The Right despised him. The Left publically eschewed Arpel Bernstein’s blustering tirades as Chairman of the House Appropriations committee, while privately lamenting that they lacked the guts to be as honest and forthright. Ironic how those who condemned the idea of political correctness ( which was little more than pressure for idiots to manage their internal dialogue) fought to stifle Arpel at every turn. Truth was, Bernstein had no internal dialogue, least not that anyone could tell. His mouth, fully hidden beneath a brushy silver mustache, was on autopilot, fully connected to a heart that gave only passing consideration to his brain.
That mouth got him in a fair amount of trouble. It made him a favorite target for FOX and Right Wing radio, who painted him in some sort of commie cabal along with harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi. Twenty-four hours each day, seven days a week they held him up in digital effigy, rallying their base, many of whom came to see Bernstein as the complete embodiment of evil.
Truth of it was, Arpel loved the attention. He reveled in the protesters who berated and harangued him everywhere. At six foot four, two hundred and sixty pounds the star Minnesota Lineman was as outspoken about Republican corruption, a creeping military industrial culture as he was democratic spinelessness. The Marine platoon leader and former prosecutor didn’t help his image much with a well publicized affair, and an unabashed penchant for the ladies.
He had become the self-appointed crusader against fraud in the Pentagon budget defense contractors which he called the “highest paid welfare queens in the nation.” Remarks like that got him vilified by the Right who worked hard to frame him as a radical anti-capitalist, and a Leftist bullying American heroes risking their lives to keep America safe from Muslim terrorists. Progressive hosts, like Stephanie Miller and Ed Schultz, who championed Arpel as a reformer and a patriot were all but drowned in the opposition’s virtual monopoly of the market.
It was warm and bright for an autumn day as Arpel stepped out onto the steps of the capitol, almost swaggering before clamoring throngs of media and protesters, and a handful of terribly outnumbered police. He came down to them, arms out stretched, as if they were subjects to his private court.
There was a reason for this raucous attention. His usual assaultive questioning had degraded to shouts and accusations with representatives of a controversial military contractor, and a target of the Left called FIRSTTHRUST INC. Scrutiny had grown through the summer after three WAR INC employees were caught on videotape executing a suspected Al Qa’eda operative after a gun battle with Taliban militants. It became further grist for Arpel’s mill. Tipped off by Bernstein, who warned of his own verbal execution C-SPAN carried the hearing live. By lunch it was making the blogs and all the cable shows. In a statement during a break in the hearings the good Congressman made a point of announcing he would make a public statement on the Capitol steps that evening. True to his word, he appeared within minutes, with a satisfied and electric expression.
An aid trotted down the gleaming white steps, the lights just coming up upon the tall marble pillars and great white dome behind. He planted himself strategically between Arpel and the mob, waving for them to quiet down. The protesters were having none of it, shouting and chanting louder.
“Traitor! Traitor!” they shouted, waving signs portraying Bernstein (whose parents had survived the holocaust) as Hitler, or with a target over his face.
“Please, please!” cried the Aid. “The Congressman will make a statement now.”
“Congressman,” shouted a FOX News reporter, “isn’t this simply a witch hunt designed to embarrass the last Administration?”
Arpel laughed mockingly. He frowned and shook his head at the reporter, making no mistake of his ultimate disdain.
“Points for creative hyperbole from the regressive media,” he shot back. I will not retreat from my utter contempt for FIRSTTHRUST INC and other taxpayer subsidized war contractors. I believe that contempt was clearly and purposely evident at the hearing today. There are critics who accuse me of being on a morale crusade. Let me say unequivocally that I am absolutely on a crusade against the dangerous and bloated war industry bilking the taxpayers, and which perpetuates a system of unlimited and unregulated warfare that is derogatory and dangerous to American democracy and prestige.” Boos and jeers followed. Arpel was undeterred.
“We cannot allow our national reputation and standing to be dictated and abused by an industry not under the direct control of the United States Military, and which is out of reach by American laws and justice. Even more troubling for our democracy is the growing presence of these companies operating on American soil.”
“Congressman, do you intend to Press charges on the woman who assaulted you?”
It seemed a far cry to call what had happened the two nights before assault, even by Arpel’s often embellished standard. A woman walked up while he was entertaining friends at a local eatery and doused him in the face with water. The police quickly wrestled her away. True to form, he collected himself quickly and, though obviously shaken, tried to brush off the whole incident.
“Next time someone throws water in my face,” he joked to his stunned guests, “if they could have a decent Scotch with it!”
On the capitol steps the Reporter pressed the issue. “Do you intend to file assault charges. The whole affair was already a toy for political posturing. The talking heads on MSNBC pointed to the Right’s increasingly violent tone. FOX portrayed it as frustration over a federal Government run amok. Too shrewd to be roped into something not of his making, Bernstein waved a hand in the air and trotted down to a waiting limousine. At the door he turned and looked straight at the FOX reporter.
“I hope she gets the help she needs, and that she can learn to find a more constructive way to express her obvious frustration.”
He paused again and grimaced slightly, as though struck by a sudden sharp pain. There was a flash of terror in Arpel’s eyes as the blood fled from his face. A moment later his body convulsed, as though struck by a shock. Arpel Bernstein’s final moments were caught by a dozen different cameras. He gripped his head and collapsed. The image of the dying congressman cradled in the arms of supports and police would be flashed around the world, with few if any realizing the historic proportions of his sudden and premature passing.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Big Blue Sky-Title
The Big Blue Sky
A Novel
By
W.C. Turck
Exclusively
At
Blogspot
CHAPTER ONE
Western delegates protest Ahmadinejad speech to UN(AP)
Western Delegates walked out of the United Nations General Assembly chamber on Monday hours before Clinton's speech as Ahmadinejad began his address at the opening of a nuclear review conference,.
Representatives from the United States, Great Britain, France, Hungary, the Netherlands and New Zealand were among the countries that walked out as Ahmadinejad took to the podium. Israel was notably absent from the summit as it began a review of the Non Proliferation Treaty at the UN headquarters in New York.
Ahmadinejad blamed in his address the failure for global nuclear disarmament on the "policies and practices of certain states, as well as the inefficacy of the NPT and the imbalance that it curtails."
"Some” he went on to say, ”including the Zionist regime, have been equipped with nuclear arms, despite international measures to promote disarmament,"
"The Zionist regime too consistently threatens Middle Eastern countries with its nuclear arsenal," adding that the NPT signatories consider "any threat to use nuclear weapons or attack against peaceful nuclear facilities as a breach of international peace and security."
Both the United States and Israel have suggested the use of military force against Iranian nuclear facilities, which they allege are part of a covert nuclear weapons program. Iran denies pursuing nuclear weapons, insisting its nuclear ambitions are for peaceful electricity. The US says that by not being forthcoming about its nuclear ambitions Iran is becoming further isolated in the world community…
One
The sky was overcast and as dull as antique pewter. The occasional rain had fallen heaviest during the graveside service, pattering upon umbrellas. The rain lingered and glistened upon neighboring stones and awakened the autumn scent of wet grass, fallen leaves and pine.The day felt as deep and dark as the surrounding forest running almost unbroken along the Lake Superior shore west to Minnesota and east to Canada. That endless forest, spotted by hidden lakes, deeply troughed logging roads and cold rushing creeks was a blessing to the hearty souls of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a burden to the unaccustomed and punishing to those who failed to grant her ultimate respect. In the rain it felt like a lament, as if the land and sky and lake had joined in the grief of that tiny little cemetery in Marquette.
Doug Springer was last to leave the grave, pausing a moment to say one final goodbye to his wife of almost eighteen years. His daughters were ahead of him, nearly to the appropriately black Lincoln Town car provided by the funeral home. The funeral director, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited at the open door, offering the girls a sincere and sympathetic smile. Doug, tall enough in his own right, with neatly trimmed dark hair and stormy brown eyes was thinking about nothing more than getting out of the dark brown suit and into something less constrictive and funerary. He wanted to be alone with his grief and his thoughts. In this suit he felt like it was some sort of costume to the conventions of death.
And he worried about the girls even more. Megan and Dana had taken their mother’s death very differently. Megan, at sixteen, was the spitting image of her mother. Like Jane, she was athletic and slender, with shoulder length auburn hair and rich emerald eyes. She dreamed of following her father into journalism, and seemed to take all this with a deeper perspective by being there for her younger sister. Like her father she accepted the sense that nothing in life is fair. Dana, two years younger, with short dark hair and moody brown eyes, wore her grief as though she was victim of some eternal injustice. For her this was proof of some Karmic punishment for her father’s absence traipsing around the world all those years. She chafed at the feeling she was being punished for her father’s sins as well.
Between Doug and the girls, Arnie Hamlin stared off thought the trees, lost in thought. A cigarette burned slowly away in his fingers In a long black raincoat he was a silhouette against the sea of gravestones. Arnie, who had been editor of The Times of New York for going on thirteen years now, seemed fully out of place here, like he should be hailing a cab in Manhattan than in a lakeside cemetery in little Marquette, Michigan. Doug stopped when he reached Arnie, who came up and hook and arm in Doug’s. Together they walked slowly up to the waiting car.
“Take as much time as you need,” said Arnie, patting Doug’s forearm gently. “The paper will keep. But you’re a talent, Doug, and there’ll always be a place for you at The Times.”
Doug stopped. He drew a long breath and looked up into Arnie’s eyes. “I’m done.”
“Tough time, my friend. No pressure whatsoever.”
“Arnie, I appreciate that. I’m finished with dangerous overseas assignments. I’m done with being away for months at a time. When we invaded Iraq I didn’t see home for thirteen months. I’ve missed so much. I missed time with Jane, and I’ll never get that back. I want to see my daughters grow up. I want to make as much of those lost years as I can.”
Arnie nodded. “I won’t press the issue.”
“Thanks for that,” said Doug. “And thanks for coming all the way up here for the funeral. It really meant a great deal.”
They began to walk again. The girls were already in the car. Their public tears were over. Now they were just numb. Like Doug, tears would come in private.
“You were the best, Doug.” Arnie began again. “Both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan. You’re the only Western reporter the Iranians will talk to with any measure of respect. Hell, Doug, you’ve managed to go places and get stories in the Mideast most Western reporters would sell their mothers to get. You have a very rare talent.”
“Not much of a talent,” he replied. “I just try to be a good guest everywhere I go.”
Hamlin smiled wistfully, recalling the impossible days during the Iraqi Invasion. The flood of information, from wild and uncountable sources overwhelmed even the most seasoned and well-staffed newsrooms. It flowed in torrents, the true, the false, lies, confusion, an avalanche of images, endless streams of video, much of it without context was stunning. The paper hung on at enormous expense to its team journalists in the field. First among them Doug Springer was at the forefront of the invasion, calling in dispatches while rounds popped and shells burst all around. Fever was the only word that adequately described those wild and insane days. God, thought Arnie Hamlin, those were the days!
“Think I’ll work on that novel I’ve been tinkering with the last couple years.”
“A novel, huh?”
“safer that way,” Doug said. These days if you tell the truth and call it non-fiction people will sue ya.”
They stopped beside the car and shook hands. Arnie held Doug’s with both hands. “All right if I keep in contact?”
Doug nodded. “Hope so.”
He watched as Arnie walked slowly up the hill and through the gravestones. Doug let out a long deep breath. There was just too much to sort, and it was just too soon to try. He still had not taken the time to grieve, and knew the days and months ahead would be excruciatingly difficult for the girls Ana Doug wondered over the rest of his life. He wondered whether he could ever love again, or if he should. He watched Arnie walk away and wondered if he wasn’t watching the world walk away as well. Nor could he know that history and fate, and the hubris of men who believed they were stewards of either would soon find him again. For now there were the girls and his sorrow, which seemed like an impossible chasm to cross.
A Novel
By
W.C. Turck
Exclusively
At
Blogspot
CHAPTER ONE
Western delegates protest Ahmadinejad speech to UN(AP)
Western Delegates walked out of the United Nations General Assembly chamber on Monday hours before Clinton's speech as Ahmadinejad began his address at the opening of a nuclear review conference,.
Representatives from the United States, Great Britain, France, Hungary, the Netherlands and New Zealand were among the countries that walked out as Ahmadinejad took to the podium. Israel was notably absent from the summit as it began a review of the Non Proliferation Treaty at the UN headquarters in New York.
Ahmadinejad blamed in his address the failure for global nuclear disarmament on the "policies and practices of certain states, as well as the inefficacy of the NPT and the imbalance that it curtails."
"Some” he went on to say, ”including the Zionist regime, have been equipped with nuclear arms, despite international measures to promote disarmament,"
"The Zionist regime too consistently threatens Middle Eastern countries with its nuclear arsenal," adding that the NPT signatories consider "any threat to use nuclear weapons or attack against peaceful nuclear facilities as a breach of international peace and security."
Both the United States and Israel have suggested the use of military force against Iranian nuclear facilities, which they allege are part of a covert nuclear weapons program. Iran denies pursuing nuclear weapons, insisting its nuclear ambitions are for peaceful electricity. The US says that by not being forthcoming about its nuclear ambitions Iran is becoming further isolated in the world community…
One
The sky was overcast and as dull as antique pewter. The occasional rain had fallen heaviest during the graveside service, pattering upon umbrellas. The rain lingered and glistened upon neighboring stones and awakened the autumn scent of wet grass, fallen leaves and pine.The day felt as deep and dark as the surrounding forest running almost unbroken along the Lake Superior shore west to Minnesota and east to Canada. That endless forest, spotted by hidden lakes, deeply troughed logging roads and cold rushing creeks was a blessing to the hearty souls of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a burden to the unaccustomed and punishing to those who failed to grant her ultimate respect. In the rain it felt like a lament, as if the land and sky and lake had joined in the grief of that tiny little cemetery in Marquette.
Doug Springer was last to leave the grave, pausing a moment to say one final goodbye to his wife of almost eighteen years. His daughters were ahead of him, nearly to the appropriately black Lincoln Town car provided by the funeral home. The funeral director, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited at the open door, offering the girls a sincere and sympathetic smile. Doug, tall enough in his own right, with neatly trimmed dark hair and stormy brown eyes was thinking about nothing more than getting out of the dark brown suit and into something less constrictive and funerary. He wanted to be alone with his grief and his thoughts. In this suit he felt like it was some sort of costume to the conventions of death.
And he worried about the girls even more. Megan and Dana had taken their mother’s death very differently. Megan, at sixteen, was the spitting image of her mother. Like Jane, she was athletic and slender, with shoulder length auburn hair and rich emerald eyes. She dreamed of following her father into journalism, and seemed to take all this with a deeper perspective by being there for her younger sister. Like her father she accepted the sense that nothing in life is fair. Dana, two years younger, with short dark hair and moody brown eyes, wore her grief as though she was victim of some eternal injustice. For her this was proof of some Karmic punishment for her father’s absence traipsing around the world all those years. She chafed at the feeling she was being punished for her father’s sins as well.
Between Doug and the girls, Arnie Hamlin stared off thought the trees, lost in thought. A cigarette burned slowly away in his fingers In a long black raincoat he was a silhouette against the sea of gravestones. Arnie, who had been editor of The Times of New York for going on thirteen years now, seemed fully out of place here, like he should be hailing a cab in Manhattan than in a lakeside cemetery in little Marquette, Michigan. Doug stopped when he reached Arnie, who came up and hook and arm in Doug’s. Together they walked slowly up to the waiting car.
“Take as much time as you need,” said Arnie, patting Doug’s forearm gently. “The paper will keep. But you’re a talent, Doug, and there’ll always be a place for you at The Times.”
Doug stopped. He drew a long breath and looked up into Arnie’s eyes. “I’m done.”
“Tough time, my friend. No pressure whatsoever.”
“Arnie, I appreciate that. I’m finished with dangerous overseas assignments. I’m done with being away for months at a time. When we invaded Iraq I didn’t see home for thirteen months. I’ve missed so much. I missed time with Jane, and I’ll never get that back. I want to see my daughters grow up. I want to make as much of those lost years as I can.”
Arnie nodded. “I won’t press the issue.”
“Thanks for that,” said Doug. “And thanks for coming all the way up here for the funeral. It really meant a great deal.”
They began to walk again. The girls were already in the car. Their public tears were over. Now they were just numb. Like Doug, tears would come in private.
“You were the best, Doug.” Arnie began again. “Both Gulf Wars, Afghanistan. You’re the only Western reporter the Iranians will talk to with any measure of respect. Hell, Doug, you’ve managed to go places and get stories in the Mideast most Western reporters would sell their mothers to get. You have a very rare talent.”
“Not much of a talent,” he replied. “I just try to be a good guest everywhere I go.”
Hamlin smiled wistfully, recalling the impossible days during the Iraqi Invasion. The flood of information, from wild and uncountable sources overwhelmed even the most seasoned and well-staffed newsrooms. It flowed in torrents, the true, the false, lies, confusion, an avalanche of images, endless streams of video, much of it without context was stunning. The paper hung on at enormous expense to its team journalists in the field. First among them Doug Springer was at the forefront of the invasion, calling in dispatches while rounds popped and shells burst all around. Fever was the only word that adequately described those wild and insane days. God, thought Arnie Hamlin, those were the days!
“Think I’ll work on that novel I’ve been tinkering with the last couple years.”
“A novel, huh?”
“safer that way,” Doug said. These days if you tell the truth and call it non-fiction people will sue ya.”
They stopped beside the car and shook hands. Arnie held Doug’s with both hands. “All right if I keep in contact?”
Doug nodded. “Hope so.”
He watched as Arnie walked slowly up the hill and through the gravestones. Doug let out a long deep breath. There was just too much to sort, and it was just too soon to try. He still had not taken the time to grieve, and knew the days and months ahead would be excruciatingly difficult for the girls Ana Doug wondered over the rest of his life. He wondered whether he could ever love again, or if he should. He watched Arnie walk away and wondered if he wasn’t watching the world walk away as well. Nor could he know that history and fate, and the hubris of men who believed they were stewards of either would soon find him again. For now there were the girls and his sorrow, which seemed like an impossible chasm to cross.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-seven
A billion and a half miles away, as the crow flies, a small dull gray ship sank through the dense methane clouds of Saturn’s moon Titan. It sank undetected through that thick twilight haze, settling in a small valley. Like a chameleon the ship shifted color to match perfectly the umber and brown landscape. It even mimicked the pale yellow and white patches of Methane snow.
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Titan was still a pretty primitive place. There were a few colonies, but mostly for bio-researchers. It was one of the few worlds environmental activists had succeeded in protecting from the exploitative aims of the Corporation. Life was just emerging there, crude as it was, mostly near warm volcanic vents. Indeed, the whole place was akin to some primordial soup. It was the perfect place for Thomas to regroup and plan the eventual takeover of the solar system…
To be continued…
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Fourth book in the challenge
Three down and two to go! Down to the wire now and I am definitely feeling the pressure.
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
The next book is n idea, and an additionl challenge from a buddy of mine, Reverend Steve Johnson of the Blue Sky Ministry in Chicago. Steve knew that I had more or less decided what I was going to write for the challenge, and decided a bit of a gentleman's wager was in order. He had come across an articale on Nano-technology and its application for war. Seemed like an interesting idea.
The story begins tomorrow. Ripped from today's headlines. The story is about a reporter, Doug Springer. Doug's trying to put his life back together after the death of his wife. Years away covering the Middle east has left him estranged from his two young dughters. But events half way around the world arrive at his door step when an Iranian diplomat with a terrible secret is murdered at his home. Framed for murder, as the world rushes hedlong towards war, Doug uncovers a terrible new weapon that will alter warfare and the world as we know it. Hunted at every turn by his own governmet and hired assassins Doug must rely on the help of a beutiful FBI agent to uncover the secret, save his daughters and head off all out war.
Can't wait to see how it comes out myself!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-six
Jazz dressed and went down to Skull boy’s pod. The door was open, and he could see the kid at the glass, mesmerized by the strange creatures of Europa’s hidden ocean. He paused before going in and checked his credit pod. Full payment. Skull boy’s mother had deposited the full amount into his account before the end. The old bird must have known, he thought. He almost felt bad for all the stuff he said to her. He almost felt bad. Well, that was that, he thought, switching off the credit pod. There was just one last detail to attend to.
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
God, the kid was hideous, Jasper thought. Skull boy’s oblong face was reflected in the glass, superimposed against the turquoise aquatic world. Shame that the only person who could stomach a look at the little snot was dead. It didn’t hardly seem fair. Jazz could see that the kid looked terribly sad.
“Thinkin’ about your mom, kid?”
The kid shook his head without looking at Jazz. “About what you’re thinking.”
“You can read minds too?’
He turned. “No, but I know you’re gonna get rid of me.”
“That’s a little harsh.” Jasper couldn’t bring himself to look at the kid. “For your own good.”
“I know,” he sighed, and sat heavily against the glass.
“You do?” Jazz knelt beside the boy.
“I’ll spend a couple years in a corporation orphanage on Uranus. I’ll be abused by a hybid named Moose. You don’t want to know how. When I’m military age they’ll ship me off to a unit on the frontier. We’re at war by then, maybe the worst anyone ever imagined. I’ll survive a massacre. That’s how the corporation learns of my secret, and they ship me off to some remote research facility for the rest of my life.”
“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “That’s not so bad, eh?”
The kid wasn’t buying it, that much Jazz could tell. It was all for the best though; for him, and for the kid. And why should Jasper feel guilty? He was Angry Jasper, not Papa Jasper, or Daddy Jasper, or Freeload Jasper, or Best Buddy Jasper. He was Angry Jasper, and that’ how he wanted to remain. None of this was his fault. But then if that was true then why did he feel like such a dick?
Skullboy’s eyes held his accusingly. They trapped him, and that pissed Jazz off to no end. T made him feel responsible. Like he owed the kid, or Madame - the deceased Madame - something beyond the simple tenants of their initial contract. All he had agreed to do was rescue the kid from Chicago and return him home. Hell, he had already done far more than he had to. It wasn’t Jasper’s fault that the Earth blew up, smashing the wheel and his mom to bits.
So what if Jazz had come to like the kid? Skull boy kind of grew on a body, like an ugly little mole that you just sort of picked at, and then felt bad when it fell off finally. But it wasn’t about liking or not liking a damn thing. Jazz was a loner, a freighter trash kid who wore a broken heart on one sleeve (The one he led with in a fight), with a chip on his shoulder that would crush most folks, and who wore regret like a suit of armor. What the hell would he do with a kid?
“It’s really for the better,” said Jazz, feeling as though he was trying to convince himself as much as the kid. “You had nice home. You don’t want to traipse around space with the likes of me. Don’t you have an uncle, a grandparent, something somewhere?”
“Nobody.” Skull boy lay back on the floor. He curled into a ball, covering that ugly damn head. It cut through Jazz’ cold and bitter heart like a knife. Jazz stood and paced the room for a moment, wanting to shout or bust something. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Skull boy. He’d said something, and in all the emotion Jazz nearly missed it.
“What did you say about a war?”
“An alien invasion,” the kid’s reply was muted and dejected. “They overrun the frontiers, blah, blah, blah.”
Jasper knelt beside Skull boy, alarmed. “You’re not pulling my chain?”
“Why would I?”
“So when does this invasion… from where, how long?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thomas, survived?”
.”He rises through the Corporation and opens the frontier for a full fledged invasion.”
Jazz stood and backed away from the kid. He pressed his hands against the glass and found it cold.
“Thomas?” he said, more to himself that to the kid. He turned back to Skull boy. “And you’re certain he didn’t die on Earth?”
Skull boy shrugged. “I get the feeling he didn’t.”
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Angry Jasper: Fifty-five
Kate fell back against the pillow and tussled sheets with a satisfied groan. Her arms and legs were still tangled in Jasper’s. For a moment they both wallowed in their post-coital bliss. Jazz was spent, but these few hours of uninhibited passion with Katy managed to sweep away the abuse of the last several days.
Their naked bodies were bathed in the blue green light of Europa’s subterranean ocean. They lay together in the softly lit pod as strange and beautiful creatures swam by. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat of their lovemaking. Her musky perfume enveloped him, and for the first time in a long while Jazz almost felt like he was home, whatever that meant.
Kate had managed to retrieve some of the unclaimed credits to her account. With a little help from Jazz she had purchased a new ship. The question was now where would she go. There was just too much to think about. For the moment it was enough to simply enjoy being close to Jazz.
“Well,” she stretched, “the earth was destroyed and millions of souls lost, but I got a new ship and got laid, so that’s something.”
“What about you and me?” Jazz said, groggily.
Katy scoffed. She wasn’t at all sure what she would do now, but she was certain of one thing. “You and me? We’d kill each other.”
“Why the hell would you say something so stupid?”
“Because you fail to comprehend the obvious, brain donor!”
“Witch!”
“Dickless!”
“Sow!” Jazz groaned. He had gone too far with that one. He wanted to take it back, but it was far too late. She grabbed his hairy nipple and twisted it hard. Jazz yelped with pain and smacked her hand away. He rolled out of bed and retreated to the other side of the pod. Kate glared at him.
“That;s for being such a shit!” she snarled.
Jazz laughed. He laughed so damn hard that his sides ached.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “We’d kill each other.”
She scooted from the bed and went to him. He gently touched her flushed face. Kate’s lips were soft and moist against his. She sighed with pleasure as he held her tight. There was a forlorn look on his face. He just looked so sad and lost. Kate’s heart went out to him.
“Don’t be a pussie,” she said.
He nodded and looked away at some dumb lumbering sea creature against the pod. Its sucker was trying to devour the pod before moving on.
“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.
“Told you, Jazz, you’re the best lay I ever had.”
That was the last thing he said to her. She turned and wrapped a sheet around her naked body. Jazz only nodded as she left the pod. He went to the bed. The memory of their passion was written in the swirled and crumpled sheets. There was still the depression in the pillow where her head had been. He breathed deeply, taking as much of her that still remained in the room before it was filtered away.
“Yeah, the best.”
Their naked bodies were bathed in the blue green light of Europa’s subterranean ocean. They lay together in the softly lit pod as strange and beautiful creatures swam by. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat of their lovemaking. Her musky perfume enveloped him, and for the first time in a long while Jazz almost felt like he was home, whatever that meant.
Kate had managed to retrieve some of the unclaimed credits to her account. With a little help from Jazz she had purchased a new ship. The question was now where would she go. There was just too much to think about. For the moment it was enough to simply enjoy being close to Jazz.
“Well,” she stretched, “the earth was destroyed and millions of souls lost, but I got a new ship and got laid, so that’s something.”
“What about you and me?” Jazz said, groggily.
Katy scoffed. She wasn’t at all sure what she would do now, but she was certain of one thing. “You and me? We’d kill each other.”
“Why the hell would you say something so stupid?”
“Because you fail to comprehend the obvious, brain donor!”
“Witch!”
“Dickless!”
“Sow!” Jazz groaned. He had gone too far with that one. He wanted to take it back, but it was far too late. She grabbed his hairy nipple and twisted it hard. Jazz yelped with pain and smacked her hand away. He rolled out of bed and retreated to the other side of the pod. Kate glared at him.
“That;s for being such a shit!” she snarled.
Jazz laughed. He laughed so damn hard that his sides ached.
“You’re right,” he conceded. “We’d kill each other.”
She scooted from the bed and went to him. He gently touched her flushed face. Kate’s lips were soft and moist against his. She sighed with pleasure as he held her tight. There was a forlorn look on his face. He just looked so sad and lost. Kate’s heart went out to him.
“Don’t be a pussie,” she said.
He nodded and looked away at some dumb lumbering sea creature against the pod. Its sucker was trying to devour the pod before moving on.
“Will I ever see you again?” he asked.
“Told you, Jazz, you’re the best lay I ever had.”
That was the last thing he said to her. She turned and wrapped a sheet around her naked body. Jazz only nodded as she left the pod. He went to the bed. The memory of their passion was written in the swirled and crumpled sheets. There was still the depression in the pillow where her head had been. He breathed deeply, taking as much of her that still remained in the room before it was filtered away.
“Yeah, the best.”
Angry Jasper: Fifty-four
“Hey, kids, we’re home,” Jazz announced, more to himself than to anyone else. It felt sort of homey seeing everyone that way. The others stirred reluctantly. Kate pulled herself from the tangle of arms and legs. Skull boy groaned and turned over in the hammock. Buzz was content with a moment’s peace and quiet. Kate pulled underwear from the crack of her ass and came up behind Jazz. She looked out at the growing moon before them. It filled the ship with a heavenly golden light. She ran her hands across Jasper’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Died,” she said with a groan and stretched out her sore back. In fact her whole body had taken one hell of a beating, and she was feeling it now.
“Miss anything?”
“Naw,” he replied. “Pretty smooth. You guys were sacked out.”
“First real sleep in some time.”
“Wanna wake ‘em?”
“Naw. Let ‘em go.”
Jazz nodded and smiled to himself. “Gotta say, it’s kind of nice, havin’ a full house, so to speak.”
Kate looked back and mused, almost lamented. “About the closest we ever had to a real family.”
There was more traffic now. Freighters and supply ships came and went from the huge methane harvesters floating among Jupiter’s tumultuous cloud layers. They were closer to Europa than to the great gas giant, but still it dominated the view with it’s terrific size. They were already passing around to the dark side of the planet. Stunning aurora patterns were replaced my monumental flashes of bright blue-white lightening. Jupiter never failed to amaze Jazz.
“What about the kid?” asked Kate..” Got no home, no parents anymore.”
“Shame,” he joked. “Well, reckon I’ll have to kill him then.”
Kate smacked the back of his head for such an awful remark. She didn’t let him see the smile on her face. After all, it was a jerk thing to say, but it was funny.
On one of the console screens was a small schematic of the solar system that showed their trajectory from Earth. The planets were completely out of scale of course, but where the Earth once was there was merely a number dots. A single disk, an orphaned moon, drifted among the debris of the world. Katy touched the screen as though she could feel them. The word left her lips like a sudden horrible realization.
“All those millions of souls,” she lamented, “snuffed out in an instant.”
Jazz hadn’t cared much for the place, and thought the end of that crap-heap of a planet was long overdue. He didn’t though sat it, knowing full well that Katy had left a part of herself there. He was a space kid, and never felt anything in particular for Earth, but for Kate it would always be home. For once he didn’t cram his foot in his mouth and suck hard on it.
“Sure sucks,” he said.
Katy frowned, though Jazz couldn’t see. It was a dumb remark, but she wouldn’t bust his chops over it. At least he was trying. In fact, except for remarks about her physical attributes and certain sexual talents over the years, it was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. She rubbed the back of his head.
“Yeah, Jazz, it sure does.”
Racing around the planet at close to 20,000 miles per hour jazz had to speed up a little to catch the icy little moon. Europa was a stark and inhospitable world, at least on the surface. Deep ridges cut across a broken landscape of frozen ice flows, scarred by craters being slowly reclaimed by Europa’s ever-changing surface. With the same face blasted continuously by Jupiter’s lethal radiation, all the portals through the Icy crust lay on the dark side of the moon. They were large steel and concrete tubes and channels cutting through miles of dust and pulverized space debris. Each opened into a subterranean ocean fifty miles deep. Clustered around each portal, like grapes on a dark and watery vine, were dozens of little colonies. It was the perfect place to hide.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Died,” she said with a groan and stretched out her sore back. In fact her whole body had taken one hell of a beating, and she was feeling it now.
“Miss anything?”
“Naw,” he replied. “Pretty smooth. You guys were sacked out.”
“First real sleep in some time.”
“Wanna wake ‘em?”
“Naw. Let ‘em go.”
Jazz nodded and smiled to himself. “Gotta say, it’s kind of nice, havin’ a full house, so to speak.”
Kate looked back and mused, almost lamented. “About the closest we ever had to a real family.”
There was more traffic now. Freighters and supply ships came and went from the huge methane harvesters floating among Jupiter’s tumultuous cloud layers. They were closer to Europa than to the great gas giant, but still it dominated the view with it’s terrific size. They were already passing around to the dark side of the planet. Stunning aurora patterns were replaced my monumental flashes of bright blue-white lightening. Jupiter never failed to amaze Jazz.
“What about the kid?” asked Kate..” Got no home, no parents anymore.”
“Shame,” he joked. “Well, reckon I’ll have to kill him then.”
Kate smacked the back of his head for such an awful remark. She didn’t let him see the smile on her face. After all, it was a jerk thing to say, but it was funny.
On one of the console screens was a small schematic of the solar system that showed their trajectory from Earth. The planets were completely out of scale of course, but where the Earth once was there was merely a number dots. A single disk, an orphaned moon, drifted among the debris of the world. Katy touched the screen as though she could feel them. The word left her lips like a sudden horrible realization.
“All those millions of souls,” she lamented, “snuffed out in an instant.”
Jazz hadn’t cared much for the place, and thought the end of that crap-heap of a planet was long overdue. He didn’t though sat it, knowing full well that Katy had left a part of herself there. He was a space kid, and never felt anything in particular for Earth, but for Kate it would always be home. For once he didn’t cram his foot in his mouth and suck hard on it.
“Sure sucks,” he said.
Katy frowned, though Jazz couldn’t see. It was a dumb remark, but she wouldn’t bust his chops over it. At least he was trying. In fact, except for remarks about her physical attributes and certain sexual talents over the years, it was one of the nicest things he’d ever said to her. She rubbed the back of his head.
“Yeah, Jazz, it sure does.”
Racing around the planet at close to 20,000 miles per hour jazz had to speed up a little to catch the icy little moon. Europa was a stark and inhospitable world, at least on the surface. Deep ridges cut across a broken landscape of frozen ice flows, scarred by craters being slowly reclaimed by Europa’s ever-changing surface. With the same face blasted continuously by Jupiter’s lethal radiation, all the portals through the Icy crust lay on the dark side of the moon. They were large steel and concrete tubes and channels cutting through miles of dust and pulverized space debris. Each opened into a subterranean ocean fifty miles deep. Clustered around each portal, like grapes on a dark and watery vine, were dozens of little colonies. It was the perfect place to hide.
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