the lone window, shifted like a lump of coal settling into the flames to burn.
More silence ensued as the shadows lengthened.
A guard brought the jug of tepid water they used for drinking and whatever else, though nothing seemed to get rid of the smells.
The prisoner waited; sometimes Spirit answered, sometimes he didn’t.
“You won’t be able to stop her.”
“Just because you couldn’t, doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”
“If you would go to your death so willfully, so foolishly, your blood will not be on my hands.
“Absolve me of the curse of spirit blood, and I will tell my tale.”
“If I die, my blood will not be on your hands, and my eternal spirit shall leave you in peace.”
“Pass me the jug.”
The prisoner passed it, and Spirit drank, but didn’t put the jug to his lips; neither of them did, for their faces were foul and rank as well as their bodies, and the water, though tepid, was at least clean.
Spirit sighed and shifted again as the prisoner set the jug aside.
“It may be, my friend, that you will succeed where I’ve failed, but her power’s increased, as well as the men at her beck and call; getting close to her will be harder.
“Even so, listen carefully; you may see a weakness where I saw none.

*********************

I was on a voyage to secure a trade route, and deal treacherously with the ruler of an island nation along the way that had harried both our ships, demanding tribute from a share of the profits since we sailed in his waters.
Kahi begged to go, since she hardly got away from the palace grounds, and I relented, deciding to enjoy her company, since we seldom saw each other within its walls.
As it turns out, it was I who secured the trade route, and Kahi who dealt with the island chief.
I left them alone to ‘negotiate,’ so to speak; it was no contest, and he was no match for her.
She cut him open at the moment of his release, blood splattered, and she got some, she told me later, on her lips.
Next to his bed was a golden chalice, a gift from the other ruler with whom we traded, and whether or not it was full, or what it was full of, I can’t say, but when I came into the room, she’d placed it to her lips, and some of it ran from the corner of her mouth.
Seeing me, she looked right at me, lowered the chalice, licked off the blood on her lips, and put her finger in it, stirring it, her stare gathering a dark power I felt like heat shimmering on my skin, as if I were a sunning reptile.
She put the finger to her lips in a ‘be quiet’ gesture.
I could see the island chief’s spirit raging at her, gesturing, but whether or not she heard him, or cared if she did, she gave no outward sign that he was there.
. It tried, vainly, to re-enter its body, but she’d butchered it beyond healing.
I backed out of the room, and it seemed her stare now had heaviness to it; she was hypnotizing me, and shaking my head to break her gaze, I turned and quickly hurried to the ship to make ready for the journey home.
But I was too overwhelmed by what I’d seen, and the first mate, seeing I wasn’t well, told me to go below; he would see us safely off for home.
Grateful, I went below, and Kahi, going into her own cabin, turned and smiled before she closed the door.
I locked mine, and put a weighted trunk in front of it.
From the other side of the wall, I could hear her soft laughter, and I knew it was at my expense.
When we got back, we never spoke of what happened.
A month later, she raided her first village.

**************
“Your family?”
“She’s all I have.”
“No heirs.”
“No. The succession fell to me, but she usurped me with the help of those she enthralled.”
“The surrounding villages, any allies?”
“They’ve heard whispers and rumors, but none has come to see, much less help; her…purges…are thorough.”
“So no survivors, no avenging families.”
“None.”
“Then before we get much weaker, we have to stop her.”
“And how do we do that from here?”
“When she sends for me, I will act.”
“You speak of killing?”
“From what you say, is there another choice?”
“I told you, she’s my only family.”

Seems he forgot he told the prisoner he also tried to kill her. 
The prisoner sat back, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
“That’s where you’re wrong, friend. Look around you.”

Image Source: Moon Express from link below

Topics: Moon, NASA, Space Exploration, Spaceflight

21st Century Tech:
Moon Express Cleared for Lunar Mission to Begin Commercial Mining

The battle alert yelped and the prosaic images covering the bridge screens switched to a dynamic multitude of tactical displays and constantly shifting battlespace data.

            The bridge crew linked their interfaces to the larger screens and awaited orders from their section officers.

            Blips representing enemy vessels materialized on the displays. Near-space swarmed with the enemy.

            Mingana flicked an eye to Gunnery. “Target incoming. Fire on my word.”

            The gunnery officers acknowledged and began inputting targeting solutions.

            U.N. Senior Observer Jason Helm entered the bridge.

            Mingana gazed in the observer's direction, making no effort to hide her displeasure. “You're supposed to be in your quarters. I'm running a shipwide drill.”

            “Carry on,” said Helm, with a bored look. “I'm an observer. I can't exactly observe if I'm cooped up in my quarters.”

            “You should be observing protocol,” Mingana countered with an insolence that had not gone unnoticed by the bridge crew. They did a superb job of executing their duties without letting the observer know that they noticed.

            U.N. observers posted on starships possessed a power and a mystique to match the dread they invoked. Everyone deferred to them, even captains. An observer reported a captain's every action, every decision to U.N. Command. That in itself was enough to make sure a captain kept him or herself in an observer's good graces. An observer could also strip a captain's authority and assume command of a ship based on whatever grounds the former saw fit.

            Not showing the proper respect toward an observer served as sufficient grounds for dismissal. But Helm took no action. Dressed in a navy blue business suit and wearing trendy wraparound wire-frame glasses, the observer stood next to the captain's chair, his hands clasped behind him. “You do realize that we are unlikely to encounter or engage an enemy in this part of space.”

            “The operative word being 'unlikely,'” said Mingana. “This drill will keep us on our toes so that we will be prepared if the unlikely becomes likely.” She gave a nod to Gunnery. “Fire forward long range DE (direct energy) blazers 5 through 10.”

            “DE 5 through 10, acknowledged,” announced the lead gunnery officer. She initiated fire control and on a current-time tactical screen, a simulated blast of blazer energy whipped furiously across a simulated stretch of space.

            “Direct hit on eight targets,” the officer reported. “Targets neutralized.”

            “Good,” said Mingana, with eyes on the largest tactical screen. “Fire at will.”

            “Switching to free-fire,” said the officer.

            Mingana tapped her chair intercom. An image of a blond woman with an angular face projected in front of the captain. “Lt. Winter, Beta One.”

            The lieutenant nodded crisply. “Right away, Captain.”

            Helm scrunched his face. “A boarding action exercise? Enemy boarders breaching this ship is even less of a possibility.”

            “Again, Observer Helm,” Mingana replied with as much patience as she could muster. “I'm keeping us on our toes.” She switched several displays to internal views. Images of Shipboard Marines in combat armor, wielding M82 assault rifles, beamed from the displays. Armored units on three levels deployed to areas of the ship where simulated breaches had occurred.

            Mingana silently applauded their efficiency.

            “Enemy vessels are in retreat, Captain,” Commander Povich announced. “Shall we pursue?”

            “Negative, maintain course, extend sensor range to maximum, omni-directional active sweeps.”

            “Omnidirectional it is, Captain.” Povich relayed her command to the sensor specialists.

            Within ten minutes, Mingana declared an end to the drill and congratulated the crew on a job well done.

            “In spite of my reservations,” said Helm. “I, too must commend you and your crew on such a fine performance.”

            Mingana met the observer's smile with a guarded stare. She hated their lot and no amount of flattery from this pasty-faced specimen before her was going to change that outlook. “Thank you, Observer Helm. Don't forget to add what you witnessed here to your report.

            Helm's lips compressed with stifled laughter. “Captain, I never forget what I see. Now, I may omit on occasion. But I never forget.”

***

            Justine held her diploma in a firm grip, gazing upon as if it were a bar of gold. In so many respects, it might as well have been. The graduation ceremony had just concluded and Justine exchanged happy hugs with her friends. Even amidst the celebration, she took in the totality of her surroundings and realized how so very full the gymnasium was. Every student in her class had graduated. Not a single dropout. Her classmates were not the sons and daughters of privilege. Far from it. They were not destined to take the reigns of government, business, and academia. A prosperous future was never promised to Justine and her peers based on who their parents were: menial workers, scrabbling for just enough pennies to keep their families out of the bubbling muck of total destitution.

            And now, having graduated from secondary school, they would soon be attending universities of their choices.

            Justine embraced her mother and father. The pride on her father's face revitalized him. He once had ambitions of attending University to study engineering. But his parents could not afford the tuition. Even if they could, poor instructors hobbled his primary education. Justine inherited her father's deep interest in the field. She had always been been fascinated with air and space craft. The idea that she would have a degree in aerospace engineering in four years or less was as much a dream fulfillment for her father as it was for her. She had the Calaar to thank for that.

            Five months after the Calaar's arrival, Earth joined the Calaar-led League of Sentients, an alliance spanning hundreds of star systems. The benefits the Calaar spoke of came to fruition when Earth became a member planet. The Calaar cured diseases, cleansed Earth's atmosphere of pollutants, repaired a damaged ozone layer, eliminated famine, and introduced wondrous technology beyond anything humans had ever seen.

            The only 'payment' the Calaar asked for in exchange was that humans be willing to overturn their inequitable social and economic structures. With the Calaar's assistance, revolutionary but peaceful change, swept the globe. Doors of opportunity for billions of humans opened wide as old systems of gross inequality based on race, caste, gender, religion, class, and ethnicity faded away. The Calaar built millions of schools in every country, providing Earth's children with the type of quality education that would prepare them to take their places as citizens of the stars.

            Justine became an enthusiastic beneficiary of alien benevolence, which only heightened her resentment of her own species. Humans could have granted what the Calaar gave so generously. But human hatreds, greed, corruption, bigotry, and all manner of destructive folly kept the masses of humanity locked in a desolate cycle of poverty and despair. As she looked to her future, she vowed that the opportunity the Calaar created for her and her peers would not be wasted.

Captain Mingana, her officers, Observer Helm, and Rasellin gathered in the ship's executive lounge to celebrate Liberation Day.

            Mingana could think of a dozen places she would rather have been, but opting out of a Lib Day affair was no option at all. Circular windows surrounded the fairly spacious lounge, offering a grandiose view of a star sprinkled void. The Horseman traveled three times the speed of light. A mass inhibitor field surrounded the ship maintaining its structural integrity. Soft jazz playing in the lounge intermingled with conversation and laughter. Food and drinks sat atop white, round lounge tables.

            “Captain.”

            Mingana snapped out of her thoughts and looked up to see Povich holding two cups of ice tea. He handed a cup to her and the captain accepted with a gracious smile. “Thank you, Arie.”

            “Enjoying the party?” Povich asked.

            The captain rolled her eyes and took a sip from her cup. “Bored to tears.” She spotted Helm heading toward her and gritted her teeth. She supposed it was unrealistic for both of them to share the same space without coming into contact with each other.

            Povich saw the observer and cleared his throat. “By your leave, Captain, I should be going back to the bridge.”

            “You don't have to go. I'm sure Lt. Jasper has things well in hand. How many times has he covered the bridge?”

            “Three,” said Povich. “But...well...”

            “Mingana decided to be merciful. “Go.”

            Povich leaned close, grateful. “If you were not my captain, I would marry you.”

            “I'll hold you to that,” Mingana said in amusement.

            Povich brushed past the observer toward the lounge exit.

            “Captain, your presence on this special occasion is much appreciated by myself and your crew,” said Helm. “However...” He cut a surreptitious eye toward the alien dignitary. “You neglect our guest.”

            Mingana glanced at Duke Rassellin as he stood rigid and silent, flanked by his armored bodyguards. “Our guest doesn't appear to be interested in mingling. I'm simply respecting his space.”

            Helm gazed earnestly at the captain. “The Duke and the Consortium freed us from Calaar tyranny. Thanks to their efforts, Earth is back in human hands. I think we owe the Duke more than distance. Don't you?”

            Earth had always been in human hands, Mingana thought irately, suppressing a flareup of anger.

            Helm, up to this point, had not given her any orders. He seemed content to let her run her ship as she saw fit. But in this matter, Mingana knew a veiled order when she heard one. She considered disregarding it, but thought it best not to push her insubordinate attitude any further than it already was.

            “I suppose the Duke could use some company.”

***

            After receiving her aerospace engineering degree, Justine enrolled in one of the space-farer academies. Established by the Calaar to prepare humanity for the stars, space-farer academies existed on every continent but Antarctica. The course offerings at the African branch of the academy dazzled Justine: Xeno Sudies, Warp Transit Dynamics, Propulsion Engineering, Star Mapping, History of Sentient Relations, Trans-Dimensional coding, the list went on.

            The academy also offered military training, which was of particular interest to Justine. Although she never pictured herself a soldier, she saw an opportunity to actively demonstrate her gratitude to the Calaar for all they were doing for her...for Earth. The Calaar were involved in a conflict elsewhere in the galaxy. They never specified, but Justine was certain that any enemy of the Calaar could only be a threat to Earth. She was prepared to lay down her life to defend against any foe that threatened to return humanity back to the miserable state it was mired in before the Calaar's arrival.

            She let the idea percolate in her head. When she made her decision, her parents balked. They tried to dissuade her, but their efforts collided against the impenetrable bulwark of their daughter's stubborn determination. Justine was a woman now. For good or ill, she chose her own path.

I recently took a break from writing the 2nd book in my "Ruins of the Fall" trilogy to write something lighter.  It was a little short story with a giant robot which turned into a religious allegory.  What was I saying about God?  I have no idea, but I did find out that God metaphors make fantastic robots.  I let my wife read it, as I often do, and she said that it was REALLY good, which is great!  My problem is that this story didn't include any of the violence and sex I include in the rest of my stories.  Now before you shrug your shoulders at that, I need to tell you what kind of violence and sex I usually include.  In my book "Squirrels & Puppies", I included a story where a futuristic government uses cyber-ized rapists to force procreation on the populace in the wake of a drug being popularized that feels just as good as sex.  In that same book, there's a story about a group of squirrels that turn to terrorism to coax humans into giving them more crunchy snacks.  How can a group of squirrels commit an act of terror?  Why, by devouring a college student in front of his frat house, of course. 

Then again, I like to test the limits of my weirdness in my short stories, so I try to take the strangest and most interesting things I can think of and make a sensible story around them.  However, when I wrote "Tree of Might", the first book in my "Ruins of the Fall" trilogy, I wasn't trying to be weird at all.  The book is about a Black civil rights leader who decides to take the "Kill Whitey" approach to Black civil rights.  I understand that many Black people find this a more romantic approach, but I wanted to flesh together all the elements for such an event to occur in this country, the pitfalls of the plan, and the long term pros and cons of such an event. 

But...

I have to make sure no one believes that this book is an endorsement of the "Kill Whitey" approach.  The main character, the civil rights activist, is the villain, but when writing this book I found myself agreeing too much with the villain.  So I had to make him more evil.  Sooooo...I gave him a hobby.  The villain likes to see people get raped by animals.  Soooo... yeah, there's two scenes of that in the book.  

But is that so bad?  Is this what's holding me back?  I've found that people like my writing style. They like some of my short stories.  I like to write in the present tense (why write about the past?).  No one complains about that.  Still, my wife and a couple friends have said that my stories could stand a little toning down.  At which point, I look to the Bible for inspiration.  After the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot gets raped by his daughters because they want kids and their husbands are dead.  Children were really important back then.  Remember that story where David meets King Saul in a cave and spares him?  Many people, including some pastors, tell the story that King Saul was asleep in the cave.  The Bible doesn't say that.  It says that he was "covering his feet".  This is a euphemism for defecating, or taking a dump, dropping a log, etc.  Thus if the Bible has poop jokes and scenes of familial gang rape, why should I tone down my stories? 

Then again, I already self-censored myself when I tried to make "Ruins of the Fall" sound less militant.  So am I a hypocrite already?  What are your thoughts, BSFS?

A week ago on Genesis Radio, I talked about my new novel, "Ruins of the Fall: Tree of Might".  It's the first part of a trilogy telling the story of a militant civil rights leader, Ramsus Zephyr, as he sets his sights on Caucasian genocide, pushing Black America to develop weapons of mass destruction.  Of course, everything is not as it seems as the Blacks beneath him begin to see ulterior motives outside of Black freedom.  It has ninjas, superheroes, and some sci-fi tidbits I picked up from this very website.  There's a chapter from it in one of my old blogs.  You can give the book a review here but here's a chapter from the upcoming sequel.  Remember it's still a work in progress (estimated release November 2017).

The Disposable

The Grand Hotel in Tel Aviv, Israel is a marvelous building, one of the best the country has to offer.  Zisa and her team, the Southern Pines are standing in one of the luxury suites on the upper floors.  Long ceiling-high windows stand together on two walls flooding the room with the sunlight of the afternoon.  Stairs accented with gold leaflets lead to an upper level bedroom with a view of the entire suite and the sprawling metropolis outside.  A sunken den with a theater-size monitor add to the decadence with a whirlpool Jacuzzi providing the final touch.  Zisa Francoeur are here to guard this suite’s current resident:

Israel Stein.

The red-headed man approaches Zisa as she stands in the overhanging bedroom.

“I hope you can forgive the reassignment,” he says to Zisa.  “I have some guests coming here and your team comes highly recommended for providing the proper…entertainment.

Zisa looks down at the entertainment center, where her beta and gamma teammates are laying plastic sheets over the couches.  “Thank you, sir,” she replies.  “It’s always an honor to serve the Convention in any capacity.”  I’m sure Full Moon squad can protect Ramsus in our absence.

Israel nods.  “I agree.  My guests will be along shortly.  Be ready when I give the signal.”

Zisa watches from above as Israel’s guests walk in.  One by one, they arrive, pudgy men, softened by wealth.  Some are portlier than others.  Some are Arab.  Others are Jewish.  None of them are happy.  Mr. Stein is nowhere to be seen.  Her beta and gamma teammates are greeting the men and directing them to the entertainment area.  As the guests begin to number over a dozen, Zisa sends her gamma to fetch some extra chairs from one of the meeting rooms downstairs. 

Mr. Stein is still missing.  Zisa can understand why as she observes that several of the men have brought bodyguards of their own.  These Arab and Jewish men do not trust Israel Stein.  Neither should they, Zisa thinks, as she stands still in her Brahmin armor, invisible to the naked eye. 

Zisa urinates into the suit’s catheter.  The Brahmin armor will convert the urine into energy and store it in its reserve batteries.  The process produces water which Zisa srinks silently through a tube in her mouth.  Excess heat is dissipated through air holes on her back.  Metal hooks attached to thin metal strings hang from her belt, hidden from view by a long flap of dielectric cloth, the material that enables the suit to turn invisible.  Her beta and gamma teammates are dressed in purple and black dress uniforms.  Mr. Stein wants to use them as a distraction.  Only Zisa is dressed for “entertainment” purposes.  Zisa watches these men from beneath an invisible helmet masking her face. 

When three o’ clock arrives, the theater-size flatscreen cuts on by itself.  Israel Stein’s face fills the screen.  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” greets Mr. Stein.  “I apologize for not being able to be among you today.”

One of the Arab guests shouts at the screen, “You will pay for what happened in Gaza!”

Zisa remembers the slaughter of innocent Palestinians in Gaza.  She was there protecting Ramsus Zephyr, who was manipulated by Israel Stein into slaughtering the impoverished Arabs.  He did so to regain favor with the Israeli prime minister.  Zisa surmises these Arabs must be exiles from Palestine and the Jewish men are political dissidents from the country of Israel.

Mr. Stein responds to the Arab’s outburst with, “Please, please, gentlemen.  Our partnership was forged in the understanding that peace would be brought to Palestine.  This has been achieved.  The fact that you are all here proves it.  The long awaited two-state solution has been implemented and the Palestinians of the West Bank are free of Israeli rule.”

Another angry Arab yells, “The deaths of thousands of Arabs are on your head.”  A Jewish man yells, “The two-state solution is not a guarantee of peace!”

From the television screen, Mr. Stein offers, “Please, calm yourselves, gentlemen.  The two-state solution will grant Palestine peace as the nation of Israel will only expand into Gaza, not the West Bank.  Yes, thousands did die when Gaza’s populace was decimated, but after three thousand years of war, the deaths of 1,033,642 people is a bargain.”

“How do we know the prime minister will keep his word?” several men grumble aloud.

“Well,” Mr. Stein answers, “The prime minister has become aware of the racial tensions that have exploded in America, thanks to the Convention and your silent, but generous funding, and he and I have come to an agreement.”

A tense quiet grips the room.

“You talked to Bibi?” someone asks.

Israel Stein smiles casually.  “Yes, I talked to Bibi,” he answers, “and I assured him that the Convention will never cause any trouble in Israel as long as the country deals favorably with its darker-skinned neighbors, especially its neighbors in and from Ethiopia.”

The men look around at each other and at the two young men in purple outfits that welcomed them in.

Someone asks, “You assured him?”

“Yes, I did,” says the red-haired man on the screen, “I made the prime minister aware of the funding the Convention received, the funding you were giving them, in exchange for his non-interference in the West Bank.”

The men become nervous.  Zisa gets ready.  Mr. Stein goes on, “With your deaths, Bibi can assure the hardliners that Zion will not meet the same fate as America.”  The red-headed man gives a salute.  “Gentlemen, it has been an honor.”

The screen goes black.  Her two teammates reach under the sports jackets and begin hurling knives at the bodyguards’ throats.  Arterial sprays mortify the pudgy targets, freezing them with fear.  Zisa leaps from the upper level, flipping through the air.  Hooks fly from her hands and embed themselves deep into tender flesh.  Metal filaments attached to the hooks go taut in Zisa’s fingers as she flies through the air.  She yanks the strings.  Chunks of flesh populate the air as Zisa’s feet touch the ground.  Crimson gouts of blood gush and break forth from their venous prisons.  Zisa stands still for a second to listen to the pitter-pater of blood droplets falling onto the plastic her teammates laid out for these guests. 

Zisa scans the room for the remaining men.  Her hooks go out and she reels them back in.  Throats are ripped open.  Blood is set free.  The pitter-patter of the plastic applauds the arrival of fresh-fallen blood.  Zisa turns off the Brahmin armor.  She’s so drenched in blood, her form is clearly visible: a red mistress holding meat hooks in her hands.  She scans the carnage for survivors. 

She sees one. Zisa delicately steps over the bodies, making sure not to slip in the copious pools of human fluids.  The survivor is crawling towards the door.  Zisa reaches down and lifts his head up by cupping his chin from behind.  She makes sure the survivor can still see the door.  Zisa wants the man to have some hope of escape in his heart.  A life without hope is a cruel fate, Zisa knows.  In her mercy, Zisa will not allow the man to die a hopeless death.

She lets the survivor, who’s still in shock, look at the hotel room door for another second, letting dreams of miracles dance through his mind.  Zisa smiles to herself.  This is the moment.  These, she thinks, should be his last thoughts.  Zisa puts the point of a meat hook at the base of the man’s head, where his throat meets his jaw.  Zisa yanks back hard on the hook.  She hears the cartilage crunch as the hook breaks through his wind pipe.  Zisa feels the hook pierce the tight groove between the man’s cervical vertebrae.  She angles the hook as she pulls to get more penetration.  All of this happens in an instant.  Zisa feels the body go limp.  Then Zisa yanks the hook around the man’s neck, tearing at the flesh as she goes.  When she’s done, Zisa gives the neck a twist and…

Pop.

The head comes off.  Zisa takes a moment to admire the slack-jawed expression of miracles dared dreamt on the face of the severed head.  “Ah,” Zisa exhales with pride.  “A job well-done.”

The beta chides Zisa for not killing the survivor on top of the plastic.  Now they’ll have to get some heavy duty cleaner to wipe down the walls and floor. 

The monitor clicks on again.  Israel Stein appears and speaks, “Miss Francoeur, on behalf of our Great Master, Ramsus Zephyr, I would like to extend his gratitude towards you and your squad, the Southern Pines, for your years of service to the Convention.”

Zisa responds, “The honor is ours.  We live to serve the Master, Ramsus Zephyr.”

“Sadly,” Israel expounds, “with the death of the Convention’s financial backers, the Convention as you know it has come to an end, Miss Francoeur.”

Zisa and her teammates exchange quixotic looks.

“Your service is no longer required,” states Mr. Stein.

Gasping, as if the words hit her physically, Zisa utters, “Your attempt at levity is not appreciated.  We are loyal Simonites.  Ramsus knows this.  We have proven it.”

“The question is not of loyalty, Miss Francoeur,” says the man on the television, “but of politics.  As I said before, the Convention as you know it is over.  We are not in the real estate or organ trafficking industries any longer.  We are military contractors with the nation of Ethiopia, to aid  in their expansion.  Ethiopia, Miss Francoeur, is a Christian nation with a low tolerance for the Muslims within its borders.  They would never dream of bringing in Muslim military contractors from outside their borders.  Thus, in the interest of Ethiopian expansion and African Unity, your relationship with Ramsus Zephyr is now terminated.”

“Terminated?”

Her gamma teammate explodes suddenly into fragments of human meat.

“Yes,” Mr. Stein reiterates, “Terminated.”  The screen goes black.

Zisa looks into the face of her beta teammate, a warrior she grew up with and fought beside.  There’s a flash of light, and he’s gone.

Zisa stops thinking.  Her legs jump backwards to distance her body from a bomb Zisa hadn’t noticed was there.  The blast form it blows her back. Her ears are ringing, but she’s okay.  None of it seems real.  Taking lives is easy, but watching her comrades die is the hardest thing Zisa’s ever done.  Her hearing is clearing up.  Her mind is not.  They’re dead.  They’re both dead.  Why?  How?  And the most pressing question in her mind…

“Why didn’t I kill you first?” says a voice in the room.  “I bet that’s what you’re thinking right now.”

Zisa twitches her head from side to side, looking for the source of the voice.  She hears chittering laughter.

“Big, bad Zee,” the voice mocks.  “The Master’s favorite.  How’s it feel to fall from grace?”

“Who are you?”

A form materializes near the windows.  It’s wearing armor, Cloud Jumper armor, like Kamau and HeBoy used to wear.  This armor’s different though.  It’s smaller and the frame seems designed to compensate for a woman’s curves.

“Didn’t Mr. Stein tell you?” the armored woman asks.  “I’m the entertainment.”

Zisa takes note of the woman’s helmet.  The visor doesn’t go all the way across, as if designed for a wearer with a missing eye.

“Phaedra…” Zisa surmises.

The famed explosives expert and alpha of the East Wind takes a bow in her armor.  “Y’know, Zee, this Jumper armor is so much better than the Brahmin armor.  It has shields, fields, strength enhancers, flight capability…the works.  I’ve always been curious though.  How would it hold up in an explosion?”

Zisa hears a beeping noise.  Then she hears dozens of beeping noises.  It’s coming from the ceiling.  Zisa doesn’t bother looking up.  She knows what’s going on.  Phaedra rigged the roof to explode, so if the explosions don’t kill Zisa, the falling debris will.  It’s the kind of overkill “Crazy” Phaedra is famous for.

Zisa watches as Phaedra pulls out a detonator switch.  The Southern Pines are dead.  Ramsus has betrayed her.  Hatred begins to fill the very core of her being.  I can’t die today, she thinks, I have too many people to kill. 

Then her world becomes white fire roaring in her ears, punctuated with the hysterical laughter of Phaedra Willis.