Heroes! Part 1

Greetings, fellow Castaways.

First off, if you haven't signed up to follow the blog, feel free to join up! I'll try not to bore you too much.

This week, the concept for discussion is one that comes up once in a while when a reader asks me about my series, and that is the question of what makes a hero. It's a good question, because, after all, every good story has a hero, and they come in all shapes and sizes, from J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbits to Jonathan Swift's Gulliver, to Robert A. Heinlein's Friday, to the Brave Little Toaster and the Beaudelaire Orphans.

So let's look at how we define the term, with a few examples, and why we see them as heroes, from the strictly obvious point of view of the kid who should have paid more attention in English Class. If anyone of you have any Creative Writing background in College or what have you, feel free to jump into the discussion (plenty of room for comments at the end).

The first and most obvious Hero Type is the Warrior.

 

Here we have a classic example. St. George, our knight in shining armor, rides in to rescue the virgin from the horrible, fire-breathing dragon. Today, our warriors are still seen as heroes, and rightly so.

These photo shows another take on the warrior image of heroism. Though no less heroes than the previous example, these men's faces show the horrible cost incurred on the title. They were Marines on Iwo Jima, one of the bloodiest and hard-fought battles of World War II. But even among this type, there are several sub-types of Hero, from those who signed up willingly, to the draftee just trying to stay alive long enough to get back home. But the significance of the title of Hero is not diminished by circumstances.

I've said once that Heroes are not born as extraordinary people; rather they are ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances, just doing what needs to be done. And I could still say that, to an extent, that holds true.

I was fifteen years old, a member of my local Sheriff's cadet post. The court pulled some strings to get me in, even though I was technically too young. It seems the judge thought I just needed something to keep me busy, something more constructive than the "hobbies" that had me standing in front of him. So take it from me, I was no hero at fifteen. But my story continues:

Part of my involvement was a 40-hour First Aid course that was the most thorough training I'd ever seen, and that included my instructor training in Battlefield Aid in the Air Force (I was my squadron's instructor for three years, but that's a different story).

I was at a family party with my father and brother, standing in the back yard of one of Dad's friends, when a crash and scream came from the house. Out the back door came the young son of the host, running and screaming, holding one arm out in front of him. That arm was a shredded wreck of flesh streaming blood across his lawn (he'd put it through a plate glass window, with predictable results). That first aid training kicked in automatically, and I grabbed him. I was terrified when I saw the damage to his arm, but the part of me that knew what to do overrode the fear. I dragged him back into the house, grabbed a wet dish rag, and clamped it onto the worst of the gashes. Then I raised his arm and with my other hand, I found the artery feeding his arm, pressing it against his bone to shut off the blood flow to the arm.

I saw Mike again several years later, and he showed me the scars. They were worse than I ever imagined. But he thanked me for saving his life. At the time, I swear, that was not on my mind. I was just doing what needed to be done.

That kind of instinct defines the warrior type. They are essentially people of action. And I call it an instinct, even though training is a critical part of the response as well. My younger son is a hero, and I can see it in the way he runs to the crisis.

He was eight years old when the local Homecoming Festival closed at the end of the weekend (they still have the festival, by the way. It wasn't closing, like for good), the owner of the local alligator sanctuary was packing his inventory away for the trip back to the shop. Among the "little friends" Dave had brought with him was a five-foot American Alligator, who was a huge hit with the kids. No, he didn't take anyone's arm off, in fact he was quite docile the whole weekend. Until closing time, when Dave and his assistant tried to stuff that 'gator into a military-style duffle bag for transport.

That 'gator swung his tail around on Dave's assistant's bare back with a smack!  that I swear was heard around the world. The welt rose immediately, like he'd just taken a flogging from a foot-wide bullwhip. My boy, that eight-year-old wonder, ran ten steps to that table before I could stop him, and Dave barely had time to get one hand loose and wave him off with a panicked "NO!!!"

Shannon just can't help it. Someone screams, and he runs to the trouble. I hope he never joins the military, because he's going to find his way to the hottest part of whatever trouble is going on, and that would make a nervous dad. Yes, he's first aid trained. I can feel good with that. But he has a hero's instinct, even from the first days he could walk.

The Warrior heroes in my series are Jon Daniels and Jenna Paine. I count Jenna, because even though she's technically not a "good guy," she still counts a s hero of the Warrior Type, in that she's a person of radical action, from instinct and training.

I think I'm going to continue this discussion in future posts, because to be honest, we're getting into other territory that will take more space than just a quick blog read.

But the Warrior Hero Type is the One Who Comes To The Rescue. Whee-ha.

Talk to you next week when we take on the next type. I may even have a term for him/her.

Jenna Lives

Greetings and welcome, to all who have seen and wonder what those words mean. Consider yourselves at home, and welcome. Drag up a comfy chair while I explain. And for those already familiar with Jenna and her exploits, this is (almost) a spoiler.

Jenna Lives.

It's a good thing for Jenna, and a bad thing for anyone who's ever been on her bad side. And to let you in on a secret: She's not done yet.

When we first met her, Jenna was a promising young physical therapist, companion and rehab aide to Nadia Velasquez. So what went wrong? I mean, besides being embroiled in a deadly secret that could mean the death of millions of people. Well, oh-so-awesome readers, the answers are in my first, EPIC-Award-winning novel, Becoming NADIA (Click on the picture to see more):

"Whoa there," you say. "What do you mean, Jenna's one of the bad guys? She's such a nice person, so sweet and kind, and"

...oh, forget it. She damn near killed Jon, and at the end of this one, she totally destroys---

*wags finger* Ah, ah, ah. You almost made me tell.

Okay, she's one of the bad guys.  But she's really not a bad person. Or is she? In my second novel, Unalive, Jenna comes head to head with the agenda behind her bosses' stated goals, and learns a secret about herself as well that could mean the difference between life or death. In the process, she manages to not destroy Las Vegas or half the Eastern Seaboard as she puts two and two together in a way doesn't quite add up to five.

"Okay," you ask, "so she's really not one of the bad guys?"

Well, no, not really.

"Then she's a good guy?"

Well, no, not really. As a matter of fact, by now, you're either going to love Jenna or hate her. And we're just getting started. I mean, if you were betrayed like she was, you'd be royally pissed, right? And where vengeance is concerned, "good" and "bad" are off the table. the only thing that matters is simple, final and bloody retribution. This time, all the stops are pulled, no measure is spared, and Jenna is willing to give everything including her own life to make sure The Pinnacle never again pose a threat to her or anyone under her protection. She just might, at that.

"So," you ask, "How does one get started in the awesome, ass-kicking, super-agent business, anyway?"

Sherman, set the Way-Back Machine about twenty years before the events in Becoming NADIA. Let's check in on Jenna when she was just a little...girl? Okay, let's call a spade a spade. To some, she's a girl. To others, she's nothing more than Project 14-257. What's the price for a life? What's the price for peace? When it's measured in blood, is there still room to turn around and walk out? Not according to some. Check out this one, folks:

So now you've been introduced. It's my hope that Jenna becomes as real to you as she's become to me, that she finds a place in your heart and mind, and that truly:

Want a sticker of your own? Email me at cyrus dot keith at yahoo dot com and ask. We'll get one to you. If you feel like buying my books, I certainly won't stand in your way. My work is available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and a good dozen or so other retailers.

Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to hearing from you.

The Challenger, Continued

Greetings, Castaways on the raft in space we call Earth. This week, I want to continue in the same vein we started last week. What follows is the scene in Unalive that involves the aircraft type we discussed: The Challenger 604.

Real quick, here's the cover art for Unalive, my second novel. Feel free to click on it to find out more about the book. I'll let you buy it if you want. More about the cover: The Model (I've had many of the mechanics at work ask) is Danielle Harris, the Hollywood scream queen who gained her name in Rob Zombie's Halloween movies. I sent her a copy of the book. Let's see if she's sufficiently impressed to land me that movie deal, eh?

So, without further ado, Unalive, featuring the Challenger 604 jet.

Phil Baterson looked up as the Challenger jet’s galley door opened. A plump brunette in a
black and gold attendant’s uniform stepped through. “We’ll refuel in Hanoi and then Moscow. If
you need me, just press the crew call button in the VIP armrest. Dinner will be at seven. Can I
get you anything now?” A couple of hands went up; the attendant took some drink orders and
receded into the galley to prepare them.

Anna Spielberg rested, drowsing on the divan on the right side of the 604’s spacious forward
cabin. Her wounded arm was suspended in a sling and secured to her torso for further support.
Her face betrayed the drug-induced stupor and fatigue she must have been feeling. Sofi sat
quietly next to her mother, watching a movie on a small video monitor mounted on a swing-arm
from the drink ledge. Two other beefy men played cards at a foldout table. A sour-looking,
middle-aged woman lounged in another seat, reading.

Jenna came out of the office in the rear of the cabin and slid the door closed behind her. Phil
could tell she wasn’t in prime shape herself. He’d seen others coming down off of combat
stimulants, and it was never pretty. But Jenna looked like she would drop any second.
She’d sent her report upline, but he wondered how coherent it was. He knew she needed to
get it sent while the details were still in her mind, but still…if they had any questions, they could
always ask them later. Phil was sure there would be questions, judging from her current
appearance.

He had seen Jenna Paine before, in better times. The dark circles under her eyes, and her
pale, sweaty appearance, the way she slogged across the carpet, told him these were definitely
not better times. How is it she’s still conscious?

Jenna flumped down into the leather seat and a sigh escaped her chest.

“Hey, you.” She lifted her head toward the source of the voice. Anna smiled at her from
across the aisle. “Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry, Anna,” said Jenna. “I should have…done something before—”

“Jenna, you saved our lives.” Anna sat up higher in the divan, straining from the effort. “My
daughter and I owe you, twice over from what I understand. Don’t sell yourself short. I don’t
believe anyone else could have seen that coming and taken the actions you did. I can’t even
begin to thank you enough, my friend. You are an amazing woman. Now, get some sleep; you
look like hell.”

“I’m all right, Anna. I’ll see you through to Prague, and then get some rest when we get
settled in. The hospital gave me these,” she said, and pulled out the bottle of stims.

“Let me see those.” Anna held out her good hand. Jenna handed the bottle over. Anna took
out one of the small blue tablets and examined it closely. “You shouldn’t be taking these, Jenna.
With your metabolism, there’s no telling what these would do.”

“I only took one, Anna, but if I have to, I’ll dose up again.”

“Phil,” said Anna, “Relieve this woman so she can get some rest, please?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I tried twice, Doc, but she don’t listen real good.”

Anna glared at Jenna. “I think we’ll be all right now, Jenna.” She gave the bottle to Phil.
“Now get some sleep; you’re worthless to me in your condition.”

He leaned over and whispered in Anna’s ear, just above the noise of the engines. “Just keep
those uppers from her and give it another ten minutes. She’ll be out like a light.”

“If she does drop off, I want a pulse and respiration check every ten minutes,” she whispered
back. “Seriously, Phil. Understand?”

The good-natured smile faded from his face as he comprehended her concern. “Yes, ma’am,
I get you.” He set the timer in his watch to repeat a ten-minute countdown before settling back
into his book. About a minute later, he looked up. Jenna’s eyes were closed. Her head lolled back
against the headrest of her seat. He slowly got up and approached her, watching for any sign of
awareness. Finding none, he pulled the release lever on the seat and reclined it all the way back
with his other hand. Jenna never even twitched.

Phil looked over at Anna. She nodded. He checked Jenna’s pulse. Finding a beat, he nodded
back at Anna, who closed her eyes and sank back under the influence of her painkiller. He
opened the cabinet at the back of the cabin, pulled out a blanket and spread it over Jenna, and
then sat back down.

* * * *

When Jenna opened her eyes again, the plane was on its final approach into Prague. Her
sweat-soaked blouse clung to her body, and her skin was clammy to the touch. “Anna? Sofi?
What the…” She twisted around in her seat and almost fell out. When she tried to stand up, her
vision closed into a tunnel in front of her face. She couldn’t find her balance. “Anna!”

Hands supported her as she fell in the aisle. They laid her back into her chair, and her head
began to clear. Her entire body tingled. Someone belted her in. She tried to get back up, but a
hand pushed her back down. She heard Phil’s voice reassuring her. “Miss Paine, just relax, okay?
We’re landing. We have an ambulance standing by, and we’ll make sure everything’s secure.”
Jenna didn’t remember the ride to the hospital. In fact, she barely remembered Phil carrying
her down the Challenger’s air stair. The ambulance waited on the ramp between two black
Mercedes sedans.

Another team of four waited in scattered array while the ambulance crew loaded Anna and
Jenna. The sour-faced woman carried Sofi’s sleeping form down the steps and placed her gently
into the backseat of one of the security sedans. The team members split up between the cars. Phil
jumped into the back of the ambulance, and the caravan took off across the ramp toward a chain
link gate leading out onto the highway toward Trebenice State Hospital.

Aircraft of The NADIA Project: Challenger 604

Greetings, fellow Castaways.

This week, I'm doing something I've been meaning to do for some time. I have an opportunity to share some visual details from my series, and in addition introduce readers and writers alike to some overlooked items that tend to slip through the cracks, mainly those little technical doodads that some people always notice, like that scene that starts on the ramp next to a tiny little Citation jet that suddenly has the interior space of a Gulfstream. And just the fact that most of you don't even know what I said tells me you're in the right place.

"So what?" you ask. "Why should I even care about details like that? They don't make a difference as long as the story is good. It's fiction anyway, right?"

And to an extent, you would be right. By all means, go ahead and write in whatever kind of airplane you want you characters to ride in. But those technical details all add up to the difference between bringing readers into your world, and holding them at arms' length.

You could apply the same logic to the scene where the bad guys gun their 400-cubic-inch Yugo and peel off around the corner while the good guy watches helplessly from the driver's seat of his AMC Gremlin. It's about being believable, folks, and being believable means research.

Fortunately, I happen to work in aviation as a trade. I've always been a big fan of airplanes, and my books feature some. I want to cover a few of those with you, just for the sake of putting a face with a name. So, may I introduce you to: (Drum roll, please)

The Challenger 604

 

Let's go inside, shall we? The bar just above the stripe line releases from the side of the aircraft and when one turns it, the air stair swings down on balanced springs.

At the top of the steps, our flight attendant waits, in impeccable uniform. The pilot and copilot are already in the cockpit, going over their checklists. This is after their pre-flight visual inspection, where they do a detailed walk-around of the entire aircraft, checking tires, control surfaces, wings and stabilizers, antennas and sensor probes.

When we enter the aircraft, we pass the galley.

 Make no mistake. It looks like koa wood, but it's actually a veneer over a light honeycomb structure. Remove the drawers, oven, microwave, and coffee maker, and two men can lift out that entire cabinet to remove it. Weight makes a big difference to an airplane. Notice on the right, the drinking glasses rest in cutouts so they don't slide around in flight.

Okay, so our friendly flight attendant ushers us back to our seats.

This cabin is not your average airliner, is it? The seats are comfortable and soft, and there is plenty of room to lie back if needed. These flying offices stay in the air for a long, long time (the official stat sheet for the 604 cites a range of over 4,600 miles!), so comfort is a premium.

Now, if we're going to be in the air for that long, we probably need some kidney relief. So that little room farther back is the lavatory. Seat, sink. Nothing special. Notice the monitor screen on the left side of the doorway. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, so movies (and yes, video presentations) can be shown on the monitors. There's one on the forward bulkhead (wall) as well, so two different video sources can be playing, with the passengers watching with headphones. But these babies have some killer audio systems as well, so if everyone wants to watch Air Force One, they can make the crew sweat pretty good.

Now, this one is not sub-divided. But some of these aircraft do have separate little micro-offices where Mr Big (or Mz Awesome) can sequester themselves for private conferences. The planes have WiFi, fax machines, and phone systems that allow instant contact all over the world. Like I said, flying offices.

So now, let's look at the "driver's seat."

Now, I will try not to get too technical here. If anyone has any questions, feel free to contact me privately, and I'll do my best to answer you.

There's a lot of information a pilot needs to fly his aircraft safely. In your car, you need to know speed, fuel quantity, coolant temperature, engine rpm, and maybe you have a GPS so you don't get lost. A pilot needs all that information, too, only the highways at 40,000 feet are invisible, laid out by radio navigation systems on the ground. So our pilot has to know where these highways are, so he doesn't put himself and his passengers in danger (this is not to slight the female captains and first officers out there. I use "he" and him" generically here).

So, from left to right, we have Display Units 1 through 6 as follows:

DU1: Pilot's Primary Flight Display (PFD). Which way is up, how high are we, how fast are we going?
DU2: Pilot's Multi-function Display (MFD). Where are we going, what compass heading are we on, where is the highway line?
DU3: Engine Indicating/Crew Alert System #1 (EICAS). Engine readings, system alerts, warnings, etc.
DU4: Engine Indicating/Crew Alert System #2. Whatever doesn't fit on EICAS 1. Also, look at control surface positions, hydraulic systems, electrical systems
DU5: Copilot's MFD
DU6: Copilot's PFD

Notice there are at least two of everything. Sometimes, there are three of a certain sensor or radio,so failures don't mess up anyone's Sunday. In addition, the screens can swap information, or call up information from other sensors.

The row of dials above the dispays is the standby instrumentation, Left to Right: Airspeed (how fast), artificial horizon (which way is up), altimeter (how high are we), and the cabin pressure indicator (how much air pressure between inside and outside)

Here's another look at a fully functional display pair (PFD/MFD)

Notice the blue/brown horizon display. It's really important to know which end is up. Blue means sky. Brown means dirt. Dirt is bad for an airplane that is doing its best to stay away from it. Notice also the blue label in the MFD that says "TERRAIN." It means that screen is set to tell the crew when dirt is getting too close to the airplane. That system (Enhanced Ground Proximity Warning System, or EGPWS) wasn't invented when Reba McIntyre lost her entire band in a wreck in California. Now, it's mandatory equipment in all charter aircraft.

One more thing to look at, down between the pilots:

Don't worry, I'm not going over every switch. I just wanted to cover two items. In the top pic, those two screens are the controls for the Flight Management Computers (FMC). The pilots use this to plan the flight, find the highway lines, and keep them informed on "the Big Picture" of the flight. In addition, the FMC can automatically tune the radios to the next navigation beacon on the route, tune the communication radios to the air traffic centers along the way, and keep the compass systems honest.

The bottom picture shows the Radio Tuning Units (RTU), the display controllers, and some of the other functions that make the flight smooth and safe for everyone.

A performance datasheet for the Challenger 604 can be found here.

So that's this baby in a nutshell. Hope it showed you something new, and helped to introduce one of the "toys" that I feature in my books. Feel free to use it in your own.


See you next week with another random act of writing.

Free Excerpt time!

Greetings and salutations to all my steady castaways, and everyone who's finding me here for the first time! You're welcome here, to just come on in and be yourself. No need to grand-stand or make any points. You are you, and you are welcome here.

I passed a milestone a month ago that I totally forgot to announce: My 10,000th page view. As of writing this, 12,571 people have reached out to touch us. Okay, so a few of those were the same person more than once, but that's still pretty cool. So join me in a libation to celebrate: *pours coffee/hot chocolate/tea  for all* Wassail!

Anyway, this week I need to announce something else: My publishing house, MuseItUp Publishing, has established another deal with a new, established vendor who is helping us reach a whole new level in helping folks to see what we have to offer. At this precise moment, iBooks is running a package special for four complete novels in one volume, for 99 cents! So, check this out: for one ridiculously low price at the Apple bookstore, you can get four top-notch sci-fi books.

I get to join the likes of Rosalie Skinner, John B. Rosenman, and Joanne Elder for our first-ever package deal in The Prodigies of Science Fiction. 

Click on the cover to go there. I'll let ya.

 

 

 As for my part in this project (for you new fans), I wrote the EPIC-Award-winning Best Thriller of 2012, Becoming NADIA.

And now, the promised Excerpt:

“I'm not me,” Nadia moaned, curled up in her seat. She wrapped her arms around her knees. Her hands shook. “I'm somebody else, and I'm not me anymore. I never was me, was I?”

Jon leaned over to touch her on the shoulder, but a hand shot up and she writhed away. “Don't touch me. Don't even come close to me,” she cried. He could see that her cheeks were already wet. She cried softly to herself, “If I hadn't known, I could have gone on. If I hadn't known—”

“If you hadn't known,” Jon interjected, “You'd still be wondering who Phillip was. If you hadn't known, you'd still be in their hands.”

She looked up, indignant. “Those people saved my life, Jon. They said it took more than twenty surgeries, just to save my face. They put that much into me so I could have a life again. They even had Jenna move in with me so I could adjust—”

“Or be monitored,” said Jon.

“What are you talking about?” Her eyes flashed angrily.

“Have you ever, at any time, been left alone since you woke up?”

“Of course,” she snorted. “I went to work—”

“To be with the people who just tried to kill you.”

“I went shopping by myself. There was a little grocery store just around the corner.” She stopped and went back to hugging her knees.

“What happened there? Alicia, what happened to you?”

“Don't call me that!” Her voice lowered threateningly and her eyes flashed. “Don't you call me by that name.”

“Then who are you? What do we call you now?”

“I don't know.” She sat curled up on the seat, her eyes locked on the lighting control panel by the cabin door. He watched her for a while, her chest wracked with silent sobs.

Jon got up and rummaged through the tiny galley behind the copilot's seat. He opened a drawer and took out a couple of small bottles. After he opened them both, he sat back down and held one out to Nadia.

“Peace?” he offered. She said nothing. “Nadia, I'm sorry. I should never have said that. I don't think I can ever understand what you're feeling right now. But maybe we can relax a little and figure some of this out.”

Nadia didn't respond at first, but after a few seconds, she released her knees and dropped her feet to the floor. She took the bottle of Scotch and sipped it. Her face wrinkled in disgust and she almost spat it back out. Holding the bottle up, she tried to read its contents through watering eyes. She couldn't seem to make words come out of her mouth.

“It's Scotch,” Jon offered. “Don't tell me you've never drank alcohol before.”

Finally, she found her voice. “I can only answer for one year. And the answer is 'no.'“

“I can get you some water, if you want.”

“What does this do?”

“It relaxes you.”

“I think I need this more,” she said, tossing back the bottle in one swallow. She squinted hard and gulped once, then lay back in her seat, feeling the warmth radiate from her stomach. “Let me know when we're there, please. I want to close my eyes for a little bit.”

“Sure, Nadia.”

Jon picked out a magazine from the rack in front of his seat and tried to read it, but couldn't concentrate. He kept stealing glances at the petite figure of the woman across the aisle. Her blonde hair poured in a golden, curly waterfall past her shoulders. Her squarish face complemented the slim build. From first appearances, it didn't seem as if she wore any makeup, but as Jon studied her full lips, he noticed a subtle shade of lipstick, and just a trace of makeup around her closed eyes. Brown, he remembered. Captivating, almond-shaped, brown eyes. A guy could fall into those eyes and never want to come back.... He admired her figure for several seconds. Give it up, Daniels; she's work, not play. And besides, she's way out of your league, something inside him whispered. The flight continued, silent save for thedrone of the engines and the muffled conversation in the cockpit.

Coming Soon to Print: Critical Mass!

Good day, fellow castaways.

It is with immense pleasure I announce to you that I've confirmed with  MuseItUp Publishing's rockin' editor-in-chief Lea Schizas, the coming print release of my third novel Critical Mass.

Now, I do appreciate everyone's patience in waiting, as the delay has been longer than what everyone involved was anticipating. But believe me, Lea has been working her little Greek tuchus off keeping up with a hundred different things, and she also was working hard getting our print books to compare in appearance and quality with the top-line editions on bookshelves (cause that's where we all dream of ending up, you know...well, not just on the store's bookshelves, but on readers' bookshelves, where they can be read over and over by awesome fans).

So, to celebrate the upcoming release (sorry, no firm date yet, but it's COMING, I promise!), I'm posting this, from Critical Mass (if ya wanna see more, click the book cover!):

BLURB:

Jenna Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human. Nadia Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.

There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet. 

Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.

After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…

Critical Mass

 EXCERPT:

 It had been dark for some time. The rain had moved on, leaving the pavement
with a sheen that whispered with every passing car. Scud clouds overhead trailed
the thunderstorm like remoras behind their shark. The moon cast its wan light
between them, a pitiful challenger to the flickering neon of the street below.
The city’s diurnal population was at home and in bed. That left the nighthawks,
those who thrived in the hours between sunset and dawn. They worked, played,
lived, and loved in dark hours. And some of them died there.

The crowd at the Tap Tavern began to thin out about one in the morning. By
ones and twos, they filtered through the front door and into the street, fanning out
to home, to work, or to other purposes known only to them. By two o’clock, only
the closing crew remained, a couple of vague shadows moving beyond the frosted
glass of the large windows flanking the door.

A small brown coupe sat parked across from the alley mouth in the dark of the
early morning. Traffic was lighter now than it was at eight o’clock, but was still
busy enough to conceal the lone occupant seated behind the wheel. With stubborn,
unhuman will and deadly purpose, the figure waited for the rest of the lights to go
out in the tavern. At ten minutes after three, patience was rewarded. The glow
behind the picture window extinguished. A side door opened and shut, and a
shadow separated from the building and shambled down the alley.

The coupe’s door opened, and a compact, athletic figure emerged into the
dimly lit street. The young woman glanced both ways and trotted across, following
the figure up the alley. With silent skill enhanced by superhuman agility, she
sidestepped cardboard boxes and cats alike. Despite the deeper darkness, she could
see as if the way was lit by a full moon. Her hearing, finely tuned on top of her
superior talent, picked up every whisper of paper, every scuttle of tiny feet, every
rustle of a wing. She didn’t have to see her quarry; she should be able to hear him,
as long as he didn’t suspect—

Halfway down, she stopped. Something wasn’t right. She turned her head,
tuning, homing—there it was! Someone breathing—

He broke from behind a dumpster and took off at a dead run, scattering rats and
garbage across the wet pavement. Even with Jenna’s enhanced reflexes, he had a
modest lead before she could take up the pursuit.

Block after block he led, dodging and darting to avoid her grasp. But she
wasn’t that eager for a fight. Not yet. She would wear him down a bit first. She
changed her breathing to maximize endurance and followed for a while, not
catching up but not falling back, either.

He showed some gumption, that was for sure. That, and training. She gave him
a little more room to test his evasion technique, and no surprise, he showed her
some tricks that she already knew, most likely picked up from the same instructor.
She lost view briefly, twice, but picked him up again just as she had the first time,
flushing him like quail from a thicket. No human could have picked him up, but
Jenna was no human; she was better. The deadly chase went on, block after block.
The man breathed in ragged gasps as desperation overtook him. A hand clutched at
his side. There was no way he was getting away again.

An angry flash came over her at the thought of the betrayal that put them both
in this situation, and Jenna put on a burst of speed. After three years, every
suspicion was confirmed. This was the man who’d tried to kill them. Time to play.
Drawing a telescoping baton from her pocket, she caught up to him as he tried
to duck down another alley. He spun with a snarl, a hand darting for his pocket.
She closed in before he could draw his pistol, and went to work with the baton.
Jenna broke his wrist with the first blow, and the second knocked him senseless.
Stabbing out with her free hand, she grabbed his shirt and hauled him down,
dragging him into the shadows.

He lay panting, whimpering in pain and fear as Jenna brought her face down
close to his and hissed, “Let’s talk about Tahiti, Hamet.”

His eyes shot wide, and he began to gibber in a Middle-Eastern tongue. She
placed a knee on his broken wrist. His complexion paled and he fell silent, teeth
clenched in agony. “In English. I know who you work for.”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he blurted, a grimace pasted on his features. “None
of us knew. We just had orders—” He moaned as a spasm gripped his broken arm.
She grabbed it and gave it a light twist. She was rewarded with a howl as the man
bucked off the pavement.

She shoved him back down, brandishing the baton in his face.
“Orders from whom?”

“You know as well as I.” He moaned. “You get orders. You follow them. You
don’t ask questions.”

“Is that right?” She snapped the baton down on his hand. A satisfying crunch
echoed off the wall, accompanied by a shriek which was cut off by her wadded up
bandana.

It got worse before it got better. Jenna didn’t like that part of the job, but two
things drove her on: justice, and vengeance. Jenna had to find out why The
Pinnacle wanted one of their own dead, and Anna Spielberg deserved payback.
Now, after three years, she was damned well going to get it. Occasional shadows
drifted by the end of the alley, but at this hour and in this neighborhood, no one
was going to get involved.

Hamet was tougher than she gave him credit for. By the time she got the
information she wanted, there wasn’t much left of him. But the answers came.
They weren’t what she wanted to hear, but the truth needed to be told. When she
finally snapped his neck with a sharp twist from a rear naked choke, it felt anticlimactic.

The trail she’d followed on her own for the last three years had finally
come to its end. And with that end came the realization that Jenna had been trying
to avoid for longer than that. Not all was well with her employers.

There were divisions among the Council. Not on the surface, for outwardly
they still seemed to operate as united as ever in their cause for world peace. But
underneath the placid veneer were machinations and plots. Whispers of sabotage
and power plays chased each other through Jenna’s mind as she strode from the
alley and back up Seventh Avenue.

Somewhere in the power struggle, someone upline had made a mistake. They
issued a kill order on the wrong person, and not just because of who Anna was. Dr.
Spielberg had dedicated her life to the purpose of world peace. She saw it
happening within just a few more years. It wasn’t even that they tried to wipe out a
seven-year-old girl as well. Sofi was as harmless as they come, a sweet, shy little
thing with as much deadly potential as a pink frosted cupcake. Their worst mistake
was in messing with someone assigned to Jenna Paine’s protection.

As Jenna stalked away from the body, one thing hung in her mind: she would
find out who on the Council issued the kill order on Anna. And when she did, they
would face the full fury of a woman scorned.

Excerpt: Critical Mass

This week I want to share an excerpt from my latest work, just released in February. Critical Mass closes out the full-length novels of The NADIA Project, and some readers have told me it's the best one of the three. Now, next month, I have a novella coming out, Lies and Paine, that fills out the story behind everyone's favorite kick-ass anti-heroine.

This scene from Critical Mass sets up a little picture of Jenna and Jimmy. You can check out the book at tinyurl.com/cm-novel

Jimmy sat on the porch, watching the dull routine of the afternoon in front of
him. The air commandos not on guard sat in the shade of Nadia’s lawn for lunch,
weapons within easy reach. Those on duty at the detention shacks stood their
watches, ever vigilant against any attempted breakout. The occasional fly or wasp
buzzed by, its hypnotic drone lulling the man in the wooden chair. The pain med
Watts had given him was just starting to do its work, and the ache in Jimmy’s
shoulder was finally at a tolerable level. But on the downside, that warm, sleepy
feeling Jimmy hated so much was just beginning to creep in and steal the rest of
his afternoon.

The old warrior’s eyes had just drifted shut when the screen door opened with a
protest of springs. The steps on the porch were light and favored one side. The soft
scent in his nostrils confirmed the identity of the other party. “Afternoon, Miss
Paine,” he mumbled through the painkiller’s haze. Another smell, cool and yeasty,
wafted to him and he held out a hand to receive the cold bottle offered, his eyes
still closed.

He couldn’t resist his own grin at the smile in her voice. “You must have sonar,
you old coot.” The chair next to Jimmy’s creaked as Jenna settled into it. She
clinked her bottle against his and took a pull.

The first swallow went down good, so he took a second before speaking.
“How’s the leg?”

“Better, thanks. A little stiff, but I can work with it.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want ya to miss out just ’cause ya got a little hitch in your
git-along.”

“Jimmy, I wouldn’t miss this if I had a whole leg off.”

“Big deal, eh?

Jenna looked out at the yard for a while before answering. “They lied to me. I
don’t like being lied to.”

“But do you still believe in what they want? World unity and Kumbaya, and all
that crap?”

Jenna tensed and clenched her jaw at the offhand remark. “When you kill
someone, what do you feel?”

Jimmy bristled at the question. “You’re kidding, right?” Feel? How the hell am
I supposed to feel? What kind of stupid questions was that?

Jenna’s eyes narrowed with passion. “I want to know what you feel when you
pull a trigger and put a bullet into another person, and let their life spill out. In
whose name did you do it? Yours? Your country’s? And how did it solve
anything?” She looked away. “That wasn’t even enough, was it? You had to teach
others how to kill, too. For a border. An imaginary line on a map.”

She paused long enough to take a swallow. “So before you label someone’s
beliefs as ‘crap,’ just think about what it felt like every time you killed someone
for that imaginary line.”

The hair stood up on Jimmy’s neck. I swear, if you were a man, I’d pin your
ears back… As it was, there was no way he was going to let that one go. It had
been a long time since he needed to shift into sergeant mode, but the shift was as
smooth as his last class of recruits.

“Young lady.” He struggled through gritted teeth. “I didn’t kill anyone for a
line. I killed to save an idea. That idea was that free men should be able to defend
themselves from oppression and tyranny and help other men to live free as well.
Them poor jackwagons who stood in the way of that idea were the ones I killed.
And to tell you the truth, I don’t feel a damned thing for ’em. That line on the map
you’re goin’ on about is the line that says, ‘on this side you’re free to choose your
own destiny.’ And I’ll spill as much blood as I have to to make sure it stays where
it’s at.”

Jimmy sniffed and set his bottle on the small table between them. “Look at
you, giving me the ‘baby-killer’ speech. How many bodies have you left behind?
Why don’t you tell me what you felt when you stood over the bodies of the people
you laid out for a lie?”

He gave her a cold smile then and watched the steel in her eyes melt away. “I’ll
grant you, hon, you ain’t any worse than me. But you sure as hell ain’t any sight
better.”

Leaning his chair back, he said, “Now, I’d be willin’ to bet your vision for this
earth ain’t too far from mine. We just ended up thinkin’ about it from some
different places.” He fixed her eyes again with his. “I do know if I’d have had a
half-dozen more of you on my team, we’d have buried less of our boys and more
of theirs.”

Jenna broke her gaze away and looked across the yard. In the silence that
followed, Jimmy imagined he could hear the gears working inside her head. He
just hoped that, whatever she decided in the end about whatever it was she was
pondering, it wouldn’t affect her edge when it came down to brass knuckles and
billy clubs.

Things were going to get bad enough as it was.