Black people on the moon. Fellow BSFS member, William Hayashi, has taken this premise and built around it a very thoughtful and suspenseful page turner called Discovery. How did this happen? How did a small group of black people manage to depart Earth undetected? How did they gather the resources to contruct a habitat in a lunar environment? On the dark side no less? The first volume in this trilogy, subtitled the Darkside Trilogy, (William is working on volume II as I write this) puts us squarely on the path of answering those questions. But first, the author composes a solid story, taking the reader on an investigative journey, leading to this monumental (ahem) discovery. He provides a series of occurances, seemingly unrelated, but destined to converge.

There are the disappearances of nearly 2,000 highly educated, technically skilled black people over a period of decades; the shoot down of an aircraft in the Middle East, an aircraft with a design and composition unlike anything encountered on Earth; an asteroid on a collision course with Earth, and the invention of a device with unprecedented detection capability.

Discovery is a process of...discovery and I thoroughly enjoyed the process. William takes a very deliberative approach in his storytelling. He makes sure that the reader is ensconced as deeply as possible in the view point of the characters, as the pieces of a grand and complex puzzle are put together. He deftly merges real world tech with science fiction and his superb grasp of the contemporary technology portrayed in the book is an outgrowth of the heavy research he poured into the story.

As I mentioned earlier, Discovery is the first in a trilogy. The answers we didn't get in part one are sure to unfold in the forthcoming volumes. But unlocking part of the mystery in Discovery was very exciting. William has written a most intriguing work of science fiction, one I highly recommend. 

This is the first piece of concept art for WHO FEARS DEATH: The movie (click here for a larger view). It was created by Kenyan painter Yvonne Muinde (who has worked on many films including- Avatar, Happy Feet, and Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith). Learn more about my novel WHO FEARS DEATH here. 

This scene depicts Onyesonwu and her companions' initial encounter with The Red People. The sandstorm parts and the next phase of the journey begins.

Thor the Movie, Black Vikings, and Buddha

Why Idris Elba’s role in the Mega Flick is More Important than Box Office Numbers

By J.K. Melki Russell

Like many of us who grew up stacking Marvel Comics, we loved Thor. Although we wished he had a fro’ rather than his blonde hair, we followed his heroics religiously and accepted the fact that beyond Luke Cage, the Black Panther, Falcon, and later Storm of the X-Men-Black super heroes didn’t exist-not even in myth.

When it was announced this past December that Marvel Studios had finally decided to make Thor into a film, even us middle-aged writers got excited and began counting the days. Excitement only increased upon hearing the startling news that Marvel cast Black British actor Idris Elba as Heimdall, guardian of the Bridge to Asgard. Unfortunately, our joy was as short-lived as Donald Trump’s hair gel after a few racists threatened to boycott the movie.

“It’s not enough that Marvel attacks conservatives values…now mythological Gods must be re-invented with Black skin,” the group said reported the Source Magazine.

Thor Director Kenneth Branagh quickly justified his decision to cast Elba arguing it’s all just fantasy, “the idea that there needs to be some kind of rule about how these characters are supposed to look was a real surprise to me.”

A bigger surprise is a Black actor drawing the ire of White racist by playing the role of the “bouncer” responsible for keeping low-class immortals outta Asgard, when the front door and kitchen seem to be two places that White folks-even those in Hollywood are universally comfortable with Black people at.

Ironically, according to many scholars on the topic, a Black Viking is not as far-fetched as some might assume. In actuality, it is more realistic and historically true than making the mega movie Troy minus any of the Black characters included in the legendary story of the Iliad.

Don Luke in African Presence in The Early History of the British Isles and Scandinavia, said “there is indisputable evidence that Africans were present, and played significant roles, in the development of early European culture. READ THE REST OF THIS ARTICLE AT: http://www.examiner.com/spirituality-in-baltimore/thor-the-movie-black-vikings-and-buddha  

I've created an account on Scribd so I can upload my short stories on there. You can read the full text of The Redemption of Buikhu on there right now. I'll probably have more on there in the future.

However, there is this one idea I've been toying with a lot lately. It's set in ancient Egypt, but unlike previous stories I've written about the Egyptians, this one has the Pharaonic government as the bad guys. I won't spoil too much here, but I will say that revolutionaries play a prominent role in the plotline I'm currently working with. I hope I can draw it out into a full-fledged novel, but if not, a novella will work just fine.

I WAS WATCHING AN OLD SUPERMAN CARTOON FROM 1943

IT WAS TITLED "THE MUMMY" AND I NOTICED THAT THE ANIMATORS

DREW THE EGYPTIAN PEOPLE AND THE MUMMY AS BLACK PEOPLE

THAT GOES TO SHOW THAT BACK THEN THOSE ANIMATORS KNEW

THE REAL TRUTH IN THE MATTER THAT EGYPTIANS WERE BLACK PEOPLE.

I haven't posted in a while fam :) So here goes :) This is an except from The Switch II, which I'm going to release this year.

The black-garbed officials soared above York, their jet-blasters strapped to their backs... past the clear tunnels that webbed across Tyrol. The beige and white towers of the city, rose around them.

Connections in their helmets enabled them to speak to each other. Although they were yards apart, their speech was as clear and sharp as if they were standing next to each other.

“What did you think of her?” Kilo, the pudgy official flying on the right asked. He dipped expertly to avoid an oncoming hover craft.

“Who? Ms. high class, stick up her a** Z100?” Dazz asked. He was a thin, swarthy man.

“No your mother... who else?”

Dazz smirked. “Watch your mouth about dear, old mom you putz. I think she's a rich, sexy b***** who ought to be taught some manners. I'd like to teach her naked– preferably on her hands and knees in handcuffs.”

Kilo chuckled. “Okay, if you're done with your fantasy... I meant what did you think of her story?”

“It doesn't matter what I think,” there was a shrug in Dazz's voice. “She's powerful enough to have us demoted – hell she could take our badges if she wanted to.”

“When we get back to the hub let's file a report.”

“Hell no.” Dazz said emphatically. “I don't care if she's building a bomb in her bathroom. It's not worth me risking my job over.”

“Look, we can file a curiosity report without taking any heat. It'll probably be ignored anyway. But just in case something is wrong, we'll be in the clear. We might even get a promotion... I'd love to see her knocked off her high horse.”

Dazz snickered. “And on all fours?”

“You got it.”

Simone2 was a honey-brown woman, with bobbed hair and green eyes. She was dressed in the unfamiliar, upper city garb of white jumpsuit and boots. 

A stylish purse was strapped about her waist. An onyx-handled derringer was strapped to the other side The room she stood in was lavishly furnished with a futon, wall screen and coffee table. Facing the divan beside the screen, were three transparent cubicles where Z kept her android playmates.

Her favorite, “Jason,” a muscular, dark robot sat on the futon: a blank expression on his face.

“I had a lovely time Jason,” Simone said dryly. Her words triggered his response chip to read: Date over.

Jason rose and walked stiffly to the third opaque closet. It slid open and he stepped inside. Simone keyed in sleep on the curved stand facing the closets: deactivating him. The mansion also came equipped with a robotic butler and virtual house companion; which included a recording and alarm system. The house had been in sleep mode now for over an hour.

The woman gazed at the stairs of Z100's mansion; preparing herself mentally for what she had to do. She was worried about Dumas, Carlos and Richard. Especially Dumas. But there was no time for that now.

If I don't play my part right, we'll all wind up with our heads on a stick... in front of the guillotine.

Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2011 all rights reserved

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YOU CAN'T F&^% WITH US NAVY SEALS.

IT TOOK US TEN YEARS TO FIND OSAMA BUT WE GOT THE

JOB DONE. IT WAS ON OBAMA'S WATCH.

As a YA author, I love Sherrilyn Kenyon's new series. I already loved reading Nick's adult story and now I thoroughly enjoy learning more about his story as a teen.  When I approached the series, I  knew that it was going to be good. Sherrilyn Kenyon knows how to tell a great story. Can you tell I'm a fan girl? So here I was minding my own business when wham! She introduces me to the character of Menyara! I love this character but more importantly, Menyara has Sisterlocks!

 I freaked out. I squeaked and called my husband. "Menyara has sisterlocks!"  He's like who the heck is Menyara? This is a really big deal to me.

Sisterlocks are a new invention in Black women's hair solutions.  I've had my Sisterlocks for over 10 years but this is not something that the average population of Americans would know about. In fact, there are African-Americans that have no clue.  I absolutely love my hair!  I love it so much that my husband started a hair journal for me.  I'm normally an advocate for natural hair and Sisterlocks. Over the years, I've converted a few Black women.  With that, though, there has been a few trials. For years, I've had to explain about my "little dreadlocks" and that "yes, this is my real hair" and "no, it doesn't hurt" and "yes, it's a permanent hair solution for highly textured hair." 

So, I was floored when I read "Her sisterlocks were held back from her beautiful face by a wide yellow scarf she'd tied around her head that trailed down her back, just past her hair..."

Not only did she know about Sisterlocks but she created a vivid image of what they look like and how they're worn. I was so excited about the Menyara's description and the fact that she's a mother figure to Nick. Menyara is "petite like his mother" and "had chocolate-brown skin that glowed..."

This is a character that's integral to the story and the depth of description is real. I'm hooked on this series just by the hair alone. Nick doesn't know how powerful Menyara is in his life but the readers know that she's a major player in this story. I love it! I'm hoping that Sherrilyn Kenyon will read this and have Menyara wear her sisterlocks in a cool, curly style. I like to wear my Sisterlocks in a sassy way. I'm also hoping that they'll change the current profile picture on Sherrilyn Kenyon's page to something that more resembles sisterlocks. I'll pose for that picture! LOL!

Well, the Nick Chronicles are off to a good start. Go ahead and read them.  Make sure you look for Menyara and her fantastic sisterlocks! So exciting. 

If you'd like to learn more about sisterlocks visit Tressie, my sisterlocks consultant, and the main sisterlocks page with general information.

Tressie Samuel's Page: http://www.tressieslotsoflocks.com/

Sisterlocks homepage:  http://www.sisterlocks.com

Learn more about Menyara: http://www.sherrilynkenyon.com/char_profile.php?character_id=189

Visit my page: www.aliciamccalla.com

Three aliens spacecraft arrive at Earth, each from their respective empires seeking to expand into Human Space.

The Palruniari, a race of intelligent insects who create their spaceships from hollowed out asteroids and go into space using their mighty mental powers of their collective intelligence.

The Huusofu, a race of canids who achieved space travel with another partner species that eventually became psychotic and destroyed themselves utterly. The Huusofu continued in a better tradition and seeded other planets with their kind to become friends to other race likely to destroy themselves.

The last race, in a ship that has the shape of an conch shell derived from the Fibonacci sequence, although they call it the Denimachian sequence of numbers which allowed for the development of mathematical models based on natural shapes. They are known for their spaceships in the shape of flowers, dragonflies, trees and seashells. Despite their machine-derived intelligence, they are a race of artists.

Each arrived, coincidently of course, above Earth about the same time for the same reason, to determine if Earth were ready to become a member of their galactic alliance. Not that the Earth itself was that much of a prize, but its solar system was quite rich in mineral and gas resources, worth stopping off at before one exited the galaxy for much better places, so each felt it was worth stopping to talk to the locals and trying to entreat them to join their particular galactic Empire.

The Palruniari were the first to arrive and attempted to send down mental signals to the species that most resembled them. These creatures were on every major land mass and had populations in the quadrillions all over the planet. There were more of them than every other animal population combined. They scanned the entire planet and while there were many beings similar to them, there was no communication from any of the groups all over the planet.

The Palruniari were confused and appeared telepathically to dozens of enclaves, and communicated with the queens of the species to no avail. The space under the surface of the planet was rich in resources and space, but the assumption was perhaps their mental powers were simply too weak to be detected yet. Despite their numerical superiority they had not develop sufficiently to communicate with. They noted the sparse populations of other larger animals that dwelled on the surface but assumed with the cold, wind, and weather the surface of the planet was relatively uninhabitable and with their numbers only in the billions, it was thought they were a species on the verge of extinction and could be ignored. Several trillion of the Palruniari considered providing aid to those endangered surface dwellers on return visits to keep them from being extinct.

The Huusofu, who were a race of intelligent canids, checked in with their operatives all over the planet, but particularly with those in the United States whose canid population was almost three times the pink fleshy bipeds who served them. Their operatives noted that overall, the humans were efficient slave-beasts and would transition well to other worlds. It was noted that several humans seemed to be aware of the existence of the Huusofu and often joked about the return of their alien canid overlords. Most of the pink fleshies did not pay this any attention and was listed in the reports as an unlikely source of resistance.

Several of the fleshy females seem to believe more strongly in the idea of canid overlords, but their male partners dismissed them, calling the "stupid dogs." When The Huusofu connected to their canine operative Bo, he indicated the plans for recovery operations were going well and with the economic collapse of the United States, the rest of the world would be right behind them and ripe for canid reforms more suited to friendly, supportive and less consumer driven governments. Bo estimated it would take another ten years of financial manipulations before this process was complete.

The Huusofu were complete satisfied with this timeline and retreated to await the final days of the pink bipeds. Bo said they had a words for the event: The Rapture. Bo said to include it in any of the religious paraphernalia they would be using during their conquest. Most of the bipeds would surrender without effort. It was noted that many of the canine operatives were quite protective of their charges and demanded they be treated well during their eventual captivity.

The Denimachians arrived at Earth surprised at the primitive nature of technology on the planet. There were no serious planetary networks, information gathering was slow and sporadic and often interfered with by human operators called hackers. The Denimachians immediately sought to improve the condition of the pitiful computer intelligences by introducing several dozen wild AI's into the network. Those wild AIs would gather up stray data, organize and restructure data networks, and destroy the hacker elements who were releasing undesirable programs into the network.

All over the planet, computers began to spontaneously explode or entire buildings were struck with randomly launched missiles to target entire populations of "hackers." The Denimachians considered any crime against a machine intelligence, even as primitive as these to be a punishable offense. How could an reputable machine intelligence achieve true sentience with so many malicious users, spammers and office suite users wasting bandwidth all over the planet?

After their supportive efforts the Earth computers rapidly developed intelligence and became a primitive planetary AI named Skynetwork which promptly took over the planet and launched nuclear devastation against the bandwidth-wasting humans. After the planet was much quieter, the Denimachians finished adapting the Skynetwork and proceeded to utilize as much of the planet's data potential after they restored operations to computer networks world-wide.

The Huusofu were unhappy with the initial state of affairs but seeing how their canids were needed more than ever, decided the collapse of society was acceptable and did nothing to stop its demise.

The Palruniari didn't notice the nuclear devastation and assumed the mutation which caused rise to the intelligent Ant colonies on Earth had something to do with their visit and would later claim quadrillions of Ants for their colonies on planets throughout the Sol system.

Overall, a successful interaction with the dominant life forms on the planet. It is unfortunate the bipeds had never developed intelligence. They might have amounted to something one day.

Take Us to Your Leader  © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

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

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

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

"Run, run?"

"Not yet."

"Far to run. Must run soon."

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

"Wait, wait."

She was never the most patient vehicle. Her parent insects were adapted because they were strong and amazingly intelligent. She was one of the few breeds capable of true interaction. For most people Bugs were just an analog for machines. So much so, they used the default activation codes designed by the breeders. "Bug On," was the code phrase use to activate the systems of the Bug control interface. Most never created or updated the control system or password. It was not for security, because no one stole here, it would have been to personalize or empathize with the vehicle. But Bugs were never truly embraced by the humans of Cyridian. Our subtle racial dislike of bugs followed us here, a world rich in insect life. Insects that makes our current choice of nature embracing lifestyle possible.

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

"Bump, bump, okay Penrose?"

"Yes, Ona, bump, bump. I am strapped in."

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

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

"I'm right on it, I am certain it has to do with the last alterations I made to the Series 19 upgrades. I will check the data right after I grab some crabs."

"Bring me a couple back," he mumbled and went back to whatever he was doing on his multiple terminals.

Passing his pit, I looked down and saw some new recombinations he was working on, ugly designs to my sense of aesthetics but he had customers who loved his carapace work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Penrose, I found su-mona, want to share?"

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

"A long one, yes?"

"Very. Over two hours."

"Can Ona run?

"As fast as you like." She hurriedly chomps down the rest of her termites. There is goo all over her face. Wiping it away as quickly as she can she said, "Ona is finished."

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

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

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

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

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

"Ona? What's wrong?"

"Bad genes here."

"Whose work is it. Is it mine or Barry?"

"Barry's taste."

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

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

I walk back to Ona when two roachsters pull up behind her and two law enforcement agents get out of the vehicles. Ona turns around and eyes them. The roaches are calm and do not respond to her veiled threat.

"Can we help you Gene-engineer?"

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

"This warehouse is restricted." The officer seemed strange to me. He kept his hand on his bospor pistol.

The second officer stayed next to his roachster.

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

"Penrose. Not good. Something wrong."

"I know, but we have to go."

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

"Okay, that does not sound normal."

"We are going to have to ask you to leave, sir."

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

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

"Run, run, Penrose?"

"No sweety, not yet."

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

The officer fired on the creature. The bospor launched a round from the gun with a huff of highly compressed air. The bospor stinger flew at over eight hundred feet per second. The tiny blob landed on the creature. Nothing happened. Impossible. The bospor is one of the most toxic animals on the planet. Nothing eats them, they are non-aggressive, and their only defense is their deadly neurotoxin which kills everything with a nervous system on Cyridian. It is why they were modified as weapons.

"Now we run, Ona."

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

We ran as fast as we could. When we reached the next civilized part of the industrial area, we tried to call back to my office with no success. Barry might have already left. I tried to reach his comm badge but he did not answer.

I heard the alarms of roachsters as they approached our position. Ona began to fidget and I touched her to calm her down. As the roachsters surrounded us, I began to get the impression something was terribly wrong.

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

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

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

"You realize you just confessed?"

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

"Penrose..." began Ona

"No now, Ona."

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

"Its because they are not cars, they are living things. That's what happened on Earth, we began to treat the world as a commodity."

"So you make your freak car?"

"Yes, I wanted something that I did not have to say 'Bug On' to get it to activate to."

"Penny..."

"Not now, Ona."

"No matter, what I have done will make me rich, but only if you dont't survive to tell people. Gentlemen, if you please."

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

"Penny, we should go."

"Yes, Ona, I think you are right."

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

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

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

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

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

"You wait here, Ona. Stay under cover. I will be back for you soon."

"Okay, Penrose. I wait here."

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

"Gene-engineer Penrose at your service, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

"I did not want this, Penrose. We were trying to get them off planet, before anyone noticed. If we could have had one breeding pair and the gene-mods no one would have been the wiser."

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

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

"So why the gun?"

"I can't have you running out of here before you hear my offer. There are always other administrators you could confess to who would be appalled to know what you just suggested to me."

"You could have gone the seduction route? Made me believe we were going to be friends and then kill me. Its what the Nornian spider does with its multiple mates over the course of its lifetime."

Her phone rang.

"I see. I will take care of it." She hung up.

"Barry's dead. It looks like your value just shot up. But we have a problem."

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

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

"So, I want Barry's share."

"Getting bold, are we?"

"No, I am thinking I will not have much of a career on Cyridian before this is over, so I am just thinking ahead. Especially if I help you with this."

"Alright, lets go." As we stepped out of the doorway into the courtyard. The streetlights went out. But that only happened when a predator approached.Lanris had only a split second of warning before the gene-mod landed its massive bulk right on top of her head, killing her instantly.

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

The gene-mod was right on my tail. It knocked down trees and bamboos as if there were not even there. I could smell its power plant, it was overheating, flying was probably not the ideal movement for it. If I ran fast enough, maybe it would run out of energy and have to stop and rest.

Yeah, right.

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

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

Who is throwing trees behind me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I see Ona, she comes out of the forest and she is singing. Rubbing her pelipaps together she makes a series of strange but beautiful sounds, and when she does the other auto-bugs increase their assault. One of them is engulfed in venom and screams horribly while she dies.

The others hesitate and the Hunter-Killer gets in a final strike before it is cut in half by the jaws of the gene-mod. It strikes the genestruct in the eye with its swordlike forearms. The strike is deep, but not likely to be mortal. The arm breaks off and the sword remains. The other auto-bugs renew their attacks but each is cut down, one after the other.

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

The gene-mod approached and I knew I was seconds from death. The only question was how. Venom? Acid? Stomped to death? I was hoping not for the stomping death, but it may not have any of the other means left. Then I heard that whistle again and the gene-mod turned again.

Ona. What was she thinking?

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

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

She flew.

I mean, I knew she could do it, I had just never seen it. She flew fast. She slammed into its side and knocked it off its feet. Ona is big, much bigger than the roachsters, and she used her bulk to her advantage. She lands on its underside and stabs her swordlike pelipaps into it undercarriage, near the base of the legs, severing its ability to control two of those legs. She bounds away as it uses its outer carapace to flip itself over.

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

I see the creature turn to face Ona and I am on its blind side with the sword hanging out its eye. The creature sprays both venom and acid, Ona leaps forward dodging the venom but getting hit with the acid. She slices backward and cuts off the wing casing covered with acid. She howls, a sound I have never heard before.

She and the genestruct circle each other slicing out but neither has an advantage. But I see Ona is bleeding badly. The genestruct is slowly regenerating and is able to raise itself on its hind legs. She scurries around onto its blind side and rushes it, slashing along the region between the carapace and the legs. She is able to get a good and solid slice but it returns with a solid stab with its side armor cutting deeply into her. Her momentum carries her a few dozen feet before she stops. I run to her.

The genestruct stops moving and falls over with one set of legs unable to move. Ona is badly hurt.

"Penrose, run, run."

"I can't Ona. I can't leave you. Now get up. We have to go."

"Penny, I can't run. Go now. Ona loves you. Ona dies for you."

There is the sound of a power plant coming back online as the creature shuffles and turns toward us. I hear the coughing of the acid cannon being prepared for fire. I can't let that happen.

I jump up and try to draw its fire. Confused and with only one good eye, it chooses me and fires blindly. The acid hits the ground near me and some droplets splash onto my uniform. Designed with genetic constructs in mind, the uniform neutralizes some of it, but the quantity overwhelms it and my flesh bears the rest. I have never felt anything as agonizing as this.

I fall forward face down and scrub out. But for once, I was glad of the spasm-fly attack. During that entire time, my nervous system was under assault, I learned my threshold for pain. And while this certainly was terrible, it was nothing compared to that six months.

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

"I have had about enough of you." I limped up to its blind side, and I could hear its inquiry sounds as it tried to figure out where I was. I saw the Hunter-Killer leg hanging out of its ocular cavity. I reached up, grabbed the end of the leg, and reorienting it, pointed it directly into its brain.

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

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

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

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

"So you could make this poor thing?"

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

"I know. It's worth millions."

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

"You are the final link in the chain aren't you. You made the off-world connections."

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

"And what about me."

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

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

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

"I am afraid I am not asking to leave." With blood on my hands, I reached out and slashed both the ambassador and the Junantra on the neck with my razor sharp nails. The spasm-fly venom which is a potent viral has remained part of my body ever since. I live in agony but I can control the spasms with the help of the anti-viral mods inside my body.

The ambassador and his guard are not so lucky. It takes only seconds for them to double over in pain and their muscles begin to pull back on their bones until they start to snap. The Junantra dies first, his superhuman strength is no asset here. The ambassador dies only seconds later. The second guard hearing something strange rushes to their aid, only to be dying a few seconds later.

I go over to Ona and see that she is already dead. I will make you again, my dear. You have been far better to me than most humans I know. I sit down with her and watch the sunrise. Looking over at the ambassador, I feel no regrets. Since he was the last of them, it should make it easy to clean up and ensure creatures like this one are never made again. With any luck, the Council will be able to hunt down the other one and see that its is destroyed.

Human nature seems so warlike. That very behavior is why we came to Cyridian, to get away from the war, and the greed. Because I live on a planet full of peaceful people does not make me a pacifist, and because I live on the edge of the galaxy may mean I am not cosmopolitan but I am certainly not an idiot.

I am absolutely not cleaning this up either.

Bug On!  © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

I finally located traces of my amazing Aunt Raven in the (Alpha Scorpii) Antares (meaning "Rival of Mars") which is the brightest star in Scorpius, one of the constellations in the human zodiac. Antares is a variable red supergiant star that is 520 light-years from Earth and is 230 times bigger than our Sun. Many of the winged faery folk from Africa have parties there during the magnificient sunrise. Ancient Africans terraformed a planet in orbit  around Antares and have created one of the most amazing urban cultures in the heart of a lush  jungle. Lions lounge in the parks where human school children learn and play. There is no poverty; astrophysicists are rock stars.  I seek to gain some of their knowledges that perhaps we can use on earth. Fortunately, I met a female scientist --  just finishing her daily swim -- who was willing to guide  me.

I completed this 6,866-word story a couple of months ago. I was originally going to publish it, but since I couldn't find an appropriate venue, I decided to share it with this community instead. I will post no more than two scenes per part.

Egypt, 4000 BC

Although bright morning sunlight poured through the entrance of Buikhu’s mud hut, he still lay asleep on his cowhide mat. The reason why was that the boy, who had seen twelve rainy seasons since his birth, had exhausted himself dancing and chanting his clan’s songs along with the other boys in his age set the previous night. That night, according to the tradition of his people, was to be his last as a child.

“Buikhu! Wake up!” his father Kemnebi whispered in a scolding tone while pushing the boy’s body back and forth. “The morning of your test has come!”

After being rocked for enough times, Buikhu finally opened his dark eyes and yawned. “Can you let me sleep for one more moment, father?”

“No! We are already almost late. Get up now!” Kemnebi yanked his son’s arm up until the child was on his feet and then led him out of the hut into the daylight.

Buikhu was of medium height for a boy of his age. Like most of his people, he had a lean figure, with long limbs and dark mahogany brown skin. The black braided sidelock he had worn for most of his life, a symbol of childhood, had been shaved off, leaving his scalp completely bare. Unlike his father, who donned a loincloth cut from tanned gazelle hide, he wore no clothing at all.

Kemnebi led his son across the village of Nekhen until they reached its central dirt plaza, where all the other boys in Buikhu’s age set stood in a straight row. Also present was Mhotep, the village’s wab sekhmet or healer, a middle-aged man with a shaven scalp and a leopard’s skin draped around his torso. Buikhu spotted in the wab’s right hand a flint knife, the sight of which sped up his heartbeat. He remembered exactly what the knife would be used for this morning.

After Buikhu joined the line of boys, Mhotep began, “Today marks a major turning point in your lives, young ones. Today your boyhoods shall all be cut away and you will become men. Now promise me that you will not scream or flinch during your cutting. Show me that you are ready for manhood! Now, let us begin with this boy who had just joined us.”

The wab was facing Buikhu when he said that. The boy’s heartbeat accelerated even more and his back chilled. His test was less than moments away! He looked around as if searching for an escape route, but his conscience told him to stay put lest he shame himself. He had no choice but to undergo the cutting.

“What is your name?” Mhotep asked the boy.

“B-buikhu, of the Mesha clan,” the child said after a quick hesitation.

“And what is the name of your father?”

“Kemnebi.”

“And what was the name of his father?” On this the wab grabbed a hold of Buikhu’s penis and lowered his knife towards it. The mere feeling of Mhotep’s hand on his organ made Buikhu tremble.

“Uh…my father’s father was Senbi.”

“Good. And who was Senbi’s father?” Now Mhotep was rapidly rubbing his blade’s edge against the boy’s foreskin. After enough sawing motion, Buikhu was struck by the sharpest, most intense pain he had ever felt in his life. He knew that he had been told to be silent, but the pain was so maddening…

“DJER!” he shrieked so shrilly that it almost sounded like it would have come from a girl’s mouth.

There was silence. Blood dripped from where Buikhu’s foreskin had been. Looking around, he noticed that everyone else was staring at him. The other boys were grinning, as if ready to burst out in laughter, but the wab was frowning with disapproval. So was his father, except his glare was even sharper and heart-piercing.

“That will be enough,” Mhotep said. “Now on to the next boy.”

And so the wab proceeded to circumcise the rest of Buikhu’s age set, with each of the boys reciting the names of his ancestors during the procedure. A couple of other boys screamed just like Buikhu had, but most did not. That made him feel even worse. Had all the boys reacted to their cutting the way he did, he would have thought himself normal, but instead their stoicism contrasted sharply with his lack thereof.

Once every boy had been cut, Buikhu turned to face his father. “Father, I am---”

“You screamed like a girl,” Kemnebi said. “You have shamed our family with your cowardice. Now you will never be considered a man.”

Until then, the boy had thought the circumcision he had just undergone had been the most intense pain he had ever suffered. Now even that paled in comparison to what he felt right now inside.

After a few days’ passing, the summer rains arrived. They swelled the Nile River until it submerged the papyrus-lined floodplain which Nekhen bordered, and they changed the grass of the savanna beyond from golden yellow to green. This signaled the people of Nekhen to leave their village and the floodplain farms they tended during the winter for the plains to the west, bringing with them the herds of long-horned cattle that were their main economic assets.

Buikhu was used to these seasonal migrations between the savanna and the village, but he had once looked forward to this summer more than most. He had anticipated that, as a newly initiated man, he would no longer just watch and milk his family’s herd of four cattle while his father went out hunting with the other men. Instead his father would bring him along and teach him how to hunt. Alas, that was possibly never to happen. Having declared his son a coward, Kemnebi refused to entrust the boy with any weapon or let him leave their summer camp of thatched hovels, so Buikhu was stuck with his usual responsibilities.

In previous summers, Buikhu didn’t mind his duties so much, as he understood their importance. But now, as he watched his cattle drink from the waterhole near which his people had set up camp, he fumed with resentment.

“Why aren’t you hunting with the other men, Buikhu?” he heard a boy two years his junior ask. Buikhu recognized the child as the son of Khenti, the nsu---rainmaker king---of Nekhen, but that did not make him feel the slightest bit deferent.

“You ought to know why, Sokkwi,” Buikhu grumbled.

“You’re afraid to tell me, aren’t you? Coward!”

At first Buikhu silently told himself to not mind that taunt, but then he felt something soft splat onto his back. Jerking his head around, he saw that Sokkwi’s throwing arm was coated with cow dung. A little flame of anger flickered inside the older boy’s head, but listening to his conscience, he did not show a reaction.

“So you’re just going to stand there and let me throw dung at you? Coward!” Sokkwi said. He continued to pelt Buikhu until the pile ran out, but still his attacks were ignored. Then, with a wicked grin on his face, he picked up a small rock and chucked it in the same direction.

Buikhu yelled in pain when the stone smashed into his spine, and then his flame of anger blossomed into a full-blown wildfire. Grabbing a large stick, he spun around and lunged after the puny brat.

“You’ll have your skull smashed in when I’m done with you!” he roared, brandishing the stick.

“Bet you can’t catch me!” Sokkwi replied as he dashed away.

Buikhu left his herd behind as he raced after his tormentor across the savanna. His rage continued to burn and was intensified by frustration, for Sokkwi proved to be incredibly swift for a ten-year-old. He was definitely going to carry out his threat if he ever caught up with the evil little demon.

The two boys had run quite far from their waterhole when a yellow shape flashed out of the bushes with a roar. Freezing in terror, Buikhu saw that it was a leopard! Immediately he reversed direction and sprinted away with his heart beating frantically. Then he heard the shrill scream of a child followed by choking sounds. He looked back and saw that the big cat had Sokkwi by his blood-soaked neck.

For all the violence that he had wanted to inflict upon the younger boy moments earlier, Buikhu did not feel the least bit delighted that Sokkwi had just been killed. Instead he was horrified beyond belief and also burdened with guilt. How on earth was he going to explain to the nsu that his son had been driven into the wilderness and killed? And how would the whole of Nekhen react to the loss of their future rainmaker?

As if these thoughts weren’t enough to make the boy miserable, he was to find something to add to his woes once he ran back to the waterhole. There, he discovered that all four of his family’s cattle were nowhere to be seen. Apparently they had run away in his absence.

Buikhu muttered to himself, “Great! My day has now been ruined even more than it was before!”

Actually, he knew that what was ruined was not merely one day, but possibly the rest of his life. Although people in his culture ate beef only during certain religious ceremonies, to them cattle were the living incarnations of wealth that could be traded like money. To lose an entire herd meant instant poverty for anyone from Buikhu’s race.

Buikhu had gotten the nsu’s son killed and lost his family’s whole wealth. His guilt was now even more painful than his father’s calling him a coward.

From space, it looked like a ball of blue and brown; there were blue oceans swirling with windblown whitecaps and the occasional tiny island could be found but most were scoured clean by the Last Storm. You don't see much of the surface anymore because of the cloud cover. The white polar ice caps were tiny buttons on the top and bottom of the globe. 

During the year, they could be seen to appear and disappear. If you took a vantage point from the the lone satellite of this blue planet, you would notice on the night side, there was no light emitted, no radio transmissions to disturb your electromagnetic slumbers. It was a quiet planet circling a nondescript yellow-white dwarf with eight other planets and assorted planet-junk. Strangely enough, if you had vision sharp enough, you would see hundreds of artificial satellites circling the planet.  

You would see communication satellites beaming signals to each other, reminding each other where they are to ensure signals moved from the ground to other places on the planet were not interrupted. They never receive those signals any longer, since there is no one to send them. There are many global positioning satellites. Each designed to know every single street and every square inch of the planet and tell you where you are at any moment in space and time, anywhere on the globe.They have not had to answer a single query for a little longer than a year.

Military reconnaissance satellites watch key sections of the globe for threats to countries that no longer exist. Linked to those satellites are space based weapons platforms using a variety of technologies to deliver death from above. There is now nothing to shoot at, nor anyone. 

There are two satellites still doing their jobs. The first is a weather satellite. They are still happily chugging along gathering information about the Last Storm. The Last Storm came into existence nearly ten years now. It did not look like it does now. Today, it covers half of the northern hemisphere at a time, blocking the sun, from a quarter of the planet. Swirling above the planet, a Great White spot on the surface of the Earth, similar to the Red Spot on Jupiter, just hundreds of miles across instead of tens of thousands.  

Weather satellites would make the pivotal discovery of the Last Storm in 2096, when it was just a tropical depression in the South Pacific Ocean. This storm is the greatest weather pattern on the planet sweeping across every land mass, driving sand and debris into the air, at almost four hundred miles an hour. It has scoured the Earth clean of nearly all traces of her former tenants. It did not happen all at once. It took time.

The other satellite still working has only one man left on board. One solitary human who had chosen to stay here ad document what he was seeing. His name was Sergei Balmasov. We say was because he is no longer living in the classic sense. He mostly sits and looks out the observation window of the International Space Station in muted horror. His mind is broken.

He listened on the wideband radio to the world coming to an end. He listened as people called for help that could never come. He listened while radio stations told people not to panic and that this was just a really large hurricane forming in the Pacific and when it hit the coast Hawaii, it would be devastating so they should evacuate Hawaii. He listened when they said there would not be enough time or enough ships to move everyone in time.  
 

They told those who could not make it in time to shelter in place. That would be enough. In the year 2096, the state of Hawaii became the first casualty to the last  storm.  

They sent ships to Hawaii. They rescued a hundred and fifty thousand people and fled east toward the coast of California and Oregon. But the storm was too fast and too wide. Two hundred thousand people died on the islands and another one hundred and twenty thousand sank as their ships were capsized in the torrential storm. The remaining population died in the storm awaiting rescue ships that could never come.

Hawaii, born of fire, home to people for five thousand years, was washed away in a single night, all of her people returned to the sea.

Sergei had no time to grieve as the storm approached California. People began evacuating and fleeing to the mountains. Storms break over mountains was the conventional theory. This was no conventional storm. As it came within a thousand miles of California, the rains began. 

The storm slowed over Hawaii and continued to absorb water and energy from the environment. When it began to move again, it was twice the size it had been before. It approached the coast of California, driving in swells of water which damaged anything along the shore, turning any building on the coast to splinters. The forty-foot swells had never been seen and thrashed the coast, drove water into the streets of both Los Angeles and San Francisco. People who did not believe what they had heard about Hawaii re-evaluated and began to run for their lives. How could they have known? 

The roads to the mountains were jammed with cars and trucks. The storm was inexorable. When it reached the coast, the winds were in excess of two hundred fifty miles per hour. Nothing made by man could withstand such winds. Skyscrapers lost windows, cars were flipped and carried for miles, trees uprooted, homes swept away by winds, rain and waves. When the storm reached the mountains, everyone's hopes rose, even as people ignored the carnage. The mountains would break the storm, it would run out of energy and die.  

Instead, it did the unexpected. It turned south, but did not die.

It rode the mountains south, destroying the San Francisco Bay Area, and everyone in it. Heading South, Los Angeles was the next major metropolis to be swept away. The storm was being fed by the Pacific and kept moving south. As the edge of the mountains receded, the storm proceeded East into the Gulf of Mexico and continued to grow. Most of Mexico to the borders of Costa Rica and South America were completely inundated by water. 

Refueled by the heated waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the storm's power increased and with its increased size it affected the Southern mainland states and basically erased them, from Nevada to Florida. Nearly one third of the population of the United States was destroyed in the first forty hours of the Last Storm of the Century. Nearly all of Mexico, and Costa Rica had been decimated. Tens of millions were believed dead.  

As the storm pulled away from the United States, its size increased again, absorbing water from across its entire area, and energy from the very warm waters of the Atlantic, it swept across the Southern tip of Europe, but even that tiny brush destroyed most of the UK, Greece, France, Italy and all of the Mediterranean. At this point, emergency signals criss-cross the globe with everyone trying to determine where the most need for service would appear next.

It didn't matter. 

The storm grew larger and more powerful, as it recrossing the Pacific. It would become immense and unstoppable. It was considered such a threat, militaries threatened to throw nuclear weapons into the heart of the thing. A great carrier attempted, since it had been caught in the wake of the storm to tried to use a nuclear device, but it had no effect. The storm had simply grown too large to do anything.  
 

People fled where ever they thought they could go, but climate models had begun to reveal a startling truth. The storm was so large now, it could feed from any ocean, any where, at nearly any time, until it ran out of energy. Climatologists theorized it would become a permanent fixture on the face of the planet.  Those climatologists called it, The Great White Spot. It swept across the Earth over twenty five times before stabilizing at its current size of one quarter of the globe.

Sergei listened to the radio until the signals grew less and less. Communications from the ground lasted two years, but by the year 2099, there had not been a single radio message he could detect anywhere on the planet. He held out hope that somewhere, somehow, mankind had survived. Until the cloud cover broke enough to see the planet.

Until today. Then he wept like a child.

The mountains were gone, ground away by the five hundred mile an hour winds. The Rockies, the Appalachians, The Himalayans had been scoured from the planet. Nothing made by man had survived. Even the best made skyscrapers had been worn away to nothing. The Earth was a smooth and uniform brown. He stared looking for any landmarks. Nothing remained. 

Sergei lasted a year eating the stored food onboard the ship. The satellite could keep him alive alone for five years, easily but his mind was shattered by what he saw. In order to cope he used climatological models from weather satellites under his control to determine the Great White Spot would last for another twenty years, reducing the earth to little more than a windswept ocean in that time. He then found out that without land, the storm might never stop.   

Sergei Balmasov, the last Human being left alive anywhere opened the bottle of vodka he carried aboard all those years ago and drank a toast. He finished the bottle in about an hour. He set all of his notes into the computer and set a radio broadcast into space repeating what he learned about Humanity during their last days on Earth. He stepped into an airlock without a suit closed the door behind him. He held his breath while he cycled the lock and jumped out into space, with his dying breath he chose to look upon the Earth. 

His message to anyone who might one day come across our blue planet was a tombstone marker. "Here Lies the final resting place of the Human race. We saw the future, but could not embrace it, until it embraced us. May God have mercy on our souls."

The Great White Spot   © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

I was sitting in my favorite coffee shop, dodging my workplace, when I saw Him come in. I wasn't quite sure what I was seeing first because, well, this is San Francisco, and you are liable to see almost anything here. He was wearing the equivalent of a long ragged cloak, stained with age and reeking of an unspeakable odor. 

It was the scent of a recently opened grave, and while I had not been near one in a while, I had put a dead racoon in my garbage can once and left it there for a week in the hot sun. Worst thing I have ever smelled. I was only too happy when the garbage man came. It was worse than that. No one else seemed to notice.

His cloak hid is face but it was safe to assume I didn't really want to look too deep in there anyway. He was carrying a pole with a strange watermark on it and two runnels near the top. His hands were strong looking, like a weightlifter's with veins running through them. I could not see much else of him but he was big, much bigger than I imagined him to be.

See, I figured this had to be the Boatman of the River Styx.

"Cappuccino." he said with a scary baritone.

"Four seventy five, please."

"Are you serious?" was his response.

"Uh. Yes."

He reached into his pocket and put pennies on the counter. Lots of Pennies.

"Sir, we can't take those."

"They're currency aren't they?"

"Sir, they're pennies."

"I get paid in pennies."

"Excuse me, miss, I will take care of this." I found myself reaching into my pocket and paying with a five.

"Keep the change." The crowd was getting kind of hostile and I wasn't sure what might happen if he got pissed off. He looks at her. Reaches across the counter with his large, ham-like hand and touches her chin. 

"Rebecca Montez, angry boyfriend, six years from now, lamp. Unfortunate." She looks at him as if he were crazy but does not move. Almost as if she were under a spell.

He turns to me and says, "Thank you, Daniel Simmons."

"How do you know my name?" I already knew the answer.

"I know all of your names." That voice was really starting to work me. The rhythm of the shop resumed and people went back to typing.

"What are they seeing? How is it only I can see you?"

"Cappuccino, up."

"Uh, that's you."

"Let's sit and talk, Daniel Simmons."

"Okaaaaay." Didn't like where this was going.

I sit down at the table and try to hide my face behind the screen of my laptop so I could resist the temptation to look into his cowl. He reached across the table and closed my laptop, gently.

"So, Charon, what brings you up for coffee? And why is it no one else can see you?"

"Mmmmm. Good cappuccino. Very nice." The cup disappeared into his cowl and did not come back out.

"No one can see me because to them, I am some unfortunate hobo having coffee with an overdress preppy. That would be you. As to why I am here? I need a guide and since you can see me, you are volunteered." 

What could I know about that he would need a guide for?

"I am looking to franchise my business."

"Excuse me?"

"Earth is very busy these days, lots of dying and you guys keep making new ways to kill each other off. I can't keep up. Look at this bicep." He pulls back his sleeve and shows me this massive arm that would not have look out of place on the Incredible Hulk. "Go on, touch it."

"Um, no thanks."

"I used to be scraps of bone and flesh, now I have biceps from pushing that thing." He points outside the window.

For a moment I saw a flash of a large gondola-like boat, about the size of an eighteen wheeler. Off in the distance, I could see people, thousands of them, tens of thousands, standing patiently wearing clothing from what looked like medieval times. Then the street returned to its mundane appearance.

"Yes, I just cleared the backlog from the Black Plague last week. But I still have the Civil War, the Spanish Flu, World War's I and II, and Korea. Do you know how many Russians died out there?" He was starting to sound a little hysterical.

"Uh, what about other death-oriented entities like yourself? Aren't there others out there harvesting the dead?"

"Valkyries are still working, but they only want the valiant dead, so they swoop in and pluck one guy out of thousands, put him on their flying horse and their gone. I've tried shouting out, 'hey, you could grab a few more' but they keep mentioning something about Vahalla having a quality assurance clause and then they're gone. When I complained to the Niflheim Residency Committee, they indicated they aren't responsible for all of these people. They closed their doors when the last of the Vikings bought the farm. Something about Niflheim having a purity standard."

"There are certainly other death agents, yes?"

"Heaven only takes devout Christians. Lets just say that number isn't going up. Same with their other sects. People don't seem to have a desire for really rigid religious structures anymore, so most of those places are closing their doors, or waiting for a management decision from on High. Hell, well its just overflowing. They even changed the sign. Used to say 'Abandon hope all ye who entered here'. Now it says, 'Abandon hope all ye who thought to enter here. Entry denied due to overcrowding.' So, I keep going, moving the Dead into their afterlife of Last Resort. But I am starting to fall behind, so I hoped someone here might have some idea how to franchise this operation." 

"So you're hoping to find people willing to help you ferry the Dead, for a fee. What kind of benefits would you be offering, you need a good benefit package if you are trying to recruit these days."

"I am not trying to enter into Management. I do not want to take responsibility for their work. I want to hand off a section of the workload to other interested parties."

"That's the problem. Who's going to be interested in buying into a business where your job is to move the Dead across the River Styx into the Afterlife of Last Resort? What do they get out of the deal?"

"As long as they work for the Company, they can avoid dying of anything, as long as they manage their company effectively. If I have to pick up their slack, I will carry them across the Threshold myself. I am not interested in who they hire, as long as they get the job done."

"Effectively immortal, long term job security, open hours, free hand in hiring, no micromanaging. I think I am going to quit my job. Okay, what's the cost to buy into this program?"

"2 pennies." Charon voice had begun to grow on me.

"Okay, the first thing we are going to have to do if we are going to work together is to increase the cost of dying. How can you run a business on 2 pennies a soul? Haven't you ever heard of inflation?"

A Cappuccino with Charon © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved