Jane’s War (part 1)

Jane ( flexed her new fingers.

It wasn’t her first artificial limb, she already had a replacement leg from the knee down. But she never thought much about the responsiveness or flexibility of her leg. It simply wasn’t something she thought about. This was different; she used her fingers all the time.

She made a fist, then stretched out the fingers, then twisted them up a bit.

The fingers seemed slow to respond at first, but once they got the message they seemed to move in double time to catch up. She felt like she was constantly overcompensating.

It would take some getting used to.

The elbow and shoulder were better, but still it would take some time to move with full proficiency again.

Jane Doe ( stood over her, gesturing to dismiss some part of her personal display.

“How does it feel?” 78.1 asked.

“Fine,” Jane said, putting on a smile. You had to smile. Jane’s all smiled. That was one of the rules.

“Please take the time to rate your service,” 78.1 said, gathering up her tools.

Jane kept flexing her fingers as 78.1 left, leaning back on examination table, letting her mind wander. The new arm might make her job a lot easier actually. Her old augments were good, but the fully synthetic arm would hold more and better augments than her original. So that was something to look forward too.

One of her sisters was transferring to this planet, and it would be good to see her if she could. She couldn’t be too obvious about trying to see Jane (, or they’d both be taken away. Probably shipped back to the Homeland, to be reeducated or killed. She didn’t think she could handle losing another friend so soon after Koya.

Poor Koya.

At least he hadn’t been captured.

The Julians could have made him talk. Jane knew this. She’d carried out the procedure herself.

She realized she’d been in the workshop too long. If she stayed much longer, she would be accused of laziness or failure to acclimate to her new parts. Both of those were against the rules.

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So the site was down for about two weeks, but we’re back now.

Took the time to get some more writing done and think about where I’m going with this site, my writing, and other things.

New story will be up on Monday, and in the coming weeks there will be some announcements on some other projects I’m working on here. Hopefully, you folks will enjoy some it them.

Good to be back 🙂

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Elder of the Conclave

(a short little scene I wrote while brainstorming a science fiction setting)

The Gorgon Fleet was making another run at the warp gate.

This would be their third run within the last year.

“We have firing solutions locked in on all hostiles,” called the primary fire control officer.

Balur nodded, watching the tracking data on his display, scratching the fur at his neck. His heart was racing. He wasn’t nervous exactly, that would be the wrong word. He wasn’t sure what he was. The Gorgon Fleet was small, and they’d spent too much of their strength on the last two runs at the gate. The local guard fleet was more than enough to take on the human vagrants even at their peak a year ago. They were at barely more than half that strength now. At this point, the first salvo was likely to sink or cripple half of the oncoming ships. After that, it would just be a matter of rounding up and boarding what little remained of the Gorgon Fleet.

This would be their last run at the gate.

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Operation Caesar’s Folly (part XXIV)


It was everywhere. Kicked up by boots, in the air, in his clothes, in his mouth.

Sand and dead grass, all around him. Sand and grass and the burning sun beating down.

People were yelling at him. He could hear them shouting but couldn’t hear any words.

He turned to see Valerie. Colonel Valerie Corbin of the 25th, shouting at him. He tried to shout back, tried to warn her. She couldn’t hear him. He reached out, trying to pull her down.

Bullets ripped through his CO, and she fell apart, vanishing into the sand.

He heard another shout, and turned to see little Jimmy Wilkens, the 25th’s youngest soldier.

He shut his eyes just as the bullets hit Jimmy.

He collapsed to the burning sand, throwing his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut as, one after another, his regiment screamed, and was torn apart.

He could hear it all in the background, as if the carnage was unfolding on the far side of a heavy door.

He knew what was next, and he begged and pleaded with his own mind.

“Not her. Please not her. Not this time, please,” he whispered to the sand swirling around him.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, but he couldn’t help himself.

There she was, lying beside him in the sand.

Her scalp was shaved, he shoulders wide, her dress was a kaleidoscope of shape and color against her ebony skin. Her hands were limp, his mother’s ring still on her finger.

She was laid out on the sand. Left for the vultures.

He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to curse her. He wanted to kiss her.

It wasn’t real. He knew it.

He’d never seen her body.

She’d been dead for a week by the time he caught up to Sinclair.

He couldn’t help but look though.

Real or not, she was his wife.

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Alirio’s War (conclusion)

Alirio hurried down the concrete passage, ostensibly following Koya though there was nowhere to go but straight ahead. Koya had ignored a few dozen identical metal doors that lined the halls down here, below the Taskmaster’s compound. Between them, Jean Claude groaned and let himself be dragged along.

“Where are we going?” Alirio gasped out between breaths.

“We have less than ten minutes before surveillance on this level is back up,” Koya’s head made a jerk and he sped up, making Alirio stumble just a bit as he tried to keep pace, “before that happens we have to get out of the compound.”

“You know a way?” Alirio asked.

Koya nodded, “There’s a service elevator the Johns and Janes use. Leads to a tertiary launch site for emergency use. Sensors in the bay have been out for about a month, but it’s not a priority repair. Nobody worries about Does.”

“What about the one who helped you?” asked Alirio.

Koya smiled, “That’s my Jane. Nobody sees my Jane coming.”

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No Story This Week

So I was hoping to keep my every other week schedule for a bit, but I hit a small snag this week.

I was on a camping trip this past weekend, and being away from my computer, I made sure to bring a notebook to get the story done anyway. Unfortunately, the notebook fell afoul of some water during the camping trip. Completely soaked, ink running, and my story progress lost.

I’m re-writing the story now, but between school and work, I don’t plan to have it up until next Monday.

Because I want to try and get back on my schedule though, I’m gonna be doing two weeks of stories in a row this time. So expect a story next Monday, and the Monday after.

Sorry for the delay, and thanks for reading. 🙂

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Operation Caesar’s Folly (part XXIII)

Issac considered for a moment that he should feel the urge to smile right now. His plans were working perfectly, after all. The meetings had picked up at 11, and Gavrilović had immediately started in on his earnest plea for compromise: Istria and Dalmatia, for Tripoli and Tunisia.

“I’m afraid that’s entirely unacceptable!” Ricci exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon?” Gavrilović asked, taken aback.

“That’s almost twice the territory we ask for,” Ricci barked. Issac wasn’t sure that was true.

“Hardly,” Gavrilović waved a hand, “And besides, it is mostly desert. You, on the other hand, ask for rich green lands. You ask for quality, and we for quantity. It seems very reasonable to me.”

Ricci frowned, but sputtered and failed to come up with an adequate reason he must refuse. He had to refuse though. Italy had fought hard for its North African holdings. Perhaps not as brutal a campaign as the Turkish had fought for their territories during the Islah Savaşi, but conquest was conquest.

Ricci tried to talk around the issue, offering to talk trade whilst he came up with a reasonable excuse beyond “I don’t want to,” but then it was the Turkish turn to make accusations about avoiding certain topics.

Gavrilović looked to him at one point, silently asking what the hell Issac had gotten him into, and Issac made a small show of incredulity directed at the Italians.

“I’m as confused at this reaction as you are,” was the message he was trying to convey. He hoped it worked.

The shouting was quieted by another reminder from Issac that everyone was a friend here and if anyone wanted to shout they were welcome to try and be heard over the sound of 0sc4r’s whistle. The Turks reluctantly agreed to table the Africa swap for a time being and focus on trade, slightly bitter since this was the very thing they’d suggested this morning (not that they were complaining!).

Oddly enough, the trade discussion was at least somewhat productive. They very nearly talked right through lunch on establishing mutually low tariffs on Mediterranean trade. Issac took copious notes on who wanted what. He wasn’t sure it would be any use to him, but the Skymarshal or somebody back in Intelligence might find it all very fascinating, so he keeping jotting down lines in the simple cypher he’d chosen for the conference.

All the most pedestrian issues were making their way around the table. Things like shipping rights, tariffs, port fees; though none of these discussions ever reached concrete numbers, since the question on who would own which coastlines was still a bit in flux. A point they had very nearly returned to, courtesy of an Italian aide’s slip of the tongue, when Sig. Baroncelli stood and addressed the room.

“My goood Gentlemen and Ladies; let us adjourn for lunch on this high note, shall we?”

The release of tension was palpable as the territory issue was narrowly avoided yet again.

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Alirio’s War (part 3)

“Nobody escapes,” Alirio said, very sure of it.

“Shaysh who?” the soldier smiled. Or tried to. His attempt made his face even more terrifying.

“Nobody ever has,” Alirio shook his head as he said it.

“Eshcapesh happen all the time,” the soldier insisted, “Maybe not from thish island, not in a long time, but they happen.”

“Surely we would know…,” Alirio started to say.

“Why? ‘Caushe the Mashtersh would be real eager to sshare that with their shlaves?” the soldier made his horrific smile again.

The soldier picked up his helmet, examining the rim and the visor before speaking again.

“Look. I’m gonna make it shimple,” he put the helmet on, his voice replaced with the deep, clear tone that characterized the Taskmaster’s soldiers, “You do exactly as I say, and I’ll help you and your lover escape.”

Alirio narrowed his eyes, “This is a trick.”

“No tricks,” the soldier stood, “Either I blame you for breaking your friend out of here, or…” the soldier made a gesture with his hand, as if implying the rest of his sentence was obvious.

“Or what?” Alirio asked

“Or,” the soldier rested his hand on his pistol, “I could just kill the both of you.”

Alirio looked to the door.

The soldier shook his head, “I wouldn’t.”

Alirio slowly nodded, “If you think you can…I mean…I’m not even sure what we’d do with our freedom.”

“Anything you want,” the soldier said, “That’s the idea.”

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Operation Caesar’s Folly (part XXII)

The Admiral was not a man to believe in coincidences. He was certain they happened, but in an abstract sort of way, the way one is aware that somewhere someone will win the lottery. It will happen, but almost certainly never to you.

“The price of grain is down in the Americas,” he mused to no one.

He was alone in his carriage of course, but the thought came aloud unbidden.

“Grain is down and tensions are high in the Americas,” He said to the empty seat across from him. He imagined himself seated there, retorting, “so what?”

“Low prices on food means surplus; means more spending money; means happier people. Happy people don’t start wars on a whim. So why the trouble at the border?” the Admiral explained, (still to no one).

“Best reports say armed Spanish farmers crossed the border first. The most likely culprit is racism,” his invisible double replied, “The oldest excuse. The Spaniards have always resented the resurgent Inca, and blamed them for Bolivar’s success. Seems simple enough to me.”

“Farmers?” the Admiral was frowned, “Racism maybe, but racism as a rallying cry for something more mundane. A farmer is the only man to resent a surplus of his crop. Lower prices means a thinner margin. Thinner margins makes a man resent his competition. Hatred born of sour grapes but justified by racism. All the more ridiculous given the Inca don’t grow the same staples as the Spanish for the most part.”

“And yet that Spanish Admiral,” the ghost mused.

“And yet the Spanish Admiral. This could get out of hand very quickly if cooler heads don’t prevail,” the Admiral tapped his cane on the floor of the carriage as this thought.

“Our operation in Panama will help, no doubt,” the empty seat said reassuringly.

“Forestalling the inevitable, I fear,” the Admiral frowned, “The peace in the Americas was never built to last. Stop gap after stop gap, but the Inca and Spanish are destined to fight the next great war over some damn stupid thing in Colombia.”

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The Fleet [Scene of the Crime]

I turned the body a bit and got a better look at the boy.

It was a boy. Not old enough to call it a man.

Hair was shaved, and the scalp was tattooed like the kids down the Spine like to do. Complicated swirls, bioluminescent in parts, probably others only revealed under UV or other uncommon light. Tendrils of ink came down to coil around his eyes, and and down his neck where they disappeared beneath his shirt. Clothing was loose, good for grabbing, another hallmark of the Spine.

There were scars running down his forearms. Multiple suicide attempts. Again: common down the Spine.

His pants were stained. Blood and other bodily fluids most recently, but older grease stains spoke of industrial work.

And finally, the knife.

What a knife. Neon green plastic. Fabricated from some jailbroke maker probably. Not easily traceable, though I hoped I’d get lucky. Maybe find the killer had used a public maker and forgot the cameras.

It was in his gut. Multiple stabs.

Facing his attacker?

Why? Mugging?

Unlikely. Nothing a spine-rat could afford would be worth stealing.

If he was a spine-rat. Dressing like one and being one were not the same thing.

Without an ID, it would take a few hours to find out. If the kid had ID, it was broken, since I was close enough to touch him and not picking anything up.

“Nic?” the woman behind me asked. Ana, 42, widowed, 2 kids officially, 2 surrogates. Artist; amatuer drug dealer; hates the smell of Rondôn’s preferred cleaning solution.

“Yeah, yeah, almost done,” I told her.

“I don’t mean to sound callous,” she assured me, guaranteeing whatever she said next sounded callous, “But I’ve got customers coming in soon. Nobody’s gonna come into a place with a body out front.”

“Ok, ok,” I said as I stood, “Rondôn?”

Yes? The ship signaled, What can I do for you officer?

“Let’s get the body out of the street,” I whispered to the ship.

Requesting confirmation from Civil Authority.

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