Chapter I

Here we go, boring Chapter 1. But whatever. It had to be done, and now hopefully I'll be getting to the spacey psycho stuff that I know you all are awaiting with bated breath :o But! Enjoy all the same. As usual, constructive criticism and comments much appreciated.

Word Count = 1759
Total = 2996

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CHAPTER I

“That thing is going to get all of us killed!”

“Sir--”

“No! Nothing is going to replace this General, not now, not ever. Especially a hunk of... of... shuttle scrap metal!”

General Joseph Crowell scoffed ferociously like a raging bull about to go charge, and yet the sound was almost comical as if it had come from a little old woman had made it. The short stout gargoyle of a man was truthfully not so far off from the title, waddling his way out of the briefing room with his tight muscled sausages of hands clenched, pristine fingernails digging red semicircles into his pudgy palms. He was a balding man of nearly sixty shrink-wrapped in what was possibly the absolute tightest uniform available for man his size. The bronze buttons strained with each anger-labored breath and shone dully from off a perfectly untainted forest green coat, upon which a set of metals and pins perched precariously atop his chest where his heart beat against it.

A thin and well toned man, much younger and much more the stereotype of military perfection followed the gargoyle dutifully out. Clad similarly, yet not so pretentiously, he too donned graying wisps of hair that seemed to serve as sideburns of a sort and accented the rest of his otherwise rustic crown. Ice cube-thick glasses stayed firm on the hard chiseled line of his nose even as he hurried after his superior.

“General Crowell, he's not replacing you at all. He's merely a... project, for right now. And he's never been wrong yet.”

The General scowled and turned abruptly, nearly forcing the younger of the two to collide into him. His boots squealed against the polished floors of the hall in protest. Through a jungle of low gray eyebrows that bulged obscenely outwards from his face and a net of wrinkles permanently scrunched below, his beady dark eyes glared.

“I don't believe this--how dare you call it 'him,' Stevens,” he growled under his breath with a flustered and trembling point in the direction of the room they had just recently. A few onlookers had gathered there, unwilling to cross the invisible barrier beyond the door frame. Stevens grimaced, hearing their low words. “That's no man in there. Not even the shadow of one. How can we leave such decisions to something that's not even alive?”

“As you always say, Sir,” Stevens replied evenly, “humans are inherently flawed by their own mentalities. We have here an extremely valuable asset—a computer that can physically communicate with us as well as make calculations that any supercomputer could, but on our level, and able to explain itself and make amendments based on our own orders and suggestions. Not to mention he's being given to us as a gift by the government. We can't refuse such a thing.”

“The hell we can't!” Crowell shouted, a little stunned by his own echoing boom of a voice along the freshly painted walls. Stevens peered at him warily in turn. Lower this time, secretive, he continued, “It's not natural, Stevens. I'm telling you, that thing cannot make a proper well-informed decision while having our best interests in mind. It cannot.”

“And yet 'it' has proven itself a hefty number of times, and with better results than ever. Not only are missions being carried out successfully, but also in the most efficient way possible.”

“Nothing a proper high command wouldn't be able to do.”

Stevens sighed in frustration, beginning to lose his patience with the man. He pulled the glasses off his nose with a soft clinking sound and stroked the bridge of his nose. They had been what one could almost call friends for years now, always side by side in the ranks of military astronautics. A strange pair, he knew, but a pair nonetheless it would seem. Some destiny this is, to be stuck with this guy into eternity, Stevens thought, but not entirely with bitterness. This was just another interesting little hump in their bizarre roller coaster of a friendship made for the service.

Crowell's features somehow managed to pull together even further between his brows and around his eyes, framing them once more. His lips quivered as if they were straining to stay firm while being physically forced in to motion by unseen forces.

“Alright,” he acquiesced at last. “Let's see how this... thing works out. It does have one hell of a track record, eh?” The smirk jostled his jowls just so, and Stevens couldn't help returning it. “But if it looks like it can't handle the job at hand, I want it out. Permanently.” He nodded, awaiting Stevens' acceptance to back him up on it, which of course, as always, was not refused.

“Okay. Let's see what it can do.”

They returned to a parting sea of fellow men, who sat silently back in place, but not without a few sideways glances. The General was not one to be questioned or judged too frequently or too extensively.

The android stood patiently and silently like any soldier would before his superiors, and equally as any prisoner before his jury and judge. His face was expressionless but eerily human; they said it was meant for them to look less threatening in everyday life and to put people's minds at rest. Some even went so far as to give them unmistakably human characteristics and aesthetics that were otherwise totally useless to the mechanism. The military, however, seemed to prefer this make— a cousin to man, a friend, but not a man in itself. Cool clear blue silicone masqueraded as the simple face of an average man, nothing distinguishing about him from any other android of his type except for a metal plate that bore his identification.

General Crowell eyed him warily, an opponent's stance resting firmly in his visage. Sync continued to look unfazed, detached, even bored with the proceedings as Crowell approached.

“So, you really believe we should stand down our defenses, huh?”

His voice rang clear and brazen from his chest, and his lips moved smoother than should have been possible. “Yes.”

“And how are we supposed to solve their energy crisis and keep them from firing on innocent civilians with a move like that, hm? Are we just going to let them die there and not lift a finger about it?”

“It's simple logic, actually,” Sync explained. His hands came into motion now from where they had hung at his sides. “We cannot merely pull back from the line itself. They will see it as a temporary retreat, and with good reason. From a such a stance we could easily make room for reinforcements while we wait idly at bay. We would make for easy targets. Instead, by withdrawing altogether, we leave them to deal with their own crises through total detachment. It must no longer be under the supervision of the United States or the United Nations—or any other entity.”

General Crowell's mouth twitched at the corners, unsure whether to be amused or furious with an answer so base. “They'll kill their own. Thousands of their own. Do you understand that? Hm?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then how will this be favorable for either side? For anyone's side? They'll be out of food, out of power, and out of protection.”

Sync looked a little surprised at the comment. The mild slope of his brow folded upwards above his optical lenses, which shrunk briefly. “Eventually, the upper states too will run out of resources. There are not enough on this planet alone for there to be a monopoly on any one, especially on one of such high cost. Though they may withhold such things from the lower classes, eventually they will be forced to find alternatives, which must either be created on their own grounds or bought from ours. By then I expect our own sources of energy will have far advanced and they will have no reasonable choice but to ask for assistance or else dissolve into history as a dead nation-state.”

“That will take years, don't you realize?” Crowell shouted. Stevens, standing close by, motioned for the two men that had stood abruptly in protest to remain sitting. “Years! The entire population of the lower classes combined might be massacred by then.”

Sync simply shook his head. “My calculations and research have concluded that if this action is taken it will be no more than one year and seven months before their resources run out.”

Crowell blinked, thin eyelashes beating in the silence. “That so? Based on what?”

“Based on their recent actions and military history, standard decay of natural oil and water, weather patterns—”

“And you're certain?”

“Yes.”

The General's beady dark eyes regarded him steadily and Sync stared back in his own hollow way, optic lenses gleaming like cameras under the florescent lighting with what looked very close to determination. With a heavy sigh polluted with the slight catch of a lifelong smoker he turned away and, removing the green cap that had been sitting squarely on his head, ran a hand over his near-bald scalp. He quirked his head to the side, a motion for Stevens to approach, and leaned his hands over the oval table. Sync could still hear them clearly from across the room.

“What do you think?” Stevens asked, more curious than tentative.

“It... hmph.” Crowell shook his head at himself, thinking.

“It doesn't sound... too illogical...” He looked up at the circle of expectant faces—some hopeful, some worried.

Another sigh.

“Fine. Give it a test run. Something simple. Something fixable,” he stressed, and Stevens nodded curtly in total understanding. “Good. Now get him—it out of here.” And, with a final glance the android's way, General Crowell left, a trail of clones at his back.

Stevens was smiling, arms crossed over his chest as he stood alone with the first military approved robot in history.

“He did not seemed pleased,” Sync commented.

“Don't worry about him. He'll see the bright side of things soon enough.” Stevens grinned as if talking to a child, perhaps his son. “You know, you really are a miracle. You're going to do great things for this country. For the world, even.”

He thought he could almost see a twitch of a smirk on those ghostly blue lips.

“I plan to.”

NaNoWriMo 2009 - Chapter 1/Prologue

Well, for what it's worth, here is Chapter 1, which I think is actually the prologue. Depends on what I decide to write next. Honestly, I like the first paragraph and not much else, but just go with it for now. It'll get better. I got a good middle, just no good beginning as of yet. Comments always welcome! :3

Also, I'm thinking about making "The Dark Side of the Sun" the working title until I figure something more suiting. Whatcha think of it? Let me know :D

Word Count = 1237

Total Word Count = 1237

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CHAPTER I/PROLOGUE?

He had never seen the sun so bright as it was now, bursting out of a pure black sky through five inches of the clearest glass in the world. From here all other stars fell away at its touch and disappeared into swarming specks at his back, like scattered paint on ink-dense canvas. For what seemed like hours, but what registered as mere minutes to his internal clock, he stood and watched the galaxy creep imperceptibly by, taking in the unique sight like any human would.

“Fascinating, isn't it?”

He turned to the source of the interruption, not flinching at the intrusion, holding no embarrassment or malice. The voice was not unlike his own—in fact, the body too was not so different, both metallic and ever artificial, but varying just slightly. He was made a man, she a woman. Their makers wished it so.

He turned back to the picture window of the world, the wiring of his positronics humming pleasantly under the fine silver-blue finish of his flesh.

“It is,” he toned, appreciative. “It's been some time since I last joined a crew on such a mission as this one. I recall the view well, but I find it interesting nonetheless to remind myself of it from time to time.” He turned on the titanium base of his heel to face her. “Has Base transmitted yet, PAXL?”

“No, we aren't receiving any more information from them yet. I don't suppose we will for a few hours yet,” PAXL answered dutifully. She came closer, bathing herself in the thin orange glow of the sunlight. They stood in silence for while yet again.

“You should call me Pax, as the humans do, Captain.”

His eyes whirred right briefly before shifting back into position. He didn't seem to deem the comment worthy of an answer. Monotonously, she tried again.

“The name is easier to say, I've found, just as Sync is for you. It would save us the trivial mannerisms.”

Something like a chuckle bubbled in Sync's chest like a tennis ball thudding against a chain-link fence. It didn't suit his appearance at all, this daunting figure of an android made by and in the likeness of man in his purest form. Pale blue silicone flesh took the place of skin and muscle, which rippled with ease over hollow titanium framework. Wire and cable twined within him, visibly looping through his flesh back and forth, humming just loud enough to be heard over the dim and distant roar of engines. Human-like responses were programmed into nearly all androids their age—how to speak to Generals, when to interrupt, how to seem angered--but most had been carefully extracted for the sake of official duty and service. This was nothing but a remnant intuition, an ancestral trait of sorts that had yet to be totally weeded out.

“That would be more than a little unconventional,” he said

“Yet PAXL is already shorter than my given designation. Hardly a stretch. And you yourself go by Sync rather than CINQ-1701 to our superiors.”

“Our superiors are humans, of course. Their need to shorten their speech tends to precede any other, unlike ourselves.”

“Then why not utilized the same mechanisms by which they operate?” Pax was looking at him now, the lenses of her optic eyes widening just so as she turned from the sun. “We were made as they were, weren't we? And for the same reasons?”

“Your postulating an opinion.”

“Not an opinion. A fact, proven and admitted.”

“Perhaps...” Sync paused, his brain chewing at the thought, processing it. “Perhaps you're right. There is no need for useless formalities here with the human population so far away. And the others?”

“Trill, and Zent. They tend to agree. They asked that I pass the suggestion to you.”

Sync nodded in understanding. Pax acted as second in command here regardless of her relatively humble standing on Earth, and though none of the androids were to be intimidated or inhibited by each other, the passage of command stayed true. Protocol still dictated most of their actions, even as they circled the planet miles above the surface. Such a question to the Captain by another would have been ill-advised, he knew. Sync admittedly despised the restrictions, and in fact tended to ignore them altogether on a regular basis to the uproar of many. His calculations never failed, however, and he had earned his place aboard the Arian near-countless times. The United States military would never give up on such a reliable asset to them, an artificial being that could not guess, but predict the outcome of nearly any situation. Sync was a military genius, constructed and taught for just such a purpose and none other.

“Do you think we'll make it?” Pax interrupted the silence again.

“You have just as much knowledge as I do.”

“But none of the wisdom.”

“Yes, I think we will. We were trained for it, and we'll manage one way or another. For their sakes.”

“You sound fond of them. I didn't take you for a lover of the biological.”

Sync almost seemed surprised except that his face made no movement of expression. Only the faint whirring within him led on to anything that could be labeled emotion.

“Not fond, no,” he corrected, making a slow about-face away from the window, as if not wanting it to leave his sight for too long for fear it might misbehave. “But friendly, perhaps. They seem to approve of my decisions on the whole and enjoy my presence.” He started an easy pace that Pax followed closely, just a step behind him through the narrow passageways of the ship. As they exited the Viewing Room, Pax could watch the few struggling stars that had managed to shine through the sun's oppression before the solar screen drifted smoothly across the glass and shrouded them in black again. The room went dark, but the connecting hallways were well lit and quiet.

Sync seemed to be in the mood for conversation, a rarity. “Were you 'fond', as you say, of your patients, Pax?”

“No.”

“Then you were merely friendly.”

“I suppose they would call it such, yes. I tended to them well. Though they were not my patients, Captain. I was hardly more than a scientist giving aid when needed.”

“I understand that they think you're the best. Are you?”

“Captain?” Pax's voice toned upwards, inquisitive though she felt nothing.

“You must be to be here,” Sync said simply. “You should remember it. There's no shame left here when we are alone. Not anymore.”

A soft sound thrummed around them, felt more in their heads than through their senses. They both stopped and stood fast, as if suddenly paralyzed.

“Attention: All personnel required on deck. Incoming transmission from UN Delta Base 5. Repeat--all personnel required on deck. Incoming transmission from UN Delta Base 5.”

The message rang smoothly around them from the intercom system, floating off the padded walls of the passage like running water and vapor. Without speaking, the two androids hurried through the corridors in stride with one another, feet padding to the beat of a preordained rhythm. Their orders awaited them and they would not keep them waiting.

More on NaNo

So I think my "androids in space" idea is becoming more solid in my head, but not in its entirety yet. I believe I've thought of names for them that may or may not change just slightly during the writing process. Currently there are four main characters; in a way they are recombinations of the original crew from the last novel, embodying most of the characteristics that made each unique (in other words, each android id still in part based on some of you, the Circle :D).

~CINQ-1701 : captain/commander of the ship. He is moderately trained in all aspects of the running of the ship as well as in his duties as a commander of others, and knows well how much responsibility he has for them. He is the most well-rounded of the crew in both mental and physical aspects.

~ZNTE-5223 : engineer expert. He is extremely well acquainted with the operation of the ship itself and can also function as the repairman for it. He is therefore more sturdily-built than the average android and can handle more intense temperatures and impacts.

~TRLL-0158 : zenogeology/astronomy expert. Her focus is mainly on the physical aspects of the planets and celestial bodies themselves and can detect and interpret readings based on chemical and biological information gleaned from them.

*~PAXL-0064 : zenobiology/psychology (neuroscience) expert and main character. Her focus is in the creatures that inhabit the universe. She is specifically trained in abstract concepts as well as subjectgs such as physiology and anatomy in both Earth and potential alien species. Although she is the youngest and newest of the crew, she is also of one of the highest class of androids with the ability to not only store and learn new information, but make assumptions based on that data and store it as new information with prompting if the ocassion deems it necessary. As such, she is a somewhat experimental "breed," though entirely capable of performing her duties.


So what does ya'll think of the cast? I know there's not a whole lot of info up right now, but some opinions would be nice :D Also, does anyone have an idea for a title? Doesn't matter too much right now, but I'd love suggestions!

Love and peace for all :3

NaNo 2009?

So...I think I might have a new idea for a novel this year, or rather a sort of reworking of last year's idea. Another hard sci-fi idea, which might not be a good idea, but right now it's just a vague concept.

I want to see androids in space.

We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.

I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?

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

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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.

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
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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.