Flash Fiction New Setting

Flash Fiction New Setting

Its been an eternity since I wrote a short story, much has happened. I have decided to start writing some again. this is the first one for our new Setting Beyond the Black Sea, due to be released May or June. Its a Sword and Sorcery setting built on the Dark Stars System.

This flash fiction is the first story in the setting, and I hope to write more.

The Statue

Ivar didn’t know the woman. Her wry smile and flashing eyes, curly black hair spoke of a Stygian or Canaanite. She had bronze skin; her dark lips maybe had a Pictish origin. “Ummm Ten silver ingots no more Cimmerian she coughed. The guttural sound was odd and didn’t at all match her features of the language of Canaan. Ivar, a simple man from north east of the Black Sea, was standing at least a foot above her, holding the tusk of a mammoth in his brawny hands. His short black hair, ice blue eyes clean shaven face and smooth tanned skin gave away his origins all too plainly. Clearly she meant to cheat him, ivory of this quality hacked from the living skull of a Mammoth was worth far more than ten silver ingots. “I can make this into a fine carved idol of your god Baal for you, or a statue or some other precious item. I know that this is worth ten times the amount you say woman. Give me a fair price I wish to drink and eat.”

“You foolish brute, I would not think a Northman such as yourself would be capable of carving anything. You don’t even have cloths. But, should you carve this for me and attend to some other vices of mine. I will give you 500 ingots of silver.” Her brown eyes flashed and she licked her lips tussled her hair trying to distract the Cimmerian. “My name is Lilania and I hold power in this city, the next time you call me woman I will cut out your tongue.”

Lilania lead the Cimmerian away through narrow alleys until she arrived at a large mud brick building with white lime wash, and a parapet with a ladder made of sturdy timber fixed to the wall. She quickly climbed the ladder her yellow and red chiton hitched up to the side exposing her thighs and calves. Her top was yellow with red geometric designs and around her neck she wore the symbol of Baal Alaakum the god of the city, two gold disks with a crescent above. The Cimmerian climbed, his loin cloth made of fur and his bundle of skins slung across his back. The crystal dagger in his girdle and large two edge sword made of hardened bronze on his back. He mounted the top of the parapet and saw the woman opening a trap door in the flat roof. “Thieves abound in this city, especially trying to rob me of my trade goods.” Welcome to my home and place of business.

The room was large at least ten paces across. The floor was covered with fine carpets made of wool or flax the Cimmerian could not tell. A fire burned in a spherical hearth made of bronze. All around were metal items, bronze mirrors, silver goblets, copper ingots stacked high in a crate. A bubbling weird black iron cauldron hissed and popped. Her slaves were here too a small Canaanite woman with short cut brown hair and green eyes worked some form loom, a beautiful Galli woman with long braided light brown hair and blue eyes was skilfully painting a vase in swirls, circles and braids of her homeland far to the west, a large black skinned Dogon man, his tribal marking and proud features marked him as a warrior of ten years, he was a long way from the Barbary and was probably the bodyguard of the merchant. The wealth of the merchant was staggering.

Gold and gems adorned the alter of Baal. So much metal the Cimmerians eyes widened at the site of it. “Come Cimmerian I will show you my workshop”

Lilania lead Ivar through to another adjoining smaller room in this room the roof was more open, he could see the sky. A granite forge with bronze tools was arrayed before him, along with many other benches and work-spaces. The woman grabbed wet clay and skillfully fashioned a statue of Baal. Carefully etching in the geometric magical symbols, the priests revered. She carefully and patently showed the Cimmerian every aspect of the statue he was to carve.

“See Cimmerian, like this the symbols must be perfect.” She coughed.

“I understand Lilania, I will carve the idol for you”

Ivar began his work the next day after eating a meal of dried fish, bread and an apple prepared by the young Canaanite slave girl Leeta. He began clearing his work area and selecting tools, so many good fine bronze tools for him to work with. He took his time examining the dry statue and began to find the form within the mammoth tusk.

Ivar had been working for a week now, the statue was lifelike, taking the form of Baal. Lilania had been pleased and been more friendly with Ivar. The Cimmerian learned that she had a Pictish mother and father of mixed blood who had lived for a long time. She herself was over one hundred years old and looked barely thirty. She knew sorcerer and numbers and that was her main trade, as a seer and necromancer she had learned Stygian secrets. He found a charm in her raspy husky voice. The Cimmerian enjoyed the company of the slave girl from Gaul. Her culture had many similarities with his own, but she was far more artful and skilled in painting and drawing. A few times she had helped him with the carving outlining the runes for him. He learned some of the local languages quickly, in the house they mostly spoke Canaanite, but used a few Pictish, Gaelic and Stygian words.

The next week was the slow finishing of the statue, rubies, silver gold and orichalcum were added carefully as inlays. The idol took on a life of its own now, the artwork impersonating the god. Ivar was please and showed Lilania, she viewed it shrewdly carefully examining it and squinting her eyes.

“This is good, who would think a barbarian from the wilds could handle tools with such skill and make such an item as this.” Lilania then took the idol wrapped it up, produced a pouch of some silver ingots. Now, lets see how you fight. I suspect the guards of the merchant that I will sell this too will try to take it. He is a dirty Sygian from far away. If I give this motion, she placed her hand on her forehead you and Enlu will attack his guards. “Do you understand Cimmerian?” she coughed “I understand, my name is Ivar and you know that witch.” His muscled had tensed at the insult, and then she saw that she was playing again, which she did with all the people she met. “I will deal with the merchant” she said, and the servants and his house will be mine. But maybe he will pay the price I asked and we will not need to use your Barbarian skills.

The dust had been kicked up the wind as they walked down the street, the Cimmerian noticed that many of the people of the town shut their doors as the woman walked towards them. They obvisly were afraid of the sorcerer. Ivar had seen no evidence of magic or sorcery except the many idles and items she carried. The statue was wrapped in a fine red cloth, of exception weave.

The house they approached was similar to her other houses didn’t have holes in the roof, what made these ones different. As if to answer his question, Lilania explained “Long ago, the town was Pictish and this was the method of construction, we had no laws to govern our behaviour, my fathers father came her and taught them how to forge bronze. The town grew up around us, the house we are going to is another ancient, he came from the east some thousand years ago. The Picts he lived with are all dead, but his descendants remain. He comes from Lemuria, and you will see why he may betray us soon enough. Don’t be afraid Cimmerian, there are far worse than he in this world.”

All three of them climbed the ladder quickly, Lilania kicked the trap door pounding on it with her boot. Ivar saw that she had a obsidian dagger in her belt carved in strange Stygian symbols. Enlu had a two short stone bronze spear and a shield of cow hide and wood on his back. The trap door was opened and they descended into the house, this one had walls covered in crude paintings of aurox, horses and crocodiles. A fire was burning in a stone hearth. The merchant had five Pictish warriors, their stone spears and hides covered their small broad frames. The Lemurian was strange his yellow skin and long blonde hair and red eyes and tall conical elongated skull gave him a grim appearance. His delicate frame was almost insect like in its movements. He stooped, towering over the Picts though his bones appeared far more delicate, a human of a bygone age. The Cimmerian wondered what things he had seen in his long life, and if he knew that he would meet his fate at the hands of the Canaanite witch. 

“Lilania, I see you have a new guard with you. Did you bring me what I asked for this time, or cheep trinkets?” The Lemurians serpentine tone and soothing voice showed confidence in his position, a mistake because the Cimmerian had already planned to kill the first two Picts, as soon as the signal was given. He was already inching his way subtly forward to swords reach. The sword was on his hip this time.

Lilania revealed the statue, and the Lemurian shrewdly reviewed it, she turned it over in her hands rolling her fingers across it.

“Lilania you have outdone yourself this time, this looks like it may match my specifications however. I must see if it is accepted into the ritual you understand of course.”

She gave a little nod of head, and handed him the statue which he then placed on an alter which had a cloth of a red gold metal. The Cimmerian had never seen such a wonder, how could you make a weave from metal?

He lifted up a strange green bag and affixed a bracelet to his wrist. He spoke magical words and viewed the bracelet light flighted on the bracelet in many colours. A strange voice came out of the bracelet speaking a weird language.

“We have an agreement; the navigator agrees it will serve my purpose. I shall give you 1 ton of black earth from my farms, and the seeds of the future. Plant them and feed the people of Canaan for 10,000 years.”

“We have an agreement Shu, let us drink wine and eat the flesh of birds.”

The two sorcerers drank wine from strange goblets. The Barbarian could see through the walls of the goblet to the liquid within. Never had he seen such a thing. What wonders did these sorcerers have, the strange devices and knowledge.

He had travelled far in all his days, seen the great city of Zar’Grim, Sailed the agean, learned of the existence of many metals including the ancient Atlantean metals of Steel and Orichalcum, but the wonders in that ancient Pictish room he dreamed of for many days.

Choices

The pavement had broken his fall, and his body into countless pieces. What little blood remained in him, seeped out onto that smooth polished black metal surface. With the last of the light entering his brain, he saw the honeycomb of light blue titanium-ceramic alloy holding the steel-ceramic substrate together. When she held him for the last time, with those Ultrachrome arms, he knew she loved him; even though she was mad at him.

He knew that no cops would stop her, no guards judges or juries. They wouldn’t even care, they wouldn’t come down here from their clean blockclave streets. He had been fighting, with her that day over what seemed like a little thing. He knew the savings were going to be used for the procedure for him; implantation of an artificial womb to carry their child for the nine months before birth. He had agreed to the procedure, she had nothing left except the cells in her head, not enough blood to feed the baby as it grew.

Before she replaced her abdomen and internal organs she had saved her eggs, kept them in some cryostore at great expense in case the day may come. She had paid for his dna mapping and original dna reversal culture injections, so that he had perfect human dna again like she did. After that day, he had withered shrinking in size from the freak he was, to the man he was just before the fall. But he was forty percent human flesh. The last of that flesh, was being examined now, by men and women wearing orange filthy overalls with a big black DV logo on the back front.

It was a little thing, but to him he just wanted to try it, he had never had it before and neither had she. It was such a rare thing, and ancient pleasure from halcyon days. He had simulated it before, warm hot liquid bitter taste, sweet if added, creamy texture. But it had always been a disappointment the simulated and even the 1% versions were not the same. It was on his list, it was his right as a human, and they could just save up again for the procedure, time was something they had plenty of.

He remembered feeling excited when the blab kid mumbled the words of where they were selling it, he ran all the way up, up and up across gantries, through ducts, up an elevator, onto a maglev, on a scooter. The trip had cost him twenty credits, he could buy ten synths for that. But he wanted the real thing, the hot joy.  The place was a plaza, from end to end black blue uniformed men an women their mirror shades reflecting the faces of the dirty people waving credit chips or wads of script at them, they would only take Toy Toy script or credit that was the deal. One cup per person, no sharing no take away. 

He waved his chip over the reader four-thousand credits flashed in a microsecond on the screen and he was admitted through the armed group. He sat on a plastic seat, small slightly un-comfortable tempor foam cradling his big butt. The woman approached him, she was small about five feet high, she had a tray with pink and orange strip lighting around the rim, in the center of the tray a ceramic cup, with sun flowers painted on it, being cradled by the saucer, hot steam but not too hot heaved itself off the liquid; he went all out got Capo-Chino Real-Italian, hot frothy milk with a dusting of chocolate one sugar and two shots. He felt alive that day, the real thing; hitting his brain.In the past he had all manner of synth experience but this was real. Grown in green houses on Tharsis by the Starelk Corporation. Milk grown in green houses too in real cows, by Brazilian Hugo's Steak House and Beef.

Not even genetically modified cows; cows they made them from DNA found in the Smithsonian. Pure, real, grown with soil of substrate cultivated from Columbia or Peru. Real, in a world where he could have anything but simple real pleasure. The hot liquid languished on his tongue the fats breaking down being tasted by his enhanced senses. The bitter taste had different components, light acid tastes, some sort of dirt like taste, and something else he didn’t recognized he would find out a word for it later. 

There were different grades of the bitter and acid, different effects of the milk. Real was not homogenic, real was mixed compounds. He could never get this taste from a simulated experience or even drink it from a 1% coffee machine the product Starelk normally sold. Real is real and fake is fake, and he knew he could tell the difference.

After thirty minutes he had finished, the waitress came over. You want some more? Yes he said, she swiped his card, three-thousand long black coming right up. He tasted that all the full flavor no sugar no milk, tasted the subtle acid and bitter. Thirty minutes later she was back, You want some more? I shouldn’t but I will Grande Latte one sugar. four-thousand-five-hundred. Big coffee big glass; hot liquid, different taste different milk, caramel from the sugar, real sugar imported from Australia on ships that are guarded by ninjas. All too short, that half hour was over. You want some more? She was like a pusher but this wasn’t any synthcoke this was real-coffee hot and wholesome grown on Mars at great expense. I got no money left. She handed him a card, Starelk loves its customers, we are the mother to all lovers of coffee. Enjoy this gift, one-thousand cups of 1%, free of charge please carry card at all time in case you feel the NEED for coffee.

When he told her, he was sure her red shiny eyes were growing nano machine produced tear ducts for her, but no tears, just a scream HOW COULD YOU, How could you do that. He mumbled i can be father later. Those strong arms lifted him up over the railing like his one hundred and fifty kilograms of bulk was nothing; he said he loved her and they could save up again, it may take one year or ten depending on the jobs. He was thrown three meters away from the balcony and tumble sixty meters to the pavement. Shattering his metal and silocone and plastic components like shards of glass. 

Clinical

The inhaler wheezed like a dying horse as Ginzsby entered the crowded emergency ward. Freaks, creeps mutants and scum were lined up; waiting to be triaged or bleeding out. The riot had ended with the BG Company agreeing to treat all members of the block ward for free. Berkley Genomics was the biggest heath and genetics corporation in the solar system. They appeared as white knights but underneath, they were sharks taking what they could.

Jeffersons plague was nothing more than a predicted reaction from humans from earth, to the permanent settlement on New Mars. A debilitating disease that wasted the infected and eventually killed them.

The BG Company announced a cure about five days ago, already out of supplies, time and patience the blockers (dwellers of the blocks) had decided to take the cure, that’s where we came in; the Red Dragons. We held positions between the riot and the clinics on levels 310 to 298, a big territory held by a score more gangs. Armed with mono swords, heavy SMGs and occasional RPG we were more than a match for most gangs. Secure in our positions we went around the “job” of extorting, terrorising and running the show until they came and turned most of us into charcoal. Hailing from old Earth, hired goons with hired haircuts; speaking a variety of arcane and forgotten languages like Swedish, German and French none of them speaking Martian street chat.

Armed with lethal weapons like plasma flame throwers, micro missiles, robot wolves and drones. They cut a swath through us all the way to that clinic warehouse. Then those creeps began launching missiles and grenades as if they were children with fireworks for the first 4th of July. The promptly destroyed the supply of Jefferson’s cure, burning the warehouses to the ground.

Like ghosts those black clad mercenaries methodically moved through our turf. Fighting was fierce, we won some they won more; and in the end they got what they came for. That’s why I’m here in the hospital, with my finger in this guy’s belly wound. “Now Hanz, tell me what the fuck you were doing”

Science

Some Important Breakthroughs.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/health/healthnews/8443740/Scientists-create-human-kidneys-from-stem-cells.html

Recovery Procedure

“He arsed it up!” Shouted Foley at Dank orange and green dreads waiving in the air with the briskness of her statement, coal black wrinkled skin shining with a slippery membrane.

“Customer knew the risks; everyone is told don’t Junk yourself too often or you end up being Junked. We just have to begin recovery procedures; he then has to pay for the alterations again.”

Dank calmly drank dark rum out of an old Blackmore’s coffee cup, his white hair seemed natural and his good looks could either be Junked in or natural. Dank slowly bushed the ash from Foley’s cigarette of his khaki pants and stood up only coming up to the bottom of obsidian giant’s breasts.

“That’s balls, and you know it why don’t we just squirt the shit right in there and alter the main template. That way, we can get them to try stuff and roll back to where they last saved their template.” She waived salami sized hands at Dank, the calm almost dead expression in his eyes told her he was not in the slightest bit intimidated by her.

“That’s a great idea, why haven’t I thought of that being the genius who made the technology you would think I would have. Grow up Foley, and sit down”

Foley slumped in the couch, a hurt expression in her deep red eyes.

“We keep their original code for a very specific reason; a species is defined by its ability to bread with other members of its species. The original code is what allows that to happen; it’s the template for our human species. If we squirt into the templates, people will drift the separation will be almost total within two generations. It’s also been shown that culturally we tend to become conservative every 2nd or 3rd generation, and this swing leads to a great shedding of new thinking and values and a return to grass roots. Such a swing is getting likely now; we have seen the movements of people like the naturals; return of the faiths etc. The truth is your client is going to want to reproduce at some point and to do so we have to assist them as their genetic code is so radically different from that of whomever their partner is that a union could only happen with created material derived from the template.”

Dank began to pace behind his desk and picked up an old pipe, and began sucking on it as if he was some scientist in an old movie.

“Why can’t we have two templates for each client? I mean we could get them to pay for more storage isn’t it all just data?” She shouted still angry that her requests were rejected, and defiant that he had made her sit down.

“There is a component which is just data, however a complete copy of all genetic material is kept on every human world, the cost to replicate that and the time to replicate altered versions is too prohibitive. We physically send the original template to each planet.”

“So what’s the recovery procedure; I have never done one and this client is a VIP” Foley started to get up but then thought better of it.

“VIP, you client is the owner of an advertising company that spans one world. Sure maybe on that world he is rich but he is hardly important. The fact that he is now some sort hard cartilaginous mass sprouting copper hairs, made of real copper I might add and oozing a strange viscous green mucous suggests to me that you have not been recording all alterations, and this is maybe his one hundredth or more. There is a reason we record each alteration and send it back to planetary HQ.”

Dank put the pipe down on the shelf and played with some of the items there. His rumpled shirt made him look like some sort of painter from the impressionist period mixed with a sardonic Jazz musician from the 1970’s. The delusions of reality had faded from his ancient frame replaced by a calm grace that only came with complete understanding of human frailty.

“He will have to be reverted to this point here, just when he got his gills, new liver and mucous and he will have to stay that way.” Risking anything else will mean that we would lose his mind; his genes can be Junked to that point but no further.

“That’s like only thirty procedures, he will be ruined everyone will call him norm. That’s fashion from five years ago when water sports were in.”

Dank swept his hair back and calmly sat at his desk he punched in a few key strokes on his ancient computer. “That’s all I can do for him. Genetics is not fashion, it’s who we are it’s a fundamental.”

He gazed at the giant sitting on his couch, his clear grey eyes studying the upgrades she had, maybe close to fifty Junking sessions.

“Foley, you do another unlisted procedure ill strip you of all your upgrades. Now please leave my office and get this paper work done, he is likely to die in a few days if we don’t recover.”

Election time, lets not go back to the past lets go back to the future

Back to the Future; where we are going we don't need pants.

In ref to; http://andiamnotlying.com/2008/pants-where-were-going-we-dont-need-pants/

Tenuous at best.

My good mate GAK posted a tweet showing a snap of an awesome Delorean and that got me to thinking. We know the 80's is back in many ways most in pop culture (monocles like me think those people missed out by skipping right to PMoD). What about the things that really made the 80's awesome. I'm talking cold-war and nuclear Armageddon, is that why my generation spends so much time playing games in imaginary worlds and striving for imaginary things or is that simply because we internalized the awesomeness of the 80's and want to acquire virtual awesome things. Back to the Future had this awesome car, the Delorean a car which now represents what all manufactured goods should be, sort of work, last forever and epic vision. In Back to the Future, they have to fix the fuck-ups in the timeline; maybe there are points when things could go one way or the other. I thought Keven 07 was one such point; how disappointed I am in his colleagues.

History repeats, much like onions and history is multi layered too much like onions. Nothing happens without cause, even in our tiny backwater nation of Australia we get to make history.

This is the first election, where I as a voter feel there is no choice or option. So what happens out of this election, should either be the beginning of a new order or the final testing of the 2 party system.

A bold statement indeed, so what does that mean?

1: Monocle wearing Tony you know what you are getting. I would vote for libs if the leader were Malcolm Turnbul. I still may do, I'm finding it hard to engage though not for lack of information; however the consequences will never be the same. I don't know if it will be bad or not.

2: Labour party is as bad as a Labour party can get, and really showed that a lepard cannot change its spots regardless of how much RNA recombination it goes through. This assassination is the very core of their party. They did it before, and will do it again. With fear of your position how can you get anything done.

3: Greens have a good leader, however the groundswell doesn't appear to be there or is it? People who I never thought would vote green are. I think that this could be the year for them, they have some good people not just Bob Brown.

I think that the Nationals, should do a deal with the Greens somehow; hell bring the libs along for the ride if they could.

It could work, I would love to see the weird wrannger child of Barnaby and Brown and Joe. National policies that involve the national interest. One reason I don't like politicians is because they have huge egos and don't really understand anything other than politics. I understand that governance and transparency are important, but that gets you nowhere if you have no big idea.

What is the big idea of this election, please tell me because I don't want to go backwards.

USD

Its been awhile since I have posted anything, but this is an interesting article. In summary a UN report states that US dollar is an increasingly unstable currency and should be replaced by something else. The article has some scary stats for 2050.

Take a read

http://edition.cnn.com/2010/BUSINESS/06/29/un.report.dollar/index.html?eref=igoogle_cnn&fbid=s4G0x9U7lWy

Awesome Chlorophyl Slug

From Peetronicus

Really awesome article about a Slug that steals cell organelles and uses them in its own biochemistry to photosynthesise. This is the first Gene stealer!

http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2010/01/green-sea-slug/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+wired%2Findex+%28Wired%3A+Index+3+%28Top+Stories+2%29%29&utm_content=Google+Feedfetcher

Epoc the Last ticket

Overseer sat in his leather and gold console, the smell of oil and metal heavy in his nostrils. His tall and lanky frame was old now, even for one of the immortal. His gold colored lenses defocused as he gazed inside his own head to read the days correspondence from the all thing.

Worker unit Curmudgeon alpha reported that his last commit was balls and dreamy hopper unit oopsed up the arse with a wandangle do dad. Overseer began the sacred procedure and reassigned the sanctified work log, the venerated documents and the holy source to Gunghoe alpha with the message of please complete this holy ticket by lunch time.

Gunghoe alpha was just rising after a night fighting the data whores below for scraps of source. Looking in his mirror he cleaned his black metal carapace, checked all eight of his legs and four manipulator arms and raised his elongated head to clean under his neck. Gunghoe squirted the holy oils, the cool greasy high quality liquid easing his aching joints. "Arr thats better" he shouted in a cavernous volume he used as a repository. The inner monolog of his conversation with his second and third brain had taken him about five minutes. By the time he finished the floor was awash with sacred oils that trickled down to the depths below. The data whores below would be lapping it up with their long and sinuous tongues. "Bitches, drink up good"

A chime sounded clear and beautiful like the start of a symphony it filled Gunghoe with joy. Gunghoe gazed at the wall, the thousand boxes were marked and each box contained a grid of 365 smaller boxes. Gunghoe hopped on his impossibly massive black legs and scrawled the last box of his wall solid. Speaking to himself "I shall now begin the sacred ritual of the update to sanctified branch source and its an especially a beautiful day because today, I will be transfer the sanctified source from our latest branch back to master thus renewing our master branch and deploying our next version so all may enjoy the fruits of our labours."

Gunghoe flew into a rage at the message he receive he screamed and ranted and raved. Collapsing on the ground like a dying spider softly whispering. "Commit was balls and dreamy hopper unit oopsed up the arse with a wandangle do dad ... dam you dreamy hopper you broke the branch again, now I can't merge!"

After relieving the source of some cruft from the commit, Gunghoe had gotten to the root of the problem. A nasty one indeed as the wandagle do dad was indeed up the arse, causing him to pull the wandagle from master and put it back into the branch. But the problem with that was the do dad would have to be re-writent to fit with the proper wandangle. "Dam you Dreamy hopper why didn't you follow the sacred procedure of the daily ritual." Dreamy hopper could hear the rantings and ravings of Gunghoe, his green eyes and coppery skin reflective in the dark of his source chamber. He croaked his soft voice and shouted up the chamber "If you get the wandagle from my branch you don't have to re-write the do dad"

Curmudgeon alpha was a dusty old plastic model, built before the source was last branched, he had seen the turning of the heavens and the ritual of the merge before but had refused to be recycled instead staying in his ancient dented white and silver chassis. He only had two arms, two eyes and two legs modelled off the mythical makers who strode the earth millennia ago. "All sleeping, all sleeping those masters of old, leaving us behind to make the great machine" Curmudgeon climbed out across the impossible gulf between Dreamy Hopper and himself to converse with the youngest of their kind. His ancient carapace creaked and groaned, sacred oils would do no good to ease the bourdon on his servos. "Arrrrrrrr" said Curmudgeon to Dreamy hopper who looked inquisitively Curmudgeon. "Noooooooo Drrrrreeeemmmy" said Curmudgeon "What" said Dreamy, "Are you trying to tell me not to merge" it seemed to Dreamy that it took an eternity for Curmudgeon to nod his dented plastic head.

Both of them were shocked to hear the loud boisterous bellow from Gunghoe "Hey guys, we have four hours to re-write the do dad so I can do a merge"

"No don't re-write the do dad re-write the wandangle" exclaimed dreamy with a massive waving of many arms and many legs.

"Aaaaaaaaar no fuck it just write an interface layer and sort it out in the next branch" rasped Curmudgeon.

"Oh umm fuck it lets do that it sounds fast then I can get back to my data whores and get oiled up good. Dreamy update the ticket on what we are doing" He does a little fake dance which puts both of them off going anywhere with him later on.

"I don't do tickets, tickets are like totally lame" Dreamy is waving his arms about and starting to hop on his one leg.

"Fuccccck, just update the ticket so overseer sees we are doing something, if you ruin my ritual and I can't get down with those data whores tonight your fucking dead Dreamy ill unplug you myself" The black beetle moves towards the flapping arms, leering with his insect like head.

"Whooo, dude thats harsh, ok ill update the ticket" Dreamy stops hopping and moves to the console.

Back on his leather and gold throne oversea reads the input from the all thing. "Adding some interface shit to fix the do dad wandangle arsed issue"

"We are done!" Dreamy quickly skitters away and begins drinking the sacred oil.

"Immmmm offf" Curmudgeon climbs back to his source hole in the wall and plugs in, reviewing Dreamys latest work.

Gunghoe begins his sacred ritual, and has to restart it three times as various forgotten commits arrive and are arranged. His hands move in an arcane set of ritual stop start motions. Eventually he has merged the master back to the branch, he runs the holy integration tests, the sacred unit tests and skips the user interface tests as was prescribed millennia ago by the makers of old. Gunghoe stages the code, replacing some thousand workers with their new source and instructing them to run all tests. After agonising hours, the data comes back good most of the tests passed across the board and the source is ready for update. The ritual of merge commences, it happens very quickly as many units take themselves offline and reboot for the new version of source. They read the release notes and criticise their lack of documentation and elegance. "Whats this commit message about, I mean you think they could write some documentation for once right" One unit doesn't reboot, he sits alone in the dark his dented plastic casing dull and cold to the touch his crystal eyes go dim.

Overseer reviews the statistics and announces a great celebration, branch one thousand is closed we are now version one thousand of source. Overseer raises his frame from his leather seat and cracks a bottle of sacred oil. His console flashes, he closes the ticket but opens another as it is his sacred duty, he makes a new ticked for a new branch. "Fix arsed code that caused old models to crash" Overseer looks down to the world below him, the thousands of units hard at work with their next project. Its taken a long time to get here he whispers and it will take a long time to finish.

Spaceships and Awsome images

The allure of skillfully painted fantastic pieces of a vision of the future or fantasy world has always been incredibly appealing. It started at an early age my dad had a huge sci-fi paperback collection thousands of books. Two awesome books I still have Mechanismo by Harry Harrison, and Views by Rodger dean. I still have those two books and pour over the images still.

Take a look at these books you can just search for the titles or the artists. Recently in my hunt for spaceships came across this http://conceptships.blogspot.com/ collection of space images.

Some Aliens

http://jeradsmarantz.blogspot.com/

Have fun and merry Christmas.

Junker

As I climbed the outer crater wall of Thasis city; everything changed for me. The world kept turning at 868.22 kilometres per hour but my internal world careened out of control. The steep climb reminded me of the struggle to get here; the many tumbles down the slope mirrored my tumble. With careful method, I had become a monster, and the man who did this with me now stood over me with a predatory gaze. I had tried to do something terrible. I thought it was the right thing to do; like many terrorists before me, here and back on earth in years gone by; I had justified every soul-destroying decision believing I was dragging humanity forward.

Minks, my long time friend and mentor stooped over me, his long, lean form glinting in the Martian sunrise. That the messenger was Minks - my comrade, my brother - hurt the most. Gently, he took my small, personal canister of poison. Meekly, I let him. I feel like a kid whose big brother breaks all his toys; hopelessly crying for my parents. They aren't listening, they stopped listening long ago, or maybe I stopped crying and hadn’t noticed. My work was wasted, the self I had been was lost on an ocean and no one was looking for me.

Remembering my sister’s birthday, the first time I met him. He told me about his plans to change the world; told me I was good at what I did, he encouraged my creative side. Together, as we worked, we felt like gods striding across a new frontier, the work was all we could think about. Nothing else mattered. Slowly I lost all my other friends; then I lost my family. I was arrested, and bailed out; I committed crimes against the state, against people, against anyone and everything. Maybe even against nature. Minks, the others and myself had been Junkers: a new form of revolutionary - we changed ourselves and the world around us. That was our need, and our instinct.

Minks was older than me, wiser and even more screwed up. He picked me for my innocence, my naiveté. I was a hacker of sorts: I adjusted the ‘code’ of living tissue rather than computer programs. There were only a few of us doing it and Minks had picked me for his gang. How the technology worked or what I did is not important, what is important is that we thought, no – we knew it was the new frontier of human civilization. Together we would change humanity. Now, lying on the cusp of this dry, dead crater with Minks gazing down at me, the disappointment of my failure is as barren as the alien, crimson dust of this long-dead planet, which is greedily soaking up my rapidly freezing blood. We were the vanguard of human civilization; on the broken edge of science playing with powers we just had an understanding of…

…The human race was not ready to accept genetic manipulation. There were riots for and riots against. The UN created special economic zones on mars to allow the technology to be researched and tested. The technology was simply abhorrent to many people. Big business had invested trillions in the research but the only items that were accepted were cloned organs to extend life. People just didn't want to change; that's where we fit in.

Junkers took the broken science and used it. We changed ourselves to prove it could be done. To show the world what humanity could be, and in changing, in demonstrating what humans could be, we no longer were. We didn't know that then, and maybe we wouldn't have cared anyway. Junkers were a force; a movement for change: we weren’t just trying to bring change, we wanted to become change.

When heat builds up in a system, steam escapes with a blast, usually a pressure valve is used but sometimes there are leaks and the leaks explode. We were the leaks in the system; people who were living on the edge, and with the nothing we thought we had to lose we were able to show others what was possible. This, I discovered, was our function: to show mankind that genetic manipulation was not only possible in a living being but also Natural Selection.

Mink's had become so charmed by his own existence; that his charm just rubbed off like scales from a butterfly. He sprinkled his fairy dust around and others followed him. People like me, a new and naive kid genius ready for the next big thing. I, we, would follow him around and hang on his every word. I remember once how he got on to some talk show, about troubled teens who were followers of this new "Junker movement" he stated plainly:

"Junker is not only cool, its liberating; imagine being able to fly in space on solar wings, that's where we will be one day and you'll all be dead. Because some Luddites don't understand doesn't mean the UN can pass restrictions. I'm not condoning the attacks on protos like you. I am saying that change has come and you can either embrace it; or get out of our way."

It was not long after this point we became fugitives, attack on protos by Junkers had increased and we felt squeezed into a corner. We never ran from it, we ran into it and fought back, the cops, the army, our parents, our siblings if you didn’t have the scent and look you were walking meat and we never cared. Minks told everyone to take it up a notch and we complied. That charm still so strong, even though he could no longer be recognised as human or even ‘Minks’ anymore. Thousands followed us in the ether, and news casts. Protos wanted to be like us: different from the Protos, they wanted a standard package to get started. Enhanced eyes and ears, better brawns and more smarts. Bands started doing it, brawing out or getting really crazy with scales and feathers. They flocked to the cause and protested in their schools and colleges demanding a lift of the bans. Overnight instead of a ‘movement’ we became fashion, there were labels of clothes and bands, and all the paraphernalia associated with all fashion and fads. Still we kept striving, searching for the waterfall to jump off.

Minks still so charming, was smiling now. I remember him saying “Tommy, those Proto fuckers should give you a noble prize, you’re a fucking genius”. We worked so hard to achieve acceptance, I never realised just how popular our movement would become. It seemed serendipity that bands came out, with music we liked, clothing just as we wanted it to look, and more people to indulge in the change with us. Minks pops something into my pocket a small thing, white with letters on it. “Rest up Tommy, the war is over; I called an ambulance for you, your going to get a nice room, I booked it in this nice clinic by the sea you’ll like the sea we don’t have oceans on Mars. When you’re better; I got a job for you to. Can you still sing Tommy; there is this benefit for the victims of the poison. I said I would bring some Junkers to sing this old song “We are the World”. It’s going to be all over the ether on all the casts. Lots of normals’ will be watching; it’s a big deal. Hey Tommy, do you think before the gig, you can do something about my teeth; I want them to be blue now, you know to go with my eyes.”

He pushes more stuff into my pockets, a data stick labelled songs to learn. I look at the small item in my shirt pocket; it’s a simple white card with his name Michael Minkins director of marketing Sibel and Dawn.

God of War

God of War

by Morgs

I took my coffee and biscotti from the teen age assistant at the deli paying the 50 Euro; I remember when a coffee was 40 Euros. She called me a fascist. I said at least I’m somebody pointing at her pink I’m an Anarchist Hello Kitty T shirt.

I made my way across the floor and watch the sun rise. The atmosphere processors spewed a healthy blend of water vapour and O2 down the steep slope of the crater wall as the sunlight shone through it rainbows appeared and vanished framed with a red and orange halo just below the blackness of space like the God of War himself wishing me good morning.

I said hi to Silvia as I made my way to the elevator, she looked tired and handed me my days work. I work for the United Nations Armed Forces; it’s a good job for a triple Masters Degree death strategist like me. I work long hours, I get good vacation and can retire on a pension that most of the citizens of Mars would wish was their yearly salary.

When I sat down at my desk I frowned looking at the report that had arrived on the overnight print run. It was thick, dense, heavy, bound in plastic. The front page told me it had been carefully constructed with a summary to be handed out to the grunts and an appendix that would make the scientists salivate. It was perfect; United Nations Explorer Service had done their homework. The calibre of the writing was excellent, centuries of practiced Earth bureaucracy had honed the creation of documents of evidence down to a fine blade and all it needed was the stamp of my approval. The machine of Mars would go to war and one million highly trained genetically altered killing machines would board their ships and cross the galaxy to give it to any enemy we told them to. They would ask questions, and they would be answered by the document.

The scientific detail about the Osteo-Chords in the analysis showed clearly how to kill them, how to maim them and how to just slow them down. I imagined the soldiers fighting on the frontlines using weapons of mass death to blow the enemy to pieces. As I thumbed through the scientific analysis I paused. Nervous tissue surrounded with bone, decentralised motor control, brain split up into seven apple sized bundles. They were tough, build for combat; maybe Mars had finally met his match. Maybe Mars was paying a visit to Hades.

As I got to the strategic section, I was having doubts; not doubts that we wouldn’t win doubts about the accounting. The report didn’t speculate how our own people would react as much as I had liked. That made me worried it had happened before; Vietnam, Canada, Titan and Europa. Wars we had gone to and got the leash put on and then lost. Well, they won’t be able to call us back anyway, and after 20 years of mission the troops that are left will probably need to be segregated anyway.

Entry point photos showed herculean buildings on Venus millennia old, surrounded by ice. I frowned more, advanced technology. Nothing a good amount of nuclear ordinance won’t fix I figured. I could imagine all the religious delegates at the UN talking about demons and judgement day and end of all things etcetera. I wouldn’t buy into that, I’m an atheist; science is real there is no room for devils and angels in my world, although I do admit they look kind of like devils. According to the brain boxes, they use those massive wings to fly through the other dimension we call hyperspace. That’s a problem, how do they pop out see page 1400 appendix Xx. Gradual amplification of electromagnetic and gravitic fields generated by a series of ceremonies they perform brings one of them from hyperspace into real space using their brains as amplifiers, during this time they are disorientated. That’s good news maybe we can sucker them all in I wonder. I pull the top of the red ink, get my solid gold stamp of my department seal and slam it down hard. I get the pen my niece gave me for Christmas and sign my name Markus Hawthorn Fleet Admiral of Mars. That was a pretty good day, the next few weeks with the UN would be a suck fest like nothing else.

I stand up from my chair at the United Nations Assembly Hall on Mars. I like my job, its cold it’s hard it’s factual although at the moment I’m a whore. In my best persuasive voice, I begin to clearly state the facts and my conclusions. I look out at the delegates and I’m immediately disgusted by the fear on their faces.

This report has been approved by the Mars branch of the United Nations Armed Forces. There is a clear and present danger presented by these hostile Aliens at any time. You have read the report and seen the footage; you know what must be done. I sit down, I look calm and collected ready to kick Aliens the out of the sky.

A Sufi by the looks of it stands his frail frame holding up his pointed hat, the man seems to grow as he speaks commanding respect. Obviously a practiced orator probably schooled for a long time in rhetoric. He speaks loudly into the microphone no malice or venom in his voice but the stern resolve I wish my superiors had. The Quran and the Bible has many writings detailing Djjin or Demons. This act will be catastrophic, plunging us into a war against the fallen, if you invite evil in it will come. The Collective will stand apart from the United Nations, Ala have mercy on you if you start this war.

I hear one of the delegates from Mars whisper something like shit maybe it’s a bad idea is it too late to pull out. I just keep thinking back to the report how I had to read that massive tome of knowledge and weigh up the probabilities in my own mind of wining loosing, causing a stalemate. These guys aren’t going to let me go. I’m thinking of my retirement plan to buy a place on earth on the northern tip of Australia. Not much I can do now, it’s coming down to a vote shit.

The delegate from the Anarchist colony on Europer stands up some queer looking guy in a turtleneck. I instantly don’t like him, he’s not the fake Anachist in the deli he’s the real deal born and bred die hard. Although we can’t speak in an official capacity as we have not received sovereign state status from the UN I speak for some of the Anachist movement and state we do not approve of any hostile action toward any alien regardless of how dangerous they appear. This report has no proof that they will attack earth, merely that they have the capacity to do so from their base on Venus.

Shit I say under my breath, for a weirdo from a busted up colony on a shitty moon of Jupiter he has a point. I knew the accounting section was fubr, sassy bastard must have read the whole thing.

Like biscotti dissolving in my coffee, the delegates start to separate and crumble. I see their resolve slipping from sullen faces. With all the pages of evidence and countless plans and re-plans they are going to vote No, I’m sure now. The God of War will have to go home and wait for the call. Instead of marching out and confronting the enemy, Mars will sit silent waiting, soldiers prepared and ready. I change my retirement plans and buy a large apartment in Tharsis Crater just opposite the Mars Military Academy.

Intercept

By Morgs

Archon performed the final safety checks; the magnetic coils were warmed up, the fusion reactor running at maximum efficiency. He was ready to intercept the skag, this one would be messy he thought. He had been on vector heading for Pluto, his interceptor making a 10,000 kilometer long plume as he accelerated towards the last outpost before the deep cold of interstellar space. The skag was headed for Mars. He had been screaming on the broadcast all day now. Arc stretched out his arms as far as he could in his confined cockpit. Two days he had been on hard burn, taking a minimum of 6 g's for the whole time. Normal humans couldn't take that sort of punishment, but Arc was different. He was one of those young guns from the academy, his blue eyes and movie star looks belied the madness that seethed beneath his calm exterior. His perfect frame, enhanced to the maximum for space travel. After an eventful school life at the United Nations Defense Force academy on Mars, Arc began his tour on the Defense Platform Saratoga. Now he was pushing 40 million Kilometers per hour, and would need to keep his acceleration going for three more hours before he cut the engines.

The broadcaster crackled into life, the quantum communicator was linked with central command on Mars, for all intents and purpose communication was almost instant for Arc and the rest of the Force.

"Archon, come in Archon this is Mars command over."
"Archon receiving, over"
"Perp assailed four officers, this one hurts he stole a Pursuit special, one of the G8s, very toey, he's not enhanced. He's making for Mars. Baxster and JG are in pursuit from Platform 62, they won't catch him it's up to you."
"Message Received and understood Archon out"
"That's bullshit I won't catch him, that skag and his floozy there goner die Baxster out"
"Rip the guts out of her give it the bejezus JG out"

Just as Archon is about to reach for a drink, the receiver unit crackles to life again.
"Baxster coming up on him, he is turning vectors... your goner die skag"

The gravity sensors on all the pursing ships signal a massive burst of gravitons from the Pursuit Special. For anyone within 1 million kilometers of the Pursuit Special the brilliant blue beam of energy looks like a ribbon as it bends and flexes along its 20,000 kilometer length. The ribbon slices through space, igniting the oxygen tank on Baxter's pursuit ship. Crystals of escaping gases sparkle like diamonds against the black silk like sky, Baxster's ship yaws and changes course.
"See that Bronze! Do you see me man."

"This is Baxster, unable to continue pursuit he clipped my O2 tank with the ribbon gun. Better prepare the freezers, Johnny coped a food tray in the throat. Baxster out ... fuck fuck fucker shit"

"I am the nightrider; I'm a plasma injected suicide machine. I'm the chosen one, the mighty hand of vengeance sent to strike down the un-space worthy. I'm laying down a deuterium road to freedom..."

"Mars command, to JG don't get cutup like Baxster you can't lose another ship JG Mars out" Laughter is heard by all on the broad cast.

"I hear you just um lost your ship again Baxster, looks like your heading towards Saturn going for a holiday" More laughter.
"Fuck off!" Screams Baxster.
"Mars command, cut the chatter and get back in the game rescue ships have been dispatched Baxster begin deceleration. Mars command out"

Archon carefully finishes his drink and puts the orange container into the waste capture unit. Flexes in his midnight blue space suit. After checking all his instruments for a final time, he begins his calculations. Archon is poking out his tongue as he muses over his calculations. He knows timing must be to the nano second; any mistake in the math will mean he will miss and the pursuit which almost ended in disaster would be meaningless. After a few short moments, Archon reaches for the receiver.

"Come in Mars command, this is Archon in position."
"Continue Archon, take that skag down."
"The Toe Cutter, he knows who I am, one down two to go! die space cops."

A focused telescope on the dark patch of sky between Jupiter and Mars; sees two majestic comets trailing a bright blue-green flame racing towards each other at 40 million Kilometers per hour; the tail is thousands of Kilometers long; the two fiery streams are moving slowly towards each other over the unimaginable distance. That's how it appears to Roy Jones the telescope operator on the platform Saratoga. Roy relays the image over the broadcast to Archon, just five days ago the two of them had been watching movies in the mess hall with the rest of the crew. The frantic scramble to stations and preparation for the interceptor had left the mess hall, well messy. Roy had had sleep, twice in the five day vigil for four hours; he feels tired, worn out and a bit gritty and dirty. Roy knows it's only a few hours now soon he can sleep in his bunk or chill out to some music; maybe even read a book but not till it's over. Roy carefully checks the calculations the computers have made, adjusted for gravitic distortion. He punches them into the computer on the manual keyboard, and sends them to Archon. He then reaches for the slightly worn plastic receiver.

"Saratoga to Archon Interceptor, vector confirmed collision in 2 hours. Saratoga out"
"Message received Archon out"

A tall, average build man enters he switches of the broadcast signal. His grey and green space suit tells Jones that he is the ships doctor, Winston Harp. "Jones" he sighs in a slow drawl. "I think Archons been doing this to long, we should probably give him some time off."
"He's fine, just a bit lonely probably" Spits Jones, clear stress and impatience on his tense voice.

"You could probably do with some time off too"
"Piss off its about to go down" growls Jones.

Sweat starts pouring down the skags face; his straggly beard is soaking it up like a mop. His girl is asleep and he is pulling some drugs out of her top pocket, and popping them like tick tacks. She stirs. "Hey, Mick what time is it, are we on Mars yet?" Her soft sleepy voice jars him like a sledge hammer. "What am I doing, fuck fuck fuck he screams" "What's wrong" as Sandy says it; with a very sleepy voice long brown hair falls around her face like some primeval lions mane. She is floating, weightless wearing a skin tight space suit she picked up at the travel center on the way to the terminal. The bright Tropicana colors clash wildly with the clean white and grey lines of the police pursuit specials' austere interior. Mick looks at her; remembers why he escaped; why he is going to Mars to get out of his contract by defecting to the Freebird colony on the surface. Space is dangerous, colonies are a little safer, he loves her and wants to live with her to grow small plants in the soil and eat real food. Not the shit they sell you on the asteroid mines, made from piss and peanuts or strange single celled cultures. Food, shelter, warmth, and procreation it's not too much to ask. Mick looks at the scanners, they show the police interceptor on a collision course.

"Shit is that a ship" Sandy's voice trembles as she leans over the telescope monitor.
"He's got to change vector soon, he has to" Mick reassures her and pats her shoulder. Sandy sees he is looking tired, worn out and spaced. His breathing is labored and panic is causing his eyes to dart form side to side.

"Give me the stick for a bit honey" she gently takes the joystick from the second seat.
"Sandy I'm fine, this guy is going to turn any second now" His voice is grating and out of breath.
"Well its fine, I mean it's all on auto right you set the course right" she pleads.
"Just go out back and get me a drink or something" Mick is getting angry now. Like two cats meeting in the night they hiss at each other until Sandy heads out the back crying.
"I'm in control, I'm in control" Micks head is starting to nod as he repeats his mantra.

Five million kilometers away, Arc has prepared his rail gun for its single shot. His hands are steady, his gaze fixed on the gravitic engines of the other ship. "Looks like you're not going to move out of the way night rider" he mumbles to himself as he adds a damping agent to the cabins fluid. "I know I'm not moving, if we collide it's all over."

"I'm the night rider, the mighty hand of vengeance"

The two blue-green streaks across the night sky, approach. At the last minute, far too late moving at massive speeds Mick pulls the stick up as he does a tiny neuron in his tiny brain is registering his mistake. The ship appears to be fine; it's now heading towards Venus. Archons ship starts to decelerate, his rail gun fired its single shot using a black marker he marks another ship on the bulkhead.

"This is Mars command, looks like intercept is successful. Ships probably recoverable for forensics teams have setup electromagnetic nets all the way to Venus. Good job Archon. Mars command out"

On the pursuit special, two orange and red bags of goo float in their ripped and torn space suits one a simple company suit from a small and insignificant mining company, the other a bright Tropicana tourist suit

The Mayan Incident

The Mayan Incident

"Time travel is difficult for families."

By Morgs

The Winston Weatherlies being of means far larger than most decided their adventures would be fraught with peril and excitement.

Jack had invested heavily in the market, and the company that made the technology; now he was going to test one of the latest models with his family. He admired the sleek lines of the oval vehicle, it fitted nicely in his two door garage. He waxed and washed it every weekend. He took a few small trips, back to the Cambrian Extinction. The seas boiling gave him the idea for lobster at the company BBQ for the developers. They worked hard to get the five seater model on the market. Jack had planned the trip out in minute detail; the destruction of the dinosaurs, the fall of Troy, Pompey and the Yucatan. His morbid desire to know why pushed him to choose destinations of disaster; with the last one still a partial mystery.

The Winston Weatherlies (WW’s) arrived at their final stop over the day before, the cloudless sky beat down mercilessly on their capsule. They had sampled the local food and customs, and then slept it off in their camp. Jack thought as he went to sleep next time, air conditioning units for the trip.

The jungle of the Yucatan steamed like a hot house; the beans and yams of last night’s meal though gritty had been delicious but now had returned in a frightful manner to wreak havoc on his walk to the stone heads. Jack returned to the camp later than he expected and little Judy his eight year old was gone. The WW’s camp was overrun by Mayan warriors. The Mayans were fearful, agitated dangerous; dressed for war in feathers and furs. With his family in trouble, Jack leaped to action. The warriors around Persephone and Dale disintegrated; their molecules ripped apart as the invisible death beam striped their connection to reality. Jack moved the beam in careful strokes, adjusting the frequency so that only humans would be affected. He relied on the safety system, knowing his family would be safe from the beams deadly assault.

With contemptuous precision Jack proceeded to destroy the army of fleeing Mayans, intent on finding his missing daughter.

As the family regrouped to search, they walked along the canals edge to the main city. The dirt was dry, the place like an oven. The grey stone path gave way to painted ocher and blue cobble stones. The city magnificently painted in a hundreds of hues of natural clays and powdered jade. Panic had struck the city as the strange pale gods approached the center of the plaza.

Looking up the Winston Weatherlies gazed on small rivers of blood flowing down the steep steps of the pyramid; a small pale form lay dead on the fearsome alter. The still heart of Judy clenched in the hand of the priest.

“I knew we shouldn’t have come here” cried Persephone.
Jack looked up at the priest and at the Mayans, their faces fearful. He set the beam to maximum angle, and spun in a circle. They died, turned to base components.

Gingerly Persephone approached the alter; then cradled her beloved child in her arms. With tears slowly running down her face she wrapped Judy in a blanket and carried her down the steps.

“We have insurance right” whispered Hugo
“Yes, she will not have remembered the trip; she backed up at Pompey not here so she lost about five days.” Said Jack
“Let’s go home” cried Persephone, this place is now dead as the dust around it.
“Ok” Said Jack

Jack frowned, and took one look at the dead city before calling the capsule to their location. Jack opened the doors for his family and loaded the capsule with their belongings. No one spoke on the way home.

Flash Fiction

After some writing practice under the tutorship Sam, I have decided to focus of the flash fiction format. Flash fiction is shorter than a short story, around 1000 words and fits more easily into a Blog, and takes less time to create. It's also just a step on the long journey to writing full short stories.

I found some sci-fi flash fiction sites, hope there is some good stuff here.

http://www.365tomorrows.com
http://www.everydayfiction.com
http://www.newscientist.com/special/sci-fi-the-fiction-of-now

Escape Pod and Psudo Pod also have a flash fiction format that they use from time to time.

Junker

Junker by Morg

I thought I was a Junker! it was a sham. We started in 2320, tearing up streets like a bunch of wild dogs looking for a scrap. Junkers; because we altered our code and embraced the change. Junk clinics were found in most cities small time doctors playing with anything’s code for a small price and an open source license to the results. In those days the rain came down off the top of the craters on Olympus Mons as a fine mist; before we trashed the atmosphere plants that is.

Looking back on that time I have fond memories, mostly my own or Minks or the rest of my Junker crew. Junkers were a group of miscreants who turned into a movement then slowly faded into obscurity some 200 years ago. They didn't really stand for anything in hindsight, merely a force for change.

I was recruited by the legendary Minks, a long running cyborg with a diamond carbide chassis. He had customized his code so that he didn't need to sleep, needed less nutrients for his organs and enhanced his brain capacity. On Mars, free market meant no guidelines as long as you didn't break the basics of human rights you could do anything. Most of the humans or Protos as we called them were part machine already but no one wanted to go too far; to fuck with their own code I mean.

Brain and body hacking turned into a lucrative small business but when a few virus like the Red Plague broke out that was stopped. The UN put the Kibosh on the small clinics and start-up auto-factories, replacing the grimy dirty world I was used to with the clean white lines of Berkley Genomics clinics. It was a brutal battle, a big corporation out maneuvered by smaller faster companies on the broken edge of science and then the retaking of the science by using the heavy hand of big government. Who knows how many Protos and Nexters lost their savings and lives. When the dust settled, there were no small clinics; the geniuses who created the tech had been swallowed up by a monster; a system spanning conglomerate Berkley Genomics.

Junkers were a particularly violent type of Nexter, or Next human. They prided themselves on being free, being vandals; totally anti corporation, anti government and almost anti Proto. My gang would regularly tear up a street in downtown Berlin district in Olympus Mons just for the fun of it; spraying poison gas into air conditioners then shooting people as they ran out of corporate towers. We were like young gods striding around the terrified Protos, showing our power and smashing anything in our way. Once we even launched our own com sats just to stay ahead of the Police and Interpol.

This is a rags to riches story, with the hero my horrible self. Back then I wore spiked shoulder pads, had servos added to my arms could leap fifty feet into the air and cling to any surface like a gecko. I could see into the ultra violet and infrared spectrum thanks to my custom coded eyes. My weapons, electro mags built into the muscles of buttocks and thighs to take out most machines and cyborgs; who knew that with a bit of tinkering you could give a nasty jolt using an electric eels DNA. Chainsaw was my normal weapon, simple effective noisy. I liked the sound it made as it crunched through bone and flesh. I also could release a powerful toxin in my saliva that would kill most creatures; stopping their heart, dissolving flesh, leaving them with a fatal blood infection and a slow and malignant cancer. Junkers were a rare breed indeed, like so many we eventually became extinct.

Minks was always pushing us hard to do more an more damage, eventually we ended up breaking the terra-forming equipment that kept the creator growing. We distributed a virus through the atmospheric pylons, the viral fungal bacterial Soup thingy we made was so deadly to the plants and microbes of the soil that they never fixed it. We sent the code over to people in Tharsis and they did the same thing. It wasn't about a better weapon, or doing damage it was mainly about the challenge. How to literally hack the planet, our burgeoning red world would become a strange and alien land. We weren't just mad we were furious, mankind had left earth to colonized other stars. We were left here on Mars. Slaves to thousands of corporations, consumers of all the goods of our human systems, never to see an alien sky or swim in the stars. We had missed out, born to late for the colonies, too early for the expansion and too poor to get off world with no wars to fight we fought our fellow man. Junkers were rebels and with a cause, fuck up yourself then fuck everyone else up.

A Junker was usually recruited early around the age of eleven or twelve, usually by an older brother or sister. Most of the Junkers in my gang only had an age difference of about three years. The first time I met Minks was at my older sisters birthday, they were lovers. Minks saw I had a great imagination, and could code in a few programming languages best of all I knew how the Splicers worked, and could program them too. Programming for me was like a hobby I would make little games and little hacks to impress my friends at school. I was so happy when Minks turned up at my parents place with a Crown 2200 starter lab. The first of the small labs that started up a chain hacks for the decade. The thing looked like bar fridge. It had all sorts of components and even came with a subscription to the Crown Geno site, allowing you to buy ready made hacks for your plants, the thing couldn't deal with humans; until I broke its protection software and realized you could do pretty much anything with it. I started by hacking my cat, turning it scaly. Then eager as always hacked my own code turning my skin blue.

When Minks saw what I did he said I should run with his gang. He had big plans, me being a gene hacker one of only about one hundred at the time would fit right in. I started by adding dog DNA to some of the gang, then increased their muscle density by eight times.

After about a year the gang looked like nothing Mars had ever seen. Some of them were hulking brutes others chameleon skinned ninjas, Minks just got me to hack his brain because that’s all he had left after all the surgery for cybernetics. I'm pretty sure at that point our code was un-recoverable, nothing normal remained everything was tweaked, enhanced or stripped. My own sister now had full-size angel wings; they didn't let her fly she was pretty scary to look at standing eight feet tall wielding a chainsaw. When the cops gunned her down outside our school we made a pact, to stick together, to fight back and fuck everything up. I picked up the chainsaw and with it became second in command. Our goons would steal medical supplies, animals from the zoo, specimens from museums any piece of code we could get our hands on. It wasn’t just genetic manipulation, any piece of tech that furthered our cause, to take revenge for being left on Mars; for my sister for my friends.

The police were a natural enemy, I remember two of our guys busting open an armored car outside Berlin university, blood spraying out like it was fired from a hose. Things really got weird when we cracked the code to share feelings and emotions. Normally links only transmit contextual data as data like a normal computer; there is an interface between the brain and the link chip. You can grab an image from your optic buffer if you have mechanical eyes, or audio from your ears and also transmit text or sometimes speech. What we did was break that wide open, I’m sure the Crown boys who invented it had put it there to stop people doing that. We shared our feelings, our memories reading and writing to each other’s brains like they were drives on pirate servers. After that I think we lost all sense of who we were. We were not one, we were many, and we had a satellite; wherever we went we were never alone.

The movement gained momentum; clinics opened up to help other people join in the revolution it was out with the old and in with the new. They were pretenders who were only skimming the surface, not diving right in. Junker became a fashion label; something the rich kids would do to be cool tearing up a street or causing mayhem while messaging everyone in the area to make sure no one got hurt. It felt like we were being contained, the clinics did a good trade in “enhancements” usually nothing more radical than night vision, or no sleep. Things we have now days, were invented and produced way back then on the slimy and dripping streets of Berlin or Mumbi. This forced acceptance by a society we were rejecting forced the more radical Junkers like us to take it up a notch. That’s when we attacked the very systems that allowed people to live on Mars, the atmosphere plants that filled the craters with fresh air for the last hundred years. We left viruses everywhere, blew things up and killed anyone Proto looking; like we were avenging angels. Our slogan was change or die, and most Protos and other less radically altered Junkers or Nexters were targeted too. When I came up with "The Soup" as I called it; even put it in a can like the Warhol painting; I was really angry. The Flesh Eaters had hit number one in the music charts and bought a palatial home on old earth in Italy! They had practiced cannibalism! I felt abandoned by my own Junkers; I made the soup and poisoned farms. Mars relied on its farms, gravity means you better grow things mostly made of water on Mars otherwise it costs money to import stuff. I knew the cops would be after me. I sent the code everywhere even hacking a billboard for all to see; only few hundred genes and you too can make a "Soup" can.

On Thasis it worked a treat; most other crater colonies had the same effect. The soil was forever tainted my crowning moment, me and Minks toasted on top of the new Reichstag using a Protos skull for a cup drinking expensive real Champagne . I should have suspected then that something was up with Minks, how would a guy who looked like a glittering robot buy Champagne?

What happened next was a ban, article 500 of the United Nations; Genetic alteration is now licensed by the holders of the recombination patents Berkley Genomics and Crown and Wrath. Every shop was forcibly closed down, the sale of home kits banned. These two companies busted the market up, imprisoning anyone who didn’t sell them back anything derived from the master patent. I remember my buddy Red saying “I’m fucking all those Protos”. He told me that a Berkley guy came to his house said, that the home kit you have there is now illegal; we own the patent on recombination, we have caught twenty gang members of yours who have this unique cocktail of enhancements you have been working on for about five years. They offered him a job! Red told them to go fuck themselves then crushed the guys’ spine with his lobster claw.

After the UN passed the bill, being a Junker became unfashionable and most of the pretenders left the movement following the new Peacers Hippy revival. The music got shit all of a sudden and I knew our days were numbered. Red wasn’t going down; together we released the plague on a small facility called freedom station. It was totally effective, insanity and death perfect weapon against the Protos. We were transporting the plague when we got caught; Red took a rail gun to the face I barely made it out losing one of my arms. I limped back to Tharsis, walking on the surface of Mars avoiding the roads and mag trains.

By the time I contacted Minks I was just below the lip of Tharsis crater I couldn’t get up to the atmospheric processor to release the plague, Minks leaned over me and smiled with diamond teeth. "You did good Tomas the Junkers have produced the exact effect that Sibel and Dawn were paid to achieve". It hit me like a bullet, no like train; a train fired out of a giant gun like a bullet, really hard anyway I felt like a kid who had another kid break all his toys.

Minks worked for Sibel and Dawn all along, one of the biggest marketing companies around. Sibel himself had planned the operation and brought Minks in to start the movement; mankind would never hand over their rights to their own code without serious civil unrest; mankind would not accept genetic manipulation on a mass scale for centuries. Sibel had been paid by the two patent holders of recombination; the magical process of splicing genes in a living developed organisms. Not only had they got the rights; they got all the open source code to the myriad of changes that had been made. We had been played from day one, the assholes got us to fight their battle and force the UN to pass a resolution. Public opinion had held the companies as saviors of mankind who would bring genetic manipulation back under control. The slimy streets were cleaned, and no one knew who we were; a revolutionary footnote in Martian history the best marketing plan ever. If you want to sell something that’s totally abhorrent the idea that your own right to alter your own code can only be held by a corporation, you have to make the alternative truly monstrous. In us Sibel and Dawn had found the right monsters for the task; the random violence was small scale in comparison to what would have happened, and the profits of Berkley and Crown soared on angelic public opinion. I thought I was a Junker, I thought I had invented something and was part of something. I sold out after that; hell I was sold out at the age of 11 and didn’t even know it.

Colonisation

Power is a drug, and like any addict I was jonezin' bad by planet side. The world was pretty enough, but I didn't really care about the magenta sky and pale blue mountains covered with soft grass, edible plants and herbs.

The colonists must have given the natives divs of Samurai movies; like all first colonies past the wall this one had probably failed. The natives some form of Bastazi cat derivative approached me with Katana in their black lacquered scabbards. These ones looked almost human, either we could indeed breed with their species or they had become more human like with the colonists.

File note priority 50: Take one of the Gaisha girls back to Mars.

They spoke perfect Japaneses with a large amount of English words, probably the standard of 2104 or when-ever the place was founded.

I responded, the auto-tran forming the words in my brain. Hearing everything in English but the sounds were in language I was speaking. I explained that I was a merchant from a distant family, and I had things they would need. They were never going to get a better deal than mine.

Surveying the traditionally dress party using my ir-las monocle to measure the standard dimensions of their group. About 172cm in height, small build waist, legs and arms barrel chested, thin neck. Standard template pattern 60 colloquially known as the iron waif (Chinese factory magnates gave things weird names back then).

Note to computer: remove the colloquial anecdotes and facts plug-in from the template manager, takes too long to remember the fact, could be working. Wasted too much time filing this note in the first place.

Job added 8974: owner dislikes cultural reference in factory equipment, scrub and rebuild scheduled for 22:00 removing offensive waste ware.

Message to computer: Shut up! I'm working.

I disconnected from the ship, microwaves must be eating my brain I'm sure but I can't really tell. The constant chatter from the ship seemed like a bus of school girls going to a movie after being let out of school early. I was really pissed at the ship, machines shouldn't make snide remarks in coms with their owners.

Jess my ship started fabricating the Levis pattern of Jap fashion from 2450, one of the most successful revivals of nylon. Kimonos festooned with logos from the companies I represented, arranged in patters subtle and beautiful were presented by the dented white and gold chassis of my Marvin.

File note priority 700: Marvin looks pretty bad, should get a new one.

The fabric was addictive, they loved it; the touch the quality, the subtle way the thread felt against their fingers, the perfect precise micro stitching. The fabricator had done a better job than any human hand. The natives were in total awe at the quality.

My mind was cast back to the time before all my implants, my childhood I remembered my father telling me that all those worlds out there that stopped responding must surly be worth something. I felt small and insignificant, that was the turning point from consumer to explorer. I asked were they human. He said no one knows. I was determined to get out there and find out, to cross the void between stars, to trust in alien technology and human ingenuity.

In the time of colonization, we had cast our ships adrift like chaff to the void. Now, the worlds were very different the United Nations was everywhere, thousands of agents, millions of troops all mobilized to keep humanity in. Stopping humanity from diverging, worried about a second Titan or Callisto uprising. Remember Titan had been the words of rhetoric in the day politicians telling people what to think and what to believe. If I knew then what I knew now, corporations lobbying government to stop rampant colonization so that their consumer based companies could remain relevant. Things never change.

Like branches in a tree we had spread out; the trunk was so far that we had changed radically from what we once were. On Titan they were reluctant to adhere to a capital system which would ultimately fail. They thought they were better, more free and more creative. Remember Titan was what the Anarchists said when they died in the millions as the plagues ravaged the colonies and mines.

Sibel brought me in his lithe form and pinstriped suite made him look like some predatory fish or eel. Glasses because he was myopic even though he could get new eyes. He told me that the only way I would get past the wall or UN interdiction was to join with the corporations. His marketing company Sibel and Dawn had a plan, they had begun lobbing the UN for licenses to travel beyond the wall to the further stars of the galaxy. They would send ships, capable of fabricating goods from their clients, the genius was that they would make the goods in orbit and sell all the old and unfashionable items to the natives of those worlds made from their very own resources. All you have to do is get them to sign this United Nations Sanctioned contract. Your time is your own!

It seemed then like the opportunity of a lifetime. I like many others of my generation was raised to work, to buy and live for the corporations or take them down in my case. The ideals of humanity, liberty and egalitarianism were shammed and rammed into a pseudo rebellious fashion known as Junker. They sold an image, a belief and way of life I like many bought it. Bands, Movies, Books, Games people sold it and added fries on the side. Cyborgs tore up streets only to have some council order a new one a few days later. After some senator was killed Levis changed the label to Peace; they bought it, Bands and Movies followed. This made me sick, I thought I was a Junker! When Sibel showed me the plan, some 20 years in the making I couldn't believe the scale of sham. "We make the rules Dean, join us". And with that I signed on as a partner, got the money off my dad for my license.

My augmentations were standard issue to most corporate sales men. It took me ten years to get my license, five years to get my education, twenty years to get my ship. Everything had been bet on the single roll of the dice, humanity was out there and they were cut off from humanity and humanity would bring them home to buy and prosper.

I would have them signing over their ore by lunch time. This was what I did, the black streaks through my soul would never come clean in 20 years this place would be another client world beholden for hundreds of years to companies on Mars and Earth. Like all good addicts, I knew full well the rewards and described in graphic detail the effect this brand new laser rifle was going to have on the Shogun on the other side of the mountain, his internal organs exploding as flesh turned to charcoal and steam in an instant. I recalled tales of worlds I had saved, from barbarism, from civil war uniting them under their one government. The progress which would make all their lives better, from fast cars to fast food. The Holos of ads showed the true allure of all that was decadent and stale on earth which would be reborn and re-licensed to a new crowd of people who would cherish and love the movies, music and culture of our past.

I basked in the glory of the natives needing to acquire everything from me. In so doing choosing my version of civilization over theirs. All their pseudo Japan culture would be washed away in a sea of skin products, medicines, pop music, pop vids, computer games, fast food and fine dining. All ready to swarm over the world like a plague of locus fabricated in the ship in high orbit.

It was a good day.

House of Cards

This story is inspired from a dream I had. Please feel free comment in the comments section. I intend to write some more chapters for this story and get it to about 5000 words.

House of Cards
By Morgan Lean

Admiral Dirk Grombru gazed out on the lilac ocean, his mind in turmoil as he watched the mirror-calm waters on the southern side of his castle. Thoughts of his ancient lineage bore ponderously on his mind, and its coming collapse left a bitter taste of loss in his mouth. He felt elated at the idea of freedom from rules of court and kind, yet terrified at the prospect of becoming an un-augmented species. After two centuries of life and service to the anachronistic rules and regimes, his line would end where it had began, merely human.

A short walk along the gantry between the shore and the island which was the ancient spire of the pre-flood castle would take him to the chamber of voices, he knew he would commune with the great and noble line of his family for the last time before he sent his poor and wretched, though antique and proper gift to the new patron of house Grey-Star, who resided orbiting distant start Tau Ceti. His vision took hold of what must be a small holographic recorder, placed at an odd angle by its owners agents. Grombru pondered his fate and let the words form in his head for his formal greeting.

Chimes in castle Grey-Star rang out as servant and master bustled along the metal and glass corridors, which appeared to be strung along the sea bed like abandoned jewels on a chain. Outside, great luminescent fish swam in the warm equatorial waters of the surelian ocean. The castle was once an old colony, founded millennia ago by the ancestral people of terra. They had been a mixed colony of all the genotypes of Terra and give rise to a people who spread out among the stars in ships that broke a hole through space and time and appeared orbiting distant gravity wells. That time was long passed mused the young lord Grey-Star. I have trained all my life for this day; my first meeting with a founding house, he thought as his servant busily pinned roses to his tunic. Today I meet The Admiral Grombru of the house S-kali, today will be a great day in the long history of our house.

Grombru stood statue like, his fine cloth waving in the wind ever so slightly the replication from the holographic projector was superb they don’t make them like they used to he snorted, not since the nano wars. Grombru looked up as the young lord of house Grey-Star entered, he was wearing the traditional garb of his house a tunic with trousers and a rose pinned in the tunic. The boy looked no older than fourteen his facial hair had been trimmed recently and his checks looked flush from probably his first shave.

“My lord Grey-Star”, the speaker boomed in ancient commanding voice that smacked of all the authority of a commander ships and armies. The boy, was startled perhaps not expecting such volume and force from the walls of the chamber. “My name is Lord Admiral Grombru Harker S-kali, patriarch of house S-kali and ruler of the cloud of Magellan. I humbly must decline the invitation to the funeral of my great friend your father, and so must send a gift in my absence”. Grombru held up two simple rings of gold, and placed them in a box of ebony. "Antique rings from distant Terra, hopefully they may bring you some comfort in the long years of your reign as they did myself in mine."

“I accept this most excellent gift, Lord Grombru, I’m sure in the long years ahead I will call on you for your wise council as my father did” The boy spoke softly, jarred into saying something of the proper etiquette his lips and mind moved and said the words as a gracious host should.

“Thank you my Lord, I bid you farewell”. Grumbore spoke into the microphone and removed the deck of cards from the console. In castle Grey-Star the boy saw the splendid holographic projection of Lord Admiral Grumbore, wearing the military uniform of his houses Navy shimmer and flicker as the Admiral moved out of view.

Richard Harkrek Vompire stood in his viewing chamber, and addressed the ancient cameras and microphones. They looked like a spiders web with droplets of crystal spun in odd places. The red and green and blue dots from the crystals scanned his form before the transmissions. Buffering the tri video image and sending it in advance, so only a 32 bit audio transmission and the negligible vector transformation information was sent real-time.

Richard has chosen to appear in a diaphanous gown with many tiny lights and micro crystal reflectors. He was the consummate showman, always trying to display his wealth on his person regardless of who he was speaking too.

Today, he was to address the newly appointed Baron of Tau Ceti, an ancient family of a superb bloodline. He was so excited that his aids were having a difficult time adjusting the equipment of the tri recorder, as he jittered and flashed the loud “Ding” of the machine started to get on his nerves. “What’s the meaning of that infernal machine!” he shouted in a raucous voice like waves smashing into a rocky headland. “Please sire, stop moving the machine is having difficulty acquiring your image” sniveled the assistant. “Well of course it does, it can’t possibly capture the spender of the Duke of the Crab nebular! Make it work! Do it now I don’t have time to do this, I must transfer my credits and pack my gifts for the Baron just past.” The Duke continued to jigger and vibrated as if he was shivering in a cold wind or trying to keep his balance on a tight rope.

Sir please sit still the image is recording now. “Oh it will be fine, I will be captured for all to see in my sledded robes of gold and white."

At the other end, the tri video projector fired into life and image was downloaded, to castle Grey-Star of Lord Richard, Duke of the crab nebular.

Young Jasper Grey-Star waited as the image arrived, this took a lot longer than Grumbore he thought.

Raucous laughter and shouts cracked out of the speakers and a strange polygonal star emerged in the projector with sections of clothing, coloured lights and pale almost luminous skin coming into view. The image was garbled, strange textured triangles jutted out showing black or grey spaces in-between as the three dimensional shape of Duke came into view.

Jasper stood perfectly still knowing that on the far side his image would appear in front of the Duke.

“Nice flower my boy,” yelled the red and green triangle in front of Jasper. “Sad about the old man" shifting two dimensional three eye head roared.

“Welcome to house Grey-Star, my Duke I hope to see you soon at my fathers funeral."

“Yes, about that! I decided that as the old man was a dear friend of mine, that I will pay for the funeral and the broadcast across the network a paltry sum of 4 trillion credits.”

“Your highness is too kind indeed.”
“Not at all, I have these gifts for you too.”
Still pictures appeared as if frantically spliced in by the technicians on the other side, two dimensional pictures of a book bound in leather bearing the words Applied Politics 2031. A small case with two silver rings, and two full decks of transactor cards.

“Thank you sir, these are indeed fine gifts, and thank you for the gift of money.”
“No problem my boy” Said the 3 dimensional star with shooting jagged lightning flashes across its stretched and distorted face. “Welcome to the Nova Court, call me Dicky and call any time I’m always here.”

The room went quite as the technical difficulties on the other end must have finally caused the recorder to crash.

Jasper day dreamed about the great man on the other side shouting at his subordinates. To be a noble meant you must communicate, and make strategic decisions concerning whole worlds.

Since the collapse of the wormhole technology which allowed man kind to travel to a myriad of distant stars nobles had held the empires of Terra together in peace through a system of etiquette, communication and the network.

The warp ships that remained in service were so slow that to contact all aspects of the empire was so expensive and daunting that most elected to simply stay home and send gifts on the fast postal ships rather than travel. Of these gifts chief among them were the Decks, cards that recorded thoughts and feelings from their owners’ weather they handled them or not. Nobles initially could purchase many hundreds of decks at a time, however now the cards had become scarce, as their method of manufacture was lost in antiquity.

A system of etiquette had formed around the Nova court, just after the destruction of Terra. They would send the cards as gifts to truly convey their feelings and emotions to distant nobles orbiting distant stars. A gift of money, was considered crass as anyone can send goods of value or money but only the nobles of the Nova court had the cards, sending a gift of cards meant that you were sending yourself your inner most thoughts and desires and this had brought ever lasting peace for no one would dare send a gift to an enemy and everyone would quickly find out about such strife and put a quick stop to it.

This made the nobles supreme rulers of the stars, no one could challenge their power and many tried over the thousands of years they had held the empire together. If a noble had no more cards, he had no purpose within the court, as sometimes cards were lost the court shrank ever so slightly over time.

Jasper was started by the arrival of his first gift, two simple gold rings, and a simple deck of cards. He saw the distant lilac oceans and the pelicans of blue and gold and the warm and determined feeling of a man who would no longer hold the responsibility of court and the fate of worlds. Jaspers' own feelings flooded in, the sorrow and loneliness of long century or two of service without the truly great man, the Admiral of the Imperial Navy Grombru. How he wished, the Admiral would remain at court, and so his first gift meant more to him that the bawdy and brash state funeral supplied by the Duke of Crab nebular. His first gift was the last the Admiral had to give. He knew why his father had lived for so long and respected the man from the distant star.