N.R. Burnette's Blog

Project Profile: KENJI

I feel like books and people are the same. Some are good, some are bad, some are in-between, and they all have their own story of how they came to be. This is the short version of what it took to bring one book, KENJI, to life. Kenji is the first book I ever wrote. It will be the third I publish.

KENJI began as a completely different story than what it became. Now it is a story of gods and demons in another dimension. It originally began as an underground sword fighting drama. I wanted to do an adventure about secret societies among us that harbor duels to the death, more or less. Kenji was to be the long lost son of the greatest swordsman ever. That is a cool story idea to me, and probably took influence from the Jademan comics I used to read in the 90’s. I’d say back when comics were cool, but they are still cool. So back when they were cooler (**some of you are saying “they couldn’t possibly be cooler than they already are because they are the coolest thing in the world” and I will silently nod in agreement…fanboys**).

I started this project with storyboards; thick, construction paper ones, to match the intensity of how I felt about this inspiration. I felt this was a great and professional sounding idea, though I had never really done them before. This was six years ago...and I have an app that tells me the year was 2008. The storyboards were really something, mostly because I can’t draw. I still have them, though they look like my first-grade son did them with crayons. They are now kind of a personal joke that I like to laugh at. But the story magic obviously lies between the ears, and I saw some cool elements taking shape. In the first 10 pages I had Kenji journey to an island for a duel and lose (without dying, which is hard to do in a sword fight but I have the power of ‘scriptonite’ which has saved many heroes to date). Kenji then finds a mentor, which most likely teaches him the secrets he needs to know. Then there is a montage to cover the actual time necessary for Kenji to master his skills without making you bored with 20 chapters of repetitive stair running and fly catching. That part was definitely influenced by movies from the 80’s, but Rocky proved the montage’s worth. So did Karate Kid. And Best of the Best. And all montage utilizing movies. Even Team America: World Police, which is quite clear about its position on montages. Where was I?

Oh yes. At some point, though I liked the rough storyboard and my stick-figures so far, I had the brilliant idea to challenge myself (pst…if you fell asleep, this part is important). I held my forefinger and thumb to my chin (with coffee in my other hand completely aglow with laptop radiation) and asked: what is so cool about this that someone will WANT to read it?

And I couldn’t answer that question.

The bubble of excitement this project once possessed now slowly evaporated, like air from a balloon. I knew it was cool, but I couldn’t see how I could convince anyone else of it. I was really bummed all of a sudden. But there was no going back. I asked the question, and I came up short. So I thought about what I could do to spice it up, and Lady Inspiration sat on my lap wearing a red silk dress. If I’m doing an Asian fantasy about sword-fighting and martial arts, why not add the fantasy elements to make it awesome. The Oni is a trademark, demon of the battlefield. I was licking my lips again. But that led to more and more changes, and Kenji was no longer just a swordsman. He had to be more, much more, and that led my story into something so different that it wasn’t recognizable from its original idea.

I always try to follow where my inspiration takes me, rather than stay cemented to my first idea. But it’s a balance, because sometimes you have to stick to that idea to keep from getting lost. Suddenly Kenji was the son of an ‘other dimensional’ Japanese god of war. I did new storyboards, jotted an outline, and now I liked it again. It was better, because I could answer that question now. The project now felt right, and that’s a very non-specific feeling that artists need. We can’t act on a project if it doesn’t feel right. You see in the beginning, the sky is the limit, but eventually you have to chisel into that stone, and you don’t always like what you start to see. That’s when writer’s block tries to smother you with shamefully open weeping.

At this great moment in my life, and also the life of this project, I was set to turn the Dirty Thirty in three days. But there was a need, something that burned inside of me; I just had to write this book first! I don’t know what kind of badge of honor I desired, but I needed to say that I had written my first book before turning 30. I had up to that point been writing casually for about six months, all of them short stories, just learning the ropes. So in 3 days, with my ass molded perfectly to the kitchen chair, I wrote 25,000 words of KENJI. It started, went to a huge battle, and ended at a length that qualifies as a book. It sucked too, like really bad. But I did it. Then I didn’t touch it for two years.

Kenji aged strangely in that time. I wrote two other books. One was a rock and roll fantasy tentatively called Cash and Rock. I wasn’t ready and I knew it, so I wrote this just for the experience and with no desire to publish it. I wanted to learn without the pressure of…pressure. No you cannot see it.

Then came a real killer idea, and it turned into Cargo Lock 5. It is a masterpiece, by the way, with one critical issue (I can’t call it a flaw, because it isn’t, but it is). The main character is a dick. I thought it’d be fun to write someone who was a throw-away, expendable, someone who you could do anything to and you’d be glad. It is fun, but it isn’t mainstream, you can’t have a main character like Detective Taylor and appear on Oprah’s Book Club. Damn it.

After Cargo Lock 5 I came back to Kenji. I knew it was there the whole time, but I hadn’t been ready to tackle it yet, like a chore you put off. But I got to work, and in about twelve months I had my first draft part two (no really, it was a first draft, after the first draft). It landed around 77,000 words and the story was absolutely incredible. I gave it a second draft to polish the writing, and I wish someone had been my mentor at that time. You see as indie author, you are on your own. And when people read Kenji, they said, “oh it’s great”. These people were all friends and family, and I could never get more out of them than that. So yeah, I published KENJI and CARGO LOCK 5 in 2010. I did a fairly decent promotion for the launch and sold a few hundred copies each. Then I needed a new project, something even better, and it became Paphos Books 1-5.

Something about writing four books, and writing every day for a few years, makes you improve as a writer and storyteller. I had great stories, but the writing was woefully inadequate. I didn’t know it in 2010, but in 2012 I had finished Paphos and took a look at my books currently for sale. I was a much better writer, and I was ashamed at what I had published. The writing was rough. Great story, bad writing, plain and simple. I couldn’t let someone read them, they were so poorly written. I was embarrassed, but not defeated. I quickly pulled KENJI and CARGO LOCK 5 off the market. I re-edited Cargo Lock 5. It took a long time, somehow I added 20k words to the story, and republished it. It’s a hit now. Unless you hate Detective Taylor. Then it’s the worst book ever (side note, he’s written that way for a very crucial reason you pansies). Do you see where this is going? Yes, once again, I came back to KENJI. It was next.

It had breathed its first breath and then sat in a closet, then like an awkward teen I dressed it and abandoned it at prom. Now we were in our prime, and I started the painful process of another coat of polish. Great story, horrible writing. This final (and it is the very final ever edit **note to me in thirty years, I don’t care if you are somehow an even better writer now, stay back!!**) re-edit of KENJI has cost another 9 months of editing, and added over 30,000 words.

It’s finally the book I set out to create. Six years ago, to now, with many projects in-between, it has matured. And it wasn’t easy. Going back, opening that vault in my mind, it’s like a thousand mile jog that you thought you had already finished. It’s been painful, but it was worth it. At least it better be! Because after all of this work, all that happens is a reader picks it up to look at it. Some will love it, but regardless of the toil involved to create it, some won’t care at all.

Such is art.

Thank you for reading.
Cargo Lock 5
PAPHOS 1 is free, if you like free
Paphos 1


Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this please leave a comment or share. It helps me continue writing, and I need all the help I can get.
Also by N.R. Burnette:
Cargo Lock 5
Paphos Books 1-5
(Download Paphos 1 free on Nook, Kindle, iBooks, Kobo, etc)
Kenji
Visit www.nrburnette.com for info about his books and videogames, such as Maneki’s Curse on STEAM Greenlight
Twitter @nrburnette
Facebook @AuthorNRBurnette

The artistic choice wins. And loses.

When you write a novel, how much of your true vision do you create? How often do you make changes so that the character or story is something you think people will accept—even if your first thought is contrary? If you change your story to match a wider and more acceptable audience, is it selling out? Or is it being a smart writer?

My first ever real novel is Cargo Lock 5. I say real because I wrote a true ‘first novel’ before it, one that I knew would be horrible simply because it was my first. I knew it was my ‘learning’ book. So we won’t talk about it, but it involves a possessed Pontiac Firebird, Chuck Norris, and a quest to find a drummer for a rock band to stop the Pop Invasion. Okay so now we won’t talk about it.

I’m a sci-fi guy. I know I’m a different kind of storyteller, and I wanted to tell a different kind of story. I knew that for redemption to feel powerful, you have to start low to give your character somewhere to go. And in a nutshell, that was how I wanted Detective Taylor, the anti-hero protagonist of Cargo Lock 5. When I made him low, I earned the A+ Nobel Award Presidential Honor Roll for aiming low.

He’s a jerk. He’s self-centered. He’s amoral, indifferent, and self-absorbed. He does not feel guilt, and is self-punishing to the point of self-destruction. He’s also exactly the way he is supposed to be, for reasons I cannot state without giving away a huge spoiler and the gem of the book.
And what I realized is this: many people hate him, and therefore the book. It is powerful, like sushi.

You know, sushi is delicious to me, and to some people it’s entirely disgusting. Sushi cannot change, or it would not be sushi. And this is what I found with Detective Taylor. I wrote a main character you hate… with the goal of making you love him once you get to know him. But quite a few people never do. They quit, throw their kindles down in disgust, and read something more palatable to their tastes. Good writing advice would say Detective Taylor should not be a main character, but should I have changed him just because of that? I know who Detective Taylor is, and I wrote him how he should be.

Commercially it’s probably a mistake, though with delicate balance you can make it work. The cast of Pulp Fiction are all bad guys, and Dexter is a serial killer. Maybe it works better on film. Give the audience what they want—but does the art suffer to that rule?
Cargo Lock 5 is a great story. My last four reviews have gone 5 star, 1 star, 5 star, 1 star. It’s divided. Some people love it, they really get it, and the road to redemption was better because of my artistic choice. But each time someone goes to read it, I get nervous. Can they handle it? It’s tough, so tough that I have considered rewriting Detective Taylor into someone more watered down. Maybe make him someone who would be more commercially acceptable, not such a jerk, and turn him into someone nicer than who he is. And it’s probably a good idea…but what about artistic integrity?

Maybe artistic integrity isn’t a real thing, like true love. It’s brutal to be the author. I feel like I’m the ugly duckling’s dad and I’m defending him on a playground waiting for people to see the beautiful swan underneath. And some people never will. Selling out seems to be bad for music bands. I remember hearing the phrase as a kid before knowing what it meant. But if the art is not accepted by the audience, hasn’t it failed? I know the answer for agents and publishers; sell out. Go commercial. Make Detective Taylor nicer. I just don’t want to. I know who he is.

Should Detective Taylor bend to suit the widest audience?

I say no. I will not change Detective Taylor for fear of dislike, choosing to maintain my purest vision for this character. But saying that, I doubt I’ll write another main character like him. The art is pure, even if less people will like it. As an artist I have succeeded, and failed.

I entreat your comments, and thank you for reading.

Also by N.R. Burnette:

Cargo Lock 5

Paphos 1 (Free)
Paphos Books 1-5
Kenji

Visit www.nrburnette.com for info about his books and videogames, such as Maneki’s Curse on STEAM Greenlight.
It is the author’s intent to build a PAPHOS videogame starting late 2014. Visit his webpage to see how you can help if words like KICKSTARTER and FREELANCE ARTIST appeal to you.
Twitter @nrburnette
Facebook @AuthorNRBurnette

A scifi excerpt from Cargo Lock 5

John's story did not end in that cargo container, floating through space. Though in truth, it should have. But, a twisted fortune smiled just once upon a dying man who was forced to kill his own wife, son, and daughter. His vengeance was given a gift, a chance, a way to make the bastards who did this suffer, as he suffered. It would not bring his children back, nor could it in any way save John, because in fact, John was already dead.

He just didn’t know it yet.

John was going to kill the men responsible, or rather, force them to feel what he felt, force them to kill their loved ones. But he couldn’t remember more than that, not really, and when he tried to remember, he blacked out. His parameters weren’t designed to handle complex algorithms like that, apparently, and a software reboot was usually required. So, he learned not to think of those things if he could help it, and he waited. John had waited, he had waited for so very long. Finally he found one of them, Kayd Lad, and at long last he tasted the first course of his revenge. Kayd had suffered deeply, and Phonm was next. The lights were off in Phonm's house, but John could see just fine. He was waiting there, waiting in a closet for Phonm to come home. John could wait forever if he needed to.

"Daddy, how long do we have to wait in here?" she said. John was glad he didn’t have to wait alone. His daughter was so beautiful. She had stayed by his side, forgiven him for what he did to her, for killing her. She understood how hard it was, but how necessary it was too, and she even helped John find the bastards responsible. Her death was a painless one, at least for her.

"Not much longer sweetheart," John said. His little girl crossed her arms, tired of waiting so long in the dark for Phonm. Phonm's wife, Ellen, finally came home. That was good. She was going to be a part of this. John kept waiting, soon the sounds of pots and pans from the kitchen told him she was making dinner. In between she came out into the living room, right in front of the closet John was hiding in, and began folding laundry. She paced back and forth from chore to chore, visible through tiny ventilation slits in the closet door. John looked down at his daughter hiding next to him, even though she was dead. He knew she was dead, but she was also right there with him. He tried not to think of it, thinking of what he did to her. Sometimes when he looked at her she would ask why daddy was so sad. He made her drink the cup, that’s why he was sad.

Ellen walked towards the closet with a furry crimson jacket in her hand, the one that had been draped across a chair. John had been wondering when she would open the closet to put it away, forcing him to act before he was ready. John didn't want to be found yet. Ellen reached for the closet door and then stopped as sounds of overflowing boiling water swelled from the kitchen. The jacket lay on the floor now. She hurried to the kitchen and disappeared from view.

John opened the closet door and stepped into the soft glow of an iridescent lamp, exposing him inside Ellen's house. He was too large to move quickly. He grabbed the sport jacket and slipped back inside the closet, carefully shutting the door before Ellen returned. She didn't need to know yet.

John’s neural mapping allowed him to read minds, clear as a painting. The moment a person was within arm’s reach of him, he felt their emotions and could read their thoughts. He could see everything in their conscious mind, it was a function of his programming, one he couldn’t control. When John tortured Kayd’s son, Jack Lad, he had felt everything. He felt the pain, felt the fear, the despair, felt it like it was happening to him. He felt the moment Kayd accepted the reality of killing his son. John knew that feeling personally. Part of him was aware that it didn’t make sense, he shouldn’t be able to do those things. He shouldn’t even be alive.

"Daddy," she sighed impatiently.

"Phonm should be home soon, please sweetheart, stay quiet for me," John whispered.

Phonm Ngu was harder to find than the others. He had been an Elite Officer under Jack Sethren, and he had led part of the genocide on Space Station Hephaestus. John knew, because that’s where it all happened, that’s where John killed his own family, and John remembered seeing Phonm’s face. John caught a glimpse of Phonm and four other Elites that day. As it turned out, they all came to New Seattle City to lead peaceful lives, working for Sethren Company, rinsing blood off their hands ever since.

Tracking Phonm was like tracking a rabbit two days into a blizzard. Most of his records were so altered or erased that John had to cross reference the most basic of addresses and numbers just to find they didn't exist or someone else actually lived there instead. As head of security he had many ways to make himself disappear. But even Phonm wasn't untraceable, if you had the time. John had lots of time. Funny, how he survived all this time. How did I survive? I must have died…

Error...runreset.exe//......

John had blacked out for one hour, forty three minutes, and three seconds. He awoke in the middle of doing something. He hated waking up this way, running or chasing, his body operating on its own. But this wasn't the first time that had happened. When John awoke he was towering over Phonm. Phonm was wearing black silk pajamas, paralyzed with fear, holding a sandwich as if it were a shield. John wasn't sure when Phonm had come home, but he knew to the millisecond how long he was blacked out.

Phonm suddenly found his feet and ran for what it was worth, trying to escape. John caught him in two strides, chunks of plaster raining down where his head scraped the ceiling. Phonm screamed out wordlessly, dangling in John's grip. Phonm’s thoughts were ragged and didn’t make any sense. Phonm thought he saw a robot, or an android. John didn’t understand that. Fear must be warping Phonm’s thoughts.

He could have killed him right there, he wanted to rip him apart. It took great willpower not to. Killing Phonm wasn't enough. Death was not the ultimate punishment. John's agonizing existence in the cargo lock taught him that. For some things, death was a mercy. For Phonm, Kayd, and the others, John would show them how terrible living could be. How terrible making the right choice could be. How terrible it was to kill someone you loved. John had used the thirty years in a frozen cargo hold to design his revenge. How did I survive the cold? No food? Error//runexec.bat... ...reboot...

Not again...

John woke up again. Ellen Ngu, Phonm’s wife, was tied up. John blacked out for twelve minutes and thirteen seconds. He had blacked out, but he knew he was the one who tied her up even if he couldn't remember doing it. Ellen was in a chair with her hands brutally nailed into the armrests. Phonm was in another chair, forced to watch. Forced to choose how she would die. Phonm would learn today if he could do what John had to do.

"Please...you don't have to do this..." Phonm begged.

"Spare her from the pain.”

"...please," Ellen whimpered, "please... Phonm... just do it..." she begged him. The pool of blood widened at the base of the chair. Phonm pounded his fists against the table.

"I can't. I can’t!!" he cried. "Please, tell me why!!" he screamed at John.

John wouldn’t answer. Phonm looked down, finally accepting the truth of his situation. John sensed the changes occur, his brain patterns, recognition, Phonm knew he was being punished. His forgotten past had found him, and he knew. So much fear and emotion came through Phonm that John had to step back, his sensors were overloading. John sensed Phonm was mustering the resolve to do it, to kill his wife Ellen, who John knew he loved very much. Phonm looked at his hands, and then at Ellen. She was in so much pain, begging to die for the relief it would bring. This was John’s revenge, the moment between indecision and action, where the terrible choice was embraced. Death wasn’t enough, they had to know the pain he knew. They had to deliberately hurt the ones they loved, to protect them from something far worse.

And Phonm really loved her. By the pain on Phonm's face, in his eyes, and by the way his body shook it was evident that he loved her, John knew this even without his sensors. Phonm stood and picked up the knife. He walked over to his wife under John's careful gaze. Ellen had the strength to look away, beneath her pain John sensed relief that it would soon be over. Phonm held the knife, testing the handle in his grip. He held the blade in front of her, he readied his hand to do it, one clean thrust to the heart, instant and final. But when his shoulders slumped down, Ellen's emotions changed and she began to cry. "I just can't..." he finally said. Phonm looked at her, in his eyes he apologized to her. The coward... Ellen wept in fear of the pain she was about to suffer. In this John knew that the choice he made long ago, the terrible pain of giving his wife and children lethal doses of potassium laced juice, was the correct choice. Phonm wasn’t as strong as John was, and he had chosen poorly because of it.

***

If you enjoyed this excerpt, you can also download a sample of Cargo Lock 5 on AmazonCargo Lock 5

You might also enjoy Paphos Books 1-5. Paphos 1 is free on all ereaders.

Paphos 1
www.nrburnette.com for more about my books and indie games

Follow me on twitter @nrburnette

Thank you for being a great reader

Strang3 Coincidence



On the street level of Shanghai Sector, a young man like Gray Puppet didn’t belong. Neither did his ragtag team of gangsters, all of which were eighteen and orphans forever or never, depending on the day. Standing in the neon wash of colored lights, he wondered for a moment if this was really going to work.

There were four of them, enough to be a gang he supposed, and they looked up to him, because he was a genius. Maybe, they thought, he wasn’t smart enough to get off the streets, or he just didn’t care enough to, but Gray Puppet was a genius. They thought that, and he let them. This was his plan—a heist on a guy about to walk out of DanTech with a beefy suitcase wired to his arm. Gray Puppet didn’t know what was in it, but he knew it would be valuable, and he was a guy who got things that were valuable. Well, he and his unlikely team of throwaways. The four of them were dressed in the only outfits that they could pass for--cleaners. Besides, the outfits were comfortable, and allowed them to carry a little extra gear.

It was almost dinner, but the night sky was long dark—at least he supposed it was dark beyond the glow of city towers. Their target should be on deck soon, and Gray Puppet gave the wordless signal to his crew. Tiny, who was six feet and pure Hispanic muscle, was pretending to collect garbage out of sidewalk bins. Maybelline, his Turkish sometimes girlfriend, was waiting by the cleaning cart, shuffling and reshuffling the contents as if she were almost ready to start working. It was a challenge to hide her long purple hair, but she refused to cut it. A wig and hat worked if you didn’t look too closely at her. And Kentucky bred Matchbox was waiting, head to toe in a business suit, with a beefy fake suitcase wired to his arm. He was called Matchbox because he was always ready to ignite. They all had better names than Gray Puppet, which came from a fortune cookie, but it stuck and that was it.

The black doors slide open, smooth as water, and Mr. Unlucky comes walking out in his bullshit long coat, briefcase in hand. Gray Puppet knew their security and their security protocols; the courier was monitored, alarms went off if he didn’t make it to his car, and the inside of the building was a fortress in disguise. They kept a low profile but DanTech was no-nonsense about its security; the whole building was rigged with TX1 gas. They weren't the type to suffer a hostage situation or an infiltration--they’d just knock you out and clean you up later.

One. Tiny is walking. Maybelline is on the move as well.

Two. He sees Matchbox heading towards Mr. Unlucky, as if he intends to enter DanTech himself.

Three. Gray smiles--Matchbox and their target look pretty damn identical from here. The walk from DanTech to the hovercar garage is in plain sight, which is ironically the least secure and least monitored place to take the guy. And whoever he is, he’s someone important. Maybe even a developer, but certainly not just a courier. The courier services quit by 5:00 pm at DanTech, but this guy always leaves an hour later. Gray Puppet figured he was somebody. Stuff like that was why his crew called him a genius, but really it just made sense.

Four. Tiny and Maybelline are coming. Matchbox walks so close to the guy that they touch, and a torrent of electricity stumbles Mr. Unlucky. Matchbox is now walking the other way—the direction Mr. Unlucky was going half a second earlier. If you blinked you didn't see it. Mr. Unlucky is helped by Tiny and Maybelline all the way into the trash cart, and Maybelline covers him smoothly with a few garbage bags. They slowly--though Gray wishes they could run--walk back to the pickup point where Gray Puppet is waiting. It took two seconds. Obviously Mr. Unlucky isn’t going to make it to the car, so in about two minutes DanTech security will know there’s a problem. The crew will all be gone twenty seconds before that happens. Gray switches the fuel cell engine on and waits for the team. This old four wheel van doesn’t hover, but he doesn’t need it to. In a moment the back door slides open, then Tiny and Maybelline load their hostage/paycheck. For just a small moment, Gray gets the feeling that this was a little too easy.

“Damn, he hit something hard falling in the waste bin,” Tiny laughed.

“He won’t feel it til’ he wakes up. Matchbox zapped him good,” Maybelline said, ripping off her wig and hat.

“Wait until we are clear,” Gray tried to say, but Maybelline told him to screw off with a look.

Tiny and Maybelline sat on either side of the waste bin, looking at Mr. Unlucky’s fine shoes poking out morbidly. The van sped through an alley, cutting through a parking garage, and then down another alley. It was a route Gray had memorized and practiced for tonight. There were half a dozen spots that ensured he couldn’t be tailed, and any Shanghai Sector cameras that followed him would lose him a dozen times in the process. They finally parked outside an apartment building with an overly dark street level and parking garage. The van doors slid open and they rolled the garbage cart to the elevator, leaving it by the other dumpsters and dragging the man the rest of the way. If someone saw any of this, they wouldn’t say anything. That was the kind of city this was. The elevator carried them up to the fourth floor, to a building that he just happened to find was vacant after hacking a real estate database. He and his team had really enjoyed squatting here for the last three days. When the doors to the studio opened, four floors later, Matchbox was already waiting inside.

“Took you fuckers long enough. Let’s rip that bitch off his arm and see what we got,” he said. Impulsive, impatient, predictably unpredictable. Gray had to handle Matchbox carefully, or he just might rip Mr. Unlucky’s arm off.

“We don’t want to risk the failsafe. We need his passcode to the briefcase, that’s why we brought him here, instead of just a cut and run,” Gray Puppet reminded him. He supposed it wasn’t really a reminder, since Matchbox hadn’t actually heard him the first time, but whatever. Tiny and Maybelline dragged him to a chair, and he was starting to finally wake up from all of the shuffling. They set him in front of a table and placed the briefcase next to him. Gray Puppet watched his hostage as Mr. Unlucky started to wake up. He blinked his eyes, slowly looked around, and never once showed fear or surprise. That actually worried Gray Puppet a little.

“Wake up asshole,” Matchbox said with an unfriendly slap on Mr. Unlucky’s shoulder. He jolted. Matchbox was holding a knife, the point of it brought uncomfortably close to Mr. Unlucky’s blue eyes. “Open this bitch,” Matchbox said and then bumped the table with his knee, jostling the briefcase. The case had a classic numerical number dial on the outside, but Gray wouldn’t take any chances on a dummy trigger, even this early on. Mr. Unlucky looked at Matchbox, face blank. Then he looked across the room at Tiny, Maybelline, and finally at Gray Puppet. He made eyes with Gray and wouldn’t take them off.

“I’m only dealing with him,” their hostage finally said. Still no fear in his eyes.

“Hey!” Matchbox thrust the knife to his neck. Luckily, it was Maybelline who stepped in.

“Let’s cool it, Rusty,” she said. She was the only one who called him Rusty, and only when it was serious. Gray Puppet knew it was Matchbox's real name; he also knew never to call him by it. Maybelline was closer to Matchbox--it was that and a billion other nuances that became rules to live by in a group like this. Matchbox leaned in to Mr. Unlucky.

“I got no problem spilling red all over your ugly suit, just give me a fucking reason,” he whispered.

“I’m only dealing with him,” the stranger said, still looking at Gray. Tiny and Maybelline looked at Gray, urging him to step in before Matchbox made use of that knife. Gray Puppet didn’t want to yet; something had changed. This stranger wasn’t afraid, and he should be. Gray Puppet smelled a problem, but he couldn’t see what it was, try as he might. Maybe it was just paranoia. So the guy wasn’t scared. He was still their hostage, they were still in control. Gray walked up to the table.

“Open it,” Gray said flatly. The man looked at Gray.

“You open it. The numbers are 12-02,” Mr. Unlucky said.

Gray’s face didn’t change. 12-02? He spun the briefcase to him, still cybernetically linked to the man’s arm. He rolled the dials on both sides to 12-02, which coincidentally was the month and day of his birthday. The case opened and revealed a computer, tucked neatly inside a shell thick enough to be dropped from the top of the building without breaking. The screen and keyboard were integrated into the frame. Gray's shoulders slouched a bit. He was hoping for something a little simpler, like a removable media drive, or a functional prototype, something he could just put in his pocket and sell. Well, whatever they were stealing now was a file inside the computer, obviously, some kind of company secret or the like. Given everything thus far, it was still worth a lot of credits, still worth the effort, just not as easy as he was hoping for. Weird, about his birthday though… The monitor illuminated, prompting a password. “Give me the password,” Gray said, studying the stranger.

The stranger never changed his expression. “Very well. D, 1, s, s, 0, n, 4, n, t, L, 1, f, 3.”

Gray had stopped typing the password by the second ‘s’. His face went cold, and this time he knew he gave away his expression. He looked up at the man, his hostage, whose expression still had not shown any fear. Gray took a step away from the laptop and looked to the side, trying to piece this together. Something was out of place, but he wasn't seeing the total picture yet. Gray looked back at the man. Was this some coincidence or what?

“Gray!” Maybelline shook him.

“Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” he said, stalling. He looked around, having everyone’s interest on him. Tiny and Matchbox knew something was up.

“What is it?” Tiny chimed, but he ignored him.

“Nothing.”

Gray Puppet sat back down at the laptop and typed in the password, a password he already knew, since it was the password he used for his digital safe deposit box. D1ss0n4ntL1f3, it was Gray Puppet’s password. How did this man know it? Did he somehow... what? Get himself kidnapped? To do what?! Gray Puppet was walking into a trap, or was already in a trap, but he didn’t know what to do. Trapped by Mr. Unlucky, and trapped by his team. If they knew, they’d all flip out and kill the man, and then run. Maybe that’s what they should do, flip out, kill this guy, and run. Gray wasn’t much for killing anyone, but Matchbox wouldn’t hesitate. His hands were unsteady, so he buried them under the table after typing in the password. His mind was racing for what to do, and in that race he thought, just for a second, it could all be coincidence. A wishful thought, to be certain.

“Oh fuck,” they said in unison, with variations of intensity and expression. Matchbox took one look at the monitor and started pacing like a wild dog. Tiny and Maybelline stared, frozen, as they observed the desktop picture on the laptop. They were staring at themselves, a desktop picture of the four of them.

“What the fuck is this??” Tiny said, hands to his head in shock.

“Hey! Hey!! Are you fucking with us?!” Matchbox grabbed the man by the hair and twisted his head, bringing a gun to his ear. The man looked up at the ceiling, waiting for Matchbox to discontinue, never once pleading for his life.

“Matchbox!” Gray yelled. He had to yell twice to get his attention.

“What, Gray?!”

“Think! Kill him and run, hope they don’t find us?? Or we find out what they want, since they know more than us,” Gray said. He didn’t have any clue what that was, or how any of this was happening, but since they were breathing, it had to be something; a job, a task, steal something for them, something. Somehow, DanTech lured Gray Puppet and his team into robbing them, they planned all of this… Gray was still trying to figure out how.

BLAM!

The stranger’s neck went limp, brain and skull bits danced and splattered on the floor. Matchbox had pulled the trigger when his gun was to the side of Mr. Very Unlucky’s temple. Maybelline and Tiny started yelling, while Matchbox unloaded justifications and votes to run. Gray felt the threads of this situation slipping from his hands and tightening around his neck. Then the lights went out.

It came with a sound, like a descending whooom, as power stopped flowing through the walls and lights. For a moment, it was beautifully quiet.

“Now you’ve done it!” Tiny yelled at Matchbox, breaking the solace.

“He had our picture! Let’s get out of here,” Matchbox yelled.

“Gray?! Gray!! Are we fucked, Gray?!” Maybelline cried. Finally his crew looked at him.

His face was visible in the glow of the laptop, which was the only source of light now. He looked around at the dark studio, their faces glowing too. “Yes, we’re fucked, unless we follow this. Whatever they want, we get it for them, and then hope they let us go. They are ready for anything we do. They are out there, waiting, Matchbox, that should be obvious by now. It’s suicide trying to run,” he said. He didn’t know if that was true, but it probably was, and if he sensationalized it a bit, it might be enough to keep control of Matchbox. He needed time to figure out what all of this was about. He didn’t know, but whatever the stakes were before, the dead stranger just raised them. Gray stood up and walked around to his lifeless hostage. He tried to avoid bloody bits as he checked the man’s coat. No ID in his pockets, just a pack of gum and a few loose credits. Gray Puppet undocked the cybernetic cable from the man and, after a moment of reconsideration, connected it to his own port, a universal one that Gray had placed at the base of his skull. The latency on cybernetic connections, especially for hackers, was microscopically faster at the base of the skull than any other body port. And then something dawned on Gray. “Maybelline,” he said before initiating the neural connection. She came closer.

“You sure we’re doing this?” she asked.

“There's no choice. Listen,” he leaned in close to her, whispering in her ear, so inaudible that a microphone couldn’t detect him talking. When he was done she looked him in the eye with a questioning nod, and then she went to the others, whispering to them too. Then, when everyone was ready, Gray initiated the cybernetic port. His mind was now interfacing directly to the CPU on this briefcase.

He was inside. He missed being inside.

He was standing in pure black, though he himself was completely lit. A glowing green door appeared, and words echoed through his mind, words sent from the program he was connected to. He heard instructions. “This is a memory program. By entering the green door, you are consciously allowing us the necessary access. You will do what we tell you to do, when we tell you to, or as a failsafe, we will wipe your mind clean.”

Gray wondered why the computer said ‘we’. It sounded like the programmer was trying to be intimidating, a sense of superiority or some bullshit. And, while it may disappoint said programmer, the overall threat wasn’t too scary. Having his memory wiped wasn’t that bad, if it came to that. His life was shit so far, but, at the same time, he’d avoid a brain sweep just the same. Gray Puppet walked along the black void and into the green door, which he disappeared into. He really missed being inside.

Suddenly he was inside a room. He was staring at a red, plastic telephone, and there was a voice. A soft, precious, familiar voice. It was his father. Gray Puppet had no recollection of his father, all he had were blurry images that came briefly through dreams. But looking around, he knew this place. He remembered that this was his home. He looked down and saw that he was wearing a diaper. What the fuck was this?

“Look at the table, Gray,” the computer said. He went backwards through his thoughts, rewinding to a bouncy toy that he disgustingly had in his mouth after rubbing the dog with it. Gray could taste everything, a passenger in his own thoughts, with no control over his actions. Memories from infancy. These were things that already happened, he was just reliving them. This kind of tech wasn’t supposed to exist.

“I see the table,” Gray thought, which communicated perfectly to the software accessing his mind.

“I need you to see what’s on the table.”

Gray went forward with his thoughts. This was too surreal, watching his father. They wanted him to see what was on the table, something from when he was just a toddler, but each time his eyes went to his dad. Then Gray started to shake and he didn’t know why. But his subconscious knew why.

“Relax, Gray, this happened a long time ago, you survive unharmed,” the program said. Then a window shatters and he tenses up, about to cry. The toddler was crying, not him, but he had the emotions in his head. His dad was on the floor. There were a lot of big guys in the room, looking for something. The papers that were on the table had been tossed to the floor.

“Do you see the papers?” the voice said.

“Fuck you!” Gray shouted. “Let me out of here!”

“Not until we have what we want. I don’t ever have to let you go, Gray. If you want out of here quickly, then relax, and think about those papers,” the voice said. “You’re only useful if you saw those papers.”

Gray’s heart was pounding, and it wasn't just the memory taking place. He was crying, afraid of the big men, and wanting his daddy to get up. He picked up a ball, wanting something comfortable. The men left. In his adult mind, Gray knew what they had done, and now they had set the place on fire too. They were fast, efficient, and organized, so his dad must have been into something bad. Whatever it was got him killed. They left. Now Gray crawled over to his daddy, afraid to walk on his wobbly feet. Gray knows he’s dead--blood is coming out of his skull--but the toddler doesn't know. The toddler in him just doesn’t get it. Fuck this computer for making him remember this!! There’s a reason he didn’t remember any of this, his mind had locked it out, forever. Fuck! Gray crawled over the papers.

“Go back, Gray.”

The scene froze and went in reverse, slowly, until he looked down at the papers. It was a map. A spot was circled on the map.

“End sequence,” the voice said, and then Gray was swirling. His mind was viciously disconnected from the cybernetic port, something that left him feeling like a crowbar hit him in the head. He fell from the chair and felt Maybelline’s hands holding him up. He opened his eyes to the swirling dark room, and saw Tiny holding a flashlight. Gray knew this was the present, the now. He was back with his crew in the dark studio. He wasn’t a toddler anymore, he was himself again. What a fucking trip. He saw his dad die… shit. He had just been a little kid again, freaking horrible. Then came the sound he knew was imminent. The bastards who did this were going to finish it now that they had Gray's memory.

When the pop burst, Gray's ears were ringing even though he was covering them. Gas filled the studio from the loosed canisters that were fired inside. Gray and Maybelline struggled some before falling over, facing each other, collapsing eye to eye. He saw the flashlights fall as Matchbox and Tiny hit the deck too, after a glorious attempt to stay on their feet.

A minute passed.

Footsteps. Someone was retrieving the laptop. Yeah, Gray Puppet didn’t think they’d want to broadcast whatever they found over the Networks, which were hacked and monitored and re-hacked a trillion times a day. The location on that map held something his dad must have been working on, and they had been searching all this time. Somehow they found Gray, taking a bet that he had seen something. The computer honed in on the memories, narrowed them down. Now someone was taking the laptop off the table. The mysterious figure stopped near the dead man, and looked at Gray and his crew on the floor. Then he accessed his communicator. “Keep gassing the place. Punks killed Whitman, let em’ die,” he said. Maybelline growled a little.

As soon as the studio doors opened and closed, the crew stood up. Gray gave the signal and they headed to the stairs. When it was safe, they took out the mouthpieces.

“How did you know they’d gas us?” Tiny asked.

“Cause’ he’s a damn genius, aint’ I been saying it?” Maybelline said. Gray didn’t know they’d gas him, but he had studied DanTech security systems. Whoever their Chief of Security was, he liked to keep his responses low key and overwhelming, hence the building’s gas response. It was a blitz psych profile Gray composed only minutes ago, one that paid off when he had whispered to the crew to get those mouthpieces. Gray had a knack for payoffs. Now to get that computer back.

“Okay, let’s all get the fuck out of here now,” Matchbox urged. “Shit! I got blood on my shirt man,” he said, looking at the splatter from shooting Mr. Very Unlucky in the head. It seems the fear of death and subsequent escape of mentioned death had made them all forget that Gray Puppet had just cybernetically docked with a stolen, high tech computer, and nobody was asking what he saw.

“Yeah, but let’s torch the place first. Matchbox, they’ll come looking for us, torch it good. Something high incendiary, make it plausible that our bodies were disintegrated,” Gray said.

“I don’t have my gear,” Matchbox said.

“Make it work!” Gray snapped. He rarely, make that never, snapped. So when he did, Matchbox nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll make it work, they have gas lines in the walls, I’ll rig some shit, toast the studio, but as long as the fire department doesn’t take the day off, it won’t burn the other floors. I got this,” Matchbox said, his eyes scanning back and forth in self thought. “Gray, what was on the computer?”

Gray Puppet answered after a slight pause. “Nothing. Something in my head, but I don’t know what. Something from my childhood, but… it didn’t make sense.” Gray gave a dramatic pause at the end to make it look a little more convincing. Maybelline was watching him, and she was not convinced. She knew him too well. Tiny and Matchbox seemed to buy it though. They opened the door to the stairwell joining all floors.

“Nothing huh?” Maybelline said.

“Well, nothing I could understand, it was some weird neural shit,” Gray said.

Maybelline looked at him closer before deciding. “Matchbox, he’s lying to us,” she finally said. Matchbox didn't need to be told twice; he slammed Gray into the wall with his forearm. Gray clutched at Matchbox’s hand as he was then pushed against the railing of the stairs, the ground being four floors down.

“You're gonna' take a dive, Gray!” Matchbox threatened him. Gray knew he would do it too. “What was on the computer?!”

“Alright!” Gray said, hands out for fear of falling.

“Just tell him, Gray!” Tiny cried, half afraid that Matchbox was going to send him down the stairs the fast and final way.

“It’s an account number, from the file job we did! They knew I saw the data sheets, they memory mapped me to get it!

“We sold those!!” Matchbox yelled, pushing Gray almost over the railing.

“Not that one!! It was a transfer account, it encrypted the moment we copied it!!” Gray said, his hands slipping from the railing as Matchbox threatened to drop him over the side.

“How much is it worth?” Maybelline said.

“A lot,” Gray answered, panting.

“What do we do, Maybelline?” Matchbox asked with his face right against Gray's.

“Matchbox, you torch the studio, me and Tiny will get the laptop back,” Maybelline said. “Gray was right about them coming after us, so we need to be dead,” she added.

“I want to push him down the stairs!” Matchbox said.

“So do it already,” Maybelline said. Gray braced himself for what came next.

He felt gravity flip as Matchbox spun him over the railing, and he reached out with desperate hands but didn’t catch anything. His shoulder clipped the bar on the third floor that sent him tumbling. He tried to stabilize himself and brace for impact as air rushed past him, but it all happened much faster than he thought it would. He didn’t even have a chance to scream, his body too paralyzed, as he landed on the floor.

Gray Puppet was breathing. That was good. The wind was knocked out of him, and bad, so he wasn’t necessarily acting when he didn’t get up. His shoulder might be out of socket, it hurt like a bitch. But it worked. Matchbox had tossed him, just like Gray wanted him to.

When the plan changed, when he knew he had to betray his ragtag crew, he lied on purpose. He lied because he knew Maybelline would catch it. And when she did, he knew Matchbox would kill him. That's why he took the stairs in the first place. Gray Puppet was called a genius by these guys because he had a knack for anticipating things. He didn't anticipate having to do this, but he knew that someday things might go really, really bad. So for the last four jobs, he had escape routes. Never expected to use any of them, never wanted to for certain, but they were his life insurance policy. He always had an escape plan. This plan involved the polyfoam floor Gray Puppet had installed here. He knew his team, knew how to position them to the stairwell, and knew how to exploit Matchbox, all while making it look like he wasn't in control. The polyfoam had saved his life. It was four inches thick and designed for extreme impact absorption. He painted it to match the concrete floor. No one would know unless they tried to bounce a ball on it. It was one of three deaths that he had rigged in this building; the stairwell, his own gun filled with blanks, and a heat blanket under the couch. Though, truly, he didn't anticipate DanTech being on to him from the start. That's when the plan changed. That's when he had to get himself killed.

If he had to admit it, Gray Puppet really was a genius. And he knew he traveled and robbed with a band of criminals, one of them a very hotheaded and psychopathic Matchbox. If he ever had to turn on his own team, Matchbox would kill him. So the trick was to get killed in a way he could prepare for. He might get trapped in the studio while Matchbox torched everything, which was what he first thought would happen, and where the heat blanket and oxygen mask would have saved him. Or if things got too tense too early, Gray would pull his gun out and Matchbox would take it, beat him with it, and then shoot him with red paint blanks. It would sting, but Gray would live. And finally, the stairway. Matchbox used killing as an extension of his rage, and hurling someone off the top of the stairs was something the psycho probably thought of every time he climbed them. So by lining the bottom floor with a high absorption weight dispersing foam, he could survive a fall as long as he didn’t land on his head. Getting it to fit under the doorway and not be noticeable wasn’t easy, he had to shave an inch off the bottom of the door, but the concrete paint really made it blend in perfectly. He was hoping he’d never have to use it, but hope doesn't keep you alive, not in this city.

He lied in a way that sounded convincing, but not so convincing that Maybelline wouldn't catch it. That would make the team think that Gray was holding out on them, holding out on a big score or something. He knew not to tell the lie he wanted them to believe until he was staring four stories down at what the others thought was a concrete death bed. Then they'd buy whatever he said as the truth; which was the lie he wanted them to buy. Not the first lie. The second lie. Now he knew Matchbox was about to torch the place, and Maybelline and Tiny were going to attack Mr. Laptop Stealer. If they lived or died trying to rob him, they’d never make use of anything they found on that laptop. That just left Matchbox.

Gray Puppet stood up, very slowly, very carefully. His body ached, and would for days as the outline of his impact slowly melted from the polyfoam. His left shoulder didn’t feel right, so he let his arm dangle as he opened the street level door. He looked up and down the alleyway and saw a dumpster diver, nobody else. This alleyway was always too dark, which was why he picked it. He stepped out and headed towards the glowing neon signs across the street. They were Chinese symbols for a noodle shop, Lucky Horse or something . They were a block from Shanghai Sector’s food district, which was a very nice treat for late night munchies. Gray Puppet heard three gunshots.

It could be random--lots of crime in this Sector--or it could be Tiny and Maybelline, or it could be Mr. Laptop Stealer defending himself. Gray removed his palmPad from an inside pocket, but it was smashed. He was eager to load a map, get a look at what he saw in that computer. Another shot rang out. Good. That meant someone had fired back. They were probably all dead. That gave him time. He needed time to find what his dad was working on, what he had died for. And whatever it was, Gray Puppet was going to find it. It must be valuable, but that didn’t matter. It was something of his dad’s. He had nothing else of him. He didn't even know what he looked like until today.

Gray wouldn’t be forgetting those memories anytime soon, but he did need to get scarce. His body was neon orange from the glowing street signs above him as he entered the noodle shop. The smell of seared chicken and ginger hit him. He grabbed a seat at the bar and sipped the cup of water that was promptly served. So, what was happening to Matchbox right now? Gray smiled. This part really was genius, no denying it. The crew didn’t know it, but the doors to the studio were electronically locked unless Gray was with them. He didn't want anyone--crew included--snooping around. They always came together, they always left together, and the RFID signal from Gray Puppet’s palmPad was the silent signal that unlocked the doors. So if he wasn’t within fifty meters, or if his palmPad took a four story dive, the doors were locked. So right now, as Matchbox was torching the studio, he was probably yanking on the doors for dear life, wondering why they wouldn’t open, as the rest of him went up in flames.

“I’m ready to order,” Gray said. Nan Li, his friend and noodle shop waiter, came to take his order.

“Hi Gray, hungry tonight?”

“I need the Travelling Buddha,” Gray said. Nan Li looked at him, as if a second look was part of the protocol.

With a nod and a quick look around, he finally spoke. “Coming up.” Nan Li reached under the counter and shuffled several cups and napkins around before retrieving a wrapped book. It was a package Gray Puppet kept here in case he needed to make a hasty exit. It had identification, travel tickets, and enough money to get him out of town in style. He took the package and placed it under his arm. “How about a takeout?” Nan Li asked, getting some Singapore Prawns and rice from the counter and putting them into a box. He threw it in a plastic bag and added chopsticks. “Take care, Gray,” Nan Li said. They both knew it was goodbye.

“Thanks Nan, for everything,” Gray Puppet said. This was good, saying goodbye to somebody, and he was getting hungry too. He grabbed the package and the takeout with his good arm and went outside just as something smashed in the air above. All eyes looked up as a shower of glass came down, followed by a ball of flame hurling from the fourth floor. It was so big and loud that you almost couldn’t see Matchbox’s body inside the ball of fire. Gray Puppet hoped Matchbox saw him before dying so he could ask himself, “...is that Gray?”

Yep. It’s me, Gray Puppet. And if his crew had taken a second to think about it, they would have called him Puppet Master instead. The glowing city lights welcomed him as he walked to the subway station four blocks later, to the symphony of sirens.

Time to find out what dad was working on. Time to start a new chapter in Gray Puppet's life. To be honest, he was looking forward to it.

If you enjoyed reading this, you might enjoy my books as well.
Paphos 1
Paphos 1 is a scifi thriller and is free on all major formats. Paphos Books 1-5 are avail on kindle at a special price.

Cargo Lock 5 Cargo Lock 5 is available on kindle, a scifi crime mystery. Kenji is a fantasy novel coming soon.

visit www.nrburnette.com for more about my books and games

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Excerpt From Paphos: Athen’s Despair

Athen had known despair like this before, the kind that dragged you into unreachable places and you either kept going to live or gave up to die. She had fractured her ankle once on a hike through Kazakhstan Prefecture during the Global Trekathon when she was seventeen. She had stepped badly and twisted it twenty kilometers away from the next checkpoint, the only place she could get any kind of help. One grapefruit sized rock had twisted her ankle just right and dropped her in the dirt. She looked up at the clouds first, instinctively she supposed. Then she looked at the mountains which were forever on the horizon. And with no one and no thing around for kilometers, she looked at her ankle and realized she was in trouble. That part of the trek was a pure and untouched place, and you could go days without seeing anyone else on that race. It took so much willpower to stand, and even more to hike twenty kilometers with a broken ankle. Yet as dark as that moment was, she made it. Athen discovered at age seventeen that she was mentally stronger than others. So when she saw what happened to Orlean, something that would make most people sit and wait for someone to save them, she knew better. She knew that she, and Orlean, were on their own. And Athen, wounded leg and all, was not going to abandon Orlean so easily.
The elevator doors slid open at almost counter angles, a subtle architectural choice. She stood leaning, her weight resting on her good leg, hands clenched. Maybe it was the pain killers making her feel so bold. She staggered out of the elevator cabin using the wall for support.
Orlean had been bleeding. Even in so little light his trail of blood was easy to follow. This hallway was a little more industrial than the others, long metal pipes lined the wall and crisscrossed overhead, gushing hot vapor. Athen shielded herself with her hand as she crossed by. After several steps she begged to know what this place was. The facility clearly spanned far more terrain underground than any of them had expected. She closed her eyes and took a few more steps, still holding the wall. Her leg was angry now, the medication was still working at half strength but the shrapnel was unforgiving. She looked back wondering if there was a better way to go about this.
Athen wiped sweat from her forehead and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Her good leg wobbled, she was running out of strength. She couldn’t see far down this hallway as it arched, and it was taking her too long to make any distance. Frustrated she propped an arm against the wall and stared down at a spot of Orlean’s blood. Her eyes narrowed, she pictured Orlean dangling like a worm on a hook for that thing, and then she slapped her bad leg.
“Ahh, damn you,” she said slapping it again. “Come on!”
The pain in her leg throbbed, fueling her with anger and adrenaline. She used it, forcing herself to limp onwards. It was all but dark in here, and it took a few moments for her to navigate over a pipe protruding across her path. She continued on that way, using the adrenaline to push her, even mumbling to herself about what a great day she was having, until she saw a doorway much different than the ones all over this facility. Large recess lights focused on a rectangular dark set of steel doors. The trail of blood also disappeared here.
“Orlean, I think I found you,” Athen said with her eyes half open. “And I’m not going to leave you down here,” she added staring at the door, looking for a way to open it. Massive hinges weighed in on both sides, and kitty corner to the door was a chest high panel that suddenly turned red. Athen blinked as a hologram appeared.
She backed away instinctively. The hologram came to life with exotic symbols, then a small picture of a round and gangly creature. Athen blinked, recognizing a warning even if she didn’t recognize the language. The hologram then flashed other images, but Athen had a hard time following as the pain came in unbearable waves. It was a short warning that disappeared after playing, and Athen didn’t really understand it. The only part she recognized was the part where the creature in the video was zapped to death by a probe coming out of the wall. Athen looked at the wall, noticing fine grooves where the fatal death probe must be hiding.
“Are you kidding me?” Athen said. She stared and stared at the door, then she looked up and down either end of the hallway looking for another solution. She really didn’t want to go in there. “Damn you, Orlean,” she whined. “You owe me a drink.” From what she could tell on the video the wrong species got zapped, the right species got in. If Orlean came this way, maybe the wall wasn’t going to zap her. Big maybe. Before she had a chance to think better of it, Athen placed her hand on the security panel and watched as a dozen sensors swarmed her. She shut her eyes, too tired to fight being disintegrated. Something turned green and she felt the locks behind the wall click open. Strange how, even here, other life forms considered green as the GO color. Some things really were universal she supposed. The big doors opened, followed by a long sigh of relief. Athen looked inside, wondering what next.
Lunar Central Station… that was her first thought. Her schema of experiences reminded her of Lunar Central Station, which everyone who traveled off planet had been to, or LuCent as most called it. Space travel from Earth didn’t leave from Earth, it left from the moon, from Lunar Central Station. The deep space rigs preferred weak gravity. Eight million people a year flowed through LuCent, she had heard. What Athen saw inside looked like a travel hub to her. Big, gaping entrances and exits, an oval control center in the middle of one giant room, smaller stations and work cubicles, dead screens on faded billboards hung from the ceiling, and the walls were black. The ceilings vaulted up almost beyond sight, and the center of the room raised a step, giving this a unique look compared to the other rooms. These distractions were probably why she didn’t see her friend laying on the ground as she walked inside.
“Uhnn…”
Athen jumped when she heard Orlean’s groan. She saw his silhouette on the floor, he could barely hold his head up. “Orlean?”
Orlean suddenly climbed to his feet. Athen ran towards him, but stopped in the next instant. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t move right. Orlean walked towards her, slowly, coming out of the shadows. “Orlean?”
“Athen…” he moaned. She realized why she stopped. Orlean wasn’t walking, he was being carried, held upright, by those wormy veins that had impaled him and snatched him from the elevator. The ones that had come from the creature’s pod hand, they were still inside of Orlean, controlling him. Athen snatched her pry bar, the heaviest tool she carried, from her tool satchel. “Orlean…” Athen didn’t know what else to say, she couldn’t save him. She wished she had not come inside and seen him like this. She wished she had simply left. What she saw here would haunt her forever, the worms crawling in and out of him, his scared face and eyes. Orlean staggered and fell into the wall, but the worms pushed him upright again. Athen almost threw up in her mouth.
“Help me…”

Thank you for reading this excerpt from Paphos Books 1-5.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, the collection is available on Amazon, with a promotional half-price sale.
Paphos 1Paphos 1 is free on Nook, Kindle, iBooks, Kobo, and Smashwords to read more.
Cargo Lock 5Also check out Cargo Lock 5 on Amazon for a dark cyberpunk crime thriller.
Be sure to follow me on http://twitter.com/nrburnette
Visit www.nrburnette.com for more about my next work Kenji, and the indie game Maneki’s Curse which expands the Kenji lore.
Thank you for reading

###

It took longer for Gojun to march on the goddess than he had wanted. But to break the world, even for him, would require the right strategy and discipline. He knew this because his predecessor, Maneki, had tried and failed. So when they finally did march on her lands, as was Gojun’s promise, it was the lookout guard who saw it first. The lookout guard who rubbed his eyes, felt his heart palpitate, and then ran without rest to his superior to make a report. And what a terrible report it was, that the god of war’s army marched on them. That was two days ago, from when the guard first made his report, paralyzing the people the goddess meant to command. And in that time, no help had come to her. The goddess was not alone. Her loyal guard, Tetsuo, was with her.

“Goddess?” Tetsuo said with a stiff bow that revealed the overabundance of armor his Imperial suit was made of. Tetsuo never felt nimble in his royal armor but the goddess selected it herself. Surely she knew better.

“What is it?” the goddess of air asked absentmindedly. Her focus was elsewhere as she gazed out the window of her private quarters high above and overlooking all.

“They’ve assembled, goddess, the attack will be soon. Can we move you to a safer place now?” Tetsuo asked as calmly as he could, knowing life and death depended on her choices now.

“We are safe right here. Have courage, I am expecting… someone. For now stand your ground. I have faith in my personal guards,” she smiled and blessed Tetsuo with a gentle wave of her hands. Soft blossoming scents filled the room as she went to the adjoining chamber. It was not Tetsuo’s place to advise the goddess. Mortals could not think as a goddess could. Her words placed him at ease but Tetsuo knew she was more worried than she pretended. When he first walked in she was gazing out the window as if listening for someone or something. The expression on her face at that moment when she was alone was different than just now. It was as if her hope rested on whoever she was trying to reach, and she looked doubtful he or it may ever come. She did not explain these things to Tetsuo, she would never have to. Tetsuo was just one of her personal guards.

“Yes, goddess,” Tetsuo replied, hastening back to his post. The clanks of his armor filled palace hallways as he sped down them, he wished he could take it off. By the time the marble pathway announced him a fellow Imperial guard turned his head to see if a legion of pots and pans had launched a surprise attack. Tetsuo wished he could laugh on such things. The god of war’s army was nothing to laugh at.

“Tetsuo.”

“Sir,” Tetsuo replied, yet his mind was thoughtful. What would become of them all on this day? The post here was a lookout over the goddess’ lands, a kingdom that stretched on over arching valleys north and rich hillsides west and east. The palace here, and her kingdom as a whole, was as high as the clouds, or at least close to it. The view extended to the curve of the world, and it gave them ample warning of the god of war’s presence. Two days ago they were spotted to the east. But like the setting sun, knowing the god of war’s armies simply did not mean you could stop them. And in spite of their preparations, deep down Tetsuo feared nothing would stop them. But as the goddess’ personal guard he could not carry such fears. Fear would only impede his ability to perform. When the time came his duty, above all else, was what mattered.

Tetsuo observed the array of what looked like thousands of armored dots from this lookout. The god of war split his armies into four, one army north, south, east, and west. Each army was a combination of close quarter troops, sword and spear mostly, shields in the left hand and weapons in the right. Only the god of war would march an army without any ranged weapons. His confidence was a knife of fear in his enemies. Each army comprised ten thousand soldiers, Tetsuo had never seen what forty thousand troops looked like until he saw them, like a cancer on the beautiful scenery he could paint with closed with eyes. It was more terrifying than he thought it would be. He blinked with the faintest hope they might just disappear when he opened his eyes.

Had the world even seen such an army before? The gods only knew. North, south, east, and west they descended. The sound of war drums followed the wind up to Tetsuo’s ears.

“You were right, Tetsuo, the assault is today,” the Guard Commander said. He had been waiting for breakfast by the sound of his voice.

“Sir!” Tetsuo bowed in agreement with his commander. The goddess had her defenses readied but not engaged. She was waiting. Waiting for whoever it was she had called out to, obviously one of the gods. Tetsuo could not pry or dwell on such things, not even in his own personal thoughts. To do so was disrespectful. But whoever she was waiting for needed to come soon. The god of war’s armies would not wait.

Tetsuo gripped the hilt of his katana. Whatever may come.



###



Gojun’s pulse stirred with the rising war drums as a thousand ripples of armor mobilized. The musk of dirt and scent of steel filled the breeze with an aroma Gojun savored. His army was disciplined, experienced, and afraid of him. They were his to command, their only wish was to make him proud, and they did, marching in coordination, columns and rows of troops in perfect unison, despite the days of marching. Head to toe in black armor, some heavy plated and some light chain links, depending on the rank and soldier. There was so many, and he would never know their names, but that was not the way of it. They knew his name, and they knew what he would ask of them, and they knew to obey. That was the way of it.

“God of war, we march as you command. I expect the goddess of air imagined you would first strike her brethren, the god of harvest. I wish I could have seen the surprise on her face when we crested that hillside,” his senior general said coming along Gojun’s side. It was as close to a question as his top general was willing to make.

“I made a promise.” Gojun did not have candid conversations on his own plans, though his generals were valuable to him. Each had proven himself and earned Gojun’s trust and respect a hundred times over. Still they knew never to question him, only to voice their curiosities in the guise of a compliment. Gojun smiled.



###



The goddess held her god slayer knife in both hands the way a mortal might before taking her own life. Two hands firmly grasping the handle with the blade pointing up at her. It had a spirit of its own, one that she could sense, and right now its spirit was excited. She hoped it would channel her prayers to the greater demon Oni. She would need it if Gojun found her. Her hands trembled. The last time she was in the presence of Gojun, the moment his emotions came to the surface, she felt overpowered. To think that she would ever get close enough to Gojun to use this blade was betraying herself, she could afford no desperate thoughts. Even if she somehow managed to cut him, she doubted she could pierce enough flesh to hurt him, even with her Nordic cursed blade. The god of war’s skin was granite and muscle.

“ONI!!” she cried, unable to hold it in any longer. Where was that creature?! She cursed that fateful day. The Oni had lied. She knew Gojun would march against her but Oni had sworn to protect her when that day came. It was the only reason she carried out the assassination of the goddess of harmony and her baby boy. Of course, Kenji was not dead, but only she knew that. As a collective, her fellow gods supported the actions she took on that day. Gojun had promised her, if any harm befell his wife or child he would make her the first to pay. She wished she had heeded Gojun over the Oni, curse that demon. How did her eyes and ears not inform her of this attack with more advance? She might have been able to rally the gods to her defense. Instead, all she had was the Oni’s promise to protect her, and she was beginning to fear it was a lie.

She was sweating despite the breeze of her flowing lace dress. It was her most beautiful dress and she was giving herself every advantage a woman could. She was a fool for thinking the god of war would weaken to her whim as other men did but she had to try everything. Gojun was still a man, perhaps when he saw her he would have second thoughts about utter destruction. Perhaps he would let her live. She would at least try. With the Oni missing she had no choice. “Damn you, Oni! Where are you?!”

“Goddess?” Tetsuo bowed, startling her with his suddenness. He was the only guard who could approach her without her hearing. All of her followers were devout, and especially Tetsuo. He was one of the few who respected her without fearing her. Mortals had difficulty looking at a goddess eye to eye, but Tetsuo could. Of course he rarely did, it was a matter of respect between mortal and goddess. Something about Tetsuo made the goddess feel like she had a friend. She was worshiped by so many without knowing any of her followers, unable to know them, but Tetsuo was different. He acted out of honor, not fear. It helped her feel secure at times like now when death descended outside her door. She would not wait for Oni any longer. She accepted it. Oni is not coming.

“Tetsuo, prepare for battle. All four walls must be protected. Tell the generals, then return here. If the fight comes to these halls I’ll want you close by.”

“Yes, Goddess!” Tetsuo confirmed, bowed sharply, and turned with military precision. When her chamber door was far enough away he burst into a full sprint.

Nervous eyes followed him. Worn faces yearned for news of any kind. Everyone knew the god of war’s army was outside. And for a time the goddess was able to alleviate their fears. Everyone hoped the god of war could be negotiated with. He may be here to force her to swear allegiance, something a previous god of war supposedly had attempted. It was fitting Gojun might try what the last god of war could not do, succeed where he failed. Maneki waged war on his fellow gods, but ultimately he lost. One god against an alliance of the rest, how could he succeed? When they saw Tetsuo, saw he had a reason to be sprinting, fear wrestled over the edge of patience. It was not Tetsuo’s place to comfort the people. The goddess did that. He had orders to give.

The palace hallways twisted and yielded into proper reception rooms and inner gardens, outdoor sky viewing areas, all flew by in a blur until Tetsuo emerged through the palace grounds into the first steps of her city below. A soldier met him at the steps to carry the order to the generals. The soldier looked confidant, ready, almost eager. It was a small comfort considering the circumstances, and a welcome one.

“Prepare for the attack. Take three garrisons, set most defenses at the East Gate. All hail the goddess.”

“Finally,” the soldier bowed and like the wind slipped swiftly through buildings and medical field tents. The soldier ran unimpeded by the citizens of her majesty, they had all descended to the dozens of storage holes for grain and wine. They were only safe there if the god of war’s army never broke inside, because it was not well hidden, and the war dogs would easily sniff them out. Large, specially bred hounds, the size of a horse and capable of tearing a man apart. They were highly feared among the god of war’s arsenal, luckily none had been spotted among the forty thousand soldiers. Forty thousand of them… Tetsuo shook the thought of them away. He watched the soldier sprint through the center city street to report the orders to the generals. The soldier’s response was disrespectful to the goddess and Tetsuo did not approve, but now was not the time to correct him. Tetsuo raised his head to the east. He could hear the steady march of drums getting louder.

“Report!” Tetsuo urged up at a lookout. The field watch signaled a scout perched on the archer lookout. The trail of hand signals returned, all were preparing to make a stand. Tetsuo did not hold rank over any of the goddess’ soldiers, but as an Imperial guard, he was given due respect. Tetsuo never made use of that respect unless it was necessary.

“Four armies, ten thousand each, cross haired around us. Better return to the goddess, guard. We’ll touch steel by the time you do,” the commander grinned. Field swagger. He wondered how that confidence would hold once they did touch steel, steel and reality. Tetsuo cursed his insight, he would prefer to realize less and believe more. He would prefer to be that simple soldier.

Still out of breath from his sprint down he turned and sprinted back with so much haste his armor threatened to fall off. He wouldn’t mind, he preferred loose fitting hakama pants and an open cotton shirt. His hands, slick with sweat, would not dry no matter how many times he wiped them. This was a childish nervousness. Tetsuo had wielded his katana with blood and sweat and grime and more. The handle was cord wrapped and had never once slipped in his grasp, but today he felt as if he could barely hold it. Childish fears! Tetsuo did not fear death, but that didn’t mean that such fears weren’t there. Tetsuo rubbed his hands on his armor, but it did not help them feel dry. Wet hands would send the katana flying if he intended to use it, though he knew it was not possible. He even rubbed his hands on a stone pillar, hoping the moisture would drain into the rock. It helped, some. His slick hands were a side effect of his fear, but knowing this did not help regain any confidence. If he could not remember his training now, he would succumb to fear. He had to focus, and stay calm.

“Tetsuo, report!”

“They will be here within the quarter hour. I must return to the goddess,” Tetsuo urged.

“Protect our goddess, as I shall do my part,” the soldier said full of pride.

Tetsuo bowed and hurried back to the goddess. The men were so confident, so ready, why could he not share their trust in the goddess? He slowed to a jaunt and found the goddess in her chamber, and to his surprise a blade was in her hands, pointing against her rib. She faced the wall, her eyes shut. A look of contemplation on her face, the knife held firmly towards her heart. Tetsuo kept silent about the knife, perhaps this was not as it appeared. It was not his place to question the goddess, even now.

“Goddess, the field commander reports the men are all eager to trade steel. They are filled with confidence,” Tetsuo said.

When Tetsuo looked up she had hidden the blade. She seemed to think for a moment, and then smiled on him, goddess to mortal. There was another look in her eye now. “Come, Tetsuo. Follow me,” she said.

She faced a pillar in her study, in an area off limits to even her servants. Decorative silk screening divided the room, casting mountains and rivers of black ink. Out of the corner of Tetsuo’s vision the goddess slid something into place with a gentle click. She overturned a table littered with objects, centuries old. Pots shattered and scrolls rolled across the floor. The goddess was unconcerned.

Underneath the table Tetsuo realized there was an outline in the floor. The goddess appeared to have a form of determination he had not seen on her for days as she clasped her hands together. Tetsuo felt the air in the room massively shift as she summoned, and then an outline in the floor began to change. A large, tile slab lifted up out of the floor, and beneath it was a pathway, a secret tunnel, one Tetsuo had never seen before. Tetsuo jumped when the marble tile slab suddenly crashed to the floor, destroying not a few of the goddess’ antiques and precious vases with a crunch.

“A secret tunnel?” he realized, saying it before he had a chance to catch his words. The goddess regarded him matter of fact.

“Indeed, Tetsuo.” She looked on his face. For the first time he can remember she did not smile at him. “What is it, guard?”

Tetsuo composed himself. He could not believe the goddess would abandon her army. Her own people. “I live to serve, goddess, it is an honor,” he quoted. He bowed so sharply he saw only the bottom lining of her shoes. The goddess did not reply as a blanket of air formed and lifted her like a feather, a masterfully controlled feather, down into the tunnel. Tetsuo followed with much less grace, he climbed down the ladder, covered with eons of dust, hoping his armor did not get stuck. He would not dishonor her twice by requesting to take it off though. As he climbed the walls shook, and it was not here. He felt it everywhere. Tetsuo’s breath seized in his chest, wondering what had just happened. It sounded as if the earth itself shattered, the goddess’ palace erupted with sound.

“Hurry Tetsuo, Gojun will be quick,” she said. Tetsuo cringed. Aside from the fact that he would never address a god by name, as a mortal never should, the thought of Gojun on his way to this room put a fear in Tetsuo he could not dismiss. He was certain right now to not even think the god of war’s name, out of fear for what was coming.

Tetsuo followed behind the goddess with all his speed and it was almost enough to keep pace with her. The tunnel was lit with torches that burst aflame as the goddess sped onward. Tetsuo’s hands were slippery wet again, so he rubbed them through his hair. They still were not dry but it was better than nothing.

They continued on as the tunnel twisted and wound itself like a coil through untold parts of the palace, between walls and through rooms that looked to have been purposefully forgotten. After awhile Tetsuo was convinced the tunnel had led them underground. A pounding chaos above them caused dust to dance down in waves, layering his Imperial armor, as they sped deeper into the winding tunnel. The battle had begun, though Tetsuo could not imagine how it came so quickly. He had just seen from the lookout post, he had calculated two hours before steel would clashed. But the sounds above him were unmistakable . Tetsuo pictured the blood being spilled up there. He prayed his soldiers were performing well, remembering the one soldier who was so eager to touch steel. “Make them taste your steel,” he whispered a prayer.

The air down here was cold if Tetsuo could take a moment to notice it. Abruptly the goddess stopped, the path before them was sealed by an iron gate, with thick bars and curious inscriptions. The iron was now a crumbling light blue, a corrosion he had seen only on the oldest of metals. She reached out with her hands, about to open it, when something very close thundered through the tunnel.

Tetsuo felt a new presence. Something had happened in the tunnel, too far down for him to see. Then more crashes above them, thunderous and unrestrained. Tetsuo feared deeply for his fellow soldiers, by the sounds above him, he could only imagine the hell being unleashed up there. But Tetsuo had something more immediate to concern him, something down that tunnel, coming towards them. He looked to the goddess. She had busied herself opening the locks on this ageless gate. Her frantic eyes looked beyond Tetsuo back down the way they came, she once more uttered the god of war’s name. Hastily she worked to get the locks on the gate opened.

Dust filled Tetsuo’s nose and mouth as the air spun uncontrollably, rising with the goddess’ frantic emotions. When the locks clicked free she held one hand up and a massive burst of air forced the gate open. The gush of wind even knocked Tetsuo off his feet. Tetsuo realized light was filtering in through the haze, as well as the wails of combat. This tunnel led outside.

“GODDESS”

One word, and it stopped Tetsuo cold.

The voice boomed from behind Tetsuo and the goddess. He felt cold, completely chilled to the bone. Tetsuo was facing the gateway but the goddess had turned around, and when he saw the fear in her, the fear placed in a goddess, he knew he was lost. She was mortified, only one thing could scare her so much. Tetsuo could not bring himself to look at him. But, his goddess was in trouble, and Tetsuo’s training came since no other thought could. You know what to do, Tetsuo said to himself. His goddess was in danger, he was meant for this day. This was his duty. Tetsuo’s hands slid to his katana and he closed his eyes, trying not to think of that cursed name. He struck hard, and fast.

In a fraction of an instant he spun, he unleashed the katana from its sheath and separated life from body with a single cut. The same technique that drew the blade from its sheath was also the kill stroke, and he felt his steel find its home. His blade slipped through the enemy with the resistance of a perfect cut.

Tetsuo opened his eyes and fell instantly to the floor. In that split moment he had looked into Gojun’s eyes, and could sooner stare into the sun. Tetsuo was paralyzed beneath that gaze, on hands and knees he shook. His hands were planted flat on the floor as if a boulder was crushing him. He had looked into Gojun’s eyes, and it burned him.

“Excellent cut. You are a master of your art.”

Tetsuo dropped his sword and clutched his ears under the voice of Gojun. He looked at his sword on the ground. He had to defend the goddess, and with all his might he tried to stand. Get up damn you!! Protect the goddess, get up!! Still he could not stand. A fear kept him from even raising his eyes. The god of war’s presence consumed him. His honor fled, he was unable to perform his duty.

“Gojun, listen to me…” he heard the goddess’ trembling voice. Even she feared Gojun.

“SILENCE!” Gojun shouted, cutting her short. Tetsuo squinted in shame as urine trickled into a pool at his knees. He had never known fear like this, and all he wanted to do was run away through that open gate. The god of war wasn’t after Tetsuo, he just wanted her. Tetsuo could run for it. Coward! She is your goddess!! He bit his lip until it bled for even thinking of fleeing. Tetsuo would never forgive himself if he didn’t defend the goddess. Even upon death. He dug into the deepest part of his soul and found enough courage to try again. He had sworn to die for his goddess, he must stand stronger than this in the face of fear.

He opened his eyes again, his hand reached out and gripped his katana. With every ounce of will Tetsuo stood to his feet before the god of war. The katana in his hand quaked.

A shimmering blade, Tetsuo knew it was the dreaded Muramasa, formed in the god of war’s hand out of thin air. Tetsuo dropped his katana, which took the last of his will with it. He looked at the goddess, who looked as afraid as he was. Tetsuo could not help her. He ran.

Tetsuo ran for his life, past the goddess, through the open gate into the sweet beckoning air outside. The trees to the south of the goddess palace still had dew as he embraced the open air. He could not slow down, fear snapped at his heels like one of those war hounds. His dishonor burned like salt in open skin, but it was secondary to the weight of his fear. A squad of the enemy spearmen perched in reserve to his right, and one of them saw Tetsuo. Tetsuo flung his second blade in surrender, a small tanto knife, and ran faster. Without care he stumbled, slamming to the dirt on his hands and face. It was all downhill, and without a thought he rose to his feet, ignoring the pain, and ran. It did not take long until the wails of death in the fortress behind him faded. He dare not turn around to see.

A sudden gust of wind shot leaf and dust in Tetsuo eyes. It was powerful, unnatural, and hurt his heart more than his eyes. The goddess of air, ruler of the wind, had just died. And he did not die with her. He should have died with her. But how could a mortal stand against a god, even just to die? He could not be blamed. Tetsuo shook his head, wishing he could exist without these thoughts right now. His entire life had been a purpose to defend the goddess. And he had failed when that time came. Air swirled in uncontrolled gusts, squalling and howling, and then as quick as it came the air fell utterly still. Perhaps she was alive. Perhaps she was just using tremendous powers in her fight against the god of war, felt by all. Tetsuo wanted to believe it so badly he almost did.

DISHONOR!!

The face of the god of war was burned into his mind in a way that would never escape him.

The goddess was dead.

He failed to protect her. He failed to do his duty. A duty he trained his entire life for. He didn’t even die honorably with her. His heart pumped to the edge of bursting, he pushed himself until he didn’t recognize where he was or how long he had been running. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment and wished he had not. In fact, for the rest of the day he did not close his eyes, not once, for when he did, Gojun’s eyes were there, burned into his soul.



###

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Austin craned his head, with five rooms there could be more specimens. He went to the next room. “I got something in here too,” Austin said. It was another creature of the same species, but this one was smaller and not as fresh looking. Tired, sinewy muscles lined its body, which was crimson red instead of green like the first one. Austin checked the final room, hoping to find nothing new, so that they could focus on the parasite and get the hell out of here. The door was sealed shut, and he noticed a hum of energy coming from it. Through the window they saw another one of the creatures, except this one was large, very large.
“Guys,” Austin said. Dublin and Dmitry came over.
“Why does it look alive?” Dmitry asked.
“Aye, it isn’t decomposed at all. Maybe that’s what they studied here, cell aging and such,” Dublin said. Dmitry nodded.
Austin took a long look and felt his breath tighten. The creature’s chest was moving slowly, rhythmically. He didn’t believe it at first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. But the more carefully he watched, the more he was certain. “It’s breathing,” Austin said, swallowing hard.
Dmitry moved as close as he could without going inside, and smiled. His fortune had changed for the good, finally. Paphos had given him the greatest day in the history of exploration; intelligent alien life forms, and not just one. He would be rich, richer than his wildest dreams. But only if they played it right, only if they concealed it from the company until coming home. If the company were to learn of this, they would have the glory here, and he would have nothing. Sure, he’d have an award, a bonus, but that would be it. Not enough, not enough for a man like Dmitry. “You’re right, it is alive,” he said suddenly whispering. “This is better than the parasite. We need to get a live sample of this,” Dmitry said. Austin wanted to tell him how stupid that was, but Dublin was already getting the door open. He grabbed the control knob and pulled, slowly turning it until he felt the locks falling into place. With a thud it fully clicked home and the hum of energy stopped. The door whined and opened, all three of them stood frozen in the doorway.
“Let’s make sure it isn’t about to wake up,” Austin said, whispering.
“If this thing could wake up, it would have by now, don’t you think?” Dmitry replied.
Austin hoped he was right. As he stood there, wondering, he thought he heard something. Just as he started to turn a hissing screech spun him around. A sticky substance shot Austin in the face, blinding him. Austin recoiled, covering his eyes. Dmitry was hit too.
“My eyes!” Dmitry yelled.
“Shut the door!” Austin cried, fumbling for the control handle. His eyes burned, he could barely see his hand. Before he could get the door closed he felt the parasite slip inside.
“It waited for us to open the door!!” Dmitry shouted.
“Aye!” Dublin said. “An’ I’ll catch it, hand me the sack!” Dmitry blindly threw the durasack at Dublin who snatched it out of the air. Dublin spun on the parasite as it ducked into a corner. He readied the durasack, holding it open in either hand. Dublin squared off, unsure of how to move closer, taking small steps towards the corner of the room. It kept distance from him, hiding behind a chair, giving Dublin time to find the right grip with the durasack. He had one shot, and when it came, he had to be ready. The parasite darted, knocking a glass beaker down and shattering it. Dublin lunged, and just as he did the parasite came at him. Dublin swung with the durasack in an attempt to catch it, not even coming close. The parasite’s spidery legs landed on his back, and Dublin spun. Before he had a second more to react, the parasite dove from Dublin and landed on the huge specimen that was bound to the table. Dublin froze, unsure of following, not wanting to disturb the creature that appeared to be sleeping, and unaware of what came next. The parasite faced off against Dublin for only a moment before burrowing itself inside huge creature’s mouth. Dmitry, Austin, and Dublin stared in horror as the parasite disappeared inside the specimen. Austin and Dmitry had finally cleared their vision, still standing in the hallway outside the room, and the three of them gaped at what had just happened. The creature, still bound to the table, jolted, and then slowly began to flex each of its six arms. Dublin’s face went white.
“Dublin!” Austin yelled, “Get out of there!”
“There’s no time,” Dmitry ordered. He wrapped his hands around the door lever. Dmitry turned the lever and the security door slammed shut, trapping Dublin inside.
Alone.

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###
Taylor did a small dance up the steps to street level, humming a tune to himself. This was the real him, the guy who never listened, not even to himself. Two officers responding to the disturbance at the lightrail hustled past him down the steps. They would have a hard time explaining the damage in the wall. But Taylor wasn’t about to write any reports, he was just waiting for Catheri to show up. The android girl had walked up the steps, which meant she thought she had lost him. He was good with that.
The steps led to a stretch of restaurants, hotels, and the best coffee in New Seattle City. Taylor wondered if this was her home or if it was just the first stop she took to try to lose him. He approached a bench on the sidewalk and stood on it, peering across the bobble of heads moving up and down the street. When Taylor saw her, tall and unnatural, sliding among people like a wolf through a herd of sheep, his adrenaline came back. He hopped down and eyed her from a distance, watching as she entered a cafe. Taylor walked to the far side of the street, keeping an eye on the cafe while hiding behind a noodle soup vending machine. It would be best if he didn't spook her again, not yet. He redialed Catheri with unsteady fingers, damn adrenaline shakes. He took a long breath, he could do this.
“Catheri, where are you? I’m near Café Bella. Hurry and I'll buy you a cup,” he said. Taylor chewed the bottom of his lip as he ended the call. Here he was, perched one blaster away from solving this entire murder case and getting his life back in order. He would become the hero who stopped a killer robot, which he didn’t know of anyone else ever doing, and he would be forever endowed with major clout as a Detective. Even Keeb would be forced to pin a medal on Taylor after swallowing his manhood worth of pride.
Taylor would have a free pass to do what he wanted to, because Keeb wouldn’t be able to touch a public hero. The city would name a street in his honor. Parents would name their firstborn children Taylor. And it was all five minutes away from happening. Taylor didn’t know how these daydreams came to him so easily, but they did.
The android waited in her seat near the window, alienated from the world around her. No one noticed her, but that wasn't uncommon in a city like this. People kept to themselves, even a man dying in the street would see people walking by. That, and at first glance she looked like someone who was modded, not obviously a robot. Taylor was bouncy, he prayed she didn't get up and leave. This spot was public, and perfect.
Four minutes later Catheri came walking up the street, a shopping bag in her hand. The morning sun was rousing, holding everything in a stiff early grey. Men and jealous women watched Catheri anywhere she went. She always looked stunning. Taylor realized he had never seen her without makeup and perfect hair, not even in the morning.
“A bit early to be hunting, isn't it Detective?” She handed the bag to Taylor who held it unwillingly. This was a lady's shopping bag, big and pink.
“This?” he questioned.
“I can’t carry a hand-cannon in public, it makes people nervous,” Catheri said. She was the only girl who would carry a gun in a shopping bag for him. It made him feel warm inside.
"Really?” Taylor asked and then ripped the bag away. He held a department issue ultra magnum blaster, easily capable of shooting through walls. Catheri had a gift for getting the best gear from the Supply chief. It was as if she had slept with the guy. Taylor considered the blaster and her warning. “Maybe you're right.” With a loose stride he crossed the street, a look in his eyes.
Taylor pushed open the door to the café, his badge hanging out over his shirt, the blaster held loosely at his side. There were lots of witnesses to tell the tale of this day. The android turned her head, looking him in the eye. Taylor raised the blaster, cupping it with both hands, and fired a shot so loud it shook the coffee cups. The table shredded into thin air, her face froze in artificial terror as she flew through the window and crashed to the street. Damn, this gun packed a punch! Taylor’s forearms tingled from the jolt of the blast. He followed her outside, climbing out the window he just destroyed, careful not to cut himself with a shard of glass. The morning sun made her glow on the concrete, her robotic truth suddenly naked to everyone. She was trying to get up, mechanically unable to, since part of her torso was missing. Now the morning herd of commuters stopped, realizing something was happening. Eyes widened and mouths gasped. Taylor heard their questions, their whispers, their shock. An android? Yes. Take it in while you can, Taylor thought.
Taylor raised the cannon and blasted again, the sound was much easier on his ears this time, being outside and all. Her chest erupted into sparks, pieces of metal and plastic ricocheted from her body, clattering meters away down the street. Her body jolted in a confusion of useless signals. Taylor had never seen an android die before. He had never even seen one, actually. Sparks crackled from loose circuits, her arms and legs convulsed. The wave of gasps swelled from the citizens watching. Taylor meant to take a look around, to let everyone see who had done this, to flash his badge proudly. But he didn’t. Or, he couldn’t. Instead he watched her die in the street, until she was unmoving, and saw the light in her eyes go completely dark.
Taylor held this moment, trying to taste his victory, before turning to address a very nervous Catheri. The taste was not as sweet as he expected. It was almost bitter.
“Call it in.”


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I love Dark Souls, and I have lost sleep aplenty since the midnight release of Dark Souls 2. If you know the game, great, if you don't, you'll still appreciate the most embarrassing moment I've ever had in gaming.

I never play the warrior. I like the wizards, the clerics, I even spring for the thief class. I just find them more interesting, and so I decided my first character would be the warrior for Dark Souls 2.

Not just any warrior. The greatest warrior. When I play a character type, I try to hone in on their essence. I don't make a well rounded character, I make a lopsided example of the finest fine that character can become. So for the warrior, I made Kratos.

You remember him, he's from Sony's God of War series. He's bald, freakishly muscular, and kills monsters with big sharp metal objects. So I made him, name and all. My first Dark Souls 2 character, and a long awaited warrior class.

The game is going great. I'm ten hours into this character, level 52. I have mondo stats in Strength, Endurance, and Vitality. I've been invaded twice, much to the demise of both people who dared to oppose me. I'm beginning to channel a great amount of machismo every time I swing my shiny, silver battle axe.

So Kratos walks around with no shirt and bare pectorals in those other games. Good idea, I'm Kratos now, that's what I'll do. I'm level 52 after all, I should survive about a minute without armor. So I take off my armor to let my glorious, masculinity drenched muscles be the last thing my crushed victims will ever see.

My Kratos is wearing a bra.

I put the armor on, and take it off, waiting for this glitch to fix itself. He's still wearing a bra. More than that, he has breasts. He's a six foot, muscle bound She-Man, who's been the tool of my digital wrath unleashed, and he's a girl.

Now I don't mind playing girl warriors, but remember I tend to hone in on the essence of a character?

At this point I'm not really sure what to do. I suffer the 99 stages of gamer grief, beginning with denial and followed by hiding in a sewer. Questions abound, as to how I never noticed I made a girl Kratos, or did I get hacked, or is it a freak glitch. But either way, I can't kill anything without feeling slightly violated. I try... she's just not the same.

Because of my investment so far, I think about making the most of this. Sure, it's a girl, that's not so bad, right? I can call her Kratonya. Or Kratosy. Ugh. I put a hood on, since I don't wear one, to hide my once glorious bald head. I kill a few bad guys, distracted by the hip and chest lines I failed to notice until now. Nope. I can't do it. I have to delete this character. I have to start over. I have to... Google what happened to me first. (I turned on the game to delete Kratonda when this idea strikes me, so it sits there, the axeman of deletion, waiting.)

Okay so I'm really glad I did that. Turns out Kratara wasn't always a girl, I had inadvertently (and many game hours ago) switched his gender through a mysterious coffin I climbed in and out of. Which became my very next destination, as I reversed the operation in silence...

I'm sure there is a gender therapy out there that will help me pass this uncomfortable time in mine and Kratos' life. I'll try Google when I'm ready for that.

Thanks for reading. If you want to read more of my work, try Paphos 1, free on all formats.

I’m N.R. Burnette, writer of the science fiction novels Cargo Lock 5 and Paphos. Truly, writers are widely known for their mystique and charisma, and it’s no secret that we can seduce with relative ease. The truth is, we do the same thing anybody else does, but since we’re writers, it’s freaking ridiculously easy for us. In fact, you are probably seduced right now. If not, keep reading.
The first thing every writer knows is that we come equipped with an unleveled playing field compared to non-writers. There’s just something about spending thousands of hours in a stationary, monitor induced trance that charges our bodies with sexual prowess. By the time we flip the laptop monitor down, it’s like we’ve flipped the Turn switch to ON. But like all powerful drugs, you can develop a natural resistance. For my fiancé and I, we’d be in a real bad spot if I didn’t know how to apply my skills as a writer to the art of seduction.
I’ll begin.
The first step is much like novel writing, and it is the hardest. First, I decide to seduce her. I get up, stretching the stiff joints that were couch ridden for the last three hours, and wait for my knees and back to stop popping. A slight moan usually helps. I brew a pot of coffee and drink it—all of it. Then I sit down, thinking about how I’m going to seduce her. And I mean soon, real soon, I just have to get around to it. A month goes by like this. Then, one day, I brew yet another pot of coffee. I realize I’m stalling, so I go to her, and I’m finally going to get this thing started. She could be anywhere in the house, it doesn’t matter. I’m determined. This time, she’s just getting home from work, not even out of her car yet. I’m ready.
I’m not ready.
I realize this will never work, so I turn around before she sees me and sit back on the couch. But ignorant stubbornness—something all writers have in spades—takes over, and I get up to try again. She is coming up the steps. I get my computer out, and I announce on Twitter that I’m getting ready to seduce her, and it will be really amazing, and everyone should check it out. I phrase this post just right. No one comments on it. A crushing fist of self doubt nails me in the gut, and I run across the house to the bathroom, crawl into the shower, turn the water on, and cry tears of self loathing and inadequacy. Luckily, writers are well conditioned for this, since every book does this to us, every time. After that, I dry off, come out in a towel, and approach her as she is reading the mail by the table.
I know my first attempt is going to be the ROUGH DRAFT, so I just go for it. I start out well with a greeting, some questions about her day, but I get slapped when I start humping her leg too soon. It was just TOO soon! I didn’t have enough going on in between. So I abandon the idea for one hour, and then I’m ready for the SECOND DRAFT.
The SECOND DRAFT goes much better. I hook her with the beginning of an engaging conversation, over a subject that is easily likeable and accepted by many—Pinterest—followed by an almost shared urge to touch her shoulder. Then I start trying to hump her leg. I get slapped again. I realize now, my SECOND DRAFT still needs work. It was good, but it just isn’t there yet! I go drink another pot of coffee, and as soon as it’s done—bloodshot eyes and all—I’m ready to finish what I started.
My ‘THIRD DRAFT’ attempt to seduce her goes like a middle aged woman’s daytime sex dream. I walk into the living room where my fiancé is watching TV, trying to relax. She looks up, sees my chiseled features and smoldering blue eyes. I say, “Hi,” and she blushes. The room is getting warmer now, so I take off my cowboy hat and spurs. Each motion is like a Greek god exercising his body, and she’s mesmerized by my rippling, oiled muscles. There’s a thunderstorm outside. My hair has grown three feet, and a cool breeze stemming from the refrigerator tosses it about playfully. I can feel that she’s about to burst with anticipation. This third draft is going much better, but it still needs something. Then, somehow, the couch catches fire, so I scoop her up into my powerful arms of salvation. She thanks me for saving her life, and I set her down on the kitchen table as if it was nothing. I save people’s lives every day, all day, all times of the day, so please, it was nothing. I coolly go back into the living room, unafraid for my own safety, and smother the angry flames with my strong, bare hands. Somehow my shirt has completely burned away, so I play Tic-Tac-Toe on my rippling abdomen with the charcoal smudges covering my fingers. And I win. Then I walk back into the kitchen and climb on top of the table where she is waiting, followed by a spontaneous dimming of all kitchen lights. We make love so powerful that Mt. Vesuvius, which is the view outside our window, erupts with a fountain of lava. We hold each other, looking out the window, at the lava.
So you see, for a writer, seducing someone isn’t very different from what normal people do. We just drink amounts of coffee that should be studied in a Ukrainian lab, we smother our emotions of inadequacy, and we perfect our approach until it has a hooking beginning, a reasonably likeable middle, and a satisfying, climactic ending, that anyone who is smart will absolutely love.
So thank you for reading. I’m happy to share these things about writers that make us so special. Perhaps, in some small way, it will let you non-writers out there realize that you aren’t that different from us.
Thank you.

Author N.R. Burnette is a science fiction and fantasy writer with books that are conveniently available on Amazon Kindle and other eReaders. One of his books, Paphos 1, is free on all formats. It's a series about a dad and his daughter who travel to Paphos with a team of scientists to explore it, and they discover a massive alien facility, hidden underground.