Without Significance

People don't die anymore the way they used to.

It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.

Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.

The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.

A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.

His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.

His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.

On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.

No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.

Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.

It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.

I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.

The Gods of Babel - "Prologue"

Well, since some people seem to be interested in it, I've decided to put up the first "scene," which takes place at a local bar in northern Canada mid-December and introduces the main character, Diana. Not too bad a start, I think. :)

The plot centers around a small group of unrelated people around the world who are born for the sole purpose of attempting to salvage humanity for the Creator Gods, particularly the Mayan God Alom. They are just unassuming individuals, and all were born on December 21, 2012, when the world was meant to change. One of them is Diana, who plays the Greek Goddess Artemis (and is the only one with an obvious name heh). Anyways, that's what's up in a very simplified way. Enjoy our little endeavor--I won't post more unless you want me/us to and simply can't wait for the comic :D

________________________________________________________________

INT.LOCAL BAR.NIGHT

The first page opens on a local bar scene late at night. The small bar is strewn with a string of thin white and blue lights, it's only attempt at festive decorations. A few of the usual alcoholic crowd sit hunched at the bar over empty glasses, and a close couple sit quietly in the corner. JACOB the bartender, a burly capable man with the chiseled appearance of an unkempt lumberer, stands cleaning glasses as he chats up a few of the regulars. One customer looks as if he might have once been an average guy, fit and with a neat sort of air, but his face is dotted with stubble and his eyes are bleary and red. He seems to have something important to say, yet avoids saying it and lapses into other things. He stares into a half-empty mug of stale coffee.

Customer

So I guess that's it, then, eh?

JACOB

(turning to him) What's that?

CUSTOMER

I said I guess that's it.

JACOB

What is?

There's a brief pause.

CUSTOMER

I guess there's really nothing else, is there? I mean...now that she's gone n' all. Not much point to it, is there?

JACOB

Hey, now. You quit that talk. Drink your coffee. S'been a long day.

CUSTOMER

Yeah...

He obeys and gulps down the last half with his head tilted back, expressionless. A small gold cross can be seen on a chain around his neck. He turns to Jacob, but doesn't meet his eyes.

CUSTOMER

You believe in God, Jac-Jac?

JACOB

Well...yeah, I suppose. Course I do. Just like most folks....You?

CUSTOMER

Nah...not really. (smirking grimly) Just like most folks.

JACOB

Go home, Bern.

CUSTOMER

Gotta pay still--

JACOB

Don't worry about it.

He stands obligingly, swaying in place as if forgetting where he is for a moment, then pulls on a bulky parka and starts to head out.

JACOB

Go get you some sleep, Bern. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise. Want to see you bright n' early tomorrow at the yard. Alright?

Bern, the customer, smiles lopsidedly, unconvincingly.

CUSTOMER

Yeah, sure.

He leaves, walking out into the dark snow storm outside. Jacob shakes his head with a sigh, beginning to pick up the multiple glasses left behind and wipe down the bar.

DIANA watches him a few feet away, also at the bar, hunched over a single glass and whiskey. She's a fit woman, but not in any especially feminine manner. Her shoulders are broad as a man's and her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back under a woven gray beanie. She swirls her drink idly and sips.

JACOB

I just don't know about that guy anymore, Di.

DIANA

(disinterested) What did you expect? The guy lost his wife on the highway.

JACOB

So did Adrien. He lost his little girl, too, in the pileup. Still manages to come to service, at the very least.

Diana smirks, sliding down towards him.

DIANA

Don't think it helps much. Didn't do shit for me, I know that much. You can go to all the sermons, but they don't really say anything useful unless you're about to crucify your kid or build a gold cow on a cliff someplace.

JACOB

Damn, what's got into you all lately? All this talk of death, it's all I hear these days.

DIANA

Just life. You know how it is.

JACOB

I sure hope not.

He looks out the window at the blizzard.

JACOB

What d'you think the odds are that he hangs himself tonight, eh?

DIANA

(shrugging) Dunno. 'Pends on if he can find a place to do it. I'd say drowning's more likely.

JACOB

(exasperatedly) Di! Come on, have a heart, why don't you. Just a little faith... You're supposed to say you don't think he'd do that sort of thing. You know, like normal folk would.

DIANA

What? Just speculating. You asked.

Jacob "humphs" and ignores her, knowing she's won, as usual, and Diana knows it too as she sips at her drink and smirks at him through the bottom of the clear glass.

JACOB

So you don't think there's a God either anymore, eh?

DIANA

Who knows? Who cares? Far as I'm concerned, I'll figure it out when it matters, right? Maybe it's one of those things you're not supposed to know. Makes sense.

JACOB

Yeah, I guess. To each their own. I'd like to think there's somethin' waiting up there after everything.

DIANA

Like you said, to each their own. Endless blackness doesn't sound all that bad to me. Better than some loony old guy sitting in a cloud staring me down all day.

She smiles empathically at him, though, and Jacob returns it with some sadness. Diana stands with a yawn and slides a $20 bill from her back pocket onto the counter. She shrugs on a worn gray-orange parka and pulls the hat down further on her head.

DIANA

Be seeing you. Tell your wife merry Christmas.

JACOB

Yeah, I'll do that. Take care, Diana.

She doesn't answer, already heading out the door, but waves a hand in the air in good humor. Her dark bulky figure disappears into the snow and night.

More Poetry--Grave

Whoo, more poetry. This was basically just to write something. I couldn't get the last three lines out of my head the past few days. Not my best work, but it works :)

_______________________________________________________________________

Grave

If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.

And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.

Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?

Poetry?!?

Yup, after nearly seven months I've finally written a new poem. Crazy madness. For being so out of practice, it's not too bad :) Partially (vaguely) inspired by Watchmen. Read away.
________________________________

Specters Black

At midnight in the city,
All the dark and tattered men
Play poker in the corners
And hold close their jars of gin.
They plot dark things in slick black tongues,
They stare like dazed lost sheep,
Pass packages beneath the slab
And watch him take the leap.
A poor man down the street cries out,
He says, “The Specters haunt.”
He doesn’t understand his needs,
But thinks he knows his wants.
He wants to drink and throw his cards,
To play their vicious games;
He wants the world to be his own
And wants to live in shame--
Not this life, this worthless thing,
A new thing, all it’s own,
A living thing in shadowed night
That will not stand alone.
He lies awake each night and day
And watches Specters black,
Longing for a place with them
And the vices that he lacks.

Chapter II - Part 2

Yup, decided to post it. Thought it had some good bits of prose, if nothing else, and couldn't bear not putting it up :) It's not much, and doesn't add a whole lot as far as important goings-on, but hope you enjoy all the same. I was going to do an entire scene between the two, but really what would be the point? Maybe if a "final copy" (lol) ever manifests itself out of oblivion, I'll elaborate on it. until then, enjoy :)

Also--*does a happy dance*--I self-congratulate myself on finally getting to 10,ooo words :D Yay!

Anyways, happy reading (^,^)

WORD COUNT: 1,763
TOTAL: 10, 470
_________________________________________________________________

It was raining by the time Jacky was making her way out from beneath the shadows of the city that loomed behind like those of angry giants. Thick drops pelted against the rounded glass, forming rivulets and craters that disappeared and reformed with each strike as the droner sped away above the smoothly planned magnetic curves of a silent and invisible road. The trees below swayed and groaned like lost drunks along the narrowing road, rustling with the passing of each scarce vehidrone that cut through the twilit air, unheard and ignored.

Jacky watched the raindrops slide from their craters along the sleek glass and pass by in streaking comets on either side of her. Her arms crossed against her chest, and her dark mossy eyes seemed vague, narrowed in thought. A strange quick beat was playing over the pinpoint speakers, and electronic tones soon accompanied it. It reminded Jacky of a low-budget but interesting performance she’d attended years ago. “Neo-Asiatic,” she remembered. The performance had been surprisingly well-played, but she recalled the music and grimaced briefly. Not quite her taste, she guessed.

A sudden and annoyed sigh flew from her lips like hard wind coming through an open door as she ran a quick hand through her short black hair and fell back limp and tired in her seat, staring at the blackening fields beyond the window.

In fifteen years, she had probably lived more than millions of people (more worthy people) had in their entire lives combined, most of whom she probably met along the way. They were the little guys, the poor and starving chaps, the abused Third World countrywomen, the children with bubbles in their bellies and clear dreams in their heads amidst the nightmares of the day. Luck brought Jacky out of her own little hellish home and luck brought her too to the people that shared a history with her, the people that made her happiest. They shared families and siblings and cousins, shared money and the lack thereof, shared the hard times and the harsh world, shared hopes and dreams (both the full and the broken), and, soon enough, she shared all the words to express all the things. When she saw their smiles--their untreated, unbreakable, undisguised smiles--it was her smile too, and it was just another simple thing they shared. So many others that Jacky now saw every day found their dreams and deserted them, found love in the people or in art or poetry and left those all behind for a high-paying job and a high-flying life without the real highs; Jacky found it in all these things, though, and in all the places it could be found, and for that, if for nothing else, she was eternally thankful.

It had been years since the last of those smiling faces disappeared into the backdrop of mislaid villages and ramshackle huts. Now they were replaced with the harsh and humorless people Jacky had unwillingly and unhappily grown up with--old starch-collared little buggers sitting in offices in big red leather chairs with a pen in one hand and a mandate in the other. No love in their hearts, or at least there wasn’t anymore. It’d been given away somewhere along the line, wasted on some pitiful creature and lost for good in some dark corner, evaporated into bitterness. Over time, that bitterness and wasted love began to consume Jacky too, and put strange lines in places they shouldn‘t be, made her lips thinner and harsher and her sometimes smiles fleeting, while behind the fluid sea-green of her eyes the liquid memories danced in monochrome.

In a world that no longer allowed room for pride in mediocrity, Jacky knew she had to find work high and fast, something that suited her proficient talents that also paid well. For several years the only job available that fit at least one of those descriptions was working as a tourist translator for hire nearly anywhere that would accept her. The pay was low but a cut above average, which was good enough for a while but didn’t amount to being worth the aches and pains and rare happiness it yielded. However, friends in low places do occasionally keep friends in high places, and in the case of her sixth and closest employer, those friends happened to be extremely high up. A government job loomed dead ahead, and although working as a government official sat dead last in Jacky’s list of prospective occupations, the infrequent logic in her mind forced her to take the job all the same, and at least attempt to keep it. For over a year she did more than simply attempt that, taking every translating job she was offered and letting the much-needed and welcomed cash flow into her paychecks. Soon, meager translating spots at long and inconclusive international meetings for dying languages used by dying countries turned to a post at the very head of it all, and that was just fine with Jacky. Traveling was what she was after in the end, and if sticking to tight schedules and dealing with moronic tight-lipped businessmen lead to the places she missed the most, well, that was just fine too.

It was the foreign affairs in her own country that drove her back to the streets she once inhabited to fight the good fight. No amount of duty or responsibility could keep her from speaking out against the very government she, in part, represented. After what seemed a hundred arguments, petitions, and even pleas and threats, Jacky saw no other way but to rally. Maybe they’d listen with a peace army a thousand strong at her back.

Evidently they had. And, evidently, they hadn’t liked it in the least.

Cynics passed along rumors of black bags and memory wiping and remote prisons, and Jacky was admittedly among them at times, but as with any rumor she never fully believed or found proof of such things. They were myth, as far as she could tell. The simple imaginings of cowards, mostly. But Jacky knew from experience that even the most profuse rumors and stories were founded within some unspeakable truth. The fact of the matter was that people created false fears to cover for the simple and ever crueler true ones. And government agents from other countries sending people thousands of miles away on a whim “just to talk” didn’t sound like much of a safe carefree trip to Jacky.

“Operata’.” Jacky leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. A quiet chime sounded from somewhere in the droner’s console as a thin blank holoscreen slowly climbed its way out. “Call Robbie,” she continued, rubbing two fingers at her temple lightly.

“Is this an urgent call?” the faceless monitor asked in its best comforting electronically concerned blonde secretary voice, reading the quick thumping of Jacky’s pulse as urgency.

“No…no, s’not urgent,” Jacky answered after a moment, and suddenly she delt so old and tired and worn as she spoke and kneaded her temples. “Just put me through, eh?”

“Please wait.” All concern gone. Bloody machines. The screen glowed faintly and a old-fashioned ring sounded over the connection. It rang four times before a picture finally came up.

At first, the screen showed nothing but a familiar earthy living room, brown leather couches and green glass lamps in the corners and a messy combination of children’s fairytales, political biographies, and coffee-stained yesterday’s newspapers warring for places on the maple coffee table. A shadow moved off screen and to the side. Someone was speaking, indiscernible, and someone was answering--“Well, alright, fine,”--and a pair of arms picked up a tiny blue-eyed child from the side. Finally, Robbie sat before the screen, wearing a genuine but weary smile as he sat the little blonde on his knee. He wasn’t often a tired or frustrated man, and never felt or looked as old as he was, which was a good sum of years older than Jacky and more than the she could ever boast, but he was indeed a serious profundity in a world of lackluster carbon-copy-Kafkas sitting in shady downtown café’s snapping their fingers to the rhythmic raps of new age music while boasting a steady supply of 1984 and Brave New World and all the rest. Robbie wasn't any of these things, preferring his own plain study and a library full of hard substance to the rather Gothic Bohemian life he could have (and perhaps once had) lived.

“Jacky,” he started, his voice a deep and precise baritone. The smile slipped from his face briefly as he adjusted the girl squirming in his lap, but it flittered up again without fail. “Jacky, it’s a bit late for calls, isn’t it?”

“Ah…sorry, Robbie,” she answered slowly and could tell by the way the auburn haired man peered at her through half-moon glasses that she must have looked must worse off than she’d hoped she would.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well…to be short with it, I do believe I’m in a spot of trouble, mate.”

“Do you need money?” Always the first question. To most, it would seem an insult, but between them it was the best possible trouble Jacky could be in.

Consequently, she shook her head, humorless.

Robbie watched her a long moment. “Lacy, go see your mum,” he whispered to the child, planting a swift dismissing kiss on her golden head before setting her down.

“Something bigger, then?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah…yeah, I think so.” Jacky looked apologetic. Robbie only looked worried, as usual, graying eyebrows converging with the lines in his face and a thin frown replaced the weary smile. “Listen…I don’t know what’s going t’happen yet. Just feelings, mostly. Two agents told me at the gov’ I needed to leave for ‘Merica, quick as ya like. And…I just needed t’talk, I guess. Heavy stuff, mate.”

“Quite,” came the thoughtful reply. “Come as soon as you can make it.”

“Right ‘round the bend.”

A nod. “Be careful, sis.”

A smile. “Always am.”

The screen went blank then and began it‘s descent into the console once more, leaving Jacky staring into the black rain around her. A line of yellow lights flitted like bulging fireflies in the darkness beyond the trees. Her eyes dimmed and blurred behind guilt-laden lids.

“Always am.”

Chapter 2 - Part 1?

Well...this is really really lame (in my opinion), so sorry for that much, Sara. At least your character came out alright, considering the shitty chapter she had to work with :o

Anyways, this is the first half and possibly end of Chapter 2, simply because I'm tired of trying to think of something to write for this part. Beginnings are oh so dull...

Just in case it isn't very clear, Jacky does in fact work for the government, but is also a fairly well-known political activist. It's not explained in detail here, but there's a war going on in China at the moment, which is why Australia has closed its borders to everyone and is working to deport everyone it can, and this is what Jacky is fighting against at the moment and what they're discussing in this scene. Just to clarify a little :)

I'm going to attempt to finish the whole thing, but don't count on it. Maybe I'll just move on and write a second part later if I think I still need to :) But, onward the reading for you, friends. Hopefully thine eyes shan't burn afterwards :P

WORD COUNT: 2610
TOTAL: 8707
__________________________________

CHAPTER II
ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

He sat in his red leather chair, surrounded by the false and polished paneled wood adorned with at least a dozen matching glass-imprisoned off-white certificates, each aligned perfectly with the rest in their matching chestnut-colored frames. White wisps of ghostly hair lay caring plastered to a pale scalp, which was beginning to sprout miniscule dark spots from the sun and, of course, from age. Upon his nose--which hung with an unsightly favor of the left side of his face--sat a pair of authentic glass spectacles, perfect clear circles embedded in glistening wire that bent the world in strange old ways. The pale eyes that hide behind the lenses gazed down at the file he held in his hands, thick gray brows knitted in focus. Across from him, in an identical red leather seat, sat an infinitely younger woman, thin and sprightly even in her temporary seated prison. Her leg jittered noticeably as she sat, silent and restrained, but only barely, and her vibrant aqua eyes danced around the room at will, leaving nothing untouched by their gaze.

This must be the biggest waste of time I’ve ever had t’spend, she thought bitterly, her irritability manifesting in the involuntary gnawing of her bottom lip. Finally her gaze stopped and held on the man before her. Must be at least a hundred. Slow as a buggy in ‘Cember, for sure.

As if the look could slowly burn, the man looked up from the file and instead peered at her, as a scientist might peer into the lense of a microscope: closely but without much interest. He spoke. “Miss Thomas,” he began, pulling the glasses off his nose and folding them in a slow and practiced motion before setting them carefully on the desk in front of him. “I won’t waste time in telling you exactly why you’re here. I’m certain you already know that much. What concerns me though, and concerns us all, really, is your constant disregard and disrespect for the basic principles of our branch.”

“And what, if I dare ask, might those be?” the woman answered, swinging the leg to the floor that had been jittering impatiently on the other. She leaned her palms on both knees, leering now. “Unquestioning acceptance and deafness to any opinion but daddy-king’s? If that’s what this gov’ment stands for, then with all respect, Sir…I see no reason t’pologize.”

“And we’re not asking you to,” he responded in the reassuring manner that constantly followed in his voice and annoyed Jacky endlessly. “We like to see our people out in the real world, doing good for the rest. It’s simply your manner, Miss Thomas. You can’t be an open and proud contributor of this government while you’re out telling illegals to run us down. It’s…not good for business, so to speak.”

“Selling politics, eh? Thought politics acted to protect the people, not t’shun ‘em.”

“They are not our people,” the old man responded emphatically, rapping his knuckles against the desk. “They don’t belong here, Jacqueline. They haven’t for a very, very long time and it isn’t going to change anytime soon. No one wants that to change. They like the way it is now. If we take the same route America did centuries ago, letting everyone in the floodgates for free, the Aussie Republic will be nothing but a cesspool filled with loons and criminals and God knows.”

“Doesn’t change the fact it’s wrong. Discrimination pure n’ simple, that is. You’re destroying human rights because a few men in some room away from reality thinks the Chinksees aren’t worth a damn and have no use in this country, so I guess that means everyone bail out, eh?.”

“There’s a war, for Chrissakes. The people are worried. We don’t need the bombin’s and hackin’s that the rest of Britain’s seen. Don’t want our enemies crawlin’ in under the sheets with us.” He paused when Jacqueline didn’t seem to respond right away, and sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose where the glasses normally sat. “Look. I like you, Jacky, really. I like to think I’m on you’re side. But I’m not the one in charge of this. There are people higher up than I that are talking of getting’ rid of you altogether--no compensation, no standing, nothing. They want to sweep this under the rug and deny that you have anything to do with us. I want to help you. I think you can do some good from the inside. The people are looking for someone young and fresh and vigorous as you to trust. But I need you to cooperate. You can’t do the old ralls and the public speeches anymore. Just…let it go for a tad, hmm?”

“So ya expect me to simply go and ignore ‘em from now on, eh? Just go along with all this shonky bizzo? Act like it’s a perfect thing to strip innocents of their rights?”

“Don’t be dramatic. Sit down. Come.”

Jacky glared, the heat in her veins surging through her, but she obeyed.

The old man leered back through his lightly steepled fingers where they were suspended above the desk. He sighed once more, letting his wrinkled hands fall back onto the folder he had been holding earlier. He didn’t move it, barely touched it even, fingertips just grazing the manila cover. “Jacky…I have a feeling that this will not be last you’ll hear of this little problem, and I can almost guarantee that this will be the last conversation on the matter that will go smoothly for you. So…I have a proposition for you--an offer--before you lose your job and end up on the streets.”

Jacky breathed deeply, staring into him. It was a game, really, seeing how much strain the other could take simply by the connection of a gaze, and it was a game that Jacky often played and often won. This time, though, she simply didn’t have the care to try. She bent her head downwards briefly, as if summing herself up, building herself, then focused once more. “Fine. I’ll hear it.”

A smile, genuine if light. “Good. Very good.” Now his surprisingly deft hands picked up the folder and flipped through several papers and official documents before finding one he apparently needed. “About a week ago, a few men came to see me about hiring an interpreter, someone who knew the languages well and knew many, but also knew their limits. I sent them back, then. You’d been doing so well of late, I didn’t have the heart to simply ship you off someplace.”

“What someplace?” she asked, growing more impatient. So far this offer didn’t sound too promising.

“The men were from the United States. From ISAS, actually, so really the where doesn’t matter entirely.” Here he paused, watching the disinterest in Jacqueline’s features fade into a momentary confusion which gave way to the just slightly raised brows and relaxation that showed the faintest interest.

“ISAS?” Jacky repeated, a disbelieving smirk bending her lips. “As in, the ISAS? The space program? Why in bloody God’s name would they want me? I don’t know a damn thing about astronomy or…physics, or what-all they do. Sure they can find someone better at the Confederate Nations or…something.”

“They were looking for a very good interpreter, a linguistic expert, who could speak a language soon as learn it. They were looking for the best, dear lass, and I think they wanted you in particular.”

“Oh, come off it.” She seemed angry now, livid even as she lunged forward in her chair, much as she tried to conceal it. It dawned on the man that she thought he was lying, bulling his way into getting her leave early, leave less paperwork for him to fill out in the end. “You really think they wanted me? Political activist who has a job as a translator on some forgetful little tourism tinny and just happens t’work for the Auss’gov? What is this, eh? Are you that desperate t’get me off y’back?”

“Sit down!”

She promptly sat.

There was another slow silence, filled with the tension that silences often accompanied. Another slow sigh followed and broke it.

Outside, a black vehidrone pulled to the gray slab curb, its engines drawling lazily amidst the noise of a thousand other speeding droners, cutting the air like sharks in invisible hazy waters. Their shadows moved as cloudy dark bullets on the smooth street, casting a fluid pattern on the solid black titanium of the vehicle below. Two men exited. Their faces held nothing in them, and the full black sunglasses they wore showed nothing but the reflections before them. It seemed a veil shrouded them both as they made their deliberate way into the large federal building, sparing no glances for the rippling Ionian columns that extended far on either side of the entrance. They passed without notice from anyone but the retinal scanner as they entered, and the vehidrone was gone in moments.

An old balding man and a sprightly young woman sat within a sad and heavy silence in a wood paneled office twelve stories above.

“Jacky--”

“Mr. Bronson.”

A level stare.

“Jacky, listen. I don’t know what they want you for, and I don’t pretend to. But you can’t stay here. Either way you choose you can’t stay here. Do you understand?” Something in his voice made her listen, and slowly she began to realize she had just lost a job that many would kill for. Strangely, though, she didn’t regret the decisions that had led to it. So much had happened since she’d left her home in a dying Cairns to find her own way, a way that passed through countries she had scarcely dared to dream of and that had led her all the way to Sydney, fighting for friend and countryman. At the same time, she knew this might have been the best--maybe the only--means of making a real impact. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t the only one.

She barely noticed the holoscreen light up behind her. A blonde woman in a tight blue suit, older than Jacky but only just, bulged from the screen. Her eyes were blue and empty.

“Mr. Bronson, two agents are here to speak with you. Should I send them?”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll see them now.”

“Yes, sir.”

The holoscreen faded out into blank silence and again lay in dormant blackness.

“Is that them?” Jacky asked needlessly. If what Bronson had said was true, of course it was. Agents were only sent on matters of strict business, generally of the federal government sort and often on the darker side of that.

“Its just a short trip to the United States. A day or two at the most. I’ve already arranged everything for you. Transport leaves in a few hours.”

“Just like that? Guess you really do want rid o’ me, eh?” Jacky hoped the sarcasm and wry smirk covered the hurt that clouded her heart then.

Three quick and even knocks rapped gently against the wood panel door that blended seamlessly into the corner of the room.

“Come.”

The door slid open. Two men in identical stiff black suits entered, their identical true-black sunglasses tucked safely into identical breast pockets. They regarded Jacky momentarily, almost simultaneously, then focused on Bronson once more. Both stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, like scientists inspecting a prospective new breakthrough in a long-unrevealing testing trial. Jacky stood tall and strong, but felt suddenly smaller within, as if everything inside was shrinking beneath a solid outer shell.

“We are here regarding the message that was sent forward on the collection of a Miss Jacqueline Loraine Thomas to be traveling to Seattle, Washington by Intercontinental Air Transportation Services later this evening.”

“Won‘t even give me the option t‘think on it?” Again the two agents turned to her, summing her up. Not what they had expected perhaps. Jacky didn’t bother to notice if their young faces twitched with electrical surprise. She never put much stock in the emotions of clockwork vessels. “Sorry, good sahs, but I’ve other plans this aft. Things t’do and the like. Places t‘go.” She grinned at the two agents as she stood and made her way past them. They watched her go in silence, and as soon as she was out the door she headed quickly to the ports at the end of the glass-and-concrete hall, steely resolve concealing the smoldering anger that gnawed and slashed within her.

The two agents started to follow, but the commanding voice of the old man turned them. “Give her time. There’s no rush if the transport shuttle isn’t leavin’ for hours. You’ll find her later…surely so.” He stood slowly, ignoring his creaking joints as he pushed upwards on the arms of his leather chair. “You’re dismissed,” he commanded simply, and with a curt nod the agents left. The door slid closed once more and an old man was left in silence, alone.

Outside, pale gray-violet clouds could barely be seen gathering in the skies far above the speeding transport drones and towering buildings that land-locked each other for miles in every direction. The black droner had returned, idling by the entrance from which a steady stream of workers poured into and out of. Among them, two agents walked with equal strides, side by side. They left without consequence and faded into the rest of the world.

Bronson sighed, stroking the bridge of his nose in slow long lengths. Up, down. Up…

He pressed a ridged palm against the cool thin glass of the pane before him. He could remember the first time Jacqueline approached their huge building, looking up into the windows as if about to enter a monstrous creature, a thing to be truly reckoned with. Unlike many of the others they had sought after, she hadn’t look afraid, peering upwards into the glittering blue glass squares that lined level after level of the massive building. She’d stood before him as resolute as she had mere moments ago, a fighter always. The type of woman they didn’t see so often anymore in the “business,” as it was often so lovingly termed. That conversation hadn’t been much different than this one. If she could, she would fight tooth and nail to get her way, a way that Bronson had often agreed with in actuality. She was radical--that much couldn’t be hidden, not by any means--but it was something that the stuffy old business hadn’t seen in decades. Sadly, he guessed, it wasn’t something they wanted to see more of. Changing too many things, too fast, too radically and with too much spirit: that was for the low-life visionaries tripping on neuroin and rallying the old fashioned way in the streets of downtown, guns blazing in every way that mattered. Jacqueline was different. A new breed of liberal fresh out of the watery metropolis of a collapsing north Cairns. It was exactly the blood that a slowly decaying Sydney needed to revive it from the thinly veiled and half-dug grave it drowsed within. Exactly what it needed, but nowhere near exactly what prime ministers and “daddy-kings,” as she called them, wanted to see sitting in one of their highest and most precarious chairs in the midst of war. A radical and outspoken political activist as head translator in Foreign Communications, no matter her enormous qualifications, wasn‘t quite their intention.

Bronson watched idly as pod after pod and droner after droner sped away into the distance, carrying their precious human cargo. One of them, he knew, was carrying Jacqueline, and the light fluttering in his stomach he had felt when he had first heard of her “necessary departure” now returned as a rampant hawk, beating against him from the inside. Somehow, even in that solitary moment between a quiet morning and a noon cup of tea in good company, Bronson knew he would never see her face again.

NaNo failure, but with hope

Well, of course everyone knows I didn't get anywhere near finishing 50,000 words in 30 days--I knew I wouldn't be able to right when week two started up. However, although this is technically the end of my commitment to finishing, I have every intention of getting through however many words it takes to reach the end, be it in 50,000 words or 100,000, in one month or in ten. I have a feeling this novel is going to mean a lot more to me (and hopefully to others, especially the Circle) than just a bunch of strangers floating around on a ship. I've got big things planned--not the starship battles and laser phaser guns and photon torpedoes, but something that science fiction used to be and lost along the way. I just can't wait to get there.

I guess that's the biggest problem: getting there. I want so bad to just skip to the middle and get to the point, but I can't make myself do it. I know I'd never go back to the beginning after that, and it would ruin it to skip making the characters really live.

But that was the failure part. Now onto the hope :) Time for some early author notes!

I'm considering writing up a glossary to go with the novel as I add terms. The last chapter didn't have too many, but I'm sure that will change very quickly. The "holoscreen" was easy enough, but later on there might be some confusion. If I did, I would probably include some of the international slang the characters use throughout too (Sara's character, Jacky, is already doing it up :P). Thoughts on the idea?

Also, before I get too far to go back efficiently, which characters do you want to see introduced (as in how I've introduced Aleksei, Ian, and Jacky)? I think it would get a little too monotonous to show every one of them, though I might be able to make that work out if I can't see a good way around it.

\/very minor vague spoiler\/

Chapter 2 will be out hopefully tomorrow, if school doesn't fail. As of right now I think I'll combine Jacky and Susannah (aka Sara and Nikki :P) into one chapter and then the major stuff will come out when Ian is approached in Chapter 3. That's when things will be explained with a little more depth as far as the plot with ISAS and the government(s). Chapter 4 may go back to Alex and/or Sid, but I don't plan that far ahead ;)

Anyways, I'm wasting time I should be using to write. See ya :)

Chapter 1 :D

Probably quite a few typos, but just ignore them. Its not supposed to be grammatically correct through and through. But not too bad :) And don't mock my future views--it's not as bad as I thought it would turn out haha

Carry on then :)

WORD COUNT: 4207
TOTAL WORD COUNT: 6097
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER I
SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT

When his wife died, it was all he could do to keep from dying himself. He could still see her, always, sitting in his chair or sleeping in his bed, always at peace. Always smiling and waiting. He would sit on the edge of the mattress, as if to ensure not to disturb her. Light waves of blonde gold strewn across both pillows with its length, a bare shoulder peeking from beneath the heavy comforter, shrugged inward against its owner as if to shield. The long lashes of her eyes would flutter momentarily and he could see her eyes move beyond the lids, dreaming sweet dreams that he could not possibly imagine himself, but that he hoped she would tell him in the morning. At times, she seemed real enough to touch, real enough to wait dazedly at the kitchen table, staring blankly at two settings, until the emptiness of remembrance came to him.

It had been five years, but still the shadows of that broken self haunted him, tormented him daily. Some days, the darkness and emptiness consumed him into madness, a feeling so blunt and harsh that he could feel nothing but sorrow. Other days it simmered into a mildness of manner and a silence in his nature, a sort of quiet brooding. Very rarely, he could forget, if only for a single moment, that he was alone in truth; that he could smile, truthfully, despite everything, and for a moment the curtain inside him would lift to let in the light. Then a little word, a phrase, the scent of perfume, the glint of the sun through blonde hair, and everything would fall once more into blackness, leaving him more alone than before.

Outside the solitude and the safe void of his home, though, he had always persevered. To those that knew him by name and rank and little more, he was a brilliant man, nearly without flaw. He walked straight and tall, stood strong and stolid, treated every man and woman he met with the same due respect and set those straight that went crooked. The few that knew him better, however--the few who had known him in his light-filled days of early service when life still seemed beautiful and smiles were the least uncommon of his features--could see his perpetual sadness and the way it ate at his heart and began to devour his mind. He visited these old acquaintances sometimes, when the need to be with became greater than the need to be without. There was a mild comfort in their presence, a sort of haze that fell over him when they spoke of memories that were both his and not his. It was as if, in those moments of conversation, his pain was shared, just for an instant. A load could be eschewed from his shoulders and he could rest from the heavy burden of pity and guilt that hung over him always.

“Ian? Hey--” A voice, sweet and familiar, pulled him back into reality. A gentle hand on his shoulder at once comforted and hesitated. “Did you still want to have lunch with us? Been a while since we all went out together. The guys have been missin’ you. It‘d be great if you came along.”

Ian sat his desk in an empty lecture hall, correcting papers absently while his thoughts wandered. Thick stacks of papers lay in uniform piles to his left and right, perfect square towers with perfect red marks in fine deliberate lines trailing down each paper. Stale coffee idled in a plain mug near the hand that had paused in its constant automated corrections. Ian lay the pen down slowly to the side and adjusted the thin square glasses on his nose as he looked up at his visitor.

She was a pretty woman, though somewhat unremarkable, which wasn’t unusual for a person of her stature. Beauty often went out with the job, but nevertheless she had retained some of it in thin pale gold of her face that glowed and beamed kindly and in the smooth sleekness of her full dark hair. Ian smiled up at her instinctively.

“I think I might,” he answered, and was embarrassed though unsurprised of the thickness in his own unused voice. He cleared it and rotated further in his seat. “Guess you must think I’ve been avoiding you lately, hm? I haven’t meant to be so absent lately. It’s just…” His hazel eyes cast briefly downwards, as if the reinforced tile flooring could prompt his answers. “Just been busy lately, I guess. Occupied, you could say. But lunch would be great, Janice. Thanks.”

Janice let out a musical bark of laughter that ended in a smirk as the dark almond pools of her eyes danced in a combination of happiness and relief. “Don’t thank me. You’re probably paying for it. God knows you owe us for all the time you’ve waited to see us again. Adam’s been worried as hell about you. You never call, never say a word when you’re actually around. Been as elusive as a ghost around here lately.”

Ian shrugged, a hint of a smile gracing the corners of his mouth at the familiar sarcasm in her tone. “Well, you’ve got me there. Guess I haven’t much of an excuse for myself, either. Alright--where are we going?”

“There’s a new little Italian place a few blocks east. Thought we might go check it out, see if its worth the visit while it’s on you.”

“You mean the one by the bay?”

“That’s the one.”

“Figures you would pick an expensive one. I’ll be there.”

“You’d better be. Adam and the guys’ll stake you out and hound you if you don’t.”

Ian’s smile broadened. “My word is golden, Jan. No worries. I’ll be there.”

Janice seemed satisfied with this answer and nodded promptly. “Damn straight. We’ll see you at half past thirteen. And put on your best face for us, Ian. It’s far too nice to hide, you know.” Before she turned away, Ian thought he could see (or sense) a hint of hope in her as well as worry. It was in the way she moved--suddenly yet subtly--and in the way she had spoken--not without a touch of force, as if she were speaking to caged pet that hadn’t been released in weeks and might strike or run given the chance. Ian didn’t mind it; it was to be expected. And all in all, there was nothing but kindness in her intentions, and all in all there was nothing wrong in that.

*~*~*

“So the kid raises his hand, ya know, and he asks to go the bathroom. So I tell him, no, you can’t go to the bathroom. Because ya know he’s just tryin’ to get out of the lecture and he’ll be back with twenty minutes to spare, actin’ like it’s normal t’take thirty minutes in the pot. So, ya know what he says?”

“What’d he say Mac?”

“He says, ‘Can I take Andri with me?’ And I’m just like…this kid even listen to what I just said? And what’s with kids and takin’ a whole train of people to the bathroom, anyway? But anyways, so he asks, and he’s practically already outta his seat while he’s talkin’, and I says to him, ‘Well, why’ll you’re at it, why don’t you take me along?’ And he just--he just--” Mac was laughing now, hysterical at the sheer memory of it, while the two men and one woman in his company watched him in amusement over their drinks. “He just gets the funniest look and sits back down. Classic stuff, that was. I mean, really good stuff. You had to be there, man, it was great. Set him straight, that‘s for sure.”

“Sounds like it, Mac.”

“Hey now,” Mac said, still grinning despite the feigned hurt in his voice. “How about you try teachin’ these kids day in and day out. Not all fun and games, I can tell ya that right now. Odds are the half of them are carryin’ some weird new weapon they made in their first period techie class that morning, just waitin’ for your back to turn, and--bam!--that’s it, man. You’re done. Finished.”

“Ah, c’mon, Mac,” said Janice, laughing over her drink at his little melodramatic spurt of a story. “We’ve all been there, done that. It’s old news. Kids are kids, and that’s about all there is to it. You just have to use a firm voice and set ‘em straight.”

“Nah, they aren’t like they used to be,” came Mac’s reply. “Back when we were all kids growin’ up--”

“Hey, what do you mean, we?”

“Shut it, Adam. Anyways, back then, it was easy. Everyone was pretty much on the same keel. Pretty much even for all of us, far as the classes and the teaching and such went. You just came in, sat down, turned in your slabs at the end of each class and went home for dinner. If you didn’t like your teacher, tough, ya know? Nothin’ you could do about it but plain old-fashioned disobedience, and we all know how that would end up. Nowadays, though, kids come in with their phones and lappies, don’t even bother trying to hide them anymore after that ridiculous Technology Liberties legislation. Did you hear about that guy Sanders getting kicked out of Saint Marks?”

“That was for changing some kid’s grades, wasn’t it? Illegally?” Adam said, gaining interest in the conversation now.

“Yeah, but here’s the thing--in his defense he said that one of his students was blackmailing him on the M-Grid and that it was the kid that hacked into the stream and gave herself an A. Said the connection was untraceable and coded to look like a normal update. The courts didn’t buy that, though, and he got sent off for a good year or two. Just so some kid could get into a good college. It‘s crazy.”

“I thought that was only a rumor. The evidence was too strong against Sanders, and there was nothing to suggest it was anyone‘s fault but his. He was just sympathizing with his student,” Ian, who had been quietly listening as he pecked at the meal before him, finally spoke up, absently wiping the edge of his mouth as he finished eating.

Mac gave Ian a skeptical look, tilting his head and playing out a wave of his hand in slow motion. Whatever, it seemed to say. “All I’m saying,” he continued, deciding to quit fighting a losing battle, “is that it’s a crazy world anymore, ya know? Gotta watch out for people, especially these kids. Everybody’s out t’get everybody else. No reason, no sympathy….just crazy.”

There was a lull in the conversation, a resignation to the thoughts that flooded each mind. Ian looked from face to face, sipping sparingly from the half-glass of red wine they had ordered for him. Janice he had seen fairly often now that he was working actively at the Academy, but Adam and Mac, considerably younger than the both of them though no less good company, seemed to have aged in his absence. It was like a father in prison watching his children grow through the periodic picture from a distraught and distrusting wife; sometimes the child captured within the photo would seem relatively the same as in the previous, other times the boy would seem a total stranger. Mac especially seemed broader and fuller in his musculature, his hair had grown darker and shorter, and where once an ever-present line of thin stubble coated his skin from ear to ear only clean flesh permeated. It wasn’t only his personality, either. The way he spoke, though still obviously characteristic, had changed subtly, as if the tone was forced, hanging desperately on the edge of being forgotten entirely, and the cynicism (which had also always been a given part of Mac’s mind) seemed much more real and solid and frighteningly sincere. Adam, too, had changed, though not so obviously. The way he sat in relative silence, offering only the spare comment or jeering but mild remark, was unsettling. Ian knew the expression of pensiveness that tightened their features, and sighed quietly at the thought.

“I’m fine,” he said suddenly, adjusting his glasses with his eyes closed for a moment, although he could feel their inquisitive gazes cast over him. “I haven’t meant to seem avoidant, and I actually was glad you asked me to come along. I’ve just been so busy transferring to the Academy and settling in, I guess it’s taking a pretty bad toll on the nerves, huh?” He smiled at them and could actually feel the relief melt into his three tablemates.

“That obvious?” Adam said with a faint smile. “Can you blame us for worrying? Gotta check up on you. We miss you, man.”

“Exactly. You see?” Janice pitched in. “And that’s why you’re payin’ for us. Let’s get another round of drinks, eh?”

Ian shrugged, a gesture they recognized as his silent appreciation. He relaxed in the white cushioned seat, forcing his mind to depart from whatever demons still fought to plague it, at least for the moment. Blankness encased him in the moment and he let the world move on without consequence.

Janice leaned over slightly to the left, reaching across the rounded corner of the table towards the nearby touch-console. “’Nother bottle of wine’ll do, I think,” she thought out loud, tapping a quick series of buttons into the thin glowing screen. She looked over at the three men. “You guys want anything else, or are we about done?” A shrug, a shake, and a short wave declined the offer. Janice nodded and tapped again.

“YOUR CHECK IS ON ITS WAY,” streamed across the screen before it faded back into the news channel that had been playing absently while they had been eating. Headlines ran across the projected bottom holograph, a bulging red beam with glowing white letters. A man in a blue suit was talking without sound while a photo of two other men shaking hands, one somewhat young and the other considerably older, floated beside him along with a vaguely but noticeably edited picture of what appeared to be a small missile carried by a much larger shuttle-ship. The caption beneath the collage caught Ian’s eye: “STAR WARS: THE REAL DEAL?”

“Hey…turn that up, Jan,” he asked suddenly, shifting in his seat to better view the holoscreen. Janice shot him a quizzical look, but complied when she saw the solemn interest that had overtaken his features. Tapping the side of the screen revealed a sidebar with playback options and other various basic functions, and she pulled the small white bar on the right upwards in one fluid motion, hardly noticing the quiet click of the micro-speakers on either side of the holoscreen.

“--are scheduled to meet this Thursday in Moscow as a follow-up to the past month’s events. Our own Jack Scott is joining them now at the landing site.”

The two men in the photo they had shown just seconds ago now stood together, bodies close and turned just slightly inward toward each other, probably for the sake of filming and projecting, Ian guessed. The younger man, who he had first assumed to be in his twenties, now seemed older. Black hair that fell nearly to his shoulders glinted dully in the sunlight and violet haze of afternoon sky, and black stubble partially covered what was once a well-trimmed stub of a goatee in the center of his square jaw. Gray eyes peered steadily out from under thick brows, but Ian could see a fear and a rawness in them that surprised him. The other man, still obviously older, judging by the graying edges of his short and stunningly otherwise pristine russet hair. Ian could tell straightaway that he was a scientist--the manner in which he stood, deliberate and solid, and the dull hazel depth and boredom that revealed itself in his eyes reminded him instantly of the men he had long ago worked with as a pilot for the United Space Program. Still, there was a tiredness to the man that was not unlike the other. Behind them both, desert expanse played the backdrop to a large and daunting shuttle-ship, only the hull of which could be clearly seen in the shot.

“Professor Borisova,” a reporter off screen was speaking, “how did it feel to be piloting the massive ship of your own creation, carrying such dangerous cargo so far away from home?”

The holoscreen projector cut to the younger of the two, who swayed in place a moment as if the very words could topple him.

“Well, to be fair, I was just the copilot. Both of us were, really,“ he answered, an accent that Ian recognized as what was still called “Russian” to most of the world. He flashed a winning smile to the projector, but Ian didn‘t buy it. “It was a good ride, very successful. There were very few problems, and everything went very smooth. I think we’re all very happy with how it went, and…uh…I hope to hear some positive things at the meeting this week.” He smiled again, fixing it into his features, silver eyes flittering back and forth between reporters nervously, though the in-stream editing through the projector hid the expression well.

“And Doctor Hainsworth, what did you think of the testing?”

The older man cleared his throat, and his very presence commanded an air of authority that the younger man lacked. Definitely a scientist, Ian thought. “Yes, everything went very well,” he started, and a different accent was apparent this time, a touch a bourgeois French, perhaps. “All of our calculations were conclusive and the testing was extremely insightful. I expect very good things from this mission.”

The entire interview might have lasted twenty seconds.

The holoscreen cut back to the desk reporter. “That was Professor Aleksei Borisova and Doctor Sydney Hainsworth live on the coast of western India, just returning from their one-month mission to test a surprising possible new source of energy, dark matter. More on their findings at eight. Back to you, Cheryl.”

“Want me to back it up?” Janice asked without looking away from the screen. A young blonde woman was reading the weather reports now; rain at 4:15 PM until approximately 11:40 PM, the cloudy skies all of tomorrow.

Ian shook his head, shifting back in his seat once more, absently reaching for the straw of his drink as something to distract him. Janice shrugged lightly and tapped the screen off but for the restaurant menu.

“Did you know what they were talking about, Ian?” Adam asked curiously, obviously confused by the short report and by Ian’s sudden interest in it. Mac looked just as curious, but not so much confused.

Ian shook his head. “No…no I didn’t know them personally. They were both wearing ISAS tags, though. Though I might know the names, but I’m not sure.” He paused, thinking on this, then shook his head again. “I don’t know. Something just looked funny about it is all, I guess.”

“Funny?” Mac repeated. “Like…government cover-up conspiracy kinda funny? Or like, this channel is bloody ridiculous kinda funny?”

“Oh, come off it,” Janice broke in. “Not everything on the news is a government conspiracy. If that were true we’d probably all’d been dead years ago. Radiation or biochemicals or some weirdness.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t even say what they were testin’” Mac reasoned. “If everything went so well, why didn’t they just come out n’ say it? Sounds pretty shifty t’me.”

“I don’t know what it was,” Ian repeated, not assuring, but not provoking either. “Maybe nothing. But it looked like it could be something. Just felt…wrong. Maybe I’ll ask around and see what I can get out of the Academy. Robertson still hangs around the physics department. Probably could get something out of him.” Ian thought on this and shrugged again. “I doubt its anything to worry about.”

Adam tried not to look relieved.

There was another silence between the quartet, but this time it was accompanied by an unease. News lately was always bad news--always another war or another country demolished by its own reckoning, or another couple murdered on the “nice side of town.“ It wouldn’t come as much of a surprise to find the news was skewing itself into happiness and bliss. In a way, that was alright. It was tiring watching the same battles on every holoscreen in the city, day after day and night after night; maybe it was about time for a reprieve. Still, it was unsettling to remember, for an instant, that the news was run by the people who were slave to the government because the government was slave to the media. They could show whatever the people of the world wanted to see and not imagine a single second of it to be a lie. Ian thought they might be some of the few people that still watched the news not at face value, but for what lay beneath the façade of world peace. There was a universe of information in the smiles and eyes and tired solemnity of the faces beyond the face, and sometimes that was enough to know how the world was doing.

“Ah--” Mac exclaimed suddenly. “What time is it?” He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and twisted his wrist to see the circular blue lighted disk strapped there. Adam mimicked the action. Whatever the answer to his question, it didn’t seem to be in their favor. He stood abruptly and threw the suit jacket over his shoulders that had been hanging over his seat and quickly picked up the briefcase that had been hiding under the table. Adam stood as well, though apparently hadn‘t brought his suit to lunch with him, judging by the mild panic in his searching gaze. “Sorry, guys. I forgot we have a conference to go to this afternoon. They’ve been layin’ off lately, what with all the fraud and crisis and such, so we can’t miss it.”

“You sure you can pick up the tab?” Adam asked, reaching in his left pocket as if to check for something, and was relieved by the faint jingling of metal on metal the movement produced. “Feel bad just leaving you guys here.”

Ian just smiled. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks for coming today. It was good to see you guys again. Don’t stress yourselves too much.”

Mac grinned. “Hey, now. Same to you, mistah. You better be good to yourself and hang with us more often. Got it?” He pointed at Ian and managed a not-quite-threatening expression that quickly diminished back into his own silliness. Adam was already moving away from the table, casting a quick half-salute half-wave in Ian‘s direction with a smile. “Take care guys. See ya around.” They turned toward the clear sound-proofed glass that had been keeping their conversation isolated despite the hundreds of other customers, but when the glass slid open, unheeded voices drifted in with his exit and the bustle and smell of kitchen employees and waitresses carrying and pushing trays of steaming food wafted in momentarily. Then the door slid closed once more and there was again silence. Almost immediately afterwards, a woman passed by the glass and pushed a thin black card through a slot from the outside. She said nothing and gave them no passing glance, obviously having other things on her mind.

Ian reached for the small black folder, but Janice picked it up first. “Nah, you paid us by coming, so I might as well pay the rest. My idea, anyways,” she said, already pulling forth her wallet and a blue card from inside it. Tapping the holoscreen brought it back to glowing life, and a series of taps and a card-swipe paid for the meal in a matter of seconds. Ian said nothing against it, lost in his own thoughts again.

“Ian.”

Ian looked.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Ian. You can’t keep holding on to the past. You have to move on, live.” Janice was leaning over the table, staring into him intently, as if to refuse what she was saying was to ask for death. Ian was expressionless and silent. “Put yourself back out there and get to livin’, already. Go back to work full time, or just…I don‘t. Do something. We’re all worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Jan, rea--”

“No, you’re not,” she interrupted sternly. Ian promptly shut his mouth. “You’re not alright because you’re always quiet and you never call and you’re not fooling anyone.” She leered at him a moment and sighed heavily. “Look just…just call me sometime this week. Just to talk. Check up on you. ‘Kay?”

“Alright. I will.”

“No, don’t say you will and not say a damn thing.”

Ian smiled, a slight smugness in it. “My word is gold, Jan.”

Janice made a face, but laughed. “Alright. I have to get going too. I’ll talk to you later. Be good to yourself, Ian.” And without looking back, she left him, alone once more in the silent emptiness of his thoughts.

Prologue

Happy trails.

Word Count: 1890
Total: 1890
____________________________________________________________________

PROLOGUE

At night he watched the stars.

He could see them by the thousands each night at the top of the building, sitting alone in the vast black nothingness, watching the spinning cosmos from his own tiny dot of a world. It made him feel small, as it should, but he knew more than anything he wanted to feel those stars. Not only see them, as he did now, perched with an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand as he gazed from the balcony, but to actually feel their light and heat. An infinity of suns yet to be explored, and yet here only pinpricks. He wondered if somewhere across the universe someone sat in his own balcony, watching and thinking.

By day there was the constant rush of human existence, always a sense of purpose and need and urgency, as if at any given moment the world balanced on the edge of a blade. There were places to, papers to sign, people to meet, and it seemed all at once the most strenuous and the most beautiful feeling in the world. Sometimes it was too much--he would be the first to admit that much--but at the end of the day when the world was quieted and darkened, when the people came home to warmth and comfort to sleep in silence, when the world felt, for a moment, safe…in the end, it was worth it. In the end, it was enough.

He smiled.

“Professor?”

The familiar voice sounded distant and vaguely unimportant to his mind, but nonetheless he turned. The light that poured blaringly from the open door behind him cut through the darkness like a clean knife, eliminating the stars from the sky almost instantly. A meek shadow managed to form in the beam, a dim gray figure framed by black and white. In his haze, he didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” He didn’t bother to correct the formality.

“Everyone’s gone for the night. Should I lock up or should I just leave it to you?”

“I lock up most nights,” he answered, a mild sigh forming in his voice as he stood. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be leaving soon myself.”

“Alright, sir,” came the unfaltering response. There was a short pause, and although he couldn’t see past the blinding white he knew the militaristic expectation that must have painted the man’s face in that moment, that pause to catch the salute that itched at his hand like a never-ending rash.

“Oh--Karl,” he said, stepping into the light, hands dangling loosely in the pockets of his jacket.

“You did well today. Very good work, even by my standards. I think we’re lucky to have you on the team.” He smiled with an uncommon sincerity that he could see reflected in the man’s glinting eyes.

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be working here. It’s such a privilege to be working under a man so--”

“Karl?”

“Yes?”

“Its Alex--Aleksei at the least. Skip the formalities. They don’t make much difference in a place like this.” His tone remained even, but his smile never lessened; he always enjoyed tearing down formalities in the men the military sent his way.

“Ah…yes…Alex,” Karl answered slowly, as if attempting to ingrain the name into his memory.

“Thank you, Alex.”

“Go home to your wife and get some sleep. Early to work tomorrow, yes?”

A smirk, forgetting himself in the ease of the moment. “Same to you, my friend. Schast'ya i zdorov'ya!” With a tired grin, Karl let the door swing slowly closed on silent hinges, flooding Alex within the calm darkness once more.

He simply stood, staring fixedly at the single sliver of light that fought through the bottom of the door, as if entrance by its very existence, even as a subconscious smile graced his lips at the familiar phrase.

Sir…everyone thinks they should call me “Sir” now, he thought curiously. As if I might snap at them for being informal. You’d think with all the hours of the day we spend together, they’d understand I’m no different from them…only luckier, I suppose. No, even that wasn’t quite right. Lucky wasn’t the right word for it. He wasn’t so sure he was lucky, but he knew he was happy. He knew he was at peace. This project alone had changed his entire life in so many ways already, in only six months. And it was still only just begun.

Less than a year ago he had been sitting in a tiny room with peeling dulled-pea-green walls, sitting on a dilapidated bed that seemed to be decaying from the inside out, writing off bills he couldn’t pay and college tuition fees that not only seemed impossibly huge now but also represented something that seemed nothing more than a bad idea. A good dream, perhaps, once, but a bad idea in the end. He could have saved the money, became the humble watchmaker/homemaker that his father had always planned for him to be. Instead, he took the money and a one-year scholarship that hardly was worth his efforts to study engineering. Top of his class--but not good enough to pay back, I guess. Enough pride and esteem to last a lifetime, it had seemed, but it hadn’t lasted even a few years out of school. Sitting alone, in a bedroom not big enough to let another fill it with him, not small enough to afford comfortably, Alex was in trouble.

The day the three military officials in stoic masks and tight suits with dully glimmering pins turned up on his crumbling little square of a doorstep, Alex had nearly laughed. “You must mean another Borisova--not an uncommon name, friends. I studied engineering ages ago--” not a total lie, at least it seemed not to be--“and didn’t do so great at it judging by what I got out of it in the end. Unless you’ve come to give me a check of a hefty sum, then good day.”

As if on cue, a secret smile snuck into the features of the young man that stood before him. One of the men behind him (younger, Alex could tell, yet broader, stronger perhaps; more years in service he guessed, judging by the stolidity he maintained and the steadfast blue eyes that peered not at him but rather at a spot just above Alex’s left shoulder) held in his hands a briefcase, which shifted slightly with his weight, as if itching to be opened. No matter how small the movement, Alex caught it from the corner of his vision and cocked his head. “I have a feeling you three wanted to show me something, then?”

“The government is interested in your work on dark matter.” The apparent leader spoke first, and Alex was surprised to notice the lack of familiar accent. “We’ve been doing some practice tests lately with it, and have been looking through every engineer we could find. A professor recommended your work and research--a Professor…” A pause. Certainly not Russian. Alex knew the look of a foreigner struggling with pronunciation. “Professor Abduluv, I believe. He spoke very highly of you. Said that if anyone knew anything about dark matter, it was his Aleksei.”

Alex’s eyes flickered slightly in interested, but he didn’t let his face show it outright. He coughed slightly, if only to break the silence (although the thickness in his throat forced him to remember his cold, especially in light of the cool air wafting up from the stairs outside). “Ah…I haven’t spoken to him in a long time,” he answered slowly, thinking back on the last time they had seen each other. “He was always saying how much better his students were over any other. Last time I talked to him, he told me that if ever I needed a job to come to him.” He smiled then at the thought. “It’s been years, but…I guess this is that job, da?”

The three gentlemen at his door merely watched him expectantly, the third standing just off to the side peering into the doorway with a look that Alex could only have described as purely thankful to the Heavens above and all its gods. It both intrigued and suddenly, strangely, scared him.

Another light cough burst from his chest as he swung the door open wider. “Well…then I suppose you’ll be wanting to come in, da? It’s a little cramped. I haven’t had the time to clean everything up lately. What with the crisis…hard to find a job, let alone get a decent semblance of a salary out of it. But…um…you can sit right over here if you’d like.” He let the three men inside, ignoring the look the briefcase-wielder sent at the dilapidated table by the wall that Alex had indicated. The men sent silent glances amongst themselves, as if asking if this was really the right man to be wasting their time with. Alex could see them without seeing--nearly every visitor he’d ever had in the shit-hole he half-heartedly and mockingly labeled as “home” had gazed with the same disapproval around his tiny room of an apartment. Skepticism abounded in their eyes, at least in four of them. Only one set, Alex could see as he approached the three soldiers, was not filled with disapproval. Finally, after stalling with his own questions, Alex sat on a slightly shorter stool beside Mr. Hopeful.

Reaching the short distance to his left to the makeshift shelf in the corner, Alex pulled forth a tall bottle of Vodka and four glasses, tilting his head to the side as he shook them. All three men turned down the offer, again to Alex’s surprise. Whatever this was all for, it must have been something big. “Suit yourselves,” he answered to their silence, pouring a small glass for himself. He raised it with a mild and half-hearted smile--“To business--” and downed it in one thick swallow. The three men glanced at each other again, and this time dread accompanied their skepticism.

“Look, Mr. Borisova--”

“Alex, please.”

A testy leer from the leader. “Look…the Professor told us you were the very best. Said you’d be ready and willing and raring to go. Now, if that’s not so and you’ve already made up your mind, we can leave you in peace and go on our way. Find someone else to ask.”

“By the looks on your faces, I have a feeling you’re running out of people to ask,” Alex said with a smirk, resting his chin in the palm of his right hand, elbow resting on the table. “I’m not refusing just yet. I haven’t even heard your offer. Now look…” The minor amusement in him was gone suddenly, but nearly returned when he saw the way the three men straightened subtly in their seats. His gaze wandered to each, from Mr. Hopeful on his right, to their leader, to the briefcase-wielder. “I know there must be someone out there, somewhere in the world, that has a far better reputation than I. I have been a construction worker for four years. I haven’t opened a book on anything in ages, let alone in engineering or physics. You want to know about dark matter, go back to Moscow and ask the Prof for his copy of the research, but I know you’re here for something more.”

A silence.

“We need you, Mr. Borisova...to build us a ship.”

NaNoWriMo is going not so well

A short post. Very short indeed.

Basically, as you can tell by the absent of NaNoWriMo posts, it isn't going as well as I had hoped, prompting me to mention a thing or two about it.

The point of NaNoWriMo is not to write an epic tale that everyone will love, but merely to write a total of 50,000 words in 30 days. They will not be pretty words, and I don't much doubt that most of you will not like it much. I also don't doubt that I won't like it much. So it goes.

Therefore, don't expect much. The beginning is already complete shite. Just go with it. If you can, hold out for a few thousand words. If you can't, just wait until I edit the whole thing and spiff it up.

With that said, let the novel begin.