Thunderous Absurdity

Breaking news

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Sun, 05 Jun 2011 22:17:00 +0000

BORBO'S BACK!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Wed, 18 May 2011 03:29:00 +0000

BORBO'S BACK, BABEH!

Yeah, after a month-long hiatus for health reasons, I'm posting again!

Since it has been awhile, I'm going to put up some Thomas Mann videos as well as the first chapter (still in progress, I should add) from my latest project, Escape From Planet Earth!

First, Thomas Mann - and after the cut, Escape, Chapter 1!

*******

Escape From Planet Earth

Chapter 1

The night was dark, the moon was such a sliver that any who saw it would think it looked fake, like a bad painting.

Few could see the moon, though, or any of the night sky. The stars were hidden, vast black patches of the sky cities that floated high above the earth's surface. They had been there so long that the ones the ground, the wretched morlocks of the earth, never even thought about how odd it looked. It was normal.

Daniel did notice it, as he looked up from the open side of the dropship. He had grown up in the sky state. He had never once set foot on the soft yielding surface of the earth. He had only ever stepped on ground that was metal or carpet and was perfectly level.

Looking down at the surface below him, broken and destroyed and mind-bogglingly uneven, he swallowed nervously.

“We're not going to be walking down there, are we?” he asked the cold and grizzled leader of heroes. Daniel had only been told to call the man Lieutenant 491, and 491 loathed him for his softness.

“Yep. Watch where you step. There's a lot of unexploded ordinance down there, boy. Step wrong and ...” His hands moved open and apart to mime an explosion.

“That's bad?” Daniel asked.

The hero looked away disgustedly. “Just stay close and shut up and find what we're after.”

“Yes, sir.”

Spotlights from the dropship swept the open field they were aiming to land in. Open was a misnomer, however, as Daniel saw all sorts of rubble and what he thought might have been a skeleton. Several things looked up at the bright lights and scampered off, screeching or hissing in anger.

“What were those?”

“Dead, if they come back,” Lieutenant 491 grunted.

The legs of the ship touched the ground and the ship shifted as it adjusted to the terrain. Daniel grabbed onto a handle with a white-knuckled grip. “Is that a normal noise?!” he asked, hearing a hissing noise from the landing struts.

Ignoring him, the lieutenant ordered his men off the ship. They took up defensive positions, covering every possible angle with automatic weapons.

“No sign of uglies, sir!” one hero yelled.

“C'mon,” the lieutenant said, grabbing Daniel and dragging him off the ship. He stumbled after the man, marveling how strange it was to walk on ground so uneven.

“Is the ground all like this?” he asked.

The lieutenant was ignoring him again. “Get your scanner out, and find the goods,” he told Daniel. “Do it fast because we came in with lights, and that always attracts trouble.”

Daniel trembled. “What kind of trouble?”

“Just find the goddamn signal!”

With a shove, Daniel was sent tumbling to the ground. Picking himself up quickly, he activated his scanners and tried to make his panicked mind make some sense of what he saw.

I know this, he thought, looking at the screen. But none of it made sense to him now. It didn't help that he kept moving his feet, trying to find a patch of dirt that was bare of concrete pieces and flotsam.

“Where is it?!” the Lieutenant snapped.

“Be quiet, and let me think!” Daniel snapped back, surprising himself. The Lieutenant seemed surprised at the spine in his words, as well.

“Listen, you blue-blooded son-of-a-bitch, I don't care if you're a God in the State, down here you're just a squishy liability-”

“Sir! We're picking up Uglies!”

The lieutenant dropped his line of thought. “How big?” he demanded, walking away.

Daniel looked back to his screen. He had a reading! Ah, yes, how had he forgotten what that meant? He turned and followed the signal.

It seemed to be leading him into a building. Getting in there and out of sight would be a bad idea, wouldn't it? Turning to look at Lieutenant 491, he saw the man was deep in conversation with the sensor operator.

“Sir?” he called. There was no response. “Sir!”

491 might have looked his direction, it was hard to tell. “I'm going in this building, sir, the signal ...” He trailed off. Had there been a nod? He hoped so, because it seemed the officer was not going to actually look at him.

He continued to follow the signal into the building, which seemed to have once been a store for refueling vehicles. Empty racks and shelves looked skeletal in the dim light, which made his already intense fear grow. fumbling for a flashlight, he clicked it on and sighed as the bright light pierced the gloom.

Just as quickly he clicked it off. The light was bright - too bright. Far from make it safer, he realized it would only make him an easier to see target.

My god, he thought. You're starting to think like an Ugly, and you've only been here two minutes.

His scanner beeped. It had a good lock on the target. Whatever it was - he had not actually been told what it was they were seeking, except that it contained a homing chip.

Everything had homing chips, pretty much. Nearly piece of equipment more advanced than a toaster, labourers, military men. Bureaucrats, like himself, were some of the few who didn't - who needed to find a bureaucrat? They were just there. A thousand others stood ready to replace him, if need be, as Lieutenant 491 had told him before they had left the safety of the sky State.

The signal was coming from one of the smaller back rooms of the building. Moving slowly towards he, he realized the floor inside was much smoother and more level, and he felt glad for it.

He reached for the door, expecting it to open, but it stayed quite shut. He waved at it repeatedly, first one, then both arms, before realizing it was manually operated.

“I've heard of doors like this,” he muttered, barely-audibly. He was too nervous to speak much louder than that.

A thought struck him - what could be down here that would have a tracker in it? Things didn't just fall down here. If it had been left by a previous squad, it wouldn't be worth sending a new squad to come fetch it.

It had to be something valuable. Or very dangerous.

His hand paused. He had a job to do, though, and if Lieutenant 491 told his superiors he had failed to perform his duty, he'd probably be shipped to a Polar Station. Or worse, demoted.

Bracing himself, and trying to avoid thinking of what horrors might lurk behind the door, he grabbed the knob and opened it.

It was a primitive latrine, he realized first. And there was nothing in it. No beings at least. It was very dark, but he could see that clearly.

He stepped inside, his footsteps sounding terrifyingly loud in the small room.

“There's nothing at all in here,” he said out loud, looking around.

He glanced in the sink and wished he hadn't. It was splashed full of what looked like not-entirely dry blood. Blood that clearly splashed up onto the wall. His eyes followed it up.

What he had taken to be a pattern on the tiled wall wasn't. He realized the dark lines were in fact dried blood. And the blood splatters continued over to the porcelain bowl nearby.

He glanced inside, and immediately wished he hadn't.

“Bllaaaaaargh!” he said out loud, feeling his stomach lurch.

“You goddamn maggot-ridden fucking golden maggot! What are you doing!?” Lieutenant 491 was suddenly there, shaking him. “We have to get the fuck out of here!” His eyes were crazed, and he looked terrified. It bothered Daniel far more than if he had simply been angry.

But somehow it made him feel more in control of himself. “I found the tracker!” he said, pointing towards the toilet. “There's a hand in that toilet, I think it has a tracker in it!”

“You idiot! It doesn't matter, we have Uglies crawling all over us!”

Daniel's mouth fell open. “Oh god. We're fucked.”

A long burst of gunfire sounded, at least five solid seconds, and 491 was off like a flash, running for the door. After a moment, Daniel tore off after him.

“Aaaaghhh!” 491 was screaming like a child as he went out the door, but stopped. Something twice as tall as a man was before him, and before he could do more than scream it had picked him up and screamed back, slamming his body into the concrete repeatedly.

Daniel tried to stop, but the smooth floor was slick and he fell onto his back. His head hit the hard floor and he saw flash and stars from the blow.

There was a hole in the roof, he realized, and he could see the moon through it. Then the moon was hidden as something looked in through the hole at him. He could see nothing of it but its silhouette, but it seemed big and hairy. It seemed to be watching him and he stared back, too afraid to move, but unable to make out any details.

It disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

He could hear sounds from outside. The dropship's engines were growing in sound, and the gunfire continued, interspersed with the soldiers yelling and the groans and excited shouts of the Uglies as they moved in for the kill.

“Holy shiiiiitt!”

“Where's the Lieutenant?”

“My gun's jammed!”

“On the left, on the left!”

“Back to the ship!”

“Where's the goddamn Lieutenant?!”

Their cries, professionalism drilled into them mixed with pure terror, bled together and over each other into a cacophany that we slowly turning into simply screams of terror.

Explosions drowned it all out for a moment, and he heard the dropship's engines cough as it was clearly damaged. The sound was loud, drowning out the screams, until it began to fade as the ship took off. But the screams didn't fade.

“Don't leave us behind!”

“They left us!!” someone screamed in a panic. “They fucking left u-” His words stopped abruptly, but the gunfire and screams continued for several more minutes.

The guns fell silent, but the Uglies didn't. They continued to shout in distorted voices in anger or happiness or whatever strange emotions they felt. Daniel didn't know what they thought and didn't want to.

They must not have known he was in here, or they would have gotten him already. Except that one who had looked in the hole in the ceiling. He would have to move before it remembered to come for him.

Slowly he sat up and clutched his aching skull. “Ohhh ...” a soft moan escaped his lips before he clamped a hand over them. He couldn't make a sound.

Half crawling, half dragging himself, he went back towards the bathroom, and closed the door. Laying on the floor, he saw the vermin crawling across the floor, but ignored them. His head hurt, and the sounds of the mutants, now muted by the walls, were still disturbing on a deep level.

Holding up a hand, he saw it shake uncontrollably. He felt drained in a way he never had before. All he wanted was to lay here and die.

He gratefully shut his eyes, hoping that he would never wake up.

The transport craft rocked as the engine hummed to life. It's nose titled upwards towards home and the ship shuddered as it lurched forward. The men inside the belly of the metal creature grabbed whatever they could to hold on- an unnecessary reflex. As soon as a ship's hovering mechanisms initiated, an automatic and quite reliable containment-field protected the heroes from falling out of the vehicle, or even being thrown around violently.

A man inside the ship was screaming and crying. He begged for anything and everything as the blood poured from his massive gaping wounds in his midsection.

“Hold him still, just hold him!” ordered the medical officer. Though the man had lost a catastrophic amount of blood, suffered extreme trauma and would soon die if neglected, all on board knew he would be fine. All the doc had to do was slap on a Life-Pad to cool his body off. Once the cells were cooled and calmed, the patient would be preserved.

“Nnngh, gaah,” the wounded Hero cried.

“I know, I know, but it'll all be fine. When next you wake up, you'll be as good as new, private,” said the medic as the Life-Pad was applied. Within a few tense moments, the man's face slackened, and his limbs gave up thrashing. “You're not feeling pain, now, son.” It never ceased to amaze him how fast the cell-cooling nanotechnology took effect.

“How long can someone stay on ice like that, doc?” the gunnery sergeant asked.

“Oh, depends on the age of the subject. Easily thirty-years if necessary. Often fifty.”

The NCOs of the platoon turned away as soon as their task with the critically wounded man was done. “We lost our CO, and we left behind some heavy weapons and men,” said one squad leader.

A corporal leaned back and put his hands behind his head in a gesture of total confidence. “Here it is: the Lieutenant died what he was, a Hero. When he seen we left behind those CDIW's and personnel, he went back to retrieve them. He couldn't make it back, so he initiated their self-destruct sequence. That took him out.”

They all knew it wasn't true, of course, but they had to have an explanation. They couldn't return to base after leaving behind the brutal and unstoppable Cell-Destroying Infantry Weapons. To leave any advanced technology on the surface was a crime, but to leave such an advanced weapon was a Class A Offense, which would almost certainly result in demotion- that is, a swift relocation to the surface of the earth.

“What if they find out we're lying?” asked a sergeant from the decimated squad. Right now all he could feel was grateful that it had not been him. The guilt would come later.

“They won't- they won't want to, anyway. But if they did, we get the same punishment we'd be given for losing the weapons,” the corporal replied.

Thomas Mann video double EXTRAVAGANZA!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 23:58:00 +0000

Two videos for the price of one!

No, haven't forgotten the Black Lizard, but enjoy these in the meantime.

Dinosaurs!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Since I'm on the subject I decided to dredge up an old drawing of a Dilophosaur I really like, and post it on my DeviantArt account. So here it is!

The Black Lizard - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 18:50:00 +0000

66 million years ago

He had a new assignment, and it was a punishment. Maybe he'd been too indifferent during his last performance review. Or maybe he had made an enemy and not even realized.

The smugness in his supervisor's face soon gave way to annoyance as Christopher failed to show any sign of being bothered by his new assignment.

Inside, though, he didn't like it. Babysitting? It was beneath him.

“Her name is Anne-Sophie Fournier.” He mangled the French name to fit the dull pronunciation of the English language. “She's currently staying in the guest hostel.”

Christopher nodded. “So take her out, show her the sights, then bring her back?”

His Handler leaned forward across the desk, and for the first time Christopher felt an emotion; amusement, at this man's attempt to seem more imposing.

“I want you to keep this scientist out of trouble,” the man hissed at him. “Her organization claims to be after sound clips of lizard squawks or something. I don't believe it.”

The man jabbed a finger at him threateningly; Christopher knew his expression must have darkened, as this Handler looked anxious and then lowered his hand. “We made you her guide because we know you won't fuck up and let her see or record things she shouldn't. For God's sake, don't take her to Sector A.”

Christopher nodded. This was the kind of assignment any hunter would loathe; an indeterminate amount of time babysitting some tree-hugging fool. His superiors had to know that; they were simultaneously punishing him and relying on him. It was the kind of corporate insanity he had come to expect.

No carrot in one hand a crop in the other; they begged for extra work and punished you at the same time. And he would do it.

What the fuck else could he do?

Rising from his chair, he left in a daze, feeling whipped. He should have demanded a bonus, complained, wheedled his way out, like anyone else would have.

He knew why they picked him; he didn't sleep with just any woman who'd have him, he wasn't as boisterous and boastful as the other hunters. In other words, he wouldn't try to sleep with this woman and compromise his feelings in the situation, or let slip something he shouldn't.

Most likely he wouldn't talk much at all.

The woman was making quite the ruckus already in the center of the outpost; there were boxes and crates, and she and her compatriots in brand-new khaki outfits were flitting around like flies around a corpse.

Anne was the only woman; the others were scholarly bookworm types, or at least they seemed that way to him.

God, he wasn't going to have to escort them all, was he?

“I'm your guide,” he told the woman as a greeting. He didn't want to be friendlier than that.

She turned and sized him up immediately, the dislike evident on her face. Was she not even trying to hide it?

“You're a hunter,” she commented with contempt.

Christopher was unashamed. “Yes.” He wondered what gave it away; he wasn't even armed right now.

“I specifically requested a guide who wasn't a hunter.”

He shrugged. “Then you'd have an incompetent guide. The guides who aren't hunters take people out inside armored vehicles. They don't know what it's like on the ground.”

She pursed her lips and glared at him, torn between dislike and necessity. “I'm not pleased with this. I was told a Jacob Baccus would be available as a guide.”

He almost laughed. “Baccus was a drunk and a coward.”

Her eyebrows suggested quite a bit of skepticism. “Is he still available?”

“He's dead.”

Surprise and regret appeared on her face. It made him wonder what it was like to wear your heart on your sleeve like a normal person.

“How did he die?”

“Got drunk and gnawed up by some scavengers - mammals, actually. Died a few days later.” The man had deserved the fate for being so stupid.

Horror crossed her face, and he thought it must be at the way he died. She was simply horrified at his callousness.

“What's your name?” she asked him.

“Christopher Reed.”

Turning away from him, Anne looked back to her gear. “We'll be ready to go tomorrow morning.”

His eyes scanned over all the crates. “I hope to shit you're not planning on taking all that with us.”

“What? No! That's just for analysis when I return, and supplies for our base camp- for the people staying here.”

Christophers eyes went over the group of men with her. None of them looked like they could really take being out there. Neither did she, for that matter, but she still looked like she was tougher than the frail men here.

He grunted. “I'll see you in the morning.”

For once he wasn't looking down the site of a scope as he watched his target. It was the lens of a camera that Anne had given him. She wanted copious amounts of pictures, and as it seemed a reasonable request he was willing to oblige.

He wasn't entirely comfortable not having his gun in his hands, even if these were only a Troodon nest they were watching.

Seven feet long, but thin and light. One could easily kill a man, but they tended not to bother people unless they got too close to their nests. Just like he and Anne were.

If anything, they were merely pests; Troodons were often shot on sight for being a nuisance. They loved to get into trash bins, sometimes even into base camps and scavenge for food. Like raccoons, but in groups and much, much deadlier.

They had been stuck in their hide for the last two days. It was sweltering and awkward, with just enough room for one to turn around while the other took care of personal matters.

They were downwind; it was helpful, even being Scent Neutral.

For days they had spoken little, and only on matters on hand. At first, she seemed fine with this, but by the second day he could sense she was agitated about it. Most people didn't stay quiet for days at a time.

“What made you decide to become a hunter?” she asked quietly, feigning a casual air.

“All I know is how to shoot things,” he said. “They tell me I'm good at it.”

Her casual attitude broke down. “So you decided to come rape the past?”

He couldn't help but to chuckle. “Might want to remember who you're relying on here.”

“I'm quite aware,” she replied, barely reigning in her temper.

Christopher wasn't sure why, but he wanted to say something; it wasn't that he just liked killing these giant creatures.

“I . . . just wanted to escape my time,” he said.

“Why? Couldn't find enough to shoot in our time?” she shot back.

His face darkened as anger blossomed on it. He saw fear on her face as she realized she'd gone too far.

And just as fast his face went back to a forced calm.

Her fear turned to horror. “I'm sorry, I just . . . What-”

“Let's get back to business,” he interrupted.

Anne looked away, back to her little computer screen that controlled her myriad assortment of recording devices.

The silence in the hide was oppressive to him suddenly, and he cursed her mentally for breaking his calm.

“What's all this for? Recording noises?” All he could imagine was selling discs of “authentic” dinosaur noises to a future audience.

“Searching for clues,” she said vaguely.

There was another five solid minutes of quiet. “Clues to what?” he asked.

Anne glared at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

She scanned him again. “You're one of them. I'm afraid I can't tell you that, only that it is not illegal or against any of the rules or regulations that my organization agreed to before sending me back.”

He laughed, long and heartily, feeling true mirth and the release of the tension that had been filling the little shack for the last hour.

“I'll never be 'one of them,' he told her, wiping tears from his eyes. I don't give a shit what you want to do. Break every rule of theirs under my nose, I won't bat an eye. I'll do what it takes to keep this position, but I'll never - never - go out of my way to help them.”

He glanced at her recorder. “Go ahead and keep taping. I don't care if they hear it. They know I hate them - but they need me. And it doesn't matter what I let you get away with, because when we get back they're going to search every single bit of your stuff, even your clothes, even scanning you, to make sure you're not going to take back the slightest bit of evidence of the crimes they commit daily.”

He had dumbfounded her. For a time she didn't even seem to be able to think straight.

But she seemed to believe him. He could see an internal struggle in her eyes. On the one hand, whatever “secrets” she had could be blown open if he was lying. But on the other hand, she wanted to believe that people were Good, and to recruit another person to her side.

She clicked her recorder off.

“I'm going to be quite disappointed if this gets out,” she told him by way of useless preamble. “I'm not just recording sounds, I might be recording language.”

Anne could tell that what she had said had gone over the hunter's head.

With a sigh, she tried to explain again. “Humans are the only animals who have languages. Other animals have communication systems, but not language.”

“What's the difference?”

“Language is made up of sounds that have no meaning inherently and can be combined into an endless number of words. We can talk about things that happened in the past, haven't happened yet, or cannot even happen.”

She paused for a breath, and he could tell she was talking about something she felt passionate about.

“So language is so great. What's the point of learning if these dinosaurs have it?” He gestured outside. “Seems like trivia to me.”

“It would mean that they're sentient,” she stated. “If we can prove that these dinosaurs are sentient, then . . . Everything could change.”

He stared at her. It was the kind of idea that his superiors would never have thought of. But so what?

“I don't see how anything can change from it,” he said. “So what if they're sentient? We'll be ordered to kill them anyway.”

She shook her head, looking almost gleeful. “If they're sentient then we can raise hell. We can raise the ethical concern of hunting and exploiting another sapient species . . .”

“I agree they're smart, but they're still just animals,” Christopher interrupted.

“We're just animals.”

“And we're exploited as well,” he finished.

He could see the frustration on her face, and he felt it as well. He couldn't properly explain his point, he lacked the words. So what if they were sentient? People were often treated worse than animals. It seemed so insane that she was so concerned for these creatures when her own kind suffered worse horrors in their time. Endless war, insane food prices, poverty, disease . . . Things that people always said would be gone in the future certainly weren't. There were no Rights of Man, there were only Rights of Profit. If it wasn't profitable, then it was ignored.

She restarted her recording.

“I had thought you were a paleontologist,” he commented. It was a matter of public record what she did, so he didn't see any harm in it.

“I'm a linguist,” she said. “I've studied dozens of human languages. I almost became a paleontologist, though. I-”

The wind shifted, and everything changed.

The sounds from the Troodons ended. They were utterly silent and stock-still, except that their heads were pointed to the sky.

Anne looked confused; Christopher felt his hackles rise.

“What's going-” she began.

“Quiet,” he snapped in a fierce whisper. What the hell were they doing? He had only seen this kind of behaviour when-

As one, the Troodons turned to look at their hide. He could see their nostrils flaring.

“Anne. Tell me you're scent neutral,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Are you scent neutral?!”

“I don't even know what that means!”

There was no way. No one left base camp without being scent neutral. It was against all regulations, and for the good of the whole base camp; it was a bad idea to lead things back there.

Which left him no thought except he was not intended to come back, at least not with his charge.

Putting down the camera, he reached for the shotgun at the same time the Troodons charged at the tree. They were making a new sound now, a horrendous shrieking that signalled an all-out attack.

They really didn't like things near their nests.

“Do you want to record the sounds of them dying?” he asked without bravado; he only meant it as a legitimate question.

“Wh-what?!” She was panicked.

“Turn off the recording he said, cocking the shotgun with a loud click-clack.

The Troodons were climbing the tree lightly and easily. Their large claws sunk into the wood and they hauled themselves up.

He took aim, and fired. A dozen of them were going to die, or he and Anne were going to die. Most likely they would.

Red in tooth and claw.

It was profitable that way.

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 05:57:00 +0000

Just posting to say I didn't "forget" about updating today, but I've been really busy and didn't get the next part of the story finished yet, haha. It is in progress, however, and I will have it up on Thursday!

The Black Lizard - part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 18:46:00 +0000

So now for my first story written just for this blog. It's an experimental work-in-progress, and still in alpha stage, so some things in it may not be perfect.

I proudly present "The Black Lizard"

*

The earth itself shuddered, a recoil in horror, as the largest beast Christopher's eyes had ever beheld stepped over him.

His every urge, every instinct, was to move, to run.

A second foot strode past the first and thundered into the ground. It was a chorus of heavy thuds - an entire herd of the creatures was walking past him.

If he ran, he would surely die. The sudden movement would startle the herd and they'd crush him like a bug. It'd be even worse if he managed to get out of the herd.

All he could do was stay in place and hope the Argentinosaur herd stepped around the small boulder that was his shelter, instead of on it.

The shelter hid the herd behind him. If one was going to step on him, he wouldn't see it coming. All he could do was watch the giants leaving through the open front flap.

They weren't aware he was there, or if they were he meant nothing to them. They were nearly ten thousand times his size - why should they give a shit about him?

His hand was shaking, and he wished it was just from the ground tremors.

The herd passed over ten agonizing minutes. The adults and young called to each other constantly, and the area stank of manure.

The minutes ticked past, and he felt the sweat run down his face. He may have been Scent Neutral, but the mosquitos seemed to find him just fine. He couldn't move to swat them away.

Now was the dangerous time, the time he hated the most. Large footsteps struck the ground, but they were different from the ones of the mind-bogglingly-large Argentis. The sound was softer, more careful. The predators that eternally followed the herd, like the mosquitos that seemed to follow him.

Abelisaurs, at least two. Probably three.

Five minutes had passed since the herd had moved on, the HUD on his glasses displayed. Christopher didn't have time to dawdle, he was tracking this herd.

The predators couldn't smell him; they would only be able to see him. As long as he moved slowly enough, they wouldn't even be able to do that.

He hated ghillie suits. He looked like a shaggy wildman in the suit of dangling green and brown fibers that helped to break up his shape and make him look like a bush. It was also dreadfully hot.

Squirming on his belly, one inch at a time, he began to leave the shelter of his pathetic, rock-colored tent.

He saw one Abelisaur immediately. It was rooting its snout in the dung left behind by the sauropods, seeking clues of their health.

It was the ones he couldn't see that worried him. It was unlikely, but possible they were looking at his back, noticing the patch of grass that was inching across the ground.

Mud squelched against him, and he was thankful for the plastic wrapping on his rifle. The weapon had to be under him. It was too angular, too metallic, to hide well from the dinosaurs.

They knew what a gun was. People had been hunting them ten years now, and the dinosaurs had learned what a gun was, and to run away.

He privately wondered how smart they were. He saw some of them doing things that made no sense; the kind of illogical actions only a sentient being would display. Curiosity, playfulness. Occasionally even altruism. It didn't seem to fit at all with the conception of them as mindless lizards.

No one really cared enough to study it, though. They were a money-maker, a meal ticket - sometimes literally. He wasn't partial to a steak made from an Argentinosaur, but many back home were.

Home. Christopher grimaced.

The predators began to clear out, following the herd once more. Judging them far enough away, he slowly got up and began to follow on foot. There was a ridge nearby.

And when he got there, it would play out like it had hundreds of times before; he'd aim for the head of one of the great beasts, and kill it with one shot.

He had only four rounds, but it was more than he needed. He'd fired three already, and with each one he'd scored a clean kill. Anything less than a brain shot on one of the massive beasts would only drive it into a frenzy.

It took repurposed anti-tank weaponry to kill these things. Even the relatively smaller predators, you couldn't kill them with less than a .50 cal.

His rifle was 14.5mm caliber. A third bigger, and over twice the power. It was still barely enough.

Working with purely experience and muscle memory, he got in position, and aimed. The dinos moved their heads a lot, but he knew times they kept them still enough. He waited, and aimed.

The rifle-canon recoiled massively over his shoulder; it had to, or it'd dislocate his arm.

The giant animal never knew what hit it, and the sound of the alarmed herd was drowned out by the sound of the earth trembling in terror again as ninety tons of animal crashed to the ground.

“Your hunt was successful,” The Handler said. He was merely stating the facts as preamble.

Christopher did not say anything. There was obvioulsy no need when his handler knew all the facts.

The man was clearly waiting for a response, but the hunter never obliged him.

Finally, clearly a little thrown off, the Handler continued. “All parameters were within acceptable levels. You even brought back your empty water bottles.”

He gave the slightest of nods as acknowledgement. It wasn't that he was intending to be rude; he just wasn't one to say much. So he simply stared at his Handler with an intensity that befitted a master hunter.

And it unnerved people.

“We only have one question,” the handler asked, invoking the entirety of the Company in an attempt to channel their power. “You never filed your mid-day status report on the thirty-first. Why was that?”

“Large theropods were around. Moving wasn't an option.” He didn't care to file his reports, anyway, and his Handler knew that.

The man made a click of his tongue. “Well, next time you fail to report in, I'm going to have to make a note in your file. I'd hate to have to do it, you're one of our best.”

Christopher nodded slightly.

“Dismissed,” his handler said, rattled. “Go . . . get a drink and relax. You've earned it.”

Without a word, Christopher stood and walked out.

No one did that; snubbed their handlers. It wasn't illegal, but it might as well have been. The Company owned everything - literally; everything in this time period.

When they had first come back, the government had claimed the entire world. They were the first here, after all. Their claim to any land would pre-date everyone else's. And then they had sold it - for a pittance. Some claimed a few hundred thousand, others a few million. The details weren't important.

It just mattered that the Company owned the earth from nearly its inception.

And company rules were treated in courts exactly like laws, and company security could do whatever it wished. If they said you were guilty, you were considered guilty.

Stepping out of the perfectly-cooled central building to the open air was a shock he hated, the heavy air rolling over him oppressively. It only felt uncomfortable to him after he'd had the comparison of the cool inside.

The bar was open-air, mostly for tourists, but there was also a cadre of veteran hunters, just back from their hunts.

Samba spied him, and waved him over with a big grin.

“Man of the hour!” he called.

Christopher forced a smile and sat down on a stool. “What did I do?”

“You bagged the biggest,” Samba said. It wasn't his name; just what everyone called him. Get men packed with testosterone together, and the nicknames would all be stereotypes. True in the army, true with the hunters . . .

“Oh. Did I?”

“Yes. She's actaully a record-breaker. Biggest kill this year!”

“That's good,” he said mildly. He couldn't muster enough energy to care.

Ten years ago, even five, it wouldn't have been a big kill. But the big ones had all been killed. Half the time herds were led by adoslescents anymore. Everyone wanted the big kills.

Some folks had suggested a breeding program in special parks for hunting. The Company had sited the cost of such a plan, and turned it down.

Besides.

Dinosaurs couldn't be tamed.

He couldn't imagine it lasting another ten years. What happened when they had killed off most of the mature dinosaurs? They were probably a century old. Uprooting operations and moving forward a century was feasible but highly expensive.

No one even talked about it, or even acknowledged that it was a problem.

Sometimes he felt like the only man who saw reality; the impossibility of their current operations, and everyone else ignored it. But they knew. And just like him, they didn't want to rock the boat, or didn't know what to do about it. So they just kept marching forward with blinders.

“I'll win next round,” another man said, winking at him with infuriating smugness.

“Then I'll buy the drinks. But this time they're on you,” Christopher said, feeling something akin to interest.

Some folks might see the reality, but then you had people like Sir Richard. He wasn't knighted, but he had the snobbery and good breeding that made people think of it.

“You already got the award for most kills,” Samba said with a laugh. “Overachiever. You're making lazy men like me look bad.”

“I can't help it if I'm ferocious,” Sir Richard replied immediately. He'd already had a few drinks, and was a lightweight to begin with. “I've just got raptor blood in me. Makes me want to kill.”

Samba grinned. “I always knew you were a bastard!”

A fight broke out between them. Sir Richard always was touchy about his family.

Christopher grabbed his drink and jumped back as the two men knocked over stools and threw awkward punches.

Sensing men rushing up to break up the fight, Christoper held up his arm to block them. “Let them go. They're just working it out.”

The men who had come to help hesitated. They were just workers; they didn't really want to get on the bad side of a big, bad hunter, who could theoretically get them fired if he complained.

Thomas Mann video comic! Episode Three: REVENGE OF THE SQUID MEN

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 21:44:00 +0000

Last update was the third chapter of the Thomas Mann novel. I'm not going to be posting more on here - for the time being.

But in the spirit of Manniness, I've decided to post a new Thomas Mann video comic!

Check it ouuuuuut. You know you want to, because if you don't the squid men will seek revenge. Messy, squishy, inky revenge.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYKsHI1epkw

I've just uploaded the video, so I can't yet actually post the video to here; I'll try to fix that in a bit.

*

Coming on Thursday I hope to have ready something entirely new to post. So far, everything I have posted has been a work I've already made. My current project is something I have been cooking up just for posting on this blog.

To be honest, I don't know how long it will be. I'll be posting reasonably-sized chapters, but the ultimate story, I'm not sure how long it will be.

This is an experiment for me, and an attempt to try to make myself adhere to a more regular schedule when it comes to writing stories. I don't think this will affect the quality of my work. ;)

The story is called The Black Lizard.

The Marvellous Adventures of Thomas Mann - Chapter 3

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 22:31:00 +0000

The third chapter of Thomas Mann may be the last I post on this blog - I mainly wished to give a taste of the story. If you're interested in reading more of the story, please leave me a comment. ;)

*

The next morning, I rose and left for work, my mind strangely unperturbed. I felt a calmness over me, and decided to forget entirely about the strange man.

Outside of my door, there was no sign of him or any of the strangeness that had plagued my previous day, and I believe I smiled and even whistled on my way to the library.

A starling alighted in a tree in the park across from my door, and I smiled as I watched it. The bird looked back at me, tilting its head. Then, with a flutter of its wings, it was gone, leaving no trace it had been there at all.

It was a gift from God, these small things of beauty that reminded us of our impermanence on this earth.

‘Bloody rats with wings,’ a lower-class man mumbled, wiping at his shoulder. He was probably a chimney sweeper or some such job, for his clothing was already quite filthy.

I frowned at him, annoyed that he interrupted the tranquillity of the scene and the poetic thoughts it had inspired in me.

Shaking my head, I continued on. The rest of my journey was entirely uneventful, and I was even on time for work, a rare feat for me.

Mr. Keithson looked relieved, and directed me towards the assorted books that required shelving.

I set to work, again feeling quite at ease. Down into the stacks I went, nodding to various co-workers, some of whom nodded back.

At the lowest floor, I proceeded, the dust on the books leaving strange patterns on my hands as I returned them to their places.

Taking one book, I paused. It was a journal that had caught my fancy some time back, for it dealt with xeno science – that is, science about the strange and unknown.

Smiling slightly, I opened the book...

‘Good day, Mann. I say, what is that you are reading?’

‘O!’ I nearly jumped from the sound of a voice. Turning, I blinked at the strange man behind me. ‘Anthony, you startled me.’

‘O, sorry.’ Anthony blinked. He was an odd fellow, but well-liked. His eyes often seemed glassy and slightly protuberant, and, well... His head seemed to be different each day I saw him, almost as if it changed shape. I privately referred to his affliction as polymorphism, a condition I coined. It seemed to be peculiar to only him.

‘It’s all right. I’m... reading a book about xeno science – you know, things usually considered mythological or unknown.’

‘Ohhh, yes. Yes, you are interested in that sort of thing, aren’t you? I’ve sometimes thought about things like that. You know, life on other planets.’

I smiled. It was a favourite subject of his, actually. ‘O, yes, I recall you saying that before. What do you think of the idea of life on Mars? I have heard about canals there...’

Anthony scoffed. ‘Mars is a barren wasteland. Even if aliens could live there, why would they want to? It’s not like it has enough trilonicleum there for them.’

‘Pardon?’

Anthony’s large eyes blinked, and the vein on his forehead pulsed. ‘Well, you know, if they hypothetically needed trilonicleum. But, uh, what do you think about aliens? Do you think they could conquer earth with its defences as they are?’

This seemed an odd subject. ‘Well, I suppose. I can’t really guess what their technology might be like, though, can I?’

‘No, I suppose only an alien could... I imagine they wouldn’t be interested in primitive primates like humans. At least not until they advanced to the point where they were interesting. The earth, though, would be a very nice bounty of resources to some aliens. Very nice. Hypothetically speaking.’

‘Em, I would suppose that is true, Anthony.’ Anthony often spoke of these things.

'I would imagine that hypothetically, some advanced alien race could strip the earth of its resources and liquids in a matter of months.'

I had nothing to say to that. However, the topic was slightly off-putting to me.

'Er, have you heard of that theory that the universe is expanding?' I said. It was spoken of only in my strange circles. Mainstream science regarded it as silliness, based only in a poem, yet I, and others like myself, viewed it as a perfectly logical model.

'Yeah, yeah, yeah, that's old news . . .' His disinterest went to the point of rudeness.

It was hard to be annoyed with Anthony, however, and I opened my mouth to correct him that this theory was very, very new, certainly not old news.

‘O, hello, Mann.’ The voice was familiar, for I’d heard it only the night before.

‘Ed!?’

The man, in the flesh, came up, nodding politely. He was wearing another spiffy suit, albeit still in a style that was different than the norm. He showed no sign of realizing he was in a place he shouldn’t.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded. ‘You are not supposed to be in the closed stacks – and I may get in trouble with my supervisor, Mr. Keith-’

Ed waved his hands. ‘No worries. Hey, Anthony, how are you doing?’

Anthony shrugged. ‘O, pretty good, same as always. Mission’s still boring.’

I blinked. ‘Anthony, you know Ed? What mission? I am missing something here!’

‘That happens with humans,’ Ed commented ruefully to Anthony, who nodded in a knowing way.

I imagined these two must know each other, and decided they were playing me for some sort of fool. ‘Well, whatever game you two are playing, it is not fun for me.’

The situation then got worse.

‘I can hear you whispering,’ Mr. Keithson said, appearing from an aisle. I hastily closed my book and tried to look busy.

‘Good job,’ Mr. Keithson said to me cheerfully, obviously meaning my poor attempts at working.

‘Ah, hello. Pleasure to meet you at last, Mann’s told me so much about you.’ Ed extended his hand to my superior, and I blinked. I had never mentioned Mr. Keithson to Ed.

Mr. Keithson nodded and smiled. ‘I think it was more of a murmur I heard.’

The three continued to chatter, and I watched, knowing I was missing something. Mr. Keithson glanced to me. ‘By all means, Mann, continue to look like you’re working.’

Chastened, I continued to try and work as the three spoke softly, laughing occasionally. From the way Ed’s eyes flicked to me, I imagined they were laughing at my expense.

I heard something about Romans and Anthony saying he had once thought a toga was still in style, but it made no sense to me.

After some time of this, they seemed to bid each other adieu, Anthony and Mr. Keithson wandering off, still talking to each other and chuckling.

Ed turned to me, smiling and shaking his head. ‘Those two are great,’ he said to me, grinning broadly.

‘How do you know my employer and co-worker?’ I demanded. In my eyes, for anyone I knew to have a connection to my new acquaintance made him far more mundane.

‘We’ve known each other for hun- I mean dozens- a long time.’ He put his arm around my shoulder, which I found uncomfortable. Ed did not notice. ‘Now, Will said I could take you out for a bit, no problem. Are you ready to go?’

It was odd to hear Mr. Keithson’s Christian name being said so casually, and it threw me off. ‘Er, go where?’

A sigh from Ed. ‘Let me just show you, boyo.’

‘Wait!’ I said quickly. ‘I really have no idea who you are, Mr... Ed. Who are you really?’

Ed’s eyes twinkled in the same disturbing way they had when we first met. ‘Would you believe, Mr. Mann, that I am a god? In the same vein as Zeus, Isis and Noip.’

Silence. Finally, I heard my voice say; ‘No.’

Ed blinked, looking a little deflated. ‘O. Well, I am. A true-to-life god. Just like in those old stories, you know? Well, not exactly the same. I mean, we’re a hell of a lot cooler than the ones in those stories. I am, at least.’

I tried to distance myself from the man, attempting to move his arm from my shoulder. ‘That is very nice, but if you don’t mind, I would rather be working.’

Ed stared at me. ‘You still don’t believe me, do you? Well, only one thing to do about that. Let me prove it.’

Curse my curiosity! I had more in common with the average feline in that regard than I did a person. ‘Prove it... how?’

He leaned closer. ‘What you see of me is an illusion, Thomas Mann. Most of what everyone sees is an illusion. On average, humans encounter two beings in their life that only they can see. That’s quite a bit of unreality.’

I blinked slowly, pondering that. ‘So... What, Ed, is real? I mean, what is really real?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ Ed asked.

‘Yes,’ said I.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes!’

He showed me.

Reality had seventeen snapping heads, eating small gnomes. Some looked reptilian, others human, others like apes or monkeys and still others like things I had never seen before. Rings of rat and other vermin skulls rotated around various parts of it in concentric rings. Five legs. Three arms. Numerous tentacles, I believe nine. Several featherless birds seemed to fly around him, snapping at the skulls and unfortunate gnomes (the latter of which there seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of). It was also, approximately, three hundred times the size of a normal person.

I was suitably impressed at the time. In fact, as Ed later put it, my head nearly imploded from his grandness.

I was greatly staggered, and had to lean back against the book shelves. Light-headed, I knew I was seconds away from passing out.

‘My god!’ I said. ‘My god!’

‘Yes?’ Ed asked sincerely.

‘I’m just... My god... It’s true, then. No one could have faked that.’

Ed kept his mouth shut, not wanting to mention how advanced future digital brain immersion effects were in the 22^nd century on earth. For though he wasn’t lying, what Mann had just experienced could easily have been faked.

‘You are an immortal? A true God?’ Awe filled my voice and I know my eyes must have been perfectly spherical as I stared at the man.

Ed merely looked annoyed. ‘I think the proper term is Mortalitally Challenged. Believe me, a lot of us would like to die. Now that you’re convinced, shall we go?’

I nodded, bracing myself. I didn’t do well enough, for I gasped as my eyesight winked out. It felt as if someone had grabbed me under the arms and pulled me suddenly into the air.

There was a sound – to describe it onomatopoeically, would have been ‘poot’.

And then I heard total silence. I was standing, if I may use that word, in utter blackness, darker than a cave far under the earth, darker than the heart of the lord of hell.

There was a ringing in my ears, and I started to feel vertigo from how lost I felt. The ringing was growing louder, ever louder. O, how I loathed the noise! Were there some kind of ghastly bells – or was it my mind fraying?

It continued to rise in pitch, until I felt that madness itself could be the only result of me. It was driving me insane!

‘Stop!’ I screamed, unable to endure even another second.

‘Sorry.’ There was a click, and then blessed, welcome light flooded the area.

Ed had flipped a switch of some kind, turning on strange glowing panels in the ceiling. Their harsh white light was uncomfortable to me, seeming very unnatural.

‘Where are we?’

Ed ignored me, fiddling with the toggles and buttons again. He smiled suddenly, and the wall in front of us became transparent.

All thoughts vanished from my mind as I looked at the most amazing sight I had yet beheld in my entire life. Any doubts I had about Ed were entirely erased, to be replaced with pure wonderment and awe.

A thousand, a million, maybe more – stars, of all sizes, shapes, colours and hues. Clouds of gas intertwined between them. Not a single star twinkled, a sign that there was no longer an atmosphere between us and them – only the glass.

I walked towards it mindlessly, pressing my face against the cold clear wall. In my dreams I had not imagined them so beautiful, their light piercing down into my soul.

In the centre of this sea of stars was the grand masterpiece. An inky black hole, only noticeable for the absence of stars, and the gaseous disc that orbited it, slowly being sucked in.

Words failed me, and I can never truly describe the majesty of how it struck me. How this universe we inhabited was. How amazing it was, enormous beyond our comprehension. And I, I was privileged enough to get a tiny opportunity to see it.

‘That’s the black hole Tobias 5,’ Ed said. ‘It’s considered special for a number of reasons.’

'Which one is earth's sun?' I leaned against the glass like an excited child, pressing my nose to it until it deformed.

Ed shook his head. 'We're on the far side of what your people will know as the Sloan Great Wall one hundred years after your time.' In other words, he was hinting, there was no way to see it over the unbelievably vast distances and the enormous collection of galaxy super clusters that was 80 billion light-years across.

'O. So which one is it?'

'That one,' Ed replied, pointing to a random dot.

I goggled at it, imagining the star looked familiar, even, or that I could see planets. Ed knew how unlikely that was since it was really a distant supernova and any planets around it were long since vaporized.

'What did you say before that?' I finally asked of the DemiGod. 'Something about a wall?'

'The Sloan Great Wall. That's your kind's name for it. Everyone else calls it the Cosmic Cheese Doodle.' He held out his hand and a cheese doodle appeared on it, which he summarily ate.

'Why would they call it that?' I asked, looking around curiously for other errant snacks.

'The Cosmic Cheese Doodle-' another cheese doodle appeared in his hand and shared the fate of the previous one '-Tourism Bureau named it that because it looks like a cheese doodle. As a nice promotion, they send instant cheese doodles to beings who say Cosmic Cheese Doodle. It's really a pleasant gimmick.'

'I see. So if I say... Cosmic Cheese Doodle!' I said it suddenly, imagining a snack to appear just as readily in my hand as in his. I looked at my appendage eagerly.

Nothing appeared.

'Oh, they only give them out to beings of significance. If they gave them out to every life-form who said it, they'd go bankrupt.' He ate his latest cheese doodle.

He looked around. ‘Hey, this isn’t bad. No crowds yet, I guess we’re here in the off-season.’

‘My word, Ed! What is that floating around that dark hole?’ I asked, squinting out the view port.

‘Black hole,’ Ed corrected. He looked out at the speck I was looking at, and nearly blanched. ‘That’s... nothing, Mann, pay it no mind, no mind at all. Hey, look! Complementary snacks!’

A tray floated through the room, covered in snacks that looked vaguely familiar to me. Ed took one, and glanced around. Ascertaining they were still alone, he took several more, putting them in his pockets, then wandering away.

I reached up, taking one as well. It looked like a devilled egg, but had forty-three twitching legs made of the same egg white-like substance as the rest. Inside was an orange cream that swirled about on its own.

Surely they would not put out anything dangerous, I thought. After a moment’s hesitation, I took a bite.

The egg was surprisingly sweet, while the orange cream was both bitter and tart, but quite tasty. The amount of it crowding my mouth seemed entirely out of proportion to the amount I’d bitten off. Forcing it down with a painful swallow, I crammed the rest in and swallowed it as well.

‘That was quite filling,’ I said to Franklin the hare, who was hovering around the room in a dustbin.

I took a puff on my cigarette, finding it odd, since I was not normally a smoker. A moment later I realized I had no cigarette. No problem, I thought. I could use my belt.

Trying to light it, I was interrupted as I started to slide up the hill, propelled, I knew, by the group of four or five mushrooms at the top. They had clear, dome-like caps with flashing neurons in them.

‘Hello, fellows,’ I said jauntily as I slid to the top. Stars had started to cover my hands, and I brushed them off absently.

‘Hello, Thomas!’ they all replied at once.

‘My boys, have you seen my mother? She was just around here somewhere.’

‘Nope,’ they replied. ‘Though, that’s her.’ They pointed to a chair with a starfish in it.

‘Ah, thank you.’ Walking over, I nodded to the starfish. ‘Hello, mother. It is a pleasure to see you.’

‘Thomas,’ she said slowly, her voice sweet. ‘Look at you, you look so nice in that outfit. Have you been washing your hands?’ She sounded so concerned, my sweet mother.

‘Of course, mother,’ I said, my voice filled with love and patience as I brushed the stars off again. I sincerely hoped father wouldn’t murder her again.

‘Good. I’m so proud of you, Thomas,’ she said as she started ripping apart the upholstery on her seat.

Why, I realized, that was a starfish! It was attacking the chair, so I plucked it off and threw it into space, where I saw myself catch it again and throw it a different direction.

Excellent, no more starfish.

A feral, wicked, fiendish mink leapt from the sewer nearby, aiming for my throat.

‘No, Roger, not this time!’ I cried, grabbing it by the neck and throttling it as hard as I could. It kicked and scratched at my hands viciously, but I crushed it with my weight, pressing it against the wall even as I strangled it, just like I remembered.

‘Mann, snap out of it. What has that pipe ever done to you?’

The voice was familiar, and seemed to cut through the haze surrounding my brain all at once. I was not throttling a mink at all, but a metal pipe. My hands were scratched and bloodied by trailing wires.

Suddenly, something in my stomach had a desperate urge to leave. I coughed once, twice, and a large black bean fell from my mouth.

Ed was looking at me. ‘Did you eat one of the snacks? They’re not compatible with your anatomy. Looks like you killed the parasite.’ He toed the bean.

‘Parasite... ?’ I rasped, my throat parched.

‘Yeah, those were parasitic nekobs. Most beings can digest them, but I guess not you. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to tell you what is and isn’t edible next time.’

He clapped me on the shoulder, and I felt the memories of what had just been occurring fade. In recollection, they were horrible, but at the time I did not mind them so much.

‘Other tourists have come,’ Ed grunted. ‘Let’s get out of here before they ask us to pay.’

I looked around for the tourists he meant. It took me several tries of looking around before I saw anything that could fit that description. A group of mushrooms, four or five of them, slowly moving along the floor. Their tops were dome-like, clear with flashing neurons inside.

Ed’s voice snapped my attention off of them. ‘Got any questions, Mann? I’m here to explain things, too. Within reason – can’t have your head exploding, can we?’

I assumed that was meant as a joke, and smiled. I was feeling vastly better than before, though how or why was lost on me.

‘Er, yes... How are the cosmos governed? Is there a single, great king God who rules all others?’

‘Hell no,’ Ed said, laughing. ‘There’s just too much for one being to rule – even if they could manage it all, there’s not enough time in the universe for him to attend to each thing, or even each universe.’

That made sense, though I had often thought Gods had means we could not comprehend. ‘How is it governed, then?’

‘For the first billion years, the twenty-three ‘lead’ gods couldn’t agree on how to rule existence. There were two major competing ideas for how it should be set up; rascalism and cronyism. Both had their merits, and both would allow everyone but the rascals and cronies to deny any blame for when things went bad. You have to understand that that is a major consideration of all major beings in the universe; not being blamed for when things fuck up. Which they always do.

'Eventually, a completely untenable compromise was reached; they’d make an Emperor of All, who would rule everything. Except them, of course. When everything became fucked up, they would blame him.

‘Everything went smoothly, for a long time, until life appeared. Instantly, things went into chaos. The Emperor of All Things was banished to Diarrnea, and they decided to just make it look like they were ruling, with the Most Great Council of Gods.’

‘That worked fine, since they didn’t really do anything, but feelings began to get hurt when some gods sent representatives to the council, feeling this would make them appear more important. They of course claimed they were too busy to attend the meetings.’

‘It continued in absurdity, with representatives sending representatives to make the insults more and more obvious and extreme, until the point where the Most Great Council of Gods consisted of three chimpanzees, a chipmunk, and a rather doughy Radio talk-show host (who believed he was in Miami), along with a handful of crackers.’

I was silent for a moment. ‘O.’

Ed pulled out a pocket watch, looking at it. I noticed it had twelve hands and pointed in three dimensions. ‘Okay, I have one other place to show you, if you’re interested.’

‘Of course I am! I’ll not let one bad experience ruin this for me!’ I said quickly.

‘Good. Then let’s go.’ Ed snapped the watch shut and put it away.

‘Where?’

‘Down where the dead go.’

Missed an update!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 18:54:00 +0000

Haha, anyone who follows this blog might have noticed I missed an update yesterday.

Don't worry, it's not the start of a trend - I still fully intend to keep updating. Yesterday was just a bit distracting for me, so I kept pushing it back.

I've decided to just skip Monday's update, though, but Thursday will definitely have a full update, as per usual!

The Marvellous Adventures of Thomas Mann - Chapter 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 03:15:00 +0000

Chapter 2

*******

Once again, I was out on the street, wandering in the pale reflected light of the moon. My borrowed abode was just ahead of me, and I was feet from the safety of a locked door, when I had my third encounter of the night. It was to be the most fateful of my life.

Moments before inserting the key into the lock lovingly, the rough clearing of a throat broke my mood.

Turning slowly, feeling cautious, I faced the offender.

‘May I help you, sir?’ I asked.

A man of average height, wearing a somewhat stark black suit and top hat, dressed in a style either slightly older than the vogue or slightly newer, I couldn’t tell. He had an untamed look about him, though very arrogant at the same time. Aloof was not even enough to describe it; it was beyond feeling he was better than the world around him, and into appearing that the world around him mattered not in the slightest and interested him even less.

I wish I could say he immediately struck me as some sort of incredible being, or I felt as if my fate would be intertwined with this man’s – but, no. Looking at him, I felt only that he was yet another crazy person on a night of crazy persons.

His somewhat wide eyes had a glint in them that reeked of mischievous insanity.

‘Maybe I can help you,’ the man said. ‘Ed whatever, pleased to meet you Thomas... Mann.’ He paused before saying my last name as if it contained some joke known only to he, then extended a hand cordially in my direction. It was his left.

It took me a moment to realize he’d glossed over his last name, and by that time I was shaking his hand automatically, albeit awkwardly, with my own left hand.

The man tipped his hat off to me, half-bowing as he did so. A thick mat of black hair coated his head, flat on top but flaring somewhat at the side to complement his muttonchops.

His accent betrayed he was not from London, neither did he sound like he was from any other part of England. Nor was it an Irish accent. Was he a Yankee?

‘May I ask from where you hail from, sir?’

‘No, you may not,’ Ed said. ‘And just call me Ed, all right? I can’t stand the ‘sir’ crap, especially when you don’t mean it.’

I blinked, trying to digest this odd behaviour. It was just my luck, I felt, to encounter yet another insane person on this night.

‘So, I understand you are interested in the paranormal,’ Ed said, rubbing his hands together. There was a glint in his eyes again.

Floored momentarily, I know I noticeably paled at his words. ‘I... Yes, I have some minor interest in them.’

He looked disappointed. ‘Minor? Hmm. Maybe you’re the wrong man, Mr. Mann. I was under the impression that you were obsessed.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t use that term.’ This man was insolent!

‘O, naturally not, my apologies.’ I sincerely doubted he meant that from the half-smile on his face and tone. ‘Well, if you were obsessed, I’d compare notes – I myself am quite closely connected to the paranormal.’

His wording there caught my attention. Closely connected, he had said. Not ‘a fellow paranormal investigator’ or ‘fellow seeker of the truth’. I was immediately hooked, at least until he proved himself a fraud.

‘How so, my good man?’

The man smiled, and little did I realize that this was the start of my marvellous adventure. I did note, though, that something about his teeth looked unnatural.

‘Well, let’s discuss this inside, shall we? Over a large brandy.’ The man seemed eager for a drink, and I was eager for his tongue to loosen, so I quickly obliged him.

Opening the door with fumbling hands, anticipation filled my heart. Somehow, I knew that at long last I would have the lead or clue that would allow me to burst the secrets of the strange wide open!

The man seated himself in the best chair, one Thomas Grave normally reserved for himself after a day of work at the racetracks. I imagined Thomas would not mind being so polite to a guest, and allowed him to use the chair. Pouring him a large glass of Thomas’s brandy, I vowed to re-pay him. If he noticed its absence, that is.

‘So, you were saying?’

He held up a finger for silence, raising the glass to his lips. In one long pull he drained the brandy. ‘Ah, that’s great, thanks a bunch. Give me a little more there, need to grease the tongue, ya know?’

I nodded, finding his vernacular rather odd. ‘Are you from the Americas?’ I ventured as I poured some more.

Completely ignoring me, he instead quaffed the new brandy. ‘Okay, let’s get started. Basically, I need the assistance of someone of your qualifications. In return, I’m offering a once-in-a-lifetime chance.’

I cocked my head to the side. ‘Pardon? What chance? Please elaborate, for I am afraid you are not being very clear.’

‘A certain amount of obfuscation is necessary, chum,’ Ed said, reaching over to pat me on the arm. I realized a moment later he was wiping his hand on my jacket. ‘But I am glad you understand and accept the terms.’

‘Terms?’

‘Of the deal we just made. A brandy is the universal sign agreement to a large and important contract, isn’t it? I’m glad it was this easy, really.’

I blinked several times in confusion. The majority of what he said made no sense to me at all. ‘We have not discussed terms, Mr... . Ed.’

Ed had begun to recline deeply back into the chair, his expression nearly euphoric. ‘It has been too long since I’ve had a chance to – what did you say?’

‘We have discussed no terms.’

He sat up suddenly. ‘I clearly outlined them all, as we talked before. You know, the usual way.’

I must have shown a complete lack of understanding of that, for he continued.

‘Didn’t you pick up what I thought to you? The whole deal? Why I need your help and how you can help me?’

This man was insane. I remember feeling that my hopes and dreams of getting real proof and answers crashing around me, then. This was merely another insane man, worse yet that I’d invited him into my home.

‘Er, perhaps we should go back out there to re-discuss it...’ I realized that a madman could be dangerous, as my encounters had proven earlier that evening.

‘No, you agreed already. The deal is set in stone, literally. It’s been chiselled. I’m afraid if you don’t abide by it, something terrible will befall you.’

‘I never agreed to anything!’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘No, I have not! Now, please-’ My request for him to leave was cut off by a terrible, terrible sound.

The front door opening and closing. This meant that the man with whom I lived, Thomas Grave, was home.

Before I go further, I should explain slightly about Thomas Grave.

Of good birth, Grave was a tall and strapping man who had his share of admirers amongst both men and women. I never asked and he never told about his various liaisons, but I believe he has had more than a score in the time I have lived with him.

He was notorious for his generosity when in good fortune, his miserly attitude when in bad, alacrity for bad odds on the hope of a rare pay-off, and extreme temper when his anger was roused. I secretly believed he must be part Irish, his temper was so extreme. Many claimed him to be mercenary at heart when necessary, but I had never thought so. While several years my senior, we usually got along quite well.

That famous temper was what I did not wish to get aimed at me now.

‘Get up, man! You must leave now!’

‘No, I’m Ed and you’re Mann.’ Ed replied, staring at me curiously

Then Thomas Grave walked in. His shoulders were hunched, his face drawn – clearly it had not been a good day at ‘work’ for my friend.

He stopped, leaning heavily against the ornate wooden door frame. Slowly, his eyes focused on Ed, sitting boldly in his chair. Something flashed in his eyes, almost like recognition. It disappeared just as quickly, as if he had mistaken Ed for someone else.

‘My good Mann,’ he began, and I knew right away he was furious, for he was always calm before he exploded. ‘Why is there a fellow I’ve never seen before on my most prized possession?’

Before I could inject a word, Ed stood and offered his hand to Thomas. ‘Spiffing to meet you, Thomas. Call me Ed.’

I could tell Thomas was about to blow. He looked at me, then at Ed. ‘Get out of my home, before I ring the police!’ He did not wait for Ed to even respond, instead seizing him by the scruff of his neck.

Ed was clearly completely shocked by this, as he struggled very little as Thomas Grave dragged him towards the door.

‘This is an unusual greeting’ Ed commented with abnormal calm, though trying to free himself at the same time. By this time, Thomas had the door open, and flung my guest unceremoniously into the night. I watched with both awe and horror as he tumbled down the steps and to the cobbled street below.

‘Thomas, man! You might have killed the fellow!’

‘He’ll be just fine – I should have knocked him on the head, and you as well! Bother me not tonight, Thomas Mann. I lost more money than I should have on a bad horse. Broke his leg and the jockey’s neck! It was an utter disaster. And to think I almost bet on his death, I would have been better off to follow my first instinct.’

I was angry enough that I wanted to argue more – though I had wanted to get the obviously insane man out myself, I still felt slighted that he’d come and done it in such an uncouth way.

Hot rage still coiled in my belly, I glared at my ‘friend’. He seemed entirely unbothered. ‘What was that madman doing here, anyway?’ Thomas Grave asked me. ‘And what was he doing in my chair?’ He spotted the glasses on the table and rushed over. ‘And drinking my brandy!’

Pausing, I realized that my answer would not go over very well with the man who gave me lodgings.

‘I... let him in and gave him your brandy... I believed he had some knowledge of interest to me...’

Going to the window, I looked out. Ed was picking himself up from the side walk, brushing off his coat and shaking his head in a slightly annoyed fashion. He didn’t look that terribly upset, which I considered odd since... Well, he had been hurled down a small flight of steps just a moment before.

‘And my chair?!’ Grave asked, grabbing my collar to make me face him. ‘You let some stranger in and in my chair?’

‘Well, he sat in it himself, I merely declined to stop him. I thought politeness to a guest...’

‘Damn it Mann...’ I could feel Grave’s hands clench tighter, and I knew he wished to strike me. But I also knew my friend, and I knew he knew I funded many of his habits with my rent money. ‘Bah! Just don’t let it happen again!’

He stalked away, stopping to grab the brandy as he went. Taking a drink directly from the bottle, he then continued.

I sighed, looking back out the window, but Ed was gone. I had a strange prickle on the back of my neck, as if I had not seen the last of that man.

The Marvellous Adventures of Thomas Mann - Intro and Chapter 1

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 02:52:00 +0000

The first chapter of the Thomas Mann novel, in mostly his own words.

Every word of this book is the truth.

I have painstakingly written out all of the experiences I can recall from my marvellous journey, using my memory and notes I took carefully during my entire adventure.

Some parts are written in a style contrary to mine; those were the work of my assistant, who witnessed some things I did not. In some instances, he merely insisted on writing about a particular incident, convincing me that he could tell it in a superior way to mine. He can be very persuasive. I hope you do not feel his work is too feeble.

Some of what follows may seem wholly unbelievable. Some of it may shake your beliefs to their very core. Some of it seems almost comical, but was truly of great importance to myself – nay, to existence itself!

Yet, I assure you again it is real; all of it witnessed with my eyes, or those of my companion. Certain parts... I cannot say with certainty if they were entirely perceived accurately, for at times my perception was not entirely clear. But this is my story, unaltered and unedited.

I attest this on my life.

Chapter 1

I have always been a curious fellow.

By that I do not mean I myself am unusual. No, I am an extremely ordinary and boring person, as common as a sparrow or green blade of grass. Few, if any would wish to read about me, or be interested in me in the slightest, as many people have told me directly to my face (in the spirit of the Lord's teachings I bear them no ill will, for though I am not pious, I am certainly religious, in the way that I believe in God and Jesus and salvation, even if I tend to not always agree with the so-called authorities on these subjects).

However, I am not the true subject of this book. What this book is about is actually the marvellous adventure I was lucky enough to be a part of. My name is Thomas Mann, and this is my story.

You see, I have one peculiarity, and just one. I am interested - obsessed, some might say - with the strange and exotic.

Not merely those small bits of minutia that are regularly discovered in the Dark Continent or in the Far East. New species of lizards and plants hold my fascination for no time.

No, I am preoccupied by those things that are not of this earth.

If I am to be found on a starry night, it is outside in my yard, glasses in hand peering into the depths of space. How many times have I seen the movements of great bodies and unknown objects there?

Too many to count, for no one who knows me believes a word I say on these matters. I have few friends, only acquaintances. Those who would call me friend I have chased off in my relentless pursuit of the unknown. Yet, I miss them not, for they lacked that vital spark, the wonder to discover the extraordinary. So wrapped up in the mundane details of their own lives they could never look beyond them to see the vast wonders of the universe.

Yet even extra-terrestrial life takes a backseat to something in my heart. I find studies of the occult and strange spiritual beings even more fascinating, and have spent many hours searching for elusive proof of their existence.

I do this not for accolades or to place my name in some book of famous scientists. I do it purely out of the love my heart has for the search, and my desire to meet something inhuman.

If rumours of an occult ritual were heard of a few counties away, there I would head, lamp in hand, to try to find them. Any word that a fantastic being had been sighted, or born in the wilds of the countryside would send me scrambling in a hastily rented cart to seek it.

How many times did I find myself nearly trapped in a peat bog, or gone astray in a forest long after night had fallen? Numberless times I found myself so completely lost that I had been forced to wait the entire night through, shivering, until a bright ray of sunlight had shown me the path to civilization.

Never once did I come close to finding a fantastic being. Only small signs that kept my hope alive on a roiling sea of doubt.

My passion (or mania, as some have called it) is so great that it has cost me many friends, acquaintances and even employment. Too many times have I been nearly dead with exhaustion, or not appeared for my duties at all with no explanation. Few understand me.

Too many times I stopped ‘friends’ or even people I barely knew, to expound on my latest near-discovery.

Words from a mind, however genius, grow tiresome to those who will not believe them.

All over this world I have wandered and wondered. My life’s fortune, sadly inherited and not earned, was squandered in my passion, until I lost all material goods that were precious to me and dear to life itself.

My own dear home in London town was taken from my by those tax-men, surely the most terrible beasts to plague our land! I was forced to the streets, and even then did I not give up in my desire to meet a fabulous being, for even if I starved to the point of death, if I could only lay my eyes once on an otherworldly creature, I could die happy!

Perhaps that is an exaggeration...

I believe I did glimpse a strange hairy being, at one point, but was unfortunately slowed and stopped by a vagabond, a dark-skinned person who I had never laid eyes on before.

Had it not been for his interference, surely I would have caught up to that beast.

I digress from my story, however! Homeless and distraught, I was saved by my one true friend. I had known him for many years, a young man I knew when I was only a boy. While five years my senior, he had had a childhood fascination like mine. It is unfortunate he ‘outgrew’ his sense of curiosity, but I am blessed that he was one of the few, if not the only one, people who called me a friend.

Invited into the home of this fellow bachelor, I was nursed back to health. I was rather shocked by how much he had changed over the years, his mind turning from mysticism to economics, from demons and angels to alcohol and women!

While regrettably normal, at least he tolerated my eccentricities. To an extent.

It was while I was living with this true friend that my story begins.

Only by sheer chance was I was lucky enough to meet the marvellous fellow I’ve known only as Ed. He is just as important to this tale as I, if not more so.

My story starts on a day like many others, as I was preparing to leave my (current) place of employment. It was a rather famous library whose name I shall not divulge. I doubt they would want my connection to them being widely known!

As I was saying... I was leaving the Library of Antiquities, my mind entirely focused on my own concerns. Only my manager left after me, to ensure I did not leave the door unlocked, as I often did.

My friend and beneficiary, Thomas Grave, was nowhere to be seen. I had managed to procure him a job here, but his interest primarily lay in horse racing and the opposite sex. O, and alcohol as well – great amounts of it.

I presume he was, on that day, scratching one of those various itches, rather than labouring as he was duty-obliged to do. Duty meant very little to my friend.

His lack of work ethic had caused what little reputation I had great harm, as it had taken much pleading and coercion on my part to secure the position. He was liable to be unemployed soon enough, and I hoped not myself with him.

My manager, Mr. Keithson, gave me a long-suffering sigh as he locked the door. He waved me away, and free I was.

Down the darkened London street, I heard a man singing about the city as if she were a lady. I found nothing lady-like about the city, however... It was only a dark abyss to me, one I did not like.

It was as if I was a rat in a maze – at various intervals were the cloying scent of delicious cheeses, or just enough of a taste to arouse my appetite, but never enough to satisfy it.

As I passed a shadowy alley, I tensed – for gangs of youths and toughs were ever-present in such places, and I knew not if I was in danger from them.

I saw no one, but my eyes must have been failing me, as a hand shot out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me into the alley.

‘Help, help!’ I cried. ‘Murderers! Thieves! Unhand me now, I tell you!’

‘Be silent, ya wee blagger. Is an ol’ bag like me gonna do you in?’ The speaker’s voice was cracked and dry, decidedly that of an old woman’s.

She continued to hold my hand in a cold and hard grip. I pulled away, but despite the thinness of her arms, she was quite strong, not even seeming to notice my struggles.

“Please un-hand me, madam,” I said with all the sternness I could manage.

She was so old as to appear ancient, her eyes glazed over as if in death, not a tooth in her head, her skin the most wrinkled I had ever seen a human be, but from the cackles that emanated from her open mouth, she was very much alive.

‘I know ya. Yer the one who’s caught up with demons!’ She poked a pale, wrinkled finger into her breast hard, enough to bend the finger back in a painful-looking way. ‘Come with me, Béarla-babbler. Show ya all ya want, I will.’

‘I... really am very busy!’ Again I pulled, but it seemed to have no effect. The old woman scuttled back further into the alley, taking me with her.

What did this woman wish to show me? My curiosity was beginning to overcome my worry, and I started walking.

That is, until I saw the body – a street tough, strong and young, yet slumped against the wall bonelessly, his eyes rolled up. I swear on my mother’s grave his head was dented in and broken like an egg dashed against a rock!

Fear returned to me, and I knew in an instant that this old woman was responsible for this. Panic lent me strength, and I braced my foot against the brick wall, pulling as hard as I could.

There was a sickening cracking sound, and I found myself falling backwards. I wasted no time, scrambling back to my feet and running like a madman from the alley.

My heart raced faster than my feet hitting the street as I moved as fast as I could away from the insane old woman.

Murderer!

Due to my habits, I was not as fast as my fear would have wished, nor as strong. Before I had run more than a block, I was panting heavily, forced to stop and catch my breath, lest I faint straight away.

A bright light hit me, and I looked up. A person was holding a lantern, watching me with concern.

‘You all right, guv?’ the person asked. From his accent I knew immediately that he was from the lower-class areas, probably a street worker.

I would not appear foolish in front of such a person. I stood up straight and dusted my jacket. ‘Yes, of course I am fine. Go about your work, my good sir.’

The man shook his head and started off, heading where I had just been. I watched and waited – would the old woman grab him as she had grabbed me?

But no, the workman continued on, unmolested, whistling to himself.

Feeling almost disappointed, I knew I needed some answers. I found the opportunity half-way home, along a route I rarely, if ever, took.

Seeing a store I did not recognize, but whose front – full of incense, old books and various paraphernalia of the occult - seemed to draw my attention, I stopped to read the name.

‘Divine Kaulo Camlo’s Shoppe of Mystery,’ I intoned slowly, peering at the hand-painted sign. Hm, this deserved a look. The memory of my previous frightening encounter was already forgotten, shoved aside by my insatiable curiosity!

Inside, I heard the tinkling of bells and the smell of incense, strong enough to irritate my nostrils. Resisting the urge to sneeze, I looked about, taking in the atmosphere. Red cloth draped everywhere, along with stacks of books and objects. A skull, not human in shape caught my attention until I realized it was merely from a great ape, and my interest died down. I realized that the place was not what I imagined; it was a knick-knackery store masquerading as an occultist's - designed to appeal to those who were normal, but took an interest in the strange for a thrill.

Trinkets I had no care for lined the shelves, and I turned, admitting disappointment, when a voice called to me.

‘You look like you wish to know great secrets, good sir.’

I peered closer, seeing a woman, heavily draped in shawls and beaded jewellery. She had a large nose, almost hooked, and peered at me with an intense, eerie gaze. Clearly she was one of the Romany folk.

‘Yes...’ I said cautiously. This seemed more like what I was expecting. ‘Perhaps you can help me...’

Beckoning, she disappeared into a doorway replete with beads and what appeared to be the bones of small animals. Stepping to the door, I hesitated just a moment before stepping through. My heart was beating heavily in my breast, but whether it residual from my last encounter or from this new one, I could not determine.

I approached, and she gestured me into the chair across from her. Sitting obligingly, I stared at her and the room around. It was dark, with things crammed all over; tarot cards, crystal balls, bags of what I could only assume to be bones for telling the future. She had every kind of method for divinitation I knew of around her. Yet I did not have the same disturbing feelings about her as I did about the old woman.

Continuing to watch her, she spoke first slowly, then quickly, and I realized it was not a woman, but a man dressed as a woman, which was rather unusual. I remained silent, until he asked me what I wished to know.

I admit, by then I was so caught up with this new mystery I had entirely forgotten the events of only a few minutes ago. Instead, I decided to ask him to interpret a dream.

This dream I have had for many, many years now, relentlessly. I have always wondered what it meant – on some nights it consumed me, pondering it.

I began to describe to him, or her, whichever gender term is most appropriate. In the dream, I always spy a creature totally alien to me; it is just as tall as me (which is to say not particularly tall nor short), thin, just shy of looking starved. Thinning brown hair of a short length with a receding line. Arms, legs, just like mine. Hazel eyes, normal ears and nose are all in locations similar to mine.

I begin to realize it is dressed similarly to me, this alien creature – though it is obviously all-but unknown to me. There is something ghastly about it that makes my stomach turn, but at the same time, I find myself drawn to it.

In my dream, it watches me with sorrow, and I have always wondered; does this alien being pity my then-fruitless search for the supernatural? Is it merely looking down on a lower life-form than it?

Then, all at once, at the end of the dream, an epiphany reaches my brain. The thing I am staring at is me. That is when I always wake up.

Finishing my description, the old Romany being stared at me, looking unnerved. Twice, his mouth opened as if to speak, but then shut. My gaze, intense it is said to be, bored into his, and finally the man spoke in a completely different voice than before.

‘I don’t have the foggiest what is wrong with you, but I am trying to make a living here; get out and on your way.’

New Thomas Mann video comic!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 01:35:00 +0000

A new Thomas Mann video comic has been posted!

Please check it out - give a thumb's up, comment, subscribe!

Hyperspace 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 01:30:00 +0000

The follow-up story to Hyperspace, a science-fiction story that is more about the characters and their psychology than the technology.

*

Alex closed the panel. It had once blended so seamlessly into the wall that one could barely tell it was even a panel. Now the edge was dented and bent out of shape, the smooth gray paint scratched off in many places.

The ship's computer had refused to open it for him, even with his captain's override. It was not programmed to know or care that the earth was a dead husk now. Everyone below was either dead or dying, he knew. To even go down and look for survivors would doom them to death by radiation sickness.

The panel had not closed sufficiently, and he put his foot on it to make it close better. Sometimes these systems would not operate right if they detected a panel ajar.

A crash came from the hallway as Nathan threw something or other about. He had been off and on sobbing in his bunk and having rampages that destroyed anything he could find. It did not bother Alex. Nothing seemed to bother him anymore.

If anything, the rampages had been convenient. For the first three days after their arrival at once-earth it had been intoning constantly that he was not authorized to try to open this panel, or prop open that window. He had merely ignored it, but finally Nathan had systematically destroyed every vocoder unit on the ship. He saw the lights blinking where the vocoder had been in every room, the computer still trying to tell him he was not authorized.

That had to be the last thing he had to re-route. His first attempt to take them into hyperspace had resulted in failure. The computer refused to allow it with a window cover stuck open.

After that, neither he nor Nathan had known what to do.

“I say suicide,” Nathan had said first. It was an option Alex had considered as well.

It wasn't that he was so grieved he wished to die. Perhaps it was shock or he had been away so long it no longer had any meaning to him.

Mainly it was that unless they took their own lives, they'd live out the rest of their days in this coffin. The recycling systems were so good that they would die of old age before it broke down or was unable to reprocess their waste into food or water or air.

“I don't want to live out the rest of my life on this ship,” Nathan had told him. “We should kill ourselves.”

“I don't want to do that just yet,” Alex had replied.

“Then when? What is there to wait for?”

“I still want to see what hyperspace looks like.”

Alex had merely rolled his eyes. Anymore he had only contempt for everyone and everything mentioned. “The reason they close the windows is probably just a precaution. You know you won't see anything out there. They don't hide it for some sinister reason, idiot. There's just nothing to see.”

But nothing Alex said had dissuaded him. He had heard Alex attempting to kill himself, but each time he stopped before doing the deed.

The ships - coffins, he liked to call them now - were designed so there was almost nothing hard. No sharp edges, no knives. He had long believed it was for safety, in case the ship was rocked or turned sharply. Having an injured crew member on a two-man ship could end a trip quickly, everyone had said.

Now he realized that had been a lie. There was nothing sharp so that someone could not take their own life.

Aside from his rampages, Nathan had spent days breaking off pieces of doors, walls, anything, and trying to make it into a knife.

Once he had, he lacked the nerve to actually do it.

“You're the captain. You should do it,” he had said, offering Alex the knife.

Alex looked at it, and turned back to his work.

Nathan had raged and begged, even threatened him. For some reason, it struck him as the first funny thing he had heard in months.

“Are you threatening mutiny?” he asked, then laughed long and loud.

Nathan had run out and broken more things, but nothing important. He was too afraid to even break the air recirculators.

All of it only made him despise the man. He had once thought they were friends, but he had merely been mistaking a working relationship for this. Having no one else to talk to made one keen to imagine they liked the only person available.

He headed towards the cockpit. A funny hold-over of a name. There was little navigation to be done here, only the pressing of a few buttons and letting the computer do the work.

Perhaps the ship would not move at all. Perhaps the computer would completely lock him out. If that was the case then he probably would do what Nathan asked.

He sat down on the chair. It tried to conform to his back, but had placed a broken-off panel on the back of it. The unyielding hardness was comforting.

Silently he began to press buttons.

Finally, the screen accepted the instructions he had given it. He turned the key and then sat back. After a moment's further thought he reached over again and twisted the key, snapping it. There was no going back. Literally. He had deactivated the overrides that would take them out of hyperspace after five days.

Footsteps on the floor made him look back. Nathan walked in, leaning against the wall. He was gaunt, unshaved. Discipline no longer existed.

“Alex, I'm sorry,” Nathan said after a few moments. “I just have nothing left. There's no reason to be alive. Hell, it's not even like we could repopulate the species somewhere.”

Alex didn't reply. He just had nothing to say. Forgiveness also seemed to have no meaning anymore.

“I have a plan. Back in my time on the academy they said that there was an emergency kit in the forward section under the nose. In case the ship ever crash-landed on an uninhabited planet. It had things like seeds, water makers, tents. Survival equipment.”

He finally could not ignore the man anymore. He still didn't really care, but his conscience prompted him to at least reply. “What's the point? We're not on a planet.”

“They used to say it also had a gun. For defense, in the case of hostile life-forms.”

“That's ridiculous. We've never encountered life on another planet beyond bacterial.” The words popped out automatically.

“Well, that's what they said. I think we should get under there and check. It might be an easy and painless way to end it.”

It was all back to that again. Alex turned his chair around to face him.

“If you help me with that, I'll help you get the ship into hyperspace with the windows open, if you want. If you agree to kill me afterwards.”

“Kind of a moot point now. We're in Hyperspace, and the port window is open.”

Fear and surprise went across Nathan's face. Alex got up and walked past him. He wasn't rushing. There was no reason to rush anymore, for anything.

Nathan followed him into the port cabin. The cover over the quartz window was indeed open.

Slowly, Alex went closer, peering out. Outside of the window, it appeared to be like space-like. Blackness, but without stars.

There was, as Nathan had predicted, nothing to see.

Nathan laughed. “Happy now?” he asked. “You fucking idiot.”

Pulling up a chair, Nathan sat down, looking out the window.

“I guess that's why they chose you to hold the key, huh? Because you're too dense to catch the obvious.”

The insults rolled off him like water off a water fowl. But after a moment he turned to look at Nathan.

“Tomorrow we can look for the survival kit. I'm certain it's not there, but we can look.”

“And if it is there?” Nathan asked. He sounded as hopeful as a man about to be released from prison. Almost an apt description, really.

“Then I'll kill you, if that's what you want.”

Nathan smiled and left. Alex turned back to the window.

Upon closer examination he blackness was not the same as space. It was like the difference between black silk and black coffee. One seemed infinite and inky, the other textured darkness.

The black of hyperspace seemed to almost have a texture. It seemed a contradiction; nothing out there was supposed to make sense to human eyes. They should not see anything.

He might have fallen asleep. It was hard to tell when your eyes were closed when you were only looking at darkness.

When he saw the light he knew he was awake. That, or dead. A ball of light was outside the ship. He stood up suddenly, the stool falling over. It sounded unnaturally loud, and made his heart race.

Stepping closer, he peered out the window, pressing his face to it to see out. The thought that they windows were actually heated to prevent skin from freezing to them crossed his mind. Even despite that it was extremely cold against his cheek.

The light seemed to be gone.

A moment later it was back, coming from his blindside. It stopped outside the window. He recoiled in surprise as it stopped outside the window. It was almost as if it was lighting up the outside, and it almost seemed like they were in a tunnel with undulating, moving walls.

The scientific part of his mind told him that it was an illusion; whatever was out there was certainly not a moving tunnel. His mind was merely trying to interpret something so foreign that it created a strange image.

But the ball of light was still in front of the window. He knew they were “moving” through hyperspace. As much as one could be said to move in such an alien world.

How did it stay there? Why? He wondered if having the window open somehow attracted it, like iron shards to a magnet. Perhaps that was why they covered the windows.

Yet that seemed wrong. It was not an inanimate thing, the ball of light. It was regarding him with as much curiosity as he regarded it. Somehow he knew.

Forming the thought suddenly sent a chill down his spine.

The utter silence was broken by a sound. It was like the sound of metal being stressed and bending, protesting loudly and warning all near of its imminent failure. He jumped away from the window and looked around, but the sound stopped. Looking back to the window, the ball of light was also gone.

The lights on the ship flickered - or had he simply blinked? Sweat suddenly came down his forehead, making his eyes sting.

The light in here was earth-like, like the sun. But it seemed differently suddenly. Perhaps he was dazed from staring into the bright ball of light. The light seemed red.

The emergency lights had come on, he was slow to realize.

On a nearby wall, the light was blinking. Had the vocoder been working, it would have been saying something. He went over, and opened the small screen.

Foreign material detected.

Something was on board the ship that was not supposed to be here.

“Nathan!” he called, his entire body tingling. There was no answer.

He rushed out into the hallway. There was nothing. The lighting was back to normal. If it had ever even actually be different.

“Nathan?” he called again. He checked the man's quarters, but did not find him. He checked the bridge, the john, every room, but found nothing.

The ship was not that big. He could not have disappeared.

Remembering the man's plan to search for the survival kit, he went to the storage chamber, little bigger than a closet. He was probably tearing up the floor panels to get to it.

When went in, there were scrapes on the floor. He had clearly been trying to open it. The tools he had been using were there.

But Nathan was not.

He searched the ship again, yelling himself hoarse. For four hours he looked in the same spots over and over again. These ships were not designed for one to be able to hide. He never found him.

Even if the man had killed himself, there was no way he could have hidden his body so well. He checked the computer, scanned the ship for the man. The ship found nothing.

It did not even note that they were short one crew. He asked it to check for anomalies of roster, cargo, and status.

It noted the damage to the panels, floors, and vocoders. It noted that they were on an unusual hyperjump. It noted that the window cover was open. The cargo was normal. The crew was normal, only Captain Alex Bordogin. There was no reference to Nathan at all.

His throat felt dry, and he realized that the computer was not as benign as he had always thought.

Panicked thoughts came to his mind, each more far-fetched than the last. He slowly dismissed them all as outlandish and absurd. Things were still not right, though.

He was good with computers, it was another essential skill for an astronaut. He set about cracking open the computer on the ship.

Breaking through the security on it was not the hardest he had ever done, but it was the hardest he had done in many years. Several times he had to start from scratch, but it was not designed to fully lock him out.

He had lost track of the time. Fear and adrenaline kept him awake and working. He often looked over his shoulder, but there was never anything there. Once or twice it seemed the lights had gone out in the hall, but after a moment they were back as if nothing had happened.

His irrational fears were playing with him. He had to remain rational, he knew that. It was the only way to keep going. He turned his fear to his advantage, telling himself that Nathan had let his fear take over, and now he was gone.

It had been days since he slept. Sometimes he fell asleep and woke up suddenly, taking up the work he had last been performing immediately. He did not want to admit even to himself that he was too terrified to fall asleep in his bed.

When he finally looked at a clock he realized that nearly a week had passed. How had so much time gone by? He had no way of measuring it but the chronometer, but it was an atomic clock that could not be wrong.

They were nearing the six day mark. The significance of that was not lost on him. Once he had been curious about the fate of those that stayed in. Now he was afraid to find out.

He had to crack the computer first. With the key broken, the only way to possibly stop the ship was to get inside the computer and order it to cut off the hyperdrive.

It had seemed a good idea at the time, breaking the key. He was ready to accept his fate. If Nathan had merely killed himself, he would still be willing to face it.

Now he didn't even have a corpse to talk to.

He cracked the computer. It took him several minutes to realize he had actually done it, and when he did, his heart raced in a way it hadn't for some time. He carefully went about looking inside the files.

It was arranged very neatly, with a very easy to use interface. It was designed so that someone, somewhere, could have opened it more normally and looked over all of the data easily. Not an engineer, this wasn't full of their type of jargon and oddities. It was more for a layman to look at. The upper ranks.

He could get to the hyperdrive in a moment. Now he was only consumed with curiosity. There was still time.

These logs made no sense. Some were from missions prior to his, he ignored them. He found the directory for his mission, and started to read them.

Minutes turned to hours, he kept reading. The same things, over and over again.

The files that the crew could normally see were the same as he had seen before; no registry of anything unusual.

But there was another file. Alerts had been moved there. Files on the crew had, too. The crew files had video of every action they had taken since setting out. Eating, sleeping, even on the john. There was one for him, one for Nathan . . . and a third one for a man named Adam Erikson.

It had to be a mistake. Opening the file, he read the reports. There were videos, too. The man was in the ship, doing work. Interacting with him and Nathan.

He head began to swim. He had never seen this man before. He had never known a third man on this ship.

All at once, the videos stopped.

There was one last file. Opening it, he saw it contained a list of alerts. Hundreds of them. All but two said the same thing.

Foreign material detected.

They all occurred during hyperspace jumps. During those jumps, something was coming on the ship.

The other two alerts said the same thing. One was about a week old. The other dated back to the time Adam Erikson had supposedly been on board.

Crew member no longer present.

His spine shivered. They knew about this. They knew all along.

Turning around, Alex looked down the hallway. It was exactly as it had always been, there was nothing there, and it frightened him to no end.

He was going to take the ship out of hyperspace, before it was too late.

Looking over, he saw the clock, and quickly calculated how long they had been in hyperspace.

It was the beginning of the seventh day.

The Bold Deceiver Part 2 of 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 21:57:00 +0000

The finale of last week's Sky Pirates story! Picture to be added soon. ;)

While the pirates firing from the deck of the Bold Deceiver attracted everyone's attention, Sanderson found his eyes moving to the guns on the pirate ship. The rifled guns, the great carronades, both kinds could gut his ship. He imagined he could see the crew inside loading them, preparing to sink his ship for daring to fight back.

No, he wasn't imagining it. They were preparing to fire.

His blood ran cold in his veins, and his fear was so great that he did not realize he was abandoning his position of safety to reach Thornby. Shots passed him, and his coat gained new holes as the pirate marksman took potshots at him.

“This is useless!” Sanderson yelled to Thornby. The man looked furious, turning to him in a rage that made Sanderson feel he was going to be the next shot. “They're going to broadside us!”

His last words reached Thornby, and he deflated suddenly. “Drop arms!” he called. “We surrender!”

The pirates could clearly hear him and when the remaining Pinkertons did truly start to drop their guns they held their fire, their rifles kept pointed straight at them.

Thornby dropped his pistol to the deck, his hands trembling with adrenaline. “We surrender.”

At last the pirates were convinced they had truly surrendered. It was not until ropes were thrown to them with instructions to tie the ships together that Sanderson relaxed some. They would not sink a ship they were tied to.

His crew did as ordered, and as soon as the ropes were secure pirates began to climb across to his ship.

There was a feeling of fear as the pirates boarded. Fear of what they might do, what they might take. Some pirates took a ship as a prize, and his might make a unique addition to Reddin's group. Or they could take his crew aboard their ship and burn his.

Reddin was known to do that.

Yet despite the fear, the emotion he felt most of all was shame. He had thought his ship uncatchable in the skies, he had done the same thing he had done to evade pursuit a dozen times before. Reddin had performed exactly as his ship's named declared; he had been deceived, fallen straight into their trap.

Melissa Strong stood next to him. “Have you ever been pirated before, Captain?” she asked him, fear in her voice. He could understand that fear. It also surprised him that she didn't know his past, but he never really had opened up to her.

“Yes,” he told her. “Not on the Jenny . . . this is the first time my ship has ever been taken.”

“What happened the other time your ship was taken?” she asked him.

He swallowed. “They were Redeemer pirates. They took the ship and marooned us in a hostile wilderness near California.” He did not have to add that ten of the crew had died making the trek back to civilization.

Strong tried to say something in response, but merely opened her mouth and then closed it again, her mouth too dry to make a sound.

Soon his deck was swarming with a score of pirates, and the Pinkertons were gathered in a circle under guard. The other pirate ship that had forced them into this route had caught up, and her crew began to come over as well.

Then Captain Reddin came over.

Tall, wide-shouldered, Reddin was a fearsome man to behold. He held himself with dignity and radiated power and authority and confidence. And no wonder! He had taken a thousand ships, some said, never failing to capture what he set his eyes upon.

His blue captain's coat was well-worn yet finely made, his red boots and gaiters equally aged. The most striking feature about him was the blood-red stripe across his face. In every description of Reddin that Sanderson had ever heard, that stripe was mentioned, and even he found his gaze riveted to it.

Sanderson's crew shied away when he stepped upon the Jenny's deck, and even he felt awed.

The ship next to them sent across her own lines and her crew came over. The two pirate crews were clearly intimate friends and they smiled and spoke to each other like friends.

Captain Sarah Gordon crossed over, and all talking amongst anyone ceased.

Reddin met the tall, dark-skinned woman in the middle of the deck and they shook hands.

“Good job,” Reddin told her quietly

“Thank you,” Gordon replied. “It was your plan, though, and it worked.”

She was a Negro, dark as night, and everything about her was noble and frightening. Sanderson had never seen her before, never understood why people spoke of her as so regal and terrifying.

Yet now he knew. She was like a tiger in poise and power. He knew that a single wrong move would lead to his immediate death by her sword.

“Who is Captain here?” Reddin called. He had to know that Sanderson was, and this was a test. If he failed to come forward he was a coward.

“I am,” Sanderson replied, stepping forward one pace. All attention fell to him and he felt proud that he was not shaking in his boots.

“Is this your entire crew?” he asked, gesturing to those on deck.

“No, sir. I have four crew below on the boilers.” Lying would only get them probably killed and himself along with them.

“Call them up. Then you will take me to the hold, and we shall inspect your cargo.”

It was done. The men in the boiler room were glad to come up with promises of their safety, and they appeared with their hands up. Herded with the rest of the crew, Sanderson then led Reddin below. Captain Gordon came with him, and it sent a shiver down Sanderson's spine. Melissa came as well, almost fleeing before Gordon, who ignored her completely.

He saw Thornby try to detach himself from the crowd of Pinkertons and follow, but a pirate shoved him back into the circle with threats of awful retribution.

The hold on the Jenny was not big, but he had always made it work by clever packing. It was like a game, fitting everything in as best as one could.

A lamp lit the room, and in the middle, looking almost lonely, were the dozen crates.

“Is that all fifty?” Reddin asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sanderson said. “You know how many?” The question just came out, and he instantly regretted it. Gordon's eyes flashed to him and she looked almost personally insulted that he had spoken out of turn. He realized her hand was on the grip of her cutlass, and he had not even seen it move from her side.

“Yes,” Reddin said. “I know exactly what it is that you carry. I also know that two other ships were dispatched, ostensibly to pick up the same cargo. Yet only yours carries the true prize. It was a desperate ploy by desperate men.”

What could it be? What could be in these crates that had the famous Captain go to such lengths to learn the truth about?

“Shall we open them to be sure?” Captain Gordon suggested.

Reddin considered a moment. “Very well.” He pointed a finger at Melissa Strong. “You. Open one of the crates.”

Miss Strong stepped forward, taking a crowbar to work the crate open. It was nailed in many places and she worked hard to force it open.

Sanderson leaned forward, curious.

Finally, the last nail was loosed. The panel fell to the floor with a thud, and a rush of straw came falling out. The smell of oil grew stronger - gun oil. That was the smell he had detected.

Right then he knew what the crates contained, and why it had made him so nervous; the smell of guns always bothered him.

Reddin stepped forward and knelt. Melissa stepped back, still holding the crowbar.

When his lamp shone inside, it glinted off the well-oiled rifles contained therein.

The pirate captain removed one of the rifles and held it carefully. It looked very modern and brand new. They were clearly expensive.

“Rifles . . .” Sanderson said, his voice trailing off.

“Not all of them contain rifles,” Reddin said. “But they all carry the finest weapons money can buy.”

As Reddin looked at the rifle, Sanderson's eyes shifted to Melissa, saw in her face what she planned. Her hands tightened on the crowbar, and he found himself crying out before she could make her move.

“No!” he cried to her as she started to lift the crowbar. He had not been alone in noticing the action, though, and even as he yelled out Sarah Gordon had a gun in her hand pointed at her heart.

She stopped, her face shocked, holding the crowbar in the air ready to strike. Gordon did not fire, waiting for her to decide if she would live or die.

The tension was thick like smoke, making it hard to breathe.

Melissa dropped the crowbar to the floor, keeping her hands up.

Captain Reddin watched the scene with curiosity, apparently unconcerned. He had no fear because he knew Gordon had his back. “Let's get above. I want these crates reloaded to the Deceiver in short order.”

“Of course,” Gordon replied, her eyes still glued to Melissa. Finally, she seemed to decide that she would not shoot his first mate, and put her gun away.

Reddin now pitted Sanderson with a stare. “Meanwhile, Captain Sanderson, I would be honored if you would join me for a refreshment.”

Reddin finished his coffee while the last of the crates were hoisted, with the help of a finicky crane, onto his ship.

“Hold on, boys, she's letting loose again!” a pirate officer yelled. The crane let out a hiss as steam shot out of a vent. “Okay, give her a few moments until pressure's back . . .”

Sanderson was only paying attention to Reddin. “You're telling me that my employer is the Secessionist Jubal Early?”

“Yes,” Reddin said. “He's one of the great proponents of the idea that the War that so recently tore the States apart was about the rights of states - and not, in truth, about slaves. The guns,” he gestured to the crates, “were bought with money stolen by Redeemer pirates to fund their . . . lost cause.”

“Balderdash!” the Pinkerton Thorby declared, yet was ignored by both Captains.

“I can't see why they still wish to fight,” Sanderson admitted. “The war has been over for four years!”

Reddin stared at him. “To some people, the war will never end.”

“What is your interest in this? You're . . . a pirate, Captain Reddin. You certainly didn't fight for the Union.” Sanderson knew Reddin had been active as a pirate even then.

“Because the war has to end. These men want to go back to the days when Africans were bred to be sold and worked to death. They believe it is the proper place for some to be slaves while others are free.”

Sanderson had to wonder why Reddin felt so strongly about this issue. Certainly, he had never been a Confederate, despite his place of origin. He had stayed neutral in the war.

“And you aim to stop them?”

“Yes. The only way I can do that is to take away their ability to fund their war. These guns are one such example.”

“But what will you do with them?” Sanderson asked.

Reddin became colder. “I am a pirate, Captain Sanderson. The things I have shared with you I have done because I chose to tell you. I know you. Every man in the sky knows who you are. Believe it or not, Sanderson, you are a legend as well as I.”

That moment numbed the Captain. Reddin was, in his way, giving him recognition as an equal. With it came the warning not to pry into matters that were Reddin's.

The pirate continued. “You were picked, I believe, because you are a Southerner who does not seem to be a Southerner. Early probably believed that you would not sympathize with his cause.”

Thornby had not said a word since his outburst. He had only stared at Reddin with intense hate. Reddin looked at him.

“Please, Mr. Thornby, release the invective that is boiling beneath the surface. I know you must wish to,” he said to the Pinkerton.

And clearly, Thornby did want to. “I find it hypocritical that the thief should slander and call a great gentleman a thief,” he said venomously.

Reddin smiled at him coldly. “I make no pretense that I am not a pirate. Yet I take only the possessions of rich men, many of whom are themselves thieves, and do not take lives when I can avoid it. The gentleman you refer to believed that people were savages and ought to be property based on the color of their skin. He robbed them of their freedom and lives. Who is truly the most criminal?”

Thorby did not reply, only staring. Reddin looked back to Sanderson with a considerably lighter look. “I would be cautious, Captain Sanderson, about what you say about this to others. They will not hesitate to murder those who call them for the barbarians they truly are. Sadly, their reach extends quite far, and even in parts of the North some politicians feel more sympathy for power than for weakness.”

“Now that is just about enough!” Thornby raged, standing up and knocking over his cup of tea. “You dare impinge the honor of some of the wealthiest men of this country?”

Reddin looked at him as if he was a small insect to be crushed under his boot. “I most certainly do, for they are vile parasites, thieving more than I ever shall in my entire life.”

Sanderson could not help but smile.

“Captain, we have loaded the crates,” a large bald man with a handlebar mustache told Reddin.

“Excellent. Well, Captain Sanderson, this has been a pleasure.” He stood and offered his hand to Sanderson, who also stood and clasped it firmly.

“It has, Captain Reddin. I admit you are not at all the man I expected you to be, and if any pirate was to take my ship, I am glad it was you.”

“I am the best,” Reddin replied. “But I am not a savage. Good luck to you, Captain.”

Reddin turned and started for the ropes leading to his ship. Sanderson let his eyes sweep the ship, looking upon every member of his crew. They were all unhurt and seemed glad that the experience was ending.

Certainly, they would go back to New York with an empty hold, but at least they were all alive. He had already been paid half and that half he would get to keep. It was not entirely a wasted trip.

The movement of Thornby dragged his eyes to him. Time seemed to slow down and he realized the man was pulling a hold-out pistol from his sleeve.

His mouth dropped open to cry out a warning, but he was far too slow. A gun fired, and he saw Reddin start to fall.

Thornby gasped, his gun firing off harmlessly into the air. A red flower blossomed on his neat white shirt and his knees gave out, forcing him to lean against the railing.

Reddin, Sanderson realized, had spun and dropped to one knee, now holding a smoking revolver.

Somehow, Reddin had known.

He had drawn his gun, aimed, and fired, before the other man could shoot him in the back.

The other Pinkerton men had risen quickly and lunged for the pirate guards, who now only numbered two, yet their attack they thought would surprise the pirates was met by guns pointed firmly at their chests, completely ready, and they stopped in their tracks.

Melissa Strong rose with them as well, only to be stopped at gunpoint by the pirates just as easily.

There would be no mercy for her this time, he knew that. He cried out and raised his hands helplessly as Sarah Gordon hacked his first mate's head off.

Her cut was so clean that for a moment it wobbled on her neck before it fell to the deck with a thud that was so loud as to be sickening. Sanderson had not seen Sarah Gordon unsheathe her sword.

Thornby tried to speak. His mouth opened, but only blood came out, running down his chin. Leaning heavily upon the rail he fell over it and off the ship, plummeting down to an earthly grave.

Reddin's face was no longer pleasant. He holstered his gun and let his eyes sweep across the other Pinkertons, but none of them dared meet his gaze and they shivered.

“I accepted your surrender and did you no harm,” he said softly, fury in his eyes. “Yet you try to kill me from behind like cowards? What good would it have done you, but to get good men killed for no reason?”

He pointed his pistol at the remaining Pinkertons. “Off the side with them.”

The pirates on decks swarmed over the Pinkertons, who started screaming and fighting. Against the pirate weapons, though, they could do nothing, but were slowly forced against the side and pushed off. Their death would be the long fall to earth, the fear of every sky man.

Sanderson was white in the face as Reddin approached him. Sarah Gordon was nearing from another side, and he realized he was trapped between them.

“This is the second time on your ship I have been threatened,” Reddin spoke to him. His voice was calm with no malice in it, but that only made it all the more frightening. “I have done no harm to your crew after you surrendered.”

He could almost see his life flashing by. “It was not my choice for them to be here, nor was I their accomplice,” he was able to make himself say. His voice sound peculiar even to him. Calm and strong in its own right, even while inside he felt more terrified than ever he had before.

“Your first mate was, however.”

He looked at Melissa's body, his heart aching. Had she meant it to be valiant when she rose with them? Sanderson wondered.

Expecting his own death, Sanderson stood bravely, not knowing what to say.

“You tried to warn me,” Reddin said. “Do you know, Captain, how close you walk to death? Your life hangs by a thread, and twice we have spared your life - the first when I chose to capture your ship instead of sinking her, for I didn't need to capture your cargo. I have plenty of guns, I don't need more. The second was when Sarah decided not to kill you and your first mate for her threatening me below.

“So now your life hangs by a thread, Captain. I only have one question for you before I decide. On whose side did you support during the War of the Rebellion?”

He struggled to reply to the fearsome Captain. He had seen the man go from calm and polite to deadly serious in under a minute.

During the war, of course, he had been neutral. Most of his contracts had been from private firms, since so much shipping was disrupted by the blockade of the South. Yet he had wanted to avoid Confederate privateers attacking ships carrying Federal goods.

Truly, he had been neutral. He could lie to Reddin. He was known for being honest. In fact, the pirate's question seemed almost ridiculous. Any man in his situation would say he supported the Union.

Yet . . . He was a moment from death. Reddin was a violent pirate, and he killed his enemies. Perhaps his answer did not matter. He would probably die no matter what he said.

All his life he had been an honest man. What was he if he could betray himself now, at the end of his life?

Nothing.

“I took no sides, Captain Reddin. I've never owned a slave nor did I fight to free them. I am not a soldier nor a politician. I am a sky man”

And then he did not die.

Reddin's gun returned to its holster.

“You live up to your reputation as an honest man,” Reddin said, his voice almost admiring. “If you had lied or defied me, you would have joined the others in death. Instead you're going to live.”

Reddin turned and strode away. Sanderson felt his knees nearly buckle beneath him. He was still alive? It seemed almost like a dream, a hallucination, brought on by his dying moments.

But no, it was true. He was still alive.

Before he had thought he had understood why Reddin was so widely respected, and yet did not understand why he was so feared.

Now he knew, and would never forget, just how great and terrifying Captain Reddin was - fair and terrible, polite and brutal.

Truly, he was the greatest of the dreaded sky pirates.

The Bold Deceiver - Part 1 of 2

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 17:10:00 +0000

The first story I'm putting up about the Sky Pirates. It is in the 1860s, not long after the end of the great Civil War that had torn the nation. Such wounds don't heal easily.

I'd like to add that my use of the word "Negro" is simply to be historically accurate, and no offense is intended to anyone.
*

Captain Sanderson looked out over the deck, out over his pride and joy.

His ship was one of the best in the sky, he thought. True, his Jenny was old, but then so was he. They had aged together, and like a fine wine, they only got better with age. Stepping down from the quarterdeck his hand moved along the wooden rail. The wood have been smoothed and buffed by the same motion made a million times.

“Speed?” he called out.

“Sixty knots, sir!” his first mate called out. Melissa Strong lived up to her namesake, being one of the strongest people he knew. She was not beautiful, yet had a husband in every major port in the States.

“We need more speed. Signal the engine room, I want more power.”

“Yes, Captain,” Strong replied.

Sixty knots was good for a ship his age. She had come out of the dockyard a pure sailing ship, and only a few years later he had put in the boiler and steam engine. It had cost him a pretty penny, but was worth every cent. She deserved only the best.

He loved her, the ship, as much as a man could love anything.

His wives, neither of them, had ever understood. Perhaps it was impossible for anyone to understand who hadn't lived on one ship for twenty-five years. He loved every ship he ever served on, ocean or sky-ship, and remembered them all. At only 15 he had signed on his first voyage. It just came naturally to him, sailing, seeing as how he had grown up in New Orleans.

Then, when he was only 17, the buoyant gas, cavorine, had been discovered. Quickly it had been harnessed for flying ships.

As soon as he could he had joined a sky ship. The sky appealed to him even more than the sea, and once he had gone on one flight he knew his true calling.

After that he would only serve on a sky ship, forsaking the ocean, and saved and scrimped carefully. He was invariably made an officer; everyone recognized in him honesty, competence, and thrift. His honesty was famous, and something he took pride in.

Then he had bought her, his precious Jenny. On her he lived, and on her he would die, for the day he was no longer able to be a sky man was the day he would die.

It was hard for a private captain to make it in this world, and he often lived on the edge of a knife. Yet now he was blessed by this current strange undertaking he was on. It had come like a bolt from the blue one day when a man had simply approached him at the dock.

“I've been told that if it was essential for something to reach its location, you would be the man to speak to,” the man had said to him by way of introduction.. He was dressed dapper enough, the rich clothes fitting him easily. Just one look at him told Sanderson that he was the real deal. Not just someone impersonating a rich man to impress.

He had declined to say who he was, stating he was merely a collector of antiquities, and impressing upon the Captain the need for discretion.

Yet, knowingly or not, the man gave him information merely by speaking. His accent was Southern, but not Deep South. That, and his mannerisms were clearly of one of the aristocratic families.

If anything, Sanderson imagined that the man was a former Plantation owner, which piqued his curiosity. Most of the slave-owning Plantation owners of the Antebellum had lost everything in the aftermath of the War of the Rebellion.

This man was clearly quite well off, however. Reconstruction had done him no harm.

“Are you the man who can take my cargo safely across the continent?”

“That I am,” Sanderson had replied with no arrogance. It was just a simple fact that he was one of the best sky captains. Word had filtered to him that someone was asking for the best captain and ship to transport something precious in safety. Where, or what, they had not said.

That rich man had been directed to see him. Not only was he one of the best, but he was also one of the most honest. He never cheated his customers.

Well, when he could help it.

“I have some cargo I need taken west. I need it to arrive safely with no hazards.” His imperious tone annoyed Sanderson, but one had to put up with it in order to get a steady pay. Like any rich man Sanderson had known, this one had unrealistic expectations, that reality would bend over backwards to fit their desires.

“There are always hazards, Sir. In the end, even the best ship and captain are at the mercy of the Sky and fortune.” He added the respectful 'sir', mindful of social standards. Yet in his rough sky man voice it almost sounded mocking.

The rich man's face betrayed his disappointment. “If you are not confident, then I don't think we can do business.”

It was meant as a threat, and he clearly expected Sanderson to beg for the right to carry his cargo. It amused him. “Anyone who says differently is a liar. All that money can do for you, Sir, is improve your odds. With my ship, in her hold, you have the best odds of any ship in the sky.”

The rich man hesitated, and Sanderson pressed the advantage.

“If I take your cargo it will not be lost to accident, nor touched by my crew. It will almost certainly not be lost in the sky. I make no promises, but I know when to land, when to press ahead, and when to turn back.”

“What about pirates?” the rich man asked. It was obvious that this was his greatest concern. The dreaded Sky Pirates, like Grim Jack and Sarsfield and Reddin. Their names could bring fear to a sky man and especially a ship owner back East.

“Pirates,” Sanderson laughed. “I've been boarded by pirates twice in my career. Only once on this ship, and that was when we were pinned at dock. In the sky I cannot be caught, Sir.”

“Why is that?”

“You see my ship has these great smoke stacks? She has no sail, because I don't trust the wind. I only trust what I can control, and I can control boilers. She runs on pure steam power. The wave of the future, it is,” he said confidently, nodding at his own wisdom.

“Steam. It seems outlandish,” the rich man said, but obviously impressed.

“Perhaps. But no pirate can catch me because I can run straight against the wind and no sail ship can do that. I can move as I please, whenever I please.”

The rich man smiled. “I can see how such freedom as that can be valuable to a sky man”

Perhaps he was sharper than he let on. “Might I inquire what your cargo is?”

“It is, sadly, of a personal nature, family heirlooms, which I do not wish to discuss. It will be crated and is of great value to me. Your services in this will be greatly compensated.”

The secret nature of all this seemed very fishy to Sanderson. “Answer me this, then. Is it dangerous to me or my crew?”

This prompted a laugh. “Not in the slightest! Do not be afraid. It is simply of a personal nature. Nothing illegal or dangerous about it.”

Sanderson nodded. “Then I believe we can do business, Sir.”

At the time he had chalked it up to the idle rich and overestimation of their importance.

Yet now Sanderson almost wished he'd followed his gut instinct and turned down this cargo.

His deck was busier than normal as twenty extra men crowded it. Men in uniforms, private guards. Pinkertons.

And therein lay the problem for him.

“Pinkerton guards?” he has said incredulously when his employer told him.

“Yes. I must be certain my cargo will arrive intact. They will be no burden for you, Captain Sanderson. I will pay for their provisions and services.”

It seemed almost like an insult, but even more than that, he did not like Pinkertons. Who would like men who were paid to spy?

“Your compensation will be quite sufficient for the inconvenience,” he was promised.

That only made him more uncomfortable. The man paid extremely generously. Though he was honest, he had already been planning to charge this man far more than normal for being such a pain and keeping so many secrets. Yet the amount the man willingly offered was more than that.

So far it was all going well. The head of the Pinkerton guards, a Mr. Thornby, had proven polite and willing to obey his commands within reason.

But the man knew far more about him than he was comfortable with. From the very first moment they had met Thornby had noted his accent.

“So it's true,” the Pinkerton had noted with interest. “You sound like you're from Brooklyn, not New Orleans.”

“That's a wide misconception, Sir,” Sanderson had told him, fighting off annoyance. “The area I hail from is all Irish, and we created our own accent.”

“Yes, yes,” Thornby declared dismissively. He had known it all.

The cargo had turned out to be on the other side of the country and his mysterious employer actually wanted it brought to him, and quickly.

At a steady sixty knots an hour they had crossed the States quickly. In San Francisco they had been loaded with these mysterious crates, fifty in all, and now they were bringing them back. His hold was so full that one could barely walk through it.

A few of the crates had the word “Bibles” stenciled on it crudely. He did not believe for a moment they actually contained Bibles, because for one it did not match the story his employer had told him.

The fact that they had the slight smell of oil did nothing to dispel his unease.

Then there was how the ease at which the first leg had been completed. Like an actor, a perfect rehearsal - in this case the first leg of the journey - seemed to bode ill for the main act.

Melissa Strong kept telling him he was getting worried over nothing.

“This is the easiest money we've ever made,” she said with a laugh. “Cheer up, Captain! When we get back I'll buy the drinks! With my shares I could buy drinks for the whole crew for a month.”

“Yes, that's what bothers me. This is easy. Any ship and captain could have done this. Why does he need us? Why pay so much, and why the security? It makes me uneasy.”

“He's a damn landy. They don't understand this, and it works out well for us, Captain.”

As much as he liked Strong, he did not find her reassurances very comforting. Things just seemed off.

She was a great first mate, and he knew she liked him, too. Some captains stuck to the superstitions of the sea and did not welcome women aboard unless they had to.

In the sky, he had felt it was different than the sea, and in its way it called for different superstitions. The sky was fickle in her own way, she hadn't the deadly temper of the sea. Not the jealous type, and while a woman could be distracting to some men, they did not stay in the sky for months at a time without making port, which diminished the problems caused by mixed crews.

Besides, he didn't think anyone found themselves distracted by Melissa Strong. It was a dangerous prospect to look at her too much, for she tended to knock down anyone who she thought did not have enough respect for her.

“Captain,” Strong's voice interrupted his reverie. “I see a raven.”

Raven was sky term for a suspicious ship that seemed to be tailing your ship. He immediately turned to her. “Where?”

The Pinkerton, Thornby, noticed the shift and moved closer. For now he would ignore him, no need to get him upset if it was just another innocent ship.

“Here, sir,” the first mate said, giving him her spy-glass.

The other ship was dead aft. Even through the spy-glass she wasn't big, but in the sky distance could be closed quickly.

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

“I think she's a vulture, Captain.” While a raven was suspicious, a vulture was a pirate, come to kill and plunder. And even if they didn't kill or torture the crew, to be taken by a pirate could destroy a Captain's reputation or damage his ship irreparably.

The worst, the Redeemer Pirates, would no doubt take the ears of anyone they suspected of being a Northerner. Which would surely include him, despite his roots, for he didn't sound like them.

He grimly nodded. “I think you're right.”

“She's still far away. Sloppy of them to be seen this soon.”

“The wind is with them and we're not moving all that fast. As far as they know there's no reason for subtlety. Keep an eye on them for now, and if they get much closer then we'll change direction, run against the wind.”

The ship continued to follow them for the next hour, growing steadily closer. She was a sloop-of-war, and her cannon could be seen openly. She flew only an American ensign as identification, but he knew that once they got closer it would come down and be replaced with a Jolly Roger.

“We have maybe a half of an hour before they're in firing range. We should change direction, Captain.”

“I agree,” Sanderson said. “Give the order.”

The order was relayed and the steam engine belched out more smoke as it chugged to greater life, turning the ship.

“They should be realizing that we're going to run against the wind. If they have a steam engine as well they'll be turning it on anytime.”

“They can't catch us, though. Ours is faster than anything in the sky,” Strong said confidently.

Sanderson smiled. “I hope so, I paid enough for it!”

“Who do you reckon she is, Captain? One of the Blood Eagles? Sarsfield's gang? Or a Redeemer?”

The Blood Eagles were the pirate band led by the most powerful pirate in the sky, Grim Jack. He was, some said, the Pirate Governor and all of the other pirates in this hemisphere paid homage to him.

“If she were a Blood Eagle she'd not be alone, and Sarsfield doesn't work this territory. No, it's probably Ellington or a Redeemer.”

For a moment Melissa did not reply. Then, slowly, she said; “It could be Reddin.”

“No,” Sanderson replied quickly. “His ship is much larger.” No, not Reddin. He would be the worst possible pirate to have on their tails.

“She isn't as big as his Bold Deceiver, but she would fit the Jayhawk's description, wouldn't she?”

“Don't even suggest it's Gordon!”

“But-”

“No,” he interrupted. Even saying the name of that pirate was bad luck. “It's not Captain Gordon. If it was, we'd be followed all the way back to New York!” Once you were in Captain Gordon's sights you were marked. One way or another, eventually you would be caught.

“It looks like whoever it is doesn't have a steam engine.” They were changing course to follow them, but there had been no cloud of smoke to indicate the start of a steam engine to follow them. With pure sail they would have to tack into the wind and so go slower and take a slightly different angle until they could cut across another direction, which would make them have to travel farther and slow them further.

While he could go the same speed in any direction.

“Is there something going on that I should be aware of?” a voice asked dryly. It was Inspector Thornby.

“Nothing that is a concern,” Sanderson replied. “That ship over yonder is a sky pirate.”

The Pinkerton's indignation could be felt physically. “And why was I not notified?” Thornby demanded.

“Because there's no danger. We're moving in such a way that they cannot follow. Soon we will leave them behind.”

“I still think I should have been informed on the off-chance that-”

“God in heaven!” Strong cried out. Her arm went up to point. “Dead ahead, another ship!”

Thornby started to turn to look, but stumbled as Sanderson shoved him out of the way to get a better look.

“Hard turn a'port!” he yelled. They were going to collide if they didn't change course, the ship was so close. It had just appeared like a ghost from the clouds.

The ship was huge; it was much larger than his and was heavily armed. It flew a pirate flag of a phoenix, and the name on the side read Bold Deceiver.

He grabbed for the gunwale as the ship turned sharply. The Pinkerton guards yelled in surprise and some fell, others grabbed whatever was nearby for support.

Sanderon's eyes were simply glued to the Bold Deceiver, though. It was the name of Reddin's ship, and he knew it must be him. True, anyone could paint a name on a hull, and pirates were liable to do that.

But the phoenix standard was Reddin's alone, and the ship . . . Only Reddin's ship was so great.

She had more guns than he had seen on anything but a Federal warship.

“To arms!” Thornby cried. His men paused, looking at the great pirate ship that they were narrowly avoiding. It seems a fool's hope that they could fight that.

“You!” Thornby said to Captain Sanderson. “Get this ship out of here!”

A moment later they were deafened as a warning shot from the Bold Deceiver flew over their bow. It went between the ship and her balloons, and spoke to the great skill of the pirate gunners. They could have killed any particular man or woman on the deck with ease.

If they fought, Sanderson could just imagine those cannons firing grape or cannister shot into his balloons, shredding them and sending the entire ship plummeting to the ground two thousand feet below.

“Halt all engines!” he called.

“How dare you! Countermand that order, full speed I say!”

“I am the Captain here, and we are surrendering,” Sanderson yelled over Thornby's protests. “If we fight they can kill us like an ant under their boot. Turn off the engines!”

In a heartbeat Thornby had a revolver in his hand pointed straight at Sanderon's heart. “Belay that order. We are running because I say we are.”

“You're a damned fool and you're going to get people killed,” the Captain said. Thornby cocked the hammer on his revolver. Sanderson grit his teeth. “Belay that order. Full power. We'll escape or die trying.”

If he had a gun on him he would have shot the man, even if it got him killed. It would be worth it.

“Battle stations!” Thornby yelled. His men had their rifles and pistols and started to fire at the pirate ship. It seemed a pathetic and stupid gesture. A single broadside would wipe his deck clean.

Pirates appeared at the gunwales of their great ship and poured fire down. Their fire was not just withering; not only many, but accurate. Half of the Pinkertons were hit and went down, others abandoning their posts and fleeing away from the gunfire.

Sanderson saw one of his crew struck; the man had not been armed, but in a battle even the innocent could be killed. He threw himself behind one of the smokestacks on his beloved Jenny, stroking the metal almost lovingly.

“Old girl, this might be our last day together,” he said to her.

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2

The Marvellous Adventures of Thomas Mann video comic! Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 16:46:00 +0000

Years after his adventures in the Himalayas, Thomas Mann goes after a new goal! The ELDER GODS.

This is also a good chance to mention the ThunderousAbsurdity youtube channel. Right now this is the only video up, but I'll have more up soon - and I'll be sure to post them here. Please subscribe, rate, view, you know, the usual youtube stuff. If you like it. If you don't, please do it anyway.

Hyperspace

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 02:49:00 +0000

Hyperspace is a science-fiction/psychological story. I don't care to focus on technology in my sci-fi, but simply use it as a vessel to . . . explore places no one has gone before.

I really should be punished for that joke.

The entire craft hummed around him as he turned the key in the control board.

He was the only one who carried the key; it was the only way to drop in or out of hyperspace without using the failsafe device.

Alex rubbed his forehead, his skin feeling cool and clammy. He always felt cool and clammy on the ship. He never had really known why. The climate was designed for maximum comfort and to allow maximum efficiency for a hard-working spacer.

He couldn't see as the ship came out of hyperspace. There was nothing to see of it, anyway. It was something completely different from the world he knew. It wasn't enough to even say a human mind could not comprehend it if they saw it, so much as there was nothing to comprehend; it was so alien and different that there was no way to see it because light did not exist in that dimension.

Now that they were back in the comforting cold vacuum, he waved a hand over the sensor panel. It glowed to life, and began to report.

A slight click came from behind him as Nathan came in. They were supposed to all refer to each other by last name and rank, but that had broken down. It always broke down. There was only so long that people could act like drones before they went mad. It had gotten to the point that the companies had even made a chapter in the manuals about how to relax.

It always made him laugh to think of how they described mechanically such things as warm baths and masturbating, as if they were akin to changing a gasket on a machine.

“I felt us come back to reality,” Nathan said, sitting down in the chair next to him. The chair leaned back with him, conforming to him perfectly. Nathan seemed to take to life on the ship better than he had. Alex had been chosen for the role, but he didn't like living on a ship. At least, he preferred living on earth.

Glancing at his co-pilot, he envied the man's ability to just enjoy the chairs. They were supposed to be comfortable, but how he longed for a chair with a hard back. The kind he could just sit in and conform to its shape, not vice-versa.

Everything on this ship was like that. Conforming. Designed to be the ultimate in comfort and efficiency. Somehow, despite being soft and comfortable, though, it all felt cold and lifeless. It had been . . . what, two years since he had felt the texture of wood? Two years since he had been agreed to captain this ship, GE441, or “Sandra” as the crew called her, out.

Their task was as boring as her official designation. People back home thought that space exploration was exciting. He supposed it had been, the first week or so of training. But after years of it, when you finally got up here, everything was so ingrained in you that it was no longer interesting, just a mindless task. Everything, from personal hygiene to eating to ship maintenance.

It was only when you got up here, and realized you were in space, vast emptiness, that you realized that you were just trapped in a plastic tub, bound to do the same thing for years at a time.

Even their mission - which was to sample the mineral content of one of the myriad of new, earth-sized planets discovered by satellites - wasn't exciting. It would have been interesting to go down there, but from all reports it was just a lifeless hunk of rock that happened to be earth size. Despite that, they merely deployed a probe that took the necessary samples, and returned with them. All they had to do was press a button, watch a light turn red, then wait for it to turn green before they could leave again.

A year. It had taken them a year to get there for a mission that took three days to complete. Twenty-seven jumps each way. He had made a mark on the edge of his seat for each one to remember. Each

jump only lasted five days. That was the maximum allowed time in hyperspace. No one knew why, but things that stayed in hyperspace longer than six days never came out. And that was why there was only one key to allow them to enter it, and he was the only one who had it.

Years of tests of his mental health had decided he was the most responsible one to hold onto it. Even Nathan had failed that test, and that man seemed bothered by nothing. He always wondered why they thought he could handle it.

Years ago, they had sent hundreds, if not thousands, of probes into hyperspace to test it. It was a long time before they let a person try it. After all the probes that stayed longer than six days disappeared, they decided it would be safe for a human to stay in hyperspace for no more than five days. And that was why every ship had a failsafe; stay in hyperspace any longer than 120 hours, and it kicked in, forcing the ship back into normal space.

“Alex, your console's beeping.” Nathan didn't even open his eyes as he said it, still reclining in the chair.

“Oh. Right.” He absently punched some buttons that would transfer the relevant sensor information to his screen.

His co-pilot smirked. “You're definitely ready for this mission to be done, huh? Just another two weeks, then you can spend a few years resting.”

Right. Decontamination. Until enough people had done it, they isolated returning crews to make sure there were no dangerous side-effects from their long trips. There were rumours about men who had gone dangerously mad, or contracted bizarre illnesses that defied all known science.

Of course, those were just stories, and he didn't believe them in the slightest.

Looking at his screen, he felt his eyes burn with tiredness. He was supposed to have slept by now, but he always had trouble sleeping in hyperspace.

A lot of people talked about empty space and how terrifyingly alone you felt. He had never felt that, not since he had spent time in hyperspace. The sounds that sometimes echoed through the ship, they were some of the eeriest things he had ever heard. Sometimes he swore balls of light moved through the hallways when he was resting. He had never told anyone what he thought he had seen. They would have locked him in his room if they thought he was going mad.

Worst, his dreams were always disturbing in hyperspace. That much he had confided in Nathan, who had just laughed it off and said it was all in his head.

Being in normal space, however empty it may be, was just comforting to him. He slept better, at least knowing it was a reality he could comprehend.

And yet, he had always wondered why the ship's windows always irised closed whenever they took a jump. If there was no light, then what was the harm in leaving them open so he could stare at the pure blackness of hyperspace?

Everything was explained to an astronaut. They were scientists in their own right. They had to be, in order to do all of the necessary work, and to properly describe things for later transcribing. But no one ever explained why the windows were covered in hyperspace.

He had always dreamed of wedging one open before they jumped. Maybe the computer wouldn't let them jump if a window shutter wouldn't close, he thought. Either way, the computer would see him in the cameras and log his actions. The computer logged everything, from their daily activities, to the amount of time they spent on the john. For posterity.

And something like that, blocking a window open, would be a huge violation of the rules. Doing that would get him arrested when they returned. He imagined he would be declared mad and disappeared, to become a rumour for other spacers to dismiss and secretly fear.

His eyes had been scanning over the data outside of the ship, but nothing about it made sense. Was he more tired than he thought?

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes for a minute.

“Something wrong?” Nathan asked, sitting up more normally. He wasn't alarmed, though.

“Just a bit tired. Trying to interpret this data,” he replied.

“Is it that hard? All it's saying is that it's earth. Just go ahead and let the computer navigate us into the airlock. Nothing hard about it.”

That was easy for him to say. Neither of them had ever really done it. They had just practiced it more times than he could count.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his mind to focus and read the information. Why did this make no sense?

“This isn't earth,” he said, the words surprising himself just as much as Nathan.

“What?”

Alex shook his head. “This data doesn't match earth. It's the right size, but everything else . . . It's another planet. The computer must have made a mistake. We're at a different earth-sized planet.”

“Let me see,” Nathan said, pushing himself uncomfortably close to look at Alex's screen. His tone was more serious than Alex had ever heard it before.

“Take a look,” Alex said, not about to argue over something so trivial. “Global mean temperature is only 7 C. It's supposed to be May, for fuck's sake, temperature should be almost double that. The atmosphere has about 20% less ozone than earth, there are significantly higher readings of carbon dioxide and nitrogen oxides . . .”

“I can read it!” Nathan snapped. Alex had never heard him snap like that before. He went quiet as his companion looked it over.

“Fuck,” he finally heard the other man say. He leaned back in his seat, but now his face looked pinched and taut. “I guess . . . we take a look at the computer, and figure out how it got the wrong planet. Fix that, then we can go home.”

“I don't understand how this could possibly have happened. We just followed the exact same path we took to get to our target, except to account for Earth's movement.” This was something they had never trained for. Perhaps he should have felt more fear, but he didn't. Only a vague unease. “Computer. Run self-diagnostic, specifically targeting navigational systems.”

Running.

The computer complied. It didn't have a pleasant, cool voice, but only projected the word on a screen. It only took it a few seconds to come back.

All systems operating normally.

That couldn't be. This wasn't earth.

Nathan sat up. “Try this. Computer, please project our path to our objective and back to earth on the screen. Use the star field as a landmark to project proper calculations.”

Both men expected the computer to display that it was unable to process such a request; at least that would have been a clue to the problem. Perhaps an external sensor was malfunctioning. If they knew the problem, they could fix it.

Projection is complete.

The path on the screen was exactly as it was supposed to look. And it led them to exactly where they were, approximately 900,000 kilometers from a planet of earth's size.

But this planet could not be earth.

“Computer . . . Why does the planet below not look like earth?” Alex found his lips and mouth dry as he asked.

Computing.

Nathan leaned forward. Alex imagined his co-pilot's heart was pounding, just as his was. They waited, because it was all they could do.

“This has to be a mistake,” Nathan said. The words broke the tension, but only for a moment. Alex glanced at him, but he felt a jolt and his eyes shot back to the screen as he saw something change on it.

Sensors indicate planet has sustained major atmospheric and temperature changes.

“No shit, sherlock!” Nathan snapped. “That's not earth!”

The computer displayed that it was computing again. Alex couldn't think of anything to say. Now he felt that words were beyond him.

Sensors indicate the planet is earth. All parameters fall within expected ranges for early stages of artificial winter.

“Artificial winter. What on earth do you mean?” Nathan demanded.

Alex found his voice. “That is earth. It's nuclear winter. They launched. From these readings, everyone did.”

The computer continued to show new words, inexorably. Neither man could tear their eyes away, as much as they wanted to.

Sensors indicate artificial winter's cause was nuclear in origin due to the presence of heavy ionizing radiation in the troposphere.

“No!” Nathan yelled, standing up so suddenly his chair fell over. “No, that can't be! Not when we've just gotten back! No!” He pounding his fist onto the screen with a hammer blow, hard enough to make the screen fuzz for a second. But the screen was stronger than him, and returned to normal within a second.

Alex didn't know what to do. There was no training for anything remotely like this. “Nathan, calm down. It's going to be fine-”

“No it's not! Alex, the world's gone! Everyone we know or ever knew is dead. Everyone down there is dead! There's nothing left. Nothing at all. Not if this is right. Even if someone did survive, they will starve to death in a year, if they don't freeze first! Plants won't grow. Everything will die. This is the end. It can't be any more final than this!”

Nathan stumbled over his chair, then leaned against the wall. Heavy sobs began to shake his body.

Alex was quiet a minute. All he could think of was the fact that their superiors were gone. Slowly, he stood. “Computer, prepare the ship for hyperspace jump.”

His co-pilot looked up, his eyes red, face contorted. “Alex, wh-what . . . ?”

“Never mind me, Nathan. I'm just going to go prop open a window.”

FINIS

Thomas Mann Conquers the Mountain

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 02:45:00 +0000

This is a story that serves as an excellent introduction of Thomas Mann, an early 19th-century occultist, and his peculiarities.

This is a more humorous, if dark, story.

*

“Do you see any Yetis?” Thomas Mann called over the howling blizzard.

The Sherpa ahead of him paused only long enough to glare at the idiotic Englishman behind him who had pestered him until he agreed to continue the climb up the mountain.

And now they were going to die.

“I didn't hear you!” Mann said next.

By every god ever thought of and Karl Marx, the Sherpa thought. I just hope he dies before me.

His name was Jangbu, but at the moment he did not feel wise like his name meant. Instead he felt a fool. His father, his father's-father, and so on back as long as his people had lived here had lived in this region knew not to climb the mountain when bad weather was threatening.

Yet he had anyway, because he found Thomas Mann so annoying he just wanted him gone. The sooner the man failed in his venture, the sooner he would be gone.

“Further on!” he called back to Thomas Mann.

For three weeks the Englishman had pestered him about Yetis. Very few had heard of or spoke of the legends, and even many of his people regarded them as myth.

But Thomas Mann had spoken of nothing but that. He did not care for supplying them. He did not care for discussing the mountain, or even ascending to the top.

“What do you think is prime Yeti territory?” he had asked.

“The Yet-teh, if it even exists, is a very elusive beast. None can be sure where it can be found.”

“What do you suppose they eat? Perhaps we could put out something to attract it.”

“We have lived here for many, many years. We have never caught one of the creatures. I think if they were easily caged, we would know. Now, Sir, we must procure supplies if we are to attempt to reach the summit.”

Mann blinked slowly, looking almost confused. “I am not interested in the peak, my good man. But from what you say they seem to be wily beasts indeed.”

Jangbu's face fell. “Sir, one could live their entire life here and never spy a Yeti.”

“Well, I should hope it won't take me that long, but I have money and time, and I can think of nothing more important than this!” Mann smiled in a strange sort of genuine way. It should have been almost endearing, but somehow it was only annoying coming from Mann.

Who could have turned down such a job? Thomas Mann had plenty of money and was careless with it when it came to his guides. He wasn't so much foolish as completely oblivious.

It seemed so easy.

Raising a hand, Jangbu signaled for a pause. “There is a shelter from the wind here!” he yelled.

“Splendid!” Thomas Mann replied. Somehow, he seemed to be taking the cold in stride.

The two men huddled into the small cave, which was really more like just a small dip in the side of the mountain. They had to be over three thousand feet by now.

“I say, do you know where we are?” Thomas asked him, pressing his mouth nearly to Jangbu's ear.

“Sir, you have the compass in your haversack,” Jangbu replied, trying to ward off the deadly cold. They would be dead soon if they did not begin a descent immediately. Even if they did, they might not survive.

“Oh, yes, well, I didn't bring it. I thought I told you earlier?”

The Sherpa man felt fear claw at his heart even more than the cold. “You do not have the compass?” he asked incredulously.

It was idiotic for not everyone to have one, but Mann had proved to be stingier with buying necessary supplies than he had with other things. Unnecessary frivolities he had described such things as pick-axes and ice cleats. And compasses.

“I thought I told you to bring it?” Mann said.

“Sir, you told me not to bother.” It was only by incredible force of will that Jangbu did not scream.

“Oh, right. I'm sure we can find our way, though, don't you think?” Mann looked at him like an ignorant child at an adult who he assumed could fix his own problems.

“We must begin our descent immediately.”

Now the Englishman looked thoroughly surprised. “No, man, that is certainly not possible. I have chartered this expedition for two weeks.”

“We will die if we do not descend!” Jangbu yelled, his temper breaking.

“You make it seem so dramatic! A little cold never hurt anybody.”

That silenced the Sherpa man as surely as a punch to the throat. “How many mountains have you scaled before, sir?”

“Scaled? I grew up on a rather large hill, and one time I went to a castle that was built into the side of a mountain by carriage.”

Jangbu's mouth dropped open. He regretted it instantly as the bitter cold nearly froze his tongue. “On your application you wrote you were an experienced mountaineer. You listed contacts and great details!”

“Yes, well . . .” Mann looked away, feeling a smidgen of guilt. “I may have fabricated slightly with the help of a friend. I thought it would look more impressive.”

“You have killed us both!” Jangbu's hands went for his pick. His anger was a burning inferno that temporarily warded off the cold.

“Perhaps we could slowly wind our way down the mountain so that we gradually go lower to allay your concerns, but still maintain our search for the filthy beast. Would that help?” Mann asked.

A yell of fury escaped Jangbu and he lunged with the climbing pick.

Mann looked genuinely alarmed, which pleased the Sherpa. It pleased him less when Mann managed to lean to the side in time to avoid being killed.

“Bother, you nearly harmed me, man!” Mann stared at the pick embedded in the ice and suddenly gasped.

The ice cracked, and the crack grew steadily larger. The ground beneath them cracked, and both men cried out in fear as the floor fell out beneath them.

Jangbu fell only a few feet into soft snow. Mann fell fifteen feet onto rock, and he was quite poor at making his landing safe.

“Bother!” Mann said in shock more than pain. He started to climb to his feet, only to fall back down. “I think I broke my ankle!”

The Sherpa slowly picked himself up as well. “It looks as if you can climb these rocks, they seem secure.”

“I can't, for my ankle is broken!” Mann replied, his voice bordering dangerously close to a whine.

His anger faded as the realities of survival took hold. “I have rope, let me throw it down. Can you hold onto it?”

“I'm not sure, but I don't wish to remain in this cave. One's spirit can be stolen if they should fall asleep in a cave!”

Ignoring him, the Sherpa guide threw down the rope. Mann grabbed it tightly and Jangbu prepared to pull. “Hold on tightly, and I shall pull you up!”

It has been two days since my tragic fall in the ice-cave, Thomas Mann wrote in his journal. Since then my faithful Sherpa guide has dragged me across the ice towards base camp at the foot of the mighty mountain.

They lay in a crude bivouac, Mann wrapped in multiple blankets, his hands covered in many gloves. Jangbu was collapsed next to him for warmth, nearly dead from exhaustion.

“Rest,” Jangbu said. “We have far to go tomorrow.”

When Mann had become injured, it changed for him. If he left the man behind, he knew he'd forever regret it. Worse, coming back home without his charge would bring him eternal shame and ruin his chances for ever being a guide again.

“We must keep a record for posterity,” Mann replied. “But rest, my friend.”

Jangbu wished to tell him he was not his friend, but was too tired.

We have yet to sight a Yeti of any stripe, which saddens me. If I could still walk then I would stay, despite the record blizzard. Sadly, this is not an option.

In only a few hours the blizzard began to abate, and Janbgu roused and announced they must continue during this slow spell. Grabbing Mann by a rope tied around him, he continued on the trek, dragging the other man with him.

“Ow,” Mann complained as he hit a rock.

“Hold on!” Jangbu said, stopping suddenly.

“What? What is it?” Mann asked. The Shirpa's voice sounded frightened.

“I see something,” Jangbu said, his voice sounding quite pale.

“Is it a mih-teh?” Mann demanded, struggling to turn around in his bulky clothing. “If it is a dzu-teh, do not fear, for they are harmless to man! We need fear only the mighty mih-teh, who are horrendous beast-men!”

Jangbu could not reply, for he was too shocked. Something was approaching them through the lightening snowfall. It was walking on two legs straight towards them.

The haze of falling snow kept the details hidden. Mann was still struggling to turn around when it finally began to be apparent.

“A bear!” Jangbu said in shock.

“Do not be fooled,” Mann said, managing to catch a glimpse. “The Yetis are known to wear the skins of bears as disguises!”

No they aren't, Jangbu thought, but his attention was forced back to the bear, which was steadily coming closer. “We need the rifle!”

“Rifle?” Mann repeated. “We must not shoot it!”

“It's a bear!”

The bear lunged closer and roared, flecks of spittle and foam coming from its mouth.

“And it's rabid!” Jangbu added in terror.

“I do believe that I am laying on the rifle . . . What a pity this is! Why couldn't it have been a Yeh-teh?”

“Move!” Jangbu screamed, rolling Mann to the side to reach for the rifle.

“Oh bother!” Mann yelled as he started to roll down a slope.

Jangbu got the rifle up just as the bear reached him. The beast was awkward in its upright movements, and weak from the disease driving it into a maddened rage.

I am too tired to run, Jangbu realized. Too tired from dragging Mann.

He fired the rifle just as the bear mauled him, swinging one of its mighty paws and terminating his career as a mountaineer guide and human being at the same instance.

Mann rolled another thirty feet down the hill before coming to a stop. He rose slowly to his knees. “Jangbu?” he called back up the hill.

There was movement; two large masses came down the hill after him, and he automatically jumped back.

He realized what he had just done. “By Jove, I must have merely sprained my ankle. What a blessing!”

The two forms reached the bottom of the hill. One was the bear, shot dead by the Sherpa's rifle. The other was the Sherpa himself, killed by the bear.

“Oh bother . . . poor man, you never even got to see a Yeh-teh with me . . .”

Where should he go now? Slowly, Mann turned, and as he did he saw lights.

“It's the base camp!” he said. Had Jangbu not pushed him down the hill, he realized they would have passed it in the storm. “Thank God!”

Mann paused. “Poor Jangbu . . . He died saving me.” He knelt by the man, whom he now considered a friend. “Do not worry, my poor fellow. When I discover the Yeh-teh, I shall name him for you. Yes, Hominid Jangbu! It sounds wonderful. I know it would put your soul at peace.”

Mann stood, nodding. His ankle hurt, but he was still alive. And that meant that he would still find the yeh-teh.

FINIS

Filled with squishy caterpillars of the fuzzy sort

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 02:42:00 +0000

I've got a personal belief that in this time, a story is not worth telling unless it is about something more than simply the characters and events within it. It must be a reflection of the world; say something about it. Its grounding in reality anchors the drama - or humor.

That doesn't mean it can't have a fun story and characters, of course.

I have three major projects right now, one is a post-apocalyptic story about escape, another is a steampunk story of sky pirates in the American Civil War era, and the last is about an occultist who gets what he wants the most.

I'm not going to post those yet. They are full-length novels, and while I may post them piece-meal later, I'm going to start with two short stories.

One is serious; the other is not. I'm quite sure you can figure out which.

I wanna be the guy!

noreply@blogger.com (Sean) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 02:39:00 +0000

I am a writer.

It's not simply a “career” choice. I've felt like I could have pursued a few careers - entomology, history, even acting (lol) seemed like things I could have done. I've even been an athletic coach of Gaelic Football.

But I couldn't do any of those, because I was a writer. It wasn't a choice, it's simply what I am. Even when I was young I wrote stories and “novels”, as I called them.

They were horrible. Of course.

Like the drawings you made when you were a non-sentient grub. You don't remember making them, but your parents held onto them so long you can never forget them, and they humiliate you. “My shading was horrible!” you think as you look at a cube you know to be a cat only because you have been told that's what it was when you drew it.

And like any artist, I am my own worst critic. I can barely stand to look at my own works after I finish them because I hate them. Those ones disappear into the obscurity of old computers that are left in the technological dust.

I'm only going to post the things here that I actually like. Perhaps they're not good, but I feel I did enough right in them to be worth putting out there. Hopefully someone will enjoy them.

I'd really like that.