Now upon a tine.

I've been meaning to do this for some time. Back in mid-spring I could tell I was approaching a fork in the road, so to speak. Normally I dawdle, hem and haw, and drag my feet when it comes to decisions. Except for this time. As I saw the fork approaching, and I made the decision before I got there. The result? Ever since then my priority has been doing what God would rather have me do. Thus I've been busy doing everything else first, with negligible time for my writing, and thats ok. Of the two main projects, and the two side projects, three were just for me, and one was for God.

You may be asking yourself, How could my God be so selfish as to demand that a writer put aside her craft and do anything else?

First off, because he gave up his only Son to die, specifically because of the things I've done, for the off-chance that I'd not only recognize his gift for me, but that I'd accept said gift.

Secondly, because he didn't ask me to put aside something I enjoy for something I hate. I put aside my writing, which I didn't do 8 hrs a day, to do other things I enjoy. My church has been through a rough patch during the past 4 years. One of the symptoms of the problem, we no longer had the funds nor ability to put together a VBS. This year we were once again able to do so. Mid spring a good friend of mine asked her if I'd help her out with the small area she was responsible. I'd helped in years past, was familiar with what was required, was able, and wiling. So I dug in, knowing I'd be handling the lion share, under her direction. Why was I handling most of the work, because my friend is getting married in Oct, secretary of our church, helping with translation work for some French Missionaries, helping her brother with his website, helping her other brother with more translation work, helping with the typesetting of the Samoan Bible, the Tagalog Bible, and consulting on a handful of other small projects. In other words, chika muy busy. Eventually, she handed the rings over to me, which I didn't mind one bit. Oh, also forgot to mention, she'll be teaching typesetting1 and 2, starting in September.

Thirdly, as I previously mentioned, I didn't spend all day, everyday writing to begin with. One of my side projects is in collaboration with another individual who is going through college. Understandably, he's got other things on his mind. Project # 3 was spurred by a series of short writing prompts that just fell into place as a story about alien invasion. I do absolutely no prep work on it. An image shows up, then characters, plot, locations, and dialogue seem to appear in my word doc. This venture comes in flashes, and is over and done in under an hour; frequently in a matter of minutes. My second writing passion is my part in the Niners Shared Universe, aka the Ninerverse. A few writers from the io9 observationdeck got together and put together this scifi epic, it has time travel, space travel, cyberspies, military security types, generation ships, teraforming, and space pirates. My part, The Adventures of the Scarlet Slash involve the life of a young woman who finds herself between a plethora of plots to take over the known, and unknown universe. When the antagonist uses the rules to tilt the balance of power in his direction, she breaks them with every trick in her bag. I have fun with this story, My protagonist is a character who's personal motto is "Cut me and I'll cut you back. I'll also do something else, but where's the fun in telling you what?" Her story flows like water from a spring. If I took the time to sit down and knock it out, I could probably get 3 or 4 more chapters in a day or two. However, her story is only part of a larger plot, and I don't want to steal others thunder by saving the day in her arc, before you know just who it is she is saving. So I set it aside, and will probably get back to it soon enough. The last project, the one that gets the majority of my time, effort, and thoughts, is City of Walls. This one is my pride and joy, yet while Scarlet flows quickly like water, this story has by very blood, sweat and tears. For all that I love this story, it treats me like a red-headed step-child. We come to blows, and I feel like I'm flailing against a wall. I stumble against writers block, and when I ask for help or feedback, I get responses for the Scarlet Slash. I know the Ninerverse tale is the most exciting, but the account of Tara Harris is one that I've been working on slowly for almost 15 years. Critical moments, characters, the ending, and beginning is what I started out with. Currently I have fleshed out the beginning, introduced all the characters, except for two, and hit one of the five major moments of the story. I try to make this one as hard on the science as I can. Interestingly, a few of the concepts that I figured were near future breakthroughs have been achieved, or are on the edge of accomplishment.

Now I find myself in a bit of a conundrum. There is no fork in the road, nor a spoon, yet all the other tasks that have been taking my time seem to be complete. VBS is done. I'm not needed to help with many of the ministries at church any more. My yard is now presentable, since my garden is complete. I have time again.

So, should I then prepare myself to do battle with my worthy opponent? I consider this essay, which sits just above 1000 words, a warm up.

Yes Virginia, there will be stories.

Nine Players on the Field

          I like the idea of being a weapon. Slick curves and sharp edges sound like the best way to describe me. And Daddy's boy Horace, yup I had intended to use him as a shield. If he wasn't willing I'd have used him as a human shield, but the cards seem to be stacked in my favor; the metaphor will only be figurative. I showed the kid a blocking stance that would easily let him slice his attacker given the opportunity.

          "I don't like fighting dirty, and this move would have me stabbing  someone in the back!" Horace mimed the cut in thin air.

          "Kid, this isn't some prize fight you're prepping for. Someone is trying to take your life, you either stop them or let them. Later you'll get shown some moves to use when you need to stop an opponent before the fight even starts. But for now, just focus on staying alive." I placed his knife back in his hand and back away. Horace returned to his practicing and Geoffrey steps over to my left side.

          "I take it you feel he'll be utilizing his education soon?" From some unseen pocket a pair of leather fingerless gloves find themselves at home on his hands. He tightens his hands into fists, and the leather groans in protest.

          "There's a chance some unwanted guests attempt boarding the vessel. The possibility is a small one, yet I would rather he be prepared." I pulled the small package from the side pocket of my pressure suit. "Amy tells me you want me to have this?"

          "Yes. Don't open it yet. It is an object of special consequence." He folded his arms behind him, in a posture reminiscent of a skilled martial practitioner.

          "So......You gonna make me wheedle it out of you?" I cock my head and eyebrow at him.

          A sly smile slowly creeps across his face. "In due time, Ms Sinmoral. For now, I believe you have other matters to attend to."

          The old gent is right. I need to get into character, and narrow down the playlist. With a nod, I leave the gym and had to my quarters.

          I check my guitar then put on my stage costume. I've got my Slash clothes on; red and black cotton trousers, red silk shirt, black satin vest, my black cowboy boots are low heeled, the details stitched in red. I twist one small black bandanna and tie it around my right bicep, another gets tied in a French Knot around my neck to hide the scar. For tonight, my long raven hair will hang down unadorned. Instead of the usual duster, a long robe will be draped on top of everything else. I've also got a long fluffy boa, after all the show is being performed by Starla Sky, lead singer of Cloud Nine, and not by the Scarlet Slash. Man am I gonna be sweaty by the end of the night.

*                  *                  *

          Sitting around the table at the opulent dining hall were Marla, Jean-Pierre, Ralph, May, June, Mad Max, and Sven, the navigator. The last time Sven stepped off ship was a little more than a year ago, for a thrice cursed job. He's my little good luck charm, and he hates it. He knows that when he rides along, there's a chance he won't feel the weightlessness of space again. Dr. Taun, April, and Trevor are on ship, prepping surgery and keeping the engine hot.

          "I don't like this. Why do you even need me here?" Sven's high pitched voice reached up another decibel on the last word.

          "Shut up Sven." The routine reply voiced by everyone at the table, except for the new girls.

          "I'm just saying, I'm no good here. I read star charts! I'm a Navigator, not a fighter! I'm gonna die, I just know it." The blond, 7 ft, gangly Swede smacked his forehead on the placemat in front of him.

          "Relax m'bucko. Have I let you die yet?" I wave a waiter over.

          "No Ma'am." The reluctant counter was heard clearly, despite being said into the tabletop.

          "Good acoustics here." May notices.

          "Bring my a line so I can ring the host and tell him to accept one more for our party." I order the waiter. With my back to the entrance, I can't see anything, but May and June can. As the waiter dashes off to find a commline, They begin to alternate a play by play of the scene behind me.

          "A man with plaid green pearl snap shirt, and tight orange jeans tucked into black boots trimmed in yellow has just entered the foyer." May started.

          June added, "He's hanging up a wide brimmed, low sloped straw cowboy hat. He's addressing the host."

          "Technicolor cowboy is reaching into his turquoise vest, and pulling out what appears to be a holoID, and ribons?" May turned to June.

          "Military emblem perhaps?" June carried on with the report. "The host isn't moving a muscle. Our guest has returned his credentials to their pocket, and is shaking a finger at the host.

          A voice carries easily to our ears, above the din of other patrons "Von Tummy, Maximillian Von Tummy. I'm expected a message from some very important people."

          Just then our waiter returns, and with flourish, places a simple commlink in front of me. Detaching only the mic, I begin. "Tell the vibrant fellow in front of you, that you have his message. He is to join the table of Starla Sky and company." Without waiting for a response, I close the unit and hold it up for the waiter to whisk away. May begins to relate the events at the entrance of the main hall, but I hold up my hand. "There's no need darling, he'll be here in a moment."

          Shortly the voice of our last member approaches.

          "That's what I thought. I hate to do it, but a man has got to flex his might if he wants to have anything done. You don't need to worry, I won't turn your name into the debt collectors. Next time," just as he was being seated at our table, "next time better be different."

          "Hello, Von Tum, I do hope you don't mind me calling you that."

          His eyes twinkle as he smiles at me. "Of course Shelia, you can call me anything, just call me."

Lesson number 9

                The good thing about being on a mission is that you don't have time to slow down and think. No matter how unbelievable the last 10 minutes may have been, the task at hand needs to be completed before you can take measure of the things you've seen. If your companions die, grieve for them after the action, finish your goal, just don't let them die in vain. I used to wonder how my uncle could just pick me up and run away from the rest of the family, leaving them behind.

          As I grew older I had to learn the hard way; you can't save everyone. So I've come away from that focusing on who I can rescue; and vowing to make my enemies pay back every drop of blood spilt, with interest.

          So watching my dad walk out of my life, and into certain death, just strengthen my determination.

          "Marla, that was the former Governor of Isle." I turned to face her. "Is our package ready?"

          Her mouth still hung open from her earlier inquiry. "Uh, yeah," she replied with a visible shake. "Lancer's guy, Maximillian Von Tummy, was able to find the assassin's physical location, catch him and interrogate him. He's being held at the maximum security facility in sector 73. Von Tom says he can get us in sneaky style, but I told him to focus on getting us structural plans on the building, we'd do the rest. He didn't seem to care about it one way or the other. I told him to expect a call at the restaurant you specified."

          "Good." I tapped my wrist, activating my communicator, "Time to go with the flow." Having given the order to initiate phase two of the mission, I lead the way out.

*                  *                  *

          "We are in queue for planet landing in three quarts." Trevor calls out from his console. "The Cloud Nine Tour alias was accepted. That cruise ship seems to have successfully stymied our capture of the Hawkins heir. There is news that Henry Hawkins has cut his vacation short and is en route to Cuvette Petit, where the cruise is scheduled to disembark."

          "So only father dearest knows something is up. Thankfully his pride wouldn't let Hawkins put a price on my head. He likes keeping things personal. Even if he finds out we have his boy, he won't know where we are. The second assassin wouldn't expect us to go to the first, so we should be in the clear on Chimera Moon."

          Marla and Jean-Pierre undo the straps securing them in place, then head off to collect their gear. April, at the console next to Trevor, pulls a container off the ground.

          I disconnected myself from my amended dentist chair. "Crew Status?"

          "May and June are prepping the Instruments. Ralph is setting the escape, and back up plans in place. Mad Max is contacting the blokes we were scheduled to pick up next. Dr. Tuan is prepping surgery, he said he's familiar enough with the questioning procedures of most corporations, that he wants to be completely prepared."

          "And how are our guests?"

          "Geoffrey an Horace are in the gym, working off steam. Oh, boss lady, the old man said to give this to you and ask that you meet him in the gym." She lobbed the small object through the air. I caught it easily, and began to open it.

          "Wait," April continued "until you get there, he said."

*                  *                  *

          From the hallway in front of the training room I could hear the sounds of rigorous practice. The doors parted to reveal young Hawkins, back to the door, following the same drills I did as a youth. He stood feet apart, arms raised, knife held blade down in his left hand. He made a series of slashes, turning his wrist as he did. The knife, the same blade Geoffrey had presented for his oath, had stylized hooks along the back edge; when twisted in flesh, the hooks had a tendency to pull and twist whatever tissue was nearby. Horace continued his routines, focusing all his attention on his movements and balance. I walked across the room to where the elder gentleman stood watching.

          "Has he been training long?" I asked.

          "No, and yes. I've just given him the Söz knife and shown him two techniques this morning. However, his father, and bodyguards have been teaching him various fighting styles over the years."

          "Is he good?"

          "He is mediocre." Until now, we'd been watching the lad, but now Geoffrey turned to me. "His skill has been limited by his training, which was undisciplined and sloppy." His face contorted on the last word as though the very memory of those previous training sessions left a foul taste in his mouth. " I was hoping, that along with his history lessons, you'd consider fighting lessons as well."

          "I'll think it over. I've always had a crew that could handle themselves, so I've never taught anyone anything. The way things stand now, we don't even know how much time we have before..." I trailed off as I wondered how to word killing Horace's father.

          "Yes, well, I shall see to whatever I can for the boy." He quickly filled in the gap. "I know you have many things to set right." He smiled softly.

          "I, and my crew, will help however we can. Just don't expect a proper schedule, or anything like that."

          "Of course, my lady. If you have a few moments, I'd like to start now?" I nodded yes and we walked over to face Horace.

          "Your blades, for a moment, please." Geoffrey asked of the boy and myself. We complied and handed them over.

          He held up, side by side, so that the raised edge of one fit into the engraved lines of the other. "These two blades were forged to work in concert. One is for attack, and the other for defense. Together there is almost no battle that can be won against the person who wields these, if they can handle them properly.:

          "Uh, why did you say almost?" Horace asked.

          Geoffrey then flipped the knives with a nice little flourish, and presented them, hilt out, to the boy. "Because there are three ways to finish a battle. Win, loose, or offer peace. Likewise there are three kinds of people in life. There are weapons," he handed my knife back to me, "there are shields," he then handed one to Horace, "and there is the olive branch."

Restless Slumber

Whilst I lie in restless slumber,
I can hear the distant Mumbler.
Calling for whom, I do not know.
It is for me?,
is it for you?
I hear the urgency in the voice.
Quickly I must make the choice.
Draw the dagger, don the bow,
which will save me,
I don't know.
Stealthy comes the hidden one,
seeking out its rivals spawn.
Searching for easy prey,
instead he finds,
me, prepared to slay.
Steel sinks deep,
blood begins to seep.
Mark this hour, from now on,
a child alone,
in bittersweet song.
-


Dreams can be tricky things, even when they are not nightmares. Memories can be clarified, or twisted. The subconscious weaves dreams however it wishes. Sometimes I dream about that day, the last day my family lived, and I see more details than I used to remember. I see the hitman, dressed as a caterer, walking around the large ballroom carrying a tray loaded with cheese. But things are not as they appear. He bears a plastic shell covered by a few bits of food. Within the shell lie his implements of choice, throwing daggers. He has no guarantee he'll get close enough to the targets for his usual tactics, but all that's required of him today is to disrupt the celebration.
If things went according to plan, half-way through the festivities my father was going to make some kind of announcement. As a child of 8, I had no idea what his plans were. Even my oldest sister, Rochelle, who had come home from the university for the announcement didn't know. She, my Mother, and oldest brother James were listening to a representative from the Johnson Corp. A few paces away my older brother Ferris demonstrates his skill at rifle twirling to an older gentleman and my Father. Wen, my next oldest sister was talking to the son of a wealthy resident of the Isle. I was a few more paces away, trying to decide on how to convince my Mother that it would be best if I was allowed to go to my room. Eventually I decided a grounding would be the quickest bet. I singled out the caterer heading straight for my father, and made a bee line for his feet.
In my dream, I see my mother watching me from the corner of her eye. The corner of her mouth turns down, and her jaw tightens. She's unhappy about the approach I'm taking. I trip and stumble at the caterer's feet. He trips, tumbles over me, the tray clatters to the ground, and knives spin through the air. Ferris, at the startling sound, turns about and swings his training rifle behind his back in one swift, fluid motion. When he sees the metallic glint in the air he immediately moves to cover Father. The security forces, who'd been a few paces away from every member of the family, began the tasks of relocating their designated responsibility to the "safe" room and eliminating the danger. A guard each grabs Mother, Father, Rochelle, and Wen. James joins Ferris in the security screen coving the retreat. A smoke cluster is lobbed through the air from somewhere behind me. A strong pair of arms pick me up and carry me the opposite direction of the rest of my family. Through rents in the smoke I see faces filled with fear. A familiar voice calls out.
"I have her, Sir! I will keep her safe." It my uncle Victor, Victor Bernatelli. He was my father's Intelligence Officer, and closest friend. He puts me over his shoulder, in a firefighter's carry, and runs. My view is filled with smoke, running figures, and shinning metal. Far to the left of the ballroom, is a lone figure.
Over the years I've puzzled about that figure. Who was it, and why were they just standing? Sometimes I can make out the color of the clothes, the style of hair. I'm almost certain it is a man. Once in my dream, I had a close view of the face. I remember seeing a soft double chin, plump nose, small ears, and a sweaty forehead. But his eyes were shadowed from me.
"Nica." Another familiar voice calls to me. It has a comforting quality to it, but at the moment it sounds very tense. I could feel a slight vibration near my head. The odd sensation coupled with the troubled voice stroked my instinct. I ducked, rolled, and flung out my arms, unsure what direction the danger would come at me from.
I hit the floor in a tangle of sheets, and a blast of air brought me back to reality.
"Please tell me that wasn't from an External Breather Kit?" I asked Trevor as I started to rise from the floor.
"Naw. You should know better from me." His voice quiet. "I brought one of my air compressors from my shop." He walked over and pulled the blankets away from my legs. Smiling down at me, leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek. "Bad one tonight?"
The dreams had been a part of life as far back as I could remember, but I never knew until recently that I reacted to them physically. Trevor had been the first that I'd allowed to stay in my bunk the full night, and we'd learned the hard way that it wasn't safe for him to stay nearby. "Yeah. I saw his face again, but not in full detail. Mother was mad at me." I reached for the trigger device that Trevor had made for the occasion, while he tidied up the bunk. "I don't mind water."
"You know that's wasteful, and messy."
"It get my shower started early."
"Hey, are you gonna be ok for the uplink? We got less than an hour to make rendezvous with your contact on Chimera Moon."
"I'll be fine. You worry about me too much." I leaned up.
Trevor purposely stayed clear. "I worry because we're using hack headsets and open access docks. You are merging your mind with a multi-consciousness without protection."
"But what we're doing..."
"Is important. Not just for you, or Nuevo Pluto, or other 3rd tier planets in the colonial region, but for all those who're trapped on the asteroid ships. I understand that, but you, are important to me." He kissed me fiercely.
Everything else is just something to fight for. I'm a fighter, it's what I do. But he, he is what I now want to live for.
* * *
We emerge in a cramped room in an alleyway just off the upper rim of the Atrium. This time it's just Jean-Pierre, Marla and myself. Hastily we make our way the wooden red door of The Nines. Once inside, Marla heads upstairs to check on our "package" while Jean-Pierre and I head for the bar.
"Ms. Scarlet! How delightful to see you again. I must say that I am both saddened and gladdened by the absence of your crew." Lancer cheerfully greeted.
He's been my most trusted informant for more than a decade, and has never once called me Scarlet. My body guard immediately activates his scanners. Somewhere, back with my body, Trevor starts prepping the emergency logg off software.
I respond to my old friend in kind. "Sup, Lancelot?" The slightest of winks, then a nod to the privacy booths.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet." He leans over the countertop, and quietly whispers. "Trust me on this, you will be safe, but you won't believe it. He's in number 5."
We head over, then duck into the booth, Jean-Pierre with a viral injector at hand. The mood lights in the booth are turned low.
"Lancer says I can trust you. I'd like to see you to confirm that for myself." The lights brighten, and before me sits a figure I saw in my dream, just this morning.
"Daddy?"

Nine Months

          I never expected to be happy with Trevor. He was only supposed to be a bed buddy that wouldn't be a security risk. With nine months of tight security, that makes this the longest adult relationship I've ever had. As I lay with my back pressed against his, all I can think about is the report from Max and the Girls.

*                  *                  *

          After the dinner celebrating my new ally, I had a private debriefing with April, May, June and Max in my private room.

          "I stayed at the main bar to scope things out." May started. "June, April, an Max brought the target upstairs."

          "Were you able to get his coordinates?" I asked as I queued star charts on the screen built into the wall.

          "Yeah, he's on Chimera Moon, Sector 73." Piped June

          "That's good," I zoomed the map to the right coordinates, "I've got contacts there that will help us slip in under the radar. Do we have measures in place to keep him... occupied, until we get there?"

          Max smiled at me. "You're gonna love this bit, darlin'. We get the bloke up to the room, and he starts spilling his guts `fore we even close the door."

          "Says he been angling for this job for a while, played up some fake blood oath against Max." Max smiled as April continued. "He says he hadn't been with the organization long. He was hoping to trade info for a spot on the ship. He'd heard of rumors about the kind of cargo that a reputable ship, like the Cutlass, would carry."

          We'd been smuggling people in and out of the different zones and planets for over a year now. "Does he know anything?"

          "Nah. Just the rumor we started. It's all over the colonized zone that we traffic skin. No one suspects that it's a humanitarian endeavor."

          "Good. That's one thing that continues to work in our favor. So what info does he have to trade?" I pull the schedule for the next few months up to start figuring where to wiggle things around.

          "He had two things that might be worth it; if they pan out." Max took a swig from the bottle that seemed to be permanently attached to his hand. "First, and this one I figure is worth it, he has insider info on the organization that was hired for this job. Including the fact that another hired gun has been dispatched to take care of you."

          "That figures. May did your spidey sense ping on anything at The Nines?"

          "Nope. There were a few tough cookies in there, but no one was out for any of us."

          "It could be a trap." April said bluntly. "He was sent after the crew of the Cutlass, either to kill us, or lead more to us. Either way, whoever paid for this gets what they want."

          "Could be, which leads me back to my earlier question. How are we keeping him in place?" I found myself drumming my fingers on the desk we were seated around.

          "Like I said, you'll love it. Lancer did us a favor." Max grinned that demon grin of his, then continued. "Seems one of Lancer's pals is on Chimera Moon, Sector 78. And it's no skin off his nose to head over and pound on a sad sack of a hitman. Especially" Max starts cackling here, "since he's some kind of police force there."

          "He griped about the paper work involved in a joint jurisdiction maneuver, but he was chomping at the bit to get the guy." June added.

          "Possibly means some kind of promotion for him." May offered.

          "Likely, the bum will spill his guts to the authorities on Chimera. Then after he gets processed, we pick him up and get the last half of his offer from him." Max continued.

          "What was that, by the way?"

          "He didn't give all the details. Mainly cause we didn't believe the first half of what he told us." Max chuckled. "Get this, he said that the slug boats from Earth, were gonna be killed off." He swigged from his bottle again. "And that he knew exactly everyone involved, plus how someone was planning to get rid of the others behind this Seawall gig." At this point the girls started laughing as well.

          I regretted letting them dinner in my private room while the rest of the crew witnessed my talk with the young Hawkins. It meant they didn't know that Seawall was the real deal. They couldn't fathom that one killer could possibly have qualms with mass murder; with genocide one the scale of a galaxy.

          I took a deep breath. "We'll drop everything and get to Chimera. He's telling the truth."

*                  *                  *

          I talked it over later that night with Trevor.

          "So, there's a conspiracy to kill off a third of humanity." He held up one finger. "There's a power play by one of those involved to wipe out the others behind the scheme." Another finger. "There's a half Corane who says he's been given some kind of important task, that somehow involves you." Third finger. "Lastly, someone in the Bernatelli family has a connection somehow to the Corane." Forth finger. "I'm still trying to decide if there's any more to add to this." He looks up at me, and I can feels the gears in his head cranking. It's at this moment that I realize he's more than a low-risk fling. "You ever heard of the ancient Chinese Curse, that most people wouldn't wish on their enemies?" I shook my head no. "It's basically, May you have an interesting life." He smiles that wide joyful smile of his. "Back when I joined your crew, I knew my life would be interesting. I never knew just how interesting it'd get."

          I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Never a dull moment. I wouldn't have it any other way."

          Nine months is a long time. That's long enough to start a brand new life, old school style.