All Posts (6486)
Sort by
GULLIVER TRAVEL GRANT
For Immediate Release: July 22, 2010
The Speculative Literature Foundation (SLF) is accepting proposals for the Gulliver Travel Research Grant from July 1st 2010 until September 30th 2010.
SLF travel grants are awarded to assist writers of speculative fiction (poetry, drama, creative nonfiction) in their research. They are not currently available for academic research. We are currently offering one $800 travel grant annually, to be used to cover airfare, lodging, and/or other travel expenses.
PLEASE NOTE: This grant, as with all SLF grants, is intended to help writers working with speculative literature. If you're not sure what areas that term encompasses, we recommend referencing our FAQ (question #2) on the web site.
Travel Grant Application Procedures
Send the following three items to travel@speculativeliterature.org as attached .doc or .rtf files in one e-mail:
1. A writing sample in the proposed genre (up to 10 pages of poetry, 10 pages of drama, or 5000 words of fiction or creative nonfiction)
2. A bibliography of previously-published work by the author (no more than one page, typed); applicants need not have previous publications to apply
3. A one-page written description of the project in question (maximum 500 words). Please include: Where you intend to visit (be as specific as you can), when you intend to travel (including the completion date), and what you will gain from field rather than desk research via a library or the internet
If awarded the grant, the recipient agrees to write a brief report of their research experience (500-1000 words) for our files, and for possible public dissemination on our website.
Travel may take place from any country to any country, or internally within a country; the grants are unrestricted. Funds will be disbursed in U.S. currency (but can be sent through PayPal if that is more convenient for international recipients).
The grant recipient will be announced by October 15th. All applicants will be notified of the status of their application by that date.
----------------
The Speculative Literature Foundation is a volunteer-run, non-profit organization dedicated to promoting the interests of readers, writers, editors and publishers in the speculative literature community.
"Speculative literature" is a catch-all term meant to inclusively span the breadth of fantastic literature, encompassing literature ranging from hard and soft science fiction to epic fantasy to ghost stories to
folk and fairy tales to slipstream to magical realism to modern mythmaking–any literature containing a fabulist or speculative element.
More information about the Speculative Literature Foundation is available from its web site: http://www.speclit.org/
SPECULATIVE LITERATURE FOUNDATION
PO Box 1693
Dubuque, IA 52004-1693
http://www.speclit.org
We look forward to hearing your voice!
From Politics, to relationships to Jobs we'll guide you through it!
Saturday 7/17/10 9:30pm CST 90 Minutes CLICK ON THE LINK or call 718/508-9683 and TELL US WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND!
FYI- If you are in the Chicago area, there will be a screening of Pumzi and I'll be doing a reading/booksigning on August 1st at the Dusable Museum.
Here is the Facebook announcement where you can learn more about the event.
Info about Pumzi:
Pumzi, 2010, KenyaA 20 min
Sc-Fi film about futuristic Africa, 35 years after World War III “The Water War”.Directed by Wanuri KahiuNature is extinct. The outside is dead. Ashalives and works as a museum curator in one of the indoor communities set up bythe Maitu Council. When she receives a box in the mail containing soil, sheplants an old seed in it and the seed starts to germinate instantly. Ashaappeals to the Council to grant her permission to investigate the possibilityof life on the outside but the Council denies her exit visa. Asha breaks out ofthe inside community to go into the dead and derelict outside to plant thegrowing seedling and possibly find life on the outside.
Who Fears Death Conjures a Different Kind of Wizard
Nnedi Okorafor steers clear of J.K. Rowling
In the 1970s, black fantasist Octavia Butler named the central protagonist in her "Patternist" series after an Igbo goddess. Back then, a publishing industry resistant to non-white characters (and writers) in genre fiction would never have predicted that, today, an American daughter of Igbo immigrants would publish critically acclaimed speculative fiction using Igbo elements and philosophical borrowings from the folklore of Central Asia, India, and the Middle East.
Superficially, Nnedi Okorafor's Who Fears Death is built around fantasy literature's most popular cliché: the mysterious, predestined child messiah. She pushes that cliché into psychologically (and physiologically) messier territory. The result of rape, a girl wizard named Onyesonwu hopes to murder the racist warlord who sired her. UnlikeHarry Potter, Onye's style of magic is Nomadic Shaman, not Medieval Mage. So not only does the novel read more like Carlos Castaneda than J.K. Rowling when describing Onye's magical apprenticeship, this angry young sorceress validates every patriarchal fear of powerful women. In the process of constructing this unabashedly neofeminist fable, Okorafor critiques Africa's endemic poverty, gender prejudices, female circumcision, and the twin plagues of Islamic and Christian fundamentalism.
It's an ambitious agenda for a single book, particularly since Okorafor also reworked the prose style of her award-winning teen fiction to better suit this, her first adult novel. But with few exceptions, it all comes together beautifully. Her pacing is tight. Her expository sections sing like poetry. Descriptions of paranormal people and battles are disturbingly vivid and palpable. But most crucial to the book's success is how the author slowly transforms Onye's pursuit of her rapist father from a personal vendetta to a struggle to transform the social systems that created him. SF and fantasy already claim many classic tales that are thinly veiled allegories of the Holocaust, the Stalinist purges, even China's "cultural revolution." So little wonder that Okorafor appropriated the narrative strategies and loopholes of speculative fiction to tell a cautionary tale inspired by the more recent political horrors of Biafra, Rwanda, and Darfur.
Note* There are eight great points to consider in the body of this blog when publishing; whether self or through mainstream. I hope this is helpful to everyone who is trying to take their work to a universal and commercial level. This is really great for those that have already self-published. Write on! ~Moses
==================================
Copyright Barnes & Noble, Inc. 2010
Each year, we review more than 100,000 submissions from publishers of every size and background. Our buyers review publishers’ catalogues,
marketing materials and galleys or sample copies to help them make their
decisions. Most of these books are added to our book database and a
small order is placed for our warehouse. This makes a title available
for sale on our Web site and for order through our stores.
If you would like your title to be considered by our buyers, please submit a finished copy (no manuscripts please) of the book along with
marketing and promotion plans, trade reviews, and a note describing how
the book meets the competition (what makes it unique) to:
The Small Press Department
Barnes & Noble
122 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10011
Please include your phone number and e-mail address.
The information must include the ISBN and the suggested retail price. The review process takes about six weeks. The Small Press Department
responds to all submissions in writing.
All books will be considered for store placement based on subject matter and salability. Please consider the following points when
publishing and presenting your book.
- Does your book have an International Standard Book Number (ISBN)?
- Does your book have a bar code?
- What sort of binding (saddle stitch, staple, perfect, plastic comb, ring) does your book have?
- Is your book available through a wholesaler?
- Is your book priced competitively with other titles of a similar topic and quality?
- Has your book met compliance certification?
- Why should Barnes & Noble place your title on its shelves?
- Where can you find more information on the topic of book writing, publishing, and marketing?
Does your book have an International Standard Book Number (ISBN)?
We use the ISBN to track inventory and sales information. An ISBN is a 10-digit number that specifically identifies your title. ISBNs are
furnished by:
ISBN Agency
630 Central Avenue
New Providence, NJ 07974
(877)310-7333
(908)219-0188 (fax)
www.isbn.org
Processing takes 10 working days. An extra fee brings 72-hourpriority handling. If your book has already been printed, you can
sticker your book with the ISBN once it is assigned. The ISBN and price
should appear on the back cover of the book.
For more info click on this link:
http://www.barnesandnobleinc.com/for_authors/how_to_work_with_bn/how_to_work_with_bn.html
RENPET THE SCI_FI NOVEL OF THE YEAR available at renpet331.blogspot.com
Shakuan’s lower back felt warm with a caressing touch followed by
more wet sensations to his chest.
"Uh, Kenitha is that you?"
"Uh-huh," she answered seductively.
"How are you doing this?"
"I really don’t know. I just thought about being with
you and the next thing I knew I was able to touch you."
"Well keep going, let’s see what else comes up,"
Shakuan said mischievously putting an emphasis on the
word come.
She licked his chest and fingered her way up and down
his back. The feeling left a sensation of hot gel wherever
she contacted him. He wanted to do the same to her. He
focused on the times they had together and the way she
looked to him.
In his memories he experienced how curvaceous her
frame was and soft her skin felt. He extended his arms outward
and brought them towards his body to hold her. She
squeezed him hard when his touch petted her curves. The
sleekness of her body excited Shakuan, he grabbed her
backside and got lost in its plumpness. Gradually he
became aroused, she lay on top of him and he could hear
a faint heartbeat. She in turn felt his hardness press against
her.
"Take off your pants."
"Way ahead of you."
He practically ripped his jeans off, leaving his socks on
his feet like he always did when they got together.
"Same old Shakuan. Naked to the socks when he’s
about to get some."
"Shut up," he said softly to her as he began to finger
her gently.
These Terrans have interesting ways of expressing
unity of bodies and spirits. If he was not still in a state of
shock, this whole scene would have freaked him out. The
fact of her getting wet to his fingering should have bewildered
him alone. Kenitha removed his hand from between
her legs and held him. Little by little she took him inside
of her. She sat on top of him gyrating her hips, pressing
her hands to his chest. She let out a satisfying and somewhat
painful moan like it was her first time.......
RENPET THE SCI_FI NOVEL OF THE YEAR available at renpet331.blogspot.com
more in Renpet...much more.....
We look forward to hearing your voice!
From Politics, to relationships to Jobs we'll guide you through it!
Saturday 7/10/10 9:30pm CST 90 Minutes CLICK ON THE LINK or call 718/508-9683 and TELL US WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND!
SCRIPT MAN: THE BEGINNING
BY,
MOSES T. CLARK JR.
BY,
MOSES T. CLARK JR.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
The shop is packed with a bunch of motivated working people. A room full of sugar-grubbing coffee addicts.
A Black man, CLARK (27) is sitting at a table,typing away on his laptop. His physic is cut, with short wavy-brown hair, and strong hands like that of a working man's hands. He continues to type like he is isolated in his own world.
An attractiveCaucasian/Asian woman SANDY (29) petite figure, with long auburn hair, sophisticated glasses, pretty blue eyes, and a scarlet casual outfit
that matches her lips, walks by sipping on a cup of coffee.
SANDY
Is that a script you're working on?
CLARK
Yeah, a revision I'm fixin' up...I got a
meeting at the Writers Hall tomorrow.
Is that a script you're working on?
CLARK
Yeah, a revision I'm fixin' up...I got a
meeting at the Writers Hall tomorrow.
Sandy gives a solemn smirk.
SANDY
Oh' yeah! Maybe I should throw up a
prayer to the Script god for your
success.
CLARK
I'd appreciate that.
Oh' yeah! Maybe I should throw up a
prayer to the Script god for your
success.
CLARK
I'd appreciate that.
Sandy gave a goodbye smile and walked towards the exit. For a second, Clark thought that there was something peculiar about her, and then he nodded his head, forgetting that thought.
INT.WRITERS HALL, LOBBY - DAY
The lobby is crowded with a bunch ofno name writers, sitting down quietly -- looking like cattle going to the slaughter.
A female RECEPTIONIST sits at her deskchewing on gum...every three seconds she manages to give an annoying POP.
Clark is posted in an uncomfortable chair, waitingpatiently.
He notices a MAN come out of the door upstairs. Theman looks like an odd poindexter, and he is also walking funny-wiping his slimy mouth-burping.
This makes Clark feel moreuncomfortable. He now has a concerned look on his face.
RECEPTIONIST
Clark! You're up next!
Clark! You're up next!
The Receptionist hit a button that caused the main door to re-open. Clark slowly went up the stairs and through the door...
INT. WRITERS HALL, CORRIDOR -CONTINUOUS
...While he is walking down the corridor hallway,there is a horrid smell that makes him gag.
The further he walksdown the hallway, the more the area starts to deform. It now looks like an underworld, an abyss -- with torches on the walls, and statues of ancient creatures.
INT. WRITERS HALL, MAIN OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
Whenhe finally gets inside the room, he is sickened to see a line of
writers -- people of all races and genders, sucking huge white cocks.
SCRIPTGOD (200) approaches him with his long dark hair, silver eyes and a
pale face that probably has not seen light since 1862.
CLARK
What the hell is this place? I thought
this was suppose to be the Writers Hall?!
What the hell is this place? I thought
this was suppose to be the Writers Hall?!
Script god touches his own pale chin with his long ivory nails and gives a seductive smile.
SCRIPT GOD
Calm down, you're in the right place.
This is the Writers Hall.
Calm down, you're in the right place.
This is the Writers Hall.
Clark is aggravated by the sucking sound in the background.
CLARK
But there's nothing here, but a bunch
of...
SCRIPT GOD
Cocksuckers. Is that what you think they
are? My dear lad you must be mistaking...
for these are Hollywood's finest
contributors.
CLARK
You're insane!
SCRIPT GOD
And you my dear friend are talented...
think about this clearly before you
judge. We all have to suck cock at some
point in our miserable lives. Look at
Halle Berry, she hadto suck Billy Bob
Thortons cock to win an Oscar. Everyone
needs to taste humility sometimes.
But there's nothing here, but a bunch
of...
SCRIPT GOD
Cocksuckers. Is that what you think they
are? My dear lad you must be mistaking...
for these are Hollywood's finest
contributors.
CLARK
You're insane!
SCRIPT GOD
And you my dear friend are talented...
think about this clearly before you
judge. We all have to suck cock at some
point in our miserable lives. Look at
Halle Berry, she hadto suck Billy Bob
Thortons cock to win an Oscar. Everyone
needs to taste humility sometimes.
Clark holds his hand over his mouth coughing in disgust.
SCRIPT GOD
So be wise Clark, suck my cock, and I
can promise you a very fruitful career.
So be wise Clark, suck my cock, and I
can promise you a very fruitful career.
Clark has a deep frown, and walks closer towards the Script god. He tightens his fist, and punches the demon in his ashen-face, causing him to fall to the floor.
Clark dashesfor the exit.
SCRIPT GOD
Kill him! Before he exposes us!
Kill him! Before he exposes us!
A group of agents rush towards Clark, chasing him down the hallway.
With all his might, Clark kicks open the door...
INT. WRITERS HALL, LOBBY - CONTINUOUS
...moreagents thrust forth with guns aimed at Clark. The writers in the lobby
all run outside terrified.
Clark finds himself surrounded andthen...Sandy the lady from the coffee shop storms in, exposing the truth that she is...
CLARK
Script Girl?
Script Girl?
Clark's eyes widen in disbelieve. The agents become furious and try to attack
Script Girl.
Ten agents rush in and she does a kick that sendsfive flying back to the floor unconscious.
The other Five try toget physical and she breaks one of their arms, jabs another in the chest causing him to spit up blood, knocking two out with the palm of her knuckles, and this leaves the last agent who cowardly tries to shoot at her.
The bullet shoots out in slow motion, Script Girl dodges thebullet, and it grazes her cape -- she finishes with an uppercut to the jaw before the agent could get another shot.
SCRIPT GIRL
let's go before that freak sends more
agents!
let's go before that freak sends more
agents!
Clark doesn't hesitate, he follows her out the door.
INT. DRIVING - LATER THAT DAY
Script Girl is driving her cherry red convertible-- her hair is blowing in the wind. Clark sits in the passenger seat, still trying to cope with everything that just went on.
SCRIPT GIRL
I respect you for not selling out Clark.
CLARK
You know me?
SCRIPT GIRL
Hell yeah! I read your stuff on Helium...
I can help you if you let me. My job is
to stop the tyranny of the blank page,
but you...you can be much more.
I respect you for not selling out Clark.
CLARK
You know me?
SCRIPT GIRL
Hell yeah! I read your stuff on Helium...
I can help you if you let me. My job is
to stop the tyranny of the blank page,
but you...you can be much more.
The scene closes in on Clark's confused eyes.
TO BE CONT'D
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
