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A Fall to Earth, Chapter 1

Posted by Thaddeus on September 28, 2010 at 6:30pm

2072 Common Era, five years after the Singularity

The African Continent, The Serengeti
The air was hot and still, not a surprise considering the time of year, but by the Serengeti's standards this weather exceeded even her hottest by a wide margin. This year her grasses were tall and luxurious despite the terrible heat, hiding her animals from the common eye and the trained one alike. At a casual glance, nothing appeared to move save the heat ripples across the horizon. Even her most fearsome insects, bloodthirsty and ever-hungering seem to be conserving their energy for the cooler part of the day.

This was a day like millions that came before it, embodying the nature of life and death and this mistress of two realms stopped as something so terrible swept through her that everything froze, hid and waited for it to pass. Mighty herds grew silent and the coughs of the lions faded into the distance.

The slow-moving air carried the stench of death and decay, not the natural scent common to this area, not the blissful scent smell of carrion attracting their share of lazy scavengers, nor of a death by natural causes, that musty death of a creature that slowed and eventually stopped moving, or the most terrible of all, if you are an antelope or gazelle, savaged, smothered or battered to death by the ghosts of the Serengeti, her big cats. This smelled of none of those good deaths.

Death at this scale was not common and everything here knew that, even if they could not determine the cause or the source, avoidance was the best choice. The death wind blew through the city of Dodoma. The Serengeti did not like Dodoma. It was crowded, the creatures there did not move, they did not migrate, movement was life, everything knew that except for these creatures. The Serengeti did not like the waste, the noise, the fire-less smoke that always emanated from it. The stones-that-moved-and-roamed were tolerated because they often wandered amongst her people, her herds and in the beginning there was balance.

The longer the creatures lived there, the less balance there was. The Serengeti had taken to sending the ghosts to Dodoma. For a time, the creatures hid in fear, as they should, but eventually they returned in greater numbers. The Serengeti, infinite in its patience and long in it lifespan would simply wait for the creatures to drown in their filth.

There was certainly enough of it. They would eventually go away. Badly behaved creatures always did. But today, they did not go away. They did not migrate, they did not gather their food, their young, their water, they did not leave a trail of waste to nourish all life on the Serengeti.

They simply ceased to be.

The Serengeti was not displeased. But all of its people, its herds, its hunters, its scavengers and its ghosts did tremble and wonder what was different. Dodoma was now filled with nearly one million dead and no sign of what caused the Death that Walks.

A group of elephants roam the Serengeti as they had for thousands of years. At first glance, there would be little to tell you different about this group than about thousands of elephants who had come before. But look a little longer and you can tell this group is different. Grey and dusty, these desert titans shepherd a tiny group of non-elephants with them.

Tired, dirty and quietly clustered together, with rags for clothing, hair matted and reeking of sweat from too many days in the plains sun without bathing. The elephants find this smell quite distasteful but continue their duties, with a clear sense of obligation.

The Serengeti guides them toward water with its well worn breezes, flapping the tall grass, bringing the scent of water, leapers and ghosts. Leapers were always plentiful this time of year and the Sisters always found their antics amusing. The young ones, ever inquisitive, always wondered why they could not leap. The answer was always the same, we are not leapers. We are the Walkers. We do not run. We do not leap. We Walk. The Serengeti is our mother and our guide. We fear nothing and harm no one. The answer only seemed to last until the next time they saw leapers.

One larger female, her body older, worn and leathery, her eyes bright with intelligence and her pace filled with the wisdom of many Walks, moved away from the group and she pauses to sniff the air. At first, nothing, then the slight tingle of black-burn from the rocks-that-roam, human sweat, rank with the overtones of meat and fire smoke. Tiny Walkers, the ones who act like ghosts, hunting and killing but they are not our Walkers, she remembers the words, our humans. These are the Ghost Humans. They kill everything they see.

She closes her eyes and opens herself up to the horizon. The Serengeti reveals them to her; they are behind them, about two thousand steps. She calls to her sisters, who immediately surround their young and their tiny walkers. In her mind, she sees the Ghost Humans moving as fasts as the Ghosts they emulate, streaking through the tall grass, bouncing in their rock-that-roams with their terrible boom-sticks. Like the Ghosts, their fangs flash with their excitement of the hunt.

Aniel said to call them guns. Aniel always knew the words to things. Aniel was gone, taken by Ghost Walkers, not these but others. Others that we will find. We will find Aniel. In the meantime, we will do what she asked. Orienting herself to them, she gathers the strength of her sisters.

The aged female sees in her mind, the skins of the Serengeti's ghosts across the back of the rock-that-roams and though she has no love of the Serengeti ghosts, no person should ever be treated as such. The Ghost Humans continue to approach and it is clear they are following the Sisters. It is as it should be. It is said that all things meet in the Serengeti eventually. The Sisters wait and the young grow restless, as is their wont. The tiny walkers say nothing, and after a while sit, slack jawed and boneless upon the grass. Without Aniel, they say nothing, they only follow the Sisters.

The Eldest opens her eyes as the rock comes into view, trailing a terrible cloud of smoke and dust, its roaring increasing as the Sisters come into sight. The Sisters stir but do not move, only their ears and tails continue their ceaseless twitching. The Eldest begins a deep sonorous moan and her sisters also follow, in concert. A rippling occurs through the air and gathers in front of the Eldest. The Sisters' dirge grows louder and the tiny ones cover their ears. The young ones fall to the ground as if dead.

The Eldest stops to read the wind and the approaching Ghost Humans, whose intent of blood and murder is written on the afternoon breeze mingling with the scent of other dead Sisters and skinned Ghosts; all of these hunter's earlier kills, collected as vile and disgusting trophies. The Sisters stop their singing as the Ghost Humans raise their boom-sticks, guns, and the energy that the Eldest was holding is released.

In that moment, the Serengeti breathed, a single collective breath, something that moved through all the nearby living things. The Ghost Humans breathed in that collective breath and when they exhaled they fell over dead; no marks, no scars, nothing to indicate their passing. Their collective breath returned to the Serengeti, their mother and their home. The Eldest turned away, horrified at all the waste. The loss of life.

She returns to her Sisters who touch her and console her while she weeps. They waken the young ones and the tiny walkers and they continue toward the waterhole they can smell just a thousand steps in front of them.

fragmented truth bits in layers of lies

Posted by Arnold L. Johnson on September 28, 2010 at 7:00am

Been digging and searching and sifting. A scientist remarked concerning carbon dating and archaeology, it shows the date of the layer. How many layers? Then when ego-centric and race-centric historians and scientist and theologians write themselves in as the source, the progenitors of everything known today, effacing the truth by simply turning Black faces to White faces, we all become liars. The Bible is explained with lies and the truth of it becomes mythic yet seems to work even within the lies overlaid. The mystery of that book is disputed because though written by men of faith, it was assembled (sometimes edited) by unclean hands. Some pages as old as the pyramids, some older. We forget "God" is eternal, how many creations passed through his hands, how many times his story has been acted out on good "old" earth. I have the spirit so I have an inkling but no exactness. I fight against the accepted, why? Because if the understanding I received was laced with lies someone else innocently received, then my receiving is an even deeper lie. Today faith means to close your eyes to all but the inkling of the spirit, that faith is very small. That inkling can't be quenched by reason, it simply exists.

The ancient Egyptians were white because and the Bible is white because........yet, the writing is on the wall and there are pictures, but don't forget the available pigments of the time, red ochre, black and brown the colors of the same clay that formed us, were all the rage. And those pyramids, biggest tombs you ever saw. What kind of mental whack job would build a mathematically precise edifice for himself at the expense of a thousand workers? They would have revolted, packed him in a crate and buried him in a unmarked sand dune. And why align it all with the Sirius star cluster and who are the Dogon who talk the same star stuff. Rumour has it that the Great Pyramid was a seismic machine like a huge piezo crystal, able to draw power via seismic events and convert it into energy of some kind. The enigma of the planet, how deep is a desert, a sea of sand? An epic battle between the men of clay and the erosion of sand continues till this day...........

The Destruction of the Universe and the Comic/SF Genre

Posted by Thaddeus on September 22, 2010 at 1:00pm

I have a problem with comic universes and science fiction storylines that offer the destruction of their universes by a single threat, no matter how powerful that threat may be. It may make for compelling storytelling in theory, but when you look at the science behind it, its just lazy storytelling. Destroying the universe is really a lot harder to do that you might think. As humans, we are simply not aware of the scale of power that is potentially available out there, so we jump from nuclear bombs, to destroying the universe without really looking at anything in between.

The cliff notes might look like this: muscle power (tentacle power, whatever), muscle with rock, thrown rock, bigger rock, add velocity, create rock or stick propelling device, add more muscle, store energy then propel matter, chemically propelled matter, explosively release chemical energy, explosively release nuclear energy, fuse nuclear matter then release energy, propel asteroids at planets, collect stray gaseous matter into stars, compress super amounts of matter until star heats, fuses and explodes in shortened lifespan then run from supernova, smash neutron stars together for galaxy-spanning gamma ray pulse, annihilate matter with anti-matter, add stellar masses until a super gravity field forms, create singularity (black hole), create super-massive black hole then trap other stars until galaxy forms, consume other galaxies, compress billions of galaxies into quasar, compress all matter in known universe into tiny super-singularity, release for Big Bang or alternatively, allow for membranes between universal branes to bang together, releasing an entire universe worth of energy disrupting previous universe, erasing all existing matter and start again overlapping previous universe. Surely somewhere in between the rock and the big bang we can find a story worth telling.

Galactus, Destroyer of Worlds

Creative License or "I reserve the right to destroy the Universe..."

To give you a summary of the article is to say this, plain and simple: The Universe is too damn BIG for Thanos, Galactus, The Kree, Skrull, The Infinity Gems, Master Order/Lord Chaos, Darkseid, the Anti-life Equation, The Anti-Monitor, Access or anything else, for that matter, to destroy in a single effort. Any creature or creatures powerful to know how to destroy the ENTIRE Universe would probably be too sane to do it or allow such knowledge to fall into the hands of creatures who would. And the logical problem to be derived from that though process is, what do you have them protect when saving the universe becomes routine? Other universes, perhaps even the Omniverse (the sum of all universes, no matter where or when they are, including all related multiple universes, timelines, or realities).

(For the record, I have the same problems with the Green Lantern Corp only needing 3600 members to patrol the entire Universe. Given that our galaxy alone has 100 billion stars, it means that each member of the Corp in our Galaxy alone had 2,777,778 stars to patrol!)

I know what you are saying, writers reserve the creative right to destroy the universe or to have heroes "patrol" the universe, if it will carry a plot; but I say fey. Writers have a responsibility to work to make their stories good, not to rely on lazy writing plots like "the destruction of all life in the universe" to make it seem important enough for the heroes to save it. I see this so often it almost seems that the universe is imperiled at least twice a year.

I want to give you a scale to work with but I need to give you a science lesson, so hang tight. (for the record, the numbers I am going to give you will quickly be beyond the realm of human comprehension, and that is exactly my point.)

Light is the fastest known thing in the Real Universe that we know of. It is capable of moving in normal space at 186,282 miles in one second. This means that to cross the distance between the Earth and its nearest neighbor, the Moon, (240,000 miles away) takes about a second and a half. While it may appear instantaneous at extremely short distances, say - in your room, space is so big that time actually passes between when you hit the switch and when it arrives somewhere.

To cross the distance from the Earth to the Sun at 93,000,000 miles or so, takes approximately 8.5 minutes. Can you imagine the fastest thing in the universe taking a whopping 9 minutes to cross between the Sun and the Earth. Seems like a slug when you look at it like that. No, what it really means is that space is really big. But lets look further. It takes nearly an hour for a beam of light to reach the planet Pluto from the sun (Pluto is 5,913,520,000 km from the Sun). This is the fastest thing in the Universe and yet takes an hour to reach a planet in the same solar system. But in one year, a beam of light can travel 6 trillion miles (10 trillion kilometers for you English blokes).

What does this have to do with the destruction of the Universe, you might ask? Plenty so read on.

Space is Big...
For a beam of light to travel to the next nearest star to Earth, Alpha Centauri, light takes 4.2 years. Alpha Centauri is approximately 25.5 trillion miles from the Earth. A radio message from here to there would take 8 years for a single exchange of "hello, is this thing on?"

The Universe is so large that it must be measured in lightyears because miles and kilometers are simply too small to do it justice. So our basic unit of measure is the lightyear or 6 trillion miles. Unfortunately the Universe is so large that we must still augment the Lightyear a bit further. The next unit of measure is called the parsec. It is considered to be approximately 3.3 lightyears long. This is the most common measure of interstellar or intergalactic distances.

This is a huge distance and we believe that even if the universe is flat and finite, that this would mean that the Universe is incredibly large. Its actual size is a difficult thing to explain but lets assume that we are not in the middle of the Universe but that everything in the Universe is receeding from us, we theoretically measure the Universe to be 75 billion lightyears from "center to edge".

Stellar Cosmology
The most basic building block of the Universe is the star. 90% of all stars in the universe are called red dwarfs (sorry, Superman). They are approximately the same size as the Earth give or take 10 to 200%. The remainder of stars are a variety of sizes and energy output from small burned out white dwarfs (hunks of transmuted carbon burning with incandesent heat, literally hunks of space-charcoal) to blue-white supergiants who burn themselves out in a stellar flash of 75 million years. There are stars estimated to be equal to the size of our inner solar system! (VY Canis Majoris). Stars are the basic expressions of the Universe's ability to convert matter to energy through the fusion of hydrogen to helium. This produces a byproduct of energy and recombinated matter. This fusion will occur until the star cannot transmute matter any further (yes, that means it will convert and fuse atoms until a star turns into IRON, a non-reactive, stable metal). The main sequence of stars chart (show below) notes the different physical characteristics of stars, their lifespans and galactic percentages.

The Earth's Sun (a G type star) produces totally per second 4x10 to the 26th power Watts of energy per second into space. Every second, it produces an amount of energy equivalent to the detonation of about 100 billion 1-megaton nuclear weapons. It has an internal core temperature of approximately 15 million degrees, cooling to a meager 6000 degrees at the surface. At these temperatures, most matter cannot even exist under normal conditions. Its internal pressures are greater than 20 times the density of iron or 150,000 kg/m3.

Occasionally a star with 9 times the mass of our sun, (a relatively uninteresting and underpowered specimen as star's go) explodes creating a supernova. This explosion is a magnificent representation of the power of stars and is responsible for the final transmutation of all the heavy metals in the universe. All the gold, silver and other super-heavy elements are formed in the supernovas of stars. The next time you think about any heavy metal, including the ones that make up your body, magnesium, iron, calcium, know that a star was destroyed to produce it.

Massive stars after they explode, their remaining matter collapses upon itself to form a singularity or black hole. This means that all of the remaining matter of that star is now shrunken to a single point in space, with an intense gravitational field surrounding it. This gravity is so great that, not even light can escape it. As an expression of natural phenomenon, it is one of the ultimate forms of power in our universe and a lynchpin holding entire galaxies together with the force of its gravity. It emits no form of radiation so it cannot be detected directly at all, only by its indirect effect on its environment.

Enough with the basics, now on to the good stuff!

The Good Stuff: How Aliens Do It...
A paper on the idea of intergalactic intelligence suggests that a civilization goes through several stages before it attempts to leave it's planet and expand into space.

Stage I is when a species utilizes it fuels on its planet to power its ascent into space. The most likely of these fuels are going to probably be radioactive, solar or geothermal in nature, but other alternatives might also be available. On planets that have superheavy gravity, other means may be necessary to achieve spaceflight. (Humanity in most superhero comics is a species of this nature.)

Stage II - Once a species achieves spaceflight, they will attempt to harness more of their next greatest power source, their star. In the beginning they will probably harness solar radiation by capturing it and directing it toward the planet or converting it into other forms of radiation. As their technology improves they will move into stage III.

(Most of the Marvel Universes races are at a stage between level 2 and Level 3. The Kree (shown to the right), Skrull, Shiar, all appear to be Level 2 to 3 even with the advent of other technologies such as faster than light communication and travel. Their planetscaping technologies and energy production/harnessing technologies seem primitive in comparison. Most DC races share a similar condition even in the 30th century of the Legion of Superheroes.)

Stage III is when a planet has harnessed all the energy of their star by destroying all the planets in their solar system and creating around their star a means of absorbing all of the energy of their star. This device was theorized by a scientist named Freeman Dyson and has been called a Dyson's Sphere. This world on the interior of a ball would be thousands of times larger than anything this civilization had ever known and could possibly support their species' energy needs for the lifetime of their star. (This is an incredible feat to destroy all your planets to create a new superenvironment around your sun to harness all 10 to the 38 power in Watts of energy being emitted by a star like the Sun every second.)

(Galactus would seem to be an example of a Level 3 life form since it has been theorized that his Worldship possessed an engine powered by a star in a manner similar to a Dyson Sphere. Tyrant also possessed similar technology but few other species have been seen to possess such advanced technology. Curiously enough the New Gods, who seem to have technology with the capabilities to create Dyson Spheres have not. It would seem that they have chosen to tap energy from the Source instead of harnessing it from the environment. Darkseid seems to use the geothermal energy of Apokolips but how it is converted to his personal use is as yet unknown.)

Stage IV is when a species is able to create such worlds around other stars to harness their energy as well or to utilize energy conversions that are more potent and/or efficient than stellar conversions. This would include the barely known quantum phenomena or matter/antimatter interactions. Even these feats, if they could be performed would not allow for energy creations too much greater than natural ones because the environment that would allow for their creation would be too difficult to maintain. (The Markovians from Jack L. Chalker's Well of Souls Saga could qualify as Level 4 intelligences; so could the "Q" or "Trelane" of Star Trek fame.)

I write all of these things to say that if a civilization has the power to perform feats that allow them to move their entire civilization while they terraform their entire solar system, it still does not all them the power to destroy the entire 17,662.5 billion light year area that our Theoretical Universe takes up.

Back to Destroying the Universe...or I'll have Black Holes and Quasars for $1,000, Alex....
If a species can harness a single black hole's incredible gravitation power and use it for evil, they still could not destroy the entire universe. I know where there is already a black hole a million times stronger than any single one formed from any single supernova. And it is right here in our galactic backyard.

At the center of most galaxies is theorized to be a supermassive black hole with the mass of at least a million suns. It is the superglue that holds galaxies together. Harnessing the power of such an object would make a species incredible, the 100 billion or so stars plus the power of the supermassive black hole at the center of it would be an incredible species indeed. But still not enough to destroy the entire universe, since the entire universe has an estimated 100 billion galaxies, each galaxy with at least 100 billion stars, each having at a conservative estimate 1000 planets with potentially intelligent life. There are super-large cannibal galaxies with over a trillion stars!

The farthest object that we have ever clearly detected in our Universe is a QSO-quasi-stellar object at 4,700 million parsecs away from us! This is a distance of almost 5 billion parsecs or 15 billion light years! This QSO or quasar is immeasurable powerful. It generates the energy output of a million galaxies, each with the energy of a 100 billion suns in a area that is less than 2000 parsecs in size! The brightest quasars consume the equivalent of 1000 solar masses a year.

If a species was able to generate the power of a single QSO, they still could not destroy the Universe, considering that we already know where a 1,000 of these things are and the Universe is still here. QSOs are so powerful, you can use them as navigational beacons between galaxies because they define the edge of the known universe and do not move in relationship to anything else. Creatures of the DCU's fifth dimension who seem to possess the ability to modify the reality of the third dimension, still seem to have inherent limitations to what they are able to do, no matter how seemingly fantastic they can be. The entire species of the "Q" or entities from the Fifth dimension could utilize all of the power from an energy source as a QSO and still have plenty of power left over for millions of years.

Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of the stakes being high when I am reading a story, but no matter who the antagonist is, when I look at the Earth and understand how truly insignificant it is in the overall scheme of things, (a solar prominence on the sun could swallow the Earth totally destroying all life on Earth with the force of 100,000 nuclear warheads in less than a second) I find it hard to argue that Thanos could destroy "all that there is" in a single second. On the other hand I do offer a couple of handy outs.

You can't destroy the Universe. Its where I keep all my stuff...

Our local galactic star-group (shown above) is about 1000 Kiloparsecs in size. It includes the Milky Way galaxy and about 20 other local galaxies including the Andromeda Galaxy. I believe that if a device or weapon or tool, of an incredibly advanced technology, far greater than any we have seen in the Marvel or DC Universes (I might make a case for the Wildstorm Universe, seeing how they have technology that has claimed to have captured a "fledgling or baby universe" at the moment of its "birth" and are using it as a powersource for the Authority's "Carrier", this is the only technology I have seen that might impress me able to rewrite a section of the local galactic space, a tiny area, in the overall scheme of things) I might offer that a species might have the ability to devastate a portion of Universal space similar in size to that. This would effectively "destroy the Universe" as we know it and still not make a dent in the overall Universal structure.

As a matter of fact, there is a scientific premise that might be exploited for this purpose. At the galactic level, there are several regions of intergalactic space at appear "empty" meaning apparently devoid of any intergalatic materials. These regions are called 'voids'. Galaxies are not generally found in isolation, nor are they randomly distributed throughout the Universe. Most are surrounded by a swarm of satellite galaxies and are themselves embedded in larger aggregates called groups or clusters. These large concentrations of galaxies form part of even larger scale structures such as the galactic filaments and sheets which contain millions of galaxies. Between these enormous walls of galaxies lie regions which are very sparsely populated - these are known as 'galactic voids'. From a storytelling point of view could have been local galactic clusters gone 'bad' due to the meddling of a powerful superspecies that could harness the energy of something greater than a QSO. The true origins of galactic voids are still being discovered and it is hinted that dark matter may be involved.

As for events such as DCU's Crisis storylines, I do not for a single instant believe that the entire Universe was rewritten. Instead, I consider that the fabric of their local universe (a 2-5 million light year region) was remade while the rest of the Universe was unaffected by the DC Universe's reconstructive surgery. This could include all of their parallel timelines, quantum realms, and nearby dimensional realms like the Fifth Dimension or the New Gods dimensions. I don't care what DC says, the universe should not be as easy to destroy and recreate as blowing my nose and thinking about it.

I think that nature abhors a vacuum and would allow the fabric of space to fold over the regions that were obliterated by poor management and incorporate them back into the Universe at large, managment free, at this point. I understand that in Marvel and the DCU are both trying to keep their characters fresh and their universal continuity somewhat stable but I believe a tiny bit of science might make their stories and ideas more palatable without having to destroy the universe every ten or fifteen years.

Now all of this is "in my humble opinion" and I have used a few planet destroying, solar system destroying and even galaxy destroying (very small, petite galaxies, 10,000 stars at best) storylines for my roleplaying games and writing, but I have only tried one time to tell the tale of the end of the Universe, and it was being used as a backdrop, not as an element the players needed to affect. I understand the high stakes gambit, but it is up to a good writer to find a way to increase the stakes without going just too damn far.

As an added feature, I have included a shockwave flash file called the Scale of the Universe. It takes a second to load, but once it does, it will take you on an interactive trip from the quantum foam of the structure of the universe to the very edges of our perceivable universe. An awesome trip putting everything into its proper place and perspective.

ebonstorm@gmail.com - A Matter of Scale

Originally published for the Metahuman Information Database.

All images are the products of their respective publishers - Walt Disney Company, Marvel Entertainment, DC Comics and Times Warner Entertainment.

Scramble for Africa (the remix)...

Posted by Sarafina Connor on September 22, 2010 at 10:59am

There's a discussion going on over there in the Black Futurist group. I thought I'd share a bit in a blog.

I'll go backwards:

SO, I turn on CNN and who do I see: BOB "BET" JOHNSON. He's celebrating the inaugural DElta (I believe) flights to Liberia. They did a whole segment on the "potential growth of a Middle Class in Sub-Saharan Africa" and the "tremendous untapped natural resources". . . (excuse me while I spit on some graves) Ok, I'm back. SO, he and Tony are going back and forth about the future of Africa and America's role (supposedly he's referring to African Americans. right.) in its development. China and Italy are already there building (and investing ) in the infrastructure, so now it's our turn I suppose. And who better to lead the movement but Bob Johnson... (sorry had to spit again)...

I'm not one for writing so I'll just share:

http://www.breakingtravelnews.com/news/article/robert-l.-johnson-takes-part-in-delta-air-lines-inaugural-flight-to-monrovi/

Last night, I was thinking about the Singularity, from a non-Kurzweilian perspective. Here's what this Brotha had to say:

http://appfrica.net/blog/2010/06/04/great-african-singularities/
hmmmm....interesting. verrry interesting.

BLOG NEWS GENESIS: AN ANTHOLOGY OF BLACK SCIENCE FICTION & MORE

Posted by Administrator: Jarvis Sheffield on September 20, 2010 at 3:30pm

I am pleasantly surprised with the last month’s progress. God is indeed good to me. Here is a brief recap of
things that have happened so far.

The GENESIS Anthology of Black Science Fiction was completed on schedule. We ran into a few technical issues
but got it done and we will continue to improve the process in the future.

Alien Encounters was a magnificent success. The attendance was great, the speakers
were phenomenal, and the crowd actively engaged the panelists and speakers with
intriguing questions and insight. Everyone in attendance had a productive and
informative time that they took away from the experience.

The publishing company has been established to publish works produced by Black Science Fiction Society called
Graves Sheffield Publishing. It is staffed primarily by me and my lovely wife
who has supported me throughout the process of making the project a success.
This coupled with 2 years research and tutorage by industry veterans has made it
possible to take dreams and turn them into realities.

We are eager to continue turning dreams into to realities. We decided to add to our goals movie making.
The idea is to partner with writers from the Anthology and start creating films
in the upcoming year.

Stay tuned, we will continue to plug away at this thing. Join the site if you haven’t already and share in the
community of like minded individuals of black science fiction.

Jarvis Sheffield

Administrator

www.BlackScieneFictionSociety.com

www.TheDigitalBrothers.com

www.GravesSheffield.com

My Favorite Thing Right Now . . .

Posted by Diane on September 19, 2010 at 3:00am

It's a year later, but I'm still rockin' out to Poetic Menace's (Marc Blackshear) "Coming of the First Born". It's still hot, just like Dreadlocks.

Go on over to Urban Style Comics and take a listen. And don't forget to check them out at Black Age of Comics in Chicago this October 8th - 9th.

"Who needs two eyes when the thirds' wide open?"

"Let the wicked of the earth be warned, the coming of the first born. "

Needless to say, I'm lovin' me some Dreadlocks!

Now if I could just get my eyes to glow like that.

The Aspect War - Prologue & Chapter 1 - Slumber

Posted by Thaddeus on September 19, 2010 at 2:30am

Prologue

She slept.

If you can call this thing of nightmare, a her; dragonscales rippled with a watery sheen and the ever-so slight rise and fall of her breath. Each scale shone as if it were comprise both of darkness and the tiniest slivers of light. It was once said that, to stare at them was to be lost in their shimmer, and for a moment witness destruction spanning thousands of years in a single second. Seeing her was to court madness.

She dreamed. She once roamed the Earth, free and the world trembled. She inspired legends of terrible djinn, fiends from worlds beyond, all were tales of her or her many, many children. She incited madness, lust for power, and ultimately the destruction of all she and her children touched. Sodom and Gomorrah were both victims of her wrath. Mad prophets would later claim it was some other god. Soon after, she consumed said prophets; mangy, stringy things, which stuck in her teeth and gave her a bout of indigestion, but could never find all of the books that took the credit away from her and were later published.

Thinking of those mad prophets made her think of dusty Babylon. Brilliant Babylon knew how to treat a being of her stature, they worshiped her, revered her and gave her the proper homage until they too betrayed her. Cast her into darkness, silenced her destruction. As a parting gift she destroyed their Hanging Gardens and left a seed that would ensure their ultimate destruction.

They could not kill her, she was a god. But they could imprison her and cast her into a darkness that lasted for millennia. A cooling soothing darkness, one which softened her rage, quieted her powers and hid her from the view of man. The darkness was connected to the Void and the Void was everywhere and nowhere. And for a time, she was forgotten. Many of her children were destroyed by heroes of various ages, eventually forced into hiding or exile, lest they too be destroyed. And they too were forgotten.

The darkness hid her terrible bulk, shuttered away beyond the light from the early morning. The green canopy overhead blocked all but the most determined of misty light and kept much of her from view. The monolithic temple hid the rest of her. She was not a thing most humans would want to see. In fact, no human had seen her this way for over a thousand years. Those that had, inspired new religions, talk of serpent gods and the destruction of the world.

She slept easily during those times. They made sacrifice to her and she grew strong again. But she could not attract attention. So during the night, one night a thousand years ago, she drew her new people to her into the Void and they waited, serving her, making new things, and waiting. No human had seen her since. And she preferred to keep it that way, until the prophecy spoken of two thousand years ago came to pass.

This dragon, this monstrosity of scales, this frightening creature of myth and legend, this mother of monsters, eater of men, ravager of worlds, slept deeply and dreamed of mad prophets who said she would return to the world. She had a special penchant for those mad prophets, who even today, preached the revelation of her return, free from constraint, free from morality, free to sow and reap humans like the wheat of dusty Babylon. Such dreams gave this living monstrosity a fearsome shudder and the humans nearby for a thousand miles, in every direction experienced an earthquake.

These quakes were becoming more common for them, more powerful, some causing nightmares. Dreams of more terrible quakes to come, some that spoke of a time, where monsters would rise up and slay men and bathe in their blood. No one ever spoke of such nightmares. Even to acknowledge them seem to drive men to madness. So most kept doing what they always did, living lives of quiet desperation.

Even in her sleep, their fear and terror fed her, pleased her, and for a moment excited her. Then she returned to sleep, a deeper sleep, and in that sleep, she dreamed again. And often those dreams were the stuff of human nightmare, capsizing ships, destroying buildings, releasing volcanoes. Today she dreamed a dream of modern life, putting on a business suit, dark blue, carrying a slim and stylish briefcase and going to work; an insurance firm in New York City, specializing in insuring the rare, the expensive and things so valuable they were irreplaceable. She would not work there very long. Just long enough to ensure that some of those things would cease to exist, through unfortunate accidents, hostile takeovers, theft, extortion or murder; a woman simply has to have hobbies between attempts to destroy the world.

Chapter 1

He woke.

The first thing he noticed was the chill. It was a pervasive thing, it felt as if it froze the very marrow of his bones. Not normally affected by weather, he found the sensation unpleasant, but not unbearable. Standing up, he began to take in his surroundings. There was no light -- no that is not right, there was no normal source of light. No lantern, no torch, no lamp, no light bulb; yet the room gave off a subtle luminescence, centered on where he sat. Driving his vision further past the illumination, he noticed that there was a radius to the field of unlight and the area he was sitting in was larger than he was able to initially perceive.

"Curious." The sound of his voice, flew free. Encoded with his desire, it fled into the darkness and did not return. The very nature of its failure told him everything he needed to know. This subtle use of his power told him he was not in the world as he knew it. He realized he must be in a nearby Shard or worse, lost in the Void. As he considered this, his apprehension began to take shape.

Almost casually, he inspected himself and found everything seemed to be normal. He was still wearing the grey and black suit and vest common to his attire and the last thing he remembered wearing to work. His shirt was still the silken, Italian blouse he favored for formal meetings. He was wearing his favorite leather shoes, with an added non-slip surface beneath them. Not that he ever feared slipping, but it was a habit from a bygone era when one's footing might cost one's life. And until now, He had been very careful.

He looked down at his hands. They were still the strong hands of a Roman soldier, a bit more weathered, a bit less callused, but still capable of relieving a man of his life with a variety of tools. But the thing he was looking for was gone. His ring was missing. The sigil of his power was missing. This did not mean he was powerless, it meant that for his duty to continue, the ring moved to his successor. That meant he could not leave this prison. And that his power was in the hand of a mortal, for the first time in two millennia. A mortal He truly loved but had poorly prepared for this day.

He could only hope that his impressions all those decades ago were right.

* * *

The Director tried to wake from a dream that seemed overwhelming real and quite visceral. It was not his normal condition to dream, having not done so for many years since coming to work at Death, Incorporated. Having not dreamed in decades, left him open to the strange, surreal nature of this dream. He was standing in the middle of a field surrounded by monstrous creatures of all shapes and sizes, wielding a sword of ice and shield comprised of a field of force laying waste to everything around him.

In the distance, he could see demons and angels flashing swords of flame and lightning, illuminating the battlefield. This seemed to last days and nights and then with a final flash of lighting, the battle ended. He was the only thing standing unscathed on the field. Taking in the horrible vista, he wept, openly.

Time passed.

Sensing moving in the corner of his eye, he turned and dropped his terrible, ice-sword, which froze the very air near it and the blade shattered as it struck the ground. It was an Angel still moving slowly, feebly trying to remove the corpse of some horror draped across it. The Director found himself striding toward the Angel with a strange ambivalence in his core. Grabbing the nearest limb of the giant white gorilla, he flung it from the Angel, who sat up.

"Did we win?" the Angel croaked, his voice dry and likely burned from angrily flung cocoastrum during the battle. "I can't see you, please come closer."

"No, I do not think your side won," the Director intoned gravely, "we are the last things alive here, so I can safely assume, my side did not win either. Do you have a name?"

"I was once called Malik, the Guardian, and I guarded the doors to Hell," the Angel glowed visibly upon the recitation of his former station and for a moment seemed more majestic than his current condition, covered in the blood and offal of other creatures would allow.

"You may call me, Aurelius," the Director said. "I think I was once the general of this army but now I am not so sure."

"Well met, former general of a once mighty army. You must have been formidable to have defeated this mighty Host..." Malik began. "I cannot remember why we were fighting, though General. Do you have any memory of the conflict?" The Director seemed surprised by the Angel's confession and had to think deeply himself.

"To be honest, I have no memory of why or how this battle took place. I am willing to forswear any further conflict if you are Malik, of the Angelic Host," the Director's feeling in this regard seemed sincere, even as this very real dream transpired.

"General Aurelius, as much as I appreciate you taking the time to free me from confinement, I am not able to forswear violence toward your person. There is still the matter of the Heavenly Host who even now, tell me to rend thee, limb from limb," Malik seemed pained to admit this and sat back on his haunches and spread his wings. While he was sitting, he appeared to slowly get cleaner and his injuries began to shimmer and heal themselves. "Perhaps we could simply sit a bit longer and see if we can untangle this since there is no one here but you and I. Perhaps we can come to an agreement."

General Aurelius - the Director took in the scene and for a moment was surprised by the carnage - there seemed to be a variety of warriors from a variety of ages, lost in time and space, vast incredible armies with amazing technologies all lay about the battlefield. The General's senses transcended the five and with his extended awareness could see ripples in time and space where these armies were snatched and conscripted. He could also sense the ruptures that the enemy used to reach this battlefield between Time and Space. Until he used those senses, his awareness was limited to this place, this space, this time, suddenly he was aware of a thousand times, a thousand places, where He reigned and suddenly realized where and who He was.

"Malik, Angel of the Host, I declare this conflict completed. And as an act of Mercy, I shall allow you, the final survivor, to return to your Host. Remind them, this is our final conflict. The next time we meet, I shall destroy you and yours utterly. Know this and never return," the pronouncement was clearly delivered and chilled the very air around the both of them. There was a weaving of force, of malice, of murderous intent in those words. The General was sure his words were relayed to the Host, even as he said them.

Malik, clearly shaken by the tone, and the message, stood and suddenly his twelve foot stature, seemed to overshadow the tiny General before him. "General, looking around the battlefield, it is clear that you and I are at the locus of something terrible, but I do not believe that you are in any position to make demands, or to cast threats. From where I stand, it is you, who should be looking at surrender. I am Malik, the Guardian, the warder to Hell, the hand of God and Sealer of Doors. You are in no position to make demands." Malik suddenly burst into white flames and a blue flaming sword appeared in each of his hands.

The General looked at the Angel and was momentarily in awe. "Beautiful." With a momentary pause, he whispered, "I'm sorry." The General raised his hand and suddenly the Angel appeared to be in a fearful wind, his flames flickered and were blown backward, wisps blasted back as the wind increased. Malik roared and leapt forward, blades flashing forward, blue fire glowing like the sun. The General Aurelius, the Director, watched in horror as his outstretched fist clenched and some unknown force exploded forward and simply erased the Angel Malik, Guardian and Warder to Hell, Hand of God and Sealer of Doors, from existence.

The Director screamed, a long wail that caused fear in all who heard it, and then he woke, his right hand burning. On his hand was the ring from his dream, bearing the Aspect Skull of Death backed with a nuclear plume, the symbol of the destroyer of Worlds.

Thaddeus Howze © 2010, All Rights Reserved

Currently Reading: "Best African American Fiction 2010"

Posted by A. Jarrell Hayes on September 18, 2010 at 3:35pm

I'm about halfway through reading the anthology Best African American Fiction 2010, series editor Gerald Early and guest editor Nikki Giovanni. My reaction so far: disappointment. With the word "best" in the title I was half expecting to be floored. I wasn't. A couple of the tales in this first half have obvious continuity flaws, and some I found just not interesting as a whole.

At this point, my favorite overall story is "A Few Good men" by David Nicholson. It is a story about your typical barbershop conversation between men about women and how to handle them relationship-wise: either as a fool or as player.

Another story I found interesting is an excerpt from the novel Yellow Moon by Jewell Parker Rhodes. It's a detective-mystery novel about vampires and I think reincarnation. I'm not sure. The excerpt was a little fuzzy, and probably wasn't the best selection to choose from the book -- the excerpt was mostly dialogue, a conversation with some key characters as how to track down this ghost of a vampire. I would much rather had read an excerpt with more physical action. But I'm interested in reading the full novel.

Then there's the story "The Torturer's Wife" by Thomas Glave. The story is a disturbing tale of the wife of some brutal military officer, who has sexual dreams featuring the corpses of the men her husband has had brutally slain. The prose is very dream-like and fluid, descriptive and haunting.

There are other stories that offer bits of excellence, but overall fall flat for me. I hope I find the second half of the book more entertaining and enjoyable.

The Aspect War - Chapter 4

Posted by Thaddeus on September 18, 2010 at 3:04pm

Cuculane ran.

His footfalls ghost-like, his legs blurred through the undergrowth, whipping up a trail of dust, grass and leaves. The wind carried his all consuming rage, a spicy scent, as his power grew within him. He channeled that rage, into his power, for his power grew best when stoked by his fury. No day before this had ever kindled this new level of rage, and he thought no day might ever again. No matter how monstrous, how unforgiving, how demanding he was, the only father he had ever known, the High King of Avalon, Fagan the Cruel, Firelord and Master of Caer Caleban, was dead and Cuculane had loved him. The thought stung his eyes, blind though they were, and tears streaked his cheeks, but they did not stop his progress; nothing save Death could. As his eyes burned with restrained tears, he thought of how differently today had started.

Cuculane was on his way to the western tower, striding in his war-gear to partake of a training exercise with the king's Red Guard. His normally dour mood was buoyed by the idea that he might be allowed to become a member of the king's personal defenders and bodyguard. These were twelve of the king's finest warriors; masters of numerous weapons and sorceries arcane, they were chosen from thousands in the kings army. Each had to best one hundred of his battle-brothers and many perished for this considerable honor. Then each potential recruit would be forced to battle each of the Red Guard in single combat. Only if he could go undefeated against them, would he, as a graduation exercise, face them all. Today, Cuculane was prepared to graduate. The thought made him smile, inwardly at least.

As a member of the Red Guard, he could wear the anonymous red armor, fully covered and able to be hidden in plain sight. Then everyone might forget his shame, his failure of birth, his slavery to the kingdom. That he was a noble, but born of the Ur-Selig Court. Surely this would silence the whispers. This is an accomplishment that could not be denied, could not be claimed, as so many of his successes were, a matter of mere chance. He would meet in the King's private training arena in the far tower and the king would preside over his inauguration or his defeat. There was the potential for a fatal injury but the Queen, having made his armor reassured him. There was no better mage-smith in the kingdom.

His new armor and weapons were a gift from the Queen, upon his eighteenth day of birth ceremony and he wore them with great pride. Their craftsmanship had stood him in good stead during his Quest Year. After his return, his war-gear was cleaned, repaired and returned to him, as good as new by the armor-technicians, fresh with new qubar coatings, new protection wards and plated with the family colors of red, black and white. He could not see these things, vision was denied to him, an accident of his birth, he was told. But he was blessed with other forms of awareness, so his lack of vision was only of limited concern most of the time.

As he came to the final bridge between the castle proper and the king's personal tower, he heard the sounds of combat and the sounds of conjured flame sizzling through the air. An unexpected explosion tore through out one of the tower walls and a terrible beast is blown free, afire, and it screams, a sound so terrible, the staff in the castle proper flee, wailing in terror. The monstrosity screams all the way to the ground, nearly a half mile from the castle.

Cuculane opened himself to his surroundings, the wind spoke to him, smoke told him of the enemy, their scent strong within it. The ground, rumbled and in that rumbling, he knew their numbers, their speed, their weight and their power. Sorcery, crisply scented, cinnamon sparks, telling of the flames cascading through the air incinerating everything in their path, everything except these horrors. The flames screamed their frustration, as the creatures simply refuse to burn. They glowed as metal heated but did not die, at least, not at first.

The flash of brightswords sang out to him, their rune-etched blades singing a song of devastation, each clang of defense or swish of offense, each unique, each telling of their ballet of death and triumph. But their songs were too few, the enemy too strong; this was not the song of impending victory, this was the song of defiant resistance against overwhelming odds. Was that even possible? This was the Red Guard, the twelve of them could clear thousands of Men under any circumstance, no matter what the field of battle. They should be unstoppable.

With his senses tingling, their information producing a world unseen by most, Cuculane pulled his spear into a two handed grip and sprinted across the causeway. Suddenly, the door on the other side flew open, blasted off its hinges. The door split into dozens of ironwood shards narrowly missing Cuculane, who easily sidestepped them, and a member of the Red Guard, Guardsman Prethos, from his sword-song, was backing out of the explosion cloud.

His bright-sword flashed furiously, its flaming edge hungrily consuming chunks of the creature, creating sparks flashing against its steel-hard paws. Half the size of a horse, with the agility of a tiger, this creature screams caused Cuculane to stop in his tracks, involuntarily. He had encountered these hexapeds before, even killed them during his Questing, but these were four times as massive as any he even knew existed, each step spoke of their density and physical power. Each of these terrors weighed six hundred pounds comprised of dense bone, armor plate stronger than steel, with teeth so sharp and jaws so strong, they could bite through the axle of an automobile. Through the open door, Cuculane could hear dozens of the creatures surrounding the high king and the Red Guard.

During the struggle, Guardsman Prethos pushes the creature back with an enchantment. The very wall, taking on the shape of a great hand, clutched the creature and squeezed it in an attempt to crush it. The wall trembled from the strain and the creatures screams seem to destabilize the sorcery. But it held long enough. Prethos was already focused on another spell, this one was not one normally cast in combat, because it required expansive gestures.

To Cuculane, the wind spoke of a barrier, something that would be between him and the king, the formation of a Gulgan; an impenetrable wall meant to keep anything within it trapped. And everything outside of it, safe. You would cast a Gulgan, when you know there is no hope, and you were buying time with your life. Finishing his spell, he turns back to the hexaped, who has shaken off the last pieces of wall and had scrambled back toward Prethos, who having taken the creature's measure and freed from the task of spell casting, brings his sword down fully on the skull of the leaping creature. The blow does not stop the mass of the monster from crashing down on Prethos.

Inside the tower, the battle song has changed. Fire flows freely around the room engulfing everything, the Red Guard and the king are combining their sorceries, each of the songs merging together, creating an ensemble of sounds, a waterfall of flame. The creatures fell back, as if this were unexpected and they seemed to be, thinking, considering their plan of attack. Then as a unit, they creatures howled. The Gulgan shuddered, and Cuculane was knocked off his feet even behind its' protective energies. Getting up, his nose bleeding, he listens for the flame song. He hears nothing but the cinders bemoaning their fate and the fate of everything around them. Prethos rolled the dead behemoth from his body, having been momentarily pinned by its bulk, and rose to his feet.

"Run my Prince, think well of us, for today, we failed the High King. But I will do what must be done," and with that he took the blood of the creature on his sword and drew a blood-rune on the wall of the Gulgan, a rune of destruction, black forbidden magic. Inside, there is movement, both from the creatures and from the Red Guard. The howl of the beasts disrupted the flame magic and killed several of the Red Guard. The king rose to his feet, holding his great spear out in front of him, its three prongs alight with its mightiest magic. "It is ready, my king," whispered Prethos as he fell to his knees. "Run boy, I have never seen the likes of these things, ever, and I have lived three hundred years in Avalon. If this is what the future holds, we are no more. Tell them, leave or perish."

The ground rumbles again and Cuculane is aware of the numbers, two dozen of the creatures still live, but less than five of the Red Guard and the king remain.

I know you can hear me. There is not much time left. We are all spent, but if these creatures get loose in the castle, Caer Caleban is finished. Whoever struck at us, decided to start at the head. They hope to break our spirit. Don't let that happen. The creatures gather their courage. Of all my children, you my stepson, were the only one I trusted. Save our people. Avenge us.

There was a flash of light. Cuculane did not see it. But the sound was the purest sound he has ever known. He knew he would never forget it. Then there was a blast of withering heat, an explosion he felt even through the barrier of the Gulgan. Then nothing.

* * *

Cuculane ran through the forest, a ground-eating lope only matched by gazelles, he could hear the hexapeds out in front of him. All pretense of stealth behind them, the beasts screamed as they lead Cuculane's own hell-hounds through the forest at breakneck speeds. Cuculane moved with feline grace, gripping his spear ahead of him, leaping clear of the brush and landing on the other side and listening. The sword on his back was only of arm's length but with a blade so sharp, it could slice through the trunk of a tree with ease; he feared it would still not be enough.

Cuculane's armor barely moved, and made nary a sound, even at his full out run. It was comprised of a mesh of qubar chain and ceramic plates that were light but strong and did not obstruct his movement. The armor would deflect a longbow or a bullet with equal facility. His legs were relatively lightly armored with only a warded mithral mesh to protect them. A silvered hobnail boot with a raised knob and a protective sole would keep him safe from the razor grass of his family's keep in Avalon. He wore no helm, it interfered with his super-acute hearing.

His eyes were dark, strange pools of liquid blackness, with no irises, and no vision. Their lack of vision did not prevent him from knowing every step, every tree, every blade of grass, each whispered to him its location, its temperament, and submitted to his will, moving aside if possible, warning him if not. Each step was sure, powerful and propelled him to greater effort. Listening to the wind, it still spoke of the tragedy of King Fagan's death, spreading it from tree to tree, each shuddering with the news before passing it to the next one. Cuculane heard their whisperings and remembered...

He woke up covered in a fine rock powder, in his mouth, on his skin, in his hair. He had been unconscious for only a few minutes, but it was long enough. The wind screamed at him, berated him, consoled him. He strode into the center of the court and found thirty of the six legged armor-plated monstrosities strewn about King Fagan's body.

The nearby trees extolled the horror of the creatures landing within them, burning with awful fire and lying dead beneath them, at least a score or more. The castle walls wept chips of stone and bemoaned to Cuculane where the creatures were blown through them with such force, people on the other sides were killed by shrapnel. The air was alive with the screams of terror, pain, and suffering.

Kneeling, he touched the High King, held his hand and felt the life leave him. King Fagan, Firelord of Caer Caleban, High King of New Avalon fought valiantly and his body showed the signs. He had invoked his balfor armor and its black, ensorcelled, stone covered his body from head to food. Not that it mattered, the creatures tore slashes through it as if it were little more than a delicate foil, leaving deep and terrible gashes all across his body, a lesser man would have died seconds after receiving any one of them.

The Gulgan contained the explosion destroying only the tower, every living thing within it and then itself. Without it, the entire castle and the city surrounding it would have been destroyed. There was no way this many enemies could appear on the grounds of the castle... unless they had help.

Thaddeus Howze © 2010, All Rights Reserved

Ebook stats, and the Slush Pile...

Posted by Larry Winfield on September 11, 2010 at 9:43pm

I have my novel placed in about a dozen ebook sites, either for sale or for free download. Only half of these keep stats, but so far i have 845 copies of the book downloaded, and 494 times the novel has been viewed online. Granted, there are very few sales, but then, this is an ebook and the goal is exposure, so I'm happy with these numbers, for now.

---

On another front, I had a disturbing thought the other day - that the growing number of self-published novels in individual author sites and free (or low price) ebook sites, all clamoring for sales or reviews, is becoming the online manifestation of the ubiquitous 'slush pile,' destined to languish in electronic obscurity no matter how well written or received they may be, if the authors aren't pushing them at publishing companies. Am I included in this literary limbo?

I thought at first that because I didn't have the $500 or more for a professional editor or proofreader to comb through my manuscript, just having a single grammar or spelling error would condemn my novel forever, but looking around the blogosphere, I actually found some comfort.

What actually qualifies as slush or truly crappy writing? According to DustinM from 'Who Is Going to Read the Slush Pile?' at Blog Fiction:

By 'Crap', I don't mean stories that are trite or have characters that aren't "real". By Crap I mean major, awful, blunders. Things like:

* The Story isn't finished and stops either mid chapter or even mid-sentence
* Spelling and Grammar is so atrocious that it's hard to understand
* Blatant Plagiarism (word-for-word) or even more suble versions like (same story with changed names & dates)
* Doesn't match the story or description
* Huge logic or story blunders, like a character's name gets changed half way through the story.
* The story is missing either a beginning, middle, or end

That made me feel a lot better. So, going by that measure, really terrible writing should be easy enough to spot. In that case, just how much slush is actually in the 'slush pile'?

I found a couple encouraging points at Salon.com, in the letters section replying to a June 22nd article "When anyone can be a published author" by Laura Miller:

"Fears of slush are greatly overstated

I've read slush for a living before, and I've worked for a top five New York publisher. Almost all of it is obviously garbage two or three pages in, and can be summarily dismissed without much effort.

Personally, I'm all for the replacement of gatekeepers with tastemakers. There is a much lighter touch to the latter. Do the genuinely funny youtube videos have a hard time rising to prominence? Not that I've seen. Reading literary fiction certainly involves a greater investment of attention, but I'm confident the same dynamic can prevail.

—Sylvain "

"The Revolution will not go through Manhattan

This whole idea of the publishing industry being just a bunch of well-meaning literature lovers puttering around their tiny little cluttered NY offices is nonsense. Publishing is controlled by large multi-national conglomerates. The industry is driven by marketing. When the self-publishing revolution topples it, will there be bad books? Sure. (There are plenty of bad books now, so I don't see why we have to nod obediently when the publishing industry tells us that we don't know what we're talking about). Something else better will rise in its place.

Besides, pretty much every other art form has embraced DIY. Take music for example, you can write an album, play every instrument and sing, record and distribute and it yourself and nobody gives a shit about that, as long as it's good. Same for film and visual arts. Only in books is DIY a stigma. And I understand why: it is a direct threat to their business. And that is all.

—AchillesisCrying"

Ok, so I feel a lot less slushy now, at least until my book gets thoroughly molested by agents or prospective publishers regardless of the fans I've won so far. Cool...

How We Can Promote Afro Speculative Fiction

Posted by Stafford Battle on September 11, 2010 at 1:00pm

A comment has been posted on the Internet about "How Should We Promote Black Sci-Fi?" I respond, "Writers of African speculative fiction could have a significant presence in the literary world if we use the Web correctly."

We must cross link. Meaning, use BSFS as the hub, but always, place web hyperlinks on your individual web sites to find other pages related to our genre. Google does a TERRIBLE job of finding links to African American speculative fiction or African American Science Fiction. Be sure to use appropriate meta tags on your web pages so that readers can find you.

Search for your web site frequently, and take action to improve your rankings.

Visit all our sites. See me here and at:

http://www.sbattle.com

http://ww.afroscifi.net

http://www.africanamericansciencefiction.com

If you are not listed, send me an email. I will list and promote your book or site for FREE.

Toys Wonderful Toys!!!

Posted by Terrence D Thompson on September 8, 2010 at 11:29pm

Here are the deets of my toys. I will reveal the quote prices when I get them. Depending on what it costs, will decide if go with http://www.patchtogether.com/.

THE AGE OF SLEEPING

The world man knows is customizable planet called a Walkabout. A ever changing sphere half,made of "Core Elements" that can refined into any
"source" that is demanded. A time and place when man spends his entire
life in his spacesuit.These suits serve as
habitat,transportation,communication ,ect. Virtual luggage for the mind
and body that can reproduce every human function while adding new ones.
The mind moves the behemoth, not the body you born with ,it is all but
obsolete. Our flesh these days serves only as "plan b". The idea was
to give us the capability to survive indefinitely over any
distance,environment, or terrain. Remember, beware of any"body" wearing
"clothes" which acronym for weapon. "All dressed up and no place to
go",maybe the death of you!

CHARACTERS

SHIN_KAWA: A "wataru" who avoids the towns and regularly awake and outside his spacesuit. Its his personal preference to "exist". His secret dream is
to dress up enough so he can fight his back to humans who live
naturally.

HID_EO: She bullies others with a powerful clothed soldier spacesuit,she is absolutely in love with this existence. HID is taken back when she meets SHIN who is not afraid of
her while inside or out of his suit!

DOWNLOAD C.O.D OST FREE EP PREVIEW WTF !!!

Posted by Terrence D Thompson on September 8, 2010 at 11:17pm

A manga with free ep ost? Hell yes!! I dont limit myself to any one genre jerkface!

My good friend RILL ILL hip hop remixed anime and VG songs I hand picked! I wanted these songs remixed for at least 3+ years or more!

SNIPPET C.O.D OST PREVIEW

WAITED SOOOO LONG!

Posted by Terrence D Thompson on September 8, 2010 at 10:47pm

I know many have waited a long time for this. I thought it would be a good time for a art dump and sneak preview! All doubts aside guys, full steam ahead!

CORE OF DREAMING is the official title of my book! C.O.D is a short story compilation graphic novel.

Genre? Let me think...get ready for mouth full.. (of words) SHORT STORY SCIENCE FANTASY FEATURING OTACKU ACTIVISM AS SEEN THROUGH BLUE COLLAR EYES!!

NO BS INNER FANBOY: Gee terrthom that tells me jack and sh!t about whats actually in the book!

Oeffingkay!! Finally after all these years,what will you see in C.O.D? Welllll....

Giant Robots

Tony touch

Big booty tactical espionage

Gurren Laggan Air Yeezys

Pokeman smoking blunts

Briman47

Invisible swords in 3d

Medium Robots

Black people

Swammy

Machine gun weilding contortionist

Steampunk rednecks

Big Daddy Boone

Otacku Activism

Anthony,Ryan, and Joseph

Jehuty g-string

Little robots

Jello

Stretch

1877

Spectacular Weekend in Atlanta

Posted by Diane on September 5, 2010 at 11:02pm

What can I say?

Alien Encounters had great interviews and panel discussions at the Auburn Research Library, I met fellow BSFS'ers, listened to Avery Brooks break the science for those who did not know Paul Robeson, Samuel Delany and others, and finally got lots of pics of my folk doin' the costume thing a

t DragonCon.

I've posted the first series of pics on the Black Author Showcase facebook page, so click and take a look ( I probably have a picture of you sideways).

Oh, and did I mention I have some great video snippets of Avery Brooks? I tried to get a brother to say my name, but that didn't work out.

So check back here and on the Black Author Showcase for the latest from this fantastic Labor Day weekend.

The Aspect War - Chapter 3

Posted by Thaddeus on September 3, 2010 at 11:30pm

Mammon ate.

It did not really matter what he was eating, only that he did. Mammon was always eating. No, that's not right. Mammon was always hungry. No amount of eating ever seem to fill him up. He was always engaged in some sort of feasting. And when he was not eating, he was drinking to excess. It didn't matter what he drank, it did not satisfy him. No matter how much money he had, it did not stop him from wanting more.

The greasy spoon, Max and Momma's was poorly lit with widely spaced bulbs hanging from wires on the ceiling. Each was shrouded with a greasy hood that directed light down onto a hard wood counter top that stretched nearly the length of the restaurant. The table spoke volumes with its well-worn rings where glasses sat, year after year, consolidating moisture on their sides and depositing it on the wood, to sink in, leeching color but adding character.

The floor, barely visible, was a linoleum tiled affair, whose placement was less than perfect, allowing sand and dirt from the men and occasionally women who walked through those doors to accumulate between them, slowly abrading them, smoothing them, establishing permanent tracks through them near the tables bolted to the floor; no amount of mopping ever made them look clean. It was as if the tiles prided themselves on being as dirty as the patrons who frequented this place.

Speaking of the hard men and women who worked at the docks and shipyards nearby, they filled this place wearing their denim jumpsuits or their rubberize suits with their rough hands and even rougher manners. They stank of fish, or cargo boxes, or the sweat needed to move that cargo, clean those ships, or weld those seams. This was their place, their watering hole, and had been so for seventy years; it had weathered two depressions, three recessions, five wars, twelve presidents and had the pictures on the wall to prove it. There were pictures of Momma and Max on the wall through the years, showing up with some of the more colorful visitors, mobsters, mayors, and occasionally, during a voting season, a senator or two. Momma and Max's was an institution, a place venerated by time, outside of time, hence Mammon's visit.

He wore a suit. A simple, but expensive cut, it hung poorly on his lanky frame. His Rolex glimmered sickly in the poor light, as if its quality were diminished by the company he was keeping. That company felt the same way. Between the dockworkers and the mobsters eating in the back, most did not appreciate his intrusion into their humble world with his suit-and-tie effete nature. Nowadays, Mammon barely weighed 80 kilos, no matter what he ate. He had to have his clothes tailored for his spare frame but his recent success in the stock market had provided for all of his needs. This last decade had been very, very good to Mammon.

The owner, Max was of another mindset completely. He was always happy to see Mammon. He always ate a large meal with a bunch of sides, tipped well and always came back. He remembered him when he was also a lot larger too, needed his own table and nothing he wore fit very well. In the last ten years after his last heart attack, he had lost weight consistently and was now all skin and bones. Momma thought he had cancer or something. But it certainly did not affect his appetite or his eatin' manners. Lord, that man was a slob while he ate.

Mammon consumed his burger with gusto, its drippings pouring out from between his fingers and staining the sleeves of his very white shirt and expensive jacket. He favored this place over the fast food places in the city proper because there was so much more flavor oozing from each bite. Lawrence Simmons, the current spiritual residence of Mammon, consumed everything in excess.

Lawrence had always been a glutton and when Mammon found him, he was the picture of unhealthy living. Greasy food was his preference and his two heart attacks and triple-bypass ten years ago showed his dedication to his poor diet. His weight was a massive 250 kilos, just small enough to keep making it out to his favorite fast food restaurants using a heavy cane, and a steady gait. Mammon ate at a lot of fast food restaurants in the city proper, and he was well known at all of these places. He noted between bites that almost all of these places had a staff with eating problems. The more he visited those places the fatter their staff became. It was a slow, but steady process.

His favorite place only a few blocks from his home, the owner had a massive coronary and had to close the place down. Unfortunate. Hence his trip to Max and Momma's. Mammon tried not to each here too often, partially because of the atmosphere, the people not the hole-in-the-wall air, and partially because he was, in his own detached way, fond of Momma and Max.

When she came in the door, his mouth was full of food but the silence that fell over the place was complete. Women stared at her, wondering what she did to keep her figure, men stared trying to imagine themselves next to that figure. She was wearing a close-fitting motorcycle suit that resembled body armor, and was carrying her helmet under her arm. The armor plates on the suit were painted a dark red and the fabric of the suit was a dark gray. As tightly as her suit clung to her, her hair, night black, glistening, hiding secrets, waved freely about her head and shoulders, smelling of night jasmine and honeysuckle. She strode across the room, her pace unhurried and several men, who thought they had a chance to woo her, immediately rose and tried to approach. Mammon did not notice her.

The first, a rakishly handsome fellow slid from his seat with some grace, but as he took his first step, his foot was caught on the edge of one of legs of a chair one of his compatriots and he fell flat on his face. His friends, properly sympathetic and sufficiently lubricated, exploded in gales of laughter and the rake stood up and redirected himself toward the restroom, with the same aplomb as a cat falling off the sofa asleep and immediately pulling itself together as if nothing happened. He was less than successful.

The second gentleman, seeing the catastrophe of the first decided he would wait until she was close enough to him that he could simply stand up and make his presence known. Unbeknown to him, there was a life ring on the ceiling as part of the nautical motif of the place. That ring which had been mounted forty years ago as a part of a boat that was lost during a storm and was the only thing recovered, slipped from its very secure housing and fell onto his plate, splattering him with its contents. She never noticed him.

She continued toward her goal as the tenor of the place returned to normal. Max rushes out to help clean off the poor fellow now covered in his dinner. "Hello, husband." Her voice was strong, yet sultry contralto, the purr of motorcycle with the throttle barely let out.

"Hello Ty, that's ex-husband, didn't you get the paperwork," was Mammon's choked out reply from around his second monster-sized, avocado-bacon burger with grilled onions, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, with a fiery, custom horseradish spread; this was one of Momma's finest works, worth every penny. "You getting the checks okay?"

"Yes, can I sit down?" She did not need his money, but she never sent it back. She knew he said it just to be a bastard.

"Oh, sure. Take a load off. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Mammon noticed she held back what she was really feeling.

"Spare me, you barely know I am here, there is a burger in your hand. Your universe is just that small at the moment."

Ouch. "You know me too well. That's why I married you." Mammon's smile was evident as he remembered the good times they did have all those years ago.

"Funny. I was thinking that was why I divorced you," her tone seemingly playful, suddenly changed and became very low and serious. "I hate to interrupt your recent fascination with food, but I need your help."

Mammon looked at her incredulously while he finished the last of the gastrointestinal delight that was the Belly Buster. He wiped his hands on his napkin which looked at this point, like the victim of a slasher flick, and asked "what kind of trouble could you be in that a convenient accident could not get you out of?"

Mammon remembered how he met her all those years ago in a casino in Vegas, partying, smoking, gambling and winning. She was beautiful then, terribly beautiful and she used it like a weapon. Men were nothing to her but playthings. Her only real interest was their money. She never gambled with her own money back then.

She was lucky, most of the time. She was also careful with her winning, never too much, never too fast, never too often at the same casino, just enough to stay under the radar, but he was fascinated by her string of "luck" and followed her to three different casinos, before he made his move. Their relationship evolved just like both of their lifestyles, extremely fast, to much partying, too much drinking, and the sex, the sex was outstanding. He wore the skin of a wealthy young aristocrat with time, strength and virility on his side.

They were married at the El Rancho Vegas in Las Vegas in 1960. The owner of the hotel, suspected of being a mobster and a killer, took a liking to her. He cornered her somewhere and told her it was in her best interest, since he owned El Rancho Vegas, to consider dumping that zero and getting with a hero. She never took threats well. Two hours after they were married, the place accidentally burned to the ground. He was never found. The cause of the fire was never discovered.

It took Mammon another ten years to learn that accidents like that happened to anyone Tyche didn't take a liking to. It was in the seventies when Mammon discovered that they were both descended from mythic beings and were lesser Powers themselves, hence their attraction to each other, the synergy in their lifestyles and the effectiveness of their occupational abilities.

They decided that even if they were related at the metaphysical level, they were not going to stop being married. The seventies were even wilder than the sixties. Swinging and cocaine were big then and what they did not spend on sex and coke, they spent it on crazy fashion, big hair and bigger sunglasses, crazy bell-bottoms, and the eventual fall of Nehru jackets.

Then the eighties came, and there was so much money to be made, Mammon worked all the time, and as Mammon progressed, so did society and its need for greed. He learned that his power affected humanity at a global level and the more he wanted, the more they wanted. He simply did not have time for Tyche and she drowned her sorrows in other men and new designer drugs. They fell out, moved out, cried on the phone, made up, had great sex, got back together, then rinse and repeat.

This went on all through the eighties until the War. They were drafted. Mammon was killed. Until then, they lived their lives in relative unawareness of their powers and abilities. Mammon's memory was returned to him after he died and lost his body. He was rescued and resurrected by another Power. His memories were taken from him in the late 1920s and he was left to wander the Earth as a mortal, inconsequential and unknowing.

During the Conflict in the eighties, with his memory restored, so were his powers. He was forced to battle the lesser power called Gluttony, who was hoping to expand his dominion into the realm of money. Gluttony lost the conflict and Mammon was forced to consume him to take his power instead.

Growing more powerful, but was now in dominion over another Realm, he became a Glutton as well. He was drawn toward food in ways he had never been before. As Mammon, he was in dominion over Man's obsession with money, now he was in dominion over personal greed and gluttony. It changed him. In his nature, Mammon ate well, the finest foods, no matter their cost, now the Glutton in him would eat anything, anywhere, even out of a garbage can. During the early years of this new power, he simply could not stop eating everything in sight. He burned through body after body, until he got the Power under some level of control.

Tyche also left him, obsessed with the new understanding of her powers, she became a hedonist and a sensationalist, always seeking the next thrill. They fell apart during his eating-from- garbage-cans phase and when he resurfaced in this body, some ten years ago, she was sickened by him, fat, smelly and totally disgusting. Tyche had also changed during those years. She learned that while she had amazing abilities and no human could match her in any physical, mental, or emotional contest, she was simply at the lowest level of Power amongst her kind. She fell from their circles and returned to Earth. In her mind better to slum as a Power, than to live amongst gods as a weakling.

"It is the Selig Court." was her whispered reply.

"I can't help you, you know that. Nobody can." The Selig Court was a power in its own right. They were not related to the Aspects, who were their family or the modern gods who were offshoots of other godlike beings or demigods. Instead they seem to descend from the terrible Old Gods, once beings of immense power, until they were thrown down by the angelic White Host in the 12th century. The Old Gods were savage and brutal. No one missed them except the Selig Court who were a group of human or near human hybrids blessed with the power of their gods, the magic of their gods and the tempers of their gods. They were romanticized in much of modern literature as tricksters and incompetents but they were far more dangerous than that. Any writer that claimed that probably had not met one in the flesh. If he had, he would have learned that the best thing they could do for you was to kill you. Everything else was far worse.

It was probably no accident the White Host nearly destroyed them during the Great Pogrom. Their fall from grace seemed to reduce their power significantly and they retreated from the world into nearby Shard Realms harassing humans in the following centuries bringing plague and the like until the early 19th Century. They were rarely heard from these days, and in the case of most modern gods, thought to be a myth to frighten children with. Mammon was old enough to remember them and what they were like. He wanted nothing to do with them.

A blind man comes through the door with a large service animal and makes his way into the restaurant. His service animal, a dog breed of an unknown pedigree, but a bit larger than normal led him through the restaurant to a table near Mammon and Tyche in the back of the restaurant. He was conservatively dressed, nothing flashy, but nothing that you would remember either. His look was one to make you forget you ever saw him. Damn.

"They're here" he whispers to Tyche and looks toward the blind man.

The blind man ordered his meal and Mammon noticed his smooth and fluid movements; not too conservative, but with no overt flourish. He seemed to use just enough of all types of movement to relay information and expectation, without being too forward or to reticent. His waitress flushed while she took his order, and rushed away without knowing why. Her breath was ragged and she was excited to be serving him. When his food returned, his plate was perfect and she took great pleasure in describing his food's location on the plate.

Mammon looked at the service dog and noticed how it eyed the waitress hungrily, as if she were an appetizer he could not wait to consume. A slow lavish lick of his tongue across his snout indicated his anticipation. While the dog was licking his lips, his master had slid his hand behind the waitress and was skillfully and discreetly massaging her buttocks. She blushed more but did not ask him to stop. Tyche looked a bit annoyed. Mammon knew why.

"A one-time friend, perhaps? Jealous much?" he whispered to Tyche.

"Go fuck yourself, Mammon," was her angry reply. But the heavy sighing that followed revealed what she would not say.

After the waitress left, smiling and blushing, the man turned to his meal. Mammon noted that he had not removed his shades but they did not detract from his appearance. Even in the wan light, he could tell the man was incredibly handsome, with a strong chin, a sharp nose and slightly pointed ears. His hair was fair, a whitish blond that hung past his neckline in a jagged cut. It did not make him appear foppish, instead it gave a savage look to his appearance. When you looked at him and his dog, you noticed there were similarities to both their hairstyles. Mammon remembered a People magazine article saying that people tended to look like their dogs.

He was widely shouldered but his clothing belied his bulk, making him appear smaller and less well defined. It was hard to know if it was the clothing or a glamour that aided in that illusion. "Sir, could you be so kind to pass the horseradish. I love a bit of spice on my burger. I can tell that you do as well. It is easy to recognize a connoisseur, like yourself. "

Mammon grabs the cup of horseradish and moves toward the next table. "Here you go, fella. You see pretty well for a blind man."

"Sight obscures, the heart reveals. Take a seat, Great One, eat with me."

"Are you invoking hospitality?"

"For this meal, yes, you and your wife-sister are safe, from me and mine," the blind man's voice was like a choir, melodious with choral overtones. He sounded as if he spoke with more than one voice.

No matter what he thought of it, Mammon knew what had to be done, etiquette demanded that he be as polite as his host. "Brother to the Fey, how may I be of service unto thee and thine? My wife and I are at your service," the words fell like ashes from his mouth, dry and bitter. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, what appellation is used to designate your august person?"

"You may call me the Fire Hound of House Caleban, " was his quiet reply.

"A noble house to be sure." House Caleban! What has she done? That is the Royal House Caleban, the current leader of the Selig Court. Lead by the insane king Fagan, also known as the Firelord and his mutually insane queen Edana.

"Great One, I am loathe to bring such an unseemly matter to your attention."

No you are not.

Be quiet, Dog.

Do I look like a dog to you?

As a matter of fact, yes. Now silence.

Yes, my dark master. I hunger.

Soon my pet, you will eat soon.

"There is a debt owed to my house by your wife, the Lady Tyche." The seemingly blind man reaches down to his hamburger, slathers it with horseradish and puts it under the table. His hand comes back empty in a matter of seconds. Mammon never saw the animal move.

Oh Tyche, what did you do? Did you break this man's heart? Did you steal from him? What would you have done to owe the Selig anything? What can I do? Mammon began to sweat, not from eating, but from the fear of there being a conflict with the Selig. "Can I ask what offense she has given?" Propriety indicated that he should not ask, that he should offer restitution, but he wanted to know what happened and he could not ask her now.

The man leaned forward and turned his face toward Mammon. "She wagered in a Selig Court and tried to cheat a member of the royal family." The venom was unmistakable. "The Old Ones demand recompense in blood and souls." For the first time since he arrived, he appeared menacing, a creature of the Fey, hunters of Men.
"What price would you ask?" Mammon knew this was a risk, allowing them to name the recompense meant they could ask for anything they deemed reasonable. "I know the games of the Selig Court and they are often filled with mischief and chicanery."

"Well said, Great One."

Indeed, I think he is calling your bluff, oh master.

Silence, Dog. He will meet my price.

How do you know?

He values little in the world, but we know that this woman still means something to him. He will pay.

Why him, master?

Of all the Great Ones, he has the most to lose and the least retinue protecting him. He is practically human. Using him, we will kill them all!

"When she came to the Court, she claimed to understand our relationship. She became my Consort and she said that she would abide by our rules. She used her Power in my house and would alter our games of chance. I lost valued retainers, their lives forfeit by her manipulations. I invoke blood and souls." His calm façade had begun to crack. His mellifluous voice trembled with intensity.

Inwardly Mammon laughed. Tyche had that effect on Men, no matter who or where they were. "As you know, Brother to the Fey, I have no kingdom to speak of, nor retainers to give unto to thee for service. You have no use of filthy lucre, of which I am known best for, so I would ask how would you expect payment?"

"In souls, of course." His voice was low and threatening and it pissed Mammon off. "And we expect them now."

Tyche was aghast. "What are you expecting him to do, make souls for you?"

"His method of payment matters not, only that he pay now. We will accept Essence as an alternative if payment in souls cannot be done."

Mammon was enraged. Their game was clear now. This was flat out extortion. Much of the magic made by the Fey in our world was illusion. Illusion normally cannot hurt you but if you are unable to see through that illusion, it could be fatal to the unaware. With the addition of Essence, they were able to make permanent and real magic; events that affect the real world, no matter where they were, no matter what the laws of physics say. Tyche would not know this, it was before her time and beyond her Power. She could not give Essence, only use it. Essence was the true currency of the Aspects and Gods. With enough of it, you could bend the world to your whim.

He balks.

He knows the laws, he will pay. There is still the incentive…

As Mammon seethed, the rest of the room grew more focused on their food. Conversation stopped, concentration increased; each mouthful a tiny bit of worship. They consumed it with a gusto reserved for the starving and they ordered more. Mammon did not speak and the Fey did not rush him. Food was being prepared faster and faster, and the patrons ate more and more. The kitchen ran out of food thirty minutes later. They did not stop when the food ran out. They licked their plates and clamored for more. They ordered coffee and desserts, since they were already prepared on the counter as a variety of cakes and pies. Pies wedges flew around the room like tiny shuttlecraft, docking with any mouth in sight. Mammon closed his eyes, his rage increasing.

Tyche looked away from both of them, ashamed. You will pay, I don't care who you are the son of, or the prince of, no one owns me and no one saves me. This is the last debt of mine, you will ever pay.

When the cakes and pies were done and the coffee and tea were gone, the patrons started in on each other. There were no screams, each consumed their neighbor with the same gusto they had the pie a moment before. There was ripping and tearing of flesh. Blood flowed. Each customer seemed rapt within an ecstasy of consumption. Madness glittered in every eye, but no one stopped. Entrails were rent from bellies, filling themselves until they were complete gorged. In fifteen minutes, there was no movement in the restaurant.

The dog watched and whimpered.

"I do not know you, Brother, and I do not like you. I do not care that you come from the mightiest family amongst your kind. Your payment is complete. Never darken my doorway again." Mammon held out a coin, apparently made of a dark metal. "Take it and go." He slammed the coin on the table and when he did, the bodies in the room writhed one last time, released a gasp, a sound so fell, so saddening, for a moment, even the Fey was moved; his hound turned over on its side as if it had been struck by a club, then the bodies fell onto the floor and died. A soundless echo swept through the room and centered on the silver coin. It burned with a black light.

'Ware milord, that is bloodmetal!

"Great One, you realize that coin is iron." The prince raised an eyebrow but remained otherwise motionless.

"How you get it home is your business. You have been paid. Get out of my face." Mammon stood up and looked around. He power pulsed within him. He was looking at the wall of photographs of different patrons through the years. Striding to the far wall, he pulls the picture of Lawrence Simmons, Max and Momma from the wall. He stares down at the picture, lost in that moment in time. The smell of gas begins to permeate the restaurant.

Tyche touches his hand and when she does, she feels the Hunger, the unrelenting hunger that crashes through his being, every moment of the day, a hunger so powerful you would eat out of a garbage can, you would eat filth off the street, you would chew off your own arm to make it stop. She gasped, but held on. "We have to go, Mammon. Now."

A fire started in the kitchen as the blind man, now wearing black gloves picks up his walking stick, grabs the coin and kicks his dog.

What was that for?

Because I can. It burns me. I will make him pay.

"Great One, before you leave, my mother the Queen said that you would take this from her. That she owed you a favor that she was prepared to repay. But to do so, you would have to travel to Avalon. Take this favor, so that you would know no obstacles on your road to Cair Caleban.

"Tell your queen to go fuck herself."

"She said you might say that. She said to tell you that the High Queen of Babylon is awake." She said that would make you come to her.

"Tell your Highness that the Queen of Babylon is long banished and long dead, she died when Babylon died. I know. I was there." And good riddance to her.

The Prince of Caleban threw the favor at Mammon who had turned his back and had begun walking toward the door as the fire spread. At the last second, it was Tyche who snatched the favor from the air, inches from Mammon's head. They were standing in the doorway, When he touched it, the magic was released.

The restaurant exploded. Mammon awoke in the street with Tyche unconscious near him. The restaurant was in flames and completely unrecognizable. The prince was also gone.

He had not felt the touch of that magic in five thousand years. Such a tiny drop too, it was smaller than the head of a pin but the destructive power was unforgettable. The daughter of the Aspect of Destruction, creator of earthquakes, the summoner of volcanoes, the master of fires and the destroyer of cities, mother to monsters and killer of gods. The signature was fading but unmistakable and impossible.

Mammon got up, picked up his photo, knocked the broken glass out of the frame, picked up a half eaten donut from the curb, threw Tyche over his shoulder and began to contemplate a visit to the Queen while he pondered the unthinkable.

Outpost: The Conclusion

Posted by Ronald T. Jones on August 31, 2010 at 1:30am

The remaining two days saw Alec active throughout the outpost, occupying himself with repairs large and small. He was checking a power converter in a reactor chamber when the compu-aid’s voice broke his concentration.

Hostile craft of Jepthala design have breached the outer boundary marker. ETA 17 hours.

Alec stopped what he was doing, placed his tools back into his pouch, and climbed into the maglev transport that would take him to his quarters.

At the 17th hour, Commander Alec Dishman, commanding officer of United Empire Outpost Installation Epsilon Salient, stepped onto the command/control deck. He wore his dress uniform, maroon tunic with a UE martial emblem embroidered on each shoulder, and black slacks with matching calf high boots polished to a mirror luster. He was clean shaven, his hair cut to regulation perfection. Alec strode to the console with a pep he hadn’t exhibited in years.

“Are we ready to rock and roll, Co-aid?”

It took a brief search through its databank of archaic colloquialisms for the compu-aid to understand the question. All defense systems are fully prepped and online, Commander.

“Good.”

Commander, there is a transmission originating from the lead inbound hostile.

Alec raised a brow. “Someone wants to talk. Put it on the overhead holo-display.”

The face of a Jepthala materialized several feet above the commander. The live image was even more frightening to behold than the representative briefing graphic. Of course there were many species within the UE who were far from aesthetically pleasing to human eyes. But none of those species harbored the full, devastating weight of their ill will toward the UE like the floating face that drilled into Alec with the fire of its gaze.

The Jepthala’s wide, thin lips moved in utterance. Co-aid translated.

I am Ijon, War Seer of the Ninth Spear. I claim this outpost as the rightful possession of the Jepthala Domain. Surrender and you will be swiftly released from the shackles of your mortal existence. Resist and the agony of your transition into death will last for days.

Alec could not hold back the grin tickling his throat. “Pleased to meet you, Ijon, War Seer of the Ninth Spear. I am Commander Alec Dishman. Here is my response to you: If you have a concept of hell then I suggest you and your cohorts prepare yourselves to be sent there. I will not surrender this outpost to you.”

The Jepthala image tilted its head as if intensely scrutinizing the human. Then you will follow your dead empire into oblivion.

The image vanished.

Alec sat in the chair before the console and placed his head in the dome. “I don’t think our Jepthala friend is very happy with me.”

On the contrary, commander, I would say the Jepthala welcomes this fight, in keeping with their cultural predilection toward violence.

“Thanks for the anthropological insight, Co-aid.” Alec became linked into every section of the outpost.

Through active surveillance probes and fixed position sensors connected to the outpost superstructure, Alec observed a teeming mass of approaching Jepthala ships. The ships in the van were small and arrow shaped. Much larger wedge shaped craft followed. Protrusions of varied sizes covering the heavy ships suggested that they bristled with turrets and projectile batteries.

The arrow ships opened fire. Pinpricks of light streamed from the bottom of each vessel, becoming self guiding the closer to their massive target they approached. A curtain of explosions veiled empty space some fifty miles short of the outpost. The lights, identified by Co-aid, as deuterium spheres, collided with the outpost defense screen. The arrow ships wheeled about as a second rank closed in, unleashing more deuterium spheres, blanketing the defense screen in a glaring sheen of violent eruptions.

Alec sent a command to the most forward positioned drone weapon platforms. Fifty platforms, each half the size of a UE warship, but containing twice the armament capacity, opened fire. Platform railguns pumped out fragments of nuclear cores wrapped in metal containment casings at a rate of a half million rounds per second. A storm of nuke-rounds flooded the gap between platforms and enemy ships. In a matter of seconds 2,000 arrow ships disappeared and a gaseous expanse of spewing debris took their places. The platforms fired unremittingly, railguns swiveling side to side, slashing gleaming furrows through a compression of Jepthala ships. Thousands more arrow ships navigated the tearing teeth of the platform guns to launch more deuterium spheres across the length and breadth of the defense screen.

The screen is weakening, Commander. Enemy weapons are having an effect.

Through the bright flashes and frenetic chaos of combat, Alec could make out fluctuations in the outpost’s screen that would not have been visible to his natural sight. Distortions and discoloration denoting patches of weaknesses in the shield.

Alec ordered the platforms to pull back just as a section of the screen failed. Arrow ships soared through the breach, several colliding with each other as they jammed through the narrow passage at blurring velocities. The platforms directed fire on the bottleneck, incinerating hundreds of arrow ships. But additional gaps in the screen sent waves of arrow ships toward alternative entry points. The wedge shaped ships followed suit when breaches large enough to accommodate their gargantuan sizes developed.

The wedge ships targeted the platforms. They scoured the automated vessels with huge missiles that slammed into hulls, exploding upon contact. At first, the missiles seemed to have little effect, producing dented areas on each platform in spite of the tremendous energy released by their impacts. The punishment sustained by the platforms would have lain waste half a planet. Yet, the platforms withstood the punishing gale, while in turn savaging the wedge ships with gleaming lances of retaliation. Two hundred wedge ships pulsed glaring fury like stars turned nova, before the first platform broke apart beneath the relentless hammering of enemy bombardment.

A second platform died, and then another and another until there were no more automated death dealers left to contest the wedge ships’ onslaught.

Alec and the outpost’s 85 anti-ship missile batteries acted with one mind, one conscious. The missile battery control computer triggered mass launches, sending thousands of missiles blazing like flying swords into a dense wall of enemy ships. The anti-ship missiles were immensely powerful, and the wedge ships were poorly shielded. That made for a fetching recipe of carnage as anti-ship missiles bit into the vulnerable skins of a thousand wedge ships, ripping them to pieces, sparing no survivors. A second set of anti-ship batteries picked off the arrow ships with near total accuracy as they swarmed over the outpost, pelting the superstructure with ordnance.

Japthala ships were taking losses at a rate that would have prompted any other besieging force to withdraw. Horrendous, terrible losses. Yet, the Japthala ships kept coming. Fast and reckless. By the thousands, their white-hot carcasses littered the near space around the outpost. Yet, they kept coming.

Alec lost the POV of fifty missile and energy turret batteries. The outpost’s capacity to defend itself had been reduced drastically in six hours of nonstop fighting. Alec’s physical body was drained, his uniform soaked with sweat. The commander’s mind, however, was too immersed in flaring, high velocity images of battle to take notice. The north section of the outpost erupted, wiping out another bank of weapons emplacements. Damage reports flashed across Alec’s awareness, sharing space with multitudinous bits of tactical data.

The commander gathered that the outpost was in serious trouble. More devastating explosions tore through parts of the installation, channeling a raging tsunami of particle energy deep into the guts of the outpost.

The compu-aid counseled evacuation as cascading Jepthala missiles ravaged the already cratered surface of the outpost. Alec ignored the suggestion and continued to pour every ounce of his essence into annihilating as many enemy ships as the remaining batteries could target.

A breach alert screamed. Sustained wedge ship attacks had blasted a hole at the bottom of the outpost, near the main reactor section. Black armored Jepthala boarding parties surged through the breach into the spanning interior of the outpost.

Alec burned with humiliation, bristled with rage. No enemy soldier had ever set foot inside a UE outpost. The commander directed his combat avatars to intercept the boarders before they advanced any further into the interior.

The CAs and Jepthala soldiers clashed at a junction on Deck 7.

At a height of 18 feet, the roughly human configured CAs towered over their foes. Light flickered intensely bright from the CAs’ shoulder and wrist mounted plasma-ejectors. Rapid-firing plasma bolts made short work of the first wave of enemy boarders. The wide corridor was clogged with clumps of fused flesh and metal that used to be armor-clad warriors.

More breaches flared at other parts of the outpost. More CAs scrambled to engage additional boarders. Alec saw through the CAs’ ‘eyes’ the death he was meting out to the enemy and a primal part of him savored the bloody handiwork of close quarter slaughter.

Again, the compu-aid insisted on Alec’s evacuation. The outpost defenses were being overwhelmed by enemy fire. Plus, despite the CAs best efforts to expel boarding parties, eventually numbers would tell. Thousands of Jepthala soldiers were already running amok throughout the outpost, replacing the thousands who perished. Thousands more streamed through hundreds of new breaches. The heavy blasters the Jepthala soldiers wielded were ineffective as individual weapons against super-hardened avatar armor. But hundreds of such weapons, unleashed in concentrated doses upon a single CA, proved capable of taking a machine down.

One by one, CAs fragmented in a scorching drench of enemy blaster fire. Each avatar fought to the last, functional second. Their plasma weapons exterminated the enemy in broad, blinding strokes.

Alec was too caught up in the howling gestalt of combat to notice that his CA views had been reduced to one avatar.

The CA had been cornered in a hangar on Deck 23, surrounded on all sides by a horde of Jepthala. Alec’s neural link to that last avatar was less a signal, more a malevolent spirit, snaring its mechanical host in a seething grip of demonic possession. Only the Jepthala’s own god knew precisely how many of his children were slain before they managed to blast the CA to smithereens.

Of course, the death of the last CA mattered little to Alec. Nor did the destruction of every defense battery, save two, concern the commander. Enemy footfalls thundered through every level within the outpost. The ominous sounds drew ever closer to the command/control deck, but Alec’s physical hearing was not attuned to the danger snarling toward him. All he wanted to do was to kill the enemy…kill them until he could kill no more. And after that, he could finally die for a dead empire.

A massive explosion churned up ten miles of the outpost’s top segment in a series of blazing ruptures. Shockwaves whiplashed through the interior, reaching the cloistered walls of the command-control deck in a pounding tide.

Alec was ejected from his chair a second and half after lightning bursts of feedback flooded his dome, tearing away his linkages in a violent disconnect. The commander writhed on the floor in the throes of cardiac arrest. The command-control deck crumbled around him. Alec’s world grew dimmer. He saw death’s glorious hand reaching out to him…

Alec awoke expecting to find himself in whatever bliss qualified as an afterlife. Instead, he noticed how all too tangible his surroundings were and realized, to his dismay, that he was still alive. He was a lying on a cot, inside the medical bay of a ship. And from the faint vibration of motion seeping through the bulkheads, a fast moving ship. A human size avatar, faceless and stiff, entered the bay holding a diagnostic scan.

Alec hopped off the cot and knocked the scan out of the avatar’s hand when it attempted to do a medical assessment. He stormed out of the med bay, into a wider compartment of the craft. He ventured further, passing two more avatars until he reached the forward window and peered out. A star strewn expanse greeted the captain, vast and serene. When Alec checked the rear view monitor, however, he saw a swarm of arrow shaped Jepthala ships in pursuit. The embattled outpost was visible on the display, rapidly diminishing with distance.

“Co-aid, what the hell is this? What did you do?” Alec yelled.

I sent available avatars to revive and subsequently remove you from the outpost. You were transferred through passageways unknown to the enemy and placed aboard this shuttle.

If Co-aid were a person, Alec would have surely strangled him. Instead, the commander had to be content with flexing his hands at his sides in murderous longing. “Don’t play the fool with me, Co-aid! I did not order you to evacuate me!”

No, you did not.

“Then why did you do it?”

I felt it necessary.

“Necessary! You felt…” Alec took a deep breath to compose himself. “It’s not your job to feel. Your job is to follow orders!”

Since I have already acted without orders, the matter is moot.

Before Alec could express further dismay at the compu-aid’s seeming impudence, the AI posed a question.

Commander, do you believe in the ideals of the United Empire?

Taken aback by the question, Alec’s ire receded enough for him to consider it thoughtfully. “Well, yes. I always have, even when the UE stopped living up to those ideals.”

That is why I saved you, Commander. You never stopped believing. I am confident that there are countless UE refugees who never stopped believing as well. It is through them and through you that the United Empire lives. It will be through your efforts, if you are willing to shoulder the burden, that the United Empire will rise again. You have a chance to live to pursue a new purpose. Or you can seek your solace in death.

Alec was speechless for several seconds before he found his voice. “I didn’t realize you were capable of such…passion about a matter.”

I am merely attempting to direct you toward a constructive way to cope with your losses.

A peal of static filled the cockpit. Alec realized that Co-aid was transmitting from the outpost. The AI had not transferred itself to the fleeing shuttle.

“Co-aid. I need you here with me. I recognize my purpose, now, thanks to you. But you’ve got to get out of the outpost so we can do this thing together.”

My purpose has been served, Commander.

Alec leaned on the shuttle control console. The weight of sudden sorrow clung to his words in spite of his best effort to conceal it. “Co-aid, listen carefully. I order you to transfer yourself to this shuttle.”

My function is intricately tied to outpost operations. My consciousness, to use a biological term, cannot be extracted. In other words, I am the outpost.

Helplessness draped over the commander. He stared sullenly at the shuttle console, desperately thinking of a procedure he could perform that would save a computer that had been more than a computer to him for the past five years.

“Co-aid…I…”

It has been an honor serving you, Commander.

An eruption of light as bright as a bursting star appeared on the rear view monitor.

Alec stood frozen. His glistening eyes were locked on the display, watching a smear of brilliance dim to a twirling emptiness where Outpost Epsilon Salient once existed but seconds earlier.

Co-aid had triggered a self destruct. There was no telling how many Jepthala died in the blast. The Jepthala ships trailing the shuttle quickly broke off their pursuit.

A part of Alec rejoiced at Co-aid’s final gift to the enemy. Another, larger part of him throbbed with the pain of yet another loss.

Alec drew himself erect and lifted his hand in the most heartfelt salute he had ever given in his career. “The honor was mine, my friend.”

A few minutes later, Alec transferred control of the shuttle from automatic to manual. He had no idea where to start in his quest to renew an empire. So, he set a random course and embarked on it.

The Aspect War - Chapter 2

Posted by Thaddeus on August 30, 2010 at 10:29am

War laughed.The sound was discordant with the scene of blood and eviscerated corpses all around him. The god of War stood over a battlefield and enjoyed the early morning smell of charred flesh and destruction. The bitter stench of brimstone and gunpowder wafted on the morning breeze, tingling his nostrils and reminding him of battles in other places and other times, each as memorable, in their own way, their signature of violence, unique in that moment. He surveyed the landscape with a practiced eye and was pleased with what he saw. The conflict, while relatively small, was satisfying for all of its human suffering.War was not like the other younger gods. War was not unnerved by the loss of human life. The Others felt that the younger gods should strive for harmony with mankind, harvest their worshipful energies, teach them how best to serve, and glut themselves on that spiritual effluvia. War had no such compunction. If anything, he had no interest in the direct worship of man. Instead, man was his plaything, his action figures; he felt humans were built for war; petty, selfish, mean, childish, hateful. They had so many handles that could be manipulated. It was only natural for them. This did not mean he did not respect them. No, War had a healthy respect for the destructive nature of man, the same way a dog trainer was cautious with a breed of dog known for biting, he trained men to bite everyone but him, and then sent them to attack other men when they got the idea to attack War instead. They were so predictable, it was almost no fun.Through the fog of the early dawn, the landscape promised to be arid, dry and hot. There was not much left to see but the rising smoke from the fires, dirty soldiers making their way back to their field commands, and occasionally stopping to put a man out of his misery. They did not shoot those men. Bullets were expensive, so the work was very personal. War was pleased. He began walking toward his tents, where his retinue were packing up and preparing to move on to the next campaign area. His troops were mostly child warriors from nearby Darfur, with a smattering of older and more experience soldiers, really bullies mostly, leading these groups. There were about a dozen mercenary groups hidden away at a nearby base awaiting instructions. They would arrive by helicopter only if the expendable troops were not able to get the job done.War was dressed in the body of Mani Kunjufu, an African warlord, about two meters tall, strongly built, well fed, with a harsh countenance that his troops found unnerving if he stared too long in their direction. He had a terrible scar on his face, running down his right cheek from a knife wound. It had healed badly and had a puckered, unhealthy appearance. War was sure to show that scar to anyone who would question his authority.The tale associated with it was told around the camp whenever he was not around. One of the bully guards was beating a child soldier at the end of an encounter. The boy had failed to hold his ground and ran from the fight. As the bully was disciplining the boy, he made the mistake of impugning Kunjufu's desire to engage in combat; something about him being weak, dirty and unable to fight like a man, hiding behind his soldiers. Before War claimed him, Mani Kunjufu might have been all of those things. War did not choose him because he was a good soldier. He chose him because he could do what was needed. It was clear that he did not know about War's possession, having only recently been hired and like most bullies believed his own bravado and toughness could not be matched by some new warlord come to town.Unfortunate for him, War was nearby and keenly aware of the discourse. When the bully guard was finished beating the boy, he retired to his tent and waited for one of the camp whores to show up. War visited his tent, instead. When War was seen leaving the tent, he was covered in gore, and there was a deep cut on War's face, oozing black blood. Each drop of War's blood hit the ground and burrowed sinuously into the sand. The man was found in his tent, from the neck down, flayed to the bone, blood and organs everywhere. His throat had not been cut and yet he did not make a sound. A knife handle was found in his hand, but the blade was nowhere to be found. The next day, his tent was gone, viscera and all. No one knew what happened to it; everyone was too afraid to go near it. Rumor was that giant black worms rose from the ground and consumed it, body and all, in the night. No one contested those rumors. There was no more dissent.War, a consummate professional, his uniform was a set of local khakis, dun in color and baggy. He only carried a relatively small 9mm on his hip. Finishing another cigarette, he looked around and noted if he needed a firearm, there was a surplus of them all around him. And if he was really pressed... well lets just say, he had been killing men for several hundred years now, and knew of dozens of ways to get the job done with and without using Essence.As he was leaving the battlefield, his sharp senses heard the snap of a twig two or three hundred feet behind him. Turning, his senses already targeting the unknown movement, he could already tell several things about his target. Tall, physically massive approximately 125 kilos, deliberate movement, not making any attempt to hide, moving in his direction, confidently but haphazardly, as if he were lost or drunk; first this way, then that. War found that strange but waited patiently while nearby carrion birds screeched their pleasure at the excellent feast before them.The man approaching him seemed to be out of place, his brow furrowed in the morning light. Clean-shaved, also wearing a set of khakis, but it was not apparent what was wrong with the look of him. Then War realized what it was. The man was crisp, tidy even. No blood, no dirt, no offal, no debris, as a matter of fact, there was not even dust from the road on him. He appeared cool, even in this blistering Congo morning and he carried a small clipboard as he stepped officiously through the carnage. He was making marks on the clipboard with some regularity, and occasionally would stop to roll a body over before moving on."A lapdog here to do his master's bidding I see," War's sarcastic tone was unconcealed."We have a mutually beneficial relationship, and I am simply doing company business. I am sure you understand," was the polite reply, punctuated with the grunt of a body being turned over and a notation being made on a clipboard."If your master were doing his own work, he would not need me to fill the graves and your tallies, Reckoner.""My Master appreciates your work and knows that you are simply fulfilling your destiny. It has always been in his best interest to work with you, despite your alarming propensity for grandiose displays of destruction--would you mind stepping over here, I need to see that man's face.""What is the point? All of these men are dead, why even bother to mark their passing?" War steps aside while the Reckoner continues his task."Their deaths mean nothing to your office, you are the god of War. Their dying needlessly and aimlessly is your specialty," a tone of bitterness tinged the Reckoner's remark, but he continued his work, attempting to maintain his objectivity. "I on the other hand, must reckon with the dead, their lives, their families, and their spiritual continuance, of which you know nothing, care nothing and discount as empty mummery, not even worthy of your respect. I am merely a servant of an Aspect. You would do well to remember that." The Reckoner stops his work and turns to the god of War."Ah, some backbone after all." War smiles and lights a local cigarette. "Want one?"The Reckoner looked at him, shook his head and replied, "no thanks, those things will kill you.""You know," War began after a deep drag on the cheaply made cigarette "your Master will not always be here to protect you and yours. Rumor has it your agency will be experiencing a change in management. If I were you, I would make a point of deciding where you stand when that happens.""We hear the same rumor, every sixty years or so. Not much ever comes of it. But thanks for the warning," was the chilly response. "Here he is." The Reckoner pulls a number of bodies off of a young teenager. "Lumumba Kisimba, age 16, survivor of the Shaba massacre." The Reckoner pulls the boy to his feet, turns him about and inspects him. "No lasting injuries, just a couple of scratches. Are you well, boy?" the Reckoner's voice is quiet and non-threatening."Yes, sir," was the meek reply. The boy is looking at War and moves behind the Reckoner."There are no survivors of the Shaba massacre, Reckoner," War's voice was low and threatening. "He will not be leaving here, these people are dying to make a point, resistance is futile. If he survives, he threatens that.""Be that as it may, I was sent to recover the boy. Are you saying your reputation might be stained if one boy survives? Surely you can bear it." the Reckoner's voice sounds almost jocular in its pronouncement.War flexes his muscles and grabs a hunting knife from his belt with one hand and pulls his nine millimeter with the other. "Give him to me, I will not be denied. Nor will I ask you again."The Reckoner, turns his back on War, putting his arm around the boy and begins walking away. "You would not violate the Compact to try and kill me, War. I claim the boy as a Hero-in-training. He cannot be touched by you or anyone else until he is done or dies in training. His name is Lumumba Kisimba, War. Remember it, I am certain he will remember you.""He will not be remembering anyone. He is not a Hero yet." War's combat knife began to glow with ethereal Essence. His 9mm begins to shimmer as well with a darker flame. "Give him to me, Reckoner. I have no quarrel with you or your Master. But this deed must be done completely; no survivors.""No," the Reckoner turned toward the boy and the air began to shimmer like the desert on a summer day. Sand began to swirl at his feet, a subtle power began to build."Damn the Compact, there is more at stake!" War's weapons, both glittering with Essence, let fly. The knife is thrown with deadly precision. The Reckoner, turns and using his clipboard as a shield, catches the knife, its blade clearly penetrating the surface, but stopping short of cutting through the board. As their two powers meet, there is a displacement, partially physical, partially spiritual, akin to an exploding shell and the boy is blown backward to the ground. The gun's staccato voice resounds in the morning air, a killing sound, literally; the carrion birds and anything else within a quarter mile, drops dead. Meanwhile its projectiles appear to streak in slow motion toward the boy.Lumumba Kisimba, Hero-in-training, sees his death and is resigned to it. He sees War as he truly is, a monstrous being of dark energy, barely contained within the shell of the evil warlord, Mani Kunjufu. He sees War extending his tendrils of force toward him, but those energies are moving slower and slower, as if he were watching a film that had stopped. Then he looks at the Reckoner, and sees him for what he is, a man powered by a more powerful and more ominous force. As powerful and fear-inducing as War is, when he looks at the Reckoner, it takes his breath away, this overwhelming spiritual pressure. Which makes the next sentence he hears even more strange and impossible sounding."Listen carefully to me, child, for in a moment, I will be dead."

Nearing Completion....

Posted by H. Wolfgang Porter on August 30, 2010 at 10:01am

Two chapters left to go on the latest 'Tale from the Long Road'. After a nearly four-year hiatus from novel writing, 'A Book of Dragon's Teeth' is almost done. Amazing how the illness of a family member can sap the creativity right out of you. But I can attest to the irritation of having an idea or vision that won't go away is good motivation to finish what you start! Pending, Editing and Artwork the projected window for release is early 2011.

Outpost: Part Two

Posted by Ronald T. Jones on August 27, 2010 at 2:30pm

Five minutes later, a sobered up commander stepped onto the outpost’s command-control deck. The centrally placed deck was no larger than Alec’s own quarters. The CC was empty save for a console, a chair and a half dome hovering above the chair, suspended by a thin support tube. A sub dermal needle embedded just beneath Alec’s right ear erased his intoxication. But, until Alec had taken his seat and inserted his head into the dome, he still felt groggy. The dome cleared the fog away, and the commander found himself swimming in perfect visual clarity. His awareness encompassed the sheer vastness of a space station three times the size of a UE warship. He saw through the ‘eyes’ of every automated defense ringing the outpost. He saw through the ‘eyes’ of 1,000 avatars. He was even linked into the compu-aid’s own all-seeing perspective, such that human and computer were virtually one.

“Alright, Co-aid. Let’s bring up Exercise Program Beta.”

Engaging.

Alec’s view changed drastically. Computer-generated images of hostile ships appeared around the outpost. For the next hour, Alec and Co-aid coordinated tactical scenarios as they battled simulations on the outside. On the inside, Alec shifted combat avatars from section to section in close quarter exercises.

When it was over, the commander slipped his head from beneath the dome and exhaled a long breath. “Good job, Co-aid. The only glitches were missile batteries 2 through 7 and the northwest plasma turret. You need to fine tune the response times.”

Immediately, Commander.

“In fact,” Alec rose from his seat and grabbed his tool pouch from off the console. “I’ll do it. It’s been a while since I worked on weapons.”

Commander, I think you should let an avatar perform that task. During the exercise, I received a priority update from an outlying probe.

Alec let out an annoyed sigh. “Priority update? What is it, another imminent attack? That’s nothing new.”

Commander…

“Alright, alright.” Alec stepped to the console and stood over one of the display screens. He activated the screen, read the text, and studied the accompanying graphics. He frowned at what he saw: a still image of a greenish face with reptilian features. Fur or some kind of feathery trim sprouted from the side of the creature’s head like unkempt sideburns. “Who the hell are the Jepthala?”

Accessing United Empire Species Databank… The Jepthala are the dominant species in an alliance of worlds located in Astro-Grid 321. They were first encountered by a UE patrol 1,764 Standard years ago. It was a hostile encounter. 500 Jepthala warships were destroyed. Two UE flank cruisers were lost and one capitol ship was heavily damaged in an exchange that lasted one hour twenty two minutes.

Alec leaned on the console with both hands, digesting the information with a thoughtful grimace. “Astro-grid 321 is so remote from the UE it almost qualifies as an uncharted zone.” He read further.

From all indications of current military assets in place, the Jepthala were amassing for a full-scale invasion of UE space. They had already been active in UE space within the past three years, attacking other outposts, raiding colony worlds. But those attacks were more probes than concerted efforts at conquest. In effect, the Jepthala were wary scavengers, poking the hide of the great predator to see how much life, if any, was left in the beast. Knowing for certain that the UE beast was no more had emboldened the Jepthala, propelling them out of their isolation onto a path of ambition and vengeance.

Strategic extrapolation predicts a 99.8 percent probability that the main Jepthala incursion will be launched from this point…

A star chart of a UE boundary region displaced the text on the console display.

…here.

Alec followed a red line of progression across the chart. He noted how that line, cutting like a razor, had halted at an icon of the outpost.

“So. They’re coming after us. How many ships?”

120,000.

The commander could not pinpoint a specific emotion upon hearing that exorbitant figure. He wasn’t frightened. But he wasn’t unafraid, either. A numbness that both calmed and excited fell over him. His mind was all over the place, yet at the same time, a knot of focus congealed in the back of his brain. “120,000 ships.”

Alec finished his second bottle of spirits and tossed it in the lounge dispenser five feet away. He leaned back in the reclining lounge chair and allowed himself to drift on a wave of intoxication. He was supposed to be repairing an auto-door in Storage Facility 4. Maybe later, he told himself. He shook his head in a scathing self-critique. You idiot. What does an auto-door have to do with the defense of this outpost? Alec grinned off the question and signaled for an anthropomorphic avatar to bring him another bottle.

Commander, I do not recommend your course of action.

“And to what course of action do you refer my computerized muse?” Alec waved a hand in a poetic gesture.

Defense of this outpost in concert with the reinforcing presence of UE warships is logical. Defending this outpost when no such reinforcements are available for the foreseeable future is suicide.

“Are you getting emotional on me, Co-aid?” Alec took a pull of the bottle the avatar just handed him. “I mean, suicide is a strong word.”

Given your state of mind, suicide, is a most appropriate word.

A pained look crossed Alec’s face. “Co-aid, your aspersion trivializes my strategy.”

Your strategy?

“Yes, my strategy. The Jepthala are coming here with the strongest force they can muster with the intent of wiping this outpost off the map. I say we give them a fight, weaken them. The more of their ships we destroy, the less ships they’ll have to terrorize UE territory.”

Even through his drunken haze, Alec realized that he had just offered an argument to which the compu-aid had no rebuttal. Who could dispute the validity of crippling an enemy force through attrition? Who could argue against defending UE population centers, even when there was the strong likelihood that such population centers no longer existed?

It was within the parameters of a compu-aid to remove an officer from duty if that officer exhibited behavior that called into question his or her mental stability. The compu-aid may have suspected its human commander of having a death wish, but the AI could not prove it, and Alec knew it.

Alec’s strategy may have anticipated the final outcome he desired, but the compu-aid could not prove that suicide factored into the planning.

Alec stood and stretched, the smugness in his demeanor obvious to another human, not so to an AI. “Co-aid, I’ll be in my quarters if you need me. I need to prepare myself mentally for the battle to come.”

Of course, Commander. That is your prerogative.

The commander paused. Sarcasm? He chuckled and took very careful steps out of the lounge with bottle firmly in hand.

The Jepthala armada was due to arrive at the outpost in six days. Alec spent three of those days sequestered in his quarters. He reminisced about better times, when the UE was strong. When he had a family, friends. When the chaos that swept through the UE, bringing about its all-too-rapid-dissolution was but a product of a doomsday prophet’s dark imaginings. And then Alec remembered that during his lifetime, the UE was never as strong as he fancied it to be. A rot had formed beneath the UE’s façade of strength and prosperity. A rot that ate away at the polity’s institutions, its values, its prestige. A rot of corruption and vice and apathy and growing inefficiency. A rot of separatism and factionalism and extremism.

When those kinds of memories bubbled to the fore of Alec’s recollection, he took measures to drown them in drink.

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