tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12933325603478804922024-03-13T16:52:10.559-04:00Story a WeekOne week, one story.Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-76184587480252961152012-01-14T01:07:00.004-05:002012-01-14T23:05:35.373-05:00eulogy<p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i>Some pretty heavy language here, just to warn you. This is a story I've had on backburner for a while. I've been working on novel material lately and I've needed to get a break for it. I kind of had this idea in my head, but didn't have the time to turn it into anything. Finally, I did and here it is. It's a very experimental story told in first person. In typical WA Ross fashion, it's a heavy-handed story dealing with loss. </i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">My mother died on Tuesday. Natural causes, but she could have lived longer if she hadn't drank and ate herself to death. Fat and drunk. That's my mom. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Love her to death though. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Loved. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> And ha. To death. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I call her fat and drunk, but I can't mean it as an insult. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I'm just as bad. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Tried to quit a couple of times. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> But y'know. Shit just happens, y'know?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I didn't find her body. Susan did. Susan's my sister. Susan said mom was laying there on the couch taking a nap and she wouldn't get up. She was dead. Susan called and I cussed her out. “Fuck you,” I said. Hung up on her. I hate Susan. She's the only member of our sorry excuse of a family to make anything of herself. I hate her and mom hated her, but mom would never say it. Susan loves to flaunt around her money and her husband and even her sobriety. I mean, what the hell, right? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Susan calls me back and I believe her. I didn't see mom's body. I didn't have to and I didn't want to either. It's just mom but she can't talk back. It's okay, I guess. I don't have to hear how much her government checks ain't cuttin' it. Mom could be a real bitch sometimes. She drove crazy. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I loved her though.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She was my mother. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Found myself at a bar for the next couple of nights. I don't remember what all I drink. It's all cheap stuff that makes you drunk fast. That's all I wanted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget my shitty little life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget all the nasty stuff Susan said about me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget all the crap mom said about me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget trying to find that dickhead of a father I apparently had. Let us when I was four, Susan was like six. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget I had to keep living. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I wanted to forget mom ever even existed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I couldn't though. I'd wake up the next morning hungover, my head shooting guns, and the memories and pain still there. It hurt, but it wasn't like getting punched. I got punched of times. It wasn't like getting stabbed. I got shivved before. It's not the same. You can not care about those things, but this? I've got no choice but give a fuck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> It was Thursday morning when I took a beer bottle and smashed it against my hand. It was a Heineken bottle. I remember because it was green. But yeah, I was hungover as hell and everything hurt like hell. I just wanted it to stop. I wasn't thinking and I just smacked it down. Damn bottle was still half full. Bits of the glass stuck into my skin, blood was everywhere and it was mixing with the alcohol. It hurt like all hell. I didn't care about my mom anymore though, at least not for a few minutes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I had to call Susan to take me to the hospital. She got out of work to take me and yelled at me the whole way in the car. I don't remember what about. Not like I cared though. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> We got into the ER and the doctors had to put in twenty-nine stitches and yank out the glass. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Everyone asked how it happened, but I wouldn't tell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> They didn't need to know.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> And I didn't want my sister knowing I was hurting. She couldn't see that. You've got to understand, I couldn't give her another reason to think she's better than I am. Just because you're a professor or whatever doesn't make you better. It just makes you a proud bitch no one wants to be around. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> When we left the hospital, I asked Susan for some money. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She said no. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Proud bitch. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The funeral was on Friday. I didn't really want to go. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Susan made me do it though. Apparently mom left a last will and testament. She had nothing to give except for a couple of worthless family heirlooms. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> A quilt. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> A dress. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> A couple of ties my granddad wore. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Some other crap I don't remember. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> But it said something else. It's like she had this vengeance scheme all built up when she wrote it. It said that she wanted me to give a eulogy. I mean, seriously? Me? And who the hell's gonna come to my mother's funeral? Nobody, that's who. And she wants me to eulogize to nobody. I'm not good at speaking, not at all.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Not even a little bit. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> But she wants me to- </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Dammit.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I got drunk again that night. Didn't smash anything on my hand though. I learned that lesson good. I tried my best to tie a noose that night though. I couldn't do it though. It's not because I had some kinda emotional breakthrough where I realized life was worth living or anything stupid like that. No, I just couldn't tie the knot. Not matter what, it wouldn't happen. I felt so damn worthless. Then I must have fallen asleep because I just don't remember giving up. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Can't even kill myself right. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The funeral was at ten in the morning. I got there at ten-fifteen, my head throbbing like a jackhammer on steroids and a bottle of cheap whiskey in my hand. Susan saw me and she was furious. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Where have you been?” She shouted at me. Maybe she wasn't shouting and she just sounded loud. I don't know. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Sorry,” I shrugged. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “This is your own mother-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “I said I'm sorry. Nothing I can do about it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “And what's this?” She took the bottle right outta my hands. “You can't bring-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I nabbed it back, “Yeah, I can. It's mine. Don't touch it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, okay, whatever. You put something together for mom?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Don't worry about it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “You didn't, did you?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Look, I said don't worry about, so don't worry about it. I've got this.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Okay, fine,” she threw up her hands like it meant something. “The preacher's going to say something and then you're up. Don't screw this up.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “I said don't worry about it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She should worry about it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> She should so worry about it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I took a massive gulp of my whiskey before going into the church room. The preacher was in there saying some God stuff that I don't care about. He just went on an on. And when I knew he was about done....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I bolted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I ran. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I couldn't do it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I got the shakes real bad and I just ran. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> It's not cause I don't love mom. I just got scared. Real scared and I can't explain it. What's there to explain? I pushed open the front door to the church and immediately slipped on the steps leading down the street. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> It hurt, but whatever. I didn't care. I just lay there. I think I was crying. I don't know. I don't remember. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Susan came to my side soon and she asked, “Hey, what are you doing? Are you alright?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I pulled myself up to where I was sitting and looking at her and I said, “I can't do it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Oh, come on! All your life, you've-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “Oh, shut the <span style="text-decoration: none">fuck up, Susan! I'm not a failure, I'm not.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “I didn't say that.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “But you were going to do.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “I didn't say that.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Just as good.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> She spat, “Stop it! Just stop it!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “I can't do it.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Yes, you can.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “No, I- I can't.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Why not?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “I just can't, alright?” I shook my head. “I didn't write her the speech. I got drunk last night.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “I know.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I scoffed, “Yeah, I'm sure. You think you're so much better, then why don't you give the speech?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Will you stop with that?” Susan looked pissed off. “I don't think I'm better than you. I'm not giving the eulogy because mom didn't ask me to. Mom wanted you to do it.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Funny how she gets back at us, right?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> She shook her head, “Do you know what the will actually said? It said for you to give the eulogy because she loves you. She gave me some crap on there, but she said she loved you twice. There wasn't- there wasn't anything like that for me. Mom loves you. Not me. She just wants you to say some nice things about her. You love mom too, don't you?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Yeah,” I looked down at my bottle. “Yeah, I love mom. She was a good lady.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Yeah,” a tear came down Susan's cheek. “But she loved you more. I've got a lot of things you don't have. I've got a job, money, a house, and- but you've got the one thing I'd burn all of it to have. Mom loved you. She never loved me. As soon as I got ahead, she hated me.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “She didn't hate you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Sure she did.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “She didn't hate you,” I put my hand on my sister's shoulder. “She just didn't know what to do with you. Mom always thought you were better than us. You are better than us. Mom just didn't wanna- I don't know. Look, I'll go in there and say stuff about her.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I got up and started to walk inside. Susan grabbed my arm though and said, “Hey. Look, I know it's rough, but, look, no matter what, we're family and I love you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I put my arms around her in a hug and she hugged me back. By that point I knew I was crying. I wasn't just crying, I was sobbing, I was bawling. “I love you too,” I choked. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I let her go and we looked into each other's eyes. We both had mom's eyes. It was weird seeing her again like that. But she was there. I looked down at the bottle in my hand and I gave it to Susan. I told her to hold onto it. She didn't though. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> The bitch threw it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> It flew right across the street and shattered onto the curb. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> The amber juice splattered as the clear glass shattered. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> It made me mad at first, but not for long. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I took a deep breath and told Susan, “Thank you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> “Go,” she nudged me to the door. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> I went in there and I stumbled through a story of two about mom doing nice things. I told everyone about how she used to go to the old people home and help them out. I told them about this time mom destroyed the clutch in our first stick shift. Twice. I lied about how great she was, but it felt good. It's like I was convincing myself how bad things weren't. Maybe they ain't that bad. Maybe. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> But Susan found my afterward and hugged me again. I told her I was sorry for my shitty excuse for a eulogy. She said it was good and mom would be proud. I didn't believe her. Didn't matter though. Nothing felt better than having my proud old sister telling me I did good. We went out to lunch together. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="text-decoration: none"> She paid. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I didn't get drunk that night. I stayed at my sister's place. I told her I wanted to get clean. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I don't know if I really meant it, but Susan's reaction told me one thing. She smiled and encouraged me to find help. That told me one thing. It told me that when said she loved me, she meant it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> And that means everything in the world. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I love you. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-51744775230723350852011-11-18T08:59:00.000-05:002011-11-18T09:00:01.994-05:00wilhelm (part 3)<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT">“We're clear of the moorings, captain,” Lieutenant Hammond reported as her hands gracefully worked the controls. The <i>Enduring Justice</i> was like her own body. Hammond could work it with the utmost poise and even, some might say, serenity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Get us out of here, lieutenant,” Harden ordered calmly from his command chair. Was he nervous? Absolutely, but he would never let it show. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Sir, they've positioned themselves exactly where we need to go,” Hammond said.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Can you get around them?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “No, sir, we'd have to cross into their weapons range.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “So, there's no way to avoid a fight?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “No, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Damn,” Harden said under his breath. He carefully mulled over his options. “Bring us in just outside of their weapons range. Chang, load all weapons and get us firing solutions.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They're hailing, sir,” Edison reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Put them on them on the main screen,” Harden ordered as he stood. In a few seconds, an image of an aging man in a German captain's uniform appeared. Before that captain could speak, Harden said, “This is Captain Maxus Harden of the U.S.S. <i>Enduring Justice</i>. Stand aside.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The German captain and then replied with an accent, <i>“Captain Harden, listen, you have violated German space and fired on one of our space stations. This is a most heinous offense. However, you have something that we want. You have a certain individual that we were instructed to retrieve. Hand him over and we will let you go and forget about the whole thing.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>On an instinct, Commander Halsey lied, “Captain, it seems that in our rescue operation from your station, one of your men seriously wounded our operative. He is in critical condition and if we tried to move him, he might die.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The captain paused, <i>“One of our men?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“You heard her,” Harden said firmly. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“They had orders to take him alive. We need that man alive.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Well, that's going to be a difficult,” Halsey said. “Unless you have any ideas.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Harden wondered what the hell she was doing, but decided to trust her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“What if we sent our doctors over to your ship to move him?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Halsey nodded, “We'll do that-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hang on,” Harden interrupted. “Edison, can you mute the transmission?”<br /> “Done.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander, just what the hell are you doing?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Sir, I'm sorry I couldn't bring this to you before, but if they want to send over their doctors, they'll have to dock with us,” Halsey told her captain. “We get them as close as possible and then we make a break for it. Hopefully, their targeting systems won't have time to get us before we go to translight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Good thinking,” Harden said. “I'll talk to the Germans while you get this thing arranged.” Halsey nodded and then moved to another console. “Put him back on.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “You're back.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Captain,” Harden said. “My medical teams are standing by to move the patient. Our airlocks will be standing by for docking procedures.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“I am glad that you see this my way, Captain Harden. Leave your ship in its place, we will come to you.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Very well, captain,” Harden lied through his teeth. “Harden out.” The transmission cut. “I really hope he's <i>that</i> stupid.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey said, “Captain, we'll have to time this just right. If they get too close, we'll have to maneuver to get around them, but if we move too far, their targeting computers will have enough time to get a solid lock.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “And we will need to put some distance between us and them before we jump,” Lieutenant Hammond said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Enemy ship is coming right at us,” Edison said nervously. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Captain, they're in weapons range,” Chang reported. “Firing solution is excellent; mag guns are <i>hot</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “There's no need for that,” Harden said with almost complete calm. “If all goes well, there won't be any shooting at all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Captain,” </i>the A.I. cut in. <i>“I've done some calculations and if we engage full afterburner in thirty-two seconds, we'll have the best possible window for getting out of here.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Put that on my monitors,” Hammond ordered. This was her moment to shine and she knew it. As soon as the A.I.'s countdown appeared, Hammond made a few adjustments and then set her hand on the throttle. Twenty seconds. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “German <i>Kaiser</i>-class battleship,” Chang admired. “Three forward mag guns, twenty-five missile tubes... damn, I'd love to man the weapons sys-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Keep it to yourself,” Halsey ordered. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Ten seconds. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Captain,” Chang started talking again. “I recommend firing a full salvo of Longbows on our way out-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I said, 'no,' lieutenant,” Harden said again, this time he was getting frustrated. “There's no need for that.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Firing thrusters!” Hammond suddenly exclaimed as she pressed down the throttle. “Engines engaged; accelerating at full speed!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “<i>Wilhelm </i>is maneuvering to compensate,” Chang reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Evasive maneuvers,” Halsey ordered. “Keep their guns off us!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Overclocking engines!” Hammond shouted. “We're at one-hundred-ten percent!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Are we clear?” Halsey asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Not yet, we're still going past- Holy <i>shit</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What is it?!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Sir, they just pulled a move that should be <i>impossible </i>for a ship of that class! They've executed an almost complete one-hundred-eighty degree turn and they're moving in for a lock!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Emergency evasive!” Halsey exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Calculating translight trajectory. I need ten more seconds.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They've got a lock!” Chang said.<br /> <i>“Five....” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“They've fired missiles!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Four....” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Impact negligible, we'll be gone.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Three....” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Oh, shi-! Enemy is firing mag guns! Brace for impact!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Consoles overloaded as the decks rocked. Crewman were flung out of their seats and slammed into the ground. The lights flickered and died. Captain Harden was launched out of his seat on onto the floor. He picked himself back up and took a good look around. This was not the worst he had ever endured.... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Minor damage!” Chang reported. “Two shots missed, the other didn't hit anything important.”<br /> “Get us the hell out of here!” Harden didn't bother returning to his chair. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Missiles incoming!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Those were the last words Harden heard before suddenly finding himself off his feet. He slammed into a wall and fell from consciousness. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey found herself unusually aware of the Smith & Wesson at her side. It was not surprising that it stuck out in her mind, but she wished focusing could be a little easier. Before her was a holographic read-out of the <i>Enduring Justice</i>. On it, she kept track of the marines moving about the ship. Thanks to high-tech security systems, she could also observe the enemy positions as they navigated the halls. There were only twenty-nine marines going up against probably hundreds of enemy boarders. The crewman had all been given sidearms, but were told to clear the corridors and engage the enemy only if necessary. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The goal was simple: to survive until reinforcements arrived. They had sent out the distress signal and help should be on its way. There was no telling exactly how long it would take, but Halsey knew they would get in on time. She had to believe that. To believe otherwise was to accept defeat and that's just something which simply will not happen.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Edison reported, “Commander, the <i>Wilhelm </i>has docked.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Alright, open up the airlock door,” Halsey ordered. “Should confuse the hell out of them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey watched the readout as the security systems identified individuals entering the ship. There must have been a dozen on the advance team. They took up a formation and were obviously confused by the lack of marines shooting at them. The corridor split in three directions. Straight ahead of them was the most direct route to either the bridge or sickbay. To the left was nowhere important. And if they went right, they would be headed towards engineering. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The blips finally moved. They split into two even groups, one going straight and the other going right. And then they flashed and vanished. The mines worked. Halsey asked, “A.I., can you confirm kills on their advance team?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Affirmative. Tangos down.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Sergeant Major,” Halsey said into the comm. “The first wave is down. The mines worked.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Oorah,” </i>her brother replied. <i>“We'll be ready for the second group.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> “Commander,” </i>the A.I. said, <i>“Second wave is boarding now.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Halsey turned her attention back to the readout and saw more blips filling the corridor. She could not count how many, but estimated at least twenty. Again, they split into two groups. One went straight, one right. Since they insisted on not going left twice, Halsey could only assume that they knew where they were going. A second group of about the same number came in through the airlock and did the exact same as those before. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Commander, this is SCAR team,” </i>Mack said over the comm. His team was given the role of keeping the enemy on the airlock deck. They would have to go up one deck to get to engineering and down one to get to the bridge and sickbay. <i>“We're ready to engage the enemy.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Acknowledged,” Halsey replied. “A.I., shut down all lights on deck five and seal the airlock door.” By sealing the airlock door, the enemy already aboard the <i>Enduring Justice </i>were effectively sealed inside. Reinforcements were also temporarily cut off.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Lights disabled.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Hope those bastards forgot their night vision.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack and his team were perfectly ready. They could already hear an enemy squad approaching as the room jumped to blackness. They could see absolutely nothing. Mack whispered to his squad, “Light filters on.” This was one advantage of the Smith & Wesson MARS. As an attachment, it featured an advanced digital holographic optic sight system, which included a zoom ability, an infrared sensor, and a low-light filter. The technology was impressive and certainly useful. By looking through their sights, the SCAR team could easily mark their targets. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Also attached to their weapons were sound suppressors, which also eliminated the muzzle flash from their rifles. In other words, SCAR was effectively invisible and almost absolutely silent. They took a defensive formation at the end of one of the main corridors and waited. Mack glared down his sight and looked at the greened hall before him. In an instant, a confused soldier rounded the corner. Then another and another. “Hold fire,” Mack whispered. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> More came. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hold.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Their formation was sloppy. The darkness confused the hell out of them.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hold.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Best of all, they clearly couldn't see the SCAR team about to decimate them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Fire!” Mack snarled as he squeezed his trigger. A burst of three rounds roared from his barrel and into the enemy point man. All three connected straight center-mass, bringing the shocked soldier down hard. In rapid succession, the SCAR team members marked targets, opened fire, and repeated. The German marines returned fire, but they were blind. Their shots found nothing but walls. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As Mack blasted the last of them, he called, “Confirm all targets down!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Got nothin', boss,” Sergeant Green replied. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Zero contacts,” Pink affirmed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack hit his radio, “Commander, this is SCAR. We've eliminated our batch of targets and we're moving on to our second objective.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“SCAR team!” </i>Commander Halsey's voice replied.<i> “We need you up here ASAP! The bridge team has failed and it's only a matter of time before they get to us!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“We're on our-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Bullets whizzed by Mack's head as the hallway roared. Green immediately shouted, “Contact! Targets left!” He returned fire. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They can see us!” Pink exclaimed as he reloaded his rifle. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Shit!” Mack took aim and popped a few suppressing shots. “Pull back! Pull back!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The door pounded. They were outside. Halsey could hear the Germans outside as they worked to defeat the magnetic locks. It was inevitable that they would get in. There were not enough solid guns on the bridge to repel a German assault team. A pair of their marines were there armed with rifles and the bridge crew all had side-arms, but it there was no way they would hold. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey knew this. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> And then Mack radioed, <i>“We're pinned down, commander! Can't say when we can assist!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Just get up here, sergeant,” Halsey half-growled as she stood up from her command chair. She looked around to see that all eyes were on her. Not a one of them were oblivious to their coming doom. They turned their attention to their commander and simply hoped she would have the answer. In truth, she did not. There was no escape, no victory. She looked into the eyes of each of her crewman and realized words would do nothing. Halsey had never been a speech maker or a motivator. She was, however, a woman of action. If the crew truly respected Commander Dana Halsey for anything, <i>that</i> was it. She got the damn job done and didn't make excuses for it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> From her belt, she drew her Smith & Wesson and racked the slide. Its high electronic whine echoed through the silent bridge, indicating it was ready to blast super-accelerated .386 Magnum rounds right through anything it happened to be pointing at. Halsey pushed her jet black hair out her eyes and tucked it behind her ear as she brought her pistol to bear at the door. Although Halsey was exposed, her position was not a terrible one. Between her and the door was her command chair and one of the holographic display tables in the Combat Information Center. Her posture and position both gave an edge of fearlessness and of bravado. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Her crew understood what she had done. They understood her resolve and took comfort in it. The pair of marines took what little cover they found and brought their own weapons to their shoulders. The bridge crew drew their pistols and took positions according to what they had practiced based on the hours upon hours of drills they had all endured. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The commotion at the door stopped. All Commander Halsey could hear was her own breathing. There were no real thoughts in her mind, only a solid focus on the carnage to come. She checked her grip and sight placement, ensuring perfect. Out of all that might happen, missing was not one she would allow. The double sliding door whooshed open. Nothing came through for a solid two seconds. After those elapsed, a small, black tube flew through the air and clanged onto the floor. Halsey instantly realized what it was: flashbang! Her eyes snapped shut. Why hadn't she thought of that happening bef-</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> It exploded and an instantaneous roar filled the room, which shifted to a ringing in her ears. Halsey opened her eyes to find German soldiers pouring into the room, shooting at anything that moved. She picked the right-most target and double-tapped shots, bringing him down cleanly. It surprised her when she could not hear her own gunshots, but this would not throw her off for long. Halsey found a second target and fired. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Sound slowly returned to her ears. He shots were muffled, but finally audible. Soon, she could make out the shouting in the room. There were no doubt screams of death and orders being cried. Halsey ignored it and kept firing. She took down her second target and then her third. In instinct, she looked to her right and saw Ensign Edison take a bullet to the abdomen. She doubled over and fell to the ground. Halsey expended the last rounds in her magazine and then rushed over to help. She got down on her knees and helped the young, quivering ensign up to a sitting position and examined her. “I can't tell how bad it looks!” Halsey exclaimed honestly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It hurts, commander,” Edison groaned as she clutched the bloody mess. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey swiped a fresh magazine from her belt, snapped it into her Smith & Wesson, and released the slide. Still down on her knees, Halsey brought her handgun back to bear. In that moment, she saw the destruction. The bridge was tattered with bullet holes and destruction. On the floor were bodies, including Hammond and both of the marines. There were a few junior officers Halsey did not recognize, but she felt responsible for each of them. She couldn't count how many Germans had breached the bridge, but the number was doubtlessly higher than she would like. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> A firm hand suddenly gripped her shoulder. As she prepared to fight back, she noticed the rifle barrel threatening to eradicate her temple. With a frustrated grunt, Halsey dropped her pistol. The shooting on the bridge died off. The commander looked around to see most of her bridge crew had surrendered. She would never admit it pride to this, but it was the right call. The Germans had completely overrun them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As the German brought Halsey to her feet and led her to the door, she looked around and took inventory. Chang and Edison were both injured, Edison more severely of the two. Good. Halsey would need Chang. Hammond and the marines appeared to be the dead. The rest of the bridge crew seemed to be alive. Six of the Germans lay dead. Apparently, they had put up a valiant fight. Halsey had only expected two or three to fall. Unfortunately, they had lost. That was that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Then again, Commander Halsey had just one last trick. She said aloud, “A.I. <i>Now</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> In less than a split-second, the decks lurched as the <i>Enduring Justice</i> came to life. The main lights snapped off and the emergency lights ascended. The Artificial Intelligence's British voice came to life, <i>“Transferring all available power to maneuvering thrusters and port side Magnetic-acceleration cannon.”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><a name="result_box"></a><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal">The German marine holding Halsey yanked her shoulder, turning her to face him. In German, he demanded, </span><i>“</i><span lang="de-DE"><i>Was ist passiert?“ </i></span><i> </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><i> “I am having some difficulty clearing the </i><span style="font-style: normal">Wilhem's </span><i>magnetic docking clamps. Executing high energy maneuver to break free.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal">Halsey replied to the marine, </span><i>“Scher dich!”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal">With the back of his hand, the German slapped her across the cheek. </span><i>“S</i><span lang="de-DE"><i>toppen Sie diese!“ </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="de-DE"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Executing high energy maneuver!” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">The A.I. exclaimed just a hair of a second before the ship rocked hard to the right, knocking everyone off their feet. Halsey, who expected it, used the momentum to roll towards her pistol. She took it in her hand and whirled around in a crawl to face her immediate attacker. With lightning precision, she put his head into her sights and pulled the trigger. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Magnetic-acceleration cannon charge at sixty-percent,” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">The A.I. reported. Halsey found another target and put him in her sights. Two shots later, another kill. </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Lining up a shot and preparing a firing solution. Estimating fifteen seconds.” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">Halsey glanced over to see Chang with one of the Germans headlocked in his arms. One-by-one, crewmen and enemies regained their footing and the firefight again resumed. Having expected this to happen definitely gave them an edge, but would it last? </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Magnetic-acceleration cannon charge at eighty-percent.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">Suddenly Halsey's skull erupted in pain as she found herself slammed to the floor. She looked up to see one of the Germans standing over her rapidly bringing his rifle to bear on her. Her head hurt like hell, he must have hit her with the stock of his weapon. It was truly amazing she was still conscious. The commander dropped her pistol and put her hands up in surrender. She knew it was coming, but if there was </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>any</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> fight at all....</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Optimal firing solution achieved, magnetic-acceleration cannon charge at ninety-two percent. Firing anyway,” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">The A.I. reported, doing exactly as 'she' had been told. Halsey faced the viewing screen as they heard the below-decks booming of the mag guns. She watched as a white streak burst and smashed through the </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Wilhelm</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">. This would not kill the beast, but any mag blow to any ship could potentially be devastating. Halsey hoped the slug would destroy either their engines or weapons systems. From what she saw, the round penetrated the </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Wilhelm </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">center-mass at the battleship's starboard side, just a bit to the right. With satisfaction, she noted the ship beginning to spin and its lights flickering. They must have hit their power systems. </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Direct hit. Target ship is drifting. My sensor systems are damaged and I am unable to give a more thorough report. Our reactor core is completely blown and I currently running exclusively on the auxiliary batteries.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> Halsey smirked as she looked back the stunned marine standing over her. In a throb of anger, he shouted something at her in German and then kicked her side. The commander yelped in pain, but did her very best to contain the outburst. But even she couldn't help but cry, “Holy shit!” when the German's head suddenly popped. Gunfire and chaos erupted once again. She looked over to see Mack and his team bursting into the room, gunning down anyone who happened to be German. With clockwork precision, they took the bridge. “Clear!” Each one of the SCAR team announced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> Realizing her throbbing pain, Halsey put her hand to her head as she stood. She herself weak, but able to press on. “Sound off! Give me a report!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “We've got five dead, ma'am,” Mack was first to reply. “Both marines and three junior officers.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “Damn,” Halsey groaned as she took her seat in the command chair. “Mack, see to it that any injured get treatment and-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Commander,” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">the A.I. chimed in. </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“The Wilhelm appears to have recovered from her blow. They are coming around. We are completely defenseless, commander.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“We've done some pretty serious damage,” Halsey said. “They'll be more careful this time. “ </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “Commander!” Mack exclaimed. “The view screen!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> Halsey looked up and watched in awe as streaks of white blew chunks out of the </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Wilhelm</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">. She sighed in relief as she said, “It's the fleet. Thank God.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “They're ripping them to shreds!” Pink beamed. “Look at that!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> Halsey counted at least five mag slugs breaking into the German behemoth, each causing more destruction than the last. Following the slugs came dozens of concussion missiles, which ultimately made the kill. The </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Wilhelm</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> exploded in a fiery fury; the last wrath of the great beast. It was beautiful in the most violent of ways. “Better late than never,” Halsey again sighed in relief. “A.I., signal the lead ship.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Signaling the </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">Iwo Jima</span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>,” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">she said. </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Shall I put him on screen?” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, do it,” Halsey pulled the hair our her eyes and winced in pain. Her head still throbbed. In a flash, a clean-cut man in a captain's uniform appeared on the screen. “Captain, I'm Commander Dana Halsey, first officer. Thank God you're here.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Captain Lucius Talbot,”</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> the man on screen replied as he stood and straightened out his uniform. </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Looks like you've been through hell, commander. Where is Captain Harden?” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“Sickbay,” Halsey replied. “Took a beating, but I think he'll be alright.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“What about your ship? You must need aid.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“Absolutely, captain. We have plenty of wounded. We'll need a marine detail to do a sweep, we suffered some boarding action.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Will do. Was your mission a success?”</i></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“The operative is on board, but also in sickbay. I wouldn't call this a totally successful mission, captain, but the objectives have been completed.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“I believe I understand what you mean. I'll have shuttles sent over on the double.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“Thank you, captain. Halsey out,” she said and then the screen dimmed. Almost instantly, she buried her face in her hands and heaved a deep sigh. It was finally over. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “Commander, you okay?” Mack asked from beside her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> Halsey looked up at him and said, “We're alive.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “You look like hell,” he took a knee and looked at her face. It was bleeding in two places and it would bruise badly for sure. “Someone hit you? Looks like a-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “Rifle butt,” she finished for him. “My head is ready to bust.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “You took a rifle stock to the head and you're still conscious?” Mack curled his lip in awe. “Damn. You're tough, commander. You proved that today.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Yeah?” Halsey rubbed her head. “Being tough sucks, sergeant. It means you take a lot more pain before it stops. You're still standing when your knees are broken. You want to collapse, but you can't. Your body is </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>screaming</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> at you to stop, but you can't. The pain haunts you, but you won't give up. You won't make it all go away. Why? Damned if you know. It doesn't matter. You just won't quit. And sergeant, for the record, being tough is the worst.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “You're still alive though, commander,” Mack put his hand on her shoulder. He wanted to comfort her like a brother should, but that simply was not an option. No one could know. “And you did good today. Only someone as tough as you could have gotten us all through this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “We all didn't make it,” Halsey loosened her uniform by unzipping it a bit at the collar. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" lang="en-US" align="LEFT"> “No, but we all could have died. The burning wreck outside could be us, but it isn't. it's the bastards who put us in this mess to begin with. Sure, they gave us a couple of bruises, but they're dead. We won.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> “We did,” Halsey resigned her argument. He was right, but she didn't want to believe it. If there was anything she was sick of, it was being the survivor. Whether it was from her time on the </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Amber Dusk</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> or the disaster on the </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Iroquois</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">, she somehow always found herself standing in the rubble alive when she ought not to be. Was it luck? No, it wasn't. She couldn't feel lucky being alone. Perhaps there was a purpose to being left alive, a reason death let her be. The only one she could think of is duty. So, she did it, “A.I., give me a rundown. Damage report.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“The reactor core is shut down and not likely to function without major repairs. The cooling system is damaged, but I cannot get an accurate assessment without bringing it online. This will have to be done manually. We are running on auxiliary reserve power. We have taken large amounts of structural damage, especially on our starboard side. The starboard magnetic-acceleration cannon tube is destroyed in addition to eighty-percent percent of our starboard point defense cannons. Missile systems are offline. Targeting systems are offline. Sensor systems are offline. Defensive shielding is offline. There are numerous minor systems which have taken damage, shall I list them?” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“No,” Halsey shook her head. “What about casualties? How many injured?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Injury reports are still forthcoming.”</i></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“Do you know Captain Harden's condition? And the operative?” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Captain Harden is expected to make a full recovery. The operative is still in surgery.” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">“What about deaths? </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Twenty-two. Shall I list them?” </i></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><i> </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal">Halsey mulled over the prospect for a moment. On one hand, it would take time, but on the other, it only seemed right to know. “Do it.” </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in" align="LEFT"><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal"> </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>“In alphabetical order: Petty Officer Sebastian Avery, Gunnery Chief William Barrett, Master Chief Petty Officer Linda Billingsley....” </i></span> </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-87890378173518030252011-11-11T12:12:00.000-05:002011-11-11T12:14:55.027-05:00wilhelm (part 2)<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT">The corridors were a mess. Collapsed bulkheads, wiring, and debris were all over the floor. It was honestly painful for Halsey to walk through all of it. In a few places there was blood. Electrical arcs flew, sometimes fires raged, and sparks burst from open power stations. Seeing all of this helped her note just how badly the <i>Enduring Justice</i> had taken it. She wished could see the outside of the ship in order to really a get a grasp on the damage. With a damage map, Halsey was able to see that the starboard wing was almost completely destroyed, which included the mag gun between the delta wing and the main fuselage. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey tried her best to see things optimistically. Out of two-hundred and fifty-four crewmen, only thirteen were killed. Still... <i>thirteen people</i>. Many of the systems were offline, but could be repaired and restored. The damage looked worse than it actually was. It did not matter. Their only hope was to make to the rendezvous where three American ships, two destroyers and one battlecruiser, stood by. Those three ships, combined, would be more than a match for the <i>Kaiser</i>-class battleship <i>Wilhelm</i> pursuing the <i>Enduring Justice</i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey found the normally closed, massive double-doors leading to main engineering wide open. She assumed that the power relays for the automated doors were offline. After pushing her jet black hair off of her face, Halsey took a good around. The T-drive dual-fusion reactor seemed to be constantly venting steam. The temperature was extreme in main engineering. Halsey found the chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Carlos Esteban and asked him, “Commander, what's the situation?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> He looked up to confirm who she was, but kept working on getting a computer console functional, “The reactor core's getting hotter and hotter by the minute. We've sprayed- <i>ah</i>!” A spark buzzed him. “Dammit!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “You alright?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, I'm fine,” he sighed. “We've sprayed the engine with all the coolant we can. I've even got a couple of guys bringing down ice from the mess hall, but we can't get it under control; not without stopping.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Think you can hold it for another hour and a fifteen minutes?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Ma'am, I give it an hour. Tops.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Shit,” Halsey sighed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I hear ya.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey let her head hang as she thought through what to do next. She considered every possible option. And then it hit her. It was a risky as hell plan, but a plan nevertheless. She found a communications panel on the wall and activated the ship-wide P.A. system, “All hands, this is Commander Halsey. Prepare for boarding action! Security teams, distribute side-arms! All hands, prepare to be boarded!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey stood by the airlock door nervously. No one expected that the Koblentz security forces would put up a fight, but possibilities abound. Halsey stood behind the others with her pistol still in its holster. Everyone had their weapon stowed. They had hoped to be able to slip into the crowd. Mack, who took point, said to the others, “Our prize says he'll meet us at the entrance to cargo bay four, wherever that is. Should be nothin' to this. We slip in, get the operative, and get out. Try and keep outta sight. Oorah?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Oorah!” The other Marines sounded off. Halsey kept quiet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The airlock door whooshed open. The five of them rushed out to find themselves right in the middle of the station's main docking ring. There was no resistance. In fact, there was no one at all. All of the noise came from station's alarm klaxons alerting the populace of an emergency situation. Mack asked, “Sergeant Blue, what do you have for me?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The smallest man on the team pulled out a handheld computer with a readout of the station, “If I were to wager a guess, I'd say we need to go down two decks.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Then down two decks we go,” Mack ordered. “Move!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The SCAR team plus one moved down the corridors, still finding them to be empty. Their guess as to why was empty, but it was that the security detail had evacuated the area for fear of what the Americans might do. Many of the doors and access points were jammed. At last, they found a turbolift. Sergeant Blue tried his best to open it, but the computer panel only replied with a negative chirp. “Sergeant major, it's jammed. They've locked it down.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Can you bypass it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Sergeant Major!” Halsey interrupted. “There's a maintenance access junction here. It should take us where we need to go!” She pointed to a crawlspace access hatch.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “How do you know?” Mack stopped and asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I can read a spot of German,” Halsey told him. “Just technical stuff, but that should lead us to the auxiliary access areas.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack nodded, “Okay, that's our best bet. Sergeant Green, you've got point.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The largest man on the team, a bald man with an eccentric full goatee pulled the access grate off the crawlspace and then made his way inside. Sergeant Blue followed, then Mack told Commander Halsey to go in next. They followed the crawlspace until they came across a ladder, where they went down the two levels one-by-one. Sergeant Blue led them to another access hatch. Green opened it and said back to the other men, “Clear!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey came out to find that there were several civilians running around, but none seemed to give them any heed whatsoever. Many were preoccupied with their families, others lugged around their valuables. All of this made Halsey question what exactly the standard procedure was in this case. There was no way they could evacuate everyone. Perhaps they were to be locked in their homes. Whatever it was, everyone seemed to be in a hurry. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack said, “Our contact said cargo bay four and that he'd be wearing a single black glove. He answers to the call sign 'red rose.' If he's our man, he'll respond with, 'misty dawn.'” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “The cargo section is that way,” Halsey pointed after she found a sign with a convenient arrow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “German army!” Blue exclaimed as he he noticed several men in uniform armed with assault rifles. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Keep a low profile,” Mack ordered. “They're probably not even looking for us.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Six... five... four!” Halsey said. “It's right over there!”<br /> “Do you see him?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> And there he was: a tall, bearded man wearing a black glove on his right hand. “That's him,” Halsey said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Come with me, commander,” Mack ordered. “The rest of you fan out and keep watch.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey and Mack walked over to the operative, who seemed completely contained. Spies were trained to keep cool despite intense pressure. Halsey figured that were she in his place, she would be quaking in her boots. “I'll handle this,” Halsey told her brother as she approached the contact. When she was close enough, she said, “Is there a florist around here where I could get a red rose?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “In a time like this?” The man scoffed. “You're more likely to experience a good old-fashioned misty dawn.” He laughed. “Thank God it's you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We're here to get you outta here,” Mack said. “Come on, our ship is-” Suddenly, the operative's shoulder burst open in crimson. The man hollered in pain. Gunfire erupted all around. “Shit!” Mack exclaimed as he rapidly drew his gun. “We've gotta get the <i>hell outta here</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The operative took a hit to the leg and dropped to the ground. Halsey picked him up and put his arm around her shoulder, “I've got him, sergeant major! Keep me covered!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The German army soldiers had opened fire. Even more of them emerged from the corridors. The SCAR team members held their own, even though they were vastly outnumbered and outgunned. Of course, membership in SCAR meant having perfect accuracy scores with firearms and undergoing the most rigorous combat training available. They were tough and perhaps the best, however, they were not invincible. In this case, their vulnerability was being pushed to its bound. The SCAR team was outnumbered at least five-to-one with more coming. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Get back to the maintenance hatch!” Mack shouted as he dropped a magazine from his handgun. “Pink! You got any of those incendiaries?!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yes, sir!” The ugliest man in the team replied as he took cover behind a pile of crates. “Just one!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Pop one over there!” Mack pointed to one of three corridors from which the German soldiers were attacking. The plan was to plug up a hole to try and thin their numbers. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Incendiary!” Sergeant Pink shouted as he threw a grenade. It detonated at the mouth of the corridor, spreading and then igniting a clear gas into a deadly white flame. Normally, it would last about ten seconds. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey ripped open the hatch and told the operative, “Get in!” As he did, Halsey drew her pistol and started shooting. Suddenly, a German soldier charged the commander and grabbed her shooting arm. The man's fist came down, but Halsey twisted to the side just time. She used the brief period of the soldier's off-balance to gain leverage and drive her boot into the back of his knees. The soldier stumbled and then was knocked to the ground by a quick closed first to the throat. The commander jerked away the soldier's Heckler & Koch assault rifle and put two rounds in his head. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Good <i>shit</i>, commander!” Mack exclaimed as he and the rest of team got to the hatch. “You get in first!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey nodded, slung the assault rifle, and climbed in. The operative was inside clutching his arm, “I'm losing blood.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Keep moving; we'll get you to our ship's doctor!” Halsey turned back to see the SCAR team members loading in one by one. “You need go up two floors on that ladder!” She told the operative.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I don't know if I-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “You need to.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “But my-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Get your ass up the damn ladder!” Mack shouted from the back of the access junction. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Okay, okay!” the operative grunted. Commander Halsey did her best to help push him up. While he certainly was not fat, he was not a light man either. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As they climbed, Dana whipped out here communicator and said, “Commander Halsey to Captain Harden!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Harden here.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Have a Marine detachment waiting for us; we've come under fire,” Halsey told him calmly. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“I'll send out bravo team,” </i>Captain Harden replied. <i>“Harden out.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Finally, the operative made it up to the second deck. “Blue! Take point! Green, second!” Mack ordered. “Let 'em pass you, commander!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey and the operative got out of the way as two made their past them. “Commander, I-” the operative groaned. “I'm losing a lot of blood.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “You'll be okay,” Halsey told him. “We're going to get you to our ship's doctor and he'll get you patched up, alright?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The operative said nothing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hey! <i>Hey</i>!” Halsey gave him a light slap to the face. “Stay with us!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Is he gonna make it?” Mack asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, yeah, I'll make it,” the operative told him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Then <i>move</i>!” Mack shouted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The operative inhaled sharply and then crawled through the shaft. Halsey could sense his excruciation. The man had taken two bullets, but miraculously managed to keep going. Navy officers were all required to go through SERE school, where they were trained to resist pain and torture, but they were only given the intermediate level. Intelligence officers had to endure the highest level possible and never came out the same. Despite all of the operative's training, he was still showing pain. In her mind, Halsey questioned if he really could last all the way back to the ship. It was not far, but the operative could not possibly have long. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Gunfire erupted outside the hatch. It was honestly a relief to hear. Halsey knew that it was because bravo team was outside securing the area for their extraction. Time, however, was still of the essence. There was no telling just how many soldiers the Germans had garrisoned on Koblentz. The <i>Enduring Justice</i> only had a small marine complement; not enough to take on the amount of men they encountered at the cargo bay. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Green and Blue jumped out of the hatch and instantly took up defensive positions. Halsey emerged next and opened fire with her newly-acquired Heckler & Koch assault rifle. The Germans were coming from both sides, but the real threat was to the left. The airlock to the <i>Enduring Justice</i> was to the right, where most of the friendly marines were fighting a desperate stand-off. As soon as Halsey's clip ran dry, she went back for the operative. His face was paler than ever and his eyes had turned red. She leaned him against her shoulders and made her way down to the airlock. The SCAR members formed a phalanx around her, further ensuring their protection. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> And then Halsey's arm flared in pain. It was a sudden and then constant flash of hurt. She looked down at her bicep to find it bleeding. But Halsey did not stumble; not for a second. She pushed her way into the airlock and when the door closed, she shouted, “This man needs a medic on the double! Get him to sick bay <i>now</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> In just about a thirty seconds, a stretcher was brought over and the operative was placed on it. He had fallen unconscious somewhere between the hatch and the airlock. Halsey sighed in relief. And then she remembered....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander, you're hurt!” Mack exclaimed as he holstered his pistol. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It's not bad,” Halsey grunted as she removed her jacket. She looked down at her arm to find that it was only a flesh wound. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Get me a first aid kit!” Mack called. He turned back to his sister, “It's not bad; just grazed you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I've taken worse,” Halsey told him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Your first bullet wound?” Mack asked as a young petty officer handed him one of the standard-issue first aid kits. He opened it up. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yeah,” Halsey replied as Mack applied the biorestorative spray. “Been slashed, cut, bumped, punched, bruised, stabbed- ah!” She exclaimed as her brother tightened a bandage around her arm. “You did that on purpose!”<br /> “Damn straight,” Mack chuckled. As soon as he was finished, he quietly told her, “Hey, listen, the boys all know who you are and I don't think it'd be a problem if I swung by your quarters and we had dinner. Y'know, do some catchin' up.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We'll do that,” Dana replied as she rubbed her newly injured arm. A petty officer came by with her uniform jacket. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As she put it on, Captain Harden's voice echoed over the P.A., <i>“All hands, this is the captain speaking! Red alert! All hands report to battle-stations! This is </i>not <i>drill! Repeat, this is </i>not <i>drill!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey stood with hidden apprehension as she looked at the layout of the <i>Enduring Justice</i>. With her were Captain Donald Lentz and Sergeant Major Mackenzie Halsey, each of them sharing her uneasiness. She pointed to the holographic display and said, “The way I see it, we have three critical points we have to defend: sick bay, main engineering, and the bridge.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack rubbed his chin, “Could we move the operative to a more secure location?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Doc says he can't be moved,” Halsey told him. “As much as I'd like to put him in the brig or even here on the bridge, it's impossible.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander,” Captain Lentz said. “We're twenty-four-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Twenty-nine,” Mack corrected. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Twenty-nine,” Lentz nodded, “marines against God-knows-how-many on the <i>Wilhelm</i>.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “The crew will do what they can as well. We don't have to beat them, captain, we just have to hold out,” Halsey said. “As soon as the engine safeties engage and we drop from translight, we're going to send out a distress signal. Hopefully, we won't be too far from the rendezvous point and our friends will be here soon enough to bail us out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Lentz sighed, “That's risky as all things, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack ignored him, “Then we don't engage the enemy directly.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Exactly,” Halsey snapped her fingers. “We'll use diversionary tactics. We do our damndest to keep the enemy away from engineering, the bridge, and sickbay. If Esteban can get the engines running fast enough, then we make a jump for the rendezvous. Our main hope, however, <i>has got to be</i> the friendlies getting here on time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I still don't see us winning,” Lentz again sighed. Captain Lentz joined the marines for no other reason but to pay for college. When he realized that his career options were slim, he kept his job as an officer. With that in mind, it becomes clear that Lentz sucks at his job. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It's not about winning,” Halsey said firmly. “It's about surviving.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What's the situation, captain?” Commander Halsey asked as she briskly stepped through the turbolift door. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Koblentz is refusing to detach us from their docking ring, captain,” Ensign Edison reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander,” Harden seemed relieved that she had arrived. “A <i>Kaiser</i>-class battleship just dropped out of translight. They're out of weapons range, but they're closing fast.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “And as long as we're fixed to the station-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We're screwed,” Chang finished for her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Lieutenant Chang,” Harden stood from his command chair and said decisively, “I want you to fire a single mag slug into that station. Port cannon.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Captain!” Halsey instantly snapped. “There are civilians on that station!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I understand that, commander, but we don't have any choice,” Harden told her without showing any signs of remorse. There simply was no time for it. “They want to be stubborn about this, so be it. But if we don't clear their moorings, then there is absolutely no chance for survival. That's what this is about, right?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Port mag gun is hot,” Chang reported. “Ready to fire on your command.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Harden took his seat and crossed his legs, “Fire.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Commander, it's Esteban,” </i>a voice over the comm said. There was a pause that seemed like forever before he finally said, <i>“I disabled the engine safeties and bought us maybe another five minutes. I did this five minutes ago. Commander, I must deactivate the engines </i>now<i>.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “You've done all you can, commander, and you've done a damn fine job of it,” Halsey told him from Captain Harden's command chair. “Go ahead and shut 'em down.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Yes, commander. Esteban out.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey stood and approached the helm, “Lieutenant, make sure all propulsion is disabled. We can't have the <i>Wilhelm</i> thinking we're anything but dead in the water. I know they don't wanna destroy us, but I don't want us to taking any more damage than we have to.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Aye, aye,” Lieutenant Hammond's voice shook. Hammond was the kind of pilot whose thought process was that the ship was like her body and she its mind. Having intruders aboard was like getting a disease. Worse still, there was absolutely nothing for the poor helmsman to do about it. Hesitantly, she applied the inertial dampeners and the <i>Enduring Justice</i> slowed from translight speeds to a near stop. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Easy,” Halsey said. “Let her drift just a bit. We need this to be convincing. Send out the distress call.”<br /> “Signal away. The <i>Wilhelm</i>'s just dropped from translight,” Chang reported. “Their weapons are hot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey sat down in the command chair, “By now they're figuring out ours are cold.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “<i>Wilhelm</i> is making a flyby pass, commander,” Chang said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Just covering their bases,” Halsey crossed her legs. “Ensign Edison, send out a garbled transmission to the <i>Wilhelm</i>. Make it sound like we're trying to send them something.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Aye,” the shaking in Edison's voice was undeniable. Her hands quivered as they made they across her computer console. “They're not responding.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They're coming right at us,” Chang reported. “They could be lining up a shot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Easy, lieutenant,” Halsey told him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We should perform evasive maneuvers,” Hammond stammered. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They're not going to fire on us,” Halsey kept still and firm. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We're sitting ducks, commander!”<br /> “That's <i>enough</i>, lieutenant,” Halsey uncrossed her legs. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They're too close for optimal firing range,” Chang sighed in relief. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Their approach is consistent with a docking procedure,” </i>the A.I. reported.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey hit the comm, “Sergeant Major, the enemy is making a docking approach. Prepare for boarding action.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“We're all set commander.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Give 'em hell.” </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-15628335738175320712011-11-04T21:03:00.004-04:002011-11-04T21:25:40.036-04:00wilhelm (part 1)<span style="font-style: italic;">Here we are again! This is another story set in the same universe as <span style="text-decoration: underline;">"</span><a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/08/week-18-shatterer-of-worlds-prologue.html">Shatterer of Worlds</a>" and "<a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2011/02/week-forty-six-montcalm-incident.html">The Montcalm Incident</a>." It uses the main character as the first of those two, but it set just a few years after each of them. I've set it up so that you don't necessarily have to have read anything else. Also, some of the details have been changed, so a few things don't match up exactly. Some of the back story is a omitted for pacing's sake, but it isn't important. This is designed to be an action story. It's a rush-inducing science fiction story from front to back. I think you'll enjoy the way I've split the story's time frame in order to keep the pacing absolutely pounding. I'm going to post it in parts over the next few weeks, so check back on Fridays for the next part!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Also, this story contains language and violence. If it were a movie, we'd call it PG-13.<br /><br />...<br /><br /><br /></span></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i>May I have your attention, please? This is Captain Harden speaking. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i> We've been assigned a very dangerous, but very important mission. A few years ago, the Central Intelligence Agency sent out a number of operatives into enemy territory. Their mission was to gather information about enemy plans, enemy ship specifications, enemy formations, enemy deployments; basically whatever they could get their hands on. Before yesterday, none of those men have reported anything back. But that's changed. Yesterday morning, command received a partial transmission from one of these operatives. Apparently, this man has recovered crucial intelligence, but has been found out. He's on the run. He's desperate and he has nowhere to turn. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i> Our mission is to slip into enemy space, meet with this operative at a specified rendezvous point, and escape. The </i><span style="font-style: normal">Enduring Justice</span><i> is the only ship for the job. Not only is she the most advanced ship in the American fleet, she is also the only ship outfitted with sensor camouflaging technology. Technology, however, is not why I believe we can and will succeed. We will succeed because the </i><span style="font-style: normal">Enduring Justice</span><i> has the best crew a captain could possibly ask for. We will succeed because we are determined, resolute, and above all, unbeatable. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i> We leave port in an hour. That is all. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Captain Maxus Harden awoke to the unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth and the smell of burning chemicals filling his nostrils. It took effort to snap his eyes open, but when he did, he failed to enjoy what he saw. And his lungs burned. He was in the area between the combat information center and the bridge of his ship, the U.S.S. <i>Enduring Justice</i>. There were crewman all around putting out fires and trying their hardest to keep things in order. The lights flickered on and off. He then realized that he could not hear anything. His ears rang. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Suddenly, a bright light flashed before him. It darted left to right, right to left. It disappeared and then the face of one of the medics was before him. Harden did not know his name; the man's name badge was missing. The medic was saying things, but Harden could not hear. The captain struggled as he tapped his ears and shook his head. The medic nodded. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The medic continued his examination. When he got to Harden's leg, the captain grunted in pain. It hurt like all hell. The medic mouthed to him, “Broken.” Harden nodded. The ringing in his ears slowly turned to a roar. The examination moved to Harden's arms, where they found the same pain. Again, the medic mouthed, “Broken.” Harden shook his head as he winced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Captain Harden's first officer, Commander Dana Halsey, tapped the medic on the shoulder and they started talking. Harden was not sure what they were saying, but he picked out bits and pieces from reading their lips and body language. Halsey asked about Harden's condition.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The medic responded by shaking his head and saying things Harden could not make out. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey then began arguing with the man. And, although heavily muffled, Harden could make out every word, “...we need him here on the bridge, petty officer.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Ma'am, I'm sorry, he's suffered a concussion, possible internal bleeding, <i>and </i>he's broken multiple bones. He can't stay here.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Could you give him something for the pain?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It ain't that simple,” the medic sharply exhaled. “I've already signaled a stretcher team to come down and get him.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Tell them-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It's alright, commander,” Harden muttered. “He's right, I'm in no condition to command this ship.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “But captain-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander,” Harden forced himself to speak louder. “For the record, I am officially granting you temporary command of the U.S.S. <i>Enduring Justice</i>. Command is yours.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Aye, aye, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Now, give me a rundown. How bad are we hit?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We've suffered major hull damage across multiple decks, the starboard mag gun is destroyed, engines are operating below seventy-percent efficiency, and we're still getting casualty reports.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What about the <i>Wilhelm</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We're in translight, but they've matched our speed. I'm not sure how long we can hold it. Commander Esteban tells me that we'll need emergency repairs soon.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Tell him to do it-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We'll need to drop from translight to make these repairs.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “How soon?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Too hard to tell.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Can we make it to the rendezvous in time?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Esteban wasn't very optimistic, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Dammit,” Harden sighed. Another pair of medics carrying a stretcher stepped through the turbolift. “You're in command now. What happens next is up to you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The medics gently put Harden on the stretcher. Halsey watched him off. Only uncertainty and fear danced her mind, but her will stopped the music. She sat down in the command chair and did her very best to focus....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Now entering German space,” helmsman Lieutenant Jenna Hammond said uneasily. “Nothing to report as of yet.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “And there won't be,” Captain Harden stood from his command chair and straightened out his uniform. His entire crew was nervous about doing a mission behind enemy lines, especially with a relatively untested starship. The <i>Enduring Justice</i> had been active less than a year and had never seen proper combat. “At translight speeds, we're undetectable. As soon as we drop, we've got the stealth tech to keep us under cloak and dagger. This should be nothing more than a go in, get out mission. Simple as that.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Wish I had your confidence,” Lieutenant Commander Jonathon Chang, the tactical officer, said. “Weapons and defensive systems are on full alert.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “As they should be, commander,” Captain Harden told him. “Keep your head in the game.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “How long until we reach the operative?” Halsey asked from the CIC as she came back to the bridge. Even after having been on <i>Enduring Justice</i> for many months, she still felt slightly disoriented by the bridge location. Most ships had the bridge placed on either the front of top of the ship. The problem with this configuration was that one of the most important parts of the ship was completely exposed and vulnerable. It was also inefficient as far as placement and layout went. The <i>Enduring Justice</i> and her sister ships were the very first to have their bridges placed deep inside the hull. The design was based on around simulating the bridge being at the front of the ship, but knowing that it was not really there proved to be disorienting. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “About an hour, ma'am,” Hammond answered. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Ensign Edison,” Halsey to the operations officer. “Systems check.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Ensign Mary Edison, the operations officer, a woman of small stature, checked her console and replied, “All systems are operating at one-hundred percent.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Bring us to condition orange,” Halsey ordered. “Have all stations standing by for imminent combat action. We have entered hostile territory and should be prepared for the unexpected.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Very good, commander,” Harden paced the bridge. “Doesn't hurt to be prepared.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “No, sir,” Halsey nodded. She took her spot near the command chair and stood with her hands folded behind her back. Halsey did her job very well. She kept Harden's ship and crew at their very best. Some, however, found her to be somewhat prickly in nature. One of the duties of a first officer to was to represent the crew, to be one of them. This aspect was Halsey's weakness. “No matter what, sir, we'll be ready.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As Commander Halsey sat down in the command chair, she wiped blood from her brow. A panel had overloaded next to her and the resulting shrapnel cut her right at the hairline. It was just another scar. Halsey had plenty of them. The biggest was hidden under her uniform. About two years ago, Halsey was given command of the <i>Iroquois</i>, a frigate. Just a few weeks into this command, the ship was destroyed by a French battlecruiser. It left Halsey both physically and emotionally scarred. The physical scar was a large gash across the bottom of her ribcage.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> After the <i>Iroquois</i> incident, Halsey roamed for a while. She eventually found herself the member of a ragtag crew of a private vessel, the <i>Amber Dusk</i>. No one ever believed the stories she told about her time on the <i>Amber Dusk</i>, but she told that they stopped a dangerous space monster that many private sailors referred to as Cthulhu, the Kraken, or the Leviathan. Which name was used depended on who was asked. Halsey's adventure supposedly took her to the charred remains of earth, where they discovered that the Leviathan was actually an ancient starship from a species long extinct. The final conflict left everyone except Halsey and two others dead. This was where Halsey gained her most obvious scar: a cut across her right cheek.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> The lights on the bridge still flickered. The fires had been put out, but things were still in general disarray. A great deal of the panels were offline and repair teams scrambled to keep things operational. Halsey stood, unzipped part of her uniform, pushed her hair out of her eyes and said, “A.I., are you operational?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> A female voice with a British accept replied, <i>“Yes, commander.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Can you stabilize the lighting in here?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“One moment, commander. I am operating at less than fifty-percent efficiency and relegating all of my tasks-” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Just do it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Achieving lighting stability will mean disabling some of the lights. Is this acceptable?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Yes, do it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Deactivating all sub-functional primary lighting, activating emergency lights to compensate,” </i>everything happened just as she had said. The lighting was finally a constant. <i>“Anything else?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Perform a diagnostic and get your operating system back to as fully functional as possible. We'll need you if we get into another fight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> <i>“Yes, ma'am. Logging out.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Ensign Edison,” Halsey called. She was not sure where the operations officer might be. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Here, ma'am.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What's the status on the <i>Wilhelm</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Still in pursuit, commander. They haven't gained or lost any ground.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “So, if we lose translight, then we'll be forced to engage.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Chang cut in, “Commander, with the starboard mag gun offline and the amount of damage we've sustained, we're definitely no match.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Not like we were any match before,” Lieutenant Hammond scoffed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hey! There's no need for that,” Halsey said. “We're gonna make it out of this, lieutenant. How much longer until we reach the rendezvous?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Two hours.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Dropping from translight,” Lieutenant Hammond reported. There was a brief, gentle lurch as the ship shifted from going faster than light to a bare-minimum velocity. The crew shared a queezy feeling as the possibility of being detected shot way upwards. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> On the main viewer was a smaller space station surrounded by several freighters. To everyone's relief, there were no military vessels in sight. Nevertheless, Harden gave the order, “Do a detailed scan. Make sure there's no military presence.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Chang told him, “The freighters are scrambling, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I'm not detecting any military vessels, captain,” Edison reported as she very carefully worked her controls. “Looks like we're good.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Any one of those freighters could send out distress signal,” Hammond's voice shook. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Then we work quickly,” Halsey said firmly. “We can slip in and out before they can scramble a response.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Send out a wide transmission to everyone here: the freighters and the station,” Harden ordered. “Let's get this little heist underway.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Aye, captain,” Chang pressed in the appropriate commands. “You're on.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “This Captain Maxus Harden of the U.S.S. <i>Enduring Justice</i> to Koblentz Platz and all ships in the vicinity. We are here to do nothing more than retrieve a package from the station. Anyone who interferes <i>will</i> be fired upon. Anyone who wishes to leave the area is permitted to do so. We have no intention of harming anyone, so let's keep things friendly. Harden out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Koblentz just sent out a distress signal, sir,” Edison said as she wiped sweat from her brow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Then we're on the clock,” Halsey said. “Signal Koblentz and request a dock and a berth.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “They're not responding.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Try again.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Still no response.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Harden sat back down and clenched his fists, “If they want to do this the hard way, we do it the hard. Lieutenant Chang, target a non-habited portion of that station and blow it away with the starboard mag cannon.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yes, sir,” Chang said with a very much unhidden degree of pleasure. “Target locked and firing.” They all heard the hushed boom of the magnetically-accelerated ferrous slug firing from the starboard tube. The mag guns were the most powerful weapon on any starship. All of the interstellar navies used them. They worked by launching large rounds at around three percent of light speed, resulting in unparalleled brute firepower. “Direct hit, captain!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Excellent.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Station is signaling,” Edison happily reported. “They've assigned us a dock.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Take us in,” Harden ordered. “Have the SCAR team stand by.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yes, sir,” Halsey took one of the auxiliary stations and got to work making sure the rest of the ship was ready for docking procedures.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Commander, you have combat training, don't you?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Aye, sir,” she answered, hoping he was not about say what she thought he was going to say. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Good. I'd like you to go in with the SCAR teams.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> He said what she thought he was going to say. “But sir, I-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Just do it, commander. SCAR teams aren't exactly known for their friendliness and I'd like someone a bit... <i>nicer </i>to greet our operative. You'll do fine.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yes, sir,” Halsey knew it was best never to argue with one's superior. Besides, Halsey respected Captain Harden. He had proven himself to be a good captain and seemed to do so without any real stick up his ass. Halsey had served under many captains during her career and Harden was easily among the better ones. It was still too soon to tell if he was the best. Halsey liked his chances though. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…<br /><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As Captain Harden came to, the first thing he realized was that his head absolutely throbbed. The pain was bad enough that it almost had him forgetting just how much the rest of his body ached. He fought for every breath. His lungs felt like they were on fire. Harden did his best to push the pain aside. He focused. The pain was a great beast. It would not die. There was nothing he could do. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Harden looked around and realized he was in the ship's medical bay. He tried to sit up but a firm hand stopped him. It was Lieutenant Commander Martin Fitzpatrick, the ship's Irish doctor. “Easy captain, I can't have you moving around. You're not in great shape.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What's the damage?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Your calf bone is broken, your wrist is fractured, you've got three broken ribs, and you've got shrapnel lodged in your abdomen and left lung. We need to operate immediately.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Doctor, you need to get to the rest of the-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Captain,” Fitzpatrick interrupted. “We need to get that shrapnel out <i>now</i>. You're the captain and, like it or not, you get priority.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “How is he, doctor?” Commander Halsey asked she approached Harden's hospital bed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Not good,” Fitzpatrick replied. “We have to operate im-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “What are you doing here?” Harden asked. “You should be on the bridge.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We're ninety minutes from rendezvous, captain,” Halsey told him. “I'm making rounds through the ship.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Harden nodded in approval, “It's what I would do. How are things?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “<i>Wilhelm </i>is still right on our tail, Esteban is doing what he can to keep the engines going but things don't look good. There are casualties all over the ship... about a dozen dead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “My God,” Harden winced. “What about you, commander? How are you holding up?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Could be better, captain,” Halsey did not want to lie, but also wanted to put it diplomatically. “I haven't commanded a starship since-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I know,” Harden knew she referred to the <i>Iroquois </i>incident. “You're doing fine, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Thank you, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Alright,” Fitzpatrick cut in. “I need to put him under. We need to operate <i>now</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It's alright, commander,” Harden told his first officer. “You'll do fine.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> SCAR stood for Strategic Covert Assault and Reconnaissance. A detachment was assigned to the <i>Enduring Justice</i> specifically for this mission. They were attached to the Marine Corps, but technically answered to the CIA. They specialized in missions of high secrecy and sensitivity. Recovering a spy certainly qualified. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> It was entirely coincidence that the leader of the SCAR team aboard <i>Enduring Justice</i> was a man named Sergeant Major Mackenzie Halsey, Commander Halsey's older brother. The two had not seen one another in years. The worst part was that Dana could not identify her brother by name, nor give any indication of their relation. SCAR team members operated in complete anonymity. Mack, as he was called, wore nothing that gave away his name; only black fatigues with a rank indicator just the same as all of the other members. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Commander Halsey walked into their locker room to find all five members of the team wearing civilian clothing. They all instantly snapped to attention and saluted. “As you were,” the commander ordered. “The captain's ordered me to go in with you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack looked her over and then said, “We'll need to change your clothes. It'd be open season for ya if you're in uniform.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “We don't have much time,” Halsey told him. “We're docking in five minutes.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack took a good look around in the clothing inventory and found a smaller sized brown leather jacket, “Hey, take off your uniform jacket and put this on.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Alright,” Dana unzipped her navy blue commander's uniform and set it aside. She took the brown jacket from Mack and slid it on. “It's a bit big.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “It'll have to do,” Mack said. “Take it off real quick.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Halsey did as she was told. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Alright, now put this on,” he handed her a light ballistic tactical vest. “The jacket should conceal it. You know how to use a firearm, right?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Mack, you-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, you're right,” Mack stopped her. She almost gave away their relationship. “Everyone in the military has firearms training. Tanner, get her a sidearm.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Hey, this will do, won't it?” Halsey reached down to her belt and drew her nickel-plated Smith & Wesson 8908 .386 Magnum electronic magnetic-acceleration pistol. It was a truly magnificent handgun, one Halsey had carried for many years. The grips were tailored exactly to Halsey's hands. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> Mack took the pistol and look it over, “Damn straight that'll do.” He handed it back as Halsey put her uniform belt back on. “When'd you get that?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I've had that since I was an ensign.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> As soon as he knew the commander was ready, Mack decided to kill the elephant in the room, “Let's get this straight now... who's in charge?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “I am,” Dana told him. “I outrank you. But I'll let you call the shots on the ground. It should be like I'm not even there. Unless you do something stupid.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal" align="LEFT"> “Fair enough,” Mack nodded. “Alright people, to the docking port! Move, move, <i>move</i>!” </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-66203093252274294462011-07-29T00:37:00.004-04:002011-07-29T00:56:28.886-04:00the black king<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Note: this is not a story for the squeamish. There's violence, language, and disturbing content. If you don't like those things, then this isn't for you at all. This story definitely falls into my horror stories. It, like a few others, is a story set in an insane asylum. I think you'll like the unique twists.<br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i>1991</i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> My blood boils when I think of the white pieces. They've got us all in check, they've got us all pinned, they've got us all one bad move away from agony. They've got me stuck. And they stick me with fluids I can't name. They make me swallow poisons I don't know. I'm out of moves, I'm out of plays. That's how it was before. That's when it was all just a game. Just a damn, stupid game. We played and I was the only one who couldn't see the pieces. But I played. When I spoke, we moved. It was a losing game. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The only way I could win is with a miracle. In games, miracles don't happen. That's what I thought. One day, the white pieces were just gone. Just like that. There were no more. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I woke up thinking it was a normal day. I woke up at the regular time expecting one of the White Pawns to come to my door and lead me off to breakfast. I was hungry that morning. Some bread would have been nice, but not the black, stale scraps they give us. I sat there for two hours thinking that <i>anything</i><span style="font-style: normal"> would be nice. There came a time where I thought that even stale milk would have been just a little nice. But then the miracle happened. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> My door opened. It's not a like a normal door. It's an electronic door. They had to make the switch. See, a two months before the miracle, I learned how to get through the lock on a regular door. I used parts from a pen and managed to trick the lock into thinking I had a key. When they found me roaming at night, they took me to the happy house and beat the shit out of me. We call it the happy house because it's not happy. We want to think it is. We want to think a lot of things. But it's not happy. Nothing is happy. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> At first I just sat on my bed. If I get up too soon, then the White Pawn will hammer me with his stupid stick. We call it a stupid stick because it's what hits us if we do stupid stuff. I didn't want that to happen. After the night in the happy house, I was afraid of the stupid sticks. I remember how much they hurt. They slam into you and make you bruise, make you bleed, and then make you scream. I screamed. Nobody heard me. Or maybe they did. Maybe they did and they just didn't care. I don't think I would care either. That's the worst part. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> But soon I got up and went to the door. I poked my head out and saw that every door was open and I was the last to go outside. Not everyone is smart enough to be afraid of the stupid sticks. In fact, just about all of us are dumb as fish. Most just swim with the current. I couldn't do that. I can't stand the current, especially when the current destroys me and my mind. Everything was fuzzy before them, but it was dark </span><i>and</i><span style="font-style: normal"> fuzzy when I came to this place. That night when I went into the happy house, everything cleared up again. It was still a little dark and still a little hazy, but I could see something. I could see that I had to play, that I had to beat these people at their own game. I'm crazy, but after that night, you'd have to be crazy to pick on me. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Down the hall was a dead end. The other way had the door leading to the other areas of the board. It was a perfect board too. The place was lined with tiles white and green, laid down like a playing board. It helped keep me focused. It helped me remember to think, to stay ahead. One of the important parts to any game is to know the pieces. They let me have a pencil and some paper because why the hell not. I started making a list of who is who. Most of the men and women, the nurses, I called the pawns. They're more important than you might think. I called the “doctors” the rooks, knights, and bishops. The queen was a the head doctor. Lastly, the man in charge was the White King. He was the one who ordered my beating. He's the one I had to kill. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The door to the common areas was wide open like my room. Good thing, I guess, but then again, I don't think I cared. I didn't really feel anything. When they give me the poisons, I stop feeling anything. I guess the poisons from the night before were still having an effect because I didn't even feel angry. After the happy house night, anger is all I ever felt. I'd spend some nights forgetting about it because of the poison. Other nights, they wouldn't give me the poison and there was nothing but anger. It took me a while before I came up with my plan. I focused and soon, even when I wasn't angry, I still had my purpose. I had to kill the White King. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The others, my Black Pawns, looked to me for what to do. I was their leader. When I walked through the door to the common rooms, they followed. They wouldn't do it without me. They have to be led. If I'm not leading them, then the White Pawns are. There were no White Pawns around, so I had them. Becoming their leader was easy. I just had to figure out what they wanted. There was one of them who liked painting, but they wouldn't give him paints. I got a pen and took all the ink out and put it in a pillbox. It was just like paint except it was only black. It made the guy happy and he promised to do whatever I wanted him to do. I did things like this for every single one of the others. Pretty soon, I had a lot of Black Pawns. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I knew where I wanted to go as soon as I was out of the sleeping places. I wanted to go to the kitchen because that's where they keep the knives. I wanted to find a big and sharp one. I wanted to find something better than my old weapons. When we started making our moves, we used whatever we could find. We managed to steal a razor once and used that to slit two the White Pawns' throats. They bled so much that they never got the tiles cleaned. There was another time that we stole a screwdriver and we drove that one through the one of the White Rook's bellies. We twisted up her insides; let her guts see the outside world. Every time we did it, someone different would kill. I never had to kill anyone, I got a Black Pawn to do it. By the time the miracle happened, we had killed fifteen of them. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> All along as we moved, I suspected that this was some kind of trick so they could win the game. It happens a lot in games. It's a called a ruse. I did it a lot. I tried to convince the White King that the killing was random, that we weren't playing, just killing. And that there was no we, there just individuals with no organization. But he didn't fall for that for long. He started putting my Black Pawns in the happy house to make them talk. Six of them died from the torture. It just made us madder. But soon enough, one of them cracked. The White King knew everything. He put me in the happy house and had me tortured, but I fought back. After two days of on and off beatings, I figured out I was being stupid. I gave in. Or I acted like I did. But like I said, it was a ruse. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The kitchen door was open. I had never been in there. It was boring and I still didn't care about anything. I told all my Black Pawns behind me to find food though. If the Whites wouldn't give it to them, I would. I'm a good King. As they tore the place up in their angry madness, I found my knife. It was a long knife for cutting meat. It was a bit rusted and bent a little, but it could still cut. It was better for it to be a kind of dull. That way, it would hurt more when I gutted the White King. I looked down at my weapon and saw me, my reflection. I looked different than how I remembered. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Did you know I had hair? They took it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Did you know I had a beard? They took it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Did you know I had a house? They took it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Did you know I had a job, money, a life? They took it.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Did you know I had a family? They- no. I took that part. When I said I've never killed before... I lied. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I went back to the common rooms. Everything was a mess. There were papers and poisons thrown all about the place. My Black Pawns stayed behind. That's where I wanted them. I wanted to do this alone. Before I was in this place, I was a champion. I was the greatest chess player in all of Russia. I won every tournament I competed in. I never lost. And then one day, it was a kid. He was still in the university when he came and took my crown. When my king fell, so did I. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The best of the miracle was finding the White King. He was sitting in front of the window, just looking out the snow-covered hills. Of him I demanded, “Why are you just sitting there? And what the hell is going on?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “It's all over.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “What's over?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Everything,” the White King scoffed. “The Soviet Union is no more. All of the doctors, all of the nurses, all the people you call pawns, bishops, what have you, none of them came to work. I came in today to empty halls. This place is my life. You, my patients, are everything to me. My wife – she left because I poured so much of myself into running this place. I saw all of you, the worst cases of insanity in all of Russia. You were mine to heal. I love you all.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Love? You beat us. You killed us. We hate you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Don't you see? I did it for your own good. I would go to any lengths to fix you, to clear your minds, to make you sane again. Don't you want that?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I see clear.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “No, you don't! I can fix you. I can make you whole again.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I don't want to be whole.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> He finally looked me in the eye, “You're so far broken that you can't imagine being fixed. You're afraid of it.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I'm not afraid.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Then kill me.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I want to understand.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “What is there to understand? You've won. Checkmate.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “You broke us to fix us?” I asked. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I never meant to- I never wanted to- I wanted to help you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “But you destroyed us,” I squeezed my fist around the knife. “People died because of you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I know.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Aren't you going to beg for your life?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “No,” he whispered as he turned back to the Russian landscape. “I deserve to die. There's a new world coming about and I don't deserve to live in it.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “No, no you don't.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “So kill me.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I killed too.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “It's not your fault. You're insane.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I looked down at my knife and then back to him. “So are you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> He looked to me and only nodded. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “We both die,” I said as I took the rusted knife and slid it down my wrist. It hurt like all hell, but it felt good. It's as if the hole released my demons along with my blood. I found solace in that it would soon be all over. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Now me.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Yes,” I said weakly as he took the knife and in one stroke, plunged it into his chest. His eyes went wide in pain, but he said nothing. There was nothing to say, even if he could say it. The White King died. Checkmate. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I sat down on the floor as I bled out. I watched as the crimson ruined the gameboard tiles. Life began to fade away. I looked up to see all of my Black Pawns watching me die. They did nothing but stare. In my last seconds, I knew that they were just as glad to be free of me as they were of the White King. With both of us dead, they were no longer Pawns. They were free. Perhaps in their insanity, they could even find happiness. There is no King that could ever give them that. </span> </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-28169364227010830082011-04-14T23:46:00.000-04:002011-04-14T23:47:16.337-04:00week fifty-three: story a week; the end<p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Story a Week, as a project, is over. It was during about the second month that I resolved to finish at least a year and I've done that. Last week, the fifty-second week was finished and that makes a year. With that said, this is the final post I'm going to make as far as the project itself is concerned. I am going to do my best to answer anyone's questions about Story a Week; past, present, and future. I am going to be as honest as possible.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Let's start with the future. Story a Week will always be here and I will continue to pay for the name Story a Week. I am going to keep this up as long as possible. It's something that I will mark as a point of personal pride. I am proud of what I did on Story a Week. It wasn't always top-notch quality or my best writing, but there is something of value in there. Enough about that though. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Will there be more posts? Yes, there will. If the mood ever strikes me to write up a short story, I will do so and the first place it will appear is Story a Week. It will not be a marked as “week __” because it won't be a part of the main continuity, but it will still be there. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I am going to do other projects. For instance, I want to devote more time to the many novel ideas I've had over the years. The one I've told you about is the one I'd like to focus on, <i>Shatterer of Worlds</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Besides that, I'm also going to be writing up a sequel to Zombie a Week, which ends next week. The first chapter of that will appear in June. It's going to have a few unique surprises. In fact, I'm going to talk about a few of the developments at the end of this post as a special treat. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I am also considering using Story a Week as a platform for writing advice for other writers. I've read a ton of writing columns and books; hated most of them. Stephen King once said that most of these books are “full of bullshit.” I agree with him. I want to help other aspiring writers be good writers, but I want to help them be free of the B.S. I don't see myself as a great writer, but I do believe I may have a thing or two to teach. Hopefully, someone will be willing to listen. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Now, let's move on to the past and then work our way to the present. Story a Week started in a very hard place in my life. I was deep in depression and it felt like life had simply said, “screw you, Wes” and left me in the dumps. I had nothing at all. Everything I was doing was failing. I felt socially inept, my girlfriend had left me (you've read about that, I assume), and my grades had taken a terrible beating. I had, on various occasions, considered suicide. The situation was nothing less than life or death. I had to find something to love, to care about, to </span><i>do</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Otherwise... what's the point? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> All of my life, I had writing. I was always inventing something or another creatively. Whether the medium was with action figures, with film, on stage, or on paper, I was writing in some form or another. It took me too long to realize that. When I did, I took a chance with it. I went straight to my academic adviser, declared an English major, and started writing. But it wasn't enough to just go on with my novels. No, I needed something else.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> In the back of mind, I had this idea for a blog where I would write a short story every week, much like ee cumming's devoted himself to writing a new poem every day. It's one of those ideas I had for a few years, but never got around to it. I remember thinking about doing it as far back as 10</span><sup><span style="font-style: normal">th</span></sup><span style="font-style: normal"> grade, maybe even sooner; I can't say for sure. Soon, it hit me that this was the answer I was looking for. It was not long that I wrote up my first first, very poorly-written post. Soon after, on Friday, April 16, 2010, a year ago tomorrow, that “Time and Regret” was published. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The rest is history. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Now, I want to take a bit of time to talk about a few of the individual pieces. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. We'll discuss my favorites and maybe a few of my least favorites. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Time and Regret” is first. It's not the very first short story I ever wrote, but it's by far the first </span><i>good</i><span style="font-style: normal"> short story I wrote. It's one of the ones I'm most proud of. The inspiration came from a video game called </span><i>Braid</i><span style="font-style: normal">, where the protagonist can rewind the time, much the same way that Nick can. It's something I wrote entirely at once one night in eleventh grade. The end brought me to tears when I finished it. I'll never forget that experience. “Time and Regret” was naturally the first story for Story a Week. Without “Time,” there would be no SaW. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The next important story is “The Monarch.” This was one of those stories that came together as I wrote it. The idea of the protagonist seeing herself (in the story, it's gender-neutral, but I saw her as female in my mind) as the butterfly sort of just came out. Now, I'm going to do something pretentious and call “The Monarch” genius. I'm willing to do this because I don't see it as my own genius, I see it as something beyond my control. Genius of the literary sort, I believe, is </span><i>never</i><span style="font-style: normal"> planned. It just happens. Sure, you can be a master of the language and of the technical side of writing, but those things are unimportant if there is no inspiration. No great novel ever came without it. “The Monarch” is genius; I am not. I merely was given something and wrote it down. Perhaps I have a genius subconscious. I just wish he could come help me with my schoolwork. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> The next one worth mentioning is “Comatose.” It's the worst damn thing I've ever written. I absolutely detest it. I wish it had never happened. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Then came “The Ghost of Passchendaele.” I see “Ghost” as one of my best. It's deep, existential, and I think it well-written. Its significance for me rests outside of Story a Week. After posting it, my father gave me a call and told me that he disapproved of the language and recommended I take it down. I told him no. It was the first time I had ever told my parents no. I remember that moment as a mark of independence; something that brought me a bit closer to adulthood. It was when I realized that, in this, I was on my own. I'm uncomfortable talking about this, to be honest. But I think you can understand. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Angels Dancing on the Sea” is another of my favorites. I love the imagery and the message behind it. I am a Christian believer and every once in a while, I like to express that. My stories are almost always an expression of my dark side. I don't know why that is, but that's the way it is. “Angels” is a sad story, but ultimately with a good message. It was written in a dark time in my life; one where I struggled with my own faith. It's interesting to note that a lot of these stories reflect times in my life both good and bad. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Grandmothers and Ghosts” is a special one. There isn't much to say about it that isn't said in the story itself, but I wanted to mention it. It was a story I had wanted to tell for a while, but it was far too boring to tell without the addition of </span><i>something</i><span style="font-style: normal">. So, I came up with Mrs. Dubois. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “What You Don't Know” isn't one of my favorites. I don't like my own poetry, but this one is important. Read that and I think you'll understand where I was at before Story a Week was written. It's about a painful break-up, which I know is petty, but... I don't like talking about this. Let's move on. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Coward in the Rye” is another one of my favorites. For some reason, nobody every commented or much read it. It contains a lot of parallels to one of my favorite novels, </span><i>Catcher in the Rye</i><span style="font-style: normal">, and has a very invigorating story. I worked very hard on it, probably harder than any other story I've written. It's one of the few published that isn't a first draft. But since no one cared....</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Durchfall,” “Dolores,” and “Christmas with Mr. Cody” are all getting bunched into one. These are some of my favorites because of the characters. They are all part of the same continuity, called “The Adventures of Humphrey Holdsworth and Richard Aldwinkle.” I've had those two around since tenth grade and find myself thinking about them all the time. Now, what's interesting is that, as I've matured, I've found myself more interested in Dolores. She's a very interesting character to me. If there's anything guaranteed to last, it's “The Adventures of Humphrey Holdsworth and Richard Aldwinkle.” They </span><i>will</i><span style="font-style: normal"> be back. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Lastly, there's “Omega.” I'm working on a special post to talk about all of the intricacies in that story, but I do want to say here that I believe it to be the best I've written. It's been long enough that I can say that. I kind of wish that “Omega” had been my very last story in the project, but such is not the case. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Now, here we are. Let's discuss right now. How I do feel about Story a Week now that it's over? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> For one, I am proud. I did it. I accomplished what I set out to accomplish. Some great stories came out and so did some pretty terrible ones. I also learned a lot about writing. They say that it takes 10,000 hours, or ten years, to fully master something. Well, there's a year down. I learned a ton and, if you really look, you can see vast improvement from week one to week fifty one (I don't say fifty-two because that was written way back in October of last year.) </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I am, however, disappointed. I'm not going to lie to you. I honestly expected there to be a bigger reaction to Story a Week. I, in my glorious egotism, expected more people to read and comment. Instead, I barely made a ripple. In the end, I don't feel like I accomplished much of anything. I mean, what's the point of having written fifty-two stories if hardly anyone reads them? The point of story telling is, well, telling. I wrote a while back that I wrote for myself, but I was </span><i>wrong</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Writing shouldn't be so selfish. I was selfish. Have I changed? Well, yes. Yes, I have. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> By the end of it, many of my consistent readers had simply stopped reading. New readers came and went. By the end of all things, my consistent readership had fallen. To be honest, it kind of feels empty. I don't feel like I failed, but I did expect a bit </span><i>more</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Look, don't feel bad if you one of the people who jumped ship at some point. I understand. I'm not trying to play some kind of guilt trip; I'm only trying to be completely transparent. Anything less than that is robbery.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Enough about me and my moping. Let's talk about </span><i>you</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Thank you. All of you reading this. You're the ones who made this worth it. There are fewer of you than I would like, but I am very proud of those who stuck with me. It means so much than you think. Writing, I've discovered, is a very lonely ordeal. But if there is someone out there who believes, even just one person, then that makes all the difference in the world*. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I wish I had something to give my you; some token of appreciation, but there isn't. I've said this before, but I hold you in the highest regards. You took time for me and that means a great deal, more than you know and more than I can say in words. Thank you. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> This is it. This is the end. To the future we go....</span></p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-11290285200214125322011-04-08T00:32:00.002-04:002011-04-14T17:24:05.938-04:00week fifty-two: rainUpon crawling from her egg, all she could do was stumble around. Spiders are said to have a certain grace about them, but not her... she could only bumble about trying to get from one place to the next. Her young body had yet to grow accustomed to itself and it therefore found no control. She scrampled from one side of the nest to the other, hoping to find some of the food mother had left behind. She must have left <i>something</i><span style="font-style: normal">. Perhaps a fly or even a mosquito. It mattered not at all. The world was new and there was so much more than this constraining web. But it was not yet time to leave. </span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Oh, no, little spider, you're much too small; much too weak. You wouldn't last a day out there in the cruel, cruel world. So stay; stay here and enjoy mother's company while she provides. And that is what she does. She finds a spot in the corner of the web and rests there. It does not take much to tire out the poor little spider and she has found her limit. She takes all eight of her dastardly legs and huddles them together for fear of the coolness of spring. Ah, it has found them. Spring is upon them all and it promises to take them to summer's life and then fall's death. As glum as the ending may be, it promises to be an eventful and exciting life for our fair spider. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She thinks on ahead about her coming days. What will her life entail? Will she find a mate? Where will she build her web? Will it be nice? What kind of things will stick into her traps? She could only wonder and soon things could only happen. This is what she wants. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> A short few days pass before she has gained her strength and is ready to move on. She leaps from the web and onto the tree. With little more than a hobble, she finds herself racing down the tree's trunk. All ahead full! All head is life! </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The first thing she must do is find a spot in which to make her nest; her web. It would have to be perfect. The perfect webs were usually between two trees where a lot of flying insects could be trapped. But our spider knew that she would have to find someplace away from her family; away from where they prospered. Where they prospered, the prey did not. Our spider knew she must find somewhere free from their nests and webs, and somewhere open and unique. Alas, it could not be too far because then she would never find a mate. Such are life's problems, are they not?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> But this spider wants to live at the furthest possible place. She wants to live away. Away, away, away. The forest simply was not her place to be. So, she scampers across the forest floor, avoiding prey and predators alike. Both could seek to kill her, but she is such a harmless affair. Our spider is still a mere child in a desolate world of needful murder. One could die at any second from the countless things trying to kill you, yet living in the forest offers a certain tranquility; a certain safety. The trees above protect the ground from the sky's wrath and the trees around protect from the outside invader. The system inside is brutal anarchy, but it is a working system. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> All flourishes in this forest. It is a beautiful thing. Peace and even love comes from the creatures who help one another. Such is found in the bumblebee, who brings life to the flowers, and honey to his home. Anger and wrath is found in the hunting and killing for life. When prey is killed, there always seems to be some sort of understanding that the prey had just died for a reason. It is, somehow, a peaceful kind of death. It is better to die feeding another than to die of starvation, old age, or an accident. It is better to die for someone else. This is the beauty of the forest. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> This forest is the beauty our spider is leaving. Some watch as their routines crack and wish that she would not go, but why should they stop her? Maybe there is another beauty outside. Maybe the beauty of this place is not enough for our spider. The only way to learn is to go. So she does. Without grace or poise, she troddles on. She is only a young spider with nothing at her back and everything before her. Go, young spider, go. Go!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The forest very slowly begins to fade away. The trees are further and further apart until she gets to the field. It's just a barren patch of dead grass that overlays before her. It will be simple to cross, she knows, so she does. All the while, she wonders if maybe she could somehow make her home here. But no, this place is wrong. She must be high. She must be high so that the flying insects would land and be trapped. And then be eaten. Such is life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> And then, through her segmented spiderling eyes, she sees a great structure. It looks as if a great deal of trees had laid down atop the other and formed a massive box. The trees were structures in the forest, they were buildings, but this was if buildings that had been combined into one bigger. This was a superstructure. And it was not unlike a rabbit hole or a beehive. There were two very large creatures moving things from a great steel beetle. They took the things from the beetle and put them inside the hive. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The beetle growled off before the new creatures sealed themselves away. Our spider lay still watching them very briefly before continuing. She kept onward to the strange pile of trees.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> You can talk to the spider. Go on, ask it this question, “Why do you keep moving onward towards the strange place despite the danger?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Best to be the moth, who burns in glee, than the cicada who sloths away until he simply disappears. If this place is the death of me, I will have died venturing. To die venturing is to die doing so much more than my kin has done in a very long time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Try another. Ask this, “Where are you going?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Wherever spontaneity will take me. It is either grave death, great life, or nothing. I want to take this chance. I want to live having ventured. I will climb up the wall on this artificial structure and build my web there. It shall be my home.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She tells the truth. Our spider trolleys her way to this structure, which is in actuality a house, and finds her way to its edge. Such as it is a simple affair to a spider, she climbs the walls and searches for a place to start her web. It would have to be somewhere like in a corner, where it could be strung together. At last she found such a place. It was perfect. It was an inlay in the structure, roughly in the shape of a rectangle. From this place, she could see inside the structure and the creatures inside. But something transparent, like the wings of a fly, kept her from going in. Curious. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Our spider climbed her way to the top corner of the inlay, which is a window sill, and begins her web. She starts to spin the silk from her back and strings it across, forming a bridge. And then she criss-crosses it to make that familiar shape of a spider's lair. Within the hour, the web is complete. The spider is tired from all her day's work. She takes a spot at the top and rests herself. It has been a long and tiring day, but a worthy one. Perhaps her new life will offer goodness or perhaps it will offer despair. Who can say? It has only just begun. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The next dawn creeps over the sky. Our spider awakens, surprised to find herself in her new home. She is used to seeing the forest all around her, but instead she is on this strange structure in the clearing. It is comforting to her though. She somehow knows that there is little danger here; that anything wanting to kill a poor, young spider is deep in the forest. She is safe and at peace. But eventually she notices the emptiness in her stomach. She will need to be fed soon. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> For some reason, fortune favors our spider. A lonely fly sees the window and mistakes it for an opening into the house. It streaks towards it and then fails to notice our spider's web. The body of the poor fly hits the web and it is stuck. Our spider sees him struggling and screaming. His wings and legs are caught; there is no escape. The spider rushes over to him and knows exactly what she must do. She comes to the fly and it is screaming. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> It is screaming. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Screaming for freedom, screaming for life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> As our spider grabs his struggling body, he yelps and cries. She bites down into him and injects her deadly venom. His hollers are silenced and he dies; fades from his meager existence. The fly is no more. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider wraps him up to preserve his body; to make it last. After that, she sucks away his juices and replenishes her energy. She is fed and she is once again content. With her belly full, she tires again and decides to sit in her web and watch the day go by. At first, she looks out into nature and sees an animal or two by, not aware of the lonesome spider observing them. Our spider laughs at them in her mind as she ponders them. Other creatures are so strange to a spider. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She wonders why none of them settle down in webs or even hunt. The world is such a hostile place and it is so much better to stay put in safety. To leave one's web is face certain death. It cannot be worth it to venture. After all, one's life is worth more than one's experiences, since experience is nothing upon death.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Soon, however, the spider turns inward to the window. She looks inside and sees a world she knows nothing about. Literally nothing inside is recognizable. It is all so alien. You can probably picture it in your mind. The window where the spider rests is the bedroom of a sixteen-year-old girl. The walls are pink and a bright, pale green; colors our eight-legged friend rarely sees. If the room's occupant is there, she is talking on her phone. The spider suspects she is making some sort of mating call, but to what?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> In her mind, she makes notes about this strange thing. It has four legs, like a raccoon, but it has no tail. It moves about quickly and hordes things like a squirrel, but it is much larger. It is constantly making some kind of racket, like a cricket, but it sleeps only at night (and, of course, the spider could never hope to fit this creature into her web). It is large like a deer, but somehow doesn't seem to be quite as stupid (though she could be wrong). The creature molts multiple times a day, which is unlike any kind of insect or arachnid. The only fur on this strange thing is on its head. Put simply, our spider has found herself a mystery and a fascinating one at that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The very next afternoon, after our spider had eaten a few gnats and repaired her web, something unexpected happened. The creature came to the window, saw, the spider, and made a very peculiar shriek, “Ew!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider moved not at all; only watched. What was she to do? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> But this alien creature moved in closer to the window with a curious eye and finally sighed, “You're gross, but I guess you can stay.” Naturally, the spider couldn't understand a word of this. It was all just mindless babble to her, yet at the same time, she understood that the girl was trying to communicate and made a reasonable guess that she was friendly. “How long have you been in my window?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider twitched in her web, as if to say, “Go on; I am listening.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “For a spider, I guess you're not so horrible,” the girl sat down at her desk, which faced the window. She leaned in to get a closer look at her arachnid find. “Well, if you're going to live there, I should give you a name. Do you have any ideas?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider pondered what it heard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “How about Katrina?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Nothing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “That's stupid,” she sighed. “I'll just call you spider. Is that okay?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> More than okay. It's a spider.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You're so lucky, little spider. You get to sit out there and do whatever you want all day long. You don't have to worry about boys or make-up or your parents or anything. All you have to do is sit out there and eat stuff.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> If the spider understood this, she would object.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Nevertheless, “Life can be so hard in here. It's always about stuff you have to do. 'Clean your room,' 'wear this,' 'don't do this, but do that,' 'call him, don't call her...' ugh. Life would be nice if I was a spider like you. I mean, I'd be gross, but I'd be happy.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider would only agree to half of this. She is certainly not gross, but definitely happy with her life. It was in these moments that the spider realized that this creature was not so much unlike her. The structure in which she lived was, in a way, like a web where she could be safe. At least something was there in which the spider could relate. Other than that, however, there was practically nothing. The spider, however, if it could speak, would tell you that it was in this moment that she considered this creature to be her friend. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Well, I need to go. Nice to meet you, spider,” the girl opened the door and walked out. The spider cocked her head in fascination and then went back to her own life. Twilight crept onto the sky as the world darkened into the abyss of night. The spider pondered the day as she slipped into slumber. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The next day, at just past noon, the window opened. The girl peered out, startling the spider. She was obviously still disgusted with the eight-legged critter. In her hand was a cup, which whisked at the spider. From out of the cup flew a small grasshopper, which landed right in her web. The spider looked down at the desperate insect, who kicked for life, and then back at the girl. The mysterious creature closed the window and said, “There. Have lunch. On the house!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider wasted no time and darting down to the grasshopper, killing it, and wrapping it for later. She looked back to the human and tried to find some way to thank her, but there was nothing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “That's totally gross!” the girl exclaimed. “But at least you're happy, right?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “At least,” the spider would say contently. She plunged her fangs into the grasshopper and had a taste of its succulent juices. The spider reasoned that such a meal is rare and that she should savor every bit of it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Have a good day, spider,” the girl moved to her bed and opened up a copy of <i>Seventeen</i>, something the spider thought dumb. Why would anyone watch such a flat thing for so long? So many things were peculiar about the girl. The spider actually came to the conclusion that, despite her kindness, the girl was gross. She was so squishy and soft. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> But the spider was happy to have found a friend however great their differences. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The next day brought something dastardly. Clouds crept up across the sky and obscured the sun. They came darker and darker, warning of coming rain. The spider clutched her web, fearing what was to come. Suddenly, lightning flashed across the sky and crashing thunder followed soon. This was her first storm; she didn't know what to think of it all. All she knew was terror. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The wind blasted on her web. She swayed and whipped around, but her web held still. How long would it last? The worst was yet to come....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> They came at first only very slowly. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter came the falling rain. One drop struck the web and then another, but it held strong. With patience, the rainstorm met a crescendo. It went from gentle droppings to forceful gallops. The spider, in futility, scurried about its web, trying to hold it together. It was to no avail. One by one, the strands snapped. She didn't what to do! All the spider could do was watch as her home crumbled in the falling rain. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> At last, it snapped and came tumbling down. Her body slammed against the rain-soaked window sill, covered in the strands of her shambled home. With a fury, she brushed it off. The rain drops hit against her body. It was cold, so very cold. She shook. What to do? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She scurried about the window sill, hopelessly looking for shelter. She looked out into the forest and realized what a fool she had been. If she were out in the forest amongst her kin, she would be protected by the mighty trees or could at least find somewhere to hide. What a fool, oh what a fool. She sat there, soaked and weary. But she wouldn't give up. She stumbled about, looking for somewhere to go. Somewhere, anywhere. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> And then she saw it. The window was open just a crack; a small one, but a sufficient one nonetheless. The spider made a mad dash for it and scuttled her way inside. She squeezed her way through, her rather large abdomen being a particularly tight fit, but she made it. In the dryness of the house, she shook herself to clear the water. With her tiny lungs, she gasped for air. She was relieved to be free of outside's hell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider looked about in the room. Sitting at the desk was the girl, who looked up to see the spider. She cocked her head in curiosity. The spider raised her arm, as if to make a greeting, but the two only stared at one another. The spider was glad to be in the company and comfort of a friend. She would have smiled, but spiders can't do such a thing. Instead, she resigned to simply enjoy it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> It was then that spider remembered the storm outside. Now that she was safe, she realized she could enjoy the spectacle of the falling chaos. So she turned around to look out the window. It was so fascinating seeing the water fall and then the sky blazing with lightning. The thunder echoed all around. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Windows can also be a fascinating thing. On one hand, you can see out them and see the world beyond. Yet on the other, curiously, you can look into it and see a reflection of what is behind. The spider caught a glimpse of its reflection and what was behind her. She saw the girl, whose arm was raised in the air. In her hand, was her magazine rolled into a tube. Time stood still. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> All the spider could do was watch as the <i>Seventeen</i> magazine screamed through the air. Down, down, down it came. The spider would have cried, if she could. It is fortunate, then, that the sky poured down enough tears for a thousand like her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider's body crumbled under the strike of the magazine. Even with her toughened exoskeleton, she was far too frail to handle it. When the magazine came back up, a smattering of life held on. She looked into the reflection to see the girl's expressionless face. What a cold, cold world. Outside was suffering, rain, and death; the betrayal of nature. Inside was deception, alienation, and, also, death; the betrayal of friendship. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The girl scooped the body onto the back of the magazine and carried it over to the trash. She looked one last time at what she had just killed and remembered talking to it, and even feeding it that grasshopper she had found. For a moment, the girl wondered why she did those things. It was so cool having a spider outside the window, but inside scampering on the desk? Gross. She tossed the dead arachnid aside and went back to what she was doing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The spider died not understanding the world in which she lived. Her death, ever since her birth, was certain. All that she loved, nature and that girl inside, would kill her given the chance. What a pitiful life for a poor, desperate spider. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> And should we lament? Of course not. It's only a spider, for crying out loud. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-68560866044210399322011-03-31T23:35:00.009-04:002011-06-22T19:02:43.939-04:00week fifty-one: omega<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Word of caution: this week's story contains strong language and violence.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">Charlie, his son, could not come because he was dead. His wife, Claire, was sick and the journey would tax far too much out of her. That left only person: his college-bound granddaughter, Omega, who had been given her strange name as a result of an overly-artistic mother and father. The trip was to Vietnam to tour some of the battle sights. These sights are places Tim should have been. When drafting began for the war, he answered the call by fleeing to Canada. This is his greatest regret. Decades later, the guilt finally overcame him and Tim at last answered the call to Vietnam. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The first day was nothing but museums and overpriced tourist spots. Where Tim was cathartic and saddened by it all, Omega seemed bored. Was she feigning interest? She asked questions and kept conversation, but Tim knew the truth. Or at he least his supposed truth. He could not know for sure, but this was his impression. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The most memorable museum piece was a dedication to the many prisoners of war. There was a mock-up of a Vietcong prison, the conditions of which appeared absolutely excruciating. When Tim walked inside the small cell, he felt this strange sense of belonging. Tim imagined, in his mind, the poor soldier being stripped naked and shoved into the cell. The cramped conditions were mind-numbing. Tim belonged in there. It should have been him and not the thousands who actually endured these trials. Then again, no one should have to endure such cruelties of the human heart. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Omega was always a smart one. She was given the trip as a graduation present. Tim wished he had just given her money instead. She tried to convince him that she was enjoying spending time with him, but Tim remained unconvinced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> The second day was far more important. After a tiring bus ride, Tim and Omega found themselves in the Vietnamese jungle. They were taken to this spot because it was where a standoff had taken place. Tim pictured it in vivid detail. The Vietcong militia forces holed themselves up in the foliage just before a large, brushy clearing. The United States soldiers crossing the brush suddenly found themselves being gunned down. The Americans had minimal cover and no support. Their lieutenant was first to die. Cut off the head of the snake....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Tim bent over and picked up the shiny thing he saw in the grass. It was a brass shell casing. The markings identified it as 5.56 NATO, meaning that it had come from an American M16 assault rifle. Omega quietly uttered, “You fired that shot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> After a beat of thought, Tim replied, “I should have fired this shot. It should have been me out here dying.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “If you had died, where would I be?” Omega asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Tim reckoned that her point was valid although flawed. Tim remained convinced that he had done the wrong thing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> His ruminations resumed. The American soldiers reflexively dove to the ground. They shouted, but Tim could not understand them over the gunfire. He could pick out a few expletives, but nothing concrete; no complete sentences or thoughts. Tim knelt in the grass. He wanted to know the experience. And he did... he felt the Vietnamese heat and humidity, smelled the burning of the gunpowder, heard the shouting and booming... his vision was as both a memory and a nightmare. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Suddenly the blasts and screams ceased. One of the dead American soldiers pulled himself up to his feet. He was a young man, no more than twenty. There were two bloody bullet holes on his fatigues and he held an M16 in each hand. The young soldier approached the now-standing Tim and told him, “We could use some supporting fire.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “I should have been here,” Tim said to the soldier. Omega kept quiet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> “You <i>are</i><span style="font-style: normal"> here,” the young soldier held out an M16 for Tim to take. “Help us.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You're a fiction,” Tim replied. “I can't help you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Why are you here?” Omega asked her grandfather.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Because this is where I was supposed to be. I ran from here. I ran from duty; from my country. But I'm here. I'm here and I'm sorry. I want to atone.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Then atone,” the young soldier insisted. “Atone and take the rifle.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I can't,” Tim argued. “If I could back and change things, don't you think I would?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “The men are dying.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “The men are dead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Can't you save them?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I can't fix the past.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “So why are you here?” Omega asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Because I have to be,” Tim answered slowly, not quite understanding his own words. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You're here to do nothing,” the soldier said bluntly. “Some trip.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I don't understand it,” Omega added. “Do you, papa?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, I guess I don't.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “If you can't understand why you're here, then why do you have to understand that you must take this rifle and fight?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “You- you're right,” Tim stammered as he took the M16. “</span><i>This</i><span style="font-style: normal"> is atonement.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, this is duty,” Omega corrected. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim nodded as he took aim. It seemed natural to him; as if he had been trained. But he paused; he hesitated. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Well?” Omega asked impatiently. “Aren't you going to shoot, papa? Aren't you going to kill?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “It... doesn't feel right.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Why?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I don't- I don't think I should be doing this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The soldier said, “Tim, this is war. You shoot people. Pull the trigger.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “It's not right.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Yes, it is.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, I never shot a gun. I never pulled the trigger. And I never- I never killed.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “But you regret not doing these things. Do them now; it's your chance.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim lowered his rifle, “No!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No? So it's just like before,” Omega scoffed. “Still a coward.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I'm no coward!” Anger welled inside. “I don't want to do this. I didn't want to do it then, and I don't want to do it now. So... </span><i>fuck off</i><span style="font-style: normal">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Why the language?” Omega asked innocently. “You told me-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Fuck what I said!” Fuck everything I do! It's meaningless! Worthless! I'm a coward; a nothing!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Give me back the rifle,” the soldier kept calm. “You don't need it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No,” Tim clenched his teeth. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “If you won't shoot, you don't need a rifle,” the soldier held out his hand. “Give it to me.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I said </span><i>no</i><span style="font-style: normal">.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The bloody soldier reached for the rifle and grabbed the barrel. Tim jerked it away and trained it right at the young man's chest, “You'll shoot me?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Stay away!” Tim stepped back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Either shoot me or shoot them!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Do it, coward!” Omega snarled. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “</span><i>NO!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You're worthless, you-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim opened fire; the soldier's gut burst open in glorious gore. Just as he seemed to want to speak, blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The look in his eye was either approval or horrible acceptance. Tim did not know which. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “So that's what you came for?” Omega asked, unfazed by what had just happened. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim dropped the rifle, “He's right. I'm worthless. I'm a worthless cowardly traitor. I'm terrible.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “What happened to atonement?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “There's no atonement for me-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No,” the soldier grunted as he pulled himself back up to his feet. His wounds, and the blood on his mouth, remained, “there's not. There is no atonement. There is no absolution. There is no amnesty. There is no forgiveness The only thing left is punishment; justice.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Justice?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You ran and then shot your own man,” the soldier hammered his words. “This can't be just forgiven. Someone must pay. It's you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, I- this isn't real.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Yes, it is,” Omega argued. “This is reality. Think, papa. Think.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Think?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “What is real?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Suddenly, images flashed in Tim's mind. He was in the jungle. Night had long fallen, but it was bright. Muzzle flares, explosions, and whizzing bullets illuminated the death-tainted scene. The brave fell, but the cowards remained. The true gave their lives, the false hid away. Tim hid behind a great tree, clutching his rifle. Next to him was Billy Conklin, one of his friends. There was an untold number of Vietcong just a few dozen yards away. Conklin popped in and out of cover, taking shots at his enemies. But Tim hid. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim sweat and panicked. He gripped his rifle tightly with wide-open eyes. He shook; mortified of the sudden death all around. He did not shoot or fight. He hid. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Hey, Tim, the hell are you doing?” Conklin asked. “You gotta shoot, man!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim froze.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Tim,” Conklin shook him. “Man! We could use some support fire! We're in a war here! Help us out!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim looked square into Billy Conklin's eyes. He swallowed, sweat, and trembled. A blast shook the earth beneath him. That was enough. Tim pushed Billy Conklin away and then bolted into the jungle. He just ran. Where? Fuck where. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim ran until he could take no more, until the horror was far away; until the flashing lights faded to the heart of darkness. He panted and struggled to keep his footing. When the fatigue subsided, Tim felt suddenly so alone. But he was safe. He found a large rock and sat down upon it. The blasts and death were both far off; no more than a distant whisper. Tim did not yet feel guilt. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Over him was the starry Vietnamese sky. It had been far too long since he had just... looked to the stars. There is no beauty in war. Tim wanted to believe that he had left the war. War... what war? Nevermind the uniform, nevermind the rifle. Damn the rifle lest it damn you. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Billy Conklin suddenly limped out from the jungle. Tim stood. Conklin was bloody, two bullet holes in his fatigues. Tim dropped his rifle and ran over to his friend, “Oh, God, Billy, what happened?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “The hell do you mean, 'what happened'? You happened, you bastard! You bastard you pushed me out of cover and right into enemy! You bastard! You fucking </span><i>bastard</i><span style="font-style: normal">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I'm sorry! I don't- I don't know what I was think-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Conklin picked up Tim's rifle and held it out, “Take your rifle and let's go support our platoon!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim laughed uneasily, “You- you think I'm going back there? Hell no.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Tim, you can still atone. If you go back, I won't say nothin' to the sarge. Come on!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Atone?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You ran.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I'm not going back there,” Tim took the rifle. “Stay with me, man.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, Tim, I'm gonna do my duty. You should too.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No way.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “If you don't come,” Conklin winced in pain. “I </span><i>will</i><span style="font-style: normal"> report you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Tim trained his rifle on Conklin, “I can't let you do that! They'll </span><i>kill </i><span style="font-style: normal">me.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Come with me.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “So, what, you're gonna shoot me? No, you won't,” Conklin shook his head. The sun slowly crept over the horizon. “You won't shoot me. I'm going. Come with me or don't. Make up your-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim opened fire. The soldier's gut suddenly burst open in glorious gore. Without saying a word, Conklin dropped to his knees. Just as he seemed to want to speak, blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin. The look in his eye was neither approval nor horrible acceptance, but of betrayal. Tim knew instantly what he had one. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> He stumbled back to the rock and sat. He the sun continued its rise, Tim realized his regret; his crime. Omega came from behind him and walked over to where the murder had happened. She scanned the grass and retrieved the shell casing. Tim only watched she approached and said quietly, “You fired this shot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “It should have been me. I should be the one dying.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She sat beside him and put her hand on his, “You will, papa. You will die.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “It's what I deserve.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “There's nothing left to be done. Nothing left but to accept. Accept what you deserve, accept what will happen.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Yeah,” Tim sighed. “I never grew old, did I?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, papa,” Omega answered remorsefully. “Your life ended early.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “So, you,” Tim swallowed, “aren't real?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “What is real?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I never had a granddaughter.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, you never had a granddaughter. You never married. You've never even seen Canada,” Omega let go of his hand. “Stand up.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim did as he was told, “What happens now?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She pulled his hands behind his back and started to bind them together, “Close your eyes.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Talk to me! What happens now?” Tim trembled as his eyes watered. He squinted them shut. “Talk to me!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The knot tightened. Tim suddenly found his arms to be wrapped around a wooden pole. Omega gently touched his arm, “It's time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “No, wait,” Tim opened his eyes to find only darkness. Something covered his face. “I'll take the rifle! I'll fight! I'll do my duty!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “Present... </span><i>arms</i><span style="font-style: normal">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Omega whispered into his ear, “Papa, this is nothing for you to do but accept. Don't resist. Accept.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “I'm sorry- I'll go back! I'll </span><i>kill</i><span style="font-style: normal">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Take aim!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Omega whispered, “Hush, papa. Make peace. Hush and die quietly. This is the end.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Tim pleaded, “No! Stop! I'm sorry-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “</span><i>FIRE!</i><span style="font-style: normal">” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The rifles raged, spitting deathly lead. Tim felt his chest pierced, his bones shattered. Blood trickled down his chest. He winced in horrific pain and his body fell limp. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The black veil was pulled over his head. He saw Omega once again. She put her hand on his cheek and quietly said, “Rest in peace, papa. It's over. It's all over.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Time looked into her eyes, “I could have had you. I could have had a son and then a granddaughter- I-...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Hush,” she whispered. “Say goodbye. Don't wish for more, don't hope for better. This is the end.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You- you're an angel, aren't you?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Goodbye, papa,” Omega removed her hand and turned away. Tim watched as she walked away, leaving him behind. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Please! Don't go!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> She stopped and turned around, “I must leave. It is time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Just-” he coughed. “Just tell me what you are.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Omega returned and whispered, “I am that which haunts your every nightmare. I am the common thread which binds every man, woman, and child. I am the shadowed specter of every end and the inevitable result of every mean. I am the darkness which ends all tragedy. I am the final act. I am Romeo's poison and Juliet's dagger. I am the setting sun; the darkening of stars. I am the assassin's gift. I am life's antithesis. I am Omega.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> As Omega stood and walked away once again, Tim finally understood. She was death. He watched as she faded away into the distance of eternity. Tim took his last breath. It was not laborious or painful. In fact, there was nothing to it whatsoever. Sensation, particularly pain, had long subsided. Feeling, however, remained, but not in the physical sense. Tim felt two things: peace and acceptance. It was the same as reaching the end of a novel. All of the chapters are over; there is nothing left but to turn the page. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> And so he did....</p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-88791420204573728982011-03-25T01:02:00.003-04:002011-05-18T22:50:24.049-04:00week fifty: the adventures of humphrey holdsworth and richard aldwinkle: dolores<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Readers, this week's story takes place within the same universe as "<a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/11/week-thirty-one-durchfall.html">Durchfall</a>" and "<a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/12/week-36-christmas-with-mr-cody.html">Christmas With Mr. Cody</a>." I recommend reading those first, but it's not one-hundred percent necessary. Without further ado, this is the third of The Adventures of Humphrey Holdsworth and Richard Aldwinkle... although, this one is more like The Adventures of Dolores. Let's not get hung up on semantics. Please, enjoy! Make mean, snide remarks in the comments section. Or exalt me with praise. Your choice!</span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in">I suppose if there were ever a time for me to tell you about myself, it would be now. Why don't we start with what you do know? My name is Dolores Anne Catherine Travers Holdsworth. I am married to Humphrey Howard Holdsworth and we have one son, Simon Travers Holdsworth. We live together in London, where we are constantly pestered by Humphrey's lifelong best friend, Richard Thompson Aldwinkle. It is a good life. You know this. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> But there is much you do not know; an entire lifetime of experiences, passions, haps, mishaps, and happenstances. For instance, do you where I came from? Or on what crossroads I have taken to arrive at this one? There are many. But the most important involves Humphrey, an absent Richard, a sprained ankle, and a departing train. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I was born and raised on the English countryside in Worcestershire near Redditch. We weren't farmers or anything, no, we we lived there because father preferred the solitude or a large country home. He had been raised in London, but hated the city. So after completing his schooling, he sold everything he could and bought a small country cottage. Once he found work, he thought he had it all....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Until he met Miss Stephanie Clark, an American woman from Georgia; the most beautiful he had ever seen. She had always dreamed of going to England and after being fed up with her three years at Princeton she took the semester off and pursued her fantasy. She met my father at the side of the road. That junker car she had purchased finally met its end. Father was bicycling down the road and saw the helpless beauty. He took her home and helped with her car problems. She was all set to leave and resume her tour... but she did not.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> And within a few months... they were married. Years later, their only child, Dolores Travers, was born. Shortly after my birth, mother was advised never again to have children. For a very long time, I resented this. I wanted a sister. Living in the country can be terribly lonely. I would have taken a bother, but no quite so happily. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> I had a good childhood. My best friends growing up were my pets. When we adopted him, he was a lanky kitten we named Bones. Within a few months, however, we were forced to rename Bones. You see, Bones became a very, very fat cat. We renamed him Tubbs. When Tubs passed, we tried a dog we should not have named Philip. Father ran over poor Philip, which turned out to be fortunate because we are, and forever shall be, cat people. Our next cat was the prissiest creature on God's green earth. We named him Sparkles. Sparkles was, in fact, gay. I do not mean that in ye olde English way, nay, I mean that we had a quite homosexual cat. It was quite ridiculous because he liked all men, not only other male cats. When came winter time, I knitted Sparkles a purple scarf so that he could accessorize and look, dare I say, fabulous. The other curious about Sparkles was that he was magic. He had a strange tendency to appear in the strangest of places, almost as if he had achieved the power of teleportation. Legend spread across England of Sparkles the magic gay cat. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Sparkles lives to this day. He is thirty-two years old. I told you he was magic. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> Upon being booted from the nest, I left the countryside. I had been to London a few times before and loved it. I love the closeness of everything. I love the people. I love the variety. I love sitting outside a cafe and watching people. I also love arguing with them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"> As a girl, I was a master at arguing. People found difficulty in liking a pretentious little snot such as myself because I question <i>everything</i><span style="font-style: normal">. And then I developed my taste for biting sarcasm much sooner than average. Naturally, my purpose in moving to London was to argue with more people and therefore I chose enroll in a law school to learn proper argument. Of course, the thing I needed to leanr was how to argue without scathing sarcasm. It turns out that legitimate arguments require substance. Who knew?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> Once every month, I would board a train and head home. It was always a highlight of my month because home was the place where I was truly loved. I had friends, yes, but it was not easy to forgive my Venus Flytrap nature. To put it simply, I was lonely. Beneath my quite fierce being was a very sensitive girl. I had trouble finding love. There was no man in my life. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Buy my parents knew this. They had found a nice man who would be waiting to pick me up at the train station in Redditch. His name was Charles, I believe, but I may be wrong. I never met him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> It was a damp, fall London afternoon and the train station was not crowded. It was 2:26 and my train was to depart at 2:30. Needless to say, I was in a hurry. I rushed through the station and failed to noitce the puddle on the florr of the platform, which proceeded to trip me, snap the high of my shoe, twist my ankle, and knock me flat on arse. It was at 2:29 when I realized that the contents of my bag had spread themselves all which ways. Without getting up, I crawled around on my knees trying desperately to get everything in order. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> It was at 2:30 when I grabbed what I had, forced myself to my feet, and collapsed in pain just as my train departed. Everything, all at once, went wrong. As I fell, I could only thinkg about how much of a tosser life was being at the moment. Apparently, I was not destined for that train. Apparently, I was not destined to fall in love with Charles. Apparently, I was destined to suddenly find myself caught in the arms of a strange man. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> He was nothing spectacular. His brown hair was in a perfect state of dull and his icicle blue eyes were hidden behind rounded thin-rimmed spectacles. He wore a poor academic suit, but he did wear it well. I looked into his eyes in that moment and saw both bravery and concern. I should have been impressed and thanked him. However, my wonderful nature answered instead, “You just get spat out of Cambridge?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Oxford, actually,” he kept a warm smile as he lead me to the nearest bench. “Took a bit of a nasty spill there.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I know,” I grumbled flatly. My ankle really hurt like all hell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The man got down on his knees and took a look at my ankle. “I'm no doctor, but I don't think it's broken.” Still on his knees, he picked up the rest of my things and put them in my bag. “Prop up your leg,” he told me. “I'll go and fetch you some ice.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> As he left, I stopped him, “Wait, what is your name?” I'm not sure why I asked, to be honest. I didn't care about him; not yet. In all of my memory, I should not have asked. It simply does not compute. I was in pain and wanted to take it all out on the man helping me. It doesn't make sense, I know, but this is how it happened. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Humphrey,” he said turning back as he walked away. As he left, I cam eot realize how shrewd I had been. Sometimes, and I am better at this now than I was, I am able to step back and see how may attitude affects otehrs. Here was this man trying to help me and here I was being a total arse. Did I change? Well....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey came back carrying a bag of ice and said, “The cafe was too kind.” He handed it to me and I applied to my sprain. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Thank you,” a good side crept out. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Where were you off to?” Humphrey asked as he sat down beside me.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Home, over near Redditch,” I replied without looking at him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “So, what brings you to London?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> This time I looked him in the eye, “I'm studying law... I have a knack for argument.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Is that so,” he smiled.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “What about you? Haven't you got someplace better to be?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Better?” He laughed. “Well, no, I've been here for the last four hours awaiting my best friend, Richard, but he's nowhere to be found. We were supposed to meet here and catch a train together, but that's obviously not happening. But none of that could be better than this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “How so?” I asked slowly as I cocked an eyebrow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “A lot of men I know would dream about catching a beautiful damsel in distress-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Damsel in distress?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Well, yes, you fell and-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “And then?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I helped you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> “You suppose I </span><i>needed</i><span style="font-style: normal"> your help?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> He squirmed, “Well, I don't suppose so, but I don't quite see you getting yourself serviceable in quite such a snappy turnaround.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> He had me there. And then I briefly wondered why I had been opposed to being a damsel in distress. Perhaps it was my argumentative stubbornness, but I had honestly dreamed of being rescued by a knight in shining armor in a situation such as this. The most likely reason for my fighting, however, was because I had not expected my knight to be a dork in a cheap suit. “I suppose you're right,” I admitted after a long pause. “Thank you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Well, what's your name, damsel?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Don't push it,” I said, but decided to push back my attitude. “Dolores.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Your name is Dolores, you're studying law, and you're off to home in Worcestershire,” Humphrey recalled. “Is it nice there?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Beautiful. Rolling hills and greens. It's fall, so it's orange and yellow, of course. I couldn't describe it without doing it injustice.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Try.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I thought over that for a moment and came to the conclusion that it was best put by someone else, “</span><i>When the voices of children are heard on the green<br /></i><span style="font-style: normal">“</span><i>And laughing is heard on the hill,<br /></i><span style="font-style: normal">“</span><i>My heart is at rest within my breast<br /></i><span style="font-style: normal">“</span><i>And everything else is still.”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal"> “Who wrote that? It sounds familiar....” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “William Blake. My favorite.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey chuckled, “He's a class act section eight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Yes, but... I love him.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “I'm partial to Eliot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “That ol' plagiarist?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey sighed, “Yes, yes, the ol' plagiarist.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> I laughed, “He made the stuff he stole better.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “What is it about Blake that appeals to you anyway?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Both cruelty and compassion have human hearts. I enjoy his sense of duality, how he reconciles the world in such a ridiculous romantic fashion, yet manages to find beauty in all of it, even the bad parts.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Cheeks red as plums, he said, “I found beauty in something bad.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> I knew I was beautiful. I had the looks. Men had stared at me and probably even lusted. The problem is my prickly personality. I like to think that I'm better today, but the better part of me insists that I haven't really changed. I'll let you decide. “You're a dork,” I said with my charming smile. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> He chuckled, “Well, the next train comes soon... I ought to get you a ticket.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey stood and started on his way to the ticket office. As he went, I suddenly shouted to him, “Buy two!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “Who?” He turned and asked. “For what?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> “You're coming with me.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey thought this over and grinned, “Alright, two it is!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in"><span style="font-style: normal"> I don't remember exactly what I was thinking when I told Humphrey to get a ticket for himself. I know I wasn't thinking about how awkward it was about to be for me to bring a strange man home to my parents. I know I wasn't thinking about poor Charles. I know I wasn't thinking about Richard. It was spontaneous. I don't think </span><i>I</i><span style="font-style: normal"> even expected it. I do know that I have never regretted it.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Humphrey came home with me. It turns out that Charles had chickened out. My parents were ready to console me for the lack of Charles, but instead found themselves shocked. I told them the story and I don't think that helped with the surprise, but they fell in love with Humphrey (even before I did.) He is smart, hard-working, and loving. Yes, he is dork, but he's my dork in shining armor. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> It was about a year and a half later that Humphrey and I married. I dropped out of law school and took a job as a legal assistant in order to support Humphrey as he finished his Oxford education. I kept the same job for over twenty years. Humphrey's career began with some struggle as it was my salary that sustained us for the longest time. But we made it. I would not have it any other way. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Of course, I've left out a very important detail and this is Mister Richard Thompson Aldwinkle. Summarizing Richard is difficult, as is Humphrey relationship to him. They met in their very first day of their schooling and rapidly became completely inseparable. Humphrey was a shy, scared, but incredibly intelligent boy with enough brains for the both of them. Richard was a fearless, daring, mule of a boy with the mind of a pigeon. Their relationship was symbiotic. Richard stood up for Humphrey, and Humphrey did all their thinking. Of course, it was Richard who got them in trouble, but Humphrey took the brunt of the punishment because obviously is not smart enough to come up with their antics on his own. Usually it was Humphrey who simply went along for the ride. Now, I say Richard is unintelligent, but I only that in one way. He is not school smart, he is street smart. He is clever and quite the wise-ass. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> How clever? Richard Aldwinkle is clever enough that he manged to get himself into Oxford despite having no qualification whatsoever. His only reason for going was, of course, Humphrey. Richard rode of Humphrey's success for his entire life. It really is quite impressive, but it's also quite annoying. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> And that is Richard Thompson Aldwinkle to me: annoying. He is the eternal third wheel. Even after marrying that woman of a reptile, Delilah, Richard still leeched off of us. When Humphrey and I were dating, and even engaged, either Humphrey was smart enough to push Richard away or I was too stupid to figure it out; I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Had I known, would things be different? Would I have walked away? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Absolutely not. My life is a great one. Richard is frustrating and obnoxious, but the after-effect of Richard's blunders is always a good laugh or at least a decent story. Add to that, Humphrey would be miserable without Richard. Given the choice, Humphrey would pick me, but I wouldn't want Humphrey without Richard. Let me explain. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> I am hard-arsed. I argue and I am demanding and I am sarcastic. I am assertive and I am stubborn. Humphrey is kind, bashful, quiet, and lenient. I lead Humphrey to get the most out of his intellect. I push him. The problem with Dolores Holdsworth is that I can be too structured, too unfun. I get things done, but I can be stressful. Richard is the opposite. He pushes Humphrey to the fun, passionate side of life. Humphrey, I propose, needs both of us. Without me, Humphrey is pure potential, but without Richard, his life would be quite dull. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> Without Humphrey, Richard and I would be as far apart as grey from shine. But that's not the case. Instead, the most mysterious, interesting, and baffling dynamic exists. I would study it if I were not in it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> The final piece to this equation is our son, Simon, who manages to embody characteristics of all three of us, namely, and sadly, Richard. For some reason, Simon took a liking to my bafoonish nemesis. These two pull more pranks than a Canterbury to a Keenan (or a Halpert to a Schrute, as ya'll yanks might say.) And they're very good at it. They once released five mice into Humphrey's study and numbered the mice 1, 2, 3, 4, and 6. He nearly went mad trying to find number five. Or there was the time Humphrey was put through a rotten Easter egg hunt. There's no shortage of vile ingenuity in those two. I just wish they could use their powers for good....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal"> This is the life of Dolores Anne Catherine Travers Holdsworth. It is a very good life. It has its ups and it has its downs. There is no other life for Dolores. She is very grateful for what she has been given. I wish that very much for everyone else in the world. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-55270419983418512272011-03-18T13:29:00.000-04:002011-03-18T13:30:32.909-04:00week forty-nine: homeless<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The day had started normally enough. People went on with their stuff and didn't pay me any attention whatsoever. And I'm fine with that; in fact, I'm better fine. But sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I have to see things I don't want to see. Like that day. I watched as a young man was pulled into my alleyway by two other, bigger men. The young man must have been about eighteen or nineteen; looked like a college student. They pulled him into my alley and it was the bigger of the two, a bald black man, who slugged his fist into the student's gut. And then they took turns. They took turns beating their prey, one punch after the other. Blood spilled from his mouth and then his nose. I watched as his face tore. They slammed everything into him before the student fell to the ground, clutching himself in pain. The thieves took the kid's wallet, opened it, took the five dollar bill inside, and ran for it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And that was that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I didn't do a thing; I just watched. That's what I do. And what would I have done anyway? There was nothing I could have done. I'm just a frail, thin, old man. I have nothing and I could do nothing. Look down into your lap. I'll bet something's covering your legs that's less than a year old. Same thing with your shirt; it's probably good as new. I can't afford that. I've been wearing the same thing for more than twenty years now: the same coat, the same scarf, the same shirt, the same pants.... all of it the same; all of it dirty and scarred.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Or look where you are right now. Look above your head. There's a roof, isn't there? Or look around and there are walls. I don't even have that; I can't afford it. I live in a couple of boxes I duct-taped together. It isn't warm and it isn't comfortable. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And you're in one of two places, I'm betting. You're either full because it wasn't long ago that you've eaten or you're thinking about what you're going to eat next. I can't do that. I can only pray to God that I'll have food. Most days I get something or another, but some days I go without eating. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Get up. That's right, stand up right now. Go take a piss and then wash your hands. Go on, do it. Flush your toilet and hide the smell. You can do that; I can't. I pee on the wall and take my craps in a dumpster. That's just how my life rolls. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Now put yourself in my shoes. You have nothing, so what can you do but sit there and watch? You're probably thinking that since I had nothing to lose; I should have acted. But that's just it: I had everything to lose. All I had was my life. I didn't even have my dignity at that point. Just admit it, there are things you wouldn't risk no matter what. Well, my life is all I've got. So that's my thing. If you were in my spot, you'd understand. I don't think you can now, but just pretend you do. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I wasn't always a bum an an alleyway. In fact, I used to be somebody. I used to sit behind a desk and crunch numbers for a big shot company in Boston. They had me on the career track for maybe one day calling all the shots too. I could have been CEO one day. I could have made the big bucks and provided everything in the world for my family. Yeah, I was a family man too. I had a wife and a daughter. I loved them both so much.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Everything was going great. Everything kept slowly getting bigger and better too. I was getting promotions, buying bigger houses, getting nicer houses.... the works. But life is like a rubber band. If you keep pulling on it, you keep stretching it, then it will eventually snap. Needless to say, my life snapped. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I was an ambitious guy. I worked very hard at my job and I would have done anything to get ahead. So, you know what I did? I curbed my numbers. I would do a little rounding up, you know, to make myself look better. But I would also curb down everyone else's numbers. I looked great and everyone else looked bad. Saddest part is, I didn't even need to bump my numbers; I <i>was</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> doing great. But I did it anyway. Someone on the lower rungs noticed and they started an investigation. Believe it or not, I was looking at jail time. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But my boss was a good man. When he found out about the whole thing, he told me that if I turned in the slip, I could go. I did, of course. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> How do you tell your family that just screwed </span><i>everything</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> up? You can't. I couldn't. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I didn't have to.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> My wife was humping our neighbor. I came home a few hours early that day and I found her in my bed. I opened the door and saw it all. She jumped out of the bed and ran at me, trying to explain it or something. I didn't listen and I didn't care. I stormed down the stairs, wife chasing me the whole the way. She was screaming. But I didn't care at all. I jumped into the Buick. She was still trying her best to get me to stop. I didn't say a word. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I pulled out and watched as she cried. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, my daughter, Jeannie came out the front door. She was nine when this all happened. I saw the shocked, confused look on her little face. How could I look into her eyes as I left her completely? How could I look at her and at the same time, abandon her to my whore wife? I don't know, but I did it. I never saw my family again after that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Twenty years later, I'm living in a box in New York City. I sold the Buick and hoped to get my life working somehow, but it just... didn't happen. Everything slid down the slippery slope of hell. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And as I said, that day had started normally enough. I watched that kid get mugged about eight in the morning and fifteen minutes later, the skies burst with rain. It really came down and there was no warning for it. I don't care about being wet, and I didn't then, but my house can't take much. I worked hard to try and save it. Usually, I would pick it up and move it someplace where it won't get wet. I picked up my boxes and tried to move it over behind the dumpster, but I slipped. The boxes flew through the and fell into a puddle. The duct tape lost its stick and my house tore in half. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I sat there on the soaking ground just staring at it. It was just a pair of boxes, but they meant something to me. And just like that, they were gone. I worried because I no longer had a place to live. But it didn't faze me that much. I mean, I've had nothing for too long to let that hit me. And I knew that I'd have to worry about that later when it wasn't raining. So I came out of my alleyway and stood underneath the awning in front of Mr. O'Leary's, an Irish pub. It wasn't much more than dry. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But suddenly, a fat red-head came out the front and stammered, “Hey, you stupid piece of a lunt! You think I want ya standin' there turnin' away my business? Get! Go on, get out of here! No one wants ye!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I didn't even bother arguing, I just started walking. I didn't go back to my alleyway, I just walked down the street. I passed a whole mess of a people. Most of them had umbrellas and the ones who didn't were trying their best to make it out of the falling rain. Not me though... No umbrella, no care. I just walked. Maybe if I got wet enough, I wouldn't smell as bad. There's always a bright side, isn't there? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I didn't see it. I just saw that I had a broken house and I was soaking wet with nothing I could do about it. The rain, to me, is a terrible thing. It completely ruined my day, more so than watching a guy get mugged even. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But there are some who would tell you how much they love the rain. I saw one such person on the side of the road. It was a kid, probably about five years old. He was dressed in a raincoat and rain boots; perfectly ready to take on the watery world. The kid was by himself; by himself with a puddle. He jumped from the curb and into the water over and over again. I stopped in the swarming drizzle and just watched him having fun. Sometimes he seemed to be trying to jump over the puddle, sometimes he just seemed to want to get wet. It didn't matter though; he was having the time of his life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I envied him so much. The rain, as I saw it, is a terrible thing. But to this kid? It's bliss; total bliss. Seeing his boot-wrapped feet hit the water and slosh the world around him captivated me somehow. It was almost enough to make not say what I did, but there was something about this kid that made responsibility step in. I said to him, “Hey! Kid! You shouldn't jump in puddles like that!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He completely ignored me.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Kid!” I shouted louder.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He stopped, came onto the sidewalk and looked up at me without saying a thing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You shouldn't jump around in puddles like that, you're getting yourself all wet. What would your mother say?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “My momma's gone.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Gone?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'm lost, mister.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You're lost?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, my momma's just gone. So I'm lost.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You don't know where she is?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Nope,” he turned away from me and went right back to the puddle.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Don't you want to find her?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Nope.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> His answer surprised me, but I quickly realized that he just wanted to be in his puddle. I was actually just about to give up, but decided to press on anyway, “I think you should come with me; I'll help you find her.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No,” he jumped right into the water. “I want to be here.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hey, kid, come on, fun time's over,” I held his arm. I wasn't going to force him or hurt him or anything. I just wanted to help. “Let's go find your mother.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I said I don't want to go,” the kid jerked himself away, but I held on. “Hey! Let me go!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Kid, you need to-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hey!” A third voice called. “Get off him!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I turned around and saw a police officer running my way. I answered without letting go, “I'm trying to-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I said let the kid go, you filthy hobo.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Officer, hey, look, I-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The policeman grabbed me and threw me to the ground, “You do what a police officer tells you! Now, get out of here!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Jeez, officer, will you please just listen to me?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then a woman came running over. There was something about her... “Officer! Officer! That's my son!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “This your son, ma'am?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yes! Kyle! What are you doing?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It's a good thing you got here when you did, this hobo was about to take him off to-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I was <i>not</i>!” I snarled as I came back up to my feet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The policeman drew his nightstick, “Sir, you stay back!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dammit, why won't you listen to me!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The policeman raised his stick and was about to smack me, but the woman cut in, “Officer, wait! Let's hear what he has to say!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Thank you,” I said. And then it hit me. The woman... the kid's mom... she reminded me of my wife. I mean, she was too young to be her, but I could see it. “I saw the kid out here in the rain and I wanted to help him find you. I didn't mean any harm-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I don't believe it,” the policeman rolled his eyes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Thank you,” the mother said. I wasn't sure if she was talking to me or the policeman. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'm just gonna go,” I said as I turned to leave. I know I'm not wanted. I don't think I ever was. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Good, go on-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Wait, sir!” the man rushed up behind me and grabbed my shoulder. She startled me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah?” I shook. I wanted out of that rain. I was soaked and started to get real cold. But... I looked into her eyes. There was something there that I hadn't seen in years. I couldn't place it though. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What's- what's your name, sir?” the woman asked sincerely. I wasn't sure what she wanted then. Maybe she wanted to return the favor. Maybe she thought she could help me. I didn't know. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Walter,” I replied. “Walter Jackson.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Walter Jackson,” she whispered to herself and mulled it over in her mind. And then it was if a little lightbulb lit up above her head, “Dad?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Jeannie?” My eyes shot open wide. Dear God, it was her. That's what I saw... my God. “Jeannie!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dad,” she said as she wrapped her arms around me; the filth. I didn't want to embrace her. Not for my own sake, but hers. I didn't want to get her all dirty and grimy. I was horrible... but I did it anyway. I held my daughter again. How many years had it been? I don't know. But she was all grown up. She had a kid... I had a grandson. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Jeannie I- I'm so sorry,” I started to cry. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dad,” Jeannie let go of me. “You don't have to be. It's been too long to stay mad... I barely even remember you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “There's not anything worth remembering. I was worse than a bad father. I was a nonexistent one.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Is everything okay here?” The policeman asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yes, it is, officer,” Jeannie told him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'll be over on the corner if you need something,” he said as he left. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dad, have you been living on the street the whole time?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, yeah, I have....” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, daddy, there's so much I need to tell you... some much- Dad... mom... she's gone.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> She was already dead to me, but I said, “That's too bad.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hey, this is a pretty terrible place to catch up,” she said as the rain started to subside. “Why don't you come back with me to my house and we'll get you cleaned up?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I haven't been clean since... well, I don't know.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh! Wait!” She suddenly beamed. “This is Clark! He's your grandson!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He looked up at me and put his finger in his mouth. I could tell he was too shy to say anything. Maybe he had no idea what was happening. “He's a cute kid. Got an attitude like you used to have.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> She chuckled, “Well, let's get you home. My car's down the block.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I very briefly considered turning her down. I very briefly considered refusing and heading right back to my alley. It was all I knew. Leaving that was scary to me. It was just like my first few nights on the street: horrifying. But... I knew that wasn't the right call, “Okay. Let's go.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And that's how my life turned around. That was the most unusual day of my life. It was also the very best one. It was rocky getting started at a new life. I was never able to hold down a job. Keeping myself clean was something I had a hard time adapting to. Just being in a better place meant bigger responsibility and I was used to none. But.... I would have it no other way. Is life perfect now? No. Can life be better? Sure. Do I want it any other way? Nope. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-66770909998265148692011-03-11T22:08:00.001-05:002011-03-11T22:08:55.441-05:00week forty-eight: the montcalm incident (part 3)<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT">Nearly an hour had passed since the <i>Montcalm</i> had entered the asteroid field. Once deep enough to where they were certain that the two remaining French battlecruisers had lost them, they stopped the ship in order to try and get repair operations initiated. Things were not looking up. The hull breaches were simply too large to repair, especially with magnetic asteroids attaching themselves to the ship at random intervals. The point defense cannons had been brought online, the shield systems were working, and other means were being used, but there was simply no 100% efficient way of repelling them. Fortunately, only the smallest made it through. Most of these barely classified as meteors. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey's mind was occupied with watching the viewscreen. They had managed to get a telescopically-zoomed view of the area around Nashville Station. Both French battlecruisers were occupied with destroying Nashville Station. Halsey had expected Lieutenant Commander Evans to try and ward them off, but he seemed bright enough to know when to quit. Still, he proved his courage. She could see the <i>Johnston</i> orbiting the wreckage of the <i>Saratoga</i>. Halsey assumed that they were trying to find survivors. The French seemed to have no problem with this. They were not monsters after all. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral Halsey?” Commander Leon approached the command chair. This was the first time he had spoken directly to her. “I am sorry to report that the repairs to the hull could take days. We do not have the tools or the manpower necessary for us to finish on time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then we need a new plan,” Mack said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Agreed,” Halsey replied. “It's only a matter of time before-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral!” Fierre exclaimed. “Look!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey looked up the viewscreen to see Nashville Station exploding. There were at least a hundred servicemen aboard that station. At least a hundred good men.... Halsey steeled herself. If not the destruction of the <i>Saratoga</i>, the destruction of Nashville would not have even phased her. Unfortunately, she was partially emotionally compromised and she knew it. She would have to take extra caution not to let it get the better of her. Or, worst of all, let Mack see it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Of the commando unit, only Mack was left on the bridge. The others had gone below decks to try and help with repairs. Mack grunted, “With Nashville gone, we'll be their next priority.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They will find us,” Fierre said. “There is no doubt.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “There's no way we can get repairs done in time?” Halsey asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I do not think so,” Leon said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral, the <i>Bonaparte </i>has stopped outside of the asteroid field, while the <i>Turenne</i> is coming in. They're using sensor pings to try and locate us,” Fierre reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's inevitable,” Leon told her.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Fire up the engines,” Halsey ordered. “Let's get moving.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre started to sweat, “And go where?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Away,” Halsey answered bluntly. “We can't risk being captured.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre had gone over everything in his mind. The worst case scenario to him was giving up to the Americans. He was far too loyal to France to allow that. The best case was that he could somehow recapture his ship and escape, but that seemed impossible. So, what was left? Get captured by his compatriots. “Admiral, perhaps we should consider surrender.”<br /> “That's just like you Frenchies, ain't it?” Hank grunted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre continued, “I am sure my countrymen would be more than gracious to you-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain Fierre, I won't hear it,” Halsey insisted. “There is no debate. We will not surrender.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral!” Leon suddenly exclaimed. “They've pinged us! The <i>Turenne </i>has us and they're changing course to intercept!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You're sure?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “There is no doubt,” Leon answered. “None whatsoever.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, we can't outrun them,” Halsey sighed. “We need other options.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We can't fight 'em,” Mack said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What about these asteroids? Is there some way we could use them against the <i>Turenne</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon thought it over and then answered, “Yes! We could modify one our missiles with some of the magnetic grappling equipment we have in the cargo bay and then launch it at the <i>Turenne</i>! The asteroids will follow the missile at rapid speeds and collide with the <i>Turenne</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You would destroy our countrymen, Leon?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon did not answer. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Do it!” Halsey told the commander. “Get that missile ready and in the meantime, continue evasive maneuvers!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon worked furiously at his console to put in the orders. It probably would not take long to attach industrial-strength magnets to the warhead socket, but then again there was no telling. Had this been before? Who knows. And really, who cares? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon said, “With the sensors nonfunctional, there is no telling how long it will take before the <i>Turenne</i> is in firing range. This likely depends on the confidence level of their tactical officer.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Let's hope he's a total pussy,” Mack laughed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> As a mother, Halsey wanted to slap him for that joke. As an admiral, however, she had no time to scold him and bluntly stated, “Agreed.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre stood and walked to the other side of the room. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They are gaining ground,” Leon said. “Our engines are still in no shape to outrun them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Give it all you got, commander,” Halsey ordered confidently. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That is not much, admiral,” Leon actually uttered a semblance of a smile. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Suddenly, Fierre barked, “Drop your weapon!” Everyone turned to find him standing behind Mack with a pistol drawn. Mack, without a hint of fear or worry, did as he was told. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain Fierre,” Halsey said, “You don't want to do this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Shutup!” Fierre shouted. “You will all take orders from me now! Leon, take this man's weapon and help me secure them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon did as he was told. He walked over to where Mack was standing and picked up his S&W MARS. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Fierre, you're making the wrong call,” Halsey told him again. “Mack's boys will be back up here soon and they'll kick your a-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I said <i>shutup</i>!” Fierre cried. “Leon! All stop on the engines! Send out a surrender to-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Leon, you need to make a choice right now,” Halsey said firmly. “You know you're captain's making the wrong one. You know how the American government would treat you. Now, think about how the French government will treat a traitor like yourself. What's the punishment for treason? Are you willing to go through with that?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon said nothing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So you are?” Halsey kept going. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Stop talking or I will shoot him!” Fierre cried as he kept his gun trained on Mack. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What about the hundreds of men below decks? You're willing to throw their lives away?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You have three seconds! One!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon pursed his lips. Halsey said, “Decide now, Leon!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Two!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon scowled. And then made his choice. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Three!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i><b>BOOM!</b></i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack was surprised as anyone when he felt the warmth of blood spatter all over his neck. More surprising to him, however, was that it was not his own blood. He quickly wheeled around to find Fierre with a hole drilled through his head. The French captain fell to his knees and finally the floor. In his last waning seconds, he looked at Leon in disgust. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon dropped the rifle. “I- I killed him.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You did what you had to,” Halsey assured him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can you still work?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, yes, I will do what I can,” Leon shook his head, trying to look away from his dead captain whose eyes were still trained to him. He returned to his console and reported, “Madame, our magnetic missile has been loaded and is ready for launch.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Get a nice, clean firing solution and let those bastards have it,” Halsey ordered as she crossed her legs tightly. She regretted calling the French “bastards,” which was especially insensitive towards Leon. Either way, she was sure he understood. He seemed like the reasonable type. And it was in that brief second that Halsey came to wonder how exactly Fierre had gotten himself in command. He seemed horribly incompetent. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ready to fire on your mark.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Fire!” Halsey ordered as she stood. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Leon hit the magic red button. Since the viewscreen was still out, they all had to watch the visual monitors as their missile flew. The fascinating aspect was that it was working. Asteroids started following it like bees to honey. Even the larger ones changed direction. In the event that the missile somehow missed, there was no way that this flurry of asteroids could somehow </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">all</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> miss. And indeed, they did not. The missile itself stuck to the </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Turenne</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> and a flurry of asteroids big and small followed. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> At first it was mere bumps and shoves knocking the massive starship off course, but explosions followed. The once-lit and once-illustrious battlecruiser darkened and died. The haphazard crew of the </span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Montcalm</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> watched with amazement as their foe was defeated. The glorious subdued. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “No way they're comin' back from that,” Mack chuckled. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I've seen ships at ninety-two percent hull damage remain combat-capable,” Halsey said. “It's entirely possible that all we did was put a dent in their fender.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “From my knowledge of French ships, it is beyond doubt that the <i>Turenne</i> is vanquished completely,” Leon told her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “All that's left is to get the hell out of here,” Halsey said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral, if I may, I have an idea,” Leon said brightly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, let's hear it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Do your ships come equipped with any sort of cutting laser technology? For instance, for asteroids or like?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, most American ships have that sort of tech... why?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Would the <i>Johnston</i> have one of these lasers?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Couldn't say for sure, but I'd say it's likely. What are you getting at, commander?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What if the <i>Johnston</i> were to use her laser a sort of welding tool for our hull? She could seal the hull breach and we could make our escape.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey thought it over only briefly, “Better than sitting here and doing nothing. Let's do it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack protested, “Yeah, but how are we gonna get past the boney-parts out there?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “<i>Bonaparte</i>,” Leon corrected. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Whatever.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We shall have to distract them somehow,” Leon thought aloud.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “A probe,” Halsey said. “On my first executive officer, we launched a probe that fooled the enemy sensors into thinking it was us... Their targeting computers aimed for the wrong target and we got the better of them. If we could do the same thing and send them on a while goose hunt...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then we might have a chance at signaling the <i>Johnston </i>and getting those repairs in time,” Mack finished for her.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That is very, very risky, madame.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, we don't have a better plan,” Halsey bit her lip. “It will have to work.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"> …</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Lieutenant Commander Raymond Evans found himself gazing at his viewscreen as they waited on what to do next. They had been gathering survivors from the wreckage of the <i>Saratoga</i> and found that they were sadly few. There were about five hundred crewmen aboard the <i>Saratoga</i>. Only about forty survived, plus there were about a hundred aboard the <i>Montcalm</i>. It was a sad, staggering number. But there was no reason to linger on it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Commander, I'm seeing large explosions in the asteroid field,” Lieutenant Haddock reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can you identify the cause?”<br /> “No, the asteroids are causing way too much interference,” Haddock scratched his head. “Wish I could say.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> In the back of Evans' mind, he knew it was the <i>Montcalm</i> that had exploded. He knew it was all over. But he refused to accept it, instead he chose to adopt a wait-and-see approach. Maybe the <i>Montcalm</i> actually managed to somehow vanquish her enemy. “Let's hope Admiral Halsey and her crew are alright.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They're fine,” a gruff voice suddenly said as the bridge door whooshed open. Evans turned to see Captain Galloway walking into the room. His uniform was stained with ash and blood. But the most remarkable feature was the massive, gaping cut that ran down diagonally from his forehead to his cheek. “Stay here and await orders.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Um, how exactly do you know this?” Evans asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I don't,” Galloway clarified. “But we're going to operate on the assumption that they're fine, understood?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I'm sorry, how did you get put in charge?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “The United States Navy put me in charge, <i>Lieutenant Commander</i>,” Galloway put it harshly. “See this? It's rank indicator. Mine says I'm a captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “This is my ship, <i>captain</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That it may be, but in the meantime, you're taking orders from me,” Galloway insisted. “It's either that, or you get your ass court martialed faster than you can say 'disobeying a superior officer'.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Evans sighed, “Fine, you get it your way.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Damn straight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Commander!” Haddock exclaimed. “I'm detecting the <i>Montcalm</i>'s signal emerging from the asteroid field! It's coming from the far side. The <i>Bonaparte </i>is moving to intercept.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Follow them,” Galloway ordered. “But keep a good distance. We won't give them a fight unless we have to.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> There was hesitation to obey, but it was quickly quelled as Evans said, “You do as he says.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain!” Haddock again exclaimed. “I'm detecting another signal on the other side of the field... it's... the <i>Montcalm</i> again.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway smirked, “That's more like the Halsey I know. Move us to intercept the second signal. That's her.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Second signal is hailing us,” Haddock reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Answer!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“This is Rear Admiral Halsey,” </i>a slightly garbled voice said over the loudspeaker. <i>“We need your immediate assistance, Commander Evans.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i> </i>“This is Captain Galloway. What do you need?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Jacob! Thank God you're alive. I thought we had lost you.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i> </i>“Takes a lot more than that to kill me, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Apparently,” </i>Halsey laughed just a bit. <i>“We have a plan, but we need your help. Our hull breach is still catastrophic and we're incapable of translight until it's repairs. Commander Leon here had the brilliant idea of modifying your cutting laser to simulate a welding gun. I'll send over the necessary specifications, but it's just a matter of increasing the beam size and lowering the temperature.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i> </i>“We'll get on that,” Galloway said. “See you on the other side, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Indeed. Halsey out.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"> …</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon reported, “The <i>Bonaparte</i> has figured out our ruse! They are coming about!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Keep moving,” Halsey ordered. She bit her lip. “Slow us down for the <i>Johnston</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “The <i>Johnston </i>is activating her cutting beam now,” Leon said. Within a few seconds, he reported, “I'm getting reports of massive superheating on the hull. I think it is working!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “How long?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Impossible to say,” Leon scratched his head. “Thirty seconds, perhaps.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack checked the tactical console, “<i>Bonaparte</i>'s comin' in hot. They might be in range before then!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “One shot from their mag guns and we're through,” Halsey said. “Prime the translight drive, we need to punch it ASAP.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Twenty seconds!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral, I've got red lights flashing on here, but I can't read this damn French bull-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon went over to Mack's station and reported, “The enemy has achieved a computer lock-on with their missile systems!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “As soon as they fire, I want you to hit the accelerator regardless of whether or not <i>Johnston</i> is finished!” Halsey exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What?” Leon's eyes shot wide. “That might kill us!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Waiting around <i>will</i> kill us, commander. Do as I say.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, mada- they are firing!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then <i>punch it</i>!” Halsey exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> After a very brief warm-up, the <i>Montcalm</i> shot forward at speeds beyond that of light....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"> …</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>Months later </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Commander Raymond Evans walked the halls of the newly-inaugurated U.S.S <i>Johnathon R. Fulton*</i>, a <i>Presidential</i>-class supercarrier, the largest ship class in the American fleet. He was aboard to accept his new posting as executive officer. On his chest was a Congressional Medal of Honor for his bravery at Nashville Station. As he walked the halls, he could not help but notice the crewmen admiring him. He had become something of a legend. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> He stepped through the door and onto the bridge, which had a CIC much larger than he was used to. Not only was it used for ship operations, but also for fleet operations, and even fighter control. There were officers of varying ranks and position bustling about trying to get the ship ready for her maiden voyage. The Americans were planning a direct attack against the French and <i>Jonathon Fulton</i> was to be a major player in this. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> Evans looked around until he found the person he was looking for. He introduced himself, “Commander Raymond Evans reporting for duty!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You know you can knock that off, commander,” Vice Admiral Gillian Halsey smiled. She was glad to see an old friend. “I'm glad you could make it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “As am I, admiral,” he relaxed his posture. “Not many people get to be XO's on a carrier, much less a <i>Presidential</i>. Great career move,” Evans joked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You stick by me and your career will be just fine,” Halsey kept her warm smile. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I haven't seen you since the debrief after Nashville, how have you been?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hanging in there,” Evans said rather unconvincingly. “They kept wanting me to do academy lectures and tours and all that, but I turned it all down. Can't say the other admirals were too happy about that.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They aren't,” Halsey laughed. “But screw them. I want an officer here I can trust and you're just the man for the job. You've got chops, commander. I like that.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Have you heard from Commander Leon?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They're putting him through the usual BS,” Halsey rolled her eyes. “I'm convinced that he's fit for defection, but you know the brass.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “All too well.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Not even I have enough tug to slice through that much bureaucracy.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can't imagine anyone does.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So, I heard Captain Galloway tried to get you to serve on his ship... what is it, the <i>Amber Sky</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, he requested me... turned him down. Nothing competes with a <i>Presidential</i>. Ever.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Damn straight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I had better get to work,” Evans bowed out. “I'm looking forward to serving with you, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Likewise, Commander Evans,” Halsey said. As he started to walk away, Halsey stopped him, “Oh, Commander, one more thing... we won't be doing any Harden maneuvers on this ship, got it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> That joke never got old. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;" align="LEFT"> *Named for President Jonathon R. Fulton, the sixty-fourth president of the United States</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-42632879269000619832011-03-04T20:01:00.005-05:002011-03-06T22:55:16.457-05:00week forty-seven: the montcalm incident (part two)<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-style: italic;">Okay, how about a three-parter? This story is a sequel to the previous week's. The conclusion will arrive next week!</span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT">“Commander!” Lieutenant Haddock suddenly exclaimed. “I'm detecting a ship dropping from translight!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Identify!” Evans ordered as he turned to face the viewscreen. His confidence was way up from before. They had been sending shuttles back and forth from Nashville Station and had managed to completely resupply their stock of Longbow missiles. The <i>Montcalm </i>still rest right in their sights. Before, Evans was bluffing that he could open fire and destroy the French battlecruiser, but at this point, he was not bluffing. Far from it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It's an American battleship, <i>Lexington</i>-class! It's the U.S.S <i>Saratoga</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Damn, a whole <i>Lexington</i>,” Evans could not help but be somewhat slack-jawed. The <i>Lexington</i> class battleship was the smallest, most nimble battleship that the Americans produced, but they were also the most modern. They had three forward magnetic-accelerator cannons and Evans was not sure exactly how many Longbown launchers, but the number was substantial. <i>Lexington</i>'s were America's direct answer to the <i>Charlemagne</i>-class. <i>Lexington</i>'s were superior in almost every way. They were larger, more powerful, and even marginally faster. The only disadvantage was that it was more expensive and time consuming to manufacture a <i>Lexington</i>. Either way, in general, a <i>Lexington</i> was said to have a 1.5:1 kill ratio against <i>Charlemagne</i>'s in direct action. At long range, however, there was no telling just how superior a <i>Lexington</i> could be.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They're signaling,” Haddock reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Put them on screen!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> An image of a bustling, modern bridge appeared. At the center was a graying red-haired woman in an rear admiral's uniform. Evans recognized her as Rear Admiral Gillian Halsey. The admiral stood, straightened her uniform and said, <i>“I heard could you could use some assistance.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That's right, Admiral Halsey,” Evans saluted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Oh, knock that off, we've got business to take care of. What's your name, son?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Lieutenant Commander Raymond Evans, ma'am.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Well, from what I'm seeing here, it looks like you'll be dropping that 'lieutenant' soon.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Thank you, ma'am.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Anyway, give me the breakdown, commander. Get me acquainted with the situation,” </i>Halsey sat back down into her chair. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Evans recalled the event in detail. He retold everything from their arrival at Nashville Station to the sudden appearance of the <i>Montcalm </i>to how he crippled the French battlecruiser using the famed Harden Maneuver.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey stopped him there, <i>“Captain Maxus Harden is a friend of mine. He was my first officer at one point. Anyway, please continue.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We have the <i>Montcalm </i>disabled and we've kept them at gunpoint. We've given them orders not to make any communications or attempt any repairs beyond that which is necessary to save lives.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Very good,” </i>Halsey smiled warmly. <i>“We'll take it from here, commander. Report to Nashville Station and resume repair operations. You need it.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Yes, ma'am,” Evans nodded as the transmission cut. He turned to face his crew, “Thank God this over.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Rear Admiral Halsey uncrossed her legs and came back to her feet. She approached the <i>Saratoga</i>'s commanding officer, the ever gruff Captain Jacob Galloway. Halsey was in charge of the <i>Saratoga</i>, but only temporarily; only for the duration of their mission. Galloway bore an uneasy expression. “Something wrong, Captain?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Something's not right, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I can't place it, but my instinct tells me-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We'll be careful,” Halsey told him firmly. “Meanwhile, I want you to get the Marines ready for boarding action. And let them know I'll be accompanying them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I'm sorry... <i>what</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I've never seen the interior of a French battlecruiser and I'd like to take the opportunity.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ma'am, that's crazy-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Our Marines will take care of me. Meanwhile, you do as you're told.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Of course, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey turned back to the viewscreen and said to her tactical officer, “Lieutenant Chang, signal the <i>Moncalm</i>. Let's get to know this Captain Fierre.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They're responding audio only, ma'am,” Chang told her. “Their viewer system may be damaged.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I guess we'll find out,” Halsey nodded. “Captain Fierre, this is Rear Admiral Gillian Halsey of the U.S.S <i>Saratoga</i>. We are preparing boarding shuttles and should be boarding within the next half hour. Once we've gotten your vessel secured, we'll start sending over repair teams to help get your ship operational again. I expect your full cooperation.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Of course, Admiral Halsey.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“We'll let you know when the first shuttles start moving. Halsey out,” she turned back to Chang and made a cutting motion across her throat. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Transmission out,” Chang reported. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral,” an all too familiar voice said from behind her. Halsey turned around to find Sergeant Major Mackenzie Halsey, her son. No one except the Halseys themselves knew of this relationship. Mackenzie's identity was kept secret. He wore unmarked black fatigues with a combat vest over that with a patch to identify his rank. Unlike the regular Marines, Sergeant Major Halsey, or Mack, and his squad did not wear the traditional American navy blue, but instead wore special forces black. The reason for this being that Mack and his squad were part of elite unit that went without designation. “My team's ready to go on your order.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> This was business. Admiral Halsey knew she had no place talking to him as her son. “Good... it looks like we've got what we came for.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sometimes you get lucky, ma'am,” they were referring to Mack and his team's mission. Their mission was to find and capture a French warship. Upon its capture, the plan was to use it for a Trojan horse operation that Halsey had spent months preparing. Their luck was proving astronomical. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Go and make sure the Marines are ready. I'll be joining you shortly.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You can't come, admiral.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, I can, and I shall.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack knew he could not argue. Not only because she was an admiral, but because, well, this was his mother, “Fine, but look you stay right by my side at all times.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> She sighed, “If I don't stay be yours, you'll just follow me and stay by mine. Alright, sergeant major. Now report to the shuttle bays and finish prepping.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, ma'am,” he straightened himself, saluted, and then took to the turbolift. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway remarked, “Must be a requirement for special forces members to have poles up their asses.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey smiled to herself, “I don't think the Marine Corps has anything to do with his pole.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Captain Fierre wiped his brow. The interior temperature regulation system was going in and out of whack. Fortunately, the internal safeguards prevented the system from either cooking or freezing the crew. The atmosphere, however, was the least of his concerns. After an agonizing silence, it was Commander Leon who broke it, “Captain, what are we to do? What is the plan?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The captain stood and went over to a small compartment on the wall. “We need only to control the bridge in order to control the entire vessel.” He opened and pulled out a small pistol. “There is no doubt that the Americans will search for and secure every weapon.” After checking its load, he slipped it into his boot. “They will not find this one.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, I object! I offer that we surrender and-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We will not! Surrender is not an option! You will do as you are told, Commander Leon. Am I clear?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, aye, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Though Admiral Halsey cared little for such things, the Smith & Wesson MARS assault rifle was a beautiful thing. MARS stands Magnetic-accelerator Assault Rifle System. It fired the 5.82x60mm AMS round at extreme speeds. It used technology borrowed from the magnetic-accelerator cannons found on starships, although the rifle could never achieve quite the same insane velocities. They were compact and used an electronic that enabled the rifle to fold into an even smaller state for when not in use. A simple button press and the rifle would instantly convert back into its firing state. Because of the limited space aboard a starship, the MARS did not use an iron sight at all, but rather integrated a computer-corrected holographic sight. All branches of the armed services adopted the MARS because of these impressive capabilities. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> In the silence of the shuttle ride, Halsey looked over Mack's MARS, which was securely attached to his tactical vest. It was such an intricate thing. And then she found it strange that such a weapon baffled her. After all, she was in command of three guns hundreds of times the size of the MARS. Such a small thing should be nothing... but alas. And, Mack, she knew, was an expert with it. The Unnamed, as those who actually had heard of Mack's division, were the most selective of all special forces units in the military. It was impossible to have have even <i>heard of</i> the Unnamed without at least some credential. But to be a part of them? Only a demigod. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> And this actually baffled Admiral Halsey. She had met her husband, the late Captain William Halsey, while serving in the officer's training corps. They took different posts, but managed to stay in touch. Eventually, William bludgeoned his way to getting posted with Gillian. They married in just a few short months. A few years, and nine months after a rather adventurous shore leave, they gave birth to their first child, a daughter they named Dana. Dana took most of her physical traits from her father: dark hair, deep blue eyes. She took on more of her mother's personality: indomitable spirit, outspokenness, and a fiery loyalty. Dana attended college and the Navy ROTC program, eventually being accepted as an officer. The last Gillian heard from her daughter, Dana had just accepted her first command. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack looked more like Gillian. He, like her, was a ginger. He also took after his father. Of the two, Mack was always the quieter, more passive one. It took quite a bit to get Mack angry, but once provoked, there was little that could stop him. He started life as a scrawny kid, but a semester at a boarding where he and his sister were bullied toughened him up to the point where he took martial arts and began working out. Mack joined the Naval ROTC just like his sister, but quite after the first semester and joined the Marine Corps, where he excelled. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Having Mack aboard the <i>Saratoga</i> was difficult for Gillian. Because the identity of his squad was kept a secret, no one could know of their relationship. Gillian wanted desperately to catch up with her son, but such was an impossibility. She suspected that Galloway knew, but he would never admit it and she would never ask. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We'll be docking in thirty seconds!” The shuttle pilot exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack looked over to his squad and ordered, “Lock and load, boys. You know what they say about the French, right?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The four other men said in unison, “Semper cowardice!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Oorah,” Mack said as he stood up and hit the button to unfold his rifle. It snapped into firing mode literally in the blink of an eye. He raised it at the door.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sergeant Major, I ask that you not keep your rifle down unless the French actually present a plausible threat.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack winced as he obeyed, “Yes, Admiral, of course.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Docking in five! Four! Three! Two! One!” The shuttle suddenly shook as it connected with the <i>Montcalm</i>'s airlock. A hiss filled the air as the atmospheric pressure equalized. “Airlock is ready. Open the door whenever you're ready.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey put herself in front of Mack and pushed the button. As soon as it opened, she stepped through and onto the French battlecruiser, <i>Montcalm</i>. The interior was very gray, very functional. It had a much darker tone in comparison with the American ships. Perhaps the damage and clutter was responsible for this. The most gripping feature, however, was the two men in French naval uniform standing before them. One was a lean blond man with captain's indicators, the other a tall and burly man with a large forehead and the rank of commander. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The captain was first to speak, “<i>Beinvenue</i>. I am a Captain Jacques Fierre and this the <i>Montcalm</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey issued him a courteous professional smile, “Rear Admiral Gillian Halsey. These men will be accompanying us,” she said referring to the Unnamed. “This is Mister Red; he is their leader.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Mack only nodded. It was only coincidence that the ginger was codenamed Mister Red... or was it?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Much obliged, admiral,” Fierre said, some of his illegitimacy poking through. “This is executive officer, Commander Leon.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon gave a quick a bow. Not a word was spoken.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I trust you crew has been advised of our arrival?” Halsey asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “<i>Oui</i>,” Fierre replied. “They are looking forward to having the repairs move more quickly. They have been ordered to render their full cooperation. There will not be one, eh, what is it you Americans say? 'Kink in the chain'?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey chuckled, “Yes, captain, that's how the phrase goes.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Shall we make for the bridge?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Lead the way, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “This way, please,” Fierre started walking. “Your timely response is impressive.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We were in the neighborhood,” Halsey explained as they stepped aboard the turbolift. This was not a lie. She could not help but exchange glances with Mack. “Captain, may I ask you something?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Of course.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “How is it that you French have managed to achieve power equalization across your coaxial pylons with an asymmetric reactor system?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, admiral, the answer is very complex, but I can explain....”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain,” Lieutenant Chang said as he kept an eye on his console. “The first wave of shuttles has returned and the second wave is loading up as we speak.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Excellent,” Captain Galloway replied from the command chair. He much preferred the command chair to the executive officer's chair, which had no headrest and smaller armrests. It was nice when Admiral Halsey was away. Still, Galloway was thankful to have her as his commanding officer. She had taught him more in just two months than he had learned in all of his career. Plus, she was easy-going as hell, but still earned everyone's respect. “Let's try and get the turnaround time cut in half.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, sir,” Chang answered with no emotional inflection whatsoever. It was not a feasible order, just one to try and keep everyone's spirits. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway then missed having his first officer, Commander Les Mitchell onboard. While Halsey was present, there was no need for the additional officer and so Mitchell had been assigned on a temporary posting. While Mitchell was around, there was no need to do anything to keep spirits, no, that was the first officer's job. The captain's job was to focus on commanding the ship, regardless of the crew's feelings. Galloway had not been a first officer in a very long time and having to think on those terms was foreign to him. “What is the status of the <i>Johnston</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They've docked with Nashville and they've been brought up to ninety-percent system efficiency. Their hull is still compromised,” Chang said. “They've got it stabilized,but Nashville doesn't really have the facilities for major hull repair. They'll be heading over to Chattanooga Shipyard for sure when this all said and done.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “No doubt,” Galloway sighed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Second shuttle group is away, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Good,” Galloway stood and walked over to Chang. “Let's get the last wave ready to go.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They're already on it, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I'll bet,” Galloway smirked. It was another act.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Chang's console suddenly came to life, “Captain, we've got a situation.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway's false smile vanished and a scowl grew, “What is it, lieutenant?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Three ships are dropping out of translight, dead ahead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Identify!” Galloway retreated back to his chair and sat. “Dammit, last thing we need is more problems.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, it's the worse kind.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Lay it on me.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Three <i>Charlemagne</i>-class French battlecruisers, the <i>de Gaulle</i>, the <i>Bonaparte</i>, and the <i>Turenne</i>. They look pissed off, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Full alert! Get everyone to battle stations! Get the longbow tubes and mag cannons charged and locked! Helm, maneuver us between them and the <i>Montcalm</i>. They aren't getting anywhere near them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, aye.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hail Admiral Halsey, let's get her read on this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Rear Admiral Halsey had taken her seat on the command chair of the <i>Montcalm</i>. Their chairs were actually more comfortable than the American ones. Halsey considered requisitioning something similar for her own assignments, but then realized it was hardly worthwhile. A chair is a chair, but... then again, chairs can make or break a day. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Suddenly, one on the panels started bleeping. Commander Leon instantly sprang into action. He reported, “Captain, three of our ships have just come out of translight. The <i>de Gaulle</i>, <i>Bonaparte</i>, and <i>Turenne</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I know the commander of the <i>de Gaulle</i>,” Captain Fierre said. “He is relentless.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey bit her lip, “This is about to get tricky. Power up the engines and defensive systems. Get whatever you can.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The French crew exchanged uneasy glances. They were unsure whether or not to take orders from the American. Fierre realized this, “Do as she says. For now, she is your captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They got to work. After a moment, Leon reported, “Engines operating at thirty-percent capacity. We have minimal defensive shielding.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It'll have to do,” Halsey said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “The <i>Saratoga</i> is hailing.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Let's hear it,” Halsey remembered that the viewscreen was out. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Admiral, it's Captain Galloway. I assume you've seen our guests.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“That we have.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“What are your orders?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Well, Captain Fierre just informed me that translight travel is impossible with the extent of hull breaches <i>Montcalm </i>has suffered. That leaves us two choices, fight back or surrender. I think we'll take the former.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Agreed.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Fierre suddenly interrupted, “If I may interject, Admiral Halsey, there is another option.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, captain?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “If you would look at your charts, you will see a nearby asteroid field. It is highly magnetic and could shield us from the enemy's sensors. We would only need to adjust the polarity of the shield grid to repel the asteroids themselves.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You're suggesting we hide in there?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, ma'am, we hide in the asteroid field until we can get the ship in a sufficient state of repair.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Better than nothing,” </i>Galloway grunted. <i>“Head on in there and we'll buy you some time.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Give 'em hell, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“You know me, admiral,” </i>Galloway said as the transmission cut. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, you heard him,” Halsey said. “As soon as those shuttles dock, let's get moving!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Chang reported, “The <i>Montcalm </i>is moving away, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hail the lead French ship, let's meet the opposition.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Hailing,” Chang said as he worked his console. “They're responding.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “On screen,” Galloway stood as an image of a bald French captain appeared. Before the Frenchman could speak, Galloway said, “This is Captain Jacob Galloway is the U.S.S <i>Saratoga</i>. You are in violation of sovereign American territory. I suggest you leave immediately or I swear to God, I will blow more holes in your ship than you can count.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“You are outnumbered, captain,” </i>the French captain said. <i>“We and should destroy you. However, I am merciful. Hand over the </i>Montcalm<i> peacefully and we will leave without incident.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“I can't do that and you know it,” Galloway refuse to back down. “Leave. <i>Now</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“I will give you one more chance-”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Go to hell,” Galloway snapped. “I'm done threatening you. My mag guns are charged, locked, ready to fire, and looking for an ass to kick. Yours just happens to be in my way. Leave right now and <i>maybe</i> that won't happen.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“This conversation is ov-”</i> Chang cut the transmission before the French captain could even finish. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, the <i>Johnston</i> is signaling.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Put 'em through,” Galloway sat back down. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“This is Lieutenant Commander Evans. We are ready to engage on your order.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Stay put, Evans, you've done enough today.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Sorry, sir, won't have it that way. We're ready for action.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Have it your way. Coordinate with our tactical officer and we might just have a chance at this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Right, sir, Evans out,” </i>the transmission faded. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Chang reported, “French battlecruisers have entered a diagonal formation and they're gunning right for us.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Are they in range?” Galloway asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Negative, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We can't possibly take them head on,” Galloway thought out loud. “They know that. And they're being stupid about it. Helm, plot a course right at their lead ship. Break off to the starboard side just before collision. Erratic maneuvers all the way. Engines to full. Chang, as soon as you get a comprehensive firing solution, coordinate with the <i>Johnston</i> for a simultaneous strike. We'll hit them once and we'll hit them hard.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, aye, sir,” Chang and the helmsman both replied. The decks jerked slightly as the engines roared to life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway looked ahead to his prey. He was outmatched and he knew it. But miracles happened and he knew that too. They tended to happen when Captain Galloway was pissed off. In this case, Galloway was pretty angry. Nobody, except for those in authority, can tell Captain Galloway what to do and get away with it. Especially not the goddamned French. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway's plan was ingenious. Since both American ships could out-range the French ships, it was possible that their combined firepower could completely put the <i>de Gaulle</i> out of commission. If this happened, then the other French ships would be forced to break formation and most likely lose their bead on the Americans. Galloway's plan also involved maneuvering in such a way that the empty hulk of the <i>de Gaulle</i> would serve as a makeshift shield, protecting them from fire. From there, they had command of the situation and could decide exactly what happened next. Victory was actually entirely possible, but still relied very heavily on luck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Firing Longbows,” Chang said as the swishing sound of missile fire could be heard from below decks. The <i>Johnston</i> did the same thing at the exact same time. “Firing mag guns in three... two... one... <i>Fire!” </i>A loud boom was heard all across the ship. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Galloway stood and watched as the the four white streaks, three from <i>Saratoga</i> and one from <i>Johnston</i>, slammed into the <i>de Gaulle</i>. The once-mighty <i>Charlemagne </i>spun out of control, bleeding fuel, chemicals, and debris. She had been conquered. Galloway probably should have said something to congratulate his crew, but he did not. He was focused. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, the other two French are breaking formation!” Chang announced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Helm, put the <i>de Gaulle</i> between us and them,” Galloway ordered as he stood from his command chair and approached one of the holographic displays in the Combat Information Center section of the bridge. “AI, display a three-dimensional readout of the current engagement.” The computer complied. Galloway took in the location of the enemy ships and decided on his next move. “Break us hard to port forty-five degree and get us a firing solution targeting the <i>Bonaparte</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, computing solution-” Chang's eyes suddenly went wide. “<i>CAPTAIN!!!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Galloway turned back to the viewscreen to see that the <i>de Gaulle</i> was not, in fact, dead. What he saw was just an instant. The flaming wreck rushed and slammed right into the <i>Saratoga</i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Admiral Halsey watched her monitor in awe. For one second, she was amazed at Galloway's strategy and in the next, amazed at just how quickly it had been put to rest. She watched in disbelief as the <i>Saratoga</i> was split almost evenly in two. Wreckage and fire abounded. How did this happen? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Admiral Halsey? This is Lieutenant Commander Evans. We'll do our best to keep Frenchie off your ass, but we're pretty useless against two of those things.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“You've done enough, Commander, get out of here,” Halsey told him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Negative. We aren't leaving until we've seen this whole thing through.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Evans was stubborn. Halsey liked that, “Alright, but don't get yourself killed, commander. The Navy needs more officers like you.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Don't plan on it, ma'am.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Good,” Halsey crossed her legs. “Give 'em hell. And no more Harden Maneuvers.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The transmission died. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Admiral, we are entering the asteroid field now,” Fierre told her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It is more magnetic than I first thought,” Leon reported. “Smaller particles are attaching themselves to the hull, even with the additional shielding.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Do what you can, meanwhile, we need to keep moving,” Halsey said. “We get the repairs and then we get out of here. How long until we can be ready for translight?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “There is no telling,” Fierre told her. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Halsey sighed and buried her face in her hands. Everything was going so right... then suddenly so wrong. The <i>Saratoga </i>was nothing, they were hiding in a dangerous asteroid field onboard a barely-intact French battlecruiser, and there was no help. Halsey prayed that some of their luck was saving itself, but it seemed as though it had all been spent before....</p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-36551677768067160512011-02-25T00:23:00.001-05:002011-02-25T00:32:30.642-05:00week forty-six: the montcalm incident (part 1)<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hello readers. This week's story is going to be broken up into two parts. As I wrote this, I realized just how long it was and decided that it would be better to have it separated. Anyway, it's set in the same universe as <a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/08/week-18-shatterer-of-worlds-prologue.html">this story</a></span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">so if you read that one, a lot more will make sense in this one. Those of who <span style="font-weight: bold;">really</span> pay attention will also note that this is in the same universe as the novel I'm currently working on. It's just the same universe. None of the characters from the novel appear in this story or vice versa. But anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I've had a lot of fun writing it. This is the sort of stuff that most people expected me to write when I started the Story a Week project. They probably expected it to suck too...<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Have I proved them wrong? Tell me in the comments!<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Captain Jacques Fierre knew he was in trouble. Three armadas, two enemy and one formerly friendly, were on the prowl for him and his ship, the <i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Just hours before, he had opened fire on and crippled the friendly warship, the </span><i>Republique</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He had very good reason for doing so. The </span><i>Republique</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was about to break formation and perform an incredibly stupid maneuver, which would have given away the position of the entire French fourth fleet. The only issue with this is that </span><i>Republique</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> belonged to Admiral Fleur, who commanded the entirety of fourth fleet. Fleur did not take being fired upon well and declared the entire crew of </span><i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> traitors. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> After a very quick engagement, Fierre managed to escape, but not without damage. Their port side engine was operating at forty percent, several of their guns were offline, they had exhausted their complement of concussive missiles, and were low on supplies in general. Fierre could not be sure what their long-term goal would be, but immediately speaking, they needed to stock up. In his mind, he played out several scenarios. They could not turn back and give up. Each and every member of his crew would face time in prison. Fierre would </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> go to the Americans. He was still loyal to his nation and defection was simply not an option. Only one choice remained: go rogue. If they could stock up on supplies and get far enough away from government-controlled space, then they could live the pirate civilian life. At present, however, they didn't have enough supplies to last more than a week or two. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Fierre stood from his command chair and said, “Commander Leon, what is the closest friendly supply outpost to our location?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Commander Claude Leon, a larger man with a receding hairline, replied, “It would take us three weeks to get us to Outpost Seventeen, captain. There are no friendly supply out-.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What about unfriendly? What is the nearest supply outpost in general?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Commander Leon walked over to the cartography station and input a few commands. The holographic display changed colors and displayed brand new information, “Captain, the Americans have an outpost, Nashville Station, just a few hours away.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What do we know about it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It's small and the Americans use it as a stopgap for short-range vessels making their way to the front lines. Its strategic value is minimal, I would not expect it to be well-guarded.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Then it's perfect.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You want me to lay in a course?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yes, yes, I do, commander,” Fierre sat back down and brushed off his uniform. “With any luck, the Americans won't even know we're coming.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">... </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lieutenant Commander Raymond Evans of the U.S.S </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was happy to finally have a moment to catch his breath. They had doing maneuvers against the French and German fleets for months. Sure, they had not seen any action, but it was tiring having to constantly be on full alert. Their admiral, Admiral William Forrest, was a master of deception. He kept the American fleets doing complicated maneuvers. At times, it looked as though they were retreating, and other times as if they were preparing for large-scale assault. The American fleet was larger than either the French of German fleets, yet smaller than their forces combined, and they therefore played the situation very carefully. Only very small skirmishes had occurred, with the Americans usually on the winning side.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The drawback was that his fleet was constantly on edge. His captains and commanders were growing tired and they were consuming supplies quickly. Either way, both sides were tiring of the standoff and both sides knew that something big was about to happen. The only question was when. Either side waited for an advantage. Sure, the Americans and British had a larger combined fleet, but if they attacked the wrong place, then they could be outflanked by the French and Germans. Admiral Forrest was waiting for just one more advantage. His hope was that they could get some kind of intelligence about the enemy's positions and plans. They needed a miracle. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> For the next two weeks, Lieutenant Commander Evans and the </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> did not have to worry about any of this. They had rotated them out of the fleet and were to take two weeks for R&R at Nashville Station. No, Nashville was not exactly a tourist destination; there was nothing to speak of as far as recreational facilities go, but it was away from the action. At Nashville, they would refuel and restock. Just a few days before, they had won a fight against a German heavy destroyer and needed to restock their ammunition. Part of the reason </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was rotated was because her usefulness in combat was reduced. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> American ships depended very heavily on their powerful semi-active ship-to-ship missiles called Longbows. The advantage to the Longbow was that they were very powerful, very long-ranged, very fast, and very accurate. There were, however, two major disadvantages. One is the very limited ammunition. The second is that Longbows have limited firing arcs. Generally speaking, Longbow tubes were concentrated to the front of the ship, with only the larger classes having side or rear tubes. American ships were notorious for being extremely deadly in frontal assaults, but less so at the sides and rear. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Other nations used missiles, however the Longbow was exclusively used by the Americans. One would think its design to be simple, however no other nation succeeded in constructing a missile with quite the same explosive yield, speed, and range as the Longbow. Such being the case, no other nation felt it necessary to build their ships quite so front-heavy. Another advantage of the Longbow was that they were so fast that point-defense systems had great difficulty tracking and destroying them. Other missiles could, generally speaking, be tracked and destroyed by point-defense cannons. Missiles were often employed as distraction tactics rather than being relied upon as primary weapon systems. American ships, therefore, stood unique. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The largest draw for the Longbow was its supporting role. The most powerful weapon in any starship is the Magnetic Accelerator cannon. Mag cannons fired ferrous slugs of varying sizes at about three percent of light-speed, making for incredibly powerful and awespiringly deadly weapons. Mag cannons required long tubes and huge power draws, yet a well-placed round could end a fight very quickly. Every nation used the mag gun as their primary weapon and few warships existed without a mag cannon. Because of the necessity for such a long tube, mag cannons were placed as forward weapons without exception. Guidance for such a weapon is impossible, therefore the range of a mag cannon is very limited. The Longbow, however, had no such range limitation. American captains had the distinct advantage of being able to fire Longbows at enemy targets and soften them up before closing in to finish the enemy off with a mag shot. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s complement of Longbow missiles was almost completely exhausted, their magnetic-accelerator cannon's targeting computer was fried, and their general supplies were low. They needed the repairs and resupplication badly. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Dropping from translight speed right... </span><i>now</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,” Ensign Daniel Howard, the helsman, reported as the ship lurched forward from the drop. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Send Nashville Station the docking codes,” Evans ordered. “Let's not keep anyone waiting. Take us in steady as she goes.” He paced the bridge. </span><i>Johnston </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was a small ship with a crew of thirty-eight. There was no command chair for him to sit on. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Aye, aye,” Howard replied. “Riding steady, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Evans sighed, “I cannot wait to get a full eight hours.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'm with you,” Lieutenant Pete Haddock, the tactical and executive officer, replied. “I'm just happy to be free from positioning and repositioning.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “While it lasts,” Howard sighed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, Haddock's console came to life. “Commander, I'm picking up another ship coming out of translight.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No other ship is scheduled to be with us,” Evans walked over to Haddock's station. “Can you identify?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Not yet, I can't get a clear silhouette,” Haddock said. “They're still making the drop... hang on, they've just- Good God, commander, it's a French battlecruiser!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Full alert! Get all hands to battle stations, load up the Longbow tubes, charge the defensive cannons, and prime the mag guns!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Sir, the targeting systems on the mag guns are friend; they're useless.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Do it anyway.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Aye, aye, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Maintain our course, put us between that ship and Nashville Station. We've just become their only line of defense.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yes, sir,” Howard said as his hands darted across the controls. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Haddock, give me a read on that ship.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “She's the </span><i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, a </span><i>Charlemagne</i><span style="font-style: normal;">-class battlecruiser. They have a pair of forward mag tubes and more primary cannons than three </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s put together. Sir, even if we were a hundred-percent, we are no match for a </span><i>Charlemagne</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Agreed,” Evans swallowed. “Send off a distress signal.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Aye,” Haddock affirmed. “Sir, the </span><i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is hailing.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Put them on-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Wait, commander, something doesn't add up about all this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Evans rubbed the back of his head as he thought, “Explain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Think about it,” Haddock started, “what do the French want with Nashville Station? If they actually cared, why would they send just one ship? Something just doesn't add up.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Put them on-screen, we'll figure this out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The image of Nashville Station suddenly changed to a man in uniform sitting in his command chair. The man said, </span><i>“This is Captain Jacques Fierre of the </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Montcalm</span><i>. Stand aside or be destroyed.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Captain Fierre, you have violated sovereign United States territory. Stand down or I'll be forced to open fire. You turn around before this gets ugly.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Reconsider. Your ship is no match for mine. Stand aside or be destroyed.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“You know I can't do that, captain.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“If you value the lives of your crew, then you will stand down.”</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Captain, answer me this, what do you want with Nashville Station?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “He's cut the transmission,” Haddock reported. “Orders?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Evans rubbed his chin and then bit his lip, “We'll have to get creative with this one.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Something in mind, sir?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Give me a rundown of the weapons systems.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “All standard batteries are online and ready to fire. The mag guns are fully operational, but the targeting computer is fried and we'd have to at point blank to guarantee a hit. All Longbow tubes are loaded and ready, but we have no reloads. We fire once and that's that.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “We've got one shot,” Evans clenched his fist. “Let's make it count.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “</span><i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> has powered her engines and they're coming into range now.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Evans thought through every maneuver he had been taught at the academy. There was literally nothing in the orthodox that could help them here. With standard maneuvers, </span><i>Johnston</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> could do </span><i>some </i><span style="font-style: normal;">damage, but </span><i>Montcalm </i><span style="font-style: normal;">would still be operational enough to be a total threat. Evans knew that he would have to do something to even the odds. And then he remembered. The famous Harden Maneuver. “Ensign Howard, plot a collision course.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Sir?!” Howard squeaked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Just do it,” he turned to Haddock. “Lieutenant, arm all batteries, but I want you to save the Longbows and mags to fire on my mark only. Other guns are fire at will.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Understood,” Haddock gulped. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Course laid in,” Howard said. “Just say when.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Who does that man think he is? Leonidas?” Fierre snarled as stood from his chair and paced the bridge. “Arm all weapons and fire up the engines, I want that ship destroyed. </span><i>Now</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Engaging engines, weapons are charging. We'll be in range in thirty seconds,” Commander Leon reported as he watched his operational panel, which gave him a summary of all systems at a glance. He then asked, “Sir, if you were the Americans, what would you do here?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre licked his lip, “I would either surrender or put up a battle of attrition. There is no winning for the Americans here. They know-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain!” Leon suddenly perked up. “The Americans have put on full afterburners and they're gunning right for us!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Their commander is stupider than I would have thought possible.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “As soon as they're in range, teach them a lesson!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Full evasive!” Evans exclaimed. “If their mags hit us, we're through!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sixty seconds until impact!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Give the engines more juice; give 'em all we got!” Evans cried. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “They're firing!” Haddock reported as two white streaks burst from the front of the </span><i>Montcalm</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. These were the mag cannons firing. “Complete miss, sir! Their mag guns have completely missed us! They're firing missiles.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I hope the point defense is up to snuff...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Forty-five seconds!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They are going to ram us!” Leon exclaimed with an unsubtle nervousness to his voice. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “No, their captain is most certainly 'playing chicken' with us,” Fierre said with a confident grin. “They will break off. More power to the engines. We will finish them off with our superior main cannons.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;" align="LEFT"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “But what if their captain </span><i>does</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> batter us? It will be the end of us!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It will be the end of him too and he knows this. Continue our course!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Thirty seconds until impact!” Howard exclaimed as he held to the conn. tightly. “We should abandon ship, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That's not the plan,” Evans said rubbing his chin. He then doubted that his plan would even work. It had to. It just had to. There was no other way.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Twenty seconds!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Prepare to alter course on my mark,” Evans said flatly.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Anything, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “On my mark, roll portside fifteen degrees.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That's <i>it</i>?” Howard twitched. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “One more thing, after I give that order, redirect us to hit only the ventral portion of the <i>Montcalm</i>,” Evans kept his calm like it was an art form. Underneath his command shell, he was scared beyond common threshold. “Graze them, ensign.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Ten seconds,” Howard nodded, slightly reassured. Part of him understood Evan's plan, but fear slowly took over. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Use whatever guns you can to hit them on their belly, Haddock, but save the missiles and mags,” Evans told him as he pocketed his right hand. It shook as panic made its attempt at a takeover.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Five! Four! Three! <i>Two! One! Impact!” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain Fierre, they've changed course!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What?” Fierre relinquished his tight grip on his command chair. He had fully prepared himself to be rammed. What in the name of God were the Americans planning? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The decks rocked, throwing Fierre out from his chair and hard onto the floor. He looked up to see all of his crewman falling to the ground. Electrical arcs flared as computer panels overloaded and exploded. Shrapnel flew around the room along with bodies. The worst, however, was the sound. A horrifying, screeching sound filled the room. On instinct, Fierre covered his ears and shouted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“They are </i>grazing <i>us, Captain!” </i>Leon shouted as he read the tactical readout. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Pull us <i>off</i>! Pull us <i>off</i>! Full afterburner!” Fierre cried desperately. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I can't, sir!” The helsman screamed back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Lieutenant Commander Evans was down on his knees, his hands over his ears. It took every part of his will to keep from shouting. He forced himself to his feet and over to the helm station. The helmsman screamed to him, “Separating from the <i>Montcalm</i> in three... two... one...” the screeching stopped. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Continue full afterburner and prepare a starboard Crazy Ivan on my mark!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “A Crazy Ivan, sir?! Are you craz-”<br />“Just do it!” Evans put his hand on helmsman's shoulder. “Tactical, get us a firing solution that puts all of our forward weaponry hitting the rear of the <i>Montcalm </i>just as soon as we're turned around!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Haddock let out a slip of a smile as he realized the plan. It was suicidal and risky as all Kingdom Come, but if it worked.... “Aye, sir! Commander, the mag targeting computer's toast, I'll have to calculate that manually.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I've got every confidence in you, Lieutenant,” Evans clutched one of the safety rails. “Helm, are you ready with that Crazy Ivan?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sir, I can guarantee you that we'll burn out the starboard engine and the port might not survive either.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Are you ready?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, commander, ready to initiate engine suicide on your mark.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Do it!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The screeching stopped. Captain Fierre pulled himself into his chair and called, “Damage report!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon looked at his panel and shook his head, “Major hull breaches across multiple decks, our defensive shielding is shot, we're venting plasma, and the main computer core is overloaded... I cannot get a complete assessment. Casualty reports are still incoming.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What of the <i>Johnston</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They are still on full afterburner, pushing away- oh, <i>merde</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What is it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “They just pulled a Crazy Ivan maneuver, captain! They're firing!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Quietly, Captain Fierre agreed, “<i>Merde</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“FIRE!!!” </i>Evans shouted as he stared into the glowing afterburner of his wounded enemy. The <i>Johnston</i>'s decks rattled yet again as everything she had was let loose. Lieutenant Commander Evans hoped and prayed that each and every weapon would find its mark. Their lives depended on this one chance. If it failed, they were doomed. Evans decided then that no matter what, his crew had done their best and he would be proud of them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Impact!” Haddock cried. “Direct hit with the mag slug! <i>Yes</i>!” He shook his fist. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Excellent shot, Mister Haddock!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Missile impact in three... two... one... Direct hit on all accounts, Commander!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Report! Give me a report on the <i>Montcalm</i>!” Evans knew he hardly needed it. The ship on the viewscreen was a burning hulk. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Massive damage across all decks, they're venting all kinds of plasma... their weapons and defensive systems are offline. Sir, they're dead in the water! I can't even get an accurate reading of just how badly we've hit them. But we got 'em. We got 'em.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Good job, lieutenant. You should be proud.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sir, we've completely depleted our ammunition banks. We have no more missiles or mag shells. If they've got <i>any </i>fight left in them, then we're dead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Give me a full damage report.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Defensive shields are offline, we've lost all starboard batteries. We've got a few hull breaches and casualty reports are still coming in. We're a lot better off than they are, but we're not in great shape.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, they don't know that. Keep the missile bays and mag guns charged. Act like we're still ready and able.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Aye, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Signal them. Let's see what they've got to say now.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Captain Fierre pulled himself off the floor and onto his feet. He looked around. The main lights were down, only the dim emergency backup systems ran. Small fires had ignited all around. There were bodies on the floor. He was beaten. That tiny American ship had just completely ravaged the once-illustrious <i>Montcalm</i>. Now she was a broken beast. But just how broken? “Leon! Give me a damage report!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon wiped sweat and blood from his brow and ash from his uniform. He attempted to activate his console but nothing happened. With a heave, he switched to another and pulled up the emergency systems. He reported slowly and surely, “Captain, they hit us on the engine systems and detonated one of our fuel cells. The damage is... catastrophic. Our reactor is down and we cannot generate sufficient power for most ship systems. The weapons, defensive systems, and all primary systems are down. We only have emergency life support. The primary and secondary engines are both inoperative. I can only get us maneuvering thrusters. Captain... we're dead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre sunk into his chair. “Get medical teams up here on the bridge. Let's get these fires out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Damage control is already on it, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “My God, how did it come to this?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon's console suddenly beeped. “Sir, the Americans are signaling.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Fierre shook his head. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What should I do, sir?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Put them on-” Fierre then noticed that his viewscreen was shattered. “Let's hear it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “You're on, sir.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “This is Captain Fierre, you may go head.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Captain Fierre, this is Lieutenant Commander Evans. Your ship is crippled and helpless. One more volley from us and it's not only your ship, but you crew that I've taken from you. We've signaled our navy and more starships should be on the way eventually. We will let them deal with you. In the meantime, you are to stand down. You will not make communications of any kind. If we detect any sort of signal whatsoever, we will open fire. If we detect any engine activity whatsoever, we will open fire. If you attempt to power on your engines, we will open fire. Is that clear, Captain?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Fierre rubbed his forehead, “Surely you understand that we will need to use some power to attempt repair operations?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“You will attempt no repair operations beyond that which you need to keep your crew out of harm's way.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>Fierre signed, “Very well, Commander Evans. Have it your way.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“It's my way or hell. Evans out.” </i>The transmission ended. <i> </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We need to get out of here, captain,” Leon said as he attempted to cross a few wires on a broken panel. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I know, I know!” Fierre clenched his fist. He hated being trapped. “Suggestions are appropriate right now.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sir, if we could get a transmission out... if we could tell our fleet our location and our situation, it's a good bet they send some ships. If they did that-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then we could use the fray as a distraction to escape!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Exactly, captain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “But how do we get out a transmission without them detecting it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I am not sure, captain-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Wait! A power surge!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sir?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “If we could simulate a power surge in the engine reactor and simultaneously send out a burst transmission packet, their sensors would totally miss it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We would just have to be careful to make sure we are not pointing it at them...” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can it be done?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I'll get on it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> They had really done it. French battlecruisers were near-revered by the American fleets. For their size class, they demonstrated almost absolute efficiency of design. They used the most modern technologies and packed a wallop. Besides being fast and powerful, they were also cheap to manufacture. The French produced them <i>en masse</i>. To have just killed one using nothing more than the U.S.S <i>Johnston</i>, a <i>Fletcher</i>-class destroyer<i> </i>was a true feat. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Rather than gloat, Evans got down to business, “Alright, let's get repair operations underway. Signal Nashville and tell them to start sending shuttles laden with supplies, prioritizing reloads for the missile bays.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “What about our own shuttles?” Haddock asked. “Should I send them over to make runs?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “If we can spare the manpower, then yes, but we need to get ourselves operational again. I won't risk the French running dirty business with us.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We've got nine wounded and two dead, commander.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That's the final report?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, sir, all other crewmen accounted for.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Good. Now we just sit and-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Commander!” Haddock cried. “I just detected a power surge from <i>Montcalm</i>!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Signal them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Haddock worked his controls and in a few seconds, “Ready when you are.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain Fierre, we've detected a power surge from your vessel, please explain.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Commander, it is nothing; an accident. In our attempts to stabilize our reactor core, it would seem that we triggered a surge in electrical emergency. As you can see, our power is back to the way it was. We are only trying to stabilize it, as I said before.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Very well. Evans out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “It worked? The signal is away?” Fierre asked as he pulled himself from his command chair. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, captain, the signal is away,” Leon told him. “Now we must hope that the signal reaches our fleets.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Best-case scenario is that our fleet receives the signal and acts before the Americans can.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Worst-case scenario that the Americans get here soon and our fleet does not respond at all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Exactly,” Fierre paced the bridge. “In the meantime, we must prepare ourselves.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “For?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Any scenario,” Fierre turned to face him. “Have the crews double up on repair duties. Do not power on the engines, tell them to repair as much as possible without activating anything. We need to get the reactor and translight engines operational-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, translight is impossible,” Lieutenant LeFouvre, their helmsman interrupted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I beg your pardon?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, with a hull breach as massive as the one on our starboard-ventral side, going to translight velocities would tear the ship apart.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “He is right.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then we are stuck here.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yes, captain, I am sorry, but-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then even if our comrades were to arrive, there would be no escape for us.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Precisely.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “<i>Merde</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon rubbed his large forehead, “Captain, we need a new plan.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Why did you not speak up before, Lieutenant?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Lieutenant LeFouvre sighed, “Captain, I was unconscious.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then you are excused,” Fierre rubbed his chin. “Yes, we need to come with a new solution. We cannot risk being captured by the Americans and we cannot risk being captured by our comrades. Either solution is inevitable.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Leon spoke carefully, “Captain, perhaps we should consider a full surrender to the Americans. It is a safe bet that the would be more willing to harbor us than our comrades. They have a policy of taking defectors-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “No! I will not betray my countrymen.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “But sir-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “There is no debating this.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Then what is the plan?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Do a scan of the area, the must be something we can use.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> LeFouvre worked his navigational panel and then turned back around, “Captain, I have it. Just a few thousand kilometers from the starbase is an asteroid field.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “So? It is not uncommon for a starbase to built near an asteroid field. In fact, it is more common-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Sir, it's one of four documented extremely magnetic asteroid fields. The asteroids inside are so magnetic that there is a hazard beacon placed near them. Our sensors rely heavily on magnetism to get accurate readings... if we were to enter deeply enough, we would be hidden.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Excellent, but why is there a hazard beacon?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Well, captain, that is the problem. The asteroids will stick to our hull.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Can we prevent it?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “If we set our shields to a negative magnetic frequency, it should repel most the asteroids-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “<i>Most</i>?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Captain, it would still be very dangerous-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “But we have no choice,” Fierre plopped back into his chair. “That is what we will do. When our comrades arrive, we will make for this asteroid field.” </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-56989026137527636732011-02-18T08:53:00.001-05:002011-02-18T08:55:06.726-05:00week forty-five: suddenly<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">At the latter end of my sophomore year of high school, I was given the idea that I should run for the position of social chairman along with a dear friend of mine. The social chair position is a dual spot, always held by two people. My friend, David Lopes, who we nicknamed Lowps, was to run with me. I told him about the idea and agreed that it was a good one. There is not much that goes into campaigning for student government at a small high school such as mine. We needed only really to write up a speech. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Being that this was a campaign for social chairman, the speech would naturally have to be a more light-hearted, more fun-oriented bit. It was a Friday night when Lowps came over to my house and we sat down in front of my computer to discuss what needed to be done. We are both naturally funny guys and knew that a decent speech could pretty much write itself, however, since we were running two other pairs of people, we knew it had to be top-notch. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The other two people running were both considerably more “popular” than me and Lowps. The two of us are, to this day, capital-class dorks. To clarify, we were not hated or whatnot, but we were weirdos; the kind of guys people like to pick on. One of the two competitors was the preppy, cheerleader types; attractive girls one might see in this sort of position. The other group was a popular jock and a funnyman. Lowps and I would have this position as high school juniors, both other groups would be seniors. Basically, the odds were stacked completely against us. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lowps and I knew we had one solid advantage. Most people would scarcely see this as an advantage, but this card, if played right, could tip the balance. Since Lowps and I already had a reputation for being weird dorks, we could push certain creative envelopes safely. The other two had a hindrance called a normal reputation. Lowps and I were completely unshackled from this. The only issue we had would be to package this and make it appealing to the masses. We only had to convince the world that our outside-the-boxness was something they wanted. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Our speech could be two minutes tops. Lowps and I sat down at the computer and let everything out. Eventually, we came up with a short song and inclusion of my book <i>The Galactic Phrase Book and Travel Guide</i>, a <i>Star Wars</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> book which contains various sayings from the movie's fictional language. I told you: we are dorks. The night was going great. I was actually starting to believe that Lowps and I had a chance at this. We were laughing it up at the ideas we were coming up with. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then my mother burst into the room and stammered, “Lowps needs to go home.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Was I in trouble? “What? Mom, why? I don't-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “He just does. Have him call his parents and-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mom!” I interrupted. “Just explain to me what's going on here so I can-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Granny J just died,” she put it so bluntly. It didn't register. There was a long pause. “David needs to go home now.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mom, I-” She left the room; left the news just to sit there. I never saw it coming. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> David picked up the phone and hit the talk button. I stopped him, “Lowps, wait. I'll talk to her. We'll get this finished.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He had no idea what to say. There was nothing that really could be said. I took the phone from his hands and put it back on the hook. “I'll be right back, man... we'll get this done.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I got up and left the office. Lowps took my chair at the computer and I don't even remember what he was doing. I shut the door behind me and walked into the living room where parents seemed just as confused as I was. Where do you go after something like this?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “What happened?” I asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Your Uncle Philip just called,” my mother said. “She was in her bed....” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “And-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “She was gone.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I stopped and looked down at my feet. I could not look my mother or father in the eyes. Especially not my father, who sat on the couch not saying a word. It was his mother who had passed. “What happens now?” I asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Well, we're going to book a flight for dad and he'll- he'll sort this out,” my mother told me. We lived in Brazil at the time, while my grandmother still lived in Tennessee. It was such a distant tragedy. I still did not fully understand. It just did not hit me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mom, I-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It'll be okay.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I took a deep breath, “Lowps and I- we, uh, we need to get this thing done. The speech is on Tuesday.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Wes, he needs to-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It's okay, Melody,” my dad interrupted. “Let him do his thing.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Alright,” she said. “We'll let you know what happens.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I pushed open the office door and closed to behind me. Lowps asked, “Are you okay?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Let's just get this done,” I took my chair back and pulled the Word file back open. My mood was dead and my sense of humor damaged because of it. I worried that we would not be able to get this thing done. I felt like my chances had just died with my Granny J, as we called her. Nevertheless, we got it down. We put together a decent speech and we were proud of it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The weekend was difficult. There was this air hanging in my family. We could not talk to one another without thinking about the loss. Strangely, it never felt real. We were used to not seeing Granny J for quite a long time. But the thought that we would never see her again... the thought that our goodbyes were really nonexistent... it hurt. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I went to school as normal on Monday. The speech was to take place on Tuesday and I needed to force myself to be as preppy and fun as possible. These last hours before the vote were absolutely crucial. I kept the death to myself. I told as few people as possible. I hid it away. They didn't need to know. But it slipped through. I have always been fairly transparent. And it slipped out. My teachers had already been told and they were supportive, but my friends had no idea why. I wish I had said something. Bottling up pain is never a good idea. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Tuesday came around and I was ready for it. There was nothing left to be done. We had schmoozed the right people, made the right friends, and shined ourselves up appropriately. We were all set to be the underdogs in high school's biggest popularity contest. Lowps and I wanted it. We were hungry. So were the others. But there was something else to it for me. I needed this. I needed something good to happen. It would be my consolation. It would be great, but I honestly believed that the odds were still against us. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And they were. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Our speech was second, which was exactly where we wanted to be. It was a turn of good fortune. We outdid the ones that came before us and set too high a bar for those who came after us. People laughed at our jokes and applauded our plans. Our speech was the best one; there is no doubt. The speech, however, is at moot point. In the end, the whole thing would boil down to a popularity contest. We could only pray that our speech was enough to convince certain people to ignore screwed up social norms and vote for the weirdos. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The results would come back the next week. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> My dad came home that weekend and he brought back a DVD of the funeral. He was saddened, but also encouraged by how many people loved his mother. She was a master violinist and it was amazing seeing other musicians around her. He told some of the stories about her people told. One of her best friends came up to my father and told him that his mother was smart ass. It was true. So, so true. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And now I know where I got that gene. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Watching the funeral was kind of dull. It was a wide shot from the balcony at the church and not much could be made out. But there was one part which stands out to me. As I said before, my grandmother was a virtuoso violinist. She played in several orchestras, but her real home was in her quartet with her friends. The quartet played at the funeral, but left an empty chair where Granny J would sit. Her violin rest on that chair. The music sounded hollow; empty. It was missing a key component. I cried that day. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The week passed. I was at the school and the day was just ending. I was nervous about the election results, but I was ready to cope with loss. I was ready to lose. I was ready for more disappointment. What else could they throw at me?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But I was not disappointed. It was at the end of the day when I saw the paper posted. At the very bottom: Social Chairmen: David Lopes and Wesley Julian. My mouth shot open to a smile. I ran down the halls until I found Lowps. I hugged him. He was shocked, “What the heck?” He asked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> I grinned, “Lowps, we won! We freakin'</span><i> won</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “We did?” His eyes bolted open. “We did! </span><i>Yes</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! Alright!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As I rode the bus home that day, I couldn't help but feel this sense of joy. My student council victory was bittersweet. I cannot think of it and not think of my grandmother's passing. I do like to think, however, that she was there with me the whole time. She was there and she helped me to win this. Something had gone right. And I knew that Granny J was looking down and smiling for me. She would be so proud. I loved her so much. This isn't the first time I've written about her. I hope that somehow she can read this. I hope that one day, I'll see her again. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-63663290697249621352011-02-11T01:57:00.000-05:002011-02-11T01:58:30.682-05:00week forty-four: end of the line, doc<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>End of the line, doc.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">The pamphlets had made the place seem so nice; so quaint. On the cover was a happy old couple amidst spring flowers. On the inside were words which told of how great an institution the place was. Rose Grove Retirement Home looked nothing but promising. The sugar-coating alleviated any guilt that the old man's children bore for putting their father in such a place. Even the home had looked poor, their guilt would not have lasted log. For they visited very little.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny Perot had been living at Rose Grove for nearly fifteen years. In these years, he had seen the staff go from loving and attentive to apathetic and tired; even more so than their aging patients. For the first few years, the family visited Lenny quite frequently. It was always nice seeing the grandkids. And the staff paid Lenny a bit of extra attention. But over the years, the number of visits thinned and Lenny faded into everyday routine for the staff. His life grew lonelier and lonelier. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> With loneliness came boredom. In his room, there was a television, but that served only to annoy Lenny. The shows were either too bleak or too white-washed happy. The news was sensationalist, making everything out to be much more that it was. And then the journalists spent their time propagating an agenda rather than fact. They made the world too dark and horrifying a place. And then the crime dramas glorified the worst in humanity. But the worst were the reality shows and the games shows, which flashed brights lights and plastic smiles. Nothing was ever real. What is real?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The only other things in the room were the bed and the rocking chair, which sat by the window. Fortunately, the window was well-placed. It faced directly at the sunset. It became one of Lenny's favorite things to sit in his chair and watch the sun died away. Lenny could not help but think of himself as the sun disappeared. There was very little time left for Lenny Perot and he knew it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> All there was left to do was to wait....</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> And this agonized him. He could not help but feel that there was something left to do, something to take care of. But what? He had said goodbye to his family long ago. They still came by every now and then, but Lenny had let them go in his mind. His friends had vanished. There was nothing left to do. But life went on unresolved with death threatening to leave it this way. Lenny prayed that death would come soon to end his torment. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> One of the reasons Lenny spent hours watching the sun set from his rocking chair was because this was how he wished to die. He longed for the beauty of the day to fade with him. He longed for his last sight to be one of the few reliable constances in his life. When the last glimmer of orange light vanished from the sky, Lenny closed his eyes. He hoped that each breath would be his last. He was ready.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> And suddenly, he heard a loud noise coming from the hall. It was a slowing beat and a hiss; a sound Lenny knew all too well. It was a train. But there were no rail tracks near Rose Grove. There was no logical or sensible reason why a train be heard </span><i>at all</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Lenny first instinct was to ignore the sound, but curiosity overtook him. From his chair, Lenny forced his body to its feet. The old man slid on his robe and slipped to the door. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> When he opened the door, he found himself standing on a train platform. The retirement home was gone. It was replaced with a great steam engine train, much like the kind Lenny had worked with for many years. As he looked over the great steel beast, he felt some of his youth returning. For more than thirty years, Lenny had worked at a train station much like this one. He had started at the bottom and eventually became the station manager. It was his life for so long. But why was it back?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny stepped up to the train and looked it over. Never had he seen an engine so flawless. There was no rust or corrosion. There was no dirt or dust and the engine sounded as if it ran without a catch or hitch. Lenny had known hundreds, if not thousands, of trains and none were like this one. There was so much right about it, but he had never seen a train quite so wrong. Unlike every other engine, this one seemed so unreal; something was amiss. Lenny could not place it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Ticket?” A voice asked from behind. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny somehow knew to reach into his robe pocket and sure enough, there was a ticket. He turned around and handed it to the man. He was dressed as a regular train conductor, wearing a navy uniform and a laughable hat. The attendant reminded Lenny of many men he had known before... but there was nothing remarkable about him. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Hop aboard,” the conductor said flatly. “We'll get going soon.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Where are we going?” Lenny asked as he walked over to the first passenger car. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Only places you've been,” the conductor replied as he hopped onto the train engine. “Hop on; I have a schedule to keep.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny did as he was told. The inside of the car was fancy, but regular. He took a seat and looked out the window. The train lurched ahead. The vista outside was plain and unremarkable; one Lenny knew he would forget. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Are you comfortable, sir?” The same voice from before asked. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny turned to find that it was the same man from before, except this time he was dressed as an attendant rather than a conductor. “Yes, yes, I am,” Lenny replied. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Well, good. So, what's your name?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Leonard, but you can call me Lenny.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “How about Doc? Can I call you Doc?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Doc?” Lenny's mind bounced. He had not been called that for many, many years... not since....</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The train stopped. “We're here, Doc,” Lenny looked back tot he attendant to see that his outfit had changed again. His garb was that of a Marine, the kind Lenny had fought with back in the second World War. The men in his platoon all called him Doc because Lenny was their medic. No one before the war and no one after the war called Lenny Doc. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny looked out the window and saw darkness engulfing a marshy jungle. He knew instantly where he was and he whispered it, “Guadalcanal.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, we're here,” the Marine said. “You need to disembark.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I- I don't want to go back there,” Lenny protested. “I never, ever want-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You have to, Doc. You have to settle this,” the Marine insisted. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, I won't.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Well, yeah, you will,” the Marine said as the train suddenly vanished. Lenny found himself standing among his old platoon. They hid in the dark, doing their damnedest to keep quiet and out of sight from the Japanese patrols. “They can't hear you, they can't see you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Why am I here?” Lenny whispered as he heard the low thunder of distant explosions. All of the soldiers were afraid, scared. Death was just around the corner. Lenny looked around them and finally found his younger self. This was a scene Lenny knew all too well. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> In the fray of war, Doc's platoon had become separated from the main group. They lost themselves in the pitch black night knowing full well that Japanese soldiers swarmed the area. They had skirmished several times, each time resulting in someone being shot. First it was Peters, then Mitchell. Their last battle went better than the other two. No one had died, but Rowlette had been hit in the leg. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Sarge, he's losing a shitload of blood,” the younger Doc said. “I can't stop the bleeding.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Quiet!” The sergeant shot back. He kept his rifle at the ready. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Sarge!” Doc insisted. “He needs help!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Shut the </span><i>hell</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> up!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “We have </span><i>got</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> to get him out of-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Gunfire erupted. Their sergeant took four bullets before dropping dead. Old man Lenny could do nothing but watch as his platoon struggled for their lives. Two more men fell. Doc took cover. He should have been more aggressive, but he had been trained to stay alive. He was the medic. He was important. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Why are you making me see this?” Old man Doc asked of the conductor. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You've always had regrets about this moment, Doc,” the conductor answered flatly. The chaos of the battle meant nothing to him. “You need to watch and accept what happened. None of this was your fault.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I shouldn't have been so loud!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You were helping your friend; your comrade.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “He had lost so much blood... he wouldn't have made it!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Your sergeant was a coward to hide in his hole.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I shouldn't have been hiding....” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You did the right thing. Accept it. There's nothing that you could have done to change this.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “But- but-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “The Japanese had been following you. You would have ambushed regardless.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Old man Doc sighed. The scene continued. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Fuck!” One of the younger Marines exclaimed. “You think we got 'em all?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I don't know,” Doc shook. Rowlette was dead. So were Sarge and the others. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Only one way to find out,” the young man grumbled as he stood up. “Hey you Jap bastards! I'm over here! Shoot me!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Nothing happened. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Guess we're good,” the young man grinned. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Grab their dog tags and let's get the hell outta here!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Old man Doc gulped as he saw his men moving at breakneck speeds. He saw so much fear and the courage that hid it. Eventually, Lenny came to respect every single man in that platoon. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “All aboard, Doc,” the conductor said. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Huh?” Lenny turned to see that the train had reappeared behind him. Without really thinking about it, he stepped up into the passenger car and took his seat. The conductor, who had changed back into the attendant, sat across from Lenny. Lenny asked, “Where are you taking me next?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I don't know.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Are you doing this?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, you are.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Before Doc could ask another question, the train stopped. He got up from his seat and off the car. The next place was unsurprising to him; unsurprising and actually comforting to see. It was his old train station, the one he had worked on for so many years. It was like being home again after a very long trip.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> And then he saw himself. There was thirty-two-year-old Leonard Perot sweeping the deck. Old man Lenny looked over to the schedule to see that his younger self was preparing for a train due to arrive in half an hour. Everything had to be perfect. And Lenny worked very hard to achieve this perfection. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, Lenny understood exactly why he had been brought to this point in time. The water tower, which rest just next to the tracks, made a loud cracking noise before almost instantaneously collapsing. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The other deckhand, Thomas, came rushing in screaming, “Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, </span><i>no</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Thomas, come on, let's try to get this cleaned up! There's still time,” Lenny said as he threw down his broom. There was wood, sheet metal, and water everywhere, but if they just get it off the tracks....</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No! No!” Thomas cried as he paced frantically. “You just don't understand!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “What the hell are you talking about? We need to clean this up!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Oh, God! No!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Thomas!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Lenny, I'm </span><i>done for</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! Done for!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Thomas, come on, help me-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “It's my fault! Mine!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “What in the name of-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I was supposed to inspect that tower; to fix it up and I didn't do it! I was lazy...” tears fell down his cheeks. “Oh man, I was lazy....” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Thomas, we need to get it cleaned up-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No wait,” Thomas came to. “Don't tell the boss! Tell him- tell him that it was some kids or something... tell him it wasn't me! Tell him-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Okay, now come help me clean up!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “What happened here?” The deep voice of Bobby Robbins, the station manager, asked. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Thomas' eyes shot wide.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I asked you a question! What the hell happened here?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “It was- it was these kids, they-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “It was Thomas' fault, sir,” Lenny said. “He didn't do the work on the tower like you asked.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Oh, is that right?”<br /> “Said so himself.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Well, Thomas, look at what happened. You may have just ruined us!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I'm </span><i>sorry</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! I-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Sorry won't cut it!” Bobby yelled. “I told you to do that last week! And then you try to lie to me about it?! Unbelievable!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I don't want to watch this,” Old man Lenny said to the attendant. “I don't want to see this. I screwed up. I know.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You screwed up? Looks to me like it was Thomas who screwed up.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I should have stood up for Thomas, I should have-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You told the truth.”<br /> “But he was fired!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “He deserved it.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, no-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You know he did. So why do you find so much pain here?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Because I did the wrong thing.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, you did the right thing, but you were selfish. You regret this because your motivation was to take old man Robbin's job when he finally retired. And you did.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “My whole career after that was because I back-stabbed a friend.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You would have been promoted anyway. And you hadn't gotten Thomas fired, he would have worked under you. You wouldn't have wanted that, would you?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, I guess.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Then you understand. You did the right thing with the wrong motivation. You can't fix it. Just accept the outcome.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “I can't.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Yes, you can.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “No, it's just a-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You don't have time, Lenny.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “What is your point here?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Lenny...” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Are you just here to make-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “End of the line, Doc.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny's legs suddenly gave out. He fell to his knees. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You're dying. This is your last chance. Your last chance to make peace with yourself. Live you last moments in peace, Doc.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Lenny dropped to the ground. He felt life escaping. “I can't-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “You must. I'm begging you.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> The world changed. Lenny suddenly found himself on the floor of the retirement home. He had fallen off his rocking chair. Air refused his lungs. Light of life became black of death. He looked up to see the sunset disappearing. It was peaceful. Lenny realized then that the sun would set and there was nothing to change that, just as nothing could change the past. He was at peace with the coming night and therefore at peace with his coming death. The night was at peace was the day. Lenny was then at peace with his life, even with all of its flaws. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>End of the line, Doc</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span> </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-91738232465177340552011-02-03T23:40:00.002-05:002011-02-03T23:42:30.182-05:00week forty-three: ugly duckling<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>It's January 15<sup>th</sup>, 2010 in Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My partner doesn't know my name and I don't know his. After graduating from “the academy,” I was given a set of cards with a series of false personal details details on them including a new name. Since my partner, who, to me is Mister Patrick Greenfield, is in the exact same position as I am, I can only assume that I know nothing about him. It's strange because it seems like we're some of the best of friends. But there is nothing real to it. When I talk to him, it's my cover talking. The wife and kids I have at home aren't real; I'm single. Sometimes I can't tell if Patrick is lying or not. I like to believe that he isn't. Sometimes I like to believe that I'm not lying either. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My name, that is my agency name, is John Brunell. My partner and I work in a special branch of the Central Intelligence Agency we've nicknamed the ugly duckling department. Our job isn't to infiltrate the enemy with covers or assassinate people or any of the stuff people seem to think field operatives do. Our job is to look like we're the kind of evil masterminds you see in the movies; the kind of black-suits who go out and manipulate people. We go out and find terrorist or criminal organizations, then we claim to be CIA “representatives” who want to help them out because they fit our top-secret agenda. Our job is to look like a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And they all play right into it. The world has this image of CIA agents being what we pretend to be. We pretend to be these bosses who sip whiskey and control the strings. In reality, we're pretty powerless in terms of what we say we do. We say we can use our CIA magic to bring down entire governments or change oil prices at the snap of our fingers. But in reality, we've got nothing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Our existence serves quite a few purposes. The first and most important is that we serve as a blind for the real field operatives out there. The scum and governments (usually the same thing) of the earth keep their eyes one us, which turns their attention away from the real operatives. The second reason is more legitimate. We get close to the leaders of these organizations and they try to work with us. They almost never really trust us and they never give up too much, but few people can actually get closer than we can. A third reason is that the CIA likes their image as a crazy group of suits who bully everyone with their conspiracy nonsense. Why?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Well, it's a complicated answer best given by the PR liars more close to home. The way I understand it is that if they think we're one thing, then they won't know what we really are. It's pretty brilliant in my opinion. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> My partner and I step off our private jet and onto Haitian soil. We decided to arrive at night just to make it seem like we were being mysterious. The small airport we were at didn't look as bad as the pictures you'd see of the earthquake aftermath. There was the occasional mess, but my first thought was that the media was over-blowing the whole thing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Awaiting our arrival was a man who insisted on the cover name the Australian. We came into contact with him after we figured out he was running a whole smattering of scams after the 2005 tsunamis over near India. Before that, he ran a couple of “business” in Iraq and Afghanistan. There was more before that, but this guy is a classic example of a disaster profiteer. He operates in the shadows and lives comfortably in an illusion of anonymity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>Illusion</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Actually, we know everything there is to know about this guy. His real name is Charlie Verne and he isn't even Aussie; he's from New Zealand. He's unmarried, he's got four homes across the globe, his net worth is somewhere around eighty million dollars, the most common color in his wardrobe is khaki, he owns nine cars, his mother is of Polish ancestry and his father of English, and he's had three separate STD cases. But Mr. Verne believes that he's playing us for fools. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He isn't. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> You see, our job is to make him feel like he's powerful and playing some angle with us, meanwhile we're just patsying him. Yes, he is taking money from people and exploiting charity, but our job is actually pretty noble this time around. You see, we have to keep the Australian under control. If we just shut him down, then someone else would take his place and then we would have to go through the whole process of assessing this new person and learning how to work him. Meanwhile, while we did this, the new guy could do all kinds of damage we wouldn't even know about. So, if we keep Verne under control, we can keep him from doing any real damage. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> So there's Verne standing outside a red van with a pair of guys who must be security guards. It's pretty obvious that he's trying to look important to us. Since he's out of earshot, Patrick whispers to me, “What do you say we shoot him now and get it over with?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I seriously considered it as we walked down the stairs. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Gentlemen, welcome!” Verne exclaims to us. “I trust your flight wasn't too bad?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Not at all,” Greenfield replied. “I trust you have something for us?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Just like I said,” he pulled an envelope out from his, you guessed it, khaki sport coat.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Keep it,” Greenfield said with a wry smile. “You really think we couldn't get the location of Haitian's military units on our own?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I suppose not,” Verne said as he motioned for his men to open the doors on the van. We climbed inside. It was nothing special and clearly made to blend in as much as possible. “So, why'd you have me go through the trouble?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “To test you, Aussie, to test you,” Greenfield told him firmly. “You really think we'd work with a guy we couldn't trust?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Again, I suppose not,” Verne said from the passenger's seat. The shorter of the two bodyguards got behind the wheel, while the other sat in the back of the van behind me and Greenfield. “So, I have to ask, what exactly is your angle in our little arrangement?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You don't need to know that,” Greenfield argued as the van started moving. As me moved closer and closer to the city itself, I saw that I had been wrong before. Port-Au-Prince was hell. “You just need to know that we're here to make sure that you get where we want you and that you play nice. You just do as we say and make business as usual and then we'll make sure you stay in business as usual. That's it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “That easy?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Never,” Greenfield put it bluntly. “But you can handle it.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “But I don't trust CIA spooks like you,” the van turned away from the city. “Maybe I've got a better idea.” We pulled into an empty lot and the van stopped. Verne pulled a pistol on us and ordered, “Get out of my van.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Greenfield rolled his eyes, “Christ, you're even stupider than you look.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “<i>Get. Out.</i>” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I looked over at Greenfield and sighed. We did as we were told. The bodyguards drew submachine guns from their jackets and kept them trained on us. Greenfield tried to reason, “Look, you shoot us and my boys will find you. What are you getting out of this?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “On your knees,” the Aussie said calmly. He pulled a flare from his jacket, lit it, and threw it to the ground. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, damn, you're selling us out,” Greenfield cut it sarcastically as we got down on our knees with our hands to our heads. “You think we haven't seen this before? You're being played.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Shut up,” Verne ordered. I knew that he was doing this stupidly. For one, he had failed to retrieve our sidearms. For two... when does this ever actually work out? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> You guessed it: never.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, from the shadows, a group of men dressed in Russian special operations uniforms emerged. They had their weapons, which were standard carbine AKs, drawn and ready to shoot at whatever. One man in their group, however, had no AK. This man wore the same uniform as the rest, but instead of a military-ready, tight-sphinctered combat strut, he pranced like an officer. With a thick Russian accent, the officer asked, “These the guys?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, this is them.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “How we know for sure? What proof you have?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You didn't ask for proof. Just my CIA spook friends.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “We give you half.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Half?”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Half.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No, you'll pay me full. CIA blokes like these aren't easy to come by. We got what you wanted-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You not give proof, we not give money. Simple.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Now, hold on just a minute-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The Russian officer snapped his fingers and his men opened fire. Both bodyguards and Verne went down in a snap. The officer didn't even flinch. I was impressed. We had been given a lot of training to resist fear, but I have to admit... being a Russian prisoner for espionage was not exactly somewhat I wanted to do. We had all heard stories of the prisons and labor camps. Such horrors. And to think... we were going to that for free.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But then, something happened.... the officer spoke in a clear accent with a touch of New Jersey, “Well, that was a bit easier than I expected?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Wait, what the hell?” Greenfield came to his feet. “What just happened?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Our orders were to kill Verne. You were the bait. You did good.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “The hell? Are you kidding me?” Greenfield snapped. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “We told him that we were Russians and wanted to buy some American spies. Just so happens that you were in the neighborhood doing your stupid ugly duckling thing. It all worked out.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You couldn't have told us?” Greenfield clenched his fist as I came to my feet. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Couldn't risk you knowing.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, you couldn't risk us?” Greenfield was pissed. I decided it best to let him argue it out. He was the better talker. I was always more of a partner to his lead. As they argued, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pack of Camels and lit one. I puffed long and I puffed hard. A good cigarette can- </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;">My neck suddenly burst with indescribable pain to the sound of a gunshot. As my legs buckled, more gunfire erupted. I saw that it was Verne. He had survived his previous wounds and turned to strike one last vengeance. Why on me? Simple. I was the easiest target. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal;"> From my experience in medicine, I knew that the bullet had hit spots where I wouldn't recover. I knew death was only seconds away. Greenfield soon stood over me and coolly, “Hey, John, look, you're gonna be okay, we're gonna get you-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> With my last breath, I muttered, “</span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Craig Howard.</span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;">” My real name. </span> </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-63384620284377979272011-01-27T23:55:00.003-05:002011-01-28T00:02:42.163-05:00week forty-two: crash (rewrite)<span style="font-style: italic;">Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in Story a Week history, I give you a "double-feature" of shorts. Not only will there be a rewrite of week thirteen's story, "<a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/07/week-thirteen-crash.html">Crash</a>," but there is also a poem, which you can find <a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2011/01/we-sat-there-thinking-about-end-of.html">here</a>. I hope you enjoy them both!<br /><br />--WA Ross<br /><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In the smell of rubber's smoke and engine's ash awoke Lillian Schuster. Breath came solemn as her lungs moved like rusted iron. Before her, beyond the shattered windshield, was the grayed Thursday afternoon sky. In her right mind, she would have right then realized that her Dodge Minivan had been seared in half and faced the clouds. In her right mind, she would have remembered the accident that had happened only minutes before. And in her right mind, she would have remembered her daughter who rode in the rear seat. But instead, Lillian remembered the groceries she set out for. What did she need? Skim milk, white eggs, wheat flour, Dawn natural- oh, God. Oh, <i>God</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Her leg. What the hell? Why did her leg hurt so much? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Lillian looked down to her thigh and learned that deductive reasoning was completely unnecessary in determining the source of the pain. Through her leg protruded a steel rod and at its base emerged more blood than any human should live to see. She nearly faded from consciousness yet again, but pain throbbing her face snapped her to. When Lillian put her hand to her cheek, the hurt escalated to unbelievable levels. And why? Glass. All over her delicate, once-beautiful features rest splinters of the once-unified windshield. Blood and shards painted her soft, scraped hands. From her eyes burst a horrified tear.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Why was this happening? Why the hell was this happening? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Everything in life had been going do perfectly... or at least as perfectly as possible. While Lillian stayed at home to play mom, her husband, Robert, worked hard in the world of graphic design and earned them a better than decent living. Barring the occasional fight, their marriage thrived hitch-free. And their daughter, Nicole... oh, Nicole. She was the epitome of adorable, the definition of childhood innocence, and the embodiment of everything a parent could want out of a five-year-old little girl. And it was in these happier thoughts that Lillian remembered...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Oh my God.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Nicole. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Oh, no. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Lillian tried her very hardest to look back to where her daughter had been sitting, but a razor sharp pain struck each time. The side of her neck had been cut. Fighting both the pain in her neck and her lungs, she forced down a deep breath and turned back. She screamed in desperate hurt as she felt her skin tearing open. But despite the hell fighting to overpower this poor mother, Lillian managed to turn and see that the only thing behind her was smoldered earth and ragged steel. Her head snapped back to face the dashboard. She could only look on. She could only look on to a future she knew held no Nicole and... maybe no Robert. Because there would be no Lillian. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> No. She could not operate under the assumption of death and she knew it. With resolve and courage she had learned from her CPR training, she pushed aside all thoughts of mortality and searched herself for what is important: Nicole. Using power she did not have, Lillian drew in breath and then shouted, “</span><i>NICOLE</i><span style="font-style: normal;">!” It was a single bellow. Everything she had was expended in a single cry. There could not be another scream. If by some miracle- </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Why are you sideways, mommy?” an innocent, all too familiar voice asked. Could it be?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Lillian turned to her left to see none other than little Nicole standing beside her looking so inquisitive. As per her usual habits, Nicole's finger was in her mouth; almost giving way to overlook the splashes of blood staining her pink flowered overalls. Lillian smiled at seeing her daughter again, but her first reaction was, of course, “Sweetie, you need to get your finger out of your mouth.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Okay, mommy,” Nicole did as she was told. “Are we still going to the store?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No, sweetie, listen, I need you to go find my purse and bring it to me,” Lillian told her daughter. Her phone was in there. If she could just call 911....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Why can't </span><i>you</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> go get it?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mommy can't get up right now, Nicole, now please just go do it,” she grimaced at the shooting pain in her neck. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “</span><i>Oh</i><span style="font-style: normal;">-kay,” the young girl sighed as she happily hopskotched her way around the wreckage. How in the world she managed to keep so gleeful was beyond Lillian's understanding, but she guessed that it was because of her childish mind not quite having a grasp on the situation. At this point, Lillian needed her daughter to help her. She would have to hope that this mentality would keep up. There was no way Lillian could deal with both her own injuries and a helpless five-year-old girl. It simply could not be done. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Here you go, mommy,” Nicole said as she held out Lillian's purse. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Could you reach inside and grab mommy's phone for me, pumpkin?” Lillian asked of her daughter. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Nicole hummed something or another as she reached inside and fundled around. After about thirty seconds, she pulled out Lillian's Blackberry cell phone. She reached out her hand, “Here you go, mommy.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Thank you, darling,” Nicole strained as she took the phone and dialed in 911.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I want to go home.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hush, sweetie-” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“911 emergency.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Help, my car's crashed and-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Can I get your name please?”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Schuster. Lillian Schuster.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“And where are you at?”</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> She told the operator the last mile marker she had seen. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Okay, now describe the situation for me, please. Try to remain calm.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“I was driving down the highway with my daughter and then I remember...” flashes entered her mind. Something crashed into her rear and the next she knew, she spun out of control. There was a feeling of flying through the air and then sudden impact. Lillian recounted everything, including her current situation. As she talked, she looked over to her daughter, who sat Indian-style and sang some children's show tune... but something was amiss... and then it hit her, “Oh, God, Nicky, sweetie, where's your </span><i>foot</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?!” </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Nicole's right foot was completely absent. A bloody stump was all that remained. By some miracle, the bleeding must have stopped.... Nicole looked down at her absent extremity and quietly replied, “I'm tired mommy.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Nicky, listen to mommy, </span><i>where is your foot</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I left it in my shoe, mommy.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Lillian could not help but smile at her daughter. Part of her felt sorry for her daughter not understanding what had just happened, for having such ignorance, but the greater part was relieved to know that innocence and simplicity prevailed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Ma'am? Ma'am are you there?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Yes, yes, I am,” Lillian sighed as she suddenly realized just how tired she had become. The land of nightmare and sweet slumber beckoned. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“I've dispatched an ambulance to your location, they're on their way.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Okay, we'll wait... I think I'll just close my eyes and-” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“No, ma'am, listen, you can</i><span style="font-style: normal;">not</span><i> do that.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Just... so...” Lillian yawned, “tired....”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Hey, ma'am, could you tell your name again?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Schuster... Lillian Schuster.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Okay, Lillian, please listen to me. You cannot fall asleep for any reason. You need to stay with me, alright?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Alrigh... I'll try.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Do you have a favorite poem or a song? I need you to think of something and recite it for me, okay?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Lillian's lungs solidified more and more by the second. Breath became impossible. And her eyes... they were weighed down with anvils. But she needed to talk to the operator. Whoever it was knew what they were doing. But what to recite? And then she heard her daughter singing to herself, and Lillian joined in: </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Jesus loves me, this I know. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “For the Bible tells me so</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “Little to ones to Him belong</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “They are weak</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “But He is strong. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “Yes, Jesus loves me.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “Yes, Jesus loves me. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “Yes, Jesus loves me.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> “For the Bible tells me so. </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">As the song faded away, as their voices died from singing to silence, Lillian forgot everything about the 911 operator listening in. Was she talking to someone? Did anyone care? Lillian did not know. She did not care. She forgot everything important. Her once iron will gave in to the constant assault of inevitability. Lillian's eyes closed. But her last thought was to her daughter. She said, “Mommy's going to take a little nap now.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Okay, mommy,” Nicole watched as her mother's eyes drifted into sleep. And then into death. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But Nicky would not know. She would never know that her mother had just passed on. Would she go to heaven? Or hell? Or would she wind up in oblivion? Nicole did not know. Nicole did not even think such things. These questions were beyond her years and comprehension. In her mind, she saw the disaster that had just consumed their lives, but it was all so trivial to her little brain. These were just circumstances, just occurrences. They had no matter. So she paid them no heed and instead wondered where her stuffed tiger had gone. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Nicole brought herself up and began to search. Mr. Stripes? Mr. Stripes, where are you? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And there he was. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> She picked up her beloved stuff being and gave it a great, big hug. Sympathy felt good. She would never know why she needed sympathy. Nevertheless, Mr. Stripes was there to comfort her. And Mr. Stripes was there to keep her mind away from the horrors of her ever-limiting existence. She looked into its eyes and saw stillness, but in such stillness, she found tranquility... what a perfect time to lie down. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Nicole let herself drop to the crash-tainted ground. She curled into a fetal position around her prized best friend and put her thumb into her mouth. Mommy said not to do that, but Nicole did not care. It felt good. It felt so very good. Closing her eyes felt good as well. As she fell away, Nicky wondered what she might dream of. But little did she know that dreams were of a time passed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The cruel, cruel world left little Nicky Schuster behind never to see her years.<br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The poem, "We Sat There Thinking About the End of the World," included with this week's post can be found <a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2011/01/we-sat-there-thinking-about-end-of.html">here</a>. </span><br /></p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-42825674654705273902011-01-27T23:54:00.000-05:002011-01-27T23:55:38.597-05:00We Sat There Thinking About the End of the WorldWe sat there thinking about the end of the world<br />Staring up at the stars<br />Pondering the end of all things<br />the end of all life<br />the end of all love<br />innocence? Already gone.<br />Happiness? Dead long ago.<br /> <br /><br />We sat there thinking about the end of the world<br />Will it be apocalypse<br />Like the kind from the realm above?<br />Fire and holy death<br />Judgment and cleansing<br />Axiom? Just one.<br />Hope? Gone long ago.<br /><br />We sat there thinking about the end of the world<br />Will all simply vanish<br />Through eons of monotony? <br />Existence goes on<br />It merely goes on<br />Aspire? Nowhere left to go<br />Beauty? Really means nothing<br /><br />We sat there thinking about the end of the world<br />No way through is perfect. <br />Trapped in inevitable<br />death coming our way.<br />Forced into meaning<br />Choice? You really have not one.<br />Death? So inescapable.Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-52671339352584023152011-01-21T03:13:00.003-05:002011-01-21T03:18:37.797-05:00week forty-one: insomnia<span style="font-style: italic;">I am plagued with the curse of insomnia. I found this in an old notebook of mine just a little while ago and had forgotten all about. I imagine that it was written at about five in the morning during some sleepless night. It's another poem and it sums up my experience with the matter quite well. Have you ever suffered insomnia? Let me know.<br /><br />-- WA Ross<br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br />Home after a long night<br />Finally, finally home<br />Nothing going right<br />Not at all<br /><br />Getting tired of putting<br />up with all this<br />so much<br />too much<br />for<br />one <br />man<br />to handle<br /><br />Feels like the <br />weight<br />of the world<br />rests<br />solely<br />on my shoulders<br /><br />And there's so much to do.<br /><br />Climb in bed<br />mind racing<br />mind goes here<br />mind goes there<br />everywhere<br /><br />stop<br /><br />stop<br /><br />stop thinking<br />just rest<br />sleep<br /><br />There's nothing left to do<br />tonight<br /><br />Sleep<br />Go to<br />sleep<br /><br />That song<br />that one <br />you like it<br />not your favorite<br />but<br />it will<br />not <br />stop<br /><br />the questions asked<br />some you want to<br />keep forever<br />others... you<br />just want <br />to kill<br /><br />And the <br />whole time<br />you just<br />want<br />to <br />scream<br /><br />But you can't<br />you're trapped<br />between here<br />and<br />slumber<br /><br />One <br />two<br />three <br />four<br />five AM<br />no rest<br /><br />eyes open<br />eyes close<br />eyes squint<br />nothing but<br />wakeful misery<br /><br />Quiet! Silence!<br />I want<br />nothing <br />more<br />than sleep<br /><br />The dawn creeps<br />No!<br />No, no!<br />No!<br />Is it too late?<br />Too late to rest?<br />Yes.<br /><br />Yes, because<br />you know<br />that tomorrow's<br />misery has<br />just<br />begun<br /><br />Seven AM<br />you give up<br />you give up<br /><br />Can't think straight <br />What am I doing?<br />Who's in the mirror<br />with those bloodshot<br />eyes?<br /><br />The dark circles<br />can't be me<br />but it is<br />but it is<br /><br />This is insomnia<br />This is my life<br />welcome to my <br />personal<br />hell.Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-91461839603867791222011-01-14T00:42:00.002-05:002011-01-14T00:53:49.084-05:00week forty: lennox<span style="font-style: italic;">Sometimes inspiration is a slow beast that you have to poke, prod, slap, shove, nudge, and shout at to get going. There are times, however, when inspiration is a raging bull that you can't stop. That's what happened for this week's story. A few months back, I had this idea for a story and I started. But before I finished, I had also a written an outline for a novel using the same basic concept. As a sort of "demo," I finished up the short story and here it is. I was looking through my material just a week or so ago and I found this. I had forgotten all about it.<br /><br />Anyway, this week is a proof-of-concept. It's a sneak peak to something much greater going on my head. The tentative story of Bob Lennox is one about faith and belief. In the end, I found it to be a modern telling of Noah's Ark. Without any further psycho-babble from Mr. Ross, here it is. Here is a scrap of my imagination for your review.<br /><br />--WA Ross<br /><br /></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">2015:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Everybody called him a freak and they were right. Bob knew they were right. Bob was at Wal-Mart, doing his shopping. He had just gotten his paycheck and was going to spend it the same way he spent every paycheck: buying as much as possible. His cart was laden with Spam and all the non-perishable food he can find. Of course, this time he cut back just a little. He had another essential purchase to make. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As soon as he checked out, he got into his pickup truck and made his way to his local gun dealer. In Bob's state, there isn't much regulation on guns so he can buy almost whatever he wants. He goes into the store and looks at every single gun. He already has a couple of shotguns, a few handguns, and a couple of rifles but this day he wants something special. And there it is on the rack, an AR-15 assault rifle, just like they use in the military except it isn't fully-automatic. Bob wishes he could get something automatic, but the law is the law. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It's all going to be gone soon though. And Bob Lennox is going to be ready for it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He lives on a ranch just outside the city. It isn't a large plot of land, but it's enough. Bob grows vegetables on it, but his biggest project was what had everyone calling him crazy. Underneath his small home rests to this day, a fallout shelter. It's deep underground, most would estimate about five stories. Bob dug the whole thing himself. Inside are all the essentials: years worth of food, guns, electrical generators, games, a working radio and television, and even a bathroom with a separate plumbing system. It's all very impressive since Bob made it himself, even the elevator that takes you down. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Bob loaded everything onto his elevator, which sits in the hallway next to his bedroom, and goes down. The first thing he does is load the AR-15's clips and put it in the relatively large gun room. There were about forty different weapons down there. To name a few, there were several Remington 700's, Mossberg 500's, Kimber Eclipses, and a few hunting rifles. If need be, Bob knew he could supply a small army. He put away the food and then realized he would need more. There were sufficient supplies to last about two years for himself, but Bob had designed his shelter for multiple people and he wanted to save as many as possible. From what?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Nuclear fallout.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> No one would believe Bob. He went to church every Sunday and every day he would talk about it. He told everyone he knew about his shelter, about his belief that a nuclear winter was coming, and how he would save as many as he could. But they wouldn't listen. None of them would hear. Nobody wanted to believe that the world as they knew it would end very soon. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But to Bob, it's too obvious. The enemies of America have been gathering nuclear weapons and whatever they can find for too long. The United States is done for; the only hope is to gather and hide. Victory isn't possible, but survival is. Bob felt sorry for everyone who ignored him. They'd all be dead or hopeless very soon. This isn't a question of <i>if</i>, it's a question of <i>when</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Bob </span><i>knew</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> it would happen. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> His therapist had spent years trying to talk him out of it. But it was obvious that Bob didn't have a real psychological problem. He could be described as delusional, but was obviously capable of completely rational thought. Social seclusion and awkwardness were problems, but not really concerns. But just like he kept faith in God, Bob kept faith in his belief of the world's ending and worked tirelessly on his fallout shelter. It was never complete. Bob always added something new and was always stocking it. He had no goal other than to save as many people as possible. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Bob, we need to talk,” Pastor Hughes said as he grinned the smile only a pastor can make. Bob already knew what this was about. “Look, you're scaring people. You've been at this for years, but the new people don't know what to think about all this nuclear apocalypse stuff. Now, look, I respect your beliefs, I really do.” No you don't. “But I don't want to turn new people away because just one guy believes the world is going to end. Could you maybe... I don't know, just </span><i>stop</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> with this whole apocalypse business?” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Bob looked to the floor and replied quietly, “No, pastor, I can't.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Hughes continued his false smile, “Why not, Bob?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Because it's gonna happen” Bob replied firmly. “It's gonna happen and everyone needs to know. I'm gonna save as much people as I can and we're gonna survive. If you ain't gonna help me, fine, but please don't stand in my way.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'm not standing in your way, Bob, I just need you to turn it down a notch. Or several.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Bob climbed into his pickup truck and drove away. He wasn't angry; not at all. Instead, he felt pity for his pastor. They were all so closed-minded to it all. Then again, Bob understood. He had no proof whatsoever that this was going to happen; only speculation. Bob was just a janitor, not the kind of analyst who could prove anything. Bob had only one real talent and that was dedication. Once he fixated on a cause, he'd stick with it. Even as a kid, Bob was like this. During his middle-school science fair, he would lock himself up for hours working on his model of the solar system. It wound up being perfectly accurate and exactly to scale. But still, Bob only passed the class with a C. He just isn't an intelligent man. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Mopping floors and scrubbing toilets, Bob worked very hard at his job. Because of his natural dedication, the office building he cleaned was spotless; impressively so. He told some of the people at work about the coming apocalypse, but generally kept to himself. His manager had warned him that coming death was just not a workplace topic. Although Bob disagreed, his manager held all the chips. So, he quietly complied and went back to mopping. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And it was on a very simple, common night as Bob drove home in his pickup, that he saw a blinding flash and heard a deafening roar. When he looked behind him, orange glowed from the city behind him. My God, it's happened. Many men would smile because they were right, but not Bob. He knew what he had to do. He floored the accelerator on his pickup and raced home. Several more flashes followed. His city was sure to be completely decimated. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Bob pulled the car into his drive way and opened his door. He grabbed a sign he had made years ago that simply read, “FALLOUT SHELTER: GO INSIDE AND PICK UP RED PHONE.” In his living room, was a red phone which connected directly downstairs to the shelter. Bob was absolutely thorough with his planning. When a survivor would arrive, he could call Bob and be allowed into the shelter. He hopped in the elevator and rode it down. Once he arrived, he checked everything. The food supply was ample and safe. The beds were made and ready. The entertainment rooms were set. Finally came the guns. Bob went into his massive gun safe and grabbed a handgun for himself. That was it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He rushed to the entertainment center and turned on the TV. All of the channels were dead. The radios were silent. It's really here. The world is over. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-83236777767777531012011-01-07T01:35:00.004-05:002011-01-07T01:44:10.164-05:00week thirty-nine: ronnie<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week is an embodiment of the original vision for Story a Week</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">What I mean by that is that this story is raw, unpolished, and very much a first draft. I normally wouldn't introduce a piece like this, but I have to confess that lately I've been struggling to get material. "Ronnie" is kind of special in that I've finally got something down. I hope you enjoy reading it as much I enjoyed getting back into that creative stream. Tell me what you think in the comments section or shoot me an e-mail. I'd love to hear your fuming criticisms and sarcastic praise.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">--WA Ross</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I first noticed he was gone almost first thing in the morning. I went upstairs to get his laundry, it was about seven-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, and I went into his room, he was gone. Just like that. Ronnie was gone. My Ronnie was gone. All of his things were left behind except for some clothes, his keys, and his money. I would have thought he had been kidnapped or something like that, except that a note was left there on his bed that nothing more than, “<i>Carpe diem!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A lot of things went through my mind. At first, I thought that maybe he had just gone out early or there was something was forgetting about. I picked up his hamper, which seemed abnormally light and brought it down to the laundry room. I set breakfast on the stove and then sat at the table to wait for him to come home. I just sat there reading the paper for a good two hours before I called his cell phone. That was my second warning flag. He had left it behind on the table. Ronnie had never forgotten his phone before. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It's so strange. He never gave any warning before he left. He never seemed like he was terribly unhappy and he was never in with a bad crowd. I thought for sure that I was raising him right. His grades were good, his friends seemed to like him, and I didn't mind his friends. Whenever I set a curfew, he would follow it within margin. Except for the odd mishap, Ronnie never got in trouble. I was so proud of him. I'm still proud of him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> He had just turned sixteen two weeks before. I couldn't afford to buy him a car like most of the other kids. I'm a single mom. I work two terrible jobs, but Ronnie never complained about it. He was never vain, never selfish, he never asked for too many things. And usually when he asked, I would give. Not always. I'll never be able to afford “always.” But I tried. By God, I tried. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Ronnie's father, Avery, left almost immediately after I told him I was pregnant. He skipped town and I've never heard from him again. I can't say that I want to. It takes a real piece of work to leave like that. I had a hard time with men for a while. I'll be the first to admit that I slept around and I'll be the first to admit that I was stupid. I drank too. Finally, my stupidity got the best of me and one bad contraceptive later, I'm pregnant. I could have and I should have stopped. Avery was the worst of all the men I slept with. Sometimes I wonder what happened to Avery... but that always results in me losing my mood. I used to cry over it, but then I would remember Ronnie. Such a blessing. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I eighteen, I had left home to live in Los Angeles. I wanted to be away from my family. But by twenty-two, after my hard life had gotten me with child, I hopped on a bus to go home. I didn't want to abort the child, but at that time I certainly had no intention of raising it with a crap in the world. My intention was to go home, have the baby, and dump it on my mom. But on the bus, a miracle happened....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I sat next to a pastor. At first, I thought he was just a nice man trying to get by the hours-long ride with small-talk, but it didn't take me long to realize that there was something more to him. He listened as I sobbed through my miserable life story. When I finished, I felt bad for going on so long and I asked him what he did. He didn't let us talk about him for very long. He kept himself very interested in me; in my story. He loved me, but not like Avery and all those other men said they said. It was something more real, something I had never experienced. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And suddenly I wanted to have that love. I wanted to have that love and I wanted to give that love. That's when I gave my life to Christ and everything changed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I got home and I made the baby in my womb my top priority. My parents saw the change in my life and they were amazed. I brought them to church a few times and soon, we were your regular church-going family. Very soon after that, I had Ronnie. I gave him the best I could. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> And now he's gone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> It's been four years and I haven't anything from him. Not a phone, not a letter, nothing....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I wonder what I did wrong. The most obvious thing would be that he never had a father. I skipped that step, I skipped looking for one, because I wanted to focus on raising my son. I gave up a lot for him. I gave up my stupid attempts at a music career, I gave up looking for a man... I gave up practically anything for myself for Ronnie. He knows this, he knows how hard I've worked and how it's all been for him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I did everything for him. Maybe it was too much. Maybe I was too controlling, maybe I was too demanding, maybe I was too there for him. I mean, I could hardly stand the thought of being away from him, but I don't <i>think</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I was too severe. I tried so hard to do everything that maybe I tried too hard. I don't know. I can't know. Ronnie can't tell me. He's gone. He's just left. He's gone....</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I pray for him every morning. I pray for him every night. I pray that he might one day come back. I pray that if he doesn't, he's alive out there and happy with what he's doing. I think sometimes that maybe I just needed to be out of the picture for whatever it is he wanted to do. Sometimes I think that maybe I filled my purpose in his life and needed to be discarded. But I know that isn't true.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I know that ultimately Ronnie made the wrong choice in his life. I know that ultimately he made a very selfish decision to leave me and “seize the day”. A few times I've tried my very hardest to be angry with him. A few times I've tried my very hardest to forget about him and move on. There were even a few times when I've tried to believe that my Ronnie is dead. But I can't. I can't hate him or bury him. I love him. He's my son. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Today, I found that I'm still working the same two jobs and I'm still living in the same house. I find myself still, even after four years, going into Ronnie's room to get his laundry. I can't help but cook for two when I make dinner. Whether he intends it or not, Ronnie is always going to be there with me. I can never forget him and I can never stop hoping. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Am I delusional? Am I crazy? Should I give up? I don't know. I just want my son back. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Ronnie, come home. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Seven years after the sudden disappearance of her son, Amy Laughlin still was not ready to give up. When the economic recession hit, she lost one of her jobs and eventually her home. She quit her second job and moved back in with her parents. It all became too much for her. Depression sank in and took control. Against her will, Amy's parents enrolled her in a six-week psychiatric program. Hope seemed distant for her deteriorating mental state. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Seven years to the day of Ronnie's disappearance, Amy found herself sitting in front to the television at St. Michael's. There sat she clad in a pink bathrobe, frizzled hair, and heaps of medication weighing her mind. On the screen was the local news. Amy was only supposed to watch cartoons and happy things, but she had figured out how to watch whatever channel she wanted. If she kept the volume down, then the attending nurse might not notice. Amy watched because she hoped to find some word about her missing son. Maybe... just maybe...</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Miss Laughlin,” a deep voice said sternly. “You know aren't supposed to watch-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Quiet, Ronnie might come on,” Amy shook as she waved him off. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Come on, let's go do something else,” the deep voice suggested. To Amy, he was just a voice. Her world was the television and nothing else. Her schizophrenia had gone almost completely out of control, but medication kept her at least partially in the real world. She would have to focus in order to accept that others existed; others besides Ronnie. And in this moment, her focus was on the television. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Shush, go away!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Miss Laughlin, come on, we're going somewhere else,” the voice combined itself with a feeling on her shoulder. A very firm one. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The news report, which was almost completely useless, ended and the commercials began. “Alright, I'll come but you have to shush,” Amy told the voice as she stood from her chair. She kept her eye on the TV. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “How about we go draw a nice picture?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Wait!” Amy snapped and then came back to the TV. She dropped to her knees and intently watched. “That's him! That's my Ronnie! There he was! He was on TV! He was!” The commercial was for a local music festival which featured various local up-and-coming artists and washouts. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Miss Laugh-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “No! Wait! He'll come back!” Amy watched like a hawk. The editing was fast and exciting, but... had she really...?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “We have to go.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Shut up! Shut up! I see him! I see my Ronnie!” Amy burst into jovial tears as she threw her arms into the air. “We have to go! We have to see him! He's there! He's alive! He's my Ronnie! Oh, oh! Oh!” There was a young man who played something on an electric guitar. He was there for less then five seconds, but it was enough. Amy simply <i>knew</i> it was him. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-56850686096012108452010-12-31T03:10:00.002-05:002010-12-31T03:12:29.394-05:00week thirty-eight: better off dead<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>This story is a "prequel" to <a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/11/week-thirty-two-ccu.html">this one</a>, although the other is meant to be read first. I recommend reading<a href="http://www.storyaweek.org/2010/11/week-thirty-two-ccu.html"> week thirty-two</a> first as it handles most of the exposition and setting.<br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>London, England</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>The year 2247 (approximated)</i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <i>“Hello?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Hello, this Io with RoboLub, the finest makers of-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Yeah, I know what you make. Look, you called here last week-” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Oh, I do apologize, but sir, we have some brand new deals on our best products, including our patented MechLube XL with Nanocleansing technol-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Click</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Io looked up at the clock. Twelve-thirty. She had only to work one more hour....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Luck, it seems, comes only in limited supplies, and, ironically, only comes to those fortunate enough to get it. There are some who are lucky and blessed in abundant amounts. There are some who have exorbitant amounts of money, fame, wealth, or power; such people are inherently very lucky people. These, people, however, are not far from the luckiest of them all. The luckiest, the most fortunate, and the most blessed, are those who have love. Whether it be family love or the more romantic variety, the most fortunate are truly the most loved. Unfortunately, for Io Lewis, her luck ran low. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> She had nothing more than a small, two-bedroom apartment in London. Her mother, father, and brother had all passed away in a car accident two years before and since struggled making connections with anyone. Io, however, managed a late shift job as a telephone salesman for a robotic machinery lubrication company that operated in both London and Los Angeles. To save costs, RoboLub, inc, which was originally based in London, had all of its marketing offices based in the English capital. Since Los Angeles was in such a different time zone, RoboLub had to hire late workers such as Io.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Without complaint or a sigh, she looked down at her list of calls for the day and found that she had only one left before she filled her quota for the day. With a faint grin, she pushed back her ash blond hair and dialed in the number. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A man answered, <i>“You've reached Peterson Brothers Robotics Corporation, this is Crius. How may I help you?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Hello, this is Io with RoboLub.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Hello.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Yes, we have some exciting offers for you, Mr. Crius!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Go ahead, I'll listen.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Is your nanite-based lubricant losing effectiveness faster than you'd like? Or do you feel as if you're paying too much for your lubricant?”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“We actually don't use nanotech in our lubricants, Miss Ion.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Io.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“What?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“It's Io.”<br /> </span><i>“Sorry, Io, look our company builds our machinery from scratch and one of our selling points is that we don't use nanites for any purpose. I </i><span style="font-style: normal;">am </span><i>looking for a new lubricant, so do you have any offers on any non-nanite lubricant?” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Io cringed, “I'm not allowed to negotiate on the price right now, so you'll have to pay the standard fare on our regular lubri-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Well, that's too bad... the company I'm with right now is giving a small discount and I'm going to have to stick with that, Miss Io.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Oh, please, I haven't made a single sale all day and-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“I can't help you. Goodbye.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Wait-”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Click</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Io disconnected her headset and threw her arms down to her side. She looked her reflection on the small mirror by her computer screen and asked, “What's wrong with you Io? Why can't you do this?!” She made very few sales and wondered whether she would make enough off of her commission to keep her apartment. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, an all too familiarly raspy voice said, “It's like they're getting ruder, isn't it?” It was the man they all called Echo. Everyone in the office knew that he had a thing for Io... even Io.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Sometimes,” she sighed as she began collecting her things. “Other times I think it's just me.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You think it's just you,” Echo scratched his head. “You heading out?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No point in sticking around; I just finished off my list for the day.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, no point, me too,” Echo quivered. It was clear to plenty of people that Echo had never had much of a chance with women and that Io was his best shot. The man tried his best, and Io felt bad for turning him down, but Echo was a good four years older than she was. His belly was growing rotund, his head shined more and more each week with pattern baldness, and he was, frankly, annoying. “Say, why don't I walk you home? It gets dangerous out this late, what with the cyborgs lurking.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You're sweet, Echo, but I have an errand to run,” Io stood and put on her jacket. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “An errand? I can go with you; I don't mind,” Echo pleaded. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Io tried her best to be nice, and she hated turning people down, but... “Look, I'm sorry, but I'd rather go alone tonight, alright?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Okay, I understand,” he slumped and then turned back to his own desk. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hey, you can walk me home another night, okay?” Io tried. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Yeah, sure, another night.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Io felt terrible for disappointing him, but she knew that there were better fish in the sea for her. She still had a serviceable figure, her eyes were a pleasing shade, and just a few days ago, a not-so-unattractive man had given her a... </span><i>look</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It may have been nothing, but the prospect was enough to brighten her day. She checked one last time that her computer was off, grabbed her bag, and then left without looking back. She left hurriedly for two reasons. One was because she did not want to see the saddened Echo and another was that her boss terrified her. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Echo looked at his own list and noticed that he still had one more number. He dialed it in and then hung up. Hopefully his boss would only see that he had dialed it and would not notice that he said nothing. This trick usually worked. Echo shut down his computer and then gathered his things. Before making his way out, he stopped over by Io's desk. He was not sure what he was doing; it was simply something he did. But quickly he noticed that she had left behind her hairbrush. He took it and put it in his bag. Echo decided that he would give it to her on the next day. She would be so happy!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Io made her way to the small supermarket between home and work. It was a simple place with really on the necessities of such a store, but it suited her needs. She only needed milk and another canister of MassShake, which was a glorified protein shake. Io did her best to keep in shape, though it was difficult on her budget with such a small place to live and such a messed up schedule. Somehow, she managed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> It was dark out and the store was mostly empty. Io made her way to the back where refrigerators were and searched for the milk. She opened the door glass door and sighed when she discovered that they were out of skim. To herself, she whispered, “Fine, two percent it is.” She took the milk and turned around to find a strange thirty-something man standing behind her, simply staring. “Can I help you?”<br /> He shook his head, “Oh, sorry, I just need to get to the milk.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Right,” she grimaced. What a creep... the weirdest thing was shat she had seen him before somewhere. She could not say where.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Io walked away with more fleet to her foot. She found the protein shakes and then stopped to try and find the kind she liked. The brand was MassShake but she specifically wanted the strawberry flavor. It did not take her long to find it. She grabbed the canister and looked to where she had come from to find the man staring at her again. He quickly turned away and acted as though he was doing something else. Io hated being out late at night, but this was, sadly, necessity. So many creeps!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> She headed up the check out aisle and handed the cashier her products and credit card. The woman behind the register was almost always there. She and Io never really said anything to one another. As Io pondered this, she looked around the room and again found the man looking at her. When he noticed that Io had seen him, he shook and quickly made his out of the store. “Does he come here often?” Io asked the cashier.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Beats me, hon,” the cashier handed back the credit card then bagged the groceries. “Come back soon, darlin'.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, thanks,” Io took her things and walked out the door. Outside was the usual scary mess. There were small congregations of men who you knew were gang members and there other out who could only be described as desperate in so many ways. Io felt sorry for them, but knew there was nothing she could do. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> It was not long before she arrived at her apartment. She climbed the stairs to the fourth story and opened the door. Home sweet home. Everything was in its place and proper; that is to say that the place was a cluttered mess. Immediately, she made her way to the refrigerator and put the milk inside. She took off her jacket and then sighed. This was life. Yeah.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> For a moment, Io stopped and considered what she had left to do. She should probably straighten up, but the more she thought about it, the more she recalled just how tired out she was. It had been just another ordinary long day, but still, she was tired and bed sounded wonderful. She left her main room, which was all at once the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and went into her bedroom. Immediately, she unbuttoned her shirt and let it sink to the floor.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> And that was when she realized something was off.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Despite being in the comfort of her own home, she belt bare. Normally when one is improper, but alone and safe, they feel nothing, but Io felt a tinge of embarrassment. It was strange. She still wore her pants and a bra, but felt as if the world had just seen her naked. She shook her head and whispered, <i>“You're going crazy, Io.” </i>With an extra touch of awkwardness, she removed her pants. She simply could not shake that... <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">feeling</span></i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Io shook when she heard the knocking. Without thinking, she grabbed her bathrobe and covered herself. Her face flushed until she realized the person knocking was outside the door. She exhaled and rubbed her head. There was simply no way she could feel more ridiculous about herself and the way she was thinking. <i>“Nobody is watching you, Io. Nobody. You're alone.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>She went to her front door and pulled it right open. To her surprise, standing outside was the strange man from the grocery store. “What- what are you doing here? Who are you?” Io quivered.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “I am sorry,” the man said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Wha-?” Suddenly, a firm hand covered her mouth and another her stomach. She fought and squirmed, but the man came in took her arms. Io knew then who was watching her in her apartment. She was not alone after all. Oh, you fool. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> She fought until the needle pierced her neck. When it was pulled, she found herself growing weaker and weaker, her eyes getting heavier and heavier. Finally, there was no fight left. Her body gave out and she slipped from consciousness... never to return.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Echo changed his mind. He had to give Io the hairbrush as soon as possible. She would be impressed that he went out of his way to get it to her. And besides, she may need it for tomorrow. He had been by her place once when he had walked her home on one of her first days of work. After that, however, they never did it again. Echo knew how people felt about him. He knew about his weird habit of repeating what people said, but there were some things he could not help. He tried hard to fit in, but some things cannot be changed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> One of the reasons Echo too such a liking to Io was that she was one of the few people who, if she genuinely disliked him, at least had the decency to try and be nice. The people working for RoboLub were all minimum-wagers with attitudes and had no reason to put up a front. Io, however, was different. Many thought Echo was oblivious, but he knew how things were. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He climbed the stairs up to the fourth floor and walked down the hall, but stopped when he got the feeling that he was in the wrong building or the wrong floor. A strange man pushed a metal crate into the room he thought was Io's. The door closed behind him. Had she moved? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Echo pressed on anyway. Perhaps that was a delivery man of some kind and- but wait, what kind of delivery man makes his deliveries at this hour? And then it hit him. He rushed to her door and put his ear to it. He wasn't sure what he listening for, but he would know it, wouldn't he? He heard nothing more than the odd rattling around and almost decided that he was being paranoid... but then he heard the soft whirr of a drill. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Better safe the sorry. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He whipped out his mobile phone and dialed in the police. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Emergency services.” </i> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><i> </i>“Yes, hello, I think my friend is being turned into a cyborg and-” a firm hand took his cell phone and then crumpled it. Echo turned to find the strange man looking into his eyes. He gulped and then fainted. He was unconscious before he even hit the floor. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Cybernetic Contingencies Unit Officer Terrence Vicar sat outside his company Cadillac smoking a long cigar and drinking a stout cup of black coffee. A year before, it would have been a cigarette and the coffee would have been decaf. Somewhere down the line, however, he had discovered that long cigars not only had better flavor, but were also not quite as bad for the health. So, he switched. And just that year before, he had been trying to cut out caffeine, but came to discover that his late shift job required a good pick-me-up every now and then. Just getting through the night was difficult, but if something happened, Vicar needed to keep himself alert and ready. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> This was a bit of an odd time for Vicar. His old partner had just transferred to the homicide division and so Vicar was stuck alone until a replacement could come around. Vicar had been on the force just over twenty years and was a senior officer; probably the most experienced in the CCU. His new partner would be a young gun, someone who needed hands-on training from someone who had been there. Much to Vicar's dismay, that was him. As strange as it was though, he enjoyed the time he had partner-free. It made the job a bit more dull, but also a bit less aggravating. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>“Charlie Unit Six-Forty-Fourteen, we have a possible code two near your location,” </i>the radio from inside Vicar's Cadillac buzzed. <i>“Sending location to your GPS, please investigate.” </i>Vicar took no time to process this information; there was no need. He jumped right into his vehicle hit the gas. A code two meant that there was an active cyborg assimilation taking place. If the report was accurate, then some poor soul was being cut open to be transformed into one of those cybernetic monstrosities. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar's job was to kill these monstrosities.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Echo's eyes crept open. He looked up to see two people standing around a table working on... something. His vision was all fuzzy... but... no... there was blood all over. And was that? He focused and... no, no... it was Io. She was there sprawled on her table all cut open. The two people, one man and one woman, were operating on her; installing metal components. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Echo tried to scream. Echo tried to move. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> But he couldn't. He was tied. He was tied there and had to watch. Was he next? Oh no... He groaned and shook. The male looked over to him, said something to the female, then came over. A tear dripped down Echo's cheek. The man looked into his eyes and Roamer watched as his irises danced, which was one of the telltale signs for a cyborg. Oh God... poor Io....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER">…</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="CENTER"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar arrived at the apartment complex and used a set of advanced thermal/chemical binoculars to scan for cyborgs. The system was bulky and required a large power supply, but it was a good way of spotting a cybernetic. Vicar would never use one and then immediately pull the trigger. He hated depending on technology. By nature, his job depended on technological skepticism. This, however, was textbook. He could see the two people who seemed to be cyborgs standing around another person who lay on a table, likely being transformed. Vicar considered going up and after them, maybe he could save the person, but that was just stupid. If the cyborg were alone, that might have been an option, but he would be outnumbered against a pair of beings far superior to him. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He got back into his car and gave the signal for backup. He requested a full CCU SWAT team. Their ETA was twenty minutes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Not good enough.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar exhaled sharply as he popped his trunk. From it he withdrew his trusty old Mossberg compact shotgun and a few extra rounds of ammunition for his Smith & Wesson revolver. He thumbed in a full four rounds into the shotgun and then slammed the trunk shut. From his wallet, he took out his badge. He clipped it to his jacket so that none of the residents would open fire on the man open-carrying the shotgun. Time to go.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He rushed across street and into the building. Fortunately, it seemed that most of the residents were asleep or at least in their homes. Quietly, Vicar climbed the stairs until he reached the fourth floor, where he had spotted the cyborgs. He knew that they were in the apartment closest to the street. So Vicar walked down the dimly-lit hall until he found the right door. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Policy for the Cybernetic Contingencies Unit was to shoot first and ask questions later. No warrant was ever needed. If an officer could provide reasonable justification for opening fire, then he should. At first, Vicar tried to be an exception. At first, he tried his very best to only shoot when he was sure, but over time, he found that shooting first was easier. And that is what he will do here. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> With a mighty kick, Vicar kicked down the apartment door. Its hinges crumbled as the senior policemen stepped inside, shotgun raised. Standing directly across from him and across a table was a female, who held a drill in her hand. There was no doubt. Vicar pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared to life. The slug burst from the flaming barrel and flew to meet the woman at the end of the table. Her head exploded in a flurry of blood and electrical mayhem. Of her head, there was nothing left except that which was scattered and pooled all over the floor. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> As he pulled the pumping lever, Vicar checked the room for the second cyborg. Where was that cybernetic bast-</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Suddenly a mass slammed into his side. Vicar's body rushed to floor. When he hit the ground, his shotgun sprang from his hands. Vicar turned to find a creepy-looking man holding him down. The man's hand balled into a first and it hammered to Vicar's face. He spat blood as the same hands snaked around his neck and squeezed. He gasped for air. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> And then he remembered: his revolver. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> He reached down to his belt and felt his fingers wrap around the handgrip. Using all of his energy, he pulled it from the holster and brought it up to the cyborg's chest. He yanked the trigger. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>BOOM</i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> The cyborg recoiled and let up his grip very briefly before resuming. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>BOOM</i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar fired again. The cyborg squeezed tighter. The policeman angled the gun towards the cyborg's neck. This was the only sure-fire way to kill them. But he couldn't be sure of his aim....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Suddenly, he felt the pistol disappear from his hand. Vicar knew this was the end... until the cyborg's head exploded, leaving metal bits and blood all over Vicar's suit. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Gasping for air, Vicar pushed the cybernetic body off of him. Before him, he saw a hand. Vicar took it and it helped him to his feet. “Thanks, that one almost had me,” the policeman sighed as he brushed off his suit. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Almost had you,” the man who helped him said. “Yeah, they had me tied up, but I got free just in time.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That you did,” Vicar took his revolver back and holstered it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “That I did,” the man sighed. “But they got Io.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar turned to the table and the saw the woman lying there. Her head was cut open. There were metal components inside, some of them blinking in various colors. “Is that Io?” Vicar asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Yeah, that's Io,” the man told him. “I came to bring back her hair-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> <i>BOOM</i>. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar blasted Io through the skull.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “<i>What did you do that for?!” </i>The man exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “She was one of them,” Vicar reholstered his pistol. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “One of them,” the man sobbed. “She couldn't- you couldn't save her?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Look, what's your name, kid?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “People call me Echo.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> “Look, Echo, once you're one of... <i>them</i>... you can't turn back. They say that whispers of the old person live on, but they're trapped inside thinking thoughts that aren't theirs and doing things they don't want to do. She's better off dead, Echo. She's better off dead.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Vicar sighed as he went over and retrieved his shotgun. He took a good, long look around for his report. This would be a long one for sure. This night was bad... bad indeed, but Vicar knew he had seen worse. This was bloody and he had nearly been killed, but this was not the first time. He took a long cigar out of his jacket and lit it. The good thing about an encounter like this meant that he could turn in early. As he puffed, he realized that he regretted only one thing: that damn cup of coffee. Even if he went to bed, he knew he would never sleep. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> But perhaps coffee was not the only reason....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;" align="LEFT"> Echo stood over Io's body. Her face was mangled beyond recognition and her body was mutilated. Under his breath, he repeated over and over, <i>“Better off dead... better off dead...”</i></p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-75192908342102517152010-12-24T02:07:00.004-05:002011-03-25T16:29:49.303-04:00week 37: the adventures of humphrey holdsoworth and richard aldwinkle: christmas with mr. cody<p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This was a special project. With Christmas on the horizon, I knew that Story a Week would need to participate somehow. The answer became a Christmas special. At first, it was a concept about having a regular story with new characters centered around Christmas. But then my mind hit the point that part of Christmas is family. I'm already enjoying my real family this season, but there's another family that needs love: the Holdsworth family.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Holdsworth's have been around in my life for many, many years. They something of a staple in my writing. They've had a lot of time to be developed in my mind and I'm quite attached to them. Humphrey, Richard, and Dolores are very real to me.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Moving on, it became apparent that the Christmas special would need to be another Adventure of Humphrey Holdsworth and Richard Aldwinkle. And so it is. I could not be prouder of the result! Read on! I promise you'll love it!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Christmas time. Oh, Christmas time. Everyone loves it, don't they? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I most certainly do. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Oh, it's stressful, and, oh, it's chaotic, but it's Christmas. It's a time of giving, it's a time of friendship, and it's a time of family. I love it. And the stress and bloody hell that comes with it is all worth it. Sure, you doubt it while it's happening, but in the end, you're always filled with that cheery, fuzzy, Christmas-y feeling. And this was all especially true of last Christmas. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and all hell had broken loose at the Holdsworth home. The plan was to have a very simple family gathering with just a few of the relatives and, of course, Richard. Oh, Richard is my husband Humphrey's best friend. Somehow that mutt has managed to tag along with Humphrey his entire life; even somehow leeching off Humphrey's Oxford education. I'll never understand it, though I've tried. So, there'll be my father, Humphrey's parents, Richard and his wife, Delilah, Humphrey and I, and our son, Dennis. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I was already frustrated with the weather. I had hoped for a nice snow, but instead we got ourselves rained on. It almost never snows in London, but sometimes one can get their hopes up for the impossible. The results are always, of course, catastrophic. Still, I didn't let that get to me. I'm the wife, after all, and, even in our “modern household,” I have things to do. Humphrey can't make toast, much less prepare a goose and all that goes with it. For the evening dinner, I was preparing a roasted goose, a few vegetables, a pair of casseroles, and a ham. And also, I had to try and get the house in order. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Now, let's get this out of the way: I'm a perfectionist; especially when it comes to having company over. It is my house and I will have it presentable. I know that I let it get to my head and I know that I can be a pain in the buttocks about it, but once everything is perfect, I can really enjoy my Christmas. Part of the proverbial Christmas spirit for me is a job well done. Truth be told, I enjoy getting myself stressed out. It's a good kind of stress. And the payoff is always worthwhile. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As I chopped up a potato, Humphrey came into my kitchen and asked, “Honey, look, I understand you want things perfect, but do I have to wear this God-awful sweater?!” He pushed his glasses back up his nose. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Yes, Humphrey, we've talked about this,” I pulled over a second potato and began to chop away. I looked up to him and saw that red Christmas sweater. I suppose that had I been in my right mind, I would have seen that it was rather tacky. In fact, I know now that it </span><i>is</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> rather tacky. Nevertheless, having the family all wear a Christmas sweater was part of my vision of a perfect holiday. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “But it's so scratchy!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Put a shirt on underneath it,” I started chopping loudly, hoping he would notice that I had a knife. “Maybe a nice tie.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, but-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No buts,” I held the knife up as I took another potato. He would have to get the message this time. “You're going to wear that sweater.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He sighed.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Now, what time are the Aldwinkles coming over?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I told Richard that we would start at six.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “But we aren't starting until seven...” and then it dawned on me. Of course. This is Richard we're talking about! “Oh, smart thinking, love.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The telephone rang. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Could you get that, darling?” I asked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Of course,” Humphrey went into the living room and answered the old-fashioned telephone we had. I listened in, but could only hear his side, “Hello, mum!” … “Oh, yes, everything looks simply smashing.” … “Well, what time are you and dad coming-?” … “Oh.” … “Well, I don't-” … “Right.” … “Oh, sorry to hear about that.” … “So, you can't come?” … “Well, we'll miss you then, mum.” … “It's alright, we'll have to get together some-” … “Right, goodbye.” As soon as I heard the click of the phone, I heard Humphrey bellow a sigh. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Was that your mum?” I asked. Of course, I knew who it was, but I like pretending not to hear. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> He walked back in, “Well, um, my parents won't be coming.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Why is that?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Well, mum said that Snuggles has broken his leg and-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “They're not coming because of their ferret?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “That's what she said.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “They're not coming because of a damned </span><i>rodent</i><span style="font-style: normal;">?!”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You know how much they love that ferret,” Humphrey was, I believe, trying to defuse the situation. Fat chance, love.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I don't care how much they love that stupid rat!” I chopped as hard as I could, this time cutting my thumb. “Ow!” I exclaimed as I recoiled it back .</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Ooh, are you alright?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I bloody hate Christmas!” I snarled as I made my way over to the sink to was it off. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey followed me, “You don't mean that, darling.” He turned on the faucet for me. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I sighed as I put my hands under the water. He put his hands in with mine. At first, I just tolerated it; I didn't like it. But as he helped me wash off my hands, I remembered just much I love how smooth and warm his touch can be. I remembered how much I love my husband. And because of that, I remembered what the season was all about. I, ever so slightly, smiled and said, “You're right, dear. I don't hate the holidays. I'm just so stressed out over it all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I know, I know,” he said quietly. “And everything's going to be great. You can't stand my dad's jokes anyway.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I laughed, “There's always a bright side, dear.” I kissed him on the cheek. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But, of course, our little moment was ruined. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mum! Dad!” Our twelve-year-old son, Dennis, called. “Horatio's in the tree again!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> To make matters worse, the doorbell rang. I said, “Ugh, Humphrey, you take care of the door and I'll get the cat.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Now, you're probably thinking that Humphrey should have taken care of the cat so that I don't get my hands dirty. Well, that's exactly the problem here. Horatio hates everyone. Except for me. And Richard, actually. But he's beside the point. Where he should </span><i>stay</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. As soon as I walked in, I found Dennis standing in front of our Christmas tree trying to lure Horatio out. It wasn't working. He tried putting his hand out to grab the cat, but it lashed out its paw and hissed. “Mum!” Dennis exclaimed. “That idiot cat of yours won't get down! And he's eating the branches!” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, dear,” I wiped my forehead. Then I switched to my higher-pitched pet voice. Oh, come on, we all have one! “Horatio! What are you doing in my tree? Why don't you come down? Here, come to mummy,” I reached in and gently grabbed my cat. He immediately started purring. “Oh, that's a bad kitty. Don't get in the Christmas tree. You're not an ornament! No you're not!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Mum, you look like an idiot.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Quiet, Dennis,” I set the cat down and he scampered away. “Now, go back in your room and get your sweater on.”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, but I don't want to wear that idiotic-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> “Do </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> start!” I snapped. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Fine,” Dennis groaned as he walked off. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dolores!” A very familiar, very warm voice exclaimed. I knew it immediately. I turned to see my father, Lionel Travers, walking into my home with a bright grin. He set down the suitcase in his hands and then wrapped his arms around me. My father is a terrible hugger, but I loved being with him. “Oh, I've missed you so much, Dolores!” He let me go. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I asked, “Well, you're here early, how was the trip?” There was still about an hour to go until dinner.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Well, it was good!” He kept his warmness up somehow. “Customs at the airport was faster than usual and the taxi ride was a breeze!” He had come from the airport because he lives in America now. New York, specifically. He went there with my mom once on vacation and loved it very much. So, he decided to retire there. I've never seen my dad happier. I've wanted to visit him there for a while now, but simply never had the opportunity. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey walked into the room and set down my father's luggage, “You pack light, don't you?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Always have!” My father smiled as he gently rubbed his fairly rotund belly. “Oh, yes, Humphrey! I heard you got that job! How is that working out for you?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'm going to let you two catch up,” I smiled as I turned back for the kitchen. “We'll talk later, father!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, we must!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As I turned, I noticed the disarray on the tree. Ah, yes, the cat's mess. “Dennis, when you get the chance, get in here and straighten out the tree!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>“Okay!” </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I heard coming from somewhere. Good enough. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> In perfect timing, as soon as I walked into the kitchen, I heard the oven go </span><i>ding</i><span style="font-style: normal;">! The goose was ready! I put on my oven mitts and was delighted as I pulled out the poor, dead, cooked bird from my oven. It looked absolutely fantastic (if I do say so myself). And it was perfect because all I had left to do was put the chopped potatoes into a baking pan, pour the mix over them, and add water. I never let anyone outside the family know that I use a mix for my potatoes, so consider yourself lucky. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And don't tell anyone! </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I'm serious, I have a knife and I'm not afraid to use it.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Of course, I had to finish chopping a few potatoes and I got that done without a hitch. I put them into my glass baking pan, put on the mix, and put them in water. Perfect! But there was still the issue of the dinner table. I sighed, but then realized that I have a husband, a father, and a child to do that for me. I still needed to get myself proper. So, I called, “Humphrey, Dennis! I need you to get the table set!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I walked past Humphrey and father as I went to the bedroom. I knew that they had heard me because they were walking to the dining room. I also knew that they would probably screw something or another up, but I decided that I would cross that bridge when I got to it. I got to the bedroom to find Horatio all snuggled up on my bed. “Scamper off!” I said as I pushed him off the bed. I love my cat, but I don't love his hair all over my bed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> It didn't take me long to put on my make-up, my perfume, and my sweater. As I looked in the mirror to try and make myself look good, I found it difficult to find perfection. Was it the hair? Perhaps the lipstick? No, no, no, none of these. It was the sweater. In some form of weird personal-appearance feng shui, my sweater managed to offset the balance of my entire look. It was then that I was convinced that Christmas sweaters are a force of supernatural evil. Despite this, I am so profoundly stubborn that I would not ever remove my sweater because that's the way I decided to have it before and that's the way I will have it now. I know I'm stubborn and grumpy. You can't say I'm not self-aware. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then the doorbell chimed. I knew exactly who it was: Richard and Delilah Aldwinkle.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Being the good hostess, I pushed open the bedroom door and went down the stairs to find my living room finally in order, the dining table set to a reasonably (but not perfect) standard, and... Richard. Humphrey and my father had let him in, apparently. I told them how I feel about strays....</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But anyway, I then noticed that there was no Delilah... actually, that's not so surprising. I said with an imperceptibly false smile, “Richard! How nice you could make it!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hullo, Dolores!” He then looked down to his chest and then back to me. That was when I noticed. We were wearing the exact same design on our Christmas sweaters. Dear God. “Nice sweater!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, um, you too, Richard,” I said, completely revealing my discomfort. All at once I regretted the whole sweater ordeal. Of course, Richard, Humphrey, and my father were laughing it up. But then I saw the good news, “Oh, Richard, where's Delilah?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, she couldn't make it. You see, she doesn't like the cold so much.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It figures,” Humphrey chuckled. “Seeing as she's cold-blooded and all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “If it were sunny, I'm sure she could bask outside, but alas we're in London,” Richard sighed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Ah, well, I guess I'll have to meet her some other time!” My father smiled as he gave Richard another one of his disastrous hugs. For some reason, Richard and my father got on great. I would never have expected my father and Richard to get along, but alas. When my father let go, he asked, “How have you been, Richard ol' chap?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Just dandy, Lionel, and yourself?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I need to go and finish with the food,” I whispered to Humphrey before returning to the kitchen. Things went swimmingly here. I got each dish looking proper and presentable, and then set them on the table. I took a step back and smiled. I remember that smile well. There were actually quite a few mixed emotions; all of them pleasant, of course. I was content, happy, and relieved. There was one more though. One which I thought I had experienced fully, but I was wrong. I'll get back to that later, though! </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The doorbell rang. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Now, who could that be?” I heard Humphrey saying as he walked to the door. I walked into the living room. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, I know who that is!” Richard exclaimed just as Humphrey opened the door. Standing at our doorstep was a man dressed in rags and dust. He was completely unshaven and missing several teeth. Actually, that's not uncommon in England. His general stature and appearance reminded very much of a velociraptor. Curious.“This is Mister Cody!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Hullo,” Mister Cody wheezed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Um, what is Mister Cody doing here?” I asked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Ah, I forgot to tell you,” Richard said. Don't kid yourself. There wasn't a hint of embarrassment or remorse or anything in his voice. “Mister Cody lives on our street. He's homeless you see-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You mean, 'I smell,'” I joked.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “That too,” Richard sighed. “He's homeless and I took pity on him so I gave him your address and told him to come!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Absolutely n-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey interrupted, “Well, my parents aren't coming, so he can have their portion of the dinner!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “But Hum-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Now Dolores, let's be charitable! It is Christmas Eve after all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I saw his point, but only accepted it reluctantly. This Mister Cody was not a part of my plan for a perfect Christmas Eve dinner. “Fine, but I have a feeling we're going to regret this,” I whispered to my husband.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Um, thanks for, um, having me,” Mister Cody wheezed. “Was afraid I, um, wouldn't have a proper Christmas at all.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Join the club,” I quipped before turning to a false cheeriness, “Well, dinner is on the table and ready to be served!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I say we get started then,” Humphrey said before leading us all into the dining room. He took his seat at the head of the table, I sat next to him with Richard on his other side. Mister Cody, of course, sat next to Richard, my father next to me, and Dennis finally showed up and sat at the other head. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And then it hit him, “Wait! Who is that?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Don't be so rude, Dennis!” I snapped. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Sorry, mum, but who... gah, what is that smell?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Dennis!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Sorry!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “This is Mister Cody,” I explained evenly. “He is Richard's guest.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Humphrey, I believe we should begin,” I said licking my lip.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “You're right,” Humphrey smiled politely. “Mister Lionel... dad... would you do the honors in saying the blessing?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Of course,” my father stood from his spot and bowed his head. We all bowed our heads. “Our God in heaven, we thank you for this meal. We thank you for the meal provided for us here tonight. We thank you for sending your son, Jesus Christ, down to earth to show us all how to live and to ultimately die for our sins. We thank you God for that we can be together as a family. And we thank that Mister Cody could join us and we pray that we can be a blessing unto him, father. In your name we pray, amen.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Amen,” we all repeated as my father sat. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Except for Mister Cody, who flatly put it, “I don't believe in God.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey ignored him as he stood up with the carving knife. He smiled and then said to us all, “Doesn't this simply look scrumptious?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, it does indeed!” My father exclaimed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Well, let's get this goose carved!” Humphrey said excitedly as put the fork into the breast of the bird. I could only watch as he skillfully cut pieces off. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Save a leg for me, dad,” Dennis said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “I'd be much obliged to have a thigh,” was my father's request. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> After a silence, Mister Cody said, “I'll have the neck.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Ew.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey simply acknowledged his request and continued cutting pieces of the goose. All the while, the side dishes were passed and everyone got their fair portion. It wasn't until after I had filled my plate that I looked up to see Mister Cody eating with his hands. I squirmed before I finally spoke up, “Excuse me, but could you <i>please</i> eat with your fork?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Huh?” he noticed the food in his hands and then looked down to his fork. “Oh, sorry, yeah, I'll start using it then.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Thank you.” I'm not rude, you know. Well. Usually not. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “This turkey is simply delicious, dear,” my father said. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “It's goose,” Dennis corrected him.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, well-”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Don't correct your grandfather,” I gave Dennis the eye. He hates eye. Everyone hates the eye. I hate the eye. It's scary. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Oh, it's quite alright, I'm terrible at poultry,” my father never seemed to lose his sense of humor, although, I could tell he was genuinely annoyed with Mister Cody. It actually takes quite a bit to get on my father's nerves. He was a social worker for so many years, so his patience is exemplary. I expected him to try and get to know Mister Cody, but I believe to this day that my father shared my expectations of a perfect Christmas. This Mister Cody figure was ruining that. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Mister Cody finally stopped his meal and then simply stared at it. I watched him for a minute, but said nothing. Richard finally asked, “Something bothering you, Mister Cody?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “No, it's, um, actually, I just wanted to say how much, I, um, really <i>apprishyaight</i> letting me, um, eat with you, yeah,” Mister Cody wheezed. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “Well, it's not a problem at all,” Richard answered before Humphrey or I could. And that's a good thing; I probably would have said something nasty and Humphrey would have said something awkward. And of course, Richard's courtesy was misplaced. Therefore, this was a no-win scenario.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> <i>Kobayashi-Maru</i>. I'll bet you weren't expecting a Star Trek reference, were you?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Despite this, I felt a certain sense of warmness for having done some kind of charity for Christmas. Isn't that what it's about? As I realized this, I set down my fork and, likely impulsively, said, “Mister Cody, you're welcome to come by here whenever you need something.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “He is?” Humphrey's eyes went wide. I slapped him on the arm, “Ow! I mean, yes, you're welcome anytime!” He grinned. I gave him the eye. The grin disappeared and was replaced with a false, yet believable “warm smile.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> In my family, we always believed in exchanging gifts on the evening of Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. The reason we did this was because we prefer to leave Christmas for the Lord. It's not a common practice, but it's one we hold to. As soon as dinner was over, we moved our way into the living room. My father slipped away and grabbed his gifts from his suitcase. We all sat down and began the process of giving to one another. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Dennis, was, of course, the focus of the evening. The grandkids are always the center of attention. I remember that year we got Dennis an Xbox and a few games. His grandfather gave him a few games as well. We made one of his dreams come true. As a parent, we always love seeing our children happy. And Dennis was truly happy. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey and I bought my father a jacket; a very nice jacket. It was something of a casual sportcoat, which he wore all the time. He appreciated it. Richard bought my father a... I don't remember, but it was stupid and I suspect he had it in his closet for ages. You see, Richard is the master of the regift. What is a regift? When someone gives you something you don't want and then you give said gift to another. It actually got worse this year.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> You see, about four years ago we gave Richard a red scarf. It's quite a unique item, actually, we got it hand-knit. When Humphrey opened his gift from Richard, you can guess what was inside the bag. Yes, the bloody scarf. Being the polite people that we are, Humphrey and I decided not to mention it. A few weeks later, we actually decided that we would give the scarf back to Richard and see if he notices. Humphrey and I even placed bets on it. I bet him his choice of dinner out on Richard not noticing. It was vice-versa if he did. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And what did I get? My father gave me one of my mother's old frocks. Now, that sounds like a horrendous gift, but you see, my father is a terribly sentimental pack rat. When my mother passed on, he kept absolutely everything of hers. It all had some value to him, especially her nicer clothes. For my father to give me one of mother's frocks is a very big deal. I honestly came very close to breaking in tears. I was happy then. But my father was even happier than I was to see me experience such joy. My father was not always such a selfless man, but sometime when I was a girl he changed. I think he finally came to grips with real responsibility. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey's gift to me was thoughtful as well. I've always had a thing for William Blake's poetry. In fact, Humphrey actually used William Blake when we were going out. He figured out exactly how to impress me. Blake is strange, but there's a beauty to his work. And there's a certain mystery to it, which I love. Anyway, Humphrey bought me an old leather-bound collection of Blake poems and paintings. Sure, I owned a copy of all of the poems in some form or another, but this collection was something special. A normal husband would have bought me jewelry or something clichéd like that, but Humphrey knows me much better and for that, I love him very much. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> To Humphrey I gave something he had been wanting since he was very young. Now, this <i>will</i> sound ridiculous to you as it does to me, but it's what he wanted. I gave him a pair of plane tickets to Africa and a pass to go on safari. It wasn't for me to go with him, it was for Richard. He and Richard had been planning a trip to go to Africa to hunt lions since kindergarten. I cannot explain it nor can I really find a reason to warrant it. However, I have never seen my husband quite so gitty. I knew I had hit the right note. Richard was happy about it too, but I really don't care. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And from then on, we shared a moment laughing and enjoying the “Christmas spirit” together. Do you remember before when I mentioned that I was feeling that I would explain later? Well, this is it. There is no word for it. It's a feeling of warmth, but you can feel it in the coldest of temperatures. It's something that only comes together in the right moments. It can't be duplicated, replicated, or reciprocated; it's something mutual. And that's what we had there; that's what I felt in that moment. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Humphrey and I sat together holding one another at the fireplace. Dennis and Richard occupied the telly trying to figure out Call of Warfare 6: Modern Duty, or something like that while my father tried desperately to understand exactly the appeal in video games. I never understood either, but Dennis loves them and that's that. All I can hope is that Richard doesn't see Dennis's Xbox as an excuse to come over more often. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> That moment is one I will never forget. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I'll also never forget how it was very rapidly shattered like thin ice under a sumo wrestler. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> My father suddenly noted, “Where in God's name is Mister Cody?” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> My eyes shot wide as we heard the front door slam closed. Humphrey was the first off his feet (my hero) and at the door. I followed at a distance as he threw the door open and stormed out. A few seconds later, he came back inside and said, “Oh, it's no use, he's gotten too far.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I had a hunch about why Mister Cody had run. I went to the bedroom to check and I was right. Every last bit of my jewelry was gone. And you know me: I should have been furious. My night should have been completely and utterly ruined. I should have gone off on Richard, Humphrey, and everything in between, but I didn't. I wasn't angry. No, not angry... it was something else. I tried to be angry. I should have been angry. I had every right to be. Richard... oh, Richard. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But instead, my dear father came to me and he pulled me tightly into one of his awful hugs and he whispered to me everything he used to tell me as a little girl when I had a bad day, “It's going to be alright, I promise. I'll make sure it all goes right. And you did nothing wrong. Things simply happen sometimes. I love you.” I cried. I cried for a long time. I can't remember exactly how long, but I learned there that it isn't the quality of the hug that matters; it's who's giving it. I can't tell you how wonderful it felt to be in my father's arms. After so many years of playing the grump, I found my place to break down and let it all out. Actually, I had it all along. I just never realized. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> As soon as my father let go, I found that my husband hadn't left my side at all. He was there the whole time, doing what he should. When my father let me go, I found my hands in Humphrey's. He pushed my air out of my eyes and told me, “Whatever was lost, we can replace, darling. We can make Richard pay for it, if it will make you feel better.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I remember wiping tears as I looked deep into his eyes. For a second, I broke that. I looked over to my father, who still stood by me, waiting to see if he was needed again. And that was when I realized, and I said it aloud, “Even if Mister Cody had stolen absolutely everything we own, it would be a price worth paying for this moment; to be reminded of just how much I'm loved and how much I love you both so much.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> I went back into an embrace with Humphrey. My father sat down on the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. This was another moment I will never forget. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But sometimes things do have a happy ending. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. Humphrey looked into my eyes one last time, as if to tell me that he wouldn't leave if I still needed him. But I nodded and let him go. He arrived at our front door and I tried my best to listen in, but couldn't hear a thing. Finally, the door closed and Humphrey came back in, holding a black bag. “That was the police, Dolores. They caught Mister Cody and they made him return everything that was stolen!” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> “See, it's not so bad after all!” My father exclaimed with a big smile. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> For some reason, I felt petty crying over it all. We returned to the living room and enjoyed each other's company until very late at night. It was picturesque, really. But it wasn't until a few days later that I actually realized that I wasn't crying over lost jewelry or my plans for a perfect holiday coming under constant attack. I was crying that night because I felt as though I was losing that perfect feeling I mentioned before. Sometimes when you get so high up, it just hurts all the more when it comes crashing down. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> But do you know what I also learned? It's a price well worth paying. There are some feelings, some moments, that are worth all the hurt and price to have because they are so once-in-a-lifetime. And even still, these feelings and moments can't come close to the value of the people that make them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> And that was Christmas last year at the Holdsworth home. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> The End. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"> Addendum: Richard didn't notice the scarf. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-69465824151147221732010-12-18T00:40:00.005-05:002011-11-04T21:28:49.529-04:00week thirty-six: bluebird (special post)<span style="font-style: italic;">It's the holiday season and I've been incredibly busy. That's my excuse. My head's been in a lot of other places and I needed to take the week off. So, there will not be a new story this week. However, I wouldn't be satisfied with leaving a gap in the weeks, so I looked for a compromise and managed to find something I think we can all appreciate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Over these last thirty-five weeks, I've been pouring myself out to you by showing what goes on in my dark, twisted, yet sometimes delightful mind. You've probably learned more about the real WA Ross through reading my material than you would actually meeting me. There have been some low points on Story a Week, but there's also been some highlights that I will keep, treasure, and be proud of forever. The thing I most pride myself in is you; the people who come here and set aside their time to read what I've written. I treasure you. I'm proud that you think my work is worth your time. And I hope that you'll keep reading as long as I keep writing. It means a lot to me. It really does.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I've shown you the original things I've written, but I've barely shared the writings that inspire me. I haven't showed you the things that have brought me to where I am. I could never show you everything, but I can give you a glimpse. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">One of my favorite poets is a man named Charles Bukowski; I wouldn't be surprised if you've heard of him. He wrote a poem called "Bluebird" and it changed me forever. I don't have quite the colored history that Bukowksi has, but, like him, everyone has a 'bluebird' in their heart. Ever since reading this poem, I've been determined to let mine out. Story a Week is a huge part of that. You'll understand what I mean when you read the poem. </span><br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br />"Bluebird"<br /><p>there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />wants to get out<br />but I'm too tough for him,<br />I say, stay in there, I'm not going<br />to let anybody see<br />you.</p> <p>there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />wants to get out<br />but I pur whiskey on him and inhale<br />cigarette smoke<br />and the whores and the bartenders<br />and the grocery clerks<br />never know that<br />he's<br />in there.<br /></p> <p>there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />wants to get out<br />but I'm too tough for him,<br />I say,<br />stay down, do you want to mess<br />me up?<br />you want to screw up the<br />works?<br />you want to blow my book sales in<br />Europe?</p> <p>there's a bluebird in my heart that<br />wants to get out<br />but I'm too clever, I only let him out<br />at night sometimes<br />when everybody's asleep.<br />I say, I know that you're there,<br />so don't be<br />sad.<br />then I put him back,<br />but he's singing a little<br />in there, I haven't quite let him<br />die<br />and we sleep together like<br />that<br />with our<br />secret pact<br />and it's nice enough to<br />make a man<br />weep, but I don't<br />weep, do<br />you?</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmWZOsVtqR0">Here is a YouTube video with a recording of "Bluebird."</a> This clip is actually how I came across the poem. It's a great reading and I highly recommend it.<br /></span></p><p><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></p><p><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1293332560347880492.post-17119639424558327122010-12-09T23:58:00.002-05:002010-12-10T00:04:35.616-05:00week thirty-five: death magnetic review<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This is a review of 2008's </span>Death Magnetic<span style="font-style: italic;"> by Metallica. The review was actually a large undertaking and I'm proud of my work. It's pretty unusual for Story a Week, but I did promise that I would have all sorts of writing. This should be no exception. </span><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I've wanted to write a review of Metallica's <i>Death Magnetic</i> for a very long time. But the thing is, I have to go all the way with this review. I have to call every shot, make a point about every nook and cranny, and give the most honest opinion I can possibly give. This has to be <i>it</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. This project has been a huge undertaking and it's finally here. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Let's start with me. First off, I am a huge fan of Metallica. Their first four albums are easily some of the best in heavy metal history. <i>Kill 'em All, Ride the Lightning,</i> <i>Master of Puppets</i>, and <i>...And Justice for All </i>were simply revolutionary for their time and still stand today. During the 90's and early 2000's, they strayed from greatness, but nevertheless were pretty much always solid. That's my opinion on the band. I love them, but not everything they've made. Even great artists like Michelangelo made crap at some point. We don't remember him for his screw-ups though, we remember him for his magnum opuses, such as David or the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Second off, I am a meticulous music listener. I am, generally speaking, more interested in the composition of a song rather than the pleasing nature of the sounds. Pop songs can make good sound, but I hate pop. I hate pop music because the composition itself is inherently unsophisticated and made to be easy to digest. I like my music to be complicated and for it to be necessary to devote time to be fully appreciated. And that's what I do. I like to sit down and listen to the same song more than once in order to fully digest it. I take apart each and every piece in order to appreciate all of them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Thirdly, I've detected certain things in music that I appreciate more than others. I've already mentioned that complexity of composition is a big one for me, but there are other things that draw me to music. Another biggy is that I look for skill in the musicians themselves. If a musician puts out a work that took a lot of technical skill to pull off, then I find an easy appreciation for it. The third most important thing I look for is depth, both in the emotion of the music and in the lyrics. That's another reason I'm turned off by pop music; most of it is corny love music with no real depth. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Reading this review, you'll probably gain a lot more insight about me and my musical tastes than if I just told you. I felt what I wrote above is necessary for clarification's sake. But now that that's out of the way, let's get back to Metallica. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Five years after the release of the abomination called <i>St. Anger</i>, Metallica finally release a record. <i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> hit stores in September of 2008 and instantly topped the charts. Chart-topping is almost irrelevant for Metallica though; they're so huge of a band that they can release just about anything and have it sell. In other words, unlike with some smaller bands, sales are not at all a component in observing </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s quality. </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was horrible and it still made number one. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The hype around </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was huge, and Metallica had quite the challenge ahead of them. It was clear that Metallica's dabble in hard rock was wearing thin and that they wanted to return to making thrash metal, which is what made them famous in the first place. </span><i>St. Anger </i><span style="font-style: normal;">actually tried to return Metallica to their garage-band roots with a raw sound, but it ultimately came up short. There were a lot of original ideas in </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, just not good ones. The fans were calling for this return to thrash metal as well. It doesn't take much to notice that pretty much everyone prefers Metallica's old stuff over their new stuff at concerts. Even the band themselves prefer playing their older material. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">So, this lays out the first challenge </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">: it needs to be like the old material. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The problem with this is that it's 2008 and the eighties are long gone. While releasing a </span><i>Master of Puppets </i><span style="font-style: normal;">sequel would be awesome, it simply wouldn't be something marketable to a more mainstream audience. Now, I'm not big on caring about sales, but the producers behind the album are. I'm just laying out the objectives and needs for the record. Anyway, </span><i>Death Magnetic </i><span style="font-style: normal;">would have to be like old-school thrash, but at the same time, it would have to be modern. And this raised the question, could 1980's thrash be adapted for modern styles and recording techniques? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">That's the second challenge: it needs to be like the old stuff, but it has to be modern. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The next problem is that Metallica's audiences are two-fold. On one hand is the larger, more mainstream crowd which would much prefer simpler, lighter music. On the other hand is the more hardcore crowd, who want something heavier, more complex, and older-sounding. The more mainstream crowd tends to be much more casual and not quite so vocal, meanwhile the hardcore crowd will make their voices heard. A new album would have to somehow please both audiences. If one is favored, the other is alienated. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">And now we have a third challenge: it needs to be like the old stuff, it must be modern, and it has to a strike a balance between hardcore thrash and mainstream metal. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Metallica is </span><i>old</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Each member is in their mid-forties and many, including the publications which govern popular opinion, see them as just four old men trying to relive their glory days. The solution couldn't be to simply try to be young again. </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> was just that and it failed. It became clear that the answer would be to acknowledge their age and work with it. Metallica is old, but Metallica is </span><i>classic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The answer clearly became to admit to being forty and live with it. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">So, there's a fourth challenge: it must sound like the old stuff, it must be modern, it needs to strike a balance between the hardcore and the mainstream, and it has to be relevant despite the aging musicians. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">These four challenges are far from easy to overcome, especially considering the situation Metallica faced. Failure was much more possible thanks to the inclusion of two people: Rick Rubin and Robert Trujillo. Now, I'm not bashing either of them, so let's explore what I mean.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Rick Rubin is the producer on </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It's not unusual for bands to use multiple producers over the years, but Metallica's case is a special one. For nearly fifteen years, Metallica had been using producer Bob Rock. </span><i>Metallica</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><i>Load</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><i>ReLoad</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><i>Garage inc.</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> were all his projects. Introducing a new element and replacing an established one is always risky.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Robert Trujillo was recruited into Metallica just after the recording of </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> as the new bassist. Trujillo had previously worked with a smattering of other bands, including Ozzy Osbourne and Suicidal Tendencies. There was a lot of doubt around Trujillo. Sure, he could play Metallica's material, but how much could he contribute to an album? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The bassist has always been important to Metallica. Each and every member will tell you that the best musician and songwriter for Metallica during their first three albums was Cliff Burton, the bassist. When Cliff passed away in 1986, Jason Newsted from Flotsam & Jetsam replaced him. While Newsted's writing abilities were never prevalent in the subsequent albums, his live stage presence became essential to Metallica's image. Of course Robert Trujillo would face a lot of doubt; he had to fill in some massive shoes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">With all of these pressures, challenges, and obstacles in the way, there was a lot of doubt that Metallica could put out a satisfying record. While many were hopeful, many more were skeptical. Surely they couldn't put out something as bad as </span><i>St. Anger</i><span style="font-style: normal;">... or could they? Could it be worse? Or, by smattering chance, could it be the greatest album Metallica has ever released? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">It is none of these. Instead, </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> satisfies each and every one of the challenges mentioned above with flying colors. </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a solid record with relevant, powerful, heavy, and surprisingly complex songs. The structures and general style match </span><i>Master of Puppets</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> much closer than </span><i>Load</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. In short, </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is an extremely good record, but it's not quite on par with the golden age of Metallica. The devil, however, is in the details. Let's go over the songs:</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">The very first thing on </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> is a heartbeat. </span><i>Thump-thump</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span><i>thump-thump</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The guitar creeps in slowly with an eery plucking and new, heavier parts are added to build it up. It's all slow and it's all intro here. The atmosphere is being built and Metallica takes their time in doing it. This intro lasts a good minute-and-a-half before the main riff of the first track finally kicks in. This track is “That Was Just Your Life.” </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">This main riff is fast and bears a taste that recalls </span><i>...And Justice For All</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s “Blackened.” The most important thing to note here is that any who doubted </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">'s metal cred are silenced here. This isn't another hard rock cop-out like </span><i>Load</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, no, this is pure fricking thrash metal. The guitars are going fast and loud; even drummer Lars Ulrich's drumming is solid. It's gonna take more than this to impress though. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Fortunately, the song shifts into a bridge that keeps promising that more is coming. It's still fast, it's still loud, and it's still impressive. The chorus comes along finally and doesn't fail to dazzle, but then James Hetfield stops singing and the guitars take center stage. You can hear both Kirk Hammett and James Hetfield playing their hearts, but you know they're building up to something. And suddenly, Kirk Hammett starts shredding a monumental solo which reflects the stuff that got Metallica where they are.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The solo here is much bigger news than it seems. In <i>St. Anger</i>, there are no guitar solos whatsoever. That's not necessarily a bad thing, not every record needs to have a solo on every song, but bands like Metallica do. A lot of people buy metal records just because they love hearing a skilled guitarist work the frets at mach five. Just having solos signals a return to goodness for Metallica. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Following this is a somewhat slower version of the verses, but it soon changes into a gorgeous instrumental break, which is my favorite part of the song. It has a simple sound to it, but all the parts are working here to give it a hidden complexity. It's a great warm-down from the work-out solo section from before. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Finally, it all finishes with the chorus coming back and then a swift outro. What a ride. “That Was Just Your Life” is one of my favorites from </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It's fast, heavy, and fairly complex. There are multiple distinct melodies and it has a good sound to it. Lyrically, “Life” is lacking. It's not particularly about anything specific except death in a whole bunch of different manners of speaking. It all fits and it's not particularly bad, just not particularly noteworthy or deep. It's pure metal pulp.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The second track, “The End of the Line,” opens with a bang; a very heavy bang. It's pure Metallica and it's pure thrash. After the heavy intro, “Line” accelerates with some fairly catchy and fast riffage from the guitarist. If you're paying attention, you can hear some excellent bass work from Trujillo. “The End of the Line” is catchy, but doesn't produce anything particularly impressive until the solo comes about. The instrumental break down is riotous and chaotic in the best of ways. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">But it all stops, symbolic of the end of the line. The guitar plays quietly in the background as James Hetfield sings out a somber bit about the slave becoming the master. It's a good break from the loudness and leads right into the chorus coming back full swing. This sort of thing is not terribly uncommon, but it is difficult to make it work. Metallica does it and they do it beautifully. It ends with ringing guitars and leaves you breathless. All in all, it was all build up for those last moments. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<span style="font-style: normal;">The End of the Line” is about drugs. Welcome to heavy metal. Drugs is a cliché topic in metal culture and Metallica has hit on it before. “The End of the Line” seems engineered to remind us all of Metallica's classic song, “Master of Puppets.” The lyrics are basically about the same thing and they've got quite a few gaping similarities. It isn't that huge of an issue, as “The End of the Line” manages to stand well on its own. It's a great second track.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The third track is “Broken, Beat & Scarred.” It builds to a crescendo of metal manliness that I might use to work out to. That could be construed as an insult; it's not. It definitely gets you going. It's also pretty clear that Metallica wrote this one for the fans. This song was designed to be played live and to get the audience in on it. It's fairly repetitive, the lyrics are simple and easy to master, and it's overall not a bad song.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">To discuss the lyrics a bit, it's about being a tough guy. Just saying some of the words can get you pumped. If I were to pick a similarity for this song, I would say that I get a vibe from <i>ReLoad</i>'s “Fuel.” It simply seems to serve the same purpose of really getting you pumped. “Broken, Beat & Scarred” doesn't fail to get the adrenaline going and it doesn't slow down for a second. It's gripping, but, in the end, it outstays its welcome. It goes on for too long with James singing some frankly stupid lyrics. Case in point, “What don't kill ya make ya more strong.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">And, most notable, “They cut and rape me.” Okay, James, you were just singing about how tough you are, but now you're being <i>raped</i>? It's like it's trying to be heavy but it just comes across as trying too hard and it contradicts the “message,” if it can even be called that. Now would actually be a good time to note that a lot of lyrics on the entire album seemed forced. It's like they're trying way too hard to be heavy again. There was a time when James Hetfield wrote really beautiful lyrics that had great meaning. Check out “Welcome Home (Sanitarium),” “Fade to Black,” “Master of Puppets,” “One,” and “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” And those are just to name a few.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">But <i>Death Magnetic</i>? Nuh-uh. Metallica's past music dealt with heavy handed themes with intelligence. It's like these songs deal with these sames themes, just stupidly. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The fourth track is a nice break from the heaviness of the others. “The Day That Never Comes” is another Metallica ballad that echoes “Welcome Home (Sanitarium),” “Fade to Black,” and, most closely, “One.” It starts off with a slow bit, which is literally ripped off of a Joe Satriani bit. I'm not terribly offended by this, but come on. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">It doesn't particularly speed up, but things do a change a bit as the drums and the second guitar kicks in. Right away you know a more downbeat song is here. It immediately feels down-on-your-luck and reflective. Listening to this for the first time, it's easy to worry that the first three songs are exceptions and that this is Metallica going right back to the <i>Load </i>days. Well, yes, there is a bit of that in here, but hear it out. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">James starts singing and there are some of the better lyrics on the album. They aren't particularly clear, but they're spoken with conviction. Like a couple of the songs from the 90's era, it's pretty clear that James has some of himself in here. Ultimately, the song is about a father-son relationship and it does get awfully cheesy at points (“The 'son' shine never comes.”) It's respectable though and very personal. The problem is that the lyrics are vague. Even James Hetfield himself admitted to them being vague, but tried to cover it up as being something of beauty. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">I refute that. Ambiguity can be an effective tool in communicating a message. For instance, moral ambiguity is a popular tool used by writers to have a reader think. Or being vague on certain details can build suspense. The problem with Metallica using vague lyrics is that they ultimately become pointless since the message itself is shrouded. Vagueness is a tool, but it should be used sparingly. I'm a believer that an artistic work should ultimately have a point. It can be about a certain message or a certain theme, but this point has to be there. Ambiguity or vagueness can be used to reach this point, but leaving a work completely ambiguous leaves the point shrouded so deeply that it's gone.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The choruses pick up a bit more anger. It's got a repressed sound that seems to want to boom, but doesn't. That isn't a bad thing. It communicates a feeling of hidden emotions that are stuffed away and need to come out. There's a desperation that is totally beautiful. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The verses and chorus are repeated and then everything really kicks off. The entire second half of “The Day That Never Comes” is an instrumental madhouse of solos and melodies. It's complex and skillfully done. The fray gives a good reminder of “One,” which “Day” seems to really love reminding us of. “One” was about war, “Day's” music video is about war. “One” had a balled structure, so does “Day.” Earlier we had a “Master of Puppets” reminder, now we have a “One” reminder. We're starting to hit some of that old-men-trying-too-hard stuff here. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Fortunately, the song itself is a great one. It doesn't need “One” to be good. In fact, it actually is a good enough ballad to stand among Metallica's others, although it's probably the weakest. That doesn't mean it isn't a great thrill ride. It starts out slow and then ambushes you. Awesome. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Next up is “All Nightmare Long,” which is a horror-centric beast of a song. It starts out with an intro that has an evil flamenco vibe to it before finally building up into some fast horror bits. It's got a scary vibe and it's speedy and strong. Also noteworthy is that it's fairly complex. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">In true metal fashion, it takes almost two minutes before the lyrics kick in. They're obviously about a man being hunted by some (again) ambiguous enemy. While these certainly aren't deep, they certainly are effective. Unlike “Day,” “Nightmare” has a pretty clear point to it. It's angry, it's scary, and it's <i>heavy</i>.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The typical instrumental section breaks out again with some insanely strong, frantic melodies, and a very fitting guitar solo. This song will not let up. It picks up, getting more and more frantic and crazy. It's even getting <i>heavier</i> and <i>faster</i>. Seven minutes through and it still hasn't climaxed. It breaks down just a little with James singing a quick bit... and then all goes quiet. Is it over? </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">No. Boom. The vocals come back to signal and all-guns blazing climax from the entire band. Everything's going and everything's pounding at full strength. “All Nightmare Long” is one of the best on <i>Death Magnetic</i> and it's one I believe will stand the test of time. It's great to watch live and it meshes with the 80's stuff incredibly well. It also recalls some of Metallica's older, more progressive material. I got a bit of a “Damage, inc.” vibe from the overall aggression, but I also felt a bit of “Creeping Death,” but the biggest likeness is probably “Enter Sandman.” What interests me most though is that it doesn't have a direct parallel. If modified a little bit, I could honestly see “All Nightmare Long” on an older Metallica record. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Fortunately, it is modified to fit modern standards and includes some innovation, such as the flamenco elements I mentioned before in the intro. “All Nightmare Long” is a great, original song. It's arguably the best on the entire record. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Moving on, is “Cyanide,” which is one of the simpler, shorter tracks on <i>Death Magnetic</i>. It's aggressive, heavy, but uses higher notes. The first part that will impress you is the bass work that comes just after the intro. A simple tune played on the guitar soon overshadows it and the song begins. The lyrical topic is quite clear: suicide. It's also another song the screams to be played live. There are so many parts that are clearly designed for audience participation. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Everything's very simple on “Cyanide.” The composition isn't designed to impress, but the song works and it's a joy to listen to even with the rather dark theme. It's also probably the song that I've heard most on the radio. “Cyanide” is pretty clearly aimed at the mainstream, but it's not without its charm. It has a similar slowdown to “The End of the Line” and it works just as well. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Next up we have one of my favorites on <i>Death Magnetic</i>, but also one I have the biggest gripe about. Anyway, this song is called “The Unforgiven III.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Yeah, another one. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">No, seriously. It's “The Unforgiven <i>III</i>.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">And curiously, it didn't have to be. The music is emotional, powerful, moving, and solid enough to stand on its own without having to reference the old days. I'll get back to that later. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">It opens up with a piano and orchestral introduction that lasts an entire minute. It's a risky, but appreciated step away from the ferocity and distortion of the previous six songs. “The Unforgiven III” is a chance to slow down and catch your breath. The guitars kick in soon to give us a nice, moody transition before a heavier verse begins. It's reminiscent of the original “The Unforgiven” in the way that the verses are heavier than the choruses. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Curiously, “The Unforgiven III” is actually a treat vocally and maybe even lyrically. This is James Hetfield's best, most emotional vocal performance on <i>Death Magnetic</i>. It isn't the most impressive vocal performance ever, but it's a great fit for James Hetfield, who seems to give it his all. The lyrics are actually a story of someone lost on the seas of life struggling to forgive himself for something or another. There's clearly something personal that Hetfield is referring to here, but we aren't sure what. Perhaps it has to do with mistakes he made during his career? Or maybe it's something related to his alcoholism? Who knows. Either way, these lyrics are ambiguous in something of a good way. It's easy for a listener to relate to Hetfield's pain. I would prefer the actual theme to be a bit clearer though. I do have to comment that I'd take “The Unforgiven III's” lyrics over most other music out there.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">But anyway, the song slows to a crawl after the second chorus. The guitar and the orchestra come back right before James returns to repeat, “Forgive me/forgive me not” over and over for a bit. It's actually not bad because he's building up. Sure, it's a little on the cheesy side, but it's also executed well enough. The build up is soon released with an explosive and highly emotional solo from Kirk Hammett. This is the solo that I like best on the entire album. You can really feel some emotion here. There's resolve, but also pain. It's brilliant. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The song finishes strong with another iteration of the chorus. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Before, I mentioned that I was upset with it being called “The Unforgiven III.” I feel like they just called it that because they wanted to make a cheap nod to the old stuff. It's as if they feel the need to use the old material as a crutch but there's really no reason to. It's a form of cowardice that I actually feel hurt the lyrics. They had to put the idea of forgiveness into it <i>somehow</i> to justify the title of the song. When in reality, if they had made this just to stand on its own, I'm betting that the lyrics could have come out as something stronger and something deeper. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Basically, with “The Unforgiven III,” the older material referenced actually weighs it down. It could have been that good of a song. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The eighth track is “The Judas Kiss,” a heavier affair, but also one that's not quite as fast as the others. Don't get me wrong though, I'm not really criticizing it just yet. The introduction is nice and dark, which is perfect to the lyrical theme: betrayal. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Of all the tracks, I would say that “The Judas Kiss” is the darkest. Its religious overtones and general vibe remind me of “Leper Messiah” from <i>Master of Puppets</i>. If you want a head-banging, anger-inducing, feast of darkness, then this is your song. Even the solo, which is certainly impressive, even for Kirk Hammett, is a dark little bit. James Hetfield clearly has fun singing this one. He evil-laughs at a few parts and there's a slowdown like “The End of the Line” and “Cyanide.” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The lyrics are ultimately about betrayal with metaphoric applications of demons and Judas. It is a Satanic song? Nah, I wouldn't say so. Is it an angry song with some dark overtones? Yeah, definitely. The lyrics are mostly well-written, except I do have a few gripes. A couple of lines are completely stupid. “Venom of a life insane/Bites into your fragile vein.” Sorry James, but that's ridiculous. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">“The Judas Kiss” is an evil blast. The guitar work is great, but not really as impressive as other bits on the album. This song isn't a standout on <i>Death Magnetic</i>, but it's overall a great track. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Next up is a surprise and a real treat: “Suicide and Redemption.” On the first listen, I kept thinking, “Well, where's the singing?” I wondered for the whole <i>ten</i> minutes because “Suicide and Redemption” is an instrumental. It had been almost twenty years since Metallica put out an instrumental track and Metallica's instrumentals had always been monumental. “The Call of Ktulu,” “To Live is to Die,” and “Orion” are simply amazing tracks. Having an instrumental here is a great way to do a throwback to the old days. But is it done right?</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Yes. Yes, it is.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">While it isn't as good as the previously mentioned instrumentals, it's still a darn good bit. Both James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett perform admirably with dueling guitar solos and some pretty sick melodies. While it isn't quite as impressive or unique as instrumentals past, it certainly is a good track. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The star in “Suicide and Redemption,” however, is the bass. This is Robert Trujillo's chance to shine and boy does he ever. The only issue is the production makes the bass hard to hear, but the playing is, nonetheless, pretty insane. His sound is a great addition to Metallica and “Suicide and Redemption” proves it. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Finally, “My Apocalypse” finishes things out. It doesn't waste time in making itself known. Ka-boom and it's off, literally. “My Apocalypse” is a track that ditches all BS in favor of delivering one of the fastest, and easily the most aggressive track on the whole album. It's loud, it's heavy, and it's very, very 1980's. That's a good thing.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">If any of these tracks is a throwback to the old days, it's this one. It has a slight “Master of Puppets” feel to it, but it's mostly completely an original piece. The guitar, drum, and bass work is all fast and aggressive. The guitar solo is strong, the song is fun... It's a great way to finish the album. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">But I have a few complaints. For one, it never really seems to go anywhere. There isn't much of a buildup or anything. The heaviness is good and it's aggressive, but “That Was Just Your Life,” “The End of the Line,” and “All Nightmare Long” were heavy and they each went somewhere. They had a certain progressive element that “My Apocalypse” is missing and it seems to me that it would be better if it had it. “Apocalypse” does change it up a bit with a slightly lighter bit in the middle, but it pretty much keeps up the whole way. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">The other complaint that I have is, again, the lyrics. The whole thing is stupid. I mean, it's got some of the stupidest lyrics known to man. Sure, it isn't as bad as “I Whip My Hair Back and Forth,” but come on, people. Here, let's look at a few choice parts:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<i>Claustrophobic<br />Crawl out of this skin<br />Hard explosive<br />Reach in, pull that pin<br /><br />Fear thy name extermination<br />Desecrate inhale the fire<br /><br />So we cross that line<br />Into the grips<br />Total eclipse<br />Suffer unto my apocalypse!<br /><br />Deadly vision<br />Prophecy revealed<br />Death Magnetic<br />Pulling closer still<br /><br />Fear thy name annihilation<br />Desolate inhale the fire<br /><br />So we cross that line<br />Into the grips<br />Total eclipse<br />Suffer unto my apocalypse!<br /><br />My apocalypse Go!<br /><br />Crushing metal, Ripping Skin<br />Tossing body mannequin<br />Spilling Blood, Bleeding Gas<br /><br />Mangle flesh, Snapping spine<br />Dripping bloody valentine<br />Shatter face, spitting glass<br /><br />Split apart<br />Split apart<br />Split apart<br />Spit<br />Spit it out!<br /><br />What makes me drift a litter bit closer<br />Dead man takes the steering wheel<br />What makes me know it's time to cross over<br />Words you repeat until I feel<br /><br />See through the skin the bones they all rattle<br />Future and past they disagree<br />Flesh falls away the bones they all shatter<br />I start to see the end in me<br /><br />See the end in me<br />See the end in me<br /><br />Claustrophobic<br />Climb out of this skin<br />Hard explosive<br />Reach in, pull that pin<br /><br />Violate, annihilate<br />All wounds unto my eyes<br />Obliterate, exterminate<br />And life itself, denied<br /><br />Fear thy name as hell awakens<br />Destiny, Inhale the Fire<br /><br />But we've cross that line<br />Into the grips<br />Total eclipse<br />Suffer unto my apocalypse!<br /><br />Tyrants awaken my apocalypse!<br />Demon awaken my apocalypse!<br />Heaven awaken my apocalypse!<br />Suffer forever my apocalypse!</i>”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Oh, no, wait, that's the whole thing. Whoops!</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">It's almost as if they took out a dictionary and a thesaurus and decided to look up the darkest, most “metal” words they could find and made them into lyrics. I mean, sure, there does seem to be a bit of a story in here. A lot of the lyrics seem to imply a car crash or maybe a war or something, but nevertheless, it's just too much. It's almost self-parody. I actually laughed at a few of these lines when I read them for this review. They really are terrible. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Overall, “My Apocalypse” is my least favorite on </span><i>Death Magnetic</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. It's not a horrible song, not even a bad song, but it's certainly not great.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Well, that's it for the tracks. Just after going through that review, To rank the songs, I'd go in this order:</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">1. “That Was Just Your Life” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">2. “The Unforgiven III”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">3. “All Nightmare Long”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">4. “Cyanide” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">5. “The End of the Line”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">6. “The Day That Never Comes” </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">7. “Suicide and Redemption”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">8. “The Judas Kiss”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">9. “Broken, Beat & Scarred”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">10. “My Apocalypse”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Understand that some of these songs are very close. I had to force myself to rank a couple of these. The first three, for instance, are very close. Four through eight were also really tough to rank. The last two, however, were pretty easy. I'm not saying that they're bad. They aren't <i>St. Anger</i> tracks. They just don't stack up to the others, in my humble opinion. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Okay, so the biggest theme you'll notice in the review so far has been that the music is great, but the lyrics are pretty dumb. That's my <i>second</i> biggest gripe. The next complaint, in my opinion, is even bigger. The production on <i>Death Magnetic</i> is completely ruined, almost to the point of ruining the entire album. The songs themselves are great, but the production is... wow. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">I'm not referring to the mixing, mastering, or equalizing. Those are all done fantastically. <i>Death Magnetic</i> is mixed very well. What's the problem then? The volume. <i>Death Magnetic</i> is recorded at <i>ludicrous</i> volumes. It's recorded so loud that it completely kills the dynamic range on the entire record. The bass becomes almost inaudible and the drums are totaled. A lot of albums these days are recorded way too loudly, but the average listener wouldn't know. In fact, most headsets couldn't even really detect the difference other than a general volume decrease. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">But <i>Death Magnetic</i>? There's noticeable distortion even on my crappy laptop speakers. It's totally flat and totally terrible. Sure, I'd take this over <i>St. Anger</i>'s horrors any day, but we can't let <i>St. Anger</i> be an excuse for this kind of garbage. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">You might be asking yourself why they would do this. Well, I have answer for you: money. You see, to the untrained ear, louder is better. When a track is louder, it stands out more. Say you've put your iPod on shuffle or you're listening to the radio. The track that you're going to notice is the track that's loudest. In the music business, this is called the “loudness war.” <i>Death Magnetic</i> takes this to entirely new extremes and it's really unfortunate. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">I've had the chance of hearing a mix of <i>Death Magnetic </i>without the bad production. It sounds miles better, but my review is based entirely on the commercial product in stores. I can't just ignore that the final product is this terribly produced. It really is. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">I understand the logic of wanting your song louder, but this just seems like a dumb, last minute decision. According to a few sources, the band isn't responsible for this. They were on tour when the final mixing was taking place. So, apparently, somebody just said, “Alright, screw it, just make it really loud. No, louder. <i>Louder</i>.” And then they released it. They had this beautiful work of art on the table and then someone spilled coffee on the edge. Sure, it's not that huge of a deal, but the work is always going to be stained. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">So, in summary, the musicianship is excellent on <i>Death Magnetic</i>. While Metallica have come back, I would say that they're a bit like a runner who got his leg chopped off. During the <i>Kill 'em All </i> through <i>...And Justice for All</i> period, they were a championship runner who won lots of Olympic gold medals and performed amazingly. Then, they got their leg chopped off. They simplified their sound and went to a place where we really don't want to see them. During this time, they resorted to other things, but the whole time we just wanted the runner back. Well, with <i>Death Magnetic</i>, Metallica is running again, but they're running on a prosthetic leg. We're glad to see them back on the track, but they're never going to be the same again. Still, it's great to see them back and their performance is actually much better than expected.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">Will they get back to making <i>Master of Puppets</i>-quality material? I doubt it. However, <i>Death Magnetic </i>isn't a bad place to be. It's not the best possible, but it's great nevertheless. Metallica is back where they should be. They've changed, we've changed, but we're all back at the party. It's kind of like being at a class reunion after twenty years. Everyone's different, but Metallica's back to playing their old games. And for that, we love them. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">To give <i>Death Magnetic</i> an overall score, I would give it a solid eight out of ten. The production and the lyrics are both awful, but every other element works well to produce a solid record. There are no bad songs on <i>Death Magnetic</i>, just songs that aren't as good as the rest. A seven is too low, because <i>Death Magnetic</i> is much more than average record, but there's definitely room for improvement.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal;">If, however, the next album can fix the few issues on <i>Death Magnetic</i>, we could be looking at a masterpiece. I really doubt it'll happen, but Metallica really surprised us with this one. Can we hope for another surprise? Yes. Should we expect it? No. What should we do? Just appreciate the goodness we've already got. </p>Wesley Julianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14702350862620931777noreply@blogger.com0