Excerpt

Traveling a hundred times as fast as Apollo, the nearest star is a millennium away.  What if aliens from there tried to come here?  A lot can go wrong in a thousand years.  An interstellar probe decelerates into earth orbit.  Nothing happens.  An astronaut team discovers why.  Its crew died in transit.  Exposed to what killed the aliens, can NASA let the explorers come home?  Quarantined and running out of air, how can they survive?

CHAPTER 1

He’d never make general after this fiasco. Colonel Rex Stone watched the horizon swallow the glowing asteroid. He’d be on the dark side of the planet; his instruments would just miss the event of the millennium. For months, the world had watched the strange object hurtling out of the southern sky. Within an hour, it would thread the needle between the earth and its moon. Closest approach would occur on the other side of the planet. By the time his International Space Station swung around again, the alien object would be halfway back to the moon.

Lesser instruments in better positions were on-line waiting for the asteroid. Army flying telescopes were filming from peak altitudes; Navy radar was staring straight up. They’d get the best data; the Air Force would get the dregs they left behind.
The wall of monitors taunted him. The Space Station displays were blank; his premier instrument would see nothing. Rex shook his head. This wouldn’t happen with a modern Space Force-one ready to deploy anywhere anytime.

Live television feed on the top left screen still showed Rex at the command console. Clean cut, crew cut-he approved. He was the image of his boyhood idol, John Glenn the astronaut/senator who had nominated him to the Air Force Academy. The piercing brown eyes of a younger fighter pilot screamed his intelligence. Thank God for Botox! Here was the picture of a charismatic leader. If the mission had succeeded, they’d have had to make him a general-the first general of the new Space Force.

A dot, blue like a natural gas flame, jittered in the centers of a few monitors. Live coverage shifted to a split screen. White stars streaked across black backgrounds as the cameras tracked the asteroid.
At last, the Hubble Telescope display lit up. A couple of hours of Hubble viewing time for Rex’s mission had taken Congressional intervention. NASA had negotiated a package deal: Dawn Thomas and their telescope. She was Hubble’s mother. Officially, Dr. Dawn Thomas was the Hubble Chief Scientist; no one fed anything to her telescope without her approval. Rumor had it she’d responded, “Especially not some over-the-hill fighter jock…” to Rex’s mission proposal. She’d rather do it herself. Her Hubble Telescope was the only mission item not under his direct command.
Dawn had sat right there beside him withholding her instrument until the last possible second-allegedly to conserve cooling. She claimed the telescope had trouble looking so near the sun.

A fuzzy three-lobed clump filled the picture before it flashed white. “Oh great!” Rex slapped the Hubble monitor. It didn’t respond. After all that, Dawn must have pointed the damn thing at the sun, he thought. Then he noticed the other screens: they were white too. “Must have exploded again-and we missed it,” he grumbled. It had happened a couple of times out there in deep space. When the object impacted something, its xenon plasma sheath had erupted. With all the clutter of near space, he had warned them another collision was inevitable. They should have been prepared.

“Let me take a look.” Dawn pushed off and floated closer to squint at the yellow numbers scrolling across the white images. “I think my guy is out for the duration.” She thumped the Hubble screen. “How long before yours recover, Colonel?”

“Who knows?” Rex shrugged. “They’re Army birds.”
“Army! Air Force! Who cares?” She threw up her hands. “Can they get anything?”

“Visible cameras were last minute add-ons to the Airborne Surveillance Testbed,” he said, “the AST technicians probably aren’t proficient with the new equipment yet. We may have to wait for our guys downrange. Maybe they can get some pictures after AST hands off to them.”

Dawn pointed at the bottom row of screens. “Radar is still getting something.”
“Just a big blob, that’s all. The plasma bubble got bigger when the target blew up; they still can’t see inside.”

“Can you blow the radar image up?” she asked.

“Sure.” Rex bent over his console and clicked his way through to the radar image control panels.

Dawn studied the lumpy cloud filling half the screen. “It looks like a Valentine. Can you bring us in tighter?”

The cloud wafted to the right. “Better not, I’m losing it already.” Rex switched back to the wider view; the blob was fainter and drifting off-center. “They’re sluing too fast.” Radar went blank.

More monitors switched on. The baton had passed; the second tier observers were searching. White dots traced arcs on black backgrounds. The whole wall displayed an empty sky.

“Colonel Stone,” a thick accent in his earphones intruded, “this is Moscow Control: ground facilities have lost your target.”

“We noticed,” he muttered.

“They are attempting to reacquire-”

“The Station will be in position to support the search in forty minutes. Request permission to-”

“You are authorized to proceed at your own discretion.” Moscow’s transmission ended.

Dawn’s taunt echoed Rex’s thoughts. “How do you lose something that big?”
“I don’t know. It veered off the trajectory I calculated.”

“How could it? It’s undergraduate orbital mechanics.”

“It’s not that simple. This thing falls up.”

She turned and looked at him like something that had just crawled out of her salad. “Huh?”

“There’s more than simple gravity going on out there. When the asteroid decelerated into the sun, it was falling up. Besides, it must have hit something out there-something big.”

“Could it have shattered?” she suggested.

“We may never know. With the Space Station on the wrong side of the planet, we had to put in the second string. If we’d had the space plane, we could have put right equipment in the right place at the right time.”

Rex watched Dawn push off the ceiling and drift back to her console. “Whatever,” she mumbled. She bent over the keyboard redirecting her instrument to scan for the lost body.
Asteroid rise was minutes away. If the target followed the predicted trajectory, it should appear in the northern sky as they rounded the earth. If the explosion had knocked it off course, it would still be in the neighborhood somewhere. How far could it stray in forty-five minutes?

He’d search for it. Rex had commandeered every instrument that could be turned to look above the horizon. The Mission to Planet Earth would have to stand down; it was an all-astronomy day. The Station’s five geologists could catch up on their data, or their sleep, or their housekeeping. He and Dawn were in charge.

The shocked asteroid would be glowing at a few violet and ultraviolet wavelengths. Rex would have liked to scan the sky for those colors and see the asteroid’s distinctive glow against a vanilla background. The hyperspectral telescopes weren’t that user-friendly. They were programmed for a snail’s pace search at a hundred wavelengths. The lost asteroid would be faint, moving fast, and shining through the stratosphere: he’d never find it that way-that took too many photons. Too many photons took too much time. He programmed a broadband sky survey. The asteroid-or whatever was left of it-had to be somewhere in a narrow footprint around his original trajectory. Any glow or glimmer not in the NASA database could be the target; he’d home in on it and grab all the data he could.
Monitors switched on as soon as the tip of the target area rose over the horizon. Instruments painted an arc of white dots on a black background. There were no flashing red circles-no unidentified objects anywhere.

Rex widened the search area. A wall of white flecks mocked him. The only red spots he could see were in the Gordian wire bundle behind the monitors. The astronomy control center had been kluged together for the xenon asteroid mission. Monitors were bolted into lab racks along one wall and wires duct taped along the passageway from the regular instrument labs. It was unprofessional; it was a safety violation; but it was temporary. Dawn and Rex focused on the screens and waited.
Nothing happened.

Months tracking the asteroid only to miss its ten minutes of glory-he’d blown it. Forty-five minutes earlier or forty-five minutes later, the Space Station would have grabbed a ton of data and he’d have been a hero. But it wasn’t. The Station had been behind the earth when the thing passed; his back up got skunked, and nobody got anything. It happened on his watch; it was his fault.

With proper equipment, he could have accomplished the mission. The Space Station could only be in one place at a time, and that turned out to be the wrong place. Expanded space coverage was limited: response times were in years and some orbits were tough to reach. The shuttle was fine when Spiro Agnew’s team conceived it, but the space program had outgrown it. The Orion capsule was a step backward when Bush proposed it. Even worse after it was emasculated in one budget cut after another. It was just an overgrown Apollo capsule. How many times had he preached that the Pentagon needed the flexibility of a space plane that operated from normal airfields? With it, a U. S. Space Force could deploy to the right place at the right time anytime.
They wouldn’t make him a general for I-told-you-so. Generals were winners. They ran big programs that got big results. Rex Stone would be coming home empty handed.

He broadened the footprint more. The asteroid had to be there somewhere. Every minute he lost, it flew a few thousand miles further away carrying priceless data with it. Still the computer recognized every glimmer on the screen. The fuzzy shadow crawling up the monitor was the earth; the asteroid’s footprint was setting.

CHAPTER 2

Rex glanced over at Dawn. It was rumored she was female, but she hid it well. At five seven her height was gender neutral. Beige blonde hair pulled tight in a ponytail wasn’t distinctive at NASA-a lot of NASA nerds wore their hair that way. Her tan one-size-fits-all jumpsuit offered no clue about the body inside. You could hide a skank or a supermodel in there, but Rex doubted she had.

No jewelry, no makeup, no nail polish-but somehow feminine. Her skin was soft and smooth with the first lines of forty-something at the corners of her eyes. If her body fulfilled the promise of her face, Rex guessed it would be on the plus side of slender with a slight figure. She’d probably clean up pretty well, maybe to a seven. It was going to be a long six months-she’d be a ten by the end of it.

Dawn was concentrating-programming Hubble to take one last look when it rounded the earth again. Her large blue eyes locked on the screen, her lips moved as her fingers raced across the keyboard.
The din of compressors hammered at Rex when he took off his headset. His head throbbed. He could use a beer-a beer and a cigarette-about then. What the Space Station really needed was a bar, he thought. He slipped in a pair of earplugs and closed his eyes. That was as good as it was going to get until he got home.

A jab at his arm roused him. Dawn pointed to her earphones and lip-synched “It’s for you, Colonel.”
He nodded. He hoped it wasn’t some two-star calling to cover his own ass. Oh what the hell. He slipped his headset back on and took the call. “Stone, here.”

“Houston Mission Control, Colonel,” a familiar drawl greeted him. “We have a possible sighting of your target.”

“What have you got?”

“It was seen over the North Pole by-”

“Being pulled by eight tiny reindeer, no doubt,” Rex interrupted. “The asteroid couldn’t be that far off track.”

“No, Colonel. This one looks credible.”

“Go ahead, Houston,” Rex said as he motioned to Dawn to listen in.

“An Army Scout rocket picked up a glint of blue plasma through the Aurora Borealis. The spectrometer aboard identified xenon lines superimposed. An alert operator called NORAD.”
“What did NORAD have to say about it?”

“Their radar didn’t find anything coming over the pole, so they called us.”

“Can you give us a vector from the Scout sighting, Houston?”

“Affirmative,” Mason Dixon, the voice from Mission Control, paused, “We’ve transmitted the geometry to your computer. It’s pretty crude, Colonel. Scout optics have a wide field of view.”

A black-and-white line sketch popped up on Rex’s monitor. The sphere with an arrow through it represented the earth. A cone emanating like a megaphone from its north pole bounded the suspicious sighting. “That’s a big chunk of real estate, can you pin it down any, Houston?”

“NORAD radar didn’t find anything below one-hundred-and-eighty miles. They’re searching higher.”

“Thanks, Houston, let us know what they find. We’ll take another look when we come around the bend again. By the way, did the Army tell you how fast the thing was moving?”

“Negative,” Dixon responded, “it’s not that good a spectrometer.”

Thanks a lot, Rex thought. The Army! If every Highway Patrolman in the world can read speed, why can’t an Army tech?
“Thanks, Houston, we’ll keep searching.”

Rex looked over at Dawn; she had the same cartoon on her screen. “What did you think of all that?” he asked her.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “What was the Army doing with the Aurora anyways?”

“Trying to figure out what happens to the atmosphere when it’s hit with radiation. With the solar wind lighting up the sky up there, they’ve been using the North Pole as a giant radiation chemistry lab since Eisenhower was in office.”

“And they still don’t know?”

“Old soldiers never die, you know.”

“I guess not … anyways, your original trajectory puts the thing out here where I’m scanning.” She poked the air above her monitor. “It would have to have slowed way down to still be anywhere back here.” Her finger dropped back to the sketch on her screen. “I don’t think I believe a collision that hard, but-”

“It’s a long shot, but it’s our best shot. Is your guy ready to look for it?”

“It’s twenty minutes to a safe look angle that close in. Before that, earthshine will blind me.”

“Can you drift south while we’re waiting?”
She nodded.

“I’ll do some geometry with the Alaska sighting and propagate it forward in time. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the target there when we come over the hill.” A new shape flashed on their screens-a truncated cone, wider than the first and a planet-length north.

Monitors switched on as the target volume rose into view. Rex watched and hoped as his instruments mapped emptiness. White sparks peppered black backgrounds-all objects recognized by the computer. No red marks signaled anything unusual there.
Distance slowed the radar search. Signal to noise ratios were down; dwell times were longer. Space Station radars were maxed out. Blank screens mapped vacuum.

In twenty minutes, they would be able to see the whole zone. Rex wrung his hands while he waited. This was the Space Station’s last chance; after this revolution, the xenon asteroid would belong to the astronomers.

“Yes!” Rex pointed at a smudge on the Hubble monitor. “You found it!”
“Afraid not,” Dawn shook her head. “I’m down to geosynchronous altitudes; that’s just one of the Global Positioning Satellites.”

“Why is it so fuzzy?”

“That’s the best I can do at close range. Hubble is far-sighted, you know.”

Rex slumped in his chair and watched emptiness unfold across the wall of monitors. The target wasn’t there. “I don’t see it,” he admitted. “We’d better look farther north.”

Dawn smirked and returned Hubble to searching her way.

The horizon rose up and swallowed the target zone; the xenon asteroid wasn’t there. How could he have lost it? Could it have skipped off the atmosphere? …or vaporized in the collision? He just didn’t know.
The asteroid was long gone; it was time the Space Station returned to normal. “Colonel Stone here,” he announced to the crew, “we appreciate the loan of your instruments. The astronomy mission is now complete. The Space Station may resume its regular activities.”
For Rex, regular duty was pilot duty. Driving the Station was as dull as driving a military transport. It roared like a turboprop in a hurricane. It handled like an iceberg. With only a few small thrusters, there wasn’t much he could do; with autopilot, there was even less to do. It would be a long six months, but it would earn the astronaut merit badge he’d need someday.
“Hubble still didn’t find anything,” Dawn interrupted him. “I’m releasing it.”

“Might as well, there’s nothing to look at around here.”

“Rotten luck: all Hubble got is one frame before the thing erupted, and it’s no great shakes.”

“That…and a couple of long shots from AST-can’t imagine the analysis taking long. Let’s get started.”

“It’s a blob. You could waste the rest of the afternoon on it. Run the pictures through all the image enhancement software in the world; in the end, it’ll still be a blob.”

“You never know ’til you try.”

“You go ahead. I’ve got a telescope to run. That’s what I signed on for-six months of real science with no phones, no committees, and no meetings. The xenon asteroid was a bonus, but my plate was already full without it. We put some fascinating observations on hold; I need to put the Hubble back on line and catch up with them.”

Rex studied the Hubble frame by himself. A three-lobed cloud masked anything inside. The background was familiar from his thesis at Arizona-four years searching the sky for brown dwarfs. Even with the contrast turned up, he saw no strangers there. Whatever had hit the asteroid was too faint for human eyes to see; maybe the computer could find it.

Hubble looked back in time. Halfway across the universe and five billion years ago, one young star system sawed through another. The image of carnage flickered on Dawn’s monitor. Ghost galaxies collided; stars exploded where one ripped into the other. The picture was underexposed. She reprogrammed her telescope to stare-accumulate light open-shutter for another hour. A parasite would siphon off light for a spectroscopic autopsy of young stars shattered.

“I’m going to grab some lunch. Do you want anything?” she offered.

“Sure, why not?” Rex grimaced. NASA food was worse than airline food. The cafeteria was a microwave; the pantry was a locker bolted between two aluminum I-beams across the room.
“Chicken, beef, or fish?” Dawn summarized the plastic pouches on the shelf.
“Surprise me.”

Salt-free, texture-free-the lukewarm paste in his mouth tasted chalky like a protein shake. That flavor had been the worst part of bulking up for football at the Academy; Rex still hated it. “Okay, which one was it?” he asked.

“Does it matter?”
“You’re right, it’s been that kind of day.”

“Tough break on the asteroid-did you manage to get anything out of the Hubble picture?”

“No, I fiddled with it, then I fed it to a couple of image enhancement codes. I tried your NASA software-nothing. The CIA package did no better-”

Dawn shook her head. “It shouldn’t have; the math is pretty much the same in both of them.”

“That makes sense, I guess. I had never thought about it.”

Rex squirted his water bottle into his mouth to chase the aftertaste of lunch. “I had no better luck calling home this morning. It was 9:30 and I forgot the girls had their first class at 10:00. Ten o’clock! College ain’t what it used to be; reveille was at oh-six-hundred back at the Air Force Academy-”

“And you walked barefoot through the snow to class too, I bet.”

“Okay! Okay!” He raised his arms in mock surrender. “How about you? Sun’s up on the West Coast. Are you going to squeeze in a call home between observations?”

“My cat doesn’t expect me to call; my ex would rather I didn’t.”

The call-waiting icon flashed on their computer screens. “Then that’s not for you,” Rex said.

“I didn’t give anybody my work number. It’s probably your wife.”

Rex toggled the privacy button off and answered the call.
“Colonel Stone,” an eastern accent addressed him. “This is Moscow Control. An unidentified object sighted over the Pacific may pose a navigation hazard to the Space Station. Initial reports indicate there is a potential for collision during your next pass over the Atlantic. Mission Control recommends you proceed with your navigation radar in long range mode.”

Rex hated nebulous threat briefings. “Do you have more specific information, Moscow?”
“No, Sir, the amateur reports are unreliable and ground tracking stations haven’t acquired it yet. It is visible to the naked eye, and the track of the sightings is consistent with polar orbit. Worst case scenarios have a large object passing over Antarctica and coming at you out of the south.”
“Roger that,” Rex acknowledged. “Bandits at three o’clock.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Never mind. Who are these guys?”

“The origin is unknown, Colonel. Satellite surveillance has picked up no unexplained launches. We haven’t intercepted any transmissions from the thing. We don’t know what it is. We don’t know where it is. We’re not even certain that it is. To be safe, Mission Control suggests you run with your radar wide open.”

“How long before you can refine the trajectory?”

“Ninety minutes, Sir. Projections put it over the Atlantic and out of range of land assets on this pass. We estimate first access with Siberian radar in fifty to sixty minutes as it comes over the pole.”

Intercept inside thirty minutes-ninety minutes would be too late; he needed data in fifteen. “I have Aegis radar units returning from the xenon asteroid mission in the South Atlantic. Let me try them.”

“Very good, Sir. Please advise us of their results so we may refine our search parameters.”

“Thank you, Moscow Control,” Rex signed off. He switched to internal communication and announced, “Rig for evasive maneuvers.”
Dawn cinched her seatbelt tighter. She turned to ask why. Rex ignored her.

He hailed Ticonderoga over the military line for Project Xenon and ordered the executive officer to wake the captain.
“Ticonderoga, here,” a half-awake voice answered. “This is the captain speaking.”

“Captain Yengst, this is Colonel Stone USAF piloting the Space Station. We have an emergency and request Ticonderoga’s assistance.” Dawn tensed when she overheard the word emergency. She flipped a switch to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“An unidentified object is reported on a collision course with the station. We need detailed radar data ASAP to take evasive maneuvers. Can you pick it up over the South Atlantic and transmit the information over the xenon project lines, Sir?”

“What is it, Colonel-some kind of interceptor? Whose?”

“Don’t know, Sir. Can you do it?”

“We can.”

“One more thing, Captain,” Rex interrupted Yengst before he could hang up.

“Yes?”

“Be aware that your data will be fed unfiltered to the Russians.”

“Thank you, Colonel; we’ll bear that in mind when we process our data. I’ll get back to you from the control room when we’re on-line.”
Rex switched back to local communication. “I’d better go up front and drive the bus,” he excused himself.

“I’ll watch the screens while you’re gone,” she answered. Her eyes fixed on the wall of comatose monitors. She didn’t look up.

The Navy radar screens flickered to life as he left the room.

A cramped space with a joystick and a bank of levers-the Space Station cockpit looked like something out of a Mercury capsule. The window was bigger, but the pilot was still spam in a can. The old-time scopes and gauges had been moved to the computer screen; a touch screen and keyboard had been added.
Rex screwed his six-foot frame into the seat. Careful of the joystick, he reminded himself. One touch would disengage the autopilot and turn control over to him; he’d be as busy as a sinner at a revival meeting until he turned it back on. He toggled the radar to wide search mode; an oblong rectangle stretched across the top of the cockpit screen. Nothing showed yet.

“Colonel Stone, this is Captain Yengst,” the voice in his ear said. “Ticonderoga is scanning, but hasn’t located you or your interceptor yet. Can you provide further information?”

“Yes, Sir,” Rex answered. “We should be the largest object in the sky when we appear northeast of you. The boogie is reported to be in polar orbit rising out of the south.”

“Okay, my people have something. Let me see.” Muted voices filled the silence. “No, that’s just you.”

Rex watched and waited. He saw nothing on the horizon, but that could change fast closing at five miles a second.

“Stone, Yengst here, we have something rising over Antarctica.”

“I see it on the screen,” Dawn’s voice interrupted.

“Houston Control here, Captain Yengst, is the Space Station in danger?”

“We don’t know yet, Houston. What? Wait a minute.” The Navy connection dropped off.
Captain Yengst came back on the air. “I’ve ordered my people to double check their findings. Preliminary readings indicate a large body or bodies traveling at orbital velocity. … Just a minute. … Yes, they confirm there are multiple large bodies-”

“How large is large, Captain,” Mason Dixon asked from Houston Mission Control.

“Two to ten times the size of your Space Station, Houston,” he answered. “We see four to six of them so far. Doppler radar can’t distinguish their speeds; they’re flying in tight formation.”

Dodging a swarm that big could take more divert capability than the Station had. Rex knew he’d have to jam on the brakes and swerve to miss it-but in what direction? “At what altitude, Captain?” he demanded.

“They’re fifty miles above your orbit for now, Colonel.”

“Thank you! Sir!” Rex breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re welcome. Oh, by the way, Colonel, these are not natural objects. They’re smooth and geometric.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Woodrow Wilson is a Caltech PhD with more than thirty years experience in research and development for the military and intelligence communities. He has explored space and other exotic environments in the laboratory and in the computer.  He contributed to the design and testing of space-based and ground-based anti-ballistic missile defenses. He has studied chemistry at 10,000°F, 30,000 mph collisions, plus fires and explosions in zero gravity, the aurora borealis, and more. Wilson’s work in military applications of space puts the science in this hard science fiction work Dead Astronauts.

His interests are eclectic.  He published The Champagne Taste/Beer Budget Cookbook offering restaurant quality meals without quality restaurant prices.  He is a Distinguished Toastmaster, and a Toastmaster District executive. He has addressed scientific meetings in Russia and Germany, and throughout North America.  He addresses general audiences on technical and historical topics.
Wilson lives in northern San Diego County with his wife and their two yellow labs.  His two sons and four grandsons live nearby.  He is working on his next novel, The Utah Flu, a medical fiction piece.  Learn more about him on http://www.woodrow-wilson.com.

Read more about Dead Astronauts and Woodrow Wilson HERE.

Copyright 2010 Woodrow Wilson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

37 aom.

The boy had made the exchange often enough to know that something was wrong this time. He gripped the knot of the burlap sack tighter. His green eyes darted around nervously, taking in every detail. An enemy could spring from any of the numerous empty crates or piles of refuse in these winding back alleys. The boy stopped suddenly, his ears strained for the slightest sound of danger. Silence. The boy released his breath in a frozen cloud with a forced laugh. Nothing but his imagination, he told himself. The bricks and mortar of Wescove were still young and partial to growing pains as they settled into their foundations. A warm breeze played tricks on his mind and he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a dirty sleeve.

He patted the worn dagger at his waist for reassurance as he glanced up at the sky. It would be dark soon. Better to get this business over with before there really was something to worry about. He should be angry with himself, the boy knew. He had already spent too long dicing in the tavern earlier. His father would flay his hide if he took any longer. The boy tapped his foot impatiently. He reached in his woolen coat’s pocket to check his time glass, one of the many things he’d won—or lifted—from some drunk that afternoon. The sand had run out.

The boy cursed. Zano was late. Where in Muspleheim was the fat slob? He had never been this late before. The boy’s sensation of trouble grew. He fidgeted with his dagger. The shrieking of a pair of rats fighting over a piece of rotting fish was all it took to shatter the boy’s failing resolve. Only the fear of his father’s wrath kept him from dropping the burlap sack altogether. Instead, he threw it over his shoulder and ran.

He had barely hit his stride when he tripped over something and went sprawling into a stack of crates. As the dust settled and his ears stopped ringing, the boy pushed a crate off of himself to see what he had tripped over. Bile rushed to his throat and he backed hastily away until he could go no further without developing a talent for melting through brick. The offending object was a pair of meaty legs. These attached to an obese torso. The head was most certainly not attached, its dead eyes staring into the void.

It was Zano.

The boy overcame his disgust, pushing a dirty strand of tangled brown hair out of his eyes. He pulled his ratty cloak tighter about him to stave off the cold. He edged closer to the body, checking for the box of forbidden Langjian Sang’troh root he had come to trade for. It was the crux of his father’s business, trading in the illegal and the forbidden, and if the boy could get two for the price of none, he might be able to keep one of the gold bricks in his sack. Avoiding Zano’s unseeing eyes, he rifled through the dead man’s pockets.

“Yer won’t find anythin’ useful to yer in there, street rat. He’s been picked dry.” The boy jumped with fright and turned to see the terrible silhouette of Randolf with four other men, all from a rival outfit. A giant of a man with a shaved head, a tattooed face and a long braided red beard, Randolf’s blue eyes twinkled with malice as he cleaned his nails with the tip of a short sword he used as a dagger. “Well, well. If it ain’t Whorespawn.”

The boy bared his teeth at the insult that was nevertheless the truth. “How would you know what was and wasn’t in his pockets?” The boy injected as much courage into his voice as he could.

Randolf pulled the cedar box that Zano had always carried the Sang’troh in out of his side pouch. “Seems yer friend ‘ere ‘ad himself a accident.”

“He wasn’t my friend, but stealing from my father will guarantee that the lot of you will have similar ‘accidents,’” the boy said.

“Who’s t’ tell ‘im?”

“Me.”

“Oooh, sorry Whorespawn. I fergot t’ tell yer. Yer not gonna be ‘round t’ tell ‘im. Get ‘im boys!”

The four other men rushed him, but the boy wasn’t going to make it easy. Ducking the clumsy grasp of the biggest of the bunch, the boy planted a foot in his groin that dropped him instantly. Realizing that the gold was worth less than his life (his father would surely contest that point), the boy knew he had to give it up in order to get away. But he did not intend to do so without at least using it to his advantage. He swung the burlap sack over his shoulder as hard as he could, catching another man square on top of the noggin. As the man collapsed—his head split open like a melon—so did the burlap sack rip, sending gold bricks flying everywhere.

Though ducking the lethal deluge, one man had the presence of mind to wrap an arm around the boy’s neck, an ill-conceived idea. The boy bit the beefy forearm and jerked his head about violently until he felt flesh tear. The man released him with a scream. The boy leapt over another’s diving attempt to leg-tackle him and took off down the alley. The three men gave chase while Randolf collected the gold from around his dead companion.

The boy knew these alleys like the back of his hand. He was fast, and with his knowledge of the terrain, he would lose his pursuers in no time. The only problem was, in the panic, the boy hadn’t paid attention to where his legs were taking him. Aye, he knew exactly where he was now: on an alley that ran directly into a dead-end around the next bend. The boy’s heart leapt into his throat.

He prayed there had been some sort of selective hurricane since the last time he had been down this way. But as he reached the high-walled cul-de-sac, he felt his hope slide away. The boy tried all of the back doors to the shops and homes, but they were all locked. He banged on them in vain. There was nothing for it. He ran at the sheer stucco walls, hoping to find some purchase that would allow him to climb.

There was.

The boy was almost to the roof of one of the residences nearly forty feet above when the men entered the cul-de-sac. It was dusk now, and the boy’s dirty cloak provided excellent camouflage from their searching eyes. The men stopped, scratched their heads and cursed his disappearance.

“No way ‘e climbed up outta ‘ere. I can’t even get me fingernails in one of these cracks,” one man said.

Another spat brown spittle. “Tha’s coz yer bitted ‘em all off, shite face.”

“Randolf’s gonna ‘ave our ‘eads, I know that,” the third shivered involuntarily.

“Not if ‘e can’t tell no one.”

“Dead men tell no tales, mate,” the other nodded.

A wicked grin lit all three men’s faces as they drew their daggers and left the alley. The boy let out a sigh of relief. It was only then that he realized how high he was. He was baffled to find that he was hanging onto a crack he could barely see. His sudden panic nearly caused him to lose his grip as he discovered that he was hanging like a bat from a penthouse balcony. Fearfully he scrambled onto the balcony with the ease of a squirrel. How had he done that? It was impossible.

The boy shook with exhaustion and frayed nerves. A giddy laugh that soon turned to racking sobs forced the boy to curl into a ball to alleviate the cramps. The man he had hit was dead, he knew. But it was not the first time the boy had killed someone. Four years ago he had had to kill a man in order to prove his loyalty to his father. His father said the man had informed the magistrate about an illegal shipment of his that had subsequently been confiscated by the port authorities. It had cost his father dearly.

A dagger had been placed in his palm—the sawed dagger he now wore in his belt—and he had been told to kill the man. The boy knew the man from the docks, an old fisherman who had lost his boat in a squall and had been reduced to hired labor. It was not inconceivable that he would do such a stupid thing if the price was right. Still, looking at him bound to a chair and gagged in the gloomily-lit basement of a fish warehouse, the boy felt a swell of pity for the man. Of course, should he decline, it would almost certainly be he who sat in the chair next. And the boy had wanted his father’s approval so badly even then, when he knew it would never come. He had thought that doing it would finally earn his father’s love. Instead, it had only earned him a lifetime of the same.

He could still see the look in the man’s eyes as he’d slammed the knife up under his ribcage. He could still feel the ease with which the knife had punctured the man’s lung. He could still hear his feeble struggles and the way the blood gurgled in his throat before the man had drowned in it. It had taken him a long time to die. Much longer than the boy had thought it would. When it was over, the boy had hidden his revulsion and turned to his father, but the man was already leaving.

The boy hadn’t eaten or slept for days after that. He had walked around in a daze, trying to blur it out. But the streets of Wescove were not a forgiving place, and those who failed to be ever-alert, often didn’t live to regret their mistakes. An openhanded slap from his father that had knocked out three baby teeth had brought the boy back to reality. He had neglected one of his duties—which one, he couldn’t remember—in his stupor and had paid the price for it. From that point on he had tried to never shut his eyes, blinking only when it became painful, and when he slept, he kept his dagger in his hand.

There had been another before this man, but the boy couldn’t bring himself to think about it just then. He dragged himself up and tried the balcony door. Locked. Wearily, the boy took out a rolled leather case and selected two thin tools from it. In a few moments he had the door opened and was moving through the well-furnished bedroom. Almost unconsciously, the boy took a pillowcase from the bed and began filling it with golden candlesticks, crystal and whatever else he could find. Then he moved on to the apartments below.

He slipped down the staircase and out the front door, the families at their dining table or in their sitting rooms unaware of his presence. On the streets once more, the boy clung to the shadows, avoiding alley skulkers and City Watch alike. It was halfway between dusk and midnight by the time he reached the three-story building called The Warehouse that was his father’s base of operations and home. Steeling himself for the storm to come, the boy went in, past two huge guards of some mixed race who eyed him with disapproval and contempt. They were the least of his worries.

It was warm inside, the high-ceilinged common room ringed by three big braziers. Plush rugs and a ridiculous assortment of gold finery adorned every surface. The Warehouse was a place fit to fill a gaudy man’s heart to bursting, but the boy felt cold and empty.

Ebu Natral was a dark man, with a shaved head but for a long black braid from his crown to his waist, a braided moustache that reached his chest as well as a braided patch of hair below his lip. His eyes were a pale yellow, like a wolf’s, and his face was cut from stone. At over six and a half feet tall with tattooed arms as big around as most men’s legs, the boy’s father was the most feared fighter in the underworld of Wescove. Common wisdom held that he was a half-breed—like most of those he employed—but no one was really sure what.

Those cold eyes rested on the boy as he held up his sack of valuables, trying to make himself invisible. Expressionlessly, Ebu Natral emptied out the contents; not a bad take, but nowhere near the value of the gold bars or the Sang’troh. He seemed to be waiting for the rest. The other men—lieutenants and other illegitimate children of Ebu Natral—in the brightly-lit room tensed, sensing the mood in their leader beginning to change, as it was so apt to do.

The boy’s voice was barely a whisper. “Zano’s dead. Randolf and some bully-boys killed him and took the Sang’troh. They ambushed me when I arrived for the exchange. I killed one of them, father, but the sack tore open when I hit him over the head with it and all the gold fell out. I’m sorry, father.”

Ebu Natral’s voice was deceptively calm as he waved to the pile of stolen goods. “And this?”

“Things I stole from the apartments I escaped into. I was trying to recover some of the losses.”

“And this is your story, Whorespawn?”

They boy swallowed hard. “Aye.”

Ebu Natral nodded, then backhanded the boy off of his feet. He picked the boy up by the throat with one huge hand and flung him into a wall fifteen feet away. A groan escaped the boy’s lips as he struggled to lift himself from the carpet, dimly remonstrating himself for getting blood on the fine weaving. His father would not be happy about that. He felt himself being lifted by the back of his impossibly tangled hair. He whimpered slightly, but his father’s fierce growl silenced him. Ebu Natral’s breath reeked of stale beer and swine as he put his face close to his son’s.

“I believe you. But if you fail me again. I will cut your belly open and leave you for the rats in the alley to eat alive.”

“I won’ fail oo, father,” he slurred.

“Good.” Ebu Natral unceremoniously dropped him and strode off to issue orders to his men.

Taking advantage of his reprieve, the boy crawled, then managed to stumble out onto the street. The sentries smiled cruelly as he made his way to the smaller building next door. In front were two more sentries, but these merely shook their heads at his state, allowing him entrance. Inside it was warm and well-lit and the boy took his shoes off so as not to soil the plush carpet. The large sitting room smelled strongly of perfume, smoke, wine, the faint scent of sweat, and sex.

A fat woman with heavily rouged cheeks and wearing a purple dress that left her ample bosom uncovered as often as not, caught sight of him then and rushed over. She clucked in consternation as she knelt to examine him, the look of one who has endured her own share of beatings prevalent in her dark eyes.

“Little Plum, what have you gotten yourself into this day?”

“My fault,” the boy mumbled. “Be alright, Mama Fran.”

“Course you will, Little Plum. Always are.” The Mistress of the Purple Shade dabbed the blood from his nose with a scented cloth. His mother had worked here once—the private escort of Ebu Natral—before she had died giving birth to the boy. Everyone said she was the most beautiful woman in the city, but that her tiny frame couldn’t handle the child of Ebu Natral. Since then the women of the Purple Shade had taken care of him, as they did for all the children born in the brothel. There were several.

Just then two sailors entered fresh from a long cruise. Mama Fran gave the boy a helpless look followed by a light pat on the rump before rising to greet the new customers with a big smile. A pretty young, half-Langjian woman with long black hair and almond-shaped amber eyes descended the stairs and frowned at the boy. He calmed immediately, lost within her strange, entrancing eyes. A feeling like soft cotton covering him in a warm bed crept into his soul, love and longing and comfort. It was an ability she had that she could turn on at will, and the boy clutched at it like a lifeline. She was not dressed as a whore, but even her modest red dress could not hide the lithe figure beneath. She sighed at the downcast boy and held out a red-palmed hand. She was Chu’Lin, the boy’s half-sister. Four years his elder at sixteen, she was more like his mother, having raised him from a babe.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, Little Plum,” she smiled.

One of the sailors spied her slim body and pointed. “Wha’ ‘bout tha’ one?”

Mama Fran took in the situation with one deft glance and shook her head. “Sorry, boys. You don’t want any part of that one, trust me. But I have two I think you’ll like even better…”

Chu’Lin flashed an icy stare at the sailors, turning to let them see the twin serrated daggers nestled at the small of her back. One look at the way her free hand caressed the blades was enough to convince both men of the truth. Chu’Lin smiled, and led the boy up to her quarters. She locked the door and filled the copper tub in the corner with water warmed by a small stove and scented with lavender oil. Ignoring his weak protests, Chu’Lin pulled off his many-times-mended and few-times-washed garments. She cast a disapproving look as several pieces of stolen jewelry and coins fell out (along with clods of dirt and lint) when she shook them out before tossing them in a ridge-sided washing bucket.

Had he been in full-control of his faculties, the boy might have fought to retain his modesty—as he usually did even here—but as it was, his sister easily manhandled him into the tub. She scrubbed his pale skin pink with a bar of scented lye. No amount of brushing (save with a razor) would untangle his mass of dark brown hair, so Chu’Lin settled for washing it twice with shampoo that killed lice and whatever else might be hiding in there. She felt the swelling lumps on his head and felt a pang of pity, but reminded herself that it could have been much worse for a son of Ebu Natral. That he had even lived this long was testament to his skill—more than a few hadn’t—and the fact that he had done so without the cruelty and heartlessness of his siblings made it all the more remarkable. The quiet serenity of his mother, Mama Fran had said once.

Chu’Lin looked into the boy’s large green eyes, the eyes everyone said his mother had given him, and saw something more there than in most men, let alone boys. She couldn’t describe it, but it was entrancing. That it was noticeable only when the boy’s defenses were down, as now, was tribute to his strength. This was a boy who could not be broken. A boy who never made the same mistake twice. She remembered when he had been younger, he had been the object of much bullying because he was smaller than the other beefy sons of Ebu Natral. But slowly, he had somehow learned and adopted their moves until they could no longer beat him without five or more to hold him down. All of Ebu Natral’s sons and many other neighborhood toughs had learned not to attack the boy they called Whorespawn without the necessary back-up. Small and despised though he was, the boy was respected. It was what made them alike, for she was the only daughter of Ebu Natral not serving in the Purple Shade or married away. She, too, was respected. And feared.

Chu’Lin stroked the dazed boy’s face gently, nestling his head on her breast. She sang an old Langjian song her own mother had sung to her to him to calm him, and felt his tensed muscles finally relax, letting him know he was safe, at least for a little while. She stood him up to towel him off and the boy’s face went red. She looked down and saw that the shoulder strap of her dress had slipped off, leaving one of her breasts bare. She laughed, then looked curiously at the boy. Even in a brothel he remained pure. It was yet another thing they had in common, and not by any design of her own. This boy was simply different. She felt a stab of fear that he would not live to see his potential fulfilled, and resolved then and there to remedy it in the only way she knew how. She pulled her shoulder strap back on and tipped his chin up with a finger.

She kissed him gently, so as not to start his lip bleeding again, then took his hand and led him to her cot, where she tucked him in.

“Sleep now, little brother.”

Chu’Lin drew one of her daggers and inspected it. “I have work to do.”

_____________________

“J’rael,” the soothing voice of the boy’s mother whispered. Though he had been less than a day old, he remembered it as if it were yesterday. Her green eyes had flared with pain, her blond hair plastered to her forehead by sweat. She had smiled weakly one last time before exhaling her life. The boy had always known that it was his true name, even if no one else but Chu’Lin did. And he would never speak it aloud. It was all he had of his mother left in this world.

Or was it? His mind flashed to the scene in the alley. He had been hanging upside down from a virtually flat surface. The only people he knew who could do that were the Elves. And though everyone seemed to have forgotten—she had been a whore, why would they remember?—his mother had been a Hafalf. Combined with whatever his father was, it was not unthinkable that J’rael could have some sort of magic, except that half-breeds almost never did. Could he do anything else? he wondered. He would have to try.

“J’rael.” Chu’Lin gently shook him awake. J’rael opened his eyes, then shut them and groaned immediately as the morning light reminded his head of the beating it had taken. “Wake up, little brother. You have your pick-up routes to complete and I have to get some sleep.”

At the mention of his duties, J’rael flew out of bed and into his clean clothes. They felt odd, he thought. And he smelled like a girl. He wavered slightly as the blood rushed to his pounding head, but Chu’Lin steadied him, handing him a cup of bitter-tasting willow-bark tea for the pain. He slammed it with a grimace, then wolfed down the jelly and cheese roll she offered while filling his many hidden pockets with his ill-gotten wealth. Chu’Lin smiled indulgently at the boy as she brushed a few crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

As J’rael hurried down the streets to the business quarter that paid protection money to his father—the City Watch was worse than useless in this part of the city—he noticed several sidelong looks at him from the people of the neighborhood. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He was cleaner than he had been in a long time—plenty of time to remedy that—his lip was swollen and split and one of his eyes was puffy and black. Perhaps that was it.

But soon his sensitive hearing caught snatches of conversation. The incident in the alley was rampant rumor by now. J’rael stopped into a tavern to hear what the sunrise drunks had to say about the matter, taking care to remain out of sight. As he crouched beside the door jamb, the boy heard two men discussing his exploits.

“—even the big one, Randolf,” the one with the raspy voice was saying.

“Randolf? He’s as sturdy a fighter as I’ve seen,” the higher-pitched man said.

“Makes no difference as I hear tell. That boy Whorespawn seen them boys kill ‘is business ‘sociate and went t’ Hela’s Hands on ‘em. First one ‘e kills with a single swing ovis bag, see. When it breaks, now, ‘e gets real mad an’ draws ‘is dagger an’ cuts two o’ the buggers from hip t’ sternum, mate. Randolf, now, ‘e’s a cagey feller, as yer said, mate, but e’ knows better’n t’ mess with Whorespawn, see. ‘E turns ‘round t’ run, but Whorespawn ain’t got an ounce a mercy in ‘is little bones, so ‘e picks up one a them dead blokes’ daggers an’ flings it right inta Randolf’s fuckin’ spine, killin’ ‘im instant like.”

“But wha’ ‘bout the gold, mate? I heard ‘e lost it.”

“Gave it t’ the poor as I hear tell.”

“Ebu Natral’d kill ‘im!”

“I’m thinkin’ twas a plan atween ‘em mate. Streets’ goodwill an’ all that. Plus make a statement t’ their rivals, wot?”

“I’ll be a Frost Giant’s firebrand. Tha’s clever, mate. No wonder ol’ Ebu Natral runs the docks, ey?”

“Aye…”

J’rael slipped back onto the street. Killed four people? Idiots. He had been lucky to kill one. The others had probably tried to rob Randolf and two of them had paid for it with their lives before the third had gotten lucky and caught the big man in the back and made off with the goods. And Ebu Natral planning it? That would be the worst bloody plan ever! Idiots. He noticed people giving him a wide berth and nodding respectfully. Damn it all! This just wouldn’t do! How was he supposed to rob anyone when he couldn’t even get within five feet without them turning to stare?

He was in for an even bigger surprise when he reached the business quarter. Where he would usually have had to enter each business and wait while the owners hemmed and hawed over the price and complained about their earnings, this time it was far different. The proprietors met him in front of their shops with their bags ready. They nodded when they gave him the weekly payment. Several times there was too much. When J’rael tried to give it back, they said it was for him.

The other collection boys—his contemporary siblings—usually formed a tight group to discourage robbers as they returned from their pick-ups. J’rael was usually left out of this, having to fend for himself on the way home. But today the others actually waited for him, and formed a tight circle around him as they went back. No one would hassle them with Whorespawn among them. Brothers that had before given him grudging respect now showed open admiration. All attempts of his to rectify the story were loudly drowned out by the juvenile bravado of his brothers.

Seventeen in all, the sons of Ebu Natral were a force to be reckoned with in Wescove, and these younger eight aimed to further that reputation. Bastards all, and many of mixed-race, they were a motley group that the higher citizenry shunned but the back alleys of the city respected. Ebu Natral had no care for any of them, even the eldest who were his lieutenants. But they were free labor and more loyal than slaves. His eleven daughters went to the Purple Shade when they were old enough, or were married off to merchants for a cut of their profits.

All except for his fourth daughter Chu’Lin. She was an assassin of no small repute in Wescove. Dark and beautiful, she was the only one of Ebu Natral’s daughters he acknowledged, though that was as far as he would go. She was rarely seen outside of the Purple Shade, where she stayed to keep a low profile unless she was on a task for her father. Until today, she had been the only one of his siblings who ever treated him kindly.

His other brothers huddled around to hear the tale of his daring duel the night before, but were drowned out by each other’s exaggerated stories of what they thought happened. J’rael was still in shock at this new development, and so was content to let his few words take on a spectacular life of their own. They reached the warehouse rapidly, but silenced immediately as they entered, because importantly, Chu’Lin was with the two eldest lieutenants and Ebu Natral. All four turned to look at the jostling boys, but most notably at J’rael. His stomach turned to a knot and he knew the rumors had reached his father.

He stepped forward quickly. “Father, I—”

“It seems you were untruthful with me last night, Whorespawn.” Ebu Natral cut him off. “I sent three men to find out what happened and we found not one body, but four. Now either you’re modest, or just stupid. Chu’Lin says the former. I’m inclined to agree.”

“Father, it’s not—” J’rael tried again.

“So I think to myself, why would a son of mine tell me this lie? And then I think, where in Hel’s Shinning Plains is my fucking gold and Sang’troh? So then I realize you never told me how many men were with Randolf. So, how many men were with Randolf, Whorespawn?”

“F-four, father.”

“Four,” Ebu Natral nodded at Chu’Lin, who pulled a severed head out of a dirty satchel by the hair. “Is this the fourth?”

J’rael’s stomach lurched as nodded. “Aye.”

“I think you didn’t want to admit that you let this wharfscum make off with my property. I can understand that. It would embarrass me, too. I should strip the skin off of your back for lying to me, but I’m in a good mood today.” He indicated the stack of gold bars and a mostly-full box of Sang’troh.

“I caught the idiot trying to sell it in the market last night.” Chu’Lin rolled her lupine amber eyes. “Sorry for taking your kill, little brother.” She twisted her black lips into a wicked smirk.

Ebu Natral turned to his two lieutenants. “Take these street rats into the vault room and settle up the pick-ups with accounting. Whorespawn, you stay here.”

“Aye, father.” The two fraternal twins shepherded the boys out of the room. “Move it, runts.”

J’rael gulped, fearing the worst, but he caught Chu’Lin flash him a sly wink.

Ebu Natral looked at him with his frightening eyes. “Chu’Lin says she can turn you into a passable assassin. I have my doubts, but I’m short on that particular skill at the moment, so you’ll do until I find someone better. You’re useless to me as a thief, as you know by now.”

J’rael nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. Ebu Natral nodded, then dismissed them with a wave of his hand. As soon as they were alone in her private quarters, J’rael turned to Chu’Lin to confess, but she simply shook her head.

“I know, J’rael. You’re good, but you’re not that good. Not yet anyway. Randolf was no pushover. The only reason those wharfscum even won is because he didn’t suspect their betrayal. Stupid. Betrayal is the name of the game, little brother. Those same brothers who were patting your back today would put a knife in it tomorrow if they thought it would advance them. You’ve lived this long without them, no gain to be made by changing it now. Besides, assassins don’t have time for friends.”

“You really think I could be an assassin, Chu’Lin?” The prospect both frightened and exhilarated him. It was a marked step up from his current position, but far more dangerous, and scary besides.

“What do you think?” his sister shrugged. “Can you kill without being in fear of your life?”

J’rael looked down, biting his lip before answering finally. “Aye. I think so.”

“I think you have the skills, but we’ll see if you have the desire.”

“Thank you, Chu’Lin. I won’t let you down. You’ll be proud of me.”

“Follow your heart, not orders, and I’ll be proud of you.”

J’rael nodded. Little did he know how true her statement would one day be. Unless he became too valuable. It was a fine line to walk.

_____________________

Chu’Lin had seen J’rael fight on many occasions and had observed his talent for using his opponents’ strengths against them, but even she was shocked at the rapid transformation he made from street rat to accomplished swordsman. His ability was a mirror reflection of the best moves from anyone he had ever fought. It was not instantaneous, but she could literally see where his technique changed after a sound beating. He never made the same mistake twice. But in sword play, there were thousands of mistakes to make, and J’rael made it a painful point to learn every one. No matter how bad he got beat, he never gave up or asked to quit. She was impressed, to say the least.

Occasionally, she would send him out to take out a random street rat or alley skulker just to test his willingness. It was cruel, she knew, but that was the world in which they lived. Ebu Natral respected money and strength. They had little money, so strength was the next best thing. The more valuable J’rael was, the less likely he was to die.

_____________________

It was three months after they had begun their training that Ebu Natral decided to test the boy. He never stopped testing his underlings, not even Chu’Lin. He had met with her privately to discuss J’rael’s progress.

“He is a gifted student, father. A few more years and he’ll be a Blade Master, for sure,” Chu’Lin said.

Ebu Natral shook his head. “I don’t have a few more years to wait. I’ve been waiting for a lucrative deal to conclude with the head of the late Randolf’s outfit, and now it has.”

“Grunyon?” Chu’Lin asked. “You intend to seek further retribution?”

“Of course.”

“How do you wish it done?”

“Publicly.”

“It will start a war.”

“I intend to take out his eldest son, as well. The remnants will mill about in confusion long enough to crush them without further incident.”

Chu’Lin nodded. It was a large, difficult task, but she enjoyed challenges. “Tell me when and where.”

“The docks at dawn. He’ll be at his pier. Have Whorespawn kill Grunyon’s son.”

“But father, he’s not ready!”

“No time like the present, no training like the real thing. Rather poetic, don’t you think? My son will kill his.”

“Or get killed trying.”

“Either way. See to it.” Ebu Natral dismissed her. “Oh, and I have sent all you will need to your quarters.”

Chu’Lin left, knowing it was useless to argue the point. She ruthlessly crushed the swell of anxiety that threatened to overtake her. J’rael was not a boy any longer in any sense but age. He had survived the harsh streets of Wescove and was no novice with a sword. And though he was still incredibly young and small, his heart was big enough to compensate. The assassin felt all of her misgivings melt away as she reached the rooftop and found J’rael practicing the Blade Katès. Gods! The boy never stopped practicing, she thought fondly and was surprised at the emotion.

Chu’Lin had made it a point to create an emotional barrier between her and everyone else when she had first been taught the Blade Katès by her mother. With the rest of her bastard siblings, it was no hard task, for they were either heartless and cruel, or disgustingly weak. But J’rael was different, she had always known that. Quiet and withdrawn, the boy nevertheless seemed to be the focus of attention when he was around. Chu’Lin had tried to ignore him, for the isolation in which she kept herself was all that allowed her to do her job without breaking down from the horror of it. Some kills were easy, deserved even. But some were not, and it was those that kept her up at night. But in the violent world to which they had been born, the solitary hunter was the only one that afforded the slightest bit of satisfaction and retribution. That was why she had taken in J’rael, because she saw herself in him and so much more. He was her redemption.

“Time to put those skills to work, little brother,” she said softly.

J’rael froze, searching her face for clues. “But, I am not ready. You said so yourself.”

“Sometimes the only way to become ready is to do what you are not ready for,” Chu’Lin took his hand and led him back to her quarters. Once inside, she disrobed until all she was wearing was a formfitting black linen body suit. She began strapping weapons to ankles, wrists, hips and other places J’rael studiously avoided. She then donned an ankle-length, blood-red leather overcoat after which she slipped on her sword and bow quiver at her back. Her black hair was braided tight before she wrapped a black cloth around it and then her face until only her eyes were visible.

Chu’Lin saw that J’rael was spellbound by her transformation. He knew that it was his sister beneath all of that, but all he could see was the assassin people in the city spoke of in whispers when they thought none could hear. The eyes she turned on him were like the coldest night now. And the warm hands he had held only moments before were instruments of death. He flinched unconsciously as she took hold of him, but his training, and her familiar touch calmed him.

Chu’Lin sized him up as she threw off his patchy cloak and dirty clothes. The boy was skinny and pale as the moon. She found the gear Ebu Natral had promised on her bed and tossed it to J’rael. Rather than inspect it, the embarrassed boy just seemed happy to have clothes to put on. He dressed in similar garments to hers, though Chu’Lin had to help him with most of the hidden weapons. The overcoat left for him had been hers when she was younger and fit him passably, but this one was midnight blue. After she had wrapped the black cloth around his face and slipped the quiver of arrows on his back, Chu’Lin went to her dresser and pulled a red-silk bundle out. She handed it to J’rael with the ceremony of one warrior to another.

J’rael’s eyes widened as he unwrapped the gift. It was a simple black-scabbard housing a straight, single-edged sword with a round, unadorned crosspiece, called a nin’ja. He looked up at his sister with wonder, for it was just like hers. Chu’Lin smiled as she strapped it to his back, then rested her hand on his cheek.

“Little brother, this night will be a difficult one for you. But it may also be a just one. An assassin’s first kill is a special one, but for you it will be even more so. I am to kill the one who signed the order for those men to kill you. And you are to slay his son, the lieutenant who sent them. Tonight we will strike the first blow of many that will sound the death knell of Grunyon’s outfit. Tonight you will earn the reputation that now precedes you on the streets. Tonight, you will become an assassin.

“But heed my words, little brother. There is no glory in what we do. There is no honor. There is no recognition. Only pride.” Chu’Lin pointed to J’rael’s heart. “Disaster and guilt lurk outside always, J’rael. So lock your heart up and throw away the key. For if you open that door, even for the briefest instant, they will infect you like a disease and slowly cut away at you until you are naught but an empty husk. This world may not have been made for people like us, little brother, but we can mold ourselves to it in the only way that lets us retain what makes us special.” She pointed to his heart once more. “This.”

Chu’Lin straightened and grabbed both of their bows. “Now then, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Read more about The Chronicles Of Shiverdark Book One: Of Kings And Dockrats and Dane Rourke HERE.

Copyright 2010 Dane Rourke. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 6: Ashrah Too
Planet: Avinu

Never a sapling parted to build this fortress of wood. That elegant balance of White Ash, Red and Black Oak and Willow, we affectionately call the Mystic Wood. It never grew to age. But rather, sprang into being with a whisper and a word.
The same is true of the entire planet. One moment it was void and space, the next… lush valleys of deep grasses languished against the feet of immense mountains. Crystal peaks, capped with purest snow danced across the horizon. Rivers and streams wept from the melting snows of those illustrious brims. To form the rivers, lakes, streams and oceans of Avinu.
The people, too, arrived, seemingly, from nowhere. One moment the land lay virgin, the next it grew resplendent with all every beast of the field and fowl of the air. With humanity thrown into the mix. Children grew as oft they do. And yet, the Old One always were.
It was the Ancients who never bore such experience. They always are and ever were. Even still, shall ever be. For an Old One never truly dies, but manifests themselves in others. In this, they always live. Not merely in the memory, but in the spirit, heart and truth of everyone. Investing others with their immortal spirit.
Unless, of course, they have an only begotten son, to whom they instill with all their power. That he may serve heaven as the Elyon, the Most Holy Above All.

Jacob’s Mount

The familiar scent of home lingered in Jehv’s mind. Though his feet dipped naked in the Waters of Siloam, his heart was elsewhere. It recalled that musty smell of leather-bound books. Ancient velum and weathered Oak blended into a vibrant aroma, with a hint of hyacinth. He’d yet to say “Goodbye.”
Full knowing he’d never return. He packed his few mementos with his heart, turned and walked away. The cook pot cold and unused. It’s fire long since banked against the hearth. Such is the remembrance of home.

If there was any lament, it was leaving his comfy chair. He recalled how he and his father built it, from rescued Black Oak.             Realizing it’s significance, now. In subduing such power, it gave him strength to face the Sirridum. He recalled with fondness, how every animal, whose fur covered it, willingly surrendered. Yes, it was a chair. But it was so much more. Again, a memory unfolded. The remembrance of his true home.
Heeding Spirit’s call, Jehv trudged into the heart of the it. As he did, her presence enfolded him. Close enough to touch, but nowhere to be seen. Jehv soldiered on, deeper than his recollection.
He knew his small corner of the forest. But had to admit, there was so much more he didn’t know. It grew deeper, and darker than his scant experience. His wisdom slow to ferment the knowledge of his heart. In that, his wisdom matured than the knowledge of words.
Onward, from the Siddurim, he hiked. embracing the view from the crest of Jacob’s Mount. The mountain beckoned softly, every step a fond “Hello.” Until finally embracing the view from Jacob’s Mount.
The torture he endured to get there, made the Waters of Siloam more precious. He drank a rich, deep drought of its life-giving waters. Washed his face in its crisp, mountain runoff. He stood on Jacob’s perch, where one might touch heaven, if not for all the stars. He smiled despite himself.
Earth fed water. Water kissed sky. Sky breathed fire. And air embraced them all. So the circle lay unbroken before him. So doing, he drank deep the vision of the world. A site he’d never before embraced. Wind blew crisp with dusting snow against his naked face. He nursed the icy air like a wino’s Muscatel. And shivered for the love of it.
He sat peaceful silence, making echoes with every dip of his toe into the serene water. Their wavelets rushed to the embrace distant shore. Each one dying halfway there. He smiled in silent wonder. Yet… he felt a presence. Her presence. When a seductive musk enveloped him.
His senses slow to react. In a breath she was upon him, rubbing his weary shoulders. He contemplated shattered the illusion, but chose instead to wait. But then he felt Ashrah’s wet kiss against his neck. And slowly turned to meet her lips. Words escaped translation. Soft her tender mouth embrace. Lost his reason to her scent, and touch.

She loosed the tie that bound her dress, gathered at her breast, allowing the garment softly fall. Her beauty round and curvy. Her undulating bosom bounced with every naked breath. Each one soft sporadic. She looked backward into his crystal eyes. Peering visual echo, as she dived into the pooling teardrops of ice. She swam the length and breath of it. But to bouncing break its surface. A wink of nipples, diamond sharp, severed the water’s waveless facade.

“Come on in, the water is fine.”
Her musk permeating reason. He stripped in one stroke, then dived into the liquid chill. “A bit nippy.” he shivered.
“Don’t worry, I can warm you up.” She kissed him again, enveloping him with her scent.

She seduced him from all reason, with a touch he’d never known. Though imbued with godlike powers, he was also just a man. She pulled him from the water, with her fingertip enticement.
And when at last their kisses fell them to the sandy shore, she lay him down and straddled, his naked, virgin loins. His young body quick reacted, filling deep her passion’s source. His manhood finding places she never knew they could attain. So she reflected on her current, human form, and wondered if it would last beyond the morning’s golden light.
What seemed like hours, passions flowed. In languid, panting breaths. Her passion’s peaks and valleys filled like none had ever done before. And she squealed delight. Her breath a heavy whisper. His replied in kind. They grunted more than spoke in those dark hours.
She ground her love into him with every measured stroke. His back bore soft impression leaving echoes in the sand. Her grunting quick, frenetic. His panting, too, it seemed. Until she reached her final passion. Then again and again.
Her sound shrill, unnerving, stirring night-birds from their perch. His moans slowed and deepened. Even so, his body surged. Every ounce of life-force drained from his heart into his loins. An explosion, near concussive, drained all spirit from his soul. Til his body flowing flaccid did at last his heartbeat fall.
She kissed him deep. Wrapped her tender arms around his neck and fell into slumber. His sturdy, muscled embrace gave her feeling she had never understood… until now. Peace. If the gods permitted, she would die within his arms. Even yet, she could not full relax, and show her true nature. She had to keep her human form, if only for the night.
Who knows? Perhaps, he’d find the strength to sex her one more time. Then for certain she would leave with his seed buried deep inside.
But night soon enveloped them, and even she submitted. Listening to the soft, true beating of his heart. The moment it stirred she’d come alive and quickly alter form. Until then, they lay, as lovers do, oblivious, and spent. The ochre sun pulled across the sky, falling velvet into night.
As morning breathed upon them, his heartbeat slowly stirred. The lapping waves lulled his mind. His body tingled, still. And would again soon. She kissed his parted lips, and slightly tasted him with her tongue. All the while, her fingertips caressed and fondled his naked form. When at last she found his morning firmness full awake, she kissed him fully down.
His eyes rolled up into his head, as she pulled the blood from his brain. Her hands enticing his seed from it’s source. She stopped short of explosion, and let him simper still. Then at last she breathed on him. Immediate, he full awaked. She straddled his passion, and pulled from him his every urging unction.
The muscles deep within her, draining every sacred drop. Until as last the his volcanic intensity poured molten deep inside. Her body undulated with every surging flow. Until at last she drained from him, even more than last night’s volley. Again, he lay spent, and withered, naked on the shore.

“You rest.” she said, standing slowly. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.”
“Thanks.” he smiled, softly, unable to form other words. And collapsed against the sand.

She dressed. Walked into the forest. Without so much as a backward glance.

Sunset found him stirring, shivering. Naked on the shore. As if his mind returned to him, he quickly awoke. Night was quickly falling, and he sensed something was wrong. But thoughts still defied reason. So he bathed. Dressed. And began returned to his quest. The night, and following morning, little more than an erotic dream.
In the valley lay Elysium, his new hearth and home. As yet to find his welcome. Hence began the trek down the other side of the mountain. The flowing waters his only guide. Which wept from Jacob’s Mount, in a river, a tributary then a stream. He followed it to breath. Pine sap filled his nostrils. The tender tinkle the musty of forest once again. Toward Elysium. He followed the waters into rivers, then a stream. Gently down. In the next valley lay Elysium, his new hearth and home. As yet to find his welcome.
Against the stream, lost in the moment, sat Ashrah. Eyes closed. Legs folded, body erect, in meditative pose. She did not notice him at first, lost in her thoughts of him. Not seeing the forest for the trees. She sat in sacred silence, a stillness he dare not intervene.
Instead he made comfortable, the forest floor his bedroll, a fallen Oak his rest. In worship, he watched her unfold. The power of her intensity burned the very timber of his soul. And yet the stillness beckoned, with that same small voice. She looked up to his eyes and knew he awaited her desire.
Eyes closed, immovable, a satin smile caressed each face. She further fell into thought, but rather found within his soul. His silence drew her open… eyes, heart and mind. Ashrah’s eyelids fluttered, as if welcoming the day. Then she saw him fully, gazing back at her. They lingered in ocular embrace. As they held one another, enraptured, the shadow of a smile never left their faces.

“Good morning.” he said knowing, having shared the night in her embrace.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” She said matter of fact. Then stood to dust pine needles from her skirt.
“And I for you… What with the forest, the mountain, the snow… you know how it is?” he looked at her and smiled.
“Well… here I am.” she echoed.
“I see.”
“So… What are you waiting for?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He replied.

Mischief bantered between them, dancing circles in their eyes. A bond no heart could rend. As if on cue they quickly closed the distance. And stepped into the others open arms. They stood, an eternity, holding one another. At last, they found home.
Her body was electric. Current surged through them in kind. Through interlaced fingers. Across twin hearts. Tenderly kissing the soul. He stepped into her eyes. Deeper than her soul. When at last they’d settled, she smiled at him and said,

“Are you going to kiss me, or just stand there like an idiot?”

He reached out to feel her soft embrace. But when their fingers lingered, the vision fell apart. He stood dumbfounded. His heart, naked. His mind, alone. Wondering if it was all for naught. “Damn!” He swore, then stumbled on.
Wisps of smoke danced serpentine into misty, morning skies. Below him set Elysium, village of the Ancients. Jehv peered on as its people scurried to and fro. Preparing for a festival, it seemed. Brilliant banners and colorful streamers embraced every upright tree. They danced from eve to eve, hut to hut, causing the village come alive in carnival.
He hoped they’d let him join in. They were his family after all, his people. His knowledge bore the clarity of a faceted stone. The pull that enticed him from his cabin wrapped him full its tendrils pulling him down the mountain to stand at the edge of the village, to finally taste the sweet smells of home.
The village stood elegant in simplicity. At its center stood a mighty, open-aired cathedral, embraced by monoliths of blue stone. Scattered about were straw huts thatched with more of the same. It’s people, his people, wore ruddy complexions and eyes of desert blue. Their smiles open and welcome, as he walked into their heart. Many waved, without a breath fear. They knew him on sight. And soon they would crown him Elyon, Most Holy Above All.
In every eye swam the waters of familiarity. Every one save hers. As far as he could see, she wasn’t there. So real had she felt in the Mystic Wood, her absence was a sad embrace. Perhaps this was all a dream, and he still lay trembling at the peak of Jacob’s Mount. He would soon awake and know a sorrow too deep for words. And then, he’d truly be alone.

The women embraced and kissed him. The men shook his hand and hugged him deep. “If this is dreaming,” he imagined, “pray I never wake.” Still, she was nowhere to be found.
Dazed, he stumbled around. The village a whirlwind of activity that carried on around him. As Principle Elder Malick approached, everyone went back to work.

“Walk with me.” Spoke Malick.
Jehv followed, trusting the little man without question.
“She is here.” Malick answered Jehv’s silent ache. “She sleeps.”
“But…”
Malick held up his hand. “She suffers for the loss of the Old Ones, your parents. The pain was too great for her waking mind to fathom. Spirit granted her healing, time to prepare.”
“Prepare… for what?”
“For you, my son.”
The way he said those words, and the flash of green in his crystal blue eyes remind Jehv of his father.
“Your father was my brother.” Malick answered.
Jehv smiled, bewildered. “So she rests? For how long?”
“This is the third day.”
“She’s been a sleep this whole time?” begged Jehv.
“Yes. Would you like to see her?”
“I don’t want to disturb her.”
“She will hardly know you’re there.” Malick fibbed for the sake of the greater good. Jehv’s mind was too confused to notice.

Malick led him to a hut, adorned with a woman’s touch. He chagrined at the sight, knowing his own home paled in comparison to this simple magnificence. Ashrah lay in her bed. Her breathing soft and shallow, while her eyes twitched back and forth.

“She dreams.” answered Malick. “Of you.”
Jehv blushed.
“Take her hand, my son. ” urged Malick. Perplexed, Jehv’s eyes implored him. “Let her feel your warmth.”

He tenderly held her hand. Having no experience with women, he held it as oft his mother did, her fingers enfolded in the hollow of his hand. Once connected, she sat upright. Her eyes closed and unseeing, but her mind, awake and aware. A furtive smiled danced across her lips.
He smiled acquiescence. Inhaling to speak, but never the words escaped his lips, as she enfolded his with hers. And drank deep his being. Her lips soft and gentle, he surrendered. Though his were chapped and chafed, she didn’t care. As long as he had breath, she’d kiss him. Something broke within her, as though a bell had shattered, its clapper fallen, and the toll of death had ceased.
He felt, too, as if he’d fallen. The world a whirling storm, and they at peace, it’s center. He’d never known a kiss before, and never one resplendent with full lips, softly parted, and the breath shared between. When passion neared its triumph, they gently parted.
Then, as quickly, she lay down. Asleep. Her hand slid away from his. She gathered up and curled into her blankets. Caressed by a smile.

Copyright 2008 B. D. Carlile. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

DATIS and the Koreans were quickly approaching a major head to head conflict without either the wiser. It had been two and a half months since the coup in Brazil and DATIS General Colburn was beginning to wonder when they would ever find out who the opposition was. The general had high hopes for his DATIS generated naughty list but all the surveillance they had established on the top suspects had still not produced any solid leads. Fear of alerting the enemy had prohibited them from knocking down doors. General Colburn knew the inactivity was a false sense of security. Whoever the enemy was he was sure they were busy working on their next payday and he felt very strongly that this operation would be on a much larger scale than the one in Brazil. He thought Roe’s comment about the coup in Brazil being a sales demonstration was accurate. The list DATIS had generated was a full list of suspects of which any of them would pay any price to obtain the nano technology in order to tip the scales so dominantly in their favor.
The good news was that DATIS had not been sitting around waiting either. Every day DATIS was steadily expanding its nano espionage and assault capabilities. Both manufacturing facilities were performing at full capacity. The former NGEN and NanoTech lead scientists, Dr. Little and Dr. DeSmitt were extremely talented and had made the transition to DATIS seamlessly. The staff of both former companies had also embraced DATIS due to the fact that NGEN had already lain off almost all of its employees and NanoTechs employees knew their jobs were at risk before DATIS purchased their companies.
The general had decided to appoint Walter Roe as the Director of Nano Operations at DATIS and Roe reveled in his new capacity. In the later years at NanoTech he had spent most of his time chasing investors to keep the company afloat. Now he was able to focus all his energies on building the DATIS Nano Operations division to meet the many needs of all the nano projects currently underway. Roe had proven to be an excellent organizer.
The first and second tier intrusion detection systems were also functional in all DATIS locations. Allison had worked tirelessly with blue team Engineers on creating new ways to automate the construction of these systems so they could be deployed in less time. The blue team Engineers were using the original building CADD blue prints and a new sonar surface mapping application that identified openings and vulnerabilities not found on the CADD files. The new sonar surface mapping application was a tremendous resource as every building had many non-documented modifications made over the years and it also accounted for imperfections in construction.
Allison had also reported the need for nano assault and defense systems to be located on premise to appropriately secure a facility. The general had agreed and approved the budget to do this. Each DATIS location now included a command center. From this command center all intruder detection, reconnaissance, and assault devices could be controlled for their location. This included the new mobile MARV-1’s the blue and red team members were learning to operate. These command centers also featured communication links through the DATIS global communications network providing for remote control by the main command centers at the Manchester and Miami DATIS operations. These command centers were to be constructed of varying dimensions depending upon the size of the location. DATIS locations typically had multiple buildings connected underground and above. The command centers were strategically placed in the center of each locale below the lowest level that currently exists. There were several reasons for this design; greatly reduce physical access to the command center and provide better physical protection from traditional bombs. The command centers were constructed in a cylinder design which consists of two different floors. The bottom floor is where the new hybrid soldiers called, Enforcers were located. Enforcers are blue team members who are skilled in managing the many different nano devices such as reconnaissance, assassins and the new MARV’s. Each Enforcer is assigned to a Remote Reconnaissance Assault Defense Station (RRADS). In the new hybrid army, an Enforcer and a RRADS station are the most deadly force in existence. The Enforcers RRADS station consists of three separate banks of three, fifty-two inch monitors. These monitors are used to display the view of stationary reconnaissance cameras, mobile cameras from a MARV, or any other video source. The Enforcers application utilizes transparent overlays to allow full viewing while at the same time controlling a device.
An Enforcer sits, more like reclines, in a black leather chair that looks like an upscale dentist chair. The Enforcer may customize many aspects of their RRAD such as the degree of incline of the chair, arm rests, foot rests, etc. The chair sits on supports and a roller assembly that rests upon a two track rail system. The roller system is driven by twin motors which allow the Enforcer to move forward and backward smoothly between their three banks of monitors. The monitors in the center are directly in front of the enforcer with the other two monitors on either side. The Enforcer has the ability to adjust their viewing angles using the pivoting mounts supporting each monitor. This allows the Enforcer to view straight ahead and see peripherally the other two monitors. He may also turn his RRAD chair left and right to focus better on one of the side monitors if needed. The chair also supplies the Enforcer with two liquid supplements, water and energy drink, they consume through mounted tubes allowing for nourishment without pause when involved in a prolonged engagement. The chair also has left and right foot rests. The right foot rest controls the chairs forward and backward movement while the left controls its left and right movement. The chairs arm rests are adjustable to allow a perfect fit to the needs of the Enforcer. At the end of both arm rests are heavy duty joysticks. These joysticks and their controls allow an Enforcer to control the many different devices at their disposal. The joysticks work independently of each other allowing an Enforcer to control two devices simultaneously. At the base of each joy stick is a mouse touch pad used to control the Enforcers workstations. Each monitor displays the video source selected but also provides a computer application interface to the Enforcer in a transparent overlay. Each Enforcer has nine separate concurrent systems they are able to control and monitor at any time. The Enforcers head gear allows for communication independently of their RRAD chair. However the head gear may be connected to the RRAD station and used to automate resource selection. Whatever monitor the Enforcer is facing the mouse controls and joysticks are automatically switched to control that device.
As you can imagine using a RRAD station effectively takes considerable practice, however there is an abundant resource from which to pull Enforcers from, the online gaming world. DATIS had been monitoring for many years all Internet activity including the online gaming industry. Upon a suggestion, against General Colburn’s better judgment, he authorized recruitment from selected online gaming communities such as Call of Duty and HALO. The Enforcers RRAD stations were considerably different but gamer skills were very applicable to the base requirements of a RRAD station. DATIS monitors and screens possible Enforcer recruits by suitable demographics and isolates the best players. They are then run through DATIS security screening and after passing this the individual is contacted. DATIS selects Enforcers from age eighteen and up, male or female. There are many who qualify younger than eighteen but Enforcers ultimately are involved in military operations so standard military age limits are used. DATIS had recruited over three hundred individuals thus far and continue to select more daily. Enforcer results had thus far been encouraging. The stationary assassins and reconnaissance cameras were initially all the Enforcer recruits trained on as the MARV’s were not yet released. Most Enforcers learn to switch between devices quickly to reconnoiter and fire the appropriate stationary assassins. Moving between the three banks of monitors, allowing for nine separate engagements at the same time, is what was taking some getting used to. Being gamers the Enforcers enjoyed every training mission. They naturally pushed themselves to become better as they would with any game so the advancement of their skills increased exponentially with each exercise.
The top floor of the command center is circular with only a three and a half foot wall around its perimeter thus allowing anyone on the top floor easy viewing of the first floor and the Enforcers. The second floor was twenty feet above the first. Access to the second floor is gained through a stairway inside the support column in the center of room connecting the first and second floors. The stairway is approximately ten feet in diameter where the second floor itself is sixty feet in diameter. The second level was created to provide a cohesive environment where the blue team Engineers could visually see, manage and collaborate with the Enforcers below. Walk ways span out from the support column like spokes in a wheel just underneath the second floor and extend out over the first floor allowing a person to be only a few feet above the Enforcers. These were added after the original design to facilitate a more personal method of individual instruction or assistance to Enforcers. But more than anything the two floor design won out because of the overall “feel” it provides. With all the different communication methods an Enforcer and Engineer could use to communicate; voice, alert notifications and instant messaging, the physical and visual capability creates a strong feeling of camaraderie and unity. This effect was recognized by DATIS psychologist who knew this would be a tremendous asset in the inevitable use of nano weapons and the horrors that come with any form of war. The single level design of the old command center did not facilitate this and actually gave the feeling of anonymity to Enforcers which did not promote teamwork. Another new hybrid soldier classification was the Engineer. Engineers had their own stations like Enforcers called Tactical Support Engineer Stations (TSES). The TSES station supplied the same basic design of the RRAD chair only outfitted with different functionality. First, the chair is not mounted on a track, however it is able to recline and swivel the same as the RRAD chair. Instead of three banks of monitors, Engineers use a single bank of three, fifty-two inch monitors. These monitors display all the same video feeds as an Enforcer. The TSES chair is also outfitted with the same energy drink and water supplements as an Enforcers RRAD. On the TSES however there are no joysticks, only the mouse touch pads and controls. Devices can be controlled through standard mouse controls but this is not the engineer’s primary function therefore the need for joysticks made them a nuisance.
The responsibilities of an Engineer are much different than an Enforcer. An Engineer’s duties are focused on infrastructure. They are responsible for designing, constructing and maintaining nano networks. They also facilitated the placement, construction and maintenance of the nano devices required for all areas within DATIS such as reconnaissance, intrusion detection, defense, and assault systems. The scope of their responsibilities has steadily grown with the introduction of new nano devices such as the MARV’s. A single Engineer can manage thousands of nano networks and their associated devices. The command center is where all communications to nano networks and now DATIS communication networks are accessed. From the command center Engineers are able to provide support to any number of remote locations simultaneously. Once a nano network is designed its construction is automated so an Engineer does not have to monitor every aspect of construction as he is alerted to any issues that would require their intervention. The same is true of the construction of all the nano intrusion systems. Unless a nano network has been detected or there is a malfunction that cannot be repaired automatically in a few seconds then the Engineer is alerted. In a military operation the Engineer’s duties are to provide the nano networks needed for communications and assembly of the required devices for the Enforcers and red team members. To say the Engineers of NGEN and NanoTech have come a long way from their previous positions is a gross understatement.
Jonathan and Mac had been spending considerable time developing training exercises which would foster smooth operations between blue and red team members. Mac had come to trust Jonathan and they shared a mutual respect for each other. Jonathan was physically capable, but as important, mentally astute. He intuitively grasped the tactical advantageous of nano technology and deployed them at will. Mac had submitted a request to General Colburn to commission Jonathan with his own red team unit but had not heard a response as yet.
While DATIS was making great strides, Dr. Gordon and his North Korean contingent had been busy preparing for their most recent coup in Russia. The hangar where Gordon had first met with President Mulansky had been transformed into a self sustaining community. His North Korean staff lived, ate, and trained in these hangars. Other hangars were outfitted with their own version of a command center like DATIS except in a temporary fashion. Within the command center specific operations such as the Moscow capitol building, Moscow military base and so on were identified by signs on eight foot poles denoting the boundaries of each area. Within these marked areas there was row after row of heavy duty six foot folding tables which comprised a station. These stations consisted of a computer workstation, two monitors with a headset. These stations were used to control the creation of nano networks and for live operations such as reconnaissance and assault. These stations were manned
by Belarus military personnel and were divided into squads. Each squad was commanded by a North Korean squad leader. All covert operations however were performed by Belarus personnel to protect the actual source of the nano weapons.
The North Koreans were a new breed of hybrid mercenaries whose ultimate mission was to fund ironically their own global domination assault which would include Belarus they were working with now. Their mercenary package provides the North Korean nano team at the Belarus military base for one year after the initial assault at which time the command center would be dismantled and the North Korean soldiers sent home unless an arrangement was made for a longer time period. Once the coup was completed, President Mulansky would be in a position to control the region through his military. None of the North Korean contingent, or even Dr. Gordon, was permitted to take part in any remote operations outside Belarus. They were to remain an unknown source at all times to shield their identity.
Over the previous months there had been a significant amount of covert activities by Belarus forces in preparation for the Russian coup. They had built a mission plan based on opportunity, confusion and indecision for their Russian offensive. Remote nano networks had been established at all strategically targeted military bases and at the capitol building in Moscow. Since the fall of the USSR, security had been greatly relaxed in most of the Soviet states and Russia was no exception. The checkpoints to enter Russia were basically passport checks of which the guards were owned by the Russian mafia making it easy to obtain passage for a price. The infamous KGB of the former super power had been reduced to a shell of an organization with no real authority or power. Because of this the Belarus operatives were able to move freely throughout all of Russia. All materials had been transported by truck into Russia as it was felt too risky to drop materials in for fear of detection by DATIS. The fact that they could travel freely by vehicle simply meant it would take longer to deliver materials but this was negligible considering the risks.
The weak economy in Russia provided an abundance of office and warehouse space. Because of this stationary remote command centers were established in business offices and warehouses. Local people became familiar with the Belarus personnel manning these locations making their operations harder to detect after the mission had commenced. These shell businesses were usually within six hundred yards of each military base and within two hundred yards of the Moscow capital. Since these were “exposed” business facades they could not resemble a mad scientist’s lab in the event someone happened to enter one of their operations. What Dr. Gordon had done was create “nano kits” that could be mounted into large copiers that had all their inner mechanisms removed leaving the housing only. They also used these kits to mount inside cabinets, desks, whatever complimented their business facade. Nano kits were preassembled communication and nano network routing units which could easily be installed by just screwing them onto a solid surface. These were the basic requirements to build and communicate through nano networks. The storage of the nanocells was the most challenging item they had to conceal. Even though nanocells were extremely small it took an enormous amount of them to perform operations. In the warehouse facilities this was not an obstacle as they were able to warehouse standard plastic drum containers that would not draw any attention. However, at the Moscow capitol operation they had to become a little more creative. What they decided to do was build a container out of nanocells in the ceiling above the offices and kept replenishing its supply.
From their various command center locations nano reconnaissance, assault networks and devices had been strategically placed throughout every facet of each military base and the capitol. Every call, every movement was being relayed from the remote locations to Belarus through Korea’s own satellite network. President Mulansky himself reviewed the majority of the information gained through reconnaissance. It was definitely his show and he was leaving nothing to chance.
President Louse had sent unannounced his right hand man, Lieutenant Chun Way to assist Dr. Gordon in overseeing operations and be included in the tactical planning of the missions operations. Lieutenant Way had been part of North Korea’s Elite Guard, which was the equivalent to the United States SEAL program. He advanced quickly because he had proven his ability to adapt to any situations and he was particularly ruthless in his tactics. While a squad leader his missions had a very high success rate in the very volatile East Asia region where most of their operations were executed.

President Louse had seen his progression and once the president was sure of Way’s loyalty he made him a Lieutenant and his military liaison.
Dr. Gordon knew why Lieutenant Way was there. President Louse considered Gordon a flight risk because he had enough money to entertain his beautiful, expensive habits for the rest of his life and the fact that Gordon had definitely not been the obedient servant Louse demands. Louse was looking for a time when Gordon’s services were no longer needed. Either way the doctor knew Louse was trying to dilute his position which he didn’t particularly care for.
The Russian operation was set to commence and only a few scheduled training missions remained. The operation focused on coordinated ghost strikes at designated targets of opportunity which would provide immediate confusion and cause indecisive leadership when the actual coup was launched. Opportunity, confusion, indecision was the theme of their mission plan for the Russian offensive. All actions would deliver concise and immediate termination of their targets to physiologically force any remaining enemy personnel into submission. As they had seen in Brazil nano ghost assaults had bewildered the enemy, even made them lay down their weapons and put their hands in the air to surrender, before any assault units had even physically arrived.
The mission was to commence with a covert operation on the night before the actual full assault. There was an annual summit of the former Soviet republics which was held every June. With this annual summit was also a great ball which all the dignitaries and their wives attended. This year it was held in the capitol of the Ukraine, Kiev. The plan was to assassinate Russian President Korovich at the ball using nano assassins to make this appear as if he had died of a heart attack. Before the authorities would know otherwise it would be too late. President Korovich’s death would cause political wrangling within Russia. Every government and military official would be thinking about how this would affect them and how they could increase or protect their political status. Thus every person with any authority within Russia would be thinking about everything but a coup attempt. To accomplish this, a small remote nano network with reconnaissance and assault capabilities had been placed in several different strategic placements around the facility and in the ball room itself. Assassins had been placed in the men’s bathroom, near the building entrance, near the exits from the stage where they knew President Korovich would pass when he gave his welcome address and in the hallways leading to the great ballroom. Their intent was to kill the president under the allusion he died of natural causes. A small Belarus reconnaissance team had been stationed there to establish the remote command center which was actually being controlled by the Belarus operations head quarters.
Dr. Gordon and President Louse had made a significant mistake. They had not advanced their own nano weaponry. Dr. Gordon’s time was spent overseeing operations, and his nightly vigils, leaving little time for any innovations to improve their capabilities. But DATIS’s approach, even though unsuccessful in detecting their adversary, had worked because they had not alerted the North Korean’s in anyway. DATIS’s decision to not go around knocking down doors had bought them time. The question however was it enough time?

Copyright 2008 Don Keeler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, 17 March 2017
The National Security Agency, Fort Meade, Maryland

Deputy Director Thomas Palozzi slumped in his chair, alone in his executive office at DIRNSA, the National Security Agency command center for the largest most sensitive and far-reaching intelligence gathering apparatus on the planet.

At two minutes before midnight Thomas held up a Krispy Kreme with a thin but muscular arm attached to a huge thorax. His strong mandibles, used to consuming twenty-some ounce bloody New York steaks, compressed the doughnut as he digested the classified transmission from a senior auditor at the NSA Menwith-Hill facility in England.

CONFIDENTIAL

RE: “Silver Claw” Destruction of M.COM Turkey Facility

M.COM International Turkey satellite earth Station is latest victim of
group claiming to be the “Silver Claw.” Entire facility rendered unusable
and ceased transmission at 0205Z. Zero casualties reported. Note: repair
estimates and photos of damage to follow.

FYI: Attached is Echo satellite intercept of cell phone conversation following Silver Claw attack. Voice on the Turkish cell phone may belong to a westerner. The scrambled Swiss agent’s voice could not be identifiable. Westerner’s voice prints will be run against all M.COM engineers and contractors worldwide.

“Those son’s-of-bitches destroyed one of my satcom facilities,” Thomas said. Stunned, he grabbed another Krispy Kreme and leaned back in the wide Italian roll around.

Thomas placed a secure voice call to his second in command down the hall, Gil Guerra and said, “Did you hear the news about the vice admiral?”

“That means you’re in charge,” Gil said. “The Chinese went ahead with their threat they signed the nuclear arms agreement with North Korea.”

“So I heard. Gil I need to know the status of PROJECT ZEUS.”
“As you know, we experienced problems during simulation with the remote control functionality. Our engineers have been working on it.”
“It’s never been activated.”
“Thomas, the vice admiral has been adamant PROJECT ZEUS is only to be used as a deterrent.”
“Gil, the world is changing fast the Red Chinese are bent on destroying us even while they colonize the moon and mine its precious metals. Did you see what the Silver Claw did to our M.COM facility in Turkey?”
“What happened, Thomas?”
“Check your e-mail,” he said and paused. “Listen Gil…I need to know that I have your support with PROJECT ZEUS?”
Thomas listened to the silence. “God damned it, Gil.”
“I’ve always supported you in the past, Thomas.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said and hung up.
The fifty-two year-old acting director of the NSA smashed his ball-peen fist on the desk top. Those Red Chinese bastards were behind the Silver Claw and were disrupting U.S. based telecoms while they made an end run for the moon.
Thomas longed for the good old days when he ran interference for his Notre Dame quarterback. He would bowl them over, with only an occasional penalty for holding. He flexed his massive hands and then peered over at his trophy: “Thomas Patrick Palozzi, 1987 All-America.”
He lifted the phone. “Dorothy, during the vice admiral’s illness you’re going to have to route his schedule over to me.”
The Director’s confidential aide grimaced and said, “Thomas, I’m working on it and will brief you first thing tomorrow. The vice admiral’s condition has worsened. They transferred him to an Argentinean hospital.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“They haven’t isolated the virus yet. It’s clear they don’t want to medevac the vice admiral back here now. The two specialists we had dispatched from Walter Reed Hospital should arrive in Buenos Aires tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, and keep me posted, Dorothy,” he said and hung up.
A New Jersey native, Thomas majored in mathematics at Notre Dame and minored in foreign Languages. When a severe back injury ended his chances to play in the NFL he transferred his four-point-0 smarts and ability to read and write in Mandarin and Japanese to the NSA. He began his career as a cryptologist and got his first big break working in the China bureau.
Thomas uncovered the clandestine activities of a group of Chinese scientists working in classified labs at Lawrence Livermore, Los Alamos, and at Oak Ridge. They had been forwarding the collective parts of a top secret NSA eavesdropping project to Beijing that would have damaged U.S. signal intelligence or SIGINT for decades.
Thomas garnered rapid promotions that led to a high-level position heading up SIGINT in Europe. He held the post for nearly a decade before he returned to headquarters at Fort Meade and bulled his way into the deputy director position this time last year.
He licked his fingers and then held up sagging cheeks with huge hands that had once squeezed the life out of opponents on the gridiron but now he used to dramatize speeches. He sucked in his waist that had increased from a size 42 to a 46 since he had made deputy director.
The beep on the computer screen alerted Thomas to reassemble his six-foot-five-inch, three hundred pound plus bulk in the roll around. He brushed his hair back, moved the mouse over the blinking phone icon and clicked once.
“I’m aware of the situation in Turkey,” he said to J.D. Hemphill, vice president of M.COM International and former executive at the NSA.
“Thomas, what happened to my satellite earth station in Turkey?”
J.D.’s face mirrored the harried bureaucrat’s reaction back in 2005 when Thomas had confronted him with top secret DVD’s that he had left in his hotel room in Guatemala City.
“It’s bad news, J.D.,” he said, knowing a secure voice link scrambled his conversation. “Your M.COM satcom station in Turkey has been terminated.”
The little man’s blood drained face captured the computer screen “I don’t understand, Thomas,” J.D. said. “Our system alarms are all red, as if the site disappeared from earth.”
“It may as well have. Those son’s-of-bitches, the Silver Claw wiped out the station. The dish antenna feed horns and the high-speed data lines were blasted with plastic explosives. They vaporized the radio hardware with high-level radiation pulses emitted through the wave guides that connect the radio equipment to the dish antennas.”
“Thomas, can you confirm that it was the Silver Claw?”
“They left their calling card a silver claw on the paws of the unconscious station dog.”
He watched the M.COM vice president’s Adam’s apple bob before J.D. muttered, “How many casualties?”
“None, other than the dog. It was a surgical strike. No one even saw them come or go.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It has all the ear marks of an insider job,” Thomas said. “There might have been an American or westerner involved.”
“Not one of my guys,” J.D. said.
“It’s just a head’s up. There will be a thorough investigation.”
“When can I expect to be back on the air?” J.D. said.
“Estimates are three to four months, fifteen to twenty million bucks. In the meantime you’ll have to offload terrestrial traffic through the nearest station.”
“M.COM Athens. Thomas, the rebuild timeframe can’t be true? I could build a new site in four months.”
“Those are the estimates, J.D. it will likely take longer and cost more. I’m forwarding satellite photos. You won’t see any damage except for the blackened antenna feed horns.”
“What are we going to do, Thomas? Do you think the Silver Claw may have discovered that we are using M.COM International to rout NSA traffic worldwide?”
Security had been the main concern when Thomas had activated the civilian company M.COM International for SIGINT support. His engineers swore that the database code algorithm could not be broken. But the “human factor” remained an unknown. “Listen, J.D., you keep the M.Com worldwide network stats in the green and leave the rest to me. Meanwhile, it’s business as usual at M.COM’s worldwide networks. We’ll beef up physical security worldwide.”
Thomas hung up, shook his head and said to himself, “I stopped you Red Chinese assholes once and I’ll do it again.” He scribbled more notes on the yellow pad, trying to formulate the right words that he would present this week at the high-level USIB, the United States Intelligence Board. In the absence of the director, he would sit alongside heads of the CIA, the FBI, and various military intelligence bureaus.
“Hell, the Chinese are whispering Nikita Khrushchev’s old line: “˜We will bury you,’ and America can’t hear them.”
He wrote it down and underlined it.
Thomas rocked back in his chair and deliberated about PROJECT ZEUS for the time it used to take him to “read the defense” on the gridiron.
Yes.

CHAPTER TWO

Eritrea, East Africa
Two weeks later…

American Engineer Neil Keller stood below the pulsating red tower light and observed the M.COM Asmara earth station sixty meters below. The floodlights over the operations center delivered a soft white glow to the undersides of the massive dish antennas.
He clutched the anomalous print out in one hand and his father’s flask in the other. Funny thing, Will Keller never drank the flask was meant to convey memories, not spirits.
The anomaly, if it proved not to be a fluke, could be the Ebola virus that crippled East African telecommunications. After seventy-two hours on the job with catnaps here and there, Neil brushed overgrown hair out of his face. He scratched his three day old straw colored beard with the lid of the flask and looked up.
The night sky glittered with stars, eyes that scintillated through a Muslim’s black veil. On the horizon, the ochreous moon glared out of crater eyes. Her old craggy face full of scorn cried out, “I warned you not to do it.”
Late last year to oblige his wife’s dying wish he had introduced a Chinese agent to local Eritrean politicians. After the government had agreed to allow the Chinese to construct an earth station outside Asmara, the Chinese loaded Sara aboard their Chang’e space vehicle. Her remains were scattered on the Moon’s surface alongside rich entrepreneurs and faded politicians.
A cold, dark stillness pervaded the East African plain despite the moon’s attempt to illuminate it. Asmara, the capital city of Eritrea, glowed in the distance across the mile high plateau. Kagnew Station, the onetime USA military base at the edge of town was now home to the Eritrean military. It had been the headquarters of the American military when his father had worked there as a civilian contractor over forty years ago.
The ornery moon illuminated the flask’s etchings when he tilted the silver container:
“I do not believe we have a more remote station of our
Armed Forces than Kagnew Station in Asmara, Ethiopia.”
General William Westmoreland, 1971.

Kagnew Station had fueled Asmara’s economy up until the mid-1970’s but today its mention only drew smiles from the few faces of the aged Eritrean’s who had worked there. Eritrea survived the war that gave them independence from Ethiopia in 1993. Their relationship with Ethiopia had been marred by border wars and constant bickering by the two nations’ leaders. A long awaited peace treaty with Ethiopia signed a few years ago led to M.COM establishing an earth station here.
Neil took another swig of bourbon. The Chinese agent, Ray Chan, had been pressuring him to provide classified information about M.COM International’s access code algorithm. When he had refused Ray looked up at the moon and said, “Neil, your wife is eternally ensconced on the moon but your position here on earth is subject to change.”
“Neil,” a voice yelled from below. He looked down at his close friend and fellow M.COM engineer, Johnny Donnelly. “You’re not going to believe this shit,” Johnny yelled again.
The data on the computer printout had not lied. Johnny, a wiry engineer, who drank for enjoyment, not for need, stood outside the operations center. His body resembled the filament in a long narrow light bulb. Neil squinted and recognized awe and wonder in the youthful engineer’s eyes, backlit by the floodlights on the wall.
Johnny’s behavior spurred him on. Neil swallowed a breath of cool air and yelled back, “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Minutes later Neil paused at the base of the old tower that his dad had climbed regularly before Neil had come into this world. The pleasant odor of syrupy coffee and pungent incense overcame the evening chill. Outside the front gate, two separate fires lashed out in the night. On the left, the leather-faced guards, with their AK-47’s, stared into the fire. The weapons had been added to the radio station’s inventory after M.COM Turkey had been destroyed by the terrorist group known as the Silver Claw.
Although their history had been filled with turmoil, Neil saw the Eritreans through his dad’s eyes: a gentle, thoughtful people, anyone of which would chase after you with your wallet if you had the misfortune to drop it on the street. Nevertheless, Eritrea remained near the top of the M.COM threat assessment list since it had been identified by the U.S. government as a country that harbored terrorists, although Neil had seen no evidence of it.
Down at the front gate, on the right, the Coptic priest had camped out there for the past three weeks. The ancient Christian pointed at the moon and the heads of his two followers bobbed up and down at his shoulders. The old priest’s near fanatical interest in the moon and the upcoming Easter holiday surpassed an astronomer’s discovery of a new galaxy.

Inside the operations center nicknamed “Kagnew Station” after the old U.S. military base outside of town, Johnny’s head bobbed between the video screen and the keyboard of the laptop. Neil walked up behind him in the small tech control room and looked out at the rows of radio and switching equipment whose hundreds of lights projected tiny colored formulae on the wide plate glass window in front of them.
“Okay,” Johnny said, and looked up from his laptop. His close set eyes begged for attention in a long face that stretched in all directions. “I’m sure your anomaly, this interfering bitch, did not come from around here.”
He gave the UNIX expert and ace programmer a half smirk, half frown and drawled, “You’ve discovered our anomaly’s gender?”
“Ships, cars, anomalies they’re all females.”
Donnelly, the anomaly is entirely your fault,” he said accompanied by a grin.
Johnny shook a shaggy head of rusty colored hair that belonged in a costume rental shop and replied, “Yeah, go ahead and point the finger at me, Keller. Who else are you going to blame? Berhane, the generator technician? Or that mangy mutt, Dog Dog, drawing flies out by the guard shack?”
He let out a nervous cackle and said, “By the way, you owe me two hundred Nakfa from the bar bill last night Donnelly.”
His cohort grunted.
Johnny’s number crunching had confirmed it. The anomaly, a radio signal gone amok, was not terrestrial it came from outer space. He shook his head and muttered, “We need to find the origin of this mother alien anomaly that threatens our species.”
“Yeah, right,” Johnny said wearing a huge grin. “I’ll start with the planets closest to earth Mars and Venus.”
“I’ll take bets that it originates from a satellite,” Neil said, and rubbed his hands as if anticipating a steak dinner.
“You’re on, Keller,” Johnny said. “I’ll double last night’s bar bill. The bet is that the anomaly does not originate from earth or her satellites.”
“It’s easy money for me, Donnelly. I’m placing five test calls across our satellite S-band and when they all drop we’ll know she’s arrived.”
“You said, “˜she.’”
“Yes, the anomaly. Who do you think I meant, Sara’s ghost?”
“You said it, boss,” Johnny said and his eyes flashed an anxious look. “I bet you paid quite a lot to have your wife’s ashes strewn on the moon.” He ducked behind an overhanging piece of test equipment.
“More than you’ll ever know.”
Johnny said, “I’m going out for a smoke. Give me a shout if she shows up.”
He recalled his dad’s story of how he had tracked the Apollo 17 mission here at Tract D in December 1972. “Wait, Johnny,” he yelled after him. “Check the storeroom for that old wideband Yagi antenna. I want to connect it to the battery powered portable spectrum analyzer to measure our anomaly.”
Johnny whirled around and with eyes lit up like light bulbs said, “You’re going to track the anomaly with that archaic Yagi antenna? Where did it come from?”
He smiled. “The answer is yes, and I’ll tell you the story behind the antenna sometime.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Johnny said. “We can get a rough idea of the direction of the anomaly’s origin.”
“Yeah, I thought about using one of our humongous satellite dish antennas to track it but they couldn’t react as fast as you.”
Johnny’s jaw dropped. “Me?”
“You’re going to be our tracker tonight.”
“Neil, you’re a brilliant, if not difficult, taskmaster.”
“Flattery will lengthen your stay here. Now go incarcerate your lungs with cigarette smoke and configure the equipment set up before she sneaks up on us.”
“I’m on it, boss,” Johnny yelled, and the door to the control room creaked before it slammed shut.

CHAPTER THREE

M.COM International Headquarters
Redwood City, California

At his executive office off of Marine World Parkway, J.D. Hemphill relaxed and composed a top secret NSA document as a Boeing 797 blended wing aircraft swooped over the bay. He stared out through aqua green windows that matched a decor fit for the company logo: a dolphin balancing the earth on its nose. Down the street in the opposite direction, Oracle Corporation worshiped the black and white penguin.
J.D. crunched the NSA traffic numbers in a spreadsheet, taking care to cut and paste the subscriber numbers into the columns labeled MENWITH-HILL, FORT MEADE, and other worldwide node termination points.
The Boeing 797 floated over the Redwood Shores slough and crossed the San Mateo Bridge as J.D. applied a spreadsheet tool to calculate the percentage of NSA busy hour traffic.
The craft touched down at San Francisco International. Beyond, the city’s buildings rose above the famous piers that served red Dungeness crab; meaty but not as flavorful as Maryland crab.
J.D. tapped the enter button on the laptop and placed the call.
“Hello, J.D.”
“An issue has come up,” he confessed to Thomas Palozzi. “I just sent you a classified document through NSA channels.”
“Stay on the horn,” the big man said. “I’ll get back to you.”
J.D. leaned back in his chair and listened to the acting director bark at personnel in the background. He used to sit in the back row during meetings, take notes for the “Captain,” and smile when Palozzi got wound up. The big man defied roadblocks. Take the Michelin Man, add a tuft of gray streaked black hair on his forehead, set him on fire, put him in motion, and watch him go; but stay the hell out of his way.
He missed his old office, a small corner at the end of NASA’s windowless structure, far down the hall from Palozzi’s executive office. J.D. would keep a bowl filled with Halloween candy just so personnel would drop by and say hello and shoot the breeze. Over twenty-five thousand employees came through the lobby doors daily to disappear behind U.S. Marine guarded doors or descend into subterranean levels like dutiful termites searching for wood to gnaw on.
He used to drive in to work on the Baltimore/Washington Parkway, thirty minutes from his loft apartment in Baltimore, the city where he grew up. J.D. left as a nineteen-year-old student headed to Princeton University in New Jersey. After graduating with an engineering degree a defense contractor recruited him for a job in Washington D.C. He spent five unfulfilling years there before he met Thomas Palozzi at a bar in Georgetown one night and got hired on at the agency.
Baltimore, his quirky city, filled with Bohemian bars where he could disappear, had also supported his secret habit through the years.
“What is it, J.D.?”
He watched the big man swallow the remains of a doughnut, a Hostess Twinkie, or a Milky Way. Thomas smacked his lips and said, “I’m listening.”
“Thomas, we have a problem,” he confessed.
“What the hell is this, J.D.? I just opened your classified document entitled “˜Radio Interference’ and I’m looking at a bunch of technical data for M.COM Barcelona.”
“Hold on Thomas.”
His shaky hand searched through the files.
“It’s Haile Major, my chief engineer. I think I messed up and e-mailed Haile your classified NSA subscriber data file.”
The big man’s face flushed. “What do you mean? You think?”
“I’m certain I mixed up the classified document earmarked for you with the Barcelona data.”
“My god, J.D., you can’t send classified information through regular e-mail. Can Major download or copy the file?”
“No, but he could read it.”
“Okay, J.D.,” Thomas said and gulped. “I want you to disable M.COM’s Outlook e-mail program call it a system outage they happen. Erase Mr. Major’s e-mail account and start up a new one. We have to assume “
“He’s already read it. The M.COM message system updates me hourly when the engineers read their e-mails. It gives me an indication of who’s on the ball. I fired an engineer who didn’t answer his e-mails.”
“Jesus, J.D.,” Thomas said, “What were you thinking? This could cripple us if it leaks out.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas, I made a mistake.” He nervously sipped on the cup of caffeine free coffee. The combination of too much vodka followed by too much black coffee had forced him to visit the San Mateo Hospital emergency ward the other night. The doctors diagnosed the episode as an irregular heartbeat and recommended he quit drinking and smoking cigars. J.D. had refused to enter the hospital for further tests.
“J.D., that techno-terrorist attack on the M.COM facility in Turkey caught us by surprise. The job was too perfect. My guys are certain the Silver Claw had inside help. Haile Major is high on our suspect list and now we’ve given him the golden egg.”
“Impossible, Thomas. My station manager there, Dudley Womack, is true blue. He’s a tough old retired Air Force SOB. Nothing happens without Dudley knowing about it. And forget about Haile. The man is a saint.”
“A Muslim saint or a Christian saint? I am aware of Major’s association with the Eritrea People’s Nakfa Front. The EPNF, with their Marxist roots and leaders educated in Red China, are known supporters of terrorism.”
He let Palozzi’s portrait freeze on the screen and said, “Thomas, there’s another issue.”
“Jesus Christ, J.D.”
“It’s not a critical problem…yet.”
“Well?”
“Haile Major confirmed that M.COM is being interfered with by a non-terrestrial signal. They suspect it originates from, well, from outer space.”
“Don’t humor me with science fiction tales, J.D.”
“Haile Major doesn’t jump to conclusions or delve in fiction. He’s a pure scientist. I’ve asked him to visit M.COM Barcelona first to investigate further. We may have experienced a similar episode at M.COM Naples.”
“That’s good. We should keep Major out of the picture until we figure out what to do. By the way, who knows about the interference?”
“You and I and Haile Major.”
“Keep a lid on it. Instruct Haile Major not to reveal it to anyone. And let me know if he volunteers that he received the e-mail you sent in error.”
“Thomas, should I confront him about it?”
“No, don’t say a thing. Let Mr. Major come forth. When’s he leaving for Europe?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Send me his itinerary soonest. And J.D. if he doesn’t approach you about it by close-of-business today let me know. If he does approach you tell him your mistaken e-mail was nothing more than a contingency “˜traffic’ plan required by the Defense Department. Got it?”
“Sure, Thomas.”
“Send me the anomaly files from Europe, too. I’ll have my engineers take a look at them.”
J.D. clicked on a file. “You should have it.”
“Now, J.D., listen to me. We can’t afford leaks to the press about NSA’s involvement with M.COM. I’m confident of our computer firewalls but, as you have demonstrated, we can’t always control the human element. Speaking of that, do you have your engineer Keller under control? He’s the nutcase who collaborated with the Red Chinese to have his wife’s remains strewn on the moon.”
“We have no proof that he collaborated with the Chinese, Thomas. Who listens to an alcoholic? But he mentioned something that surprised me.”
“What?”
“Keller said the Chinese were constructing a new satellite earth station over in Asmara, Eritrea.”
“And in the Seychelles Islands, northern Iraq, and several other locations worldwide.”
“Why the sudden build up?” J.D. said.
“The earth stations will support their efforts to establish a base on the moon. For continuous line-of-site communications to and from the moon they need worldwide relay stations in concert with birds.”
“That’s what I suspected.”
“The Red Chinese have stepped up their schedule. They plan on breaking ground for their moon base late this year, two years ahead of schedule. The earth stations will enable worldwide coverage of the event. The whole world will witness it.”
“Live television from the moon,” J.D. muttered in disbelief.
“Their moon based LUNA-TV station will broadcast 24/7,” Thomas declared, “and the Red Chinese have already signed up Hollywood’s sultry redhead, songstress Sonja Harding, and singer Troy Railsback to air a live broadcast from the moon.”
“Have they figured out how to provide electricity on the moon on a long term basis?”
“My scientists tell me they’re going to convert H30 for their energy source. It’s the same old Red Chinese strategy they lie, cheat, and steal from us and then add a few mediocre ideas of their own. They’re constructing plants in China to support the H30 energy conversion, as we speak.”
“What the hell is NASA doing?” J.D. said.
“They pushed back the lunar landing from 2020 to 2021. They’re still sending toys to Mars. Did you know that Spiro T. Agnew, our Vice President, in July of 1972 suggested that the U.S. would put a man on Mars by the year 2000?”
J.D. shook his head.
Thomas gave a nervous cackle and said, “Jesus, J.D., a radio signal jamming us from deep space?”
Before Palozzzi signed off J.D. recognized a worried look on his mentor’s face.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tract D, Asmara

Neil waited on the anomaly and watched the clock on the control room wall even though it ran ten minutes fast. Johnny, sacked out in the control room chair with his feet propped up on the desk, snored at random intervals.
The timer on the six inch spectrum analyzer screen indicated almost three hours since Neil had placed the five test calls. The analyzer displayed a kaleidoscope of signals. His test calls represented by blips danced above the noise floor leftover from the creation of the universe.
It lulled him into the past.

Although the new strain of HIV virus had quietly taken many lives in the Bay Area, Neil and Sara hadn’t suspected anything late last summer. The doctor had argued at his wife’s low risk factor. A needle puncturing the skin was a nurse’s occupational hazard and occurred more often than reported at hospitals. Her patient’s chart had shown no indication of any killer diseases. Neil agreed with the doctor who dismissed the possibility of Hepatitis B, Hepatitis C, or HIV. Sara, left out of the conversation, smiled. Without asking her opinion Neil nodded his head in agreement with the doctor as if to say, “Leave it to us professionals.”
Neil didn’t want Sara to go through the ordeal of HIV medication and its side effects (or was it that he just didn’t want to be bothered by the whole thing?). They proceeded his way the engineer’s way. The doctor would analyze Sara’s blood samples weekly during a three-month period, as a precaution.
The phone had rung on a quiet night when Neil happened to be in town. He and Sara drank wine and watched the full moon on the roof top of their apartment building in San Mateo, California. Although he wouldn’t admit it at the time, he had understood the reason for Sara’s fixation with the moon. She could depend on its appearance.
He let the call revert to voice mail while Sara strummed the guitar and sang Hoagy Carmichael’s old song, “It’s not the pale moon that excites me…” The beautiful Sara, ten years his junior, had a fine voice but he had never encouraged her to sing professionally.
Later, he had checked his messages. The hospital lab technician reported that Sara needed to see her physician Monday morning. The lab tests had turned up an anomaly an abnormal condition.
Neil paced back and forth in the exam room for twenty minutes, taking in the cold steel medical appliances, the antiseptic smell, and the white sterile walls. When he and Sara heard two quick taps on the door, they retreated to separate corners. The doctor shook their hands and shrugged. He looked at Neil and then at Sara, and said, “I’m sorry to tell you this young lady but the tests show that you have contacted a new strain of the HIV virus through the hypodermic needle.”
Sara’s hospital staff had been very caring, professional and efficient. She began taking HIV medication that morning. By that evening Neil accepted blame for not demanding that she take the medication to combat HIV right after she had poked herself. Weeks later, her condition deteriorated when the drugs didn’t help as advertized and she had become hospitalized. He had gotten drunk and ransacked their San Mateo apartment, blaming humanity for not coming up with a vaccine for the disease after all these years.
Sara’s last days were etched in his mind. They had filled her with pain killing drugs. There were no more tests to be done. Her condition had changed from what the nurses called “managed care” into “comfort care” where they placed the emphasis on keeping the patient in a comfortable doped out state until the inevitable. At times during her remaining days Sara would wake up and ask him to play music. He had left a boom box on the night stand next to her bed.
Her request always began with the same old song, The Nearness of You.

“It’s not the pale moon that excites me
That thrills and delights me, oh no
It’s just the nearness of you.”

Afterwards she would look at him with a sweet sad smile and say, “Neil, could you have my ashes strewn on the moon?”
The nurses attributed Sara’s request to delirium caused by the drugs but Neil knew better. It was the first time she had ever asked anything of him.

Johnny’s grin preceded a long yawn. “You see anything, boss?”
“No, go back to sleep.”
Sara’s death had eaten away at him. He drank constantly and couldn’t stay focused on his job at his old company. In an act of desperation he submitted for a credit union loan to cover the down payment for having Sara’s ashes strewn on the moon by a Chinese space company. The twenty-five thousand dollar loan fell through when the company terminated him two weeks later for neglecting a project in South America. The real reason for Neil’s demise, he knew, stemmed from his drinking and absence from work.
“Your deep thoughts keep waking me up, boss,” Johnny said, yawned and sat up in the chair. “What’s up?”
He shook his head. “I wonder how Haile’s doing.”
After a long silence, Johnny said, “Neil, tell me about M.COM’s magnanimous chief engineer, your buddy, Haile Major. Is he a descendent from Haile Selassie or what?”
“Did you borrow my dictionary again? Yes, Haile is of noble character.”
“Go on, boss.”
Neil stole a sip of coffee, glad for an opportunity to get his mind off Sara. “To understand Haile Major’s nobility you would have to know his father,” he began. “In the early 1970’s, Carl Major and my dad worked for the U.S. Army Signal Corps here in Asmara.”
Neil took another sip. “My dad used to grin whenever someone mentioned Asmara. His mentor Carl Major excelled in satellite communications. The guy had the classic looks of a 1940’s black and white melodramatic movie star, too. They both loved Asmara our quaint Italian town nestled atop the Red Sea.”
“Okay, cut to the chase scene,” the impatient Johnny said.
Neil gave his second in command a testy look. “Carl Major and my dad rented a place downtown that housed his 1949 Willy’s Overland Jeep, my dad’s 1936 Fiat Balilla named Sophie, two Ducati motorcycles, and their share of Asmara’s beautiful women.”
“Is it the same Sophie that’s parked in the Nyala Hotel garage?”
“The very same.”
“Go on.”
“My dad met Carl’s future wife Ghidey first and introduced her to him at the Nyala Nightclub.”
“The same Nyala nightclub two floors up from where we currently reside? Where I drag my feet across the dance floor?” Johnny leaned back in the roll around and brushed his locks behind his head, his habit when confronted by the ironies of life that Neil often uncovered.
“Yes.”
Johnny said, “Unbelievable.”
“You see…my dad had already fallen for Ghidey.”
Johnny, unprepared for a tragedy grunted, “Oh.” Nevertheless, he sat straight up in his chair, in anticipation.
“Carl Major with jet-black hair, green eyes and squared shoulders attracted women. The three of them were at the start, good friends, and I suspect Ghidey had the wherewithal not to get between Carl and my dad.”
Johnny wriggled in his seat. “What happened?”
“His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie, the Emperor of Ethiopia, intervened.”
Johnny’s eyes grew. “Haile Selassie? Don’t they still worship him in the Caribbean?”
“The Rastafarians worship Haile Selassie as the Messiah and believe that Ethiopia and Eritrea are heaven on earth. My dad wouldn’t have argued the last part.”
He watched momentum rise in Johnny’s eyes and said, “Okay, you wanted to know about that old Yagi antenna sitting on the table, there.”
Johnny sat there, bug-eyed. “What about Haile Selassie?”
“It all ties together.”
“Oh?”
“Carl Major and my dad had full privileges at the U.S. Army Base at Kagnew Station. They had just come from lunch at the NCO club. My dad had acquired a Yagi antenna from STRATCOM, the U.S. Army Strategic Communications unit. They planned to use the antenna to track the Apollo 17 mission to the moon later that year.”
Awe and disbelief competed in Johnny’s face. “You’re talking about the same Yagi antenna that’s sitting outside?”
“Indeed.”
“You got your name from that Apollo mission?”
“Yes and no. Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon during the Apollo 11 mission in 1969. During the 1972 Apollo 17 mission, the last man to walk on the moon was Eugene Cernan.”
Johnny grimaced and said, “Eugene Cernan Keller…no, that wouldn’t have worked.”
“Carl Major and my dad were walking toward Kagnew Station’s main entrance, excited about tracking the Apollo 17 mission. Each of them struggled to let the other get a word in, oblivious to what was happening around them.”
He paused to catch his breath and reached for a nonexistent glass.
Johnny excused him by saying, “Don’t stop now.”
“The Kagnew Station dentist office stood on the left. My dad carried the Yagi antenna, parallel to the ground…”
Neil took another sip of coffee.
“Come on,” Johnny pleaded.
“They turned at a tall hedge. I remember my dad joking that he had mentioned to Carl Major that the antenna belonged in a science fiction movie.
They walked straight into His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie and his entourage. The emperor had just left the dental office. My dad said he would never forget the stunned look in the emperor’s eyes when he saw the tall American with his “˜ray gun.’”
Johnny let out a hoot.
“Haile Selassie stood about five feet tall. He looked up into my dad’s eyes a good foot and a half above, and that along with the painkiller administered by the dentist must have made the earth beneath his feet shaky. His Imperial Majesty, the Lion of Ethiopia, tripped and fell in front of the two of them.”
Johnny eyes grew to the size of golf balls.
“Carl Major dove to the cement sidewalk. His arm cushioned the emperor’s head from injury. The imperial guards grabbed the Yagi out of my dad’s hands and pinned both of them on the ground. A dozen rifle-mounted bayonets pointed at their heads.
“What’d they do?”
“Carl Major spoke enough Tigrinia, the local dialect, to ward off the guards but the emperor took the matter in his own hands. He got up, dusted himself off and ordered the guards to stand down. Dad said the emperor turned to Carl Major and said in English, “˜Thank you. You are a good soldier.’ The Military Police, the MP’s, looked on, amazed.”
Johnny chuckled, “Wow, I can picture those two on the ground with bayonets at their skulls.”
“Several military personnel had witnessed the incident and my dad, Carl Major and the antenna were soon released.”
“What a story,” Johnny said, shaking his head.
“That afternoon, the news that Carl Major saved the emperor from injury spread all over Kagnew Station and Asmara. When Ghidey had heard how Carl Majors had saved the life of His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie; well, it blew off my dad’s chances.”
Johnny eyed him sideways. “So, if it were not for that dusty old Yagi antenna and His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie, then Haile Major wouldn’t be around today.”
Neil wiped his sweaty forehead and thought, If not for that odd looking Yagi antenna, I might not be around today.

CHAPTER FIVE

After Johnny snoozed again Neil clicked on the e-mail from his boss J.D. Hemphill, Vice President of M.COM International.
The annual reminder called for all employees to review M.COM’s “code of ethics.”
“Yeah J.D., read it and take heed,” Neil whispered, recalling his job interview late last year.
He had followed the M.COM executive after J.D. had bragged of his five thousand dollar per month apartment in San Mateo. When Hemphill headed to the Mission Street area in San Francisco instead, Neil trailed the Mercedes’ C-Class in his rented Ford Escort.
When the vice president pulled into a dumpy hotel on Mission Street clandestine images emerged from Neil’s thoughts. Haile Major had mentioned that the little man had come to M.COM from the secretive NSA. He imagined a buxom blond NSA secret agent who would pull up beside J.D. in a red corvette.
Neil’s excitement turned into horror after a smoke spewing aged Lincoln Town Car drove up next to the Mercedes. A shady character got out and exchanged a mop-haired little boy toting a McDonald’s “Happy Meal” for a wad of J.D.’s money.
He was tempted to reply to Hemphill’s “code of ethics” e-mail to all M.COM employees worldwide. On the subject line he would type in: J.D. Hemphill pedophile.
The e-mail included information for employees that M.COM employed the services of an ombudsman available 24/7 to listen to employee’s complaints and personal problems.

Neil had needed more than an ombudsman last year when he lay stretched out on the couch in his San Mateo apartment with a cheap bottle of bourbon cradled in his arms. Haunted by Sara’s last days, he had drained his liquor supply on a three day binge.
When the doorbell rang he remained perfectly still he owed rent to the landlord. He closed his eyes, hoping the intruder would go away.
“Neil, open the door, it’s Haile,” the voice rang out.
He lifted the empty bottle and tossed it behind the sofa where it rattled among the others.
The pounding on the door continued. “I know you’re in there, Neil. Come on now, it’s Haile.”
It hurt to refuse the voice of his friend and mentor. “Give me a minute, Haile,” he yelled out, and went and washed up and put on an unstained shirt.
The short, thin energetic Haile gave much more than a minute. For hours he helped Neil put his life back in order. Together, they washed dishes and clothes, shampooed the carpet, and trashed all the bottles. Neil showered and dared to look into the bathroom mirror to shave and brush his teeth.
The next day he had regained part of his self-respect. Haile took him out for coffee at Starbucks on Fourth Avenue in downtown San Mateo. Neil sipped on a cappuccino and the M.COM chief engineer said, “We’re installing an earth station outside of Asmara, at the old Tract D compound.”
His fond memories of dad’s stories of Asmara, then part of Ethiopia forced a smile. Neil gaped at Haile. “I can’t believe it. Tract D?”
“Believe it,” Haile said smiled. “Asmara, our dads’ old hangout.”
He had so many questions but it all came down to two words: “When? Why?”
Haile raised his hand and Neil settled down. “It completes the M.COM worldwide footprint,” Haile said. “It’ll be ready for test and acceptance next month.” The chief engineer gave him a sly look. “Ready in a month and M.COM needs an experienced station manager.”
He caught Haile’s less than subtle inference. “Do you think…I mean…could I apply for the job?”
Haile smiled and replied, “You have an interview the day after tomorrow with J.D. Hemphill, vice president of operations.”

When the first call dropped it created a domino effect.
“She’s returned,” Neil alerted Johnny and watched the last blip that represented the phone call on the spectrum analyzer screen disappear.
Johnny gripped the arms to keep from falling out of his chair.
“You ready?” Neil said.
He rubbed his eyes and said, “I’m always ready to chase after a skirt. Boss, what should we call her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re the station chief. You need to name her.”
He looked at the plaque on the wall. “It’s fitting that we call her the “˜Asmara Anomaly.’”
“Good choice,” Johnny said and peered at the spectrum analyzer. “All five calls have dropped.”
Neil unable to conceal his excitement said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Asmara Anomaly has arrived.”
Johnny gave a thumbs-up.
“Let’s go outside. But first, turn off the M.COM carriers so we don’t get confused between our own frequency transmissions and the anomaly.”
Johnny tapped at the keyboard on the computer linked to the equipment. “Done,” he said, with a final poke on the enter button.
“You bewitching bitch,” he crowed. “We’re going to find out where you call home.”
Johnny gave out a hoot.
Outside the operations center, on a fold-out table on the well lit pavement, Neil tuned the spectrum analyzer to record the anomaly. Johnny, a prop on a science fiction movie set, pointed the Yagi antenna in the general direction of Asmara.
He looked at his watch. “Last time she appeared for thirty minutes. We may have roughly twenty minutes to find her.” A small blip danced in the middle of the spectrum analyzer screen above the noise floor like a sloop on a stormy sea. Neil adjusted the spectrum analyzer gain to maximize the amplitude of the signal.
“Commander Cody is energizing his ray gun,” Johnny said.
“I’ll be recording the different waveforms,” Neil said. “I can see a signal wave form that could be our anomaly. Let’s pan you’re antenna slowly, ninety degrees to the left.”
He watched as the signal level remained unchanged while Johnny panned to the left, in the general direction of the new Chinese earth station.
As a sanity check he would eliminate the obvious. “Where do you think the azimuth of that Eritrean military base is from here?”
Johnny pointed. “The base is in the general direction of Asmara, over there.”
He maximized the settings on the analyzer. “Okay, go ahead and pan in that direction.”
Johnny slowly panned in the other direction and then Neil had him do a quick to verify what he knew.
“As we suspected, I don’t see evidence of the anomaly on the ground.” he said and pointed up. “Let’s check the satellite up there.”
Johnny hooted again and twisted his body to point the antenna in the direction Neil had requested.
No change. He judged the approximate area of the M.COM geostationary satellite, which hung over twenty-two thousand miles above. “Johnny, aim it up in the sky to about where my finger is pointing.”
“Okay, here she goes boss.”
He noticed a slight increase of the signal amplitude on the analyzer screen. “Keep going west,” he said, eliminating the satellite.
Johnny, with the antenna slung high over his shoulder, grunted. He resembled a modern Rodin creation.
The signal slightly increased in amplitude and Neil yelled, “Stop.” He waited a few seconds until the amplitude stabilized on the screen and then said, “Johnny, pan it down and to the right.”
The signal level just decreased.
“Wait, the other way. Pan it upwards and to the left.”
The signal level slowly increased and the envelope widened, splashing across M.COM’s commercial frequency spectrum. Now they were getting somewhere.
The Yagi antenna did not have the signal power or gain as the huge dish antennas. “Keep going,” he said, “slowly.” He had no doubt that this was the anomaly. It couldn’t hide on the monitor.
“Johnny, stop there,” he snapped.
Neil squinted to view the scant changes of the waveform on the screen. “Okay, go to the right, now,” he said.
“That’s it, a little more.”
“Now tweak it down…more…more…stop…perfect.”
“Boss, you owe me four hundred Nakfa,” Johnny said, “Look up in the sky the origin of the Asmara Anomaly.”
His eyes followed Johnny’s dreamy words into the inky starlit heavens.
The antenna pointed directly at the moon.

Read more about Asmara’s Anomaly and D.K. Matthews HERE.

Copyright 2008 D.K. Matthews. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1 The Idea

The year is 2025. The possibility of time travel has been theoretically proven and is accepted without question by thescientific community at large, although it has yet to be demonstrated by actual experience. The world is standing on tiptoe. Today is Friday, June 1, the date set for the annual meeting of the World Scientific Society. This particular meeting is destined to be different from past meetings. Its outcome will affect certain of the society’s members in ways that they can not now imagine. The revolutionary events detailed here will all happen as a direct result of a simple question which is about to be asked by the chairman Mr. John Sterghean of Switzerland. After the group has chatted idly for some time about various diseases illnesses and problems, he suddenly strikes the gavel on the table and clears his throat. When everything is silent, he speaks.

“Gentlemen, we have been discussing various individualdiseases, illnesses and problems. But let me set before you aquestion which is crucial to them all. Gentlemen, what do yousee as the main cause of disease and evil in the world?”

The members sit in silence, each one pondering the answer to the question. The group includes Walter Bryant from Germany, William Nifang from Japan, Kerry Nadine from Saudi Arabia, David Sung from China and Allen Daniel Cohen from the U.S.A. All of them have given their life to thebetterment of mankind through scientific pursuit.

It is Cohen who finally speaks. “It seems to me that the main cause of disease and evil in the world is sin.”

“And, just what do you mean by sin’?” asks the chairman,smiling. “Please define your terms.”

“By sin,’ I mean a failure to conform to the law and precepts of Almighty God.”

“I’m sure we would all agree with that,” responds thechairman. “We all believe in a God, although we may call himby different names. To you, he is JHWH; to Kerry, he is Allah; to Will, he is Buddha; and to David, he is Confucius. So then, my friends, we all agree with brother Daniel’s proposal, do we not?”

All nod in agreement. “But,” objects Walt, “this is ascientific gathering, not a theological one. I’m sure you have apoint.”

“I do,” affirms John, “and a very poignant one, if you’ll justbear with me. But, where did this failure to comply, this ’sin’ as you call it, originate?”Mr. A. Daniel Cohen thinks for a moment and then reacheshis hand into his coat pocket. “Gentlemen, if I may” He pulls out a pocket edition of the Hebrew Old Testament. “Allow me to offer a rough translation.”John nods in approval and Daniel begins translating.

“Now the serpent was the smartest of all the beasts. And he said to the woman, Does God really say you should not eat of every tree in the Garden?’ And the woman said to the serpent, of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God has said we shall not eat of, neither touch it, lest we die.’ And the serpent said to the woman, you shall not surely die for God knows that in the day you eat of it you’ll be like gods’…And the woman took the fruit of the tree and gave also unto her husband and they ate.”As Daniel translates, John notices the light of recognitiondawning on the faces of the others.”Ah, yes,” affirms Walt. “I remember that. It’s part of the Edocument, I believe.”It’s from the Torah,” asserts Kerry.”Ah! We have some sort of story like that in our ancientJapanese literature,” says Will.”Chinese, likewise,” agrees David.”But, the point?!” objects Walt.John smiles broadly. “The point, my friends, is simply this:What do you think can be done a
bout the situation?”What do you mean?”What I mean is, do you think, in the light of our presentknowledge, that we could possibly do anything to change thesituation?”There is a brief moment of silence, and then David speaks.”Well, in the light of our present knowledge of time travel, Isuppose we could possibly attempt to go back to that time and warn the people involved so they never make the fatal mistake. And then, everything would be different.”Exactly!” exclaims John.”But,” protests Daniel, “time travel has not been fullyproven as yet, that is, it hasn’t been tested.”Perhaps,” suggests John, “because there hasn’t beenenough of a motive, yet.”

“But,” objects Walt, “even if it is possible to go back in time, we don’t know how far back we could go, or even if we could control our landing point. Suppose we land just after this fall you read about, and can’t go back to the time before it.”

“My friends,” affirms John, “the question of controlling thelocal destination of time leaps is what I’ve been working on for the past five years, and I believe I’ve finally gotten it pretty well figured out. You simply vary the intensity of the horizontalthrust in accordance with the calculated rotation of the earth inrelation to the time platform. The temporal locator works pretty much the same way. But, so far, with our present thrustcapabilities, it seems it would only be possible to go back 200 years more or less in one leap.”

“So,” observes Will, “we’d have to go back in leaps of 200years each. And, at the next to last jump, we’d make thecalculations, and set the coordinates in order to arrive at ourexact destination point.”

“Exactly! And with the right calculations and the rightsettings, the time and location could be controlled within a fewdays and a few feet. By setting the dial enough ahead of ourdesired time goal, we’d give ourselves a good margin of error.”

“Sounds like you’ve really thought this thing through,”observes Walt.

“I certainly have. I’ve been waiting for this meeting topresent this idea.”

“But, even if we test it and we find it works,” asserts Kerry, “if we were to send someone back in time, there’s a goodpossibility they might not return. We should all be aware of that.”

“The question is, my friends,” John’s voice rings out loudand clear, “whether we see the goal as being worth the risk.Think of it, my friends! Think of being able to change thecourse of world history, being able to eliminate all sickness,disease and evil to make it as though it never happened.”

“Do you really think we could do it?”

Again, John’s voice is strong and assertive. “If there is a chance that it can be done, wouldn’t it be worth trying? It would be like ushering in Paradise!”Well, I guess it does deserve a try. But where would we getthe money for such a project?” asks Walt, who has been waiting for a break in the conversation to insert this matter ofpracticality. “We could each contribute something, but how farwould that go?”We will have to find some financial backing fromsomewhere,” agrees David.Daniel’s face, which had been drawn in thought, suddenlylights up. “How about that wealthy financier, Mark Lewis?He’s interested in matters of this sort.”But do you think he’d be willing to back such a project asthis?”

“We’d have to do our best to convince him of the usefulnessand feasibility of our plan.”

“Well, then,” John strikes the gavel again. “Let’s try to workout the details first, and then adjourn to the house of MarkLewis.”

All of them agree. After several hours of concentrated effort,they have a fairly workable plan in hand.

Chapter 2 The Plan

As they approach the huge brick house, they are still talkingamong themselves, obviously excited, like children on their first trip to the circus.

“Think of it! Being able to go back and visit the various erasof history!”

“What a thrill!”

“Perhaps we would have done it anyway, sooner or later, forthe pure thrill of it all. But now we have a reason a purpose, in addition.”

“You say we can go back 200 years in one leap?”

“Give or take 50 years based on our present knowledge. But, perhaps with the application of more force, we could increasethe distance slightly.”

“We could make it a fact-finding tour as well, to note anyunwritten details of historical interest we may stumble across.”
“Who knows what new insights we might discover!”
………………

Chapter 4
The three men push open the door of the cylinder and step out.  They are stepping into what is for them, in one sense, unfamiliar territory, but in another sense, a page out of history.

Copyright 2008 James M. Becher. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

From their hidden lunar base, the True Archons observed the work of the False Archons, who were constructing walls of stone and bars of iron around the saints, hanging black veils around them to obscure their knowledge of the natural beauty which surrounded them, lying just out of their reach.  The Archons observed the oppression of humanity as a holographic display within the obelisk, and they shook their heads in dismay.  Such a sad state of imprisonment must not be allowed to persist.  Barred by the One from direct intervention, the Archons put the seed of a thought into the minds of another race from another star system.  This seed, which the Empire had sought to destroy, indeed believed that the minions had successfully destroyed in 73 A.D., lay dormant but still living, indestructible as the living water.
(Note:  In the 1960s, archaeological excavations at Masada uncovered a 2,000-year-old seed, and that seed was successfully germinated to become a date plant.)
The Archons dared not seek it themselves or disturb its hiding place, lest the Demiurge snatch it from them and suck out its life, but human hands finally broke the seal, after many centuries, at virtually the same moment – in the context of human history simultaneously – that the Axis of iron fell into defeat at the hands of armies who considered themselves liberators, not conquerors.  And yet the Empire was not destroyed, but rather insinuated itself into the very fabric of the societies which had defeated it in war.  (Historians would argue that, in order to defeat the Nazis, the Allies were forced to adopt the same ruthless disregard for human life and liberty as their enemies.)  It was more than a war for dominion over territory; it was a battle for the soul of humanity.
So as in centuries past, the Empire swallowed its captors.  Babylon became Persia, then Persia became Greece, then Greece became Rome, and dictator followed upon dictator through history, demons wearing the robes of authority like the skin of a lamb over the frame of a ravening wolf.
Then one chill December day, in the part of Upper Egypt known as the Grazing Ground of the Geese, poor farmers discovered a jar made of fired clay, and they broke open the lid to find the seed of knowledge resting inside.  Since they had no idea what they had found, their thoughts did not alert the minions.  For decades the books from that clay jar sat in dusty museums, the domain of scholars of obscure ancient languages.  But the instant they had broken the seal, the True Archons had sent an alien craft to lift up the seed and plant it on a distant planet among alien creatures who had no idea what kind of revolutionary knowledge they were about to deposit in the mind of an ordinary human.
By the time the minions began sifting through the sands at Nag Hammadi, it was too late.  The seed of gnosis had escaped their clutches.
#
Arthur Grimley sat in the black vinyl engineer’s chair in the sound booth, leaning forward to focus on his work, sometimes scooting the chair a little on the soft sculptured carpet, which tended to catch the casters and stop their motion.  With heavy liquid-filled earphones clamped around his ears, he sat listening to the track that the sound engineers had produced from what the studio musicians had played from the score, his score, for the latest low-budget horror flick Bad Moon Rising, another cheap tale of teenagers battling a werewolf.  The visuals flashed by on a monitor set into the console while Art checked out the synchronization of sound track to action.  Not bad, he thought, scratching a few notes about corrections that needed to be made.  The music came in too late when the werewolf grabbed its victim.  The scratchy violin strokes should hit the high point a second before the visual to which it corresponded, the close-up of the monster biting its prey, not right on
top of it.  In any frightening scene, the slashing music must cause the viewers’ hearts to race before the slasher actually touched the victim, leading the audience emotionally into the act.  He knew his craft well, and he was always having to educate the technicians in the fine art of preparing the audience to be frightened out of their wits.
This movie was rather tame, compared to most of the schlock on the big screen.  It was more a love story than a murder mystery, with adolescents coming to terms with their emerging sexuality, finding  bonds of friendship and love.  He kind of liked that.
His talent had taken him to the top in this niche of the film industry.  Not bad for a high school dropout with a degree in music from a second-rate correspondence school.  His music blended seamlessly with the action, causing the audience to wriggle in their seats with anxious anticipation of the next bloody scene.  Grimley’s music never sold as an album.  The sappy cliché melodies and discordant fugues worked on the lowest unconscious level of the human brain and never rose to the status of a pleasant or inspiring listening experience.  The critics rated it a notch below elevator music.
Sometimes Arthur Grimley thought that he would sell his soul to be able to write real music, not this schlock but the kind of beautiful melodies that orchestras performed in concert halls with an audience of ladies in evening gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos.  Perhaps then his in-laws would finally consider him human.  The only problem with that scenario was that he wouldn’t earn enough money to maintain the lavish lifestyle that his high society wife demanded.  And he’d probably have to give up his condo in town and the woman who lived there, waiting for his frequent visits.
One of the gold-vested interns came in and tried to talk to him, but Art ignored the idiot.  Didn’t they know that he couldn’t hear a thing with the headphones on?  He saw the young man’s thin lips moving, watched him push a stray lock of straight brown hair out of his eyes, then turned away to focus on his sound track.  The intern, a green college student, apparently got the message and dutifully stood by until he finished his work and removed the headphones.  Stuffing his notes into his day planner, Art turned to see what he wanted.
“Your wife is on the phone.  She says you’re late.”
“I’m always late, so far as Edna is concerned.  Tell her I’ll be home in twenty minutes.”
Arthur Grimley never made it home that day.  As he walked across the parking lot to his new Mercedes, heat waves rippled up from the concrete, blurring his vision.  He thought that he heard footsteps behind him, but before he could turn to look, everything went black.  His crumpled, nearly lifeless body was found in an alley behind the sound building on the production lot of Startling Studios and promptly carted off to the emergency room at the nearest hospital.  Paramedics found his wallet on the ground, empty of money but still holding his credit cards and driver’s license.  When he regained consciousness, he was lying in a hospital bed, dressed in one of those ridiculous cotton gowns that flop open in the back, revealing the patient’s hinder parts.  A police detective interviewed him briefly, but he couldn’t remember anything about the mugging.  He remembered leaving the building and heading toward his car, but everything after that was a blank until he woke up in the hospital.

Copyright 2008 Tessa B. Dick. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Puss & Boots survived that war, but only to find another enemy.  Their own government…

Excerpt

The two women were near the crest of the ridge when Puss grabbed Boots’ wrist.
She signaled with finger taps, “Smart dog.  3 o’clock.”
“It starts now,” Boots whispered as she turned slowly to their right, “Get hard girl!”      The only other sound was the wind sighing in the treetops of the forest.
Boots inched a tranquilizer dart from her belt pouch and peered around through the gloom of the forest until she spotted a shadow under a laurel bush twenty meters away.  She loaded her gas gun and fired all in one smooth motion.
“Looks like I still can still hit the easy ones anyway,” she whispered as the dog slumped on the ground with a rustle of the dried leaves.
The two women walked with silent steps across the pine needles on the floor of the forest to the laurel bush.  Boots pushed its branches aside and looked down at the mongrel dog sprawled on the ground.  It wore a thick plastic collar with control dials, and it sprouted a stub antenna.
Puss dropped to her knees and peered at the collar for a moment then nodded to Boots.  Her eyes grew bleak as she bent her face close to the dog’s head again and grimaced, then she mimicked the dying squeal of a chipmunk and the growls of a dog eating.
“You’ve looked like that every time we’ve met one of these damm things.  I don’t think you like dogs much,” Boots whispered as she squatted next to Puss and drew her belt knife, and cut the sedated dog’s head off with three precise strokes.
Puss ignored her friend’s comment as she grabbed the collar when the dog’s head flopped free, and shook away the spatters of blood on it.  She slipped her arm through its loop and clamped its body-heat and pulse sensors in the warmth of her armpit.  The two women stood and faced each other.
“Pay dirt!” Boots signed to her friend, “Mark is near here!  His bounty will lift our mortgage big!”
“Another dog is dead anyway,” Puss signed with a shrug. “But I will not count my sheep before they hatch!  We collect this mark, sell him and get our credits before I lift the skirt on my mortgage!”
Puss grinned then, and gave Boots a play punch on her arm, “Good shot for an old girl though!” she signed, “But we must dump this collar quick.”
“Yes,” Boots signed back with a smile, “If no vitals or sound are transmitted from it soon, mark will know something happened to his smart dog.

Copyright 2008 Jack McClure. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

The moment Rado pulled his van into the warehouse, Corinthian was opening his door and battering him with questions. “Who was it about? What was it? Will it help?”
“Hold up. Give me a minute!” Rado shook his head as he stepped out of the van. “Fate is smiling on us. Or whatever. Mark Lawrence’s mother ran into a familiar face at the safe house. Jason Kuo’s half-sister has been in hiding for all this time. He gave her a set of discs and some money and sent her into hiding two months before the killings.”
“He must have known something was coming.” Corinthian shook his head. “If he knew, why didn’t he warn anybody?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. Maybe these will help.” Rado pulled a small black case off the front seat. “There are seven discs here. I skimmed a little but haven’t watched them all. There’s some interesting stuff on there.”
“Like what?”
“There’s a video of a surgery performed on Shade. She was just a kid. They wired her up like a bomb and she was just a baby.” Anger poisoned his words.
“Wired?” Corinthian’s head shot up, his eyes wide and intent. “I’ve been so stupid! That’s the key!” He grabbed the case of discs and ran for the bunker.
“What key?” Rado chased after him. “What’s going on?”
“You just found the one element I’ve been missing.” Corinthian sat down in front of the mainframe and inserted each disc into a separate drive. “I was looking for something more advanced, something spectacular. It’s going to take more than one implant. That’s why she was pumped full of wiring. Synaptic receptors aren’t going to be enough. The answer was there the whole time. I’m such a freaking idiot.”
“If you are an idiot,” Shade’s manufactured voice filled the small room, “what am I? I knew nothing of this. And it was my body they wired!”
“What do you think?” Corinthian asked.
“I think we’ve just jumped to making the construct a reality instead of a possibility.”
“Construct?” Rado sat down.
“We’re going to implant a piece of Shade inside a donor body.”
“You’re going to what?” Rado was nearly shouting, the vein at his temple pulsing in time to his bitter heart.
“We’re going to take a special chip and install it into our living volunteer. If it all works the way we think it will, our volunteer will become an extension of Shade with some added benefits.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, I’m not.” Corinthian smiled.
“That’s impossible.”
“It certainly was this morning.” Corinthian said with a broad smile.

Copyright 2008 Sarah Wagner. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter Two

Edna Stax Grimley avoided her husband, preferring to enjoy the company of her bridge club and the atmosphere of the shopping malls rather than spend dreary hours in a darkened room with a man who groaned almost every time he moved and complained loudly whenever the nurse made him do the exercises that the doctor had prescribed.  She protested that it couldn’t hurt him that much to stretch, or else people wouldn’t do it every time they woke up in the morning.  Besides, she didn’t want to upset him.  Lately they had been arguing over everything and nothing, so she thought it best to leave him alone and let him rest.  Even when Art’s headaches went away, Edna stayed away, now that he had that contemptible keyboard right beside his bed.  She never had liked his music, considering it a necessary banality in their otherwise respectable life.  Let him wallow in his misery, she thought, and let him plunk out his movie noises, but I have better things to do.
The one bright spot for Art alighted when his daughter Angelica came home from college for a few days to spend time with poor debilitated Dad.  This perky dark-haired beauty, an honor student at UC Davis who was studying to be a veterinarian, almost made his loveless marriage worthwhile.  Here was a soul that resonated with his, and he felt certain that they had been lovers in a previous life.  If he ever ended up in Hell, surely Angelica would reach down and pull him out.
“Did you hear about the UFO?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, it was the strangest coincidence, I mean it happened less than a block from where you were working on that day, you know.”
Art nodded.  Yes, he knew what day, the day when somebody mugged him as he walked out to his car.  He had always wondered how they managed to get past the security guards.  It wasn’t as if just anybody could wander in through the gates.
“Well, anyway, it turns out that it was an advertising balloon that got loose from its tethers and lost its buoyancy.  It came down and scared a bunch of people who thought they saw a flying saucer.  Isn’t that funny?  Maybe they should make a movie about it.”
Art smiled and almost laughed, but laughing would have hurt his ribs.  He adored his daughter, and everything she said or did pleased him.  The fact was, he would have divorced Edna years ago, if he thought it wouldn’t upset Angelica.  But he knew that she would be deeply hurt if her parents split up, so he endured the constant nagging, punctuated by periods of silence and even absence that his wife inflicted upon him for no other reason than that he lacked the polished manners of a blue-blooded member of the social elite.
He begged Angelica to come with him to the ribbon-cutting ceremony at Horror Haven, the new theme park dedicated to all things macabre and grisly, and she relented, midterm exams notwithstanding.  Edna came along, too, encouraged by the prospect of seeing her own face on the evening news.  For Art it would be his last public act before the dreaded brain surgery, an ordeal that at best would leave him an invalid for several weeks and at worst, well, he didn’t want to think about that.  He tried to focus on the fact that Horror Haven was using some of his best movie sound tracks to back up the computer-generated virtual reality sequences which they had devised to entertain visitors to the park.
As the day of the ribbon cutting approached, he tried to work on his next sound track.  Sitting at the keyboard, he plunked out the staccato lead-in to a smashing event, such as shattering glass.  As his fingers pressed the keys, his migraine came back with such fury that he had to lie down again.  It seemed as if his muse were patiently but firmly teaching him to make beautiful music, not the commercial schlock that paid his mortgage and his daughter’s tuition.
Art was forced to attend the event in a motorized wheelchair that he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of, and with Nurse Olsen in tow, since his injuries had not completely healed and the brain tumor might cause some trouble.  He felt stiff in the black tuxedo that the butler and nurse had stuffed him into, the cummerbund hiding the corset which supported his healing ribcage, the clip-on bow tie allowing some neck room for him to breathe and speak.  If they had fastened the top button and knotted a real tie around his collar, he would have been twice as miserable.  If it were up to him, he would attend the gala in blue jeans and a T-shirt, but he made this great sacrifice for Edna’s sake and for the media photographers.  Truth be told, he did like to look his best out in public.  The owner of the park, Herbert Craft, shone like a sapphire in his blue sequined jacket as he handed the scissors to Art.  Herb looked immaculate with his black hair slicked back and his tailored suit gleaming in the sunlight.  Art felt at home with this high-powered public relations man, much more so than with the stuffed business suits inhabiting the clubs where Edna’s family had insisted upon sponsoring and purchasing Art’s membership.  Edna glittered with shimmering makeup, a full length gown and a diamond necklace.  Angelica, dressed in a plain but tasteful peach-colored slacks suit, beamed with pride in her father.  Other important people stood around while photographers snapped and flashed their photographs.  Art held the scissors on the edge of the cherry-red ribbon that stretched across the park entrance, dutifully posing for the photographers for a few minutes before the actual slicing of the ribbon.  At a table just inside the park, waiters patiently stood by with champagne bottles ready to be uncorked.  Art tired of smiling, of holding up his heavy arm, and at last he decided that it was time to cut the ribbon.  As the blades bore down, more cameras snapped and flashed.
At last he rolled into the park, surrounded by reporters and important people, to the sound of popping corks and polite applause.  With all that pomp and ceremony, you would have thought that it was the opening of opera season, rather than of a venue designed to provide cheap thrills and chills to tourists in T-shirts.
He couldn’t be sure when everything went black, but it seemed like a replay of the mugging.  He awoke in a strange place filled with darkness and the screams of people in agony.

Copyright 2008 Tessa B. Dick. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.