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Archive for the ‘Sci-Fi’ Category

Fong’s XIV

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 24, 2015 at 11:45 am

“This one? What the hell is that thing, Fong?”

“Unless I am very much mistaken, we want to get to Knucklebrow before he finds out. Onward, my little bull elephant!” And he was off, in long, graceful running strides, appearing to float one or two inches off the muck of the city. Penny charged after him; in seconds they were turning left down the same alley.

Buildings were closer together here. The alleys were like a maze. Deathtrap in a fire, she thought. There was little or no light, save weak lamplight from an occasional window.

Fong reached into his left sleeve and scattered a handful of objects ahead of them as they ran. “Flower of Enlightenment!” he cried. The object closest to them ignited, blossoming like a flower – of course and throwing greenish golden sparks into the air as it lit.

The others were rolling down the sloping, twisting alley. Where they came to rest, they blossomed in a cascading eruption of sparks that lit not only the area around them, but in one or two cases ignited piles of refuse.

“Fong, isn’t that dangerous?” Penny said.

“True Enlightenment destroys only trash, never infrastructure,” he said, giggling.

“Do you ever just answer a question?”

“No.”

They were nearing Knucklebrow, who was lurching to his feet from a stumble about one hundred yards ahead. The furthest Flower of Enlightenment passed him and came to rest at the base of a wall where the alley forked. It ignited and Knucklebrow tried to stop, slipping and falling, his left foot dipping into the flames of the Flower.

“Knucklebrow, wait!” Penny cried.

From the rooftops above came a screeching call that sent chills up her spine.

Knucklebrow scrabbled to his feet, turning to look up behind him. Even at a distance, it was clear that he was both terrified and familiar with what he saw above. He bellowed, “No, not you! Not again!” and ran away down an alley to the right.

His left foot was on fire.

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Fong’s XIII

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 23, 2015 at 11:45 am

Running down slick cobbled streets in heels isn’t wise at the best of times, but at night in thick fog, in pursuit of a man who has lost all concern for his personal wellbeing?

Harrowing. Good word for what I’m doing right now. ‘The woman found that running in heels on cobblestones was … harrowing.’

Penny Onehole ran with her skirts bunched in both hands, her shoulders hunched, ready to plow aside any obstacles. Her heels had been designed by Fong for this purpose, being both lighter and sturdier than any shoes worn by other women in her profession.

Which is what, precisely?

Penny Onehole hadn’t yet found the word for it.

Each time her mind wandered in the direction of a definition, she checked it with a checklist. Her shoes, for example, also held a variety of useful items in one or two secret compartments. Of course, her footwear and their secrets weren’t the only items in her personal arsenal. She watched the man who had designed that arsenal and trained her in its uses: Fong ran just ahead of her, to her left, his blue silk robes tucked up into his left elbow. She never understood where he carried his weapons – or illusions of human frailty, as he called them – but she was armed to the teeth. As Fong had put it, “The most tortuous elements of feminine fashion are also those best suited to weaponization.”

Reviewing her checklist as she ran, Penny was distracted by movement above and stumbled, almost spilling ass over teakettle into a mire of filth near a clogged sewer grating. Catching herself and leaping across the shit swamp to launch off a brick wall, she saw Fong clocking her trajectory and noting the same movement above which had caught her attention to begin with.

“We are not alone in our pursuit, Penny Onehole!” he said. Fong was always delighted to be on the hunt, and added danger filled him with a ridiculous degree of cheer.

Two blocks ahead, Knucklebrow made a left down an alley. Fong stopped, his right arm out to halt Penny. She arrested her sprint with a slight sideways skid, resolving into a position Fong called, Floating Lotus (“The lotus that floats is both at peace and unattached, ready for anything.”) She felt his eyes on her heels, heard his satisfied hm at their flexibility and strength. He was very pleased with himself.

“Look up,” Fong said.

Penny Onehole looked up in time to see a gigantic bat-like creature leap from the rooftops, crossing the street above them. It disappeared into the darkness above the rooftops to the left, heading in the same direction as Knucklebrow. Its wings were at least eight feet across, and the smell that assaulted them was a combination of rotting flesh, shit and mammalian musk.

“Goat balls,” Penny said.

“Yes,” said Fong, “This one is male.”

Fong’s Part XII

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 22, 2015 at 11:45 am

Sudden searing pain in her right cheek, and Penny fell to her knees, clutching her face.

“I’ve already made the pigfucker joke,” the boy said to his men. “Was bacon too much?”

Penny looked up to see the still-smoking Peacemaker in the boy’s hand. Rivard stood stock still, the mangled remnants of his blade and its mechanism dangling from his torn sleeve. His hand bled, the glove torn – but all of his fingers intact.

“That was unwise,” said Rivard.

“On the contrary, I prevented you from – wait, are you bleeding, Miss?” The young man kept his gun trained on Rivard, his eyes locked on Penny’s.

She took her hand away from her face. The blood that covered her fingers was beginning to clot.

“I am … bleeding,” Penny said. She felt distant from her voice, a numbness settling over her.

“This is unpardonable. Enough games,” the young man said.

He fired his gun five times. Even as his eyes flicked toward his targets, Penny felt as though they never left hers. And though she knew she flinched with each shot, she never allowed herself to blink or break from his gaze. Each bullet found its mark, and each of Rivard’s men fell dead or certain to die, their blood pooling on the fine polished wood of the yacht.

As he fired the last round in his gun, the young man pulled another from its holster and tossed the first behind him where it was caught by a figure still obscured in the fog. This fresh gun was again trained on Rivard. “Let her go,” the young man said, “And I’ll let you live.”

The figure behind the young man had emptied and reloaded the revolver, slipping it into the holster on the young man’s left hip.

“Who’s that behind you, then?” Rivard said. “You bring your mommy along to wipe your ass?”

The young man’s answer was cut off by the boom of a cannon and a great crash of water just beyond the yacht. A voice called out of the fog, “In the name of the Republic! Throw down your arms and surrender your vessels!”

The young man leapt aboard, drawing a sword and slashing it toward Rivard with unexpected skill. Rivard raised a walking stick, blocking the hit, then drew a sword from within. Shots were being fired and male voices were bellowing, but Penny felt like she was fading from the world. Her face was numb and she was having trouble breathing. Everything looked blurry.

“Jack!” a familiar voice called out, “She’s poisoned!”

Jack turned to look at her and was clubbed to his knees by Rivard.

The last thing Penny saw was Rivard’s blade pressing into Jack’s throat.

All went black.

Fong’s Part XI

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 20, 2015 at 11:45 am

The voice in the fog said, “Here we go again. Rivard feels threatened, boys. To what does Rivard retreat when he feels threatened?”

“Comparisons of manhood,” the men with the rifles said as one.

“Fuck yourselves with your rifles and fuck off – ” Rivard began.

The voice cut him off: “Too complex, Rivard. For now, we’re focusing on your obsession with manhood or, to put it more succinctly, boys?”

“Cock,” said the men with the rifles.

Penny laughed again and Rivard lunged in her direction. In slow motion she saw the blade in his right cuff sliding up into his gloved hand. Some kind of mechanism, she thought, even as she realized she was about to get sliced, possibly killed. A peculiar calm settled over her.

A Bowie knife thunked, quivering, into the gleaming deck of the yacht, right next to Rivard’s foot. He froze.

“What’s this, Rivard? Are you branching out? Is that an actual human girl you’ve got there?” The owner of the voice stepped forward, in the middle of and just behind the men with the rifles. He was sixteen, maybe seventeen, with a wild thatch of thick brown hair, and deep-set, intense eyes. “I’m shocked, Rivard. And proud of you. Having seen your whores offering their dubious wares by the docks, I never expected you to join the rest of us in our longing for clean, attractive, un-scarred human females.”

“Go fuck your mother’s ass,” Rivard said.

“I’m so glad you brought up mothers, Rivard. I didn’t want to be the first to mention it. I’ve actually met mine. She raised me. As did my father. They know one another’s names, and he’s never sliced her face. This is where we differ, isn’t it, Rivard? This and your penchant for the smell of fish and bacon clinging to your cock after a flea-infested rut – ”

Rivard snatched Penny by the hair, his knife whistling toward her throat.

A gun roared.

Fong’s Part X

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 19, 2015 at 11:45 am

They’d been about halfway across the bay when one of Rivard’s men had shouted a warning and – out of nowhere – a larger vessel had appeared in the fog, drawing alongside and grappling them. The hooks gouging into the fine wood paneling of the yacht had Rivard bellowing in incoherent rage.

“What’s this, then? Pigfucking son of a whore has a fancy tub now?” The voice came from the other vessel; it was young, its owner as yet unseen.

Penny peered across, but aside from the men pointing rifles at them from the port bow, the other figures were indistinct. The fog was, if anything, thicker in this part of the bay. A small, quiet, safe part of Penny wondered for a moment that a place so still and calm could hold such darkness. Had Fong known, when he sent Krauty to escort her to the docks that morning, that she would be assaulted by strange men not three hours later? She would have liked to return to this spot in the fog on a day when she wasn’t in danger. She couldn’t remember when that had been.

“Show yourself, boy! The only pig I’ll fuck is your face, with my handy blade!” Rivard said.

“Rivard, Rivard, Rivard … still confusing humans and barn animals? I think this tells us more about your upbringing than every gaudy waistcoat you’ve ever worn.” The brazen charm of that voice – this boy didn’t fear Rivard at all. Penny felt her heart relax the tiniest amount.

“You want a pissing contest, boy? Come out where I can see you. We’ll soon learn whose cock is biggest,” Rivard waggled his head as he said this, turning to smile at his men as though he was the wittiest man alive. It was ridiculous, and Penny laughed aloud, then clamped a hand over her mouth.

Rivard wheeled, glaring at Penny. She caught the gleam of steel in his sleeve.

Fong’s Part IX

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 18, 2015 at 11:45 am

“What’s your sister’s name,” someone said. Fong, Heifitz and Knucklebrow were all looking at her. Penny didn’t realize she had spoken. The steam of the coffee shifted to purple as Fong sprinkled a pinch of brown powder over it, and Knucklebrow Twosie gave a half-hiccup, involuntary gasp.

“Penelopye,” he said. It came out Peenellopyeh, but its similarity to Penny’s own name was enough to earn a rare lift of the eyebrow from Fong.

“That’s an uncommon pronunciation,” Fong said. “Where is your family from, Knucklebrow?”

“Ruritania,” Knucklebrow said, “Originally. Then Pennsylvania.”

“Penelopye and Peter of Pennsylvania …” Fong said. His voice was quiet, but each word caused a cascade of twitches across Knucklebrow’s face. It was like watching a mountainside rearrange itself.

From the steam of the coffee came a brief, faint trumpet fanfare, a snippet of a sturdy national anthem as a single word formed above the cup: Strelsau.

“He speaks the truth. Catch him!” Fong said, as Knucklebrow’s eyes rolled up into his head and he tipped backward. Penny reached for him as Heifitz sprang diagonally over the bar, landing to Knucklebrow’s left – but it was too late: Knucklebrow hit the floor with a crash that rattled the cups on every table, the other patrons knocking over chairs in their haste to avoid injury.

Fong scooped a tiny amount of the coffee from the still-steaming cup with a spoon smaller than his thumb, leaning down to pour it over Knucklebrow’s lips.

“That a good idea, boss?” Heifitz said.

“I have no way of knowing. But it seems as good as anything else at the moment,” Fong said.

The coffee cup began to bubble, rattling on the bar and sloshing. More coffee than could fill the cup was pouring out, a tiny splash landing on Penny’s hand, scalding hot. Penny, Fong and Heifitz all turned to stare at it.

The cup exploded.

Knucklebrow shot to his feet, dashing out the door, bellowing, “She’s near the docks!”

“Quickly, Penny – after him! In his state he’s uncontrollable. We’ve no time to lose – Heifitz! Call Jack!” Fong grabbed Penny’s hand and whisked her toward the entrance.

“Jack who?” Heifitz was reaching for the stereoptiphone.

“Who do you think?” Fong threw this last over his shoulder as he and Penny were out the door, the figure of Knucklebrow fading into the night ahead of them. Penny knew which Jack it was, and felt a thrill in her heart of hearts.

Her hero, her savior, her secret love: Pirate Jack, the terror of the Bay.

Fong’s Part VIII

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 17, 2015 at 11:45 am

Vomit burning her throat, Penny watched as two underlings materialized – variations on the dirty brute who pinned her arms to her sides, grinding himself against her. She knew what he was doing but ignored him, remembering the words of her grandmother: wolves only chase the girl who runs. Penny wished she’d remembered that sooner, wondering if she could have used it to chart a safer course to Saint Raymond.

One of the brutes was removing the pimp’s jacket as the other one whisked the contents of Penny’s stomach out of Rivard’s hair; Rivard was watching Penny. He said, “You think this is bad? You’re wishing you were somewhere else? This is a Sunday picnic compared to what awaits you across the bay, my sweet. You’re going to meet the cream of society, and they’re going to do to you what they can’t get away with doing to their own daughters and neices.”

Vasquez was still alive, gasping, bleeding, begging. While Rivard was speaking, the brute holding his jacket had removed everything of value from its pockets. Now he tossed the jacket on Vasquez, doused him with kerosene and flicked a lit match at him with the bored nonchalance of long practice.

“Even that useless shit serves a purpose now, sweet little firecrotch,” Rivard said. “My reputation in Oak Landing is strengthened by the burning of a man who, ten years ago, was Mayor of this shitpile. His own son works these very docks, but hasn’t the balls to confront me. I owe you a good turn, firecrotch. So I won’t cut your face. Yet.”

Penny was dragged, stunned, to a small private yacht loaded with a variety of goods. She was certain of her impending death. She could still hear Vasquez screaming, she could smell his burning hair and shit. Over the next horrible weeks, she never slept more than a few minutes before those memories yanked her awake, trembling, too terrified to cry.

Fong’s Part VII

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on June 16, 2015 at 11:45 am

A hunchbacked Mexican stood to Rivard’s left; he had one glaring, empty eye socket and a poorly healed broken jaw. He held the pimp’s spotless hat with the fixed obedience of a beaten dog. Penny nodded as best she could, struggling to breathe.

“Good. Let me explain something to you. I love my hats. I don’t like them to get dirty or messy. That’s Vasquez. He was supposed to be guarding the room where you woke up. That door was supposed to be locked.” So saying, Rivard stepped to Vasquez, dragging Penny, still choking her. Her field of vision was narrowing.

“Señor – ” Vasquez said, but was cut off by his intestines spilling to the dry dust at his feet, the speed of Rivard’s knife impossible to follow. Penny didn’t see where it came from or where it went, only Rivard’s arm in a gesture of curt censure. She would have vomited if her throat hadn’t been nearly crushed shut. Vasquez stumbled back, falling to his knees in his own entrails, dropping Rivard’s hat in that mess.

Rivard let her go and she was grabbed and held by the scraggly-bearded man, who reeked of sweat and shit and rotten teeth. His smell and Vasquez’s intestines brought up what Rivard had been preventing, and Penny disgorged an astounding jet of vomit.

Stooping to retrieve his hat, Rivard took the full brunt of Penny’s puke on the right side of his head and face, down his right arm. He stood. Calm. Where activity had bustled in studious ignorance of Rivard’s endeavors there in the dusty yard of the Oak Landing coach office, now all was silence. Penny heard distant sounds with complete clarity: ships’ bells. Gulls. Buoys. A child crying in the distance. A dog barking.

She knew that her life was over.

Fong’s Part VI

In Fantasy, Fiction, Fong's, Sci-Fi, Writing on May 31, 2015 at 11:45 am

Penny Onehole was struck by those words, remembering for the first time in years how, once her feet had healed and her fever cleared, Fong had bought her new clothes and given her money to take a ferry across the bay. “Go and find your father,” he had said. “This is no place for you.”

With money for travel to Saint Raymond, she’d crossed the fog-wracked water on a day that she discovered, upon arrival at the other side, was warm and breezy. Breathing deep her freedom, she made her way from the docks at Oak Landing to the stagecoach office, sitting prim in the shade, watching the fresh horses being harnessed to the very coach that would take her to safety. At least the Mormons had been clean. When she had first arrived in Saint Raymond, with everyone so polite and smiling in that weird Mormon way, she had never expected to long to return to that place.

A voice spoke from behind her, saying, “Sweet thing like you, hard to forget,” and Penny turned to see a scraggly-bearded man leering at her through an open window. His face was familiar, and just as the memory surfaced – this was the man she’d knocked down on her flight from the flophouse where she’d awakened weeks before – she was yanked to her feet and came face-to-face with a well-dressed, short, pale man who smelled very good. His hair was slicked back, his thin moustache stuck out to the side in points like two long, thick rat whiskers. Penny had seen him before, watching him through peep holes at Fong’s as he’d threatened her protector on repeated visits, the threats diminishing in strength as the opium took hold.

“Rivard,” she breathed.

“I paid good money for your fiery little cunt,” he purred, caressing her face. She could feel that nobody was watching them. Rivard’s reputation was as pervasive as the fog that choked the city across the bay. His hand closed over her throat. “So lucky for me, the one day I step across the bay, to find you. I haven’t been here for years. Do you see that man holding my hat?”

With Rivard’s hand crushing her throat, Penny could only glance in that direction.

Skyfire Part V

In Fiction, Sci-Fi, Skyfire on May 25, 2015 at 6:45 pm

That first year, most of you remember, we didn’t venture far. When we found the connection to the mines, we didn’t know what to make of it. Was it luck? Probably. I don’t know. Was it Maxwell, leading us to safety? I like to think so. Ten years later, you all know how I feel about him. He was a member of our family, even if only for a time. We, all of us in camp, were his pack. He could never replace Tony, but he made that loss easier to bear. Some of you joke that Maxwell is my Totem animal. That may be.

But what matters now, is us. Standing here and looking out over the Central Valley, I can tell you that I believe we’ll make it. In spite of the fireballs, the storms, in spite of those people with the glowsticks around their necks, I believe we’ll all make it. You can stay here in the mines if you want. Our parents set everything up nicely. We’re pretty safe, and we could thrive. For a time. But I think that it will be safer across the valley, in the mountains. It’s more than the text from Mr. Amberson, it’s more than Maxwell.

I know you’re scared. So am I. But we have to try.

We owe it to Anselm, we owe it to our parents. We owe it to Tony.

I don’t know if we’ll ever find Maxwell again.

But I have hope.

I do.

Because there’s something I found, today, that I want to read to you. I found it here, under this rock, near the entrance. You can see that it’s got some reflective plastic ribbon taped to it. I don’t think I would have found it if I’d been here at any other time. Seeing sunlight in the mine is what brought me here, and the angle of the sunrise hit the ribbon just so. I’m not saying it’s significant. I’m saying it’s lucky. Anyway, it’s dated October 4, 2012, and here’s what it says:

“Dear Veronica,

You’re standing at a crossroads, not merely in time, but also in reality. The fissure in this mountainside leads into a place very much like that from which we come, but slightly altered. If you find this note, stay here. I’ve left a cache of supplies that should keep you comfortable for quite some time. They’re outside the fissure, in an oil can buried next to the coyote bush to the left. Ration carefully, please.

There are two reasons you should stay here. The first is that there is a group of kids coming through the mines. They’re coming from that other place, and they’ve been living in the mines for at least a decade. It’s imperative that they reach a specific set of lakes in the Sierras. They will need a strong guide when they reach this point in their journey. If you’ve reached this spot, I believe you are the ideal candidate. They need your help, and you need people to nurture. We both know this about you.

The second reason you should stay is because he will get here before they do. I know you lost him after the battle at the dairy farm. Slippages in time have sent him on several different paths. I’ve almost caught up to him three times, but that motherfucker Reinblatt with his damned rhyming notes is determined to keep us apart. Maxwell, however, is touched by myth: he has your scent, you saw what he did to Mayberry. And he misses his Mommy.

I dream of him, sometimes, when I can sleep in this place. In my dreams, he is calling to you. He is telling you, ‘Mommy Good Boy Stay, I am Max, I am coming to you. I love you. I love you. I am Max. I keep you safe. I love you. Stay.’

Max and I feel the same way. But I hear my pursuers and I have to divert them so that they do not find this spot. They’ve been altering my notes and moving them, helping Reinblatt obscure the way.

Wait for Max. Wait for the kids. Go to the mountains. With luck, we’ll meet again.

Much love,

Edward”

Okay, so I don’t know who these people are. But they know Maxwell. And outside the fissure, near that coyote bush he mentions, there’s a campsite. It’s been abandoned for a while. The oil can is there, and it’s still got a few useful things in it. I don’t know what he means, all this alternate reality and time stuff. But he knew we were coming. And, look: there, outside the fissure. See them? Those look like Maxwell’s prints. I think he was here. Recently.

There’s a handwritten addition to the note, and in different writing than Edward’s signature. I’ll read it to you before I pass it around. It says, “Hey — I’ve been here for a month. Something large is prowling around my campsite at night. I’ve got friends who can help us, so I’m headed out to get them. I don’t feel safe here, alone. No sign of Maxwell yet. I’d like to wait for him, but if I don’t Good Boy Bounce, I think I might end up Good Boy Dead. If I’m not back in a week, go without me. Give Maxwell kisses when you see him, and tell him I love him.”

It’s signed, Veronica. And the date is May 25, 2015. I think that something happened in their world, maybe on a different timeline from ours, and I think it was pretty big. Like the fireballs, but different. Because look, out there — there’s something weird about the valley: see that shimmering? I don’t think that’s a heat mirage.

I think it’s water. I don’t see an end to it to the north or south. It looks to me like the Central Valley is flooded. Completely.

I’m headed to the Sierras, where we all would have gone if I’d remembered to give my mom Mr. Amberson’s message. We’ve got what we need to make it, and we can follow Maxwell’s tracks. Might be as easy as finding a boat, but I doubt it. So. You can stay if you want to. I’m not going to force anyone to come along. This is my path, and there’s only one thing I know for certain:

It’s time to Good Boy Go.