That would make a cool hero or a great villain to take body memory and transplant it into a person. Imagine a computer with the compiled skills of many athletes and putting that into the mind of another person to make him/her instantly skilful. Or a villain able to steal or borrow your body memory. Yeah, probably been done.
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That would make a cool hero or a great villain to take body memory and transplant it into a person. Imagine a computer with the compiled skills of many athletes and putting that into the mind of another person to make him/her instantly skilful. Or a villain able to steal or borrow your body memory. Yeah, probably been done.
“Jimmy?” Elation and relief arose inside Kameron to be immediately clouded by suspicion. Something was not right. Kameron started to rise, but stayed put. “Jimmy, did the Director send you as backup?”
“I’m not your backup, Kameron.”
Shock froze Kameron where he crouched. It took every ounce of reorientation for him to find his voice. “Are you trying to kill me, Jimmy?”
“I’m afraid so, Kameron. You took out three of my best operatives. You’re certainly no easy prey.”
Jimmy might as well have been commenting on Kameron’s skill as a spin ball player for all the companionable ease his tone conveyed.
“Kameron, I think we should talk.”
“I think we should talk, too,” agreed Kameron.
“I’m in the kitchen. Please don’t shoot.”
“Toss your darter on the floor.” Kameron risked a peek over the couch.
Down a narrow hallway leading to a small kitchen space Kameron saw Jimmy emerge, gingerly gripping his darter by the barrel.
“Tossing it,” Jimmy said as he underhand lobbed the weapon into the living room where it landed next to the couch.
Kameron stood and rounded the couch, his darter trained on his former protégé. He squatted down, picked up Jimmy’s darter and tucked the weapon in his belt at the small of his back.
“Come forward, slowly,” Kameron ordered. “I want to make sure it’s really you.”
Jimmy obeyed, both hands up, palms facing outward.
“Stop right there.” Kameron stared hard at this man who had been like a brother for the past four years. “What’s going on, Jimmy?”
A smirk raised one corner of Jimmy’s mouth. The mischievous quality that was such an endearing asset morphed into an ugly distortion beneath the cruel light glimmering from Jimmy’s eyes.
“The Director received an urgent dispatch from the 47th century, shortly after you left,” Jimmy explained. “You were tagged by Upstream Watch. According to their report you failed to complete your mission tonight. You extracted and disappeared. A month later by our timeframe you went rogue. You became a temporal renegade—or will become one—a particularly notorious one.” Jimmy let out a grin that did not quite reach those compassionless eyes. “You’re number one on our list of most wanted renegades. That’s one thing I respect about you, Kam, you sure know how to kick ass regardless of what team you’re playing for.”
Kameron went numb. Upstream Watch? A future DTPI, looking into the past, had implicated Kameron for a betrayal he had not yet committed? Of course Upstream Watch was no mythical oracle propagating vague predictions. Upstream Watch observed the timeline closely. Past events witnessed by UW were actual occurrences. If UW tagged Kameron for a crime he was going to commit then that meant he was guilty, simple as that. Kameron’s rapidly diminishing interest in this mission was another reason why he wasn’t going to dispute the UW report.
“So,” Kameron began, focusing on Jimmy. “The Director sent you after me? It must have been hard for you being assigned to track down a former friend.”
Jimmy raised his brow, his enthusiasm jumping out like grasshoppers leaping from an open jar. “Hard for me? Not at all. I practically had to twist the Director’s arm to put me on your case. I always enjoyed a challenge. And you haven’t disappointed. I’ve been on your trail from the Mesolithic to the 33rd century. You’re slippery as an oiled up rattler and every bit as dangerous.”
That settled it. Jimmy was a psychopath. Kameron had long suspected it, dismissed it, but now the evidence could not have been more plain to see. What frightened Kameron even more was how much he might have been like Jimmy.
“I just want to know what you were thinking about tonight,” Jimmy solicited, lowering his hands to chest level. “I’d always wanted to catch you at that crucial moment before you turned on us to ask you what the hell was going through your mind. You were a top operative. Who knows a few years down the line by our time frame you might have been promoted to Director.”
As Kameron considered the question it was his turn to present a cold grin. “You really want to know what I was thinking? What I am thinking? I was sent here to protect an assassin who is destined to murder a decent man. There was a time when I wouldn’t have given a second thought to killing or facilitating the deaths of good people if it helped restore Baseline history, kept the timeline stable. Good, bad, innocent, guilty…those things were immaterial to the task at hand. After all historical subjects are not human beings, right? Then I started questioning this concept of history and time as being inviolate. Who says history has to remain the same? Why can’t history be altered for the better? The Division exists to safeguard history, but what are we safeguarding, Jimmy? The Holocaust? The Inquisition? A war here, a massacre there, disease outbreaks? I thought I was becoming burned out because of the strain of too many missions. Then it dawned on me right here just before I came into this house why I no longer felt the passion for this job like I once did. Once again I was being sent into a situation that required me to allow an event leading to the death of a good person to unfold. I was sick of it. That’s why I was about to walk away.”
“We took an oath when we joined the Division,” said Jimmy. “Preserving Baseline history is our primary purpose, nothing must impede the pursuit of that purpose. Neither sentiment nor guilty conscience.”
“My motivation supercedes sentiment or a guilty conscience,” Kameron countered. “What have we done with this gift of time travel other than allowing a few academics to traverse the timeline to peep in on whatever events suit their fancy? We’ve turned time into a menagerie, a thing to be observed and preserved but not adjusted. We should be aiding humanity with this gift, not propping up a temporal status quo.”
“That’s not your call, Kameron.” Jimmy let his hands drop, his face registering strong dismay. “You sound every bit the overly zealous do-gooder renegade that you’ve become, with your pious platitudes that amount to nothing more than unleashing chaos on the timeline.”
“How much more chaotic can it be? Baseline history is a bloodbath. Why shouldn’t we at least try to mitigate the misery when and where we can?”
Jimmy shook his head, disappointment amplifying the significance of the gesture. “You know what pisses me off other than you turning into a pompous ass renegade? It’s the fact that I once looked up to you. A part of me still does.”
Jimmy ducked and rolled before Kameron could react.
Something flew toward Kameron, a small tear drop shaped cylinder.
Kameron identified the object and its threat level in a heart beat and flung himself to the floor. What Kameron took to be an anti-personnel charge bounced off the wall behind him. Kameron scrambled for his extractor just as the charge exploded.
Kameron reappeared three seconds in the future, sixty yards down the street from where an enormous blast consumed the rooming house, collapsing the structure. Flames stabbed the darkness. Smoke bubbled from the house’s mangled ruin like an awakening black beast. Kameron’s assessment was flawed. That was more than an anti-personnel charge.
Kameron stayed out of sight for the next twenty four hours, but managed to obtain a copy of the local newspaper. Blast Possibly Intended to Kill MLK Destroys Rooming House, the headline read. The article went on to speculate about the explosion, making it appear to be the bumbling result of perpetrators targeting the wrong building. Three bodies were discovered at the site of the blast. The authorities suspected that the bodies were that of the culprits and that they may have set off the blast prematurely.
Three bodies? Not four bodies? Kameron looked up from the article. Jimmy must have extracted. Most likely he did. Jimmy had a knack for getting out of tight spots. He was going to be a worthy adversary. After all, Kameron trained him. A tiny smile cracked the grim resolve of Kameron’s face. He discarded the newspaper in a trash can on a deserted Memphis street and took out his extractor. Destination? Any timeline where he could make a difference.
Time travel is not a right. It is a privilege, one reserved for academics and policy makers. Formerly, history could be accessed only through the weathered pages of texts. Quite often those texts were marred by the tendencies of the authors to embellish and mythologize. Time travel, when it transcended the boundary dividing theory and application, offered an opportunity to bypass the texts to get a first hand view of some of the most monumental events in the history of humankind.
A nostalgic warmth settled over Kameron as he regarded the commendation plaque hanging over the entrance to his bedroom. The operative had spent the better part of a day in his quarters, immersed in thought. Dr. Win had given sound advice, sound options. Take less stressful assignments or take time off. Either option made perfect sense. The problem was, neither option was a solution to resolving the burning conflict raging inside Kameron. When Kameron gazed upon the plaque, however, his disquiet dimmed and memories of a less complicated, clearer cut side of him bubbled to the fore. He was honored with the plaque for saving a young Mohandas Gandhi from a hit squad of temporal renegade assassins.
Kameron’s mood took a downward turn, however, when he remembered being sent back on a later mission, to the same time frame to prevent another gang of renegades from saving the Indian nationalist from his appointed date with death on January 30, 1948.
Yes. Some time off would do him a wealth of good.
The comm unit in the main room chirped, abruptly pulling Kameron out of his reverie. An automated voice followed: “Operative Childers, the Director summons you.”
Kameron was tempted to ignore the summons. After a moment of further reflection he forced himself into motion.
The Director’s image was a black cutout on the display screen, pasted onto a white field. His voice was modified to a low pitch drone, further masking his identity.
Every time Kameron stepped into this featureless, antiseptic audience chamber, every time he gazed upon the talking silhouette on the screen, he could not shake the eerie sensation that he was some bygone acolyte communing with his god.
“Good work at Hastings,” the Director praised. The silhouetted head moved slightly forward in a most minimal of nods.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve barely been back for more than a day. Yet, a crisis has surfaced and we have, yet again, a need for your invaluable service.”
Kameron raised a hand in polite interruption. “Sir, before you say more, I’m putting in for a leave. I would really appreciate it if you assigned someone else to this crisis.”
“There is no one else I trust more to get us out of the tight spots than you, Kameron. You have more than earned your leave time, a year’s worth if you ask me. But I need you…no, I’m requesting that you postpone your leave for the short duration of this mission. At least hear me out before you make a decision.”
By all rights Kameron could have turned down the Director’s request. After all, wasn’t he, as Dr. Win suggested, burning out? Hadn’t years of successive missions with little or no extended down time in between conferred oppressive scabs of wear and tear on his mind and body? A written medical authorization from Win herself would have added professional weight to Kameron’s rejection.
It’s funny how something inside Kameron responded to the prospect of a new mission like a drug addict craving a fix.
“I’m listening, sir.”
“EVNTL: 1968,” the Director began. “There were two renegade attempts to prevent the assassination of Historical Subject: Dr. Martin Luther King. First attempt was an orchestration of King’s arrest by the local authorities in Memphis, Tennessee, four hours before his scheduled termination. In the second attempt, renegades arranged for King to be checked into a different hotel, putting him out of the effective reach of his assassin. Two teams of operatives succeeded in restoring the Baseline in both episodes. However, Timeline Watch has picked up convincingly actionable chatter indicating that King’s assassin is being targeted for death. There may be a half dozen or more renegades involved in the conspiracy. If they are on the ground that means the assassin is in very imminent jeopardy.”
Kameron could not see what the Director was thinking, but he could feel currents of anticipation radiating hotly from the silhouetted image.
The fix of a new assignment clawed at the operative with equal urgency. After a moment of internal debate, Kameron succumbed to his urge. “I’ll need a complete brief.”
“Already compiled,” said the Director with a smile in his voice.
Joy, turmoil, despair, ecstasy, good, evil, apathy, concern, progress, stagnation, fanaticism, moderation. History is a landscape of opposites. There is the good and the bad. There are also the gray areas, where complexity thrives and ambiguity is nurtured. The best-intentioned renegades seek to purge the bad from history. They want to end suffering. They may prevent a catastrophic event from occurring, but all too often, the result of their interference unleashes a chain of events that directly or indirectly lead to dire consequences elsewhere. What has their intervention gained them other than reinforcing the ironclad fact that utopia cannot be imposed upon history.
EVNTL: 1968. Kameron appeared just outside the rooming house across from the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee. It was pitch black, the surrounding street bathed in empty silence. Kameron tapped into his optic implant and tried to scan a section of the house overlooking the hotel’s second floor balcony. His implant was on X ray mode with an infra setting. Yet, Kameron’s visual reading of the room where the assassin was supposed to be lurking came up fuzzy. Someone was using a device that most definitely was not 20th century tech to scramble the operative’s attempt at surveillance.
Kameron tensed briefly before a salve of calm cooled his rising adrenaline to a level he could manage. Temporal renegades were on site. For all he knew they may have already been inside the building. There was only one way to find out. Kameron tightened his focus, pulled out his darter pistol and proceeded with the highest vigilance toward the rooming house entrance.
Kameron paused. King’s assassin may have already been dead. The operative shot a glance toward the motel balcony where the civil rights leader’s room was located. The next day, King was going to die and this unassuming motel would be immortalized in history. Kameron resumed his approach to the entrance, uncertainty a heavy drag on his pace. Then he stopped five feet from the door. No. Kameron shook his head. What the hell was he thinking accepting this mission? All he had to do was follow the doc’s advice. He didn’t know if he could do this anymore…
A bare scratch of movement on the other side of the door graced Kameron’s keen ear like a butterfly’s whisper. Instinct seized hold of the operative. He dropped to the ground a second before a stream of neutronium glazed flechettes ripped through the door, turning solid wood into heated splinters.
Kameron rolled away from the doorway, nimbly enough to avoid being mulched, but not quickly enough to evade a hit. A flechete grazed his bicep, but Kameron didn’t feel it. He opened up on the unseen shooters before he completed his tumble. Kameron’s darter flared ferocity. He sent thirty round per second bursts chattering through the shredded remnant of the door. An answering scream came from inside.
One down.
Kameron ceased fire, jumped to his feet and crouched toward the door. Footfalls from behind. Kameron unclipped an anti-personnel charge from his belt before turning his gun on the danger to his rear. A figure with an assault weapon opened fire on him. Kameron responded, loosing a ten round ripple of metal that gouged bloody divots out of the aggressor’s center mass, sending the latter’s shots arcing wide into the night.
Kameron’s next action occurred in almost the same motion. He tossed the charge through the door’s aperture and turned his head away from the muted blast. A billow of smoke and debris ejected through entrance, incinerating what was left of the door. Kameron dove into the rooming house on the heels of the blast. Something sharp and hot bit into his leg. Kameron disregarded the pain, caught a dance of movement ten feet to his right and put a brace of flechettes through yet another body. The assailant stumbled backward, clutching a ruined area just below his throat.
Kameron leapt behind the mutilated remains of a couch. He swiftly detached a spent ammo clip from his darter and slapped in a full clip.
“Kameron!”
Kameron’s head jerked up. Someone was calling his name. Impossible. There was no way a temporal renegade could know his name. The voice did sound oddly familiar.
“Kameron Childers.”
The operative sidled closer to the couch, taking some comfort in its illusory utility as a cover. He was morbidly aware, however, that this tattered piece of furnishing was not going to protect him from a full fusillade of flechettes. He didn’t know what game these renegades were playing by repeatedly shouting his name, but Kameron was not about to indulge them with a response.
“Kameron, it’s me, Jimmy.”
http://universalscreenwriter.blogspot.com/2008/03/red-warrior-destruction-of-dwarven.html
The ability to remain objective is what separates a DTPI operative from a temporal renegade. Renegades perceive history as a malleable entity to be molded according to individual whims and passions. Such an approach is arrogant to the point of destructive. In the same way that preservationists seek to protect terrestrial environments from the deleterious effects of pollution or strive to save rare plants and animals from extinction, so the DTPI safeguards time. The operative is essential to the mission that defines the DTPI’s existence. There are occasions when he or she is called upon to engage in acts of Baseline restoration that may greatly compromise personal morality. An operative’s duty is paramount in relation to personal feelings. It must be so, because the alternative is temporal chaos, ultimately leading to the destruction of the overall Event Time Line…in short, the dissolution of history…
Kameron rejected the Doctor’s offer to sit down in the comfortable recliner situated in the middle of her office. Kameron rarely visited Dr. Win. On the few occasions he did, he never took a seat. He shunned the notion of relaxing. He wasn’t here to relax.
Dr. Alexi Win, resident psycho-analyst, observed the operative through a cool filter of professional detachment. She perched on the edge of her desk, waiting patiently for Kameron to gather whatever thoughts twirled through his head.
“I killed a man,” Kameron confessed. “I put an arrow through his head and called it a day.”
“Killing being an unpleasant but necessary aspect of your job, I assume that you accomplished your mission,” Dr. Win stated. The psycho-analyst wore the white slacks and matching collarless tunic of a medical practitioner.
Kameron replied to Win’s comment as if it were a question. “Yes I did. Another patch on the gaping wound of an Event Time Line.”
“You’ve saved another parcel of history.”
“At a cost as usual.”
“What cost?”
“Human cost.”
“Human cost? Who do you refer to when you use the term human?”
Kameron cut a sour eye at the doctor. He resented the question, because he knew the answer he provided would not accord with DTPI policy. Populations within timeframes are not human beings they are historical subjects. That was the first rule drilled into operative recruits at the beginning of their training. Perceiving historical subjects as human beings would only compromise an operative’s ability to carry out missions that required the taking of lives.
Event Time Line:1994, flittered across Kameron’s recollection. He was in a concealed location, within an airport’s line of sight, waiting for a plane to reach the end of a runway. When the plane was airborne, its wheels retracting into its metallic belly, Kameron propped the SAM launcher on his shoulder, targeted and fired. Seconds blinked by between launch and contact. The plane lurched from the missile’s explosive impact, before gliding groundward in a perilous smoke-churning descent. The resulting crash reverberated across a tiny, densely populated African nation. A president died in the plane’s demise. Up to a million Rwandans would soon join him in a gruesome orgy of machete-driven slaughter.
Temporal renegades had already prevented that tragic episode when they murdered the real individuals responsible for downing the plane. Kameron had been sent to that time frame to put history back on track.
Another Event Time Line. Kameron stood over the body of a temporal renegade whose neck he just snapped. The renegade was trying to assist Spartacus, the gladiator who led a slave revolt that terrorized the Roman Republic. With the weapons the renegade provided, Spartucus and his slave army would have won the war and eventually toppled the might of Rome. Again, Kameron disrupted a renegade network and returned the Baseline to the way it was suppose to be. Six thousand slaves with thwarted dreams of freedom were nailed to six thousand crosses for their efforts. A crowning achievement to a mission’s success. How burdensome that crown, now. How loathsome the achievement.
In the DTPI’s scheme of things, a bunch of doomed Rwandans and Roman slaves were only historical subjects. Nothing more. Their existences were secondary to the primary task of restoring events others had altered. There was a time when Kameron actually believed that. But one too many such restorations…one too many occasions of seeing the consequences of his missions measured in the blood and suffering of historical subjects…human beings.
“Kameron, you have not answered my question.” Dr. Win folded her arms, her expression mildly insistent.
“I suppose you want me to say that the only humans who count are the operatives lost in the line of duty.” Kameron’s tone teetered on sarcasm, but Win either did not notice or took no offense.
“Is that what you believe?” She asked, studying the operative closely.
“That’s what I’ve been taught to believe.”
“But have you taken that teaching to heart?”
“I wouldn’t be an operative if I hadn’t.”
“Some of the tasks you have been called to perform, however, still trouble you.”
Kameron paced to the far end of the office, his silence all but validating the psych-analyst’s suggestion.
Dr. Win dropped her arms and stood up. She had listened, now she took the opportunity to advise. “Why don’t you take a break or if that doesn’t suit you, perhaps you should put in for assignments that are less, shall we say, intensive. Assignments that do not involve violence. Either option should do you some good. You’ve been at this stressful pace continuously for a very long time. You’re becoming burned out.”
Kameron grunted. “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe I do need a change of pace.” He let the idea sink in. “Maybe I do.”
Temporal Renegades, for a variety of reasons, attempt to alter Baseline History. Their motives are often lofty, ranging from political to religious. Although some temporal renegades have been known to tamper with history for no other reason than thrill seeking. A fewer still engage in such nefarious activity because it feeds their lust for power. Indeed, the ability to change an event, to send ripples of disruption coursing through the Event Timeline is a power like none other, a power despots through the ages would have envied.
Null Station was one square mile of interlocking rings and connecting conduits, housing offices, personal domiciles and training facilities. The construct existed in an endless gray soup, a place where time did not exist. What better location for an agency specializing in temporal matters to base its headquarters then in a realm beyond the barrier of time.
Kameron thought so. Null Station’s very location in the stasis void was a protection from active efforts by temporal renegades to destroy the Division of Temporal Preservation and Integrity. Wipe out Null Station, no more Division. The key was finding it and only the DTPI director knew the exact coordinates of the station. For security reasons the Director’s identity was concealed and he never left the station.
Kameron reappeared at Midpoint, located somewhere else in the stasis void. Midpoint was where field operatives were decontaminated and screened prior to teleporting to Null Station. Screening was the most important part of the process. It was not unheard of for temporal renegades to attempt to use a captured operative to infiltrate Null Station. Kameron knew the drill. He shed his gear, stepped into a closet size screening chamber, and stood straight with hands locked behind his head while a sensor beam bathed his body in an aura of light.
Screening analysis determined that Kameron was neither a clone nor a replicant AI. No presence of behavior-modifying chemicals or neural alterations. No mind control implants. No evidence of psych readjustments. No harboring of explosive devices. After passing muster with the screening, Kameron slipped into a comfortable civilian outfit and stepped onto a teleportation pad. Next and final stop: Null Station.
Jimmy Maldone greeted Kameron on Reception Deck 12. Kameron smiled upon seeing his colleague and friend. He couldn’t help it. Maldone’s effervescent personality was infectious. His enthusiasm for his work remained a bright spot that Kameron tried to draw from to illuminate his own dimming morale.
“It’s good to see you’re in one piece,” said Jimmy, tugging at Kameron’s arm as if to make sure it was still attached.
Kameron pulled his arm away, giving Jimmy a playful shove in return. “Did you expect any less?”
Jimmy threw a hand up in a show of concession. “I suppose not. But those medieval time frames can be a real bastard.”
“And then some,” added Kameron. “On the other hand, you don’t have to worry about stray bullets.”
The operatives strolled down a wide corridor leading to the rec wing. Personnel in various one-piece uniforms walked by. The color of a person’s uniform identified the department he or she worked for. Blue for Data Anaylsis. Green for Technical. Orange for Engineering. Brown for Internal Security. Black for Time Watch, DTPI’s intelligence arm. Operatives alone had the privilege of wearing whatever they liked, at least on the station.
“If I recall correctly, you were doing a 20th century time frame op,” said Kameron. “You’re back early.”
“Nothing to it.” One corner of Jimmy’s mouth tilted upward, his signature expression of unapologetic cockiness. “Renegades tried to take Stalin out before his time. They did manage to save Trotsky. So, I sent a detail to cover Uncle Joe. Then I took a trip to Mexico and restored the Baseline there.”
Kameron marveled at the clinical choice of term for murder that fell so easily off the tongues of Division operatives. Stabbing a man in the skull with an ice axe was not an act of brazen, barbaric brutality in this particular context. It became a justified and necessary means for maintaining timeline stability. Perhaps even more disquieting to Kameron was how bloody minded his former protégé’ had become in so short a time. Three years as an operative Jimmy had restored more Baselines than the majority of five-year veterans. He was quick to volunteer for the more violent assignments: EVNTL ( Event Timeline) 1914, Assassinating the Archduke of Austria. EVNTL 1982: leading a massacre of civilians at a Palestinian refugee camp. EVNTL 1572: precipitating the killing of Protestants in France…It was a lengthy record of success. If asked, Jimmy would have proudly credited Kameron for molding him into a top tier operative. Kameron, an eleven-year veteran, was on a fast track to legendary status within the Division. Who better to emulate than the best?
“What say we swing by the café before you debrief?” The agents stopped at a junction in the corridor.
Kameron rubbed the back of his neck, tempted. “Sure thing…but not right now. I need to clear my head.”
“You’re going to the doc’s office?”
Kameron flashed a dry look Jimmy’s way. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s not what you said, it’s what I read.” The urge to pat himself on the back for that clever arrangement of words could not have been more obvious on Jimmy’s face.
Kameron rolled his eyes. “I’ll meet you in a half hour, maybe less. Try not to monopolize our female colleagues.”
Jimmy donned an expression of pure innocence. “I’ll do my best…but if you take too long…” Jimmy let the sentence trail off, then he grew serious. “Kameron, is everything all right?”
“I’m fine. I just to need to unload about a few things. You know how it is after a mission.”
“Well, uh, not really.”
Shaking his head, Kameron let out an amused sigh. “Of course you wouldn’t know. I’ll see you in a few.”
The Division
By Ronald T. Jones
Baseline History refers to past events as presented in historical texts. For example, it is common knowledge that the Normans won the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The proof of a Norman victory is validated by those who witnessed the event and those who recorded such recollections for posterity, hence the Bayeux Tapestry…
Kameron Childers crouched behind his obscurement field at a far enough distance to avoid danger, but close enough to get a fairly good view of the battlefield. Armored Normans on horseback struggled to cut their way through stubborn knots of longhaired, ax wielding Saxon foot soldiers. The Housecarls, King Harold Godwinson’s elite troops, swung their long heavy axes with a savage ease that lethally advertised individual strength and expertise. An ax sank into a horse’s gut. The mortally wounded animal reared up in a mournful cry, spilling its rider. The weight of the Norman’s heavy armor accelerated his fall, adding extra pounds to what was certainly a crunching impact with the ground. The hapless Norman’s headfirst descent probably knocked him out cold, perhaps even killed him. Either fate would have been a small mercy. It would have spared him the terror and the agony of being hacked to pieces in a shredder of Saxon axes.
Kameron accessed his enhanced optic. The implant just behind his right eye shimmied to life. He zoomed in on the seething bloodbath, ignoring the melee between horsemen and foot soldiers to get a close up of a single individual.
There he was. The powerful king of the Saxons, on horseback, surrounded by his bodyguards, in the thick of the fight. King Harold’s arm worked like a piston, each sword stroke a death blow as he continuously cut through Norman defenses to find vulnerable points in their armor.
Kameron allowed himself a hair breadth strand of admiration for the king’s tireless efforts. The Saxon king had just defeated the Vikings in one part of the isle and force-marched his army to another part to deal with yet another incursion.
Baseline History states that Harold died on this day.
But someone was not adhering to the parameters laid out by Baseline History. Someone wanted King Harold to win this battle. Someone wanted King Harold to share the stage of legend with the likes of Alexander, Caesar and Genghis. Two victories against two enemy armies would have achieved just that.
In fact King Harold did achieve that feat. Temporal Renegades had struck again, tampered with the Event Time Line and effected an outcome where the Norman Duke William was killed and his army routed instead of the other way around.
Baseline History had been violated. That was why Kameron Childers, Field Operative, Division of Temporal Preservation and Integrity, was here. Kameron snuffed out his admiration for Harold, replacing it with a cool objectivity drilled into him by training.
He picked up the bow lying next to his foot, pulled an arrow out of a pouch tied to his thigh and notched it. The weapon was a product of Kameron’s time, 42nd second century technology. But it was finely crafted to resemble an 11th century Norman bow and arrow. The difference was the bow was made of a flexible alloy 700 times denser than any metal in this era. There was nothing unusual about the arrow’s construction in the material context of this time frame. Except for the miniature single-stage booster unit attached to the arrow’s shaft, designed to facilitate an extended flight.
Kameron rose from behind his obscurement field so that the top half of his body was visible. The field operative was almost black skinned, with pronounced African features. He wore a mottled black and brown jumpsuit with black calf high all-terrain boots, gray light flak vest and ultra thin utility gloves. The way he looked and the cut of his garb were not common characteristics in 11th century Britain. But Kameron had not been sent to this time frame to blend in. He was sent here for his exceptional skill as a shooter. Whatever the projectile weapon, Kameron was very good at hitting his mark.
Kameron pulled back the taut string of the bow, leveled it, and locked on his target. In his mind it was a slow, methodical action. In real time, less than three seconds passed between notching and aiming. At the third second, Kameron released. The arrow zipped away, whistling over a thousand yards. A gleaming pulse of propulsion shooting from the booster unit, kept the projectile aloft for an additional 500 yards. The arrow sliced through gaps in the slaughter to find its mark in King Harold’s eye.
The Saxon king’s head snapped back as the force of the arrow’s flight drove the razor sharp head deep into the socket, lodging in the skull. Just like in the history books. Life departed Harold in an instant. His body slid limply off his mount. The king’s horse, oblivious to its human master’s demise, stamped frantically without direction through a bloody slush.
Kameron ducked behind his field. He knew his aim was true. He didn’t bother to stick around to see the reaction of both sides to King Harold’s death. Kameron’s mission was a success. Baseline History had been restored. He pulled an extractor from his pocket, tapped out a coordinate on the round palm size device’s touch screen and waited. A warble of time displacement fell over Kameron. The operative vanished.
“The infiltrator,” she said knowingly.
Sawyer smiled brightly. “That’s me sweetheart. Now toss over that gun you got, real slow.”
She clenched her teeth in anger, reaching to her waist and pulling her weapon from its holster before throwing it over. Moving forward carefully, he kicked it down onto the tracks, far out of her reach. And to think she had just saved his life. She was really going to have to have a word with Aseel about her new recruits. From the corner Akila growled threateningly, ears laid back as his reflective eyes glared at the man.
“Better quiet that mutt,” he warned.
She put out a hand, calling Akila to her. The wolf slowly walked over, never taking his eyes from the man. Once he reached her, she put quieting fingers to his fur, stroking softly.
“So what do you want?” she asked calmly.
“You,” the man replied. “The famous Shadow. You’ve got one hell of a bounty on your head.”
“So I hear,” she retorted. “I’m sure Omaha would be real proud of you right now.”
He laughed aloud.
“I’m set to be the richest man from there in a short while.”
“Thirty pieces of silver is all it took.” She spat in disgust. “You’d sell us all out for some money. We’re fighting to be free here. Don’t you understand that? That’s got to be worth more—”
“Oh spare me the fucking propaganda speech,” he sneered. “I’ve heard it all before. It’s what made me come here, thinking that I could do something to free the planet. A luta continua !” He lifted a fist mockingly before lowering it again. “It was all bullshit. There’s no glory in this, just a lot of running around in the dirt, living like worms.”
“That’s the nature of a guerilla war,” she responded coolly.
“War?” He laughed aloud. “That’s what you think this is? We’re mosquitoes. That’s it. We’re just mosquitoes buzzing in their ears. So you snipe a Rag here, blow up one of their ships, wipe out a small battalion—don’t make no difference. There’ll just be more of them, with better weapons. This ain’t no war—it’s just a slaughter waiting to happen.”
“You can’t defeat an insurgency on its own ground,” she told him. “We have the advantage.”
“Please…” he said derisively.
“Motomura was right,” she pressed. “Not all Ragnarok are behind this occupation. Protests have been growing daily against it on their world. Even their soldiers are getting weary. There’ve been suicides, mental breakdowns, some are deserting—they can’t keep this up forever. Maybe a shift in power in their government will bring new policies. I don’t know. Can’t say what the future holds. It might take years. It might take decades. But I know we’ll outlast them. All we have to do is believe we can win.”
“Decades?” he scoffed. “Sweetheart I ain’t got that long. And come to think of it, neither do you.”
She let out a deep breath, shaking her head. There was no convincing him. He was too far gone.
“So what you plan on doing with me?”
“Well that all depends,” he mused. “See the Rags want you for several reasons. First off, you’ve just been a pain in their ass. Capturing you they think’ll demoralize the resistance—the celebrated Shadow. But, they also want you for what you know.”
Her heart suddenly stopped as she listened.
“They haven’t been able to break that encryption code of yours. They know you made it with your friend—the DJ who sends out music across the underground pirate airwaves, with messages encoding within—calls himself the Digital Guerilla. Tracked him down to his base in Atlanta, but he had disappeared by then. Way they figure it that leaves you as the only other person with that information. And they want it real bad.”
She remained silent, glaring at him with a burning hatred. He was right. She had been one of the ones that helped make the code, the very one now used by the resistance. It was made by software that continuously caused it to shift, changing repeatedly. If the Ragnarok got their hands on that….
“Now you can just tell me—”
“Go to Hell,” she spat. “I’m not giving you anything.”
“You might want to think that over,” he warned with a playful smile. “The Rags. They’ll get the info outta you, one way or another. You seen them images of torture that came out from Sing Sing on detainees? And those were men. Don’t even want to think what they’ll do to a pretty little thing like you….” He paused, seeming to enjoy himself. “Now, you tell me, and I promise I’ll just shoot you right here—quick and simple. A death like that beats what they’re sure to put you through.”
She yet said nothing, simply watching his movements. He was right in his own way. The Ragnarok would certainly torture her to get everything they wanted. And though she doubted she would talk, they had other ways of pulling information, right out of your minds. If she allowed herself to fall into their hands, who knew what she could unwittingly reveal to them. No, that couldn’t happen. Yet to be taken out by this traitorous filth, that wasn’t the way she planned on leaving this world. She sighed to herself. Thank God she always kept a third option.
“So you have it all figured out,” she said.
“Not bad for a kid from Omaha huh?” he asked with a bright smile.
“I’ve seen better,” she replied dryly. “Shame I’m going to have to make this a little more complicated for you.”
He frowned, not seeming to understand.
“Tell you what,” she smiled. “I’ll make you a deal. Walk away now, and you live.”
The man stared at her incredulously.
“And if I don’t?”
Her smile disappeared. “You die.”
The seriousness in her voice must have unnerved him because a hint of fear crossed his face before he put on a brave look once more. Laughing heartily he took a few steps towards her.
“And how do you plan on doing that sweetheart?”
She smiled again, and began to laugh with him.
“Kind of like this.”
Releasing the glow stick, she let it fall suddenly to the ground. It shattered to a dozen pieces, plunging them into darkness. There was a curse from the man as he stumbled about, trying to figure out what had happened. He managed to find his own glow stick, breaking it and quickly bringing it to bear. But by then it was too late.
She remained where she had stood, never moving from place. But now in her hands was a plasma gun as well, pointed at her foe. He stared at her in shock, still holding his own weapon threateningly. She figured at the moment he was trying to figure out where the gun had come from. Stupid rookie really thought that she only carried one. If he had any wits at all, he would have searched her. As it was, all she needed was a diversion to reach into her cloak to retrieve it.
“How…?” was all he could manage.
She smiled deviously.
“You didn’t think I got my nickname for nothing did you?”
He frowned now, angry and uncertain of what to do in the face of the unexpected Mexican standoff.
“Why don’t you drop the gun,” she suggested, “before somebody really gets hurt.”
“You’re bluffing!” he accused. “You shoot me, I shoot you. We’ll both be dead!”
She shrugged.
“I’ve been dead before.”
She took a step forward. He hastily took several back.
“Why so jumpy?” she taunted.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” he stammered.
“But you sought me out,” she went on, still walking forward slowly as he stumbled back. “You came looking for Shadow. Seven years of bounty hunters from different worlds, Ragnarok traps, and more—and you really thought you’d stroll up from Omaha to do the job?”
The man was scared now, his gun hand trembling.
“I said stay away!” he yelled. “You come any closer and I swear, I’ll put a hole right through you!”
“No. You won’t.”
She stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t said that.
Sawyer went pale, as he realized much the same. Spinning about in the darkness he seemed intent on firing—but never had the chance. A blast of hot light lit up the tunnel platform, striking the man squarely. He blinked once before looking down, noticing the wide yawning space that stood where his chest once did. Emitting a strangled sound he fell forward flatly, his dead body going immediately still.
Shadow looked on, as her savior stepped forward.
Motomura.
The man limped a bit, his clothes and skin singed from the plasma fire of the drone craft. Looking down at Sawyer, he kicked the still corpse before looking up to her.
“I thought you were dead,” she said.
“No sir. Just got separated.”
“Sawyer—you knew he was the infiltrator?”
Motomura nodded.
“Commander Aseel suspected it. But wasn’t certain. When Sawyer volunteered to come help find you, she sent me to keep an eye on him.” He paused. “Sorry for dropping the ball sir.”
She cast a gaze down to the dead body on the floor.
“I’d say you did a damned good job. Aseel picked you well.”
A look of surprise came across the man’s face, accompanied by a sheepish smile.
“Thank you sir—Commander.”
She bent down to pick up Sawyer’s still operable glow stick, and his gun—prying both from his hands. Akila came to her side, sniffing the body with distaste. Gladly, he didn’t eat just anything. Gathering herself, she jumped down to the tracks, beginning the trek to the underground’s hiding place. Motomura fell in behind. Walking in silence for a short while a sudden thought came back to her. Turning about she walked up to the man.
“Hope,” she told him. “My name…you wanted to know. It’s Hope.”
Motomura smiled, nodding in understanding.
Resuming her walk she let Akila lead the way. She’d rest well tonight. Tomorrow would bring a new day, and she had a war to fight.
End- 1st story- Shadow & Akila
2nd story- Motomura
Calculating the rise and fall of science fiction books, television shows, and movies, I've determined the obvious. Science fiction is no longer dismissed easily as distractions for geeky misfits or as fanciful tales for children, and that may be because the world's observed science fiction over the years become science fact.
Photo from Flickr, by kodiax
So, here I am at 50, a Star-Trek-Twilight-Zone-Outer-Limits-Lost-in-Space-fed child of the 1960s. When I finished high school in the 70s, universities anxiously pitched computer science to graduates with the right test scores, hoping potentials could be drafted to the future. My generation may be part of the reason television's pushing out science fiction shows -- the retired Lost; Fox'sFringe; CBS's FlashForward, which has been cancelled; and the return of V and Battlestar Galactica. The last on the list has given birth to a prequel, Caprica.
My generation grew up on television, pressed the on-buttons of the first personal computers, made playing video games the cool thing to do as we nursed our Pac-Man addictions, and passed our growing dependence on technology onto our children who flock to movie theaters jonesing for special effects and silver screen spectacles that make them believe not only can Superman fly, but so can they. And they dream it into their visual arts, dance, music, and want so much more.
My daughter, 29, is working on a novel about a female general in a matriarchal society, and I am working on a novel about humans in peril on another planet. She and I had a discussion a few months ago about technology. I said ... Please read more of this post at BlogHer.com.
Lots going on these days but this review was special to me in that I doubt any book published by DAW has ever been reviewed in Ebony Magazine. That's just changed and I love the idea that I had something to do with that. I hope I'm the first of many.
Here's the review. See it for yourself in stores now. :-). It's the issue with Prince on the cover.
Ebony Magazine
Page 48, July 2010
Editor's Pick
This Month's "Out-Of-The-Box" Read:
"In WHO FEARS DEATH, by Nnedi Okorafor, the setting is a post-apocalyptic Sudan in which tattered computers, a strict caste-by-race system and desert-roaming nomads coexist. In this sandy landscape, the Okeke people are slaughtered by the Nuru and a child is born from a violent rape. This child, Onyesonwu, whose name means “who fears death,” leads a mystical life in which she is both shunned and admired for her biracial heritage and the elusive magic bestowed upon her as a result of it. This magic jumps out of Onyesonwu, sometimes against her bidding. Harnessed correctly, it could help stem the ongoing genocide. The book is an untraditional fantasy novel; it actually features Black people in an alternate reality that is set in the Motherland. It also skews more toward the Octavia Butler end of the fantastical spectrum with believable, nuanced characters of color and an unbiased view of an Africa full of technology, mysticism, culture clashes and true love."
Ok, my new novel, Banjo Strings, is out in ebook form and the next step in my marketing campaign is seeking good, objective reviews for my controversial and colorful adult epic. Instead of shelling out big bucks to 'pay for review' sites for results that certainly wouldn't be considered 'objective,' I'm choosing this option:
The ebook is on sale (among other places) at Smashwords for $4.95, and to submit a review you have to purchase the book first. So here's the deal...
I will refund the cost of the book for up to five serious, objective reviews by genuine Erotic Horror / SciFi / Southern Gothic / Dark Fantasy fans who will:
1. Read the book sample.
2. Notify me afterward that you intend to purchase and read for review (don't buy the book until after I register you as a 'review reader').
3. Read the entire book.
4. Sign the review and allow its use in promotions.
The book sample covers the first third of the novel, more than enough to gauge your interest in participating. Once the review is officially published at Smashwords, I'll send a crisp (or wrinkled) Abe Lincoln your way either electronically or through snail mail with my thanks.
That's the deal. Holla back. BTW, I've posted this notice at my Facebook, Author Nation and Assn. of Poetry Podcasting pages, and hope to fill the slots by month's end.
However, long before the colonization of Europeans, Africans built kingdoms and monuments that rivaled any European monarchy. Nevertheless, because of racial prejudice, much of Black African history has been distorted and ignored to give justification to the enslavement of millions for financial profit. This paper will be discussing the ancient African kingdoms of Meroë, Ghana, and the Swahili and their rich contributions to the pages of history.
The kingdom of Meroë started around 1000 BC when Nubian rulers built up a politically independent state known to the Egyptians as Kush. Eventually, the rulers of Kush would move to Nubia and establish the kingdom of Meroë (Davis & Gates, p. 30). These rulers established their capital at Meroë around 300 B.C., and the kingdom lasted there for more than nine centuries.
However, some historians feel that because Meroitic culture imitated the Egyptian culture so closely, the Meroitës brought no culture of their own to the pages of history. This is not true According to archaeological evidence discovered in North Sudan that is over 2,500 years old, there was an old civilization along the Nile River at lower and Upper Nubia (modern day Sudan) that was older than the civilizations in the North (Egypt). Also, there is evidence that proves that the known Old Egyptian Civilization was an advanced stage of an even older civilization located in the Sudan (Davis & Gates, p. 35).
This evidence proves that Meroë had a culture and history that was even older than of the Egyptians. If anything, Egypt was a carbon copy of Meroë. This kingdom also had its own language. Most historians however, attributed their language and alphabet system to the Egyptians. It was a common belief that ancient Black Africans could not and did not develop a written language. However, inscriptions in a distinct indigenous alphabet appear in Meroë as early as the 2nd century B.C, proving that these assumptions are not true (Davis & Gates, p. 110).
This evidence proves that Meroë had a culture and history that was even older than of the Egyptians. If anything, Egypt was a carbon copy of Meroë. This kingdom also had its own language. Most historians however, attributed their language and alphabet system to the Egyptians. It was a common belief that ancient Black Africans could not and did not develop a written language. However, inscriptions in a distinct indigenous alphabet appear in Meroë as early as the 2nd century B.C, proving that these assumptions are not true (Davis & Gates, p. 110).
This written Meroitic language was used into the 5th century, when Old Nubian eventually replaced it. Widespread use of Meroitic on monuments indicates that a significant percentage of the population was able to read it. However, the meanings of these inscriptions remain unknown, as this hieroglyphic-derived script is as yet untranslatable.
Another little know fact about the Meroitës is that they had a unusually high number of queens who ruled without male intervention. One queen, Queen Amanirenus led her army against a Roman invasion in 24 BC. She won the first battle, and despite losing a second battle, the Romans had enough, agreed to a truce and went back to Rome. Rome never did conquer Meroë, and this kingdom continued to thrive for another 200 years. Actually "queendom" would be more accurate, since the leader of Meroë was usually a warrior queen, called a "kandake" which means "queen mother" or more simply "gore"meaning "ruler"(Fairservis. p.60).
In terms of economics, Meroë was famed for its massive iron production, the first large-scale industry of its kind in the Nile Valley and had extensive trade with Greece and Rome. Because of the production of iron, the armies had better weapons to use during battle and the farmers had better axes and hoes to work their lands. Meroitë traders exported ivory, leopard skins, ostrich feathers, ebony, and gold and soon gained direct access to the expanding trade of the Red Sea (Shillington, p. 40).
The kingdom of Meroë eventually went into decline. Causes for the decline of the Meroitic Kingdom are still largely unknown. The Meroitic kingdom faced formidable competition because of the expansion of Axum, a powerful Abyssinian state in modern Ethiopia to the east. About A.D. 350, an Axumite army captured and destroyed Meroe city, ending the kingdom's independent existence.
Another little know fact about the Meroitës is that they had a unusually high number of queens who ruled without male intervention. One queen, Queen Amanirenus led her army against a Roman invasion in 24 BC. She won the first battle, and despite losing a second battle, the Romans had enough, agreed to a truce and went back to Rome. Rome never did conquer Meroë, and this kingdom continued to thrive for another 200 years. Actually "queendom" would be more accurate, since the leader of Meroë was usually a warrior queen, called a "kandake" which means "queen mother" or more simply "gore"meaning "ruler"(Fairservis. p.60).
In terms of economics, Meroë was famed for its massive iron production, the first large-scale industry of its kind in the Nile Valley and had extensive trade with Greece and Rome. Because of the production of iron, the armies had better weapons to use during battle and the farmers had better axes and hoes to work their lands. Meroitë traders exported ivory, leopard skins, ostrich feathers, ebony, and gold and soon gained direct access to the expanding trade of the Red Sea (Shillington, p. 40).
The kingdom of Meroë eventually went into decline. Causes for the decline of the Meroitic Kingdom are still largely unknown. The Meroitic kingdom faced formidable competition because of the expansion of Axum, a powerful Abyssinian state in modern Ethiopia to the east. About A.D. 350, an Axumite army captured and destroyed Meroe city, ending the kingdom's independent existence.
The West African Empire of Ghana is another kingdom whose history was downplayed and attributed to outside factors. Although the Berbers originally founded Ghana in the fifth century, it was built on the southern edge of Berber populations. In time, the land became dominated by the Soninke, a Mande speaking people who lived in the region bordering the Sahara (McKissack & McKissack, p. 112). They built their capital city, Kumbi Saleh, right on the edge of the Sahara and the city quickly became the center of the Trans-Saharan trade routes.
Ghana accumulated great wealth because of the Trans-Saharan trade routes. This wealth made it possible for Ghana to conquer local chieftaincies and demand tribute from these subordinate states. This tribute, however, paled next to the wealth generated by the commerce of goods that passed from western Africa east to Egypt and the Middle East. This trade primarily involved gold, salt, and copper (Koslow, p. 70).
A hereditary king called the Ghana ruled Ghana. The kingship was matrilineal (as were all Sahelian monarchies to follow); the king's sister provided the heir to the throne (McKissack & McKissack, p. 115). In addition to military power, the king appears to have been the supreme judge of the kingdom.
Although northern African had been dominated by the religion of Islam since the eighth century, the kingdom of Ghana never converted (McKissack & McKissack, p. 120). The Ghanaian court, however, allowed Muslims to settle in the cities and even encouraged Muslim specialists to help the royal court administer the government and advice on legal matters.
The original founders of Ghana ultimately proved to be its demise. Unlike the Ghanaians, the Berbers, now calling themselves Almoravids, fervently converted to Islam and in 1075, declared a holy war, or jihad, against the kingdom of Ghana. Little is known about what exactly happened but nonetheless, Ghana ceased to be a commercial or military power after 1100. The Almoravid revolution ultimately ended the reign of Ghana.
Europeans and Arabs alike have portrayed the history of the Swahili kingdom as one of Muslim-Arab domination, with the African people and its rulers playing a passive role in the process. However, recent archaeological evidence found shows that the Swahili people are descendants of the Bantu speaking people who settled along the East African coast in the first millennium (Horton & Middleton, p. 70). Although both Arabians and Persians intermarried with the Swahili, neither of these cultures had anything to do with the establishment of Swahili civilization. These cultures became absorbed into an already flourishing African civilization founded by ancient Bantu Africans.
The eastern coast of Africa changed profoundly around the close of the first millennium AD. During this time, Bantu-speaking Africans from the interior migrated and settled along the coast from Kenya to South Africa. Next, merchants and traders from the Muslim world realized the strategic importance of the east coast of Africa for commercial traffic and began to settle there (Horton & Middleton, p. 72). Marriage between the Bantu women and men of the Middle East created and cemented a rich Swahili culture, fusing religion, agricultural architecture, textiles, food, as well as purchasing power. From 900 A.D., the east coast of Africa saw an influx of Shirazi Arabs from the Persian Gulf and even small settlements of Indians. The Arabs called this region al-Zanj, "The Blacks," and the coastal areas slowly came under the control of Muslim merchants from Arabia and Persia (Horton & Middleton, p. 75). By the 1300's, the major east African ports from Mombaza in the north to Sofala in the south had become thoroughly Islamic cities and cultural centers.
The language that grew out of this civilization is one of the most common and widespread of the lingua franca: a lingua franca is a secondary language that is a combination of two or more languages. Swahili or Kiswahili comes from the Arabic word sawahil, which means, "coast." Swahili belongs to the Sabaki subgroup of the Northeastern coast Bantu languages. It is closely related to the Miji Kenda group of languages, Pokomo and Ngazija (Horton & Middleton, p.110). Over at least a thousand years of intense and varied interaction with the Middle East has given Swahili a rich infusion of loanwords from a wide assortment of languages. Even with the substantial number of Arabic loanwords present in Swahili, the language is in fact, Bantu.
The Swahili civilization expanded southwards until they reached Kilwa in Zanzibar (from the Arabic word al-Zan). Later, its inhabitants carved out a small territory even further south around Sofala in Zimbabwe (Horton & Middleton, p. 140). While the northern cities remained localized and had little influence on African culture inland from the coast, the Sofalans actively went inland and spread Islam and Islamic culture deep in African territory (Horton & Middleton, p. 150).
Ghana accumulated great wealth because of the Trans-Saharan trade routes. This wealth made it possible for Ghana to conquer local chieftaincies and demand tribute from these subordinate states. This tribute, however, paled next to the wealth generated by the commerce of goods that passed from western Africa east to Egypt and the Middle East. This trade primarily involved gold, salt, and copper (Koslow, p. 70).
A hereditary king called the Ghana ruled Ghana. The kingship was matrilineal (as were all Sahelian monarchies to follow); the king's sister provided the heir to the throne (McKissack & McKissack, p. 115). In addition to military power, the king appears to have been the supreme judge of the kingdom.
Although northern African had been dominated by the religion of Islam since the eighth century, the kingdom of Ghana never converted (McKissack & McKissack, p. 120). The Ghanaian court, however, allowed Muslims to settle in the cities and even encouraged Muslim specialists to help the royal court administer the government and advice on legal matters.
The original founders of Ghana ultimately proved to be its demise. Unlike the Ghanaians, the Berbers, now calling themselves Almoravids, fervently converted to Islam and in 1075, declared a holy war, or jihad, against the kingdom of Ghana. Little is known about what exactly happened but nonetheless, Ghana ceased to be a commercial or military power after 1100. The Almoravid revolution ultimately ended the reign of Ghana.
Europeans and Arabs alike have portrayed the history of the Swahili kingdom as one of Muslim-Arab domination, with the African people and its rulers playing a passive role in the process. However, recent archaeological evidence found shows that the Swahili people are descendants of the Bantu speaking people who settled along the East African coast in the first millennium (Horton & Middleton, p. 70). Although both Arabians and Persians intermarried with the Swahili, neither of these cultures had anything to do with the establishment of Swahili civilization. These cultures became absorbed into an already flourishing African civilization founded by ancient Bantu Africans.
The eastern coast of Africa changed profoundly around the close of the first millennium AD. During this time, Bantu-speaking Africans from the interior migrated and settled along the coast from Kenya to South Africa. Next, merchants and traders from the Muslim world realized the strategic importance of the east coast of Africa for commercial traffic and began to settle there (Horton & Middleton, p. 72). Marriage between the Bantu women and men of the Middle East created and cemented a rich Swahili culture, fusing religion, agricultural architecture, textiles, food, as well as purchasing power. From 900 A.D., the east coast of Africa saw an influx of Shirazi Arabs from the Persian Gulf and even small settlements of Indians. The Arabs called this region al-Zanj, "The Blacks," and the coastal areas slowly came under the control of Muslim merchants from Arabia and Persia (Horton & Middleton, p. 75). By the 1300's, the major east African ports from Mombaza in the north to Sofala in the south had become thoroughly Islamic cities and cultural centers.
The language that grew out of this civilization is one of the most common and widespread of the lingua franca: a lingua franca is a secondary language that is a combination of two or more languages. Swahili or Kiswahili comes from the Arabic word sawahil, which means, "coast." Swahili belongs to the Sabaki subgroup of the Northeastern coast Bantu languages. It is closely related to the Miji Kenda group of languages, Pokomo and Ngazija (Horton & Middleton, p.110). Over at least a thousand years of intense and varied interaction with the Middle East has given Swahili a rich infusion of loanwords from a wide assortment of languages. Even with the substantial number of Arabic loanwords present in Swahili, the language is in fact, Bantu.
The Swahili civilization expanded southwards until they reached Kilwa in Zanzibar (from the Arabic word al-Zan). Later, its inhabitants carved out a small territory even further south around Sofala in Zimbabwe (Horton & Middleton, p. 140). While the northern cities remained localized and had little influence on African culture inland from the coast, the Sofalans actively went inland and spread Islam and Islamic culture deep in African territory (Horton & Middleton, p. 150).
The major Swahili city-states were Mogadishu, Barawa, Mombasa (Kenya), Gedi, Pate, Malindi, Zanzibar, Kilwa, and Sofala in the far south (Horton & Middleton, p. 155). Kilwa was the most famous of these city-states and was particularly wealthy because it controlled the southern port of Sofala, which had access to the gold, produced in the interior (near "Great Zimbabwe"), and its location as the farthest point south at which ships from India could hope to sail and return in a single monsoon season.
These city-states were very cosmopolitan for their time and they were all politically independent of one another. In fact, they were more like competitive companies or corporations, each vying for the lion's share of African trade. The chief export was ivory, sandalwood, ebony, and gold. Textiles from India and porcelain from China were also brought by Arab traders (Horton & Middleton, p. 175). While the Arabs and Persians played a role in the growth of the Swahili civilization, the nobility was of African descent and they ran the city-states (Horton & Middleton p.195). However, the nobility were Muslims and it was the Muslims who controlled the wealth. Below the nobility were the commoners and the resident foreigners who made up a large part of the citizenry.
However, Islam itself penetrated very little into the interior among the hunters, pastoralists, and farmers. Even the areas of the coast near the trading towns remained relatively unaffected (Horton & Middleton p.198). In the towns, the mud and thatch houses of the non-Muslim common people surrounded the stone and coral buildings of the Muslim elite, and it seems that most followers of Islam were wealthy, not poor.
Still, a culture developed for the Swahili that fused African and Islamic elements. Family lineage, for example, was traced both through the maternal line, which controlled property, an African practice, and through the paternal line, which was the Muslim tradition. Swahili culture had a strong Islamic influence but retained many of its African origins.
These city-states began to decline in the sixteenth century; the advent of Portuguese trade disrupted the old trade routes and made the Swahili commercial centers obsolete. The Portuguese wanted native Africans to have no share in African trade and busily set about conquering the Islamic city-states along the eastern coast (Horton & Middleton, p.225). In the late seventeenth century, the imam (religious leader) of Oman drove the Portuguese from the coast, and gradually established his authority over the coast.
The existence of these ancient Black African civilizations proves once and for all that Africa had a culture and a history of its own other than Egyptian that endured for centuries before the advent of outside factors. The kingdom of Meroë ruled for centuries before the Egyptians and deserves its rightful place as one of the premier ancient civilizations of the world. The kingdom of Ghana proved that Africans were capable of managing their own affairs without the intervention of Europeans. The Swahili and their language were around for centuries before Arabians and others "discovered" them.
These civilizations had their own culture, language and commerce before the advent of Europeans and Muslims in Africa and for the most part, the world does not know anything about them. That is a major crime against the study of history and hopefully, through more archaeological studies and writings, the rich and interesting history of these magnificent civilizations will be told and treasured for future generations.
Bibliography Fairservis, Jr., Walter A. The Ancient Kingdoms of the Nile. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1962.
Davis, Lynn. Gates, Jr. Henry Louis. Wonders of the African World. New York: Random House Publishing, 1999.
Horton, Mark & Middleton, John. The Swahili: The Social Landscape of a Mercantile Society (Peoples of Africa). Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. 2001.
Koslow, Philip. Centuries of Greatness - The West African Kingdoms: 750-1900. London: Chelsea House Publishers, 1995.
McKissack, Patricia & Fredrick Mckissack. The Royal Kingdoms of Ghana, Mali, and Songhay - Life in Medieval Africa. New York: Henry Holt and Company, Inc., 1994.
Shillington, Kevin. History of Africa. Oxford: Macmillan Education, 1995.
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Kathy_Henry
These city-states were very cosmopolitan for their time and they were all politically independent of one another. In fact, they were more like competitive companies or corporations, each vying for the lion's share of African trade. The chief export was ivory, sandalwood, ebony, and gold. Textiles from India and porcelain from China were also brought by Arab traders (Horton & Middleton, p. 175). While the Arabs and Persians played a role in the growth of the Swahili civilization, the nobility was of African descent and they ran the city-states (Horton & Middleton p.195). However, the nobility were Muslims and it was the Muslims who controlled the wealth. Below the nobility were the commoners and the resident foreigners who made up a large part of the citizenry.
However, Islam itself penetrated very little into the interior among the hunters, pastoralists, and farmers. Even the areas of the coast near the trading towns remained relatively unaffected (Horton & Middleton p.198). In the towns, the mud and thatch houses of the non-Muslim common people surrounded the stone and coral buildings of the Muslim elite, and it seems that most followers of Islam were wealthy, not poor.
Still, a culture developed for the Swahili that fused African and Islamic elements. Family lineage, for example, was traced both through the maternal line, which controlled property, an African practice, and through the paternal line, which was the Muslim tradition. Swahili culture had a strong Islamic influence but retained many of its African origins.
These city-states began to decline in the sixteenth century; the advent of Portuguese trade disrupted the old trade routes and made the Swahili commercial centers obsolete. The Portuguese wanted native Africans to have no share in African trade and busily set about conquering the Islamic city-states along the eastern coast (Horton & Middleton, p.225). In the late seventeenth century, the imam (religious leader) of Oman drove the Portuguese from the coast, and gradually established his authority over the coast.
The existence of these ancient Black African civilizations proves once and for all that Africa had a culture and a history of its own other than Egyptian that endured for centuries before the advent of outside factors. The kingdom of Meroë ruled for centuries before the Egyptians and deserves its rightful place as one of the premier ancient civilizations of the world. The kingdom of Ghana proved that Africans were capable of managing their own affairs without the intervention of Europeans. The Swahili and their language were around for centuries before Arabians and others "discovered" them.
These civilizations had their own culture, language and commerce before the advent of Europeans and Muslims in Africa and for the most part, the world does not know anything about them. That is a major crime against the study of history and hopefully, through more archaeological studies and writings, the rich and interesting history of these magnificent civilizations will be told and treasured for future generations.
Bibliography Fairservis, Jr., Walter A. The Ancient Kingdoms of the Nile. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1962.
Davis, Lynn. Gates, Jr. Henry Louis. Wonders of the African World. New York: Random House Publishing, 1999.
Horton, Mark & Middleton, John. The Swahili: The Social Landscape of a Mercantile Society (Peoples of Africa). Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. 2001.
Koslow, Philip. Centuries of Greatness - The West African Kingdoms: 750-1900. London: Chelsea House Publishers, 1995.
McKissack, Patricia & Fredrick Mckissack. The Royal Kingdoms of Ghana, Mali, and Songhay - Life in Medieval Africa. New York: Henry Holt and Company, Inc., 1994.
Shillington, Kevin. History of Africa. Oxford: Macmillan Education, 1995.
Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Kathy_Henry
About this project:
The reason I write and produce stories featuring black characters is because their are very little heroes in mainstream media that look like african americans. So I am creating a film called "The Flying Bullet: Peril of the Phoenix Planet" which will be a SCI-FI adventure film dealing with a Tuskegee Airman being transported millions of mile away from Earth in 1943. This film is a 100% science fiction story. I took the rich history of african americans and combined it with the science fiction genre. The story deals with the struggles of african americans to be counted as full citizens of the United States in defense of their country during WWII. Curt Master soons discovers that the planet Earth is entangled in a bigger intergalactic struggle to remain free from a nefarious Warlord.
My screenplay is already complete. I plan to begin shooting in June of 2010. I have enlisted aid from other african american actors, illustrators and visual effects personnel. The film will be
shot in a studio using green screen technology, on location in Hunstville, Alabama for outdoor scenes and at the U.S Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama for interior sci-fi scenes. The film should be complete by February 2010. I plan on entering it in the the Atlanta Film Festival in April of 2011 in Atlanta, Georgia for its premiere. Also I will premiere it at the Boys and Girls Club of Huntsville, Alabama for free to all the kids. Then the film will go on sale for the public in June 2011.
Special bonus features will include upcoming projects and a "making of/ director commentary."
The cost will cover studio time, CGI work, fees, software. I have several actors involved in the project doing it for free. They are doing it because they love sci-fi and want to see a project like this so all kids and adults can enjoy. But I would like to have something left over in order to pay them a nominal fee.
Heroes Like Me Entertainment wil produce original, low-budget, short films in the action, adventure and sci-fi genre starring african americans. I'm not asking for a hand-out but an opportunity to market the films to cable companies like TV-One, BET, SCI-FI Channel, Nickelodeon, and others networks.
Check out my website at heroeslikeme.com where you can see my other published work and content. If you have any further questions plesase email me at chris@heroeslikeme.com
I believe that everyone deserves heroes that look like them.
Project location: Huntsville, AL
There's nothing wrong with editors; they're signing the checks so, if they want changes, they should be entitled to ask for them. But there's something about letting folks see stuff the way I meant it originally that appeals to me.
If things go well with this first book I'll be doing more via TWP and not just my own stuff.
Anyway, here's the official pitch.
HURRY! HURRY! HURRY! ESHU... A lonely god at the end of the universe? Sounds like a party. DR. EIDLING... A scientist with a physics problem that just might be murder. ANTIOPE... A young girl with a secret bundle, monsters in the dark woods? Not your grandmother's fairy tale. Geoffrey Thorne, author of Star Trek: Titan: Sword of Damocles, assembles these tales and many more under one tent for the first time. Bring your friends! Bring your lovers! Bring your cats! There's something in the Dreamnasium for everybody!  |
I have started my response to the movie: Avatar. I have created a short story called: Revival. The scenario starts out the same -- greedy humans invade peaceful people on beautiful, unspoiled planet. But I added a few land mines into the story. This is part one, I hope you enjoy it. Also, you can get a free copy of my E-book, " A Cup of Paradise" at the site.
Go to: http://www.sbattle.com
Yes, if it come from your tap,in a bottle,or from reverse osmosis,because that water is acidic. Our body needs "ALKALINE" water........To be blunt,"Kangen water is radically changing the lives of so so many around the world.....Kangen means "Return To Black Orgin" and that's exactly what this water does....By no means am i trying to make money.....However, " What If Something as simple as changeing the water you drink could have a profound impact on the health of your family............ www.drinkangen.org
First, let me saythat I do not wish to exists at any cost. If I must cast off all that Iam, and myself become an abomination to myself and others, I wouldrather that I not have been born at all. And likewise for this country,if we yield to the vulgar nature of fear and loathing to continue ourexistence then we have already forsaken all those things we claim tobe, and we make a mockery of the creed "One Nation Under God".
Secondly, it seems equally clear to me that "we" must push against thecurrent of hate and rage, with all the vigor of our beings, that allthat we have worked for may not perish from the face of the earth. Yes,this country is at great risk right now, but not from anythingpresident Obama has done, but rather from the lips of those who opposefreedom when the candidate of their choice is not elected. Where werethese voices the previous eight years? With very few exceptions, thoseclamoring the loudest to that we are on the wrong track, are the verysame ones who sold and embarrassed themselves for the preivousadministration. Where was their outrage then?
Thirdly, we mustconfess that we are a country of morally dishonest people when it comesto politics. We take up truths that line up with our predeterminedposition or affiliation. Many know the truth but they are too afraid tosay it. The truth is, that President George H Bush (the father) was agood president. He corrected the fiscal policies for President Reagan,that led to the last major recession. President Reagan was a greatleader, but his policies were very flawed. President Clinton benefitedfrom President Bush's fiscal policy, but had the good sense to buildupon them. And as the years pass and the media spin wears off,President Carter will look better and better. While not right oneverything, he was right on so much, that we as a nation were just notready to hear (he called for energy independence before it was a coolthing to do).
So, the question in my mind is just how do wechange the conversation? How do we affect change, such that we speakand act upon real issues and not rhetoric and blind ideology born outof fear of those different from ourselves?
We write.
We write upon this gigantic blackboard called the Internet. We write tonewspapers large and small. We write to the radio stations thatbroadcast programs that prey upon our fears and promote incivility. Wewrite to our legislators and congress persons. We write articles,opinion pieces and letters to national and local magazines. We writeanywhere where we have the right to express ourselves and our sharedbelief of a better existence here in this life. We write the truth, nomatter how painful it may be, whether it benefits us personally or not,and whether it offends or not. We must have faith in the truth, andthat by its inherent power; we will be delivered from this currentclimate of bitterness and deceit.
Lastly, let us remember thatnothing is impossible for those who have faith in what is good andjust. Whether we see the harvest in our generation, does not matter incomparison to the preservation of the process, built upon the beliefthat all men are created equal, and that we might pass this hope alongto future generations, granting them the faith to continue on...
Sincerely,
Alan Jones
