Blake Blakesly tried to relax, but it wasn't happening. His sleepicle was too small to pace properly, so he fidgeted, awaiting words from headquarters.
As he stewed, he thought about how he had gotten into the service. After the compulsory physical fitness exams in school had disqualified him from the glory of holovision actor (curse my physical fitness!), he had considered going into the civil service, but that application required a fee. Joining the Service had been free. Hello, Service.
Basic Training had been great. Because of the number of lawsuits (many of which were still pending), it had all been classroom-based with frequent breaks and recesses. He had learned how to make lemonade and write poetry. And, theoretically, how to handle a Weapon.
Then came the Tour of Duty in Low America. He had killed a man for the first time there, an Enemy soldier who had stumbled into their party while tracking game. Others froze, but Blakesly calmly pulled his Weapon out of its designer bag and shot the man in the head. Then, to ward off any nightmares, his entire group wrote poetry about their feelings.
And now this. A charge of disobedience...but no one would seriously have expected him to go back for his Squad Leader's lucky cap, would they? It was ridiculous.
Just then there was a knock at the door as a letter was slide under it. Hands trembling slightly, Blake opened the letter.
"Blake Blakesly. Due to your recent actions concerning deliberate disobedience of Squad Leader orders, you are to appear before the Minister-General in seven days to be tried for Heresy."
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Chapter 13
Smithson turned toward the stairwell.
"Why aren't they coming up?"
Blake considered the situation. "They don't know how much ammo we have. For all they know, we could have a Repeatogun up here waiting for them. Can you get Squad Leader Jonesfoot on the Talkwave?"
As Smithson fiddled with the controls of his Talkwave, Blake looked around the room, frantic for escape. He noticed a water stain in the ceiling in the corner of the room.
"Blake - we're got a Hoverliftandcarrier coming in two minutes!"
"Let's go, Smithson."
As they headed to the corner with the ruined ceiling, a Poisonogas canister landed in the room!
Quick like a jackrabbit, Blake drew and fired into the ceiling - parts of it rained all over the room. As the Poisonogas spread, he lifted Smithson, who used his Combatosharptorch to cut through the floor above them. He reached down, desperate to grab Blake's arm. Energy fading, Blake leaped and grabbed onto Smithson's hand. Smithson heaved him up through the gap.
It took a few seconds to clear the cobwebs, but with Smithson's urging, Blake was soon on his feet and heading to the roof stairwell. They emerged into the evening air, hot with a bite of cool. Looking around, Blake saw the rest of his squad on the roof next door. The Hoverliftandcarrier was preparing for touchdown under heavy fire.
Blake and Smithson wasted no time in sprinting across the rooftop and leaping the small gap to the roof of the Vitapaste-Mart.
"Good to see you guys!" Smithson called, over the roar of the Hoverengine.
As they clambered into the Hoverliftandcarrier, Squad Leader Jonesfoot lost his cap. It was a fluke gust of wind that had powered through the Hoverengine.
"My cap!"
The soldiers watched it blow away, off the roof of the Vitapaste-Mart.
"My lucky cap! Go get it, Blakesly!"
"Sir! That's insane! There must be fifty Enemy troops down there!"
"Get my cap!"
"No, sir!"
"Blakesly, are you disobeying a direct order?"
"Sir, I don't want to get shot for your cap!"
Squad Leader Jonesfoot stared at him. "One last chance, soldier."
"Sorry, sir."
Jonesfoot shook his head. "Get us out of here, pilot."
As the Hoverliftandcarrier took off, the other soldiers made a point not to look at Blake Blakesly. Smithson, still not looking at him, leaned closer. "You're in big trouble, man."
"Why aren't they coming up?"
Blake considered the situation. "They don't know how much ammo we have. For all they know, we could have a Repeatogun up here waiting for them. Can you get Squad Leader Jonesfoot on the Talkwave?"
As Smithson fiddled with the controls of his Talkwave, Blake looked around the room, frantic for escape. He noticed a water stain in the ceiling in the corner of the room.
"Blake - we're got a Hoverliftandcarrier coming in two minutes!"
"Let's go, Smithson."
As they headed to the corner with the ruined ceiling, a Poisonogas canister landed in the room!
Quick like a jackrabbit, Blake drew and fired into the ceiling - parts of it rained all over the room. As the Poisonogas spread, he lifted Smithson, who used his Combatosharptorch to cut through the floor above them. He reached down, desperate to grab Blake's arm. Energy fading, Blake leaped and grabbed onto Smithson's hand. Smithson heaved him up through the gap.
It took a few seconds to clear the cobwebs, but with Smithson's urging, Blake was soon on his feet and heading to the roof stairwell. They emerged into the evening air, hot with a bite of cool. Looking around, Blake saw the rest of his squad on the roof next door. The Hoverliftandcarrier was preparing for touchdown under heavy fire.
Blake and Smithson wasted no time in sprinting across the rooftop and leaping the small gap to the roof of the Vitapaste-Mart.
"Good to see you guys!" Smithson called, over the roar of the Hoverengine.
As they clambered into the Hoverliftandcarrier, Squad Leader Jonesfoot lost his cap. It was a fluke gust of wind that had powered through the Hoverengine.
"My cap!"
The soldiers watched it blow away, off the roof of the Vitapaste-Mart.
"My lucky cap! Go get it, Blakesly!"
"Sir! That's insane! There must be fifty Enemy troops down there!"
"Get my cap!"
"No, sir!"
"Blakesly, are you disobeying a direct order?"
"Sir, I don't want to get shot for your cap!"
Squad Leader Jonesfoot stared at him. "One last chance, soldier."
"Sorry, sir."
Jonesfoot shook his head. "Get us out of here, pilot."
As the Hoverliftandcarrier took off, the other soldiers made a point not to look at Blake Blakesly. Smithson, still not looking at him, leaned closer. "You're in big trouble, man."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Chapter 12
Blake was pinned down in an abandoned Holo-drome. He had three bullets left, and there were at least fifty Enemy troops outside. Their catcalls rang in his ears, daring him to come out, promising small mercies ("We won't cut off all of your fingers!"). Help was on its way, but Blake didn't know how much longer he could hold out.
His squad had been on recon in the Dark Sector when they came upon a small group of the Enemy. Quickly, Squad Leader Jonesfoot had ordered his men to capture the small group - unaware that this small group was part of a much, much, much, much larger group of the Enemy. Much larger.
Two had been killed by the Enemy, leaving six to retreat, frantically and without much organization. The chaos of battle always nauseated Blake. He and Smithson had holed up in the Holo-drome (As a measure of how long it had been abandoned, it still advertised 'Rose's Art,' which hadn't been in theaters for at least - at LEAST thirty years.) while Squad Leader Jonesfoot and three others had taken refuge in the Vitapaste-Mart next door.
"Are they still out there?" Smithson asked. Jorndt, how much could one man sweat?
To answer, Blake put his helmet on the gun and slowly raised it to the level of the window. It was immediately shot from about six directions and the helmet went spinning across the room. Sweat flew from Smithson's lips.
"Yeah. They're still out there."
His squad had been on recon in the Dark Sector when they came upon a small group of the Enemy. Quickly, Squad Leader Jonesfoot had ordered his men to capture the small group - unaware that this small group was part of a much, much, much, much larger group of the Enemy. Much larger.
Two had been killed by the Enemy, leaving six to retreat, frantically and without much organization. The chaos of battle always nauseated Blake. He and Smithson had holed up in the Holo-drome (As a measure of how long it had been abandoned, it still advertised 'Rose's Art,' which hadn't been in theaters for at least - at LEAST thirty years.) while Squad Leader Jonesfoot and three others had taken refuge in the Vitapaste-Mart next door.
"Are they still out there?" Smithson asked. Jorndt, how much could one man sweat?
To answer, Blake put his helmet on the gun and slowly raised it to the level of the window. It was immediately shot from about six directions and the helmet went spinning across the room. Sweat flew from Smithson's lips.
"Yeah. They're still out there."
Monday, June 4, 2007
Chapter 11
Partial clipping recovered from a five-year old issue of The Weekly Buzz:
ASTRONOMER'S DEATH PUZZLES COLLEAGUES, POLICE
Police continue to search for clues in the mysterious death of Dr. Heinrich van Hausmann, who was found dead in the Hilltop Observatory parking lot early Sunday morning.
"The coroner said he's never seen anything like this," Police Spokesperson Kenneth Koperski said. "It appears the good doctor's heart exploded in his chest. Investigations will continue.
ASTRONOMER'S DEATH PUZZLES COLLEAGUES, POLICE
Police continue to search for clues in the mysterious death of Dr. Heinrich van Hausmann, who was found dead in the Hilltop Observatory parking lot early Sunday morning.
"The coroner said he's never seen anything like this," Police Spokesperson Kenneth Koperski said. "It appears the good doctor's heart exploded in his chest. Investigations will continue.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Chapter 10
Jennipher was shaken. The police officer had given her a ticket, refused to chase the black car, and called her mother. She had come to meet Jen and couldn't decide whether she was angry or relieved. It seems calls from the police had a tendency to rattle parents.
And now, as she lay in bed, staring at the slow spin of the ceiling fan, she let her mind wander. Replaying the harrowing drive home over and over again; sometimes close to the truth, sometimes with details embellished or erased. Sometimes she escaped the car, sometimes it forced her off the road. Sometimes another car was involved, a whole fleet of black sedans, waiting to hurt her.
Sometimes she couldn't see the driver of the car, sometimes she could. Sometimes it was the police officer, her mother, the creepy guy from Alligretti's, Denise...and sometimes it was Steve, the look in his eyes piercing her more than a car accident could.
And then, when she could handle her dreams no more (for dreams is what they were), she saw a wide-open plain. A veldt, somewhere in Africa. From far above, from the eyes of a majestic bird, she saw a herd of zebras at a watering hole, elephants eating from trees. She saw native children playing with a battered soccer ball, giraffes running across the grassland. And then, circling down, she saw a lion. It was fierce and proud and unafraid of its surroundings. But not unaware; she felt great wisdom from this creature. Her dream-self landed on a tree branch.
A giggling growl from behind, and she swung around to see a hyena, blood dripping from its muzzle. She looked back to the lion, who was gone. A man stood in its place. The same nobility, the same wisdom. His skin the color of mud, hoops in his left ear. Markings on his crest and face. Native.
"I am waiting for you," he said.
Jen snapped awake, stifling a scream. Her digital clock read 3:42. That was enough sleep for tonight. She couldn't go back and face that hyena. Dream or no dream, she was awake for the day.
And now, as she lay in bed, staring at the slow spin of the ceiling fan, she let her mind wander. Replaying the harrowing drive home over and over again; sometimes close to the truth, sometimes with details embellished or erased. Sometimes she escaped the car, sometimes it forced her off the road. Sometimes another car was involved, a whole fleet of black sedans, waiting to hurt her.
Sometimes she couldn't see the driver of the car, sometimes she could. Sometimes it was the police officer, her mother, the creepy guy from Alligretti's, Denise...and sometimes it was Steve, the look in his eyes piercing her more than a car accident could.
And then, when she could handle her dreams no more (for dreams is what they were), she saw a wide-open plain. A veldt, somewhere in Africa. From far above, from the eyes of a majestic bird, she saw a herd of zebras at a watering hole, elephants eating from trees. She saw native children playing with a battered soccer ball, giraffes running across the grassland. And then, circling down, she saw a lion. It was fierce and proud and unafraid of its surroundings. But not unaware; she felt great wisdom from this creature. Her dream-self landed on a tree branch.
A giggling growl from behind, and she swung around to see a hyena, blood dripping from its muzzle. She looked back to the lion, who was gone. A man stood in its place. The same nobility, the same wisdom. His skin the color of mud, hoops in his left ear. Markings on his crest and face. Native.
"I am waiting for you," he said.
Jen snapped awake, stifling a scream. Her digital clock read 3:42. That was enough sleep for tonight. She couldn't go back and face that hyena. Dream or no dream, she was awake for the day.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Chapter 9
"See you later, guys!" Jen called. She climbed into her car, a slightly-worn Pontiac Grand Prix. She checked the backseat to ensure her backpack was still there (it was, and that meant no excuse for not getting Mr. McCafferty's Chem homework done) and started the car.
Jen turned out of the parking lot and began the short drive home. As she drove, she sang along with the radio. Perhaps, if she had been slightly more focused, she would have noticed the black Audi following her from the beginning. If she hadn't been thinking about Steve and Prom, maybe she would have noticed it inch closer to her bumper. In fact, she didn't notice it until it accelerated, nudging her back bumper.
"What the -?"
Jen's heart skipped a beat (or two) as she accelerated. She reached for her cell phone, fumbling it and dropping it under the passenger seat. The Audi tapped her bumper again, harder this time. She yelped as her car fishtailed. Angry and frightened, she floored her accelerator and shot around a curve. Undaunted, the Audi kept pace, gaining.
She yanked the wheel left, around another sharp turn. Now that she had a straightaway, she reached for her phone again, finding it this time. The Audi pulled close again; Jen swerved into the oncoming lane. As she flashed past a cross-street, she glimpsed a police cruiser. Praying silently for the police to realize what was going on, she was rewarded when the cruiser squealed its tires to pursue both speeding cars.
Without signalling, Jen sped into a drugstore parking lot and slammed on the brakes. Her tires screeched and she hopped out into a well-lit area. The Audi pulled in right behind her and stopped. Jen froze, tharn in the headlights of the mysterious car. The driver of the Audi revved his engine once, toying with her, before pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away. As Jen tried to make out a license number, the police car squealed to a stop behind her.
"What in the name of Gene Hackman is going on here?" the cop yelled.
As she wiped the tears of anger and fear away, Jen could only sniffle "I don't know, Officer. I don't know."
Jen turned out of the parking lot and began the short drive home. As she drove, she sang along with the radio. Perhaps, if she had been slightly more focused, she would have noticed the black Audi following her from the beginning. If she hadn't been thinking about Steve and Prom, maybe she would have noticed it inch closer to her bumper. In fact, she didn't notice it until it accelerated, nudging her back bumper.
"What the -?"
Jen's heart skipped a beat (or two) as she accelerated. She reached for her cell phone, fumbling it and dropping it under the passenger seat. The Audi tapped her bumper again, harder this time. She yelped as her car fishtailed. Angry and frightened, she floored her accelerator and shot around a curve. Undaunted, the Audi kept pace, gaining.
She yanked the wheel left, around another sharp turn. Now that she had a straightaway, she reached for her phone again, finding it this time. The Audi pulled close again; Jen swerved into the oncoming lane. As she flashed past a cross-street, she glimpsed a police cruiser. Praying silently for the police to realize what was going on, she was rewarded when the cruiser squealed its tires to pursue both speeding cars.
Without signalling, Jen sped into a drugstore parking lot and slammed on the brakes. Her tires screeched and she hopped out into a well-lit area. The Audi pulled in right behind her and stopped. Jen froze, tharn in the headlights of the mysterious car. The driver of the Audi revved his engine once, toying with her, before pulling out of the parking lot and speeding away. As Jen tried to make out a license number, the police car squealed to a stop behind her.
"What in the name of Gene Hackman is going on here?" the cop yelled.
As she wiped the tears of anger and fear away, Jen could only sniffle "I don't know, Officer. I don't know."
Friday, June 1, 2007
Chapter 8
He walked with a limp, favoring his left leg. His trenchcoat was possibly dark gray or black but covered with a thin layer of dirt. His hair, thinning and graying, was always meticulously styled. Lines marked his eyes and mouth, although no one at Alligretti's had ever seen him smile. Even Bebe, the waitress with the longest tenure at the restaurant, hadn't seen him change his expression.
"How are you today, sir?" Denise asked, moving to seat the man.
"Fine," he said, looking at Jen.
"Usual table and order?"
"Yes." He kept staring at Jen. She shifted uncomfortably and picked up a spray bottle of cleaner and rag, more for something to get the weight of his gaze off of her.
Denise led the man to his seat and came back with a pained expression on her face. "He just sends shivers down my spine - and not the good kind, either. Bad shivers."
"Bad shivers?" Jen forced a smile. "Nice."
"Anyway, you were going to tell me about this guy. What happened? You guys do it and he said he'd call and never did?"
"No!" Jen was still surprised by the frank way Denise approached sex. "He asked me to prom, and..."
"...and he's going to make you bring the protection?"
Okay, now Denise was just messing with her.
"Forget it."
"Oh come on, Jenny Two-shoes. What's up?"
"Fine. And I had to tell him I couldn't go."
"Why can't you go? I gave you that weekend off so you could go to prom!"
"You know how sometimes you know something is wrong - you know it! - and you really want to do it, but can't, because it's wrong?"
Denise raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you're talking to the wrong person."
"I don't mean wrong like that. Like, I think that if I went to prom, some really bad things would happen."
"Bad things like...........?"
Jen pursed her lips, unsure of how much to share. Denise was a friend, but a friend with a habit of running her mouth.
"Never mind. I'll figure it out. You've got an order up."
Denise headed back to the steam table, looking over her shoulder as she went. "We're not done, Two-shoes."
"How are you today, sir?" Denise asked, moving to seat the man.
"Fine," he said, looking at Jen.
"Usual table and order?"
"Yes." He kept staring at Jen. She shifted uncomfortably and picked up a spray bottle of cleaner and rag, more for something to get the weight of his gaze off of her.
Denise led the man to his seat and came back with a pained expression on her face. "He just sends shivers down my spine - and not the good kind, either. Bad shivers."
"Bad shivers?" Jen forced a smile. "Nice."
"Anyway, you were going to tell me about this guy. What happened? You guys do it and he said he'd call and never did?"
"No!" Jen was still surprised by the frank way Denise approached sex. "He asked me to prom, and..."
"...and he's going to make you bring the protection?"
Okay, now Denise was just messing with her.
"Forget it."
"Oh come on, Jenny Two-shoes. What's up?"
"Fine. And I had to tell him I couldn't go."
"Why can't you go? I gave you that weekend off so you could go to prom!"
"You know how sometimes you know something is wrong - you know it! - and you really want to do it, but can't, because it's wrong?"
Denise raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you're talking to the wrong person."
"I don't mean wrong like that. Like, I think that if I went to prom, some really bad things would happen."
"Bad things like...........?"
Jen pursed her lips, unsure of how much to share. Denise was a friend, but a friend with a habit of running her mouth.
"Never mind. I'll figure it out. You've got an order up."
Denise headed back to the steam table, looking over her shoulder as she went. "We're not done, Two-shoes."
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