You Can Call Me Isaac IV

February 15, 2013 G. Derek Adams2 Comments

A few hours later, Isaac leaned against the bricks of a rooftop stairwell. The building was about ten stories tall, and provided an easy observation point for the taller building across the street. He glanced at his watch, 2100 hours and Jack Ross was working late. The young lawyer’s light was one of a few that remained burning in the offices across the street. Isaac watched Ross leaf through several file folders, and make copious notes on a yellow legal pad.

Isaac looked over the rim of his shattered spectacles, and wondered why he had been sent to kill this young man.

He checked the bandages on his left leg and shattered knuckles. The backpack had held a field issue first aid kit, and he had been able to dress his wounds in a portable latrine left unlocked at a construction site a few miles from where he’d wrecked the Regal. Also in the bag were a freshly laundered pair of Army BDU’s, so he had quickly shoved his blood-spattered khakis into the basin of the latrine and put on the clean clothes. They were clearly sized for a younger, much slimmer version of Isaac Whitaker — but he had managed to squeeze into them.

There were two other things in the backpack. An MRE – lasagna, his least favorite – and the object that he now held in his hands as he kept an eye on Jack Ross’ late night work.

It was a wooden mask, featureless except for a narrow slit for the mouth and two thin holes for the eyes. It wasn’t black, it was plain Army green. The paint was flecking on the edges.

Back in the unit, when they were first issued them, he had listened to the scientific rationale with half his attention. The unit had been trained to cause people to ignore them, by employing their psychic field to dampen the mental activity of others. It made people pay less attention to them, be far less inquisitive than they should be. And somehow the masks helped — by removing recognizable human facial characteristics, it made the members of the unit even easier to ignore and disregard.

Isaac had done a lot of terrible things wearing this mask. Hermes did a lot of terrible things.

And now he had to put it on again.

It had been so easy to slip back into his training, his conditioning. He had been completely unobserved moving through the busy nighttime streets — he had leaped from rooftop to rooftop, slid down telephone poles in total silence, made himself invisible to an entire city bus of passengers, as he sat Indian-style on the roof. And it felt good.

Isaac squeezed both sides of the mask with his hands, feeling the smooth grain of the wood. It felt wonderful. I guess I never let myself think about how much I missed it. How crippled I’ve felt all these years. Fat and fucking old, jogging around my house and shuffling paper.

He’d been so caught up in it, in the high of the field, that he hadn’t truly been thinking. Black Mask was watching, he knew that. Any of his old unit would have little trouble keeping tabs on him. In the old days, the Hermes days, they never could have kept up with him, but now it would be child’s play — his field was still strong, but he was years out of practice.

Only one thing made sense right now. Find Jack Ross.

Enough, Whitaker. Get on with it. Isaac slipped the green mask on.

He ran towards the edge of the roof and kicked off. A few bricks were dislodged by the force, and he sailed through the air. His psychic field blazed green, but he had waited until the road below was completely deserted. The only one to see was Jack Ross as Isaac burst through his office window.

“Holy Hell!” Ross staggered back from his desk, eyes wide.

The young lawyer managed to grab a lampshade as an impromptu weapon. Hasn’t been a desk jockey too long. Isaac took it out of his hand and grabbed the front of Ross’ coat. With a quick heave, he slammed the younger man down on his desk and leaned in close.

“Tell me, Ross.” Isaac spoke in a whisper, praying that his voice would be unrecognizable. “There’s some very scary people that want you dead — any idea why?”

Ross swallowed and tried to collect himself. Isaac felt some sympathy. It’s been a rough day for everybody, kid.

The young lawyer ran his eyes over the green mask, and started as he saw the faint glow still remaining from his leap across the street.

“It can’t be. I never thought it was true.” Ross said fuzzily. ” Project Pantheon was real?”

Project Pantheon. The unit. Him, and the others. The psychic soldiers of the Cold War.

“What do you know about Project Pantheon?” Isaac forced himself to keep his voice quiet.

“Nothing! I’m working on a case, the murder case of this PFC in Guantanamo Bay. He was killed by a couple of his squad members.” Ross took a gasping breath, and coughed.

Isaac almost gasped himself, but kept the pressure on the young lawyer. From a thousand years ago, this morning, in the quiet life of Captain Isaac Whitaker of the JAG Corps, he had been discussing this very case with an attractive young woman from Internal Affairs. “Santiago.” he whispered.

“Yes, Santiago!” Ross said with relief.” I got a big carton of evidence, copies of all of his personal communication sent over from IA. But there was something extra, a journal kept shut with rubber bands. It wasn’t on the manifest, so I was curious — I opened it. It was…it was crazy. Some sort of psycho-therapy dream journal sort of thing. All of this raving about these nightmares that Santiago kept having, about psychic killers in the army. Project Pantheon, he wrote the name over and over again. And a ton of fucked up drawings — dragons and devils, yeah — but always these figures wearing army fatigues and masks. Masks like you’re wearing.”

Isaac let the young lawyer go and stepped away. He could hear Ross swallow and slowly start to sit up behind him.

This Santiago kid – he’s a Listener. Or he was a Listener. The process that unlocked the unit’s psychic fields always had similar effects: increased agility, awareness, strength, speed. But early on they had discovered that different people manifested different types of abilities. Super strength, remote viewing, mental domination, and others far stranger and more difficult to classify. One of the rarest was being a Listener – the ability to gather intelligence in the dream-state, to travel through the sleeping minds of the enemy and pull out battle plans, tactics, military secrets. The problem was that the information could only be processed by the sleeping mind – so it always came out in the this nightmare mish-mash. The two members of the unit that had the ability kept journals next to their bed, and always filled them with insane scribbling — then dutifully turned them into command to be deciphered. But Santiago was way too young to be a member of Project Pantheon. Unless they never really closed it down. Unless…

There was a member of Project Pantheon in Guantanamo Bay. Isaac felt his insides boil. They had killed that poor kid to hide themselves, framed the two Marines that Weinberg and Kaffee were defending…and now they were using him to mop up Ross. All for the young lawyer’s dilligence.

Isaac turned to face Ross. He knew what he had to do. His hand rose, fingers splayed.

“You will forget this, Ross. You will forget the journal, you will forget. A hawk flew into the window, broke it, scared you. You will never be alone for the next two weeks. Public places, carpool to work, keep your service revolver loaded and nearby at all times. Now go home, and get a good night’s sleep.”

Ross nodded, grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door.

Isaac watched him go and then turned back to the broken window. He found himself staring at his reflection in a small piece of glass that still hung in the frame. The green mask gave nothing away. “Goddammit.” he sighed.

He walked to the window, still holding the lamp he’d taken from Ross. Brandishing it like a scepter, he called out into the night.

“No. I didn’t kill him. But you’re going to have to let him go. You’ve got larger problems, you’ve got some serious shit to deal with. You’ve got me. You’ve got me really fucking pissed off. My name is Hermes and I’m the God of the Goddamn Crossroads. I am the messenger, you mother fuckers. Now come and chase me.”

His field blazed emerald and Hermes leaped out into the dark.

You Can Call Me Isaac III

February 15, 2013 G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

The human body is a sack of water.

A sack of water held together by the thinnest of walls, shot through with electrical cables and guitar string. From the tips of our fingers the current flows, water and energy radiating from our heart, our brain. Turn the dial on the microscope and our cells are the same. Tiny bags of fluid and light.

The water, the walls, our bones, our cells — these are all physical things who do not react well to being flung against a hard surface at 67 mph.

But the energy, the electrical impulses controlled by the human brain, these are intangible things. They care not for matter, or gravity, or pain. If one has the way of it — the will, the training. The mind’s electricity can illuminate us.

Isaac Whitaker was a lightbulb turning on, tungsten wire glowing red hot.

—-

He was a few paces from the smoking Regal before he came to.

His left leg below the knee was a red ruin, a thin sheet of blood covering his calf and black dress shoe. In his left hand he held the Regal’s driver-side door. His fingers had bent the frame when he ripped it free. Isaac tossed it absently to the ground, noticing that his vision had an odd jagged line across it.

Isaac groped at his face with both hands, and pulled his steel-rimmed spectacles off. The top half of the glass had shattered in a ragged horizontal line. He tilted them up with bemusement, and saw green light reflected.

The middle-aged man in ripped, bloodstained khaki hung in the air — his feet several inches above the pavement. He levitated, a nimbus of green energy surrounding him. Around his head the energy spiked and rippled, a crown of light.

Shit. I forgot about that part.

Isaac shut his eyes, and concentrated — fumbling through his own mind, like a man exploring his childhood home in the dark. The green light faded and he slowly sank to the pavement.

He put on his broken glasses and peered around the crash site. The iron training held him fast. Zero exposure. No witnesses.

A pair of civilians were trotting up with concerned looks on their faces. An elderly black woman holding a grocery bag, and a thin white kid wearing a leather jacket.

“You allright, man?” the kid called, an unlit cigarette dangling from his hand.

Isaac held up his hand, just as the masked man had in the parking deck. You remember how, Captain. Now do it.

“You didn’t see anything. You are already forgetting this. You are walking away, and going around the corner and thinking about what you need to do when you get home.” Isaac commanded, his voice harsh.

The old woman and the kid stopped in their tracks, and turned as sharp as a military parade. They both marched away out of sight. The street he was on was deserted otherwise, blank warehouses on either side. He would have a few moments to collect himself, to try to grapple with the situation.

“How can I?” he said to the empty street.

His feet carried him over to the crumpled car, and he looked at his reflection in the rear window. It was the same face he had looked at this morning in his office mirror, the same spreading paunch, the same khaki uniform shirt missing one button. But he was not the same. Isaac Whitaker was gone, he was Hermes again.

The messenger god. The god of crossroads. The god of vagrants and thieves.

He felt the tears and hysteria beginning to build behind his eyes again, and he pushed them away. His thick hands curled into fists and he brought them down on the Regal’s trunk. No pain, though he could see that two of his fingers were broken — puffy and purple at the joints. That was the danger of the psychic field, of harnessing the mind’s energy. The sack of water was weak and you could puncture it without realizing it. They had been trained to constantly check their extremities for damage, much in the way that lepers were taught.

The scientists hadn’t thought about that when the experiment began. It had been something that General Thurman had come up with, when one of the unit had died of gangrene after some bullet holes went unnoticed. The mission had been a success but Hephaestus was dumped into a body bag, and shipped back stateside.

The mission. Something for me in the trunk.

Isaac made himself walk back to the driver’s seat and retrieve his keys, instead of simply ripping the trunk open. Control was important, restraint was important. Only using the field when needed, that was something most of his unit never understood. It was why he had made it back with most of his sanity intact when the unit was decommissioned. The band of steel stapled around his leg, his abilities caged, and a place found for him in the JAG Corps.

The key turned in the trunk slot and it popped open. A green Army backpack was wedged in one corner. His hands trembled only slightly as he pulled it out. A white stamp was on the top flap – an army boot with crude wings on either side. His mark, his call-sign Isaac pushed the flap open.

There were various items stuffed down in the bottom, but on top was a manila envelope. He bent the metal tabs and opened it, a large picture spilled out into his hands.

The picture was of a thin man, wearing a Navy dress uniform. Isaac recognized him

Artist - Jack Foster — Artist – Jack Foster

immediately.

“Jack Ross? What do you have to do with this?” he asked the air.

Ross was a colleague, a military prosecutor. A much younger man than Isaac, no way he could have been involved with the experiments, the training, the black operations, the casual slaughters. Isaac turned the picture over.

Scrawled in red lipstick were instructions. “KILL. 0 EXPOSURE. RETURN.”

“Goddamit.” He stuffed the picture and envelope back in the bag, and pulled the strap over his shoulder. “I don’t do this anymore.”

He needed time. Time to think, time to let his heart stop bleeding adrenaline. He knew the masked man would be watching. I’ll go through the motions, think my way through this.

Isaac turned and started walking away from the wrecked regal. He ran through the laundry list. Clothes, bandages, time to further inspect the contents of the backpack, locate Ross, reconnaissance, infiltration, interrogation, termination.

He stopped a dozen yards away from the car, caged by his training. Zero Exposure.

Isaac concentrated, the electricity of his mind tearing through the air behind him. This was not his strong suit, but he should be able to make a small spark.

The gas line of the Regal ignited, and a thick whump-sound filled the air as the gas tank went up. Smoke and fire spread through the car quickly.

Isaac straightened his jagged spectacles and walked away. He was committed now. Police would find his car within the hour, and in a few hours more connect the charred license plate with Captain Isaac Whitaker. The DC police weren’t exceptionally competent – but a missing persons report could prove troublesome. He would need to act fast.

A grim smile stole across his face. He was Hermes, the messenger. He could act very fast indeed.

Isaac ripped his uniform shirt off and tossed it in a nearby dumpster. He walked on in a plain white undershirt, as the smoke from the burning car rose behind him.

You Can Call Me Isaac II

February 13, 2013 G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

“Ah, so familiar and friendly.” The masked man giggled.

Isaac carefully backed out of his space, his eyes locked on the rearview mirror. The black wooden mask his passenger wore was purposefully featureless, and his hunched posture made it difficult to estimate his height or weight.

“Which one are you? Apollo, Dionysus…Ares?” Isaac shifted the car into gear and put his foot on the gas.

“You remember!” the masked man said, high pitched voice sliding like a manic violin. “So good to know that you haven’t forgotten your old comrades. That there’s something of my old war buddy in that fat old man suit you’re wearing.”

The Regal roared sedately around the wide curves of the empty parking deck. Isaac’s hands gripped the wheel loosely, hands at ten and two. He braked as they approached the parking lot attendant, a bored-looking man idly spitting sesame seeds into a paper cup.

“Not a word now.” the masked man pressed the barrel of his gun more firmly into his neck for a moment, then shifted it to press into the soft flesh over his kidney.

Out of the corner of his eye, Isaac saw the masked man press his hand against the glass of the back window. The masked man’s hands were gloved, plain black cotton gloves – workman’s gloves. The attendant ran his eyes over the Regal, and stared into the back seat for a moment. Bored eyes looked at the black splayed fingers and saw nothing. The masked man giggled again in triumph.

The attendant didn’t see the masked man. Because the masked man wouldn’t let him.

Isaac nodded at the attendant, who waved politely with his paper cup. The pulled the Regal to the edge of the deck, nose pointed into the street. The oncoming traffic was steady – Isaac laid a hand on his blinker. He tried to keep his voice calm, and his heart rate down — Training, Whitaker, training. Remember it. — but the slow trickle of sweat down his back revealed the strain.

“Where are we going? Left or right?”

“Oh…..right.” The masked man stretched out on the backseat, gun barrel steady in Isaac’s side. “Right will be fine.”

He doesn’t care. That’s not good. Not good at all. Isaac pushed up on his blinker, and pulled into traffic. He scanned the sidewalks without moving his head, hoping to spot any sort of ally. I’d even take Weinberg right now.

Isaac only saw a few strangers, civilians.

“Take a left at this light…Isaac,” the masked man said his name with a sing-song reverence. “And speed up, we’re in a hurry.”

He took the green light, and accelerated slowly. The street was lined on either side with various government and office buildings. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the four lane street, and he was able to move between the other cars with little difficulty. It was just after dusk, the street lights burned orange and remote.

“Okay. I’ve had enough. Enough of this. What’s going on? Why are you here? What do you want with me?” Isaac’s gaze burned into the rear view.

The masked man curled up and flopped a friendly hand over Isaac’s left shoulder. The mask leaned into his peripheral vision on the right, black gun barrel dangled over his chest with elan.

“How rude of me! Of course you want your marching orders, you good little soldier. To the point, Captain Whitaker, to the point! Just like always. You have an important mission.” the black wood vibrated with the man’s laughter.

“Mission.”

“Yes,”the masked man whispered. “You are being reactivated. Today. Now. Most expeditiously.”

“Reactivated?” Isaac felt his stomach drop and his veins begin to drip acid. He had expected to be quietly terminated, driving himself to a quiet grave site that the masked man had prepared.

This was much, much worse. He felt a hot, wetness on his cheeks. The masked man chuckled with sympathy, and dabbed at his face with his free hand.

“But…I can’t be…there’s no way…they promised…”Isaac managed. “There’s no way. There’s no way.”

“Oh, there’s a way. There’s most assuredly a way. Now pick up your left leg.”

Isaac could feel a slight tingle on his scalp, but it might have been a memory. Something in his bones screamed at him, and he kept his leg where it was.

“Mmm. Resist. Yes. Please, resist,” the masked man crooned. “Pick up your left leg.”

Slowly, as if through water, Isaac pulled his left leg up and propped his foot up on the dashboard. It was a strain to keep his right foot on the gas pedal, but he managed.

“Pull up the pant leg.”

Isaac kept his right hand on the wheel, and grabbed the khaki fabric of his uniform with his left. They were tight around his calves, they had begun to spread just like his middle. He grunted with the slight exertion, pushing the fabric up his hairy, white leg.

Tight around his left calf was a band of steel. It was about two inches wide, with grommets every inch of circumference. There was a serial number, but it had worn off years ago.

“There it is. Your chain. Good, Isaac. You’re doing so good.” the masked man sighed with pleasure. “Rip it off.”

His hand began to slide towards the steel band. It’s grafted to my leg, some of the pins go into the bone. It was never supposed to be removed. Isaac began to pant as his hysteria mounted.

“Rip it off. Rip it off!” the violin sawed at the air.

He tried to resist, he tried to remember his training. But the masked man’s voice hit him like a whip, and he watched as his left hand moved forward. He watched as his finger nails dug into his own flesh. He watched as they curled under the edge of the metal band, blood and pain flowing. He watched as his left bicep flexed and tore the steel band free, the metal halting and bending as each grommet tore free.

Isaac stared straight ahead, his right hand in a different continent. He changed lanes in front of a blue coupe, even managing to signal. His left hand tossed the steel band over onto his passenger seat. His blood was going to leave quite a stain.

“Now, listen closely.” The masked man sighed. “In a moment you are going to wreck your car. Drive as fast as you can into the nearest obstacle. With the inhibitor band removed your abilities should return in a matter of hours, but we need to jumpstart the process. A little mortal trauma should do nicely.”

“I didn’t want this.” Isaac said numbly.

“I’ve left a little package in the trunk of your car. Some supplies, a bit of your old equipment, a snack for later, and of course the details on your mission.”

“I didn’t want this.” Isaac repeated, his eyes moved to the mirror. “And I will make sure that you don’t want this either.”

The masked man nodded with approval. “There’s the Isaac I used to know. Welcome back, Hermes. Now it’s time to wreck your car. There, that rail should do.”

The black glove gestured towards the right side of the street, and Isaac’s hands began to turn the wheel. He pulled his bleeding leg down off the dash, his right leg stomped down on the accelerator. The tingle on his scalp was now a steady vibration and it was not a memory.

Isaac looked into the mirror, and saw that his back seat was empty.

The Regal hit the steel rail at 67 miles per hour.

You Can Call Me Isaac I

February 10, 2013 G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

[If there’s something that the world doesn’t have enough of, it is most certainly A Few Good Men fanfiction. I’m currently appearing in a local production of the play by Aaron Sorkin, playing the role of Captain Isaac Whitaker — a very minor character who only appears in the first few minutes of the play. I have time backstage, so please allow me to present my humble theory of what happens to the character when he leaves the staqe.]

“This shirt does not fit.” Isaac told his reflection. “Nope. Just doesn’t fit.”

He turned sideways, and looked at himself in profile. His stomach bulged and pressed against the buttons of his shirt, the second above his belt seemed to be wincing in pain as it strained against the crisp khaki. The rest of his frame still held a warrior’s shape – broad shoulders and thick arms – but the irreverent curve of his gut better suited a comfortable chair, or a plush barstool, or a voluminous couch.

“Just gotta get a bigger shirt.” Isaac told himself philosophically. “All the running just isn’t burning this pooch down.”

He turned back forward, and sucked in his stomach. His men always seeemed a little skeptical when he told them about his morning PT. 2.6 miles at 0600 every morning, from his front door to the end of the farm road on his property. Then a quick shower and chow, hopping into his car and driving into the city for the 0830 morning meeting. He’d tell Kaffee or Weinberg about his morning jog and their eyes would always slowly dip down to his stomach.

“Those fucking guys.” Isaac straightened the points of his collar, adjusting the gold insignia at his collar.

On one side were two gold branches for the JAG Corps, on the other an eagle for his rank. Captain Isaac Whitaker, administrator of the Washington branch of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps for nine years — seven from retirement, gut busting its way out of his tightly tailored uniform shirt.

“Maybe I should eat a salad for lunch during the week,” he mused. “Salads.”

Isaac turned from the mirror hanging on the closet door and sat down at his desk. A stack of legal briefs were neatly organized on the left-hand side, color-tabbed with translucent tape. Blue tape for any Class B misdemeanors or below, green tape for Class A. He tagged them himself when they were brought to him – he wouldn’t waste any of his men’s time with such menial organization. It helped him plan his time, work through the stacks. Clean and calm, folders came in and folders went out — assigned to the best available litigator on his staff. Isaac liked to have a nodding familiarity with every case that came through his office. From the most standard Drunk and Disorderly to the occasional more serious offenses requiring a full court-martial. If there was one thing his time in the Navy had instilled in him it was a serious devotion to knowledge of the battlefield. It didn’t matter that now his battlefield was made of paper instead of water and dirt.

“Salads, salads, salads.” Isaac pulled the first green-tabbed folder off the top of the stack, and peered over the rim of his glasses at the heading.

“Hey, Captain.” Weinberg stuck his head through the door. “There’s some lady here from Internal Affairs. ”

Isaac looked up, the brief still open in front of him. “What?”

“Some lady. Here to see you. From Internal Affairs,” his officer repeated.

“Oh, yeah. Bronsky called me and said something about her stopping by. Some case they want to reopen. Send her in.” He flexed his hands on the desk and sighed.

Isaac took off his glasses for a moment, and pinched his rubbed his brow with both hands. His eyes fell on the front of his shirt again.

“Just doesn’t fit. Damn thing just doesn’t fit.”

His office door swung open, and he put his glasses back on. He stood to greet his guest from Internal Affairs.

—-

It turned into a long day.

The lady from Internal Affairs, a Lt. Commander Joanne Galloway, had been the herald of a red ball case. Isaac had needed to dig around in his desk for a few minutes before he found the appropriate scarlet tape to mark the folder. Some Marine in Guantanamo Bay was dead, and two of his squadmates were charged with the murder. Division was giving a lot of attention to this one – the base commander at Gitmo was a favored son, slowly making his grand ascension to the Pentagon. They wanted the case done quick and quiet with no collateral damage. He would need to keep close tabs on this one and make sure his guys didn’t let the whole thing go pear-shaped.

The 1500 staff meeting was quick and to the point. Division had pre-selected Kaffee as the lead counsel for the Defense so it was just a matter of briefing him on the particulars, and letting Commander Galloway fill in the blanks. Kaffee was a good litigator, a whiz at the plea-bargain. No way this thing would ever see the inside of a courtroom. Perfect, as far as he was concerned.

After the meeting he worked through the rest of his case-load for the day, but he went ahead and put in a few phone calls. First a few minutes shitting in Bronsky’s ear for sending this little package for his office to deal with. Bronsky laughed and they made plans to get a drink on Friday — first round on him. Then a few messages with some connections in Division, and to a friend or two at the Pentagon. Just to see how much crossfire his guys would be dealing with.

The battlefield was paper, but he wasn’t going to let his men march out without some covering fire and as much intelligence as he could scrounge up.

Isaac walked out of the office about an hour later than usual. The parking deck was mostly empty, yellow lights buzzing against gray stone. His white Buick Regal was parked in a corner near the entrance, the rest of the row was empty. He dug in his pocket for the keys and spent a moment finding the keys as his mind wandered. He was tired, maybe he’d skip his morning jog tomorrow. Get a little extra sleep. Not doing a damn bit of good, anyway.

He unlocked the door and tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat. He slid into the driver’s seat and leaned out pull the door shut.

A small pop came from the front of his shirt. A sudden looseness.

Isaac looked down and saw that the second button from his belt was gone. “Shit. Goddamn it.”

He slammed the door and began to fish around the floor of the car. He peered all around, lifting his feet to search — but the button seemed to have vanished. “GOD. Goddammit.” he slammed his head back against the seat in frustration.

His eyes came up to the rear view mirror.

That’s when he saw the mask.

The mask that the man in the backseat was wearing. It looked to be made of black wood, narrow slits for the eyes and mouth. Isaac felt the familiar pressure of a gun being pressed firmly to his neck.

“Captain Whitaker, how pleasant to see you again.” the masked man said cheerfully. “Drive.”

” You can call me Isaac.” he replied, and turned the key to start the car.

[To be continued.]

A Mobius Story

February 8, 2013February 8, 2013 G. Derek Adams2 Comments

[A story for my friend, Cord. May it prove a distraction.]

The gauntlets were too big.

“Trouble, Half-Man?” the snake-eyed woman cooed, her fingers curled around his shoulders.

“Nope…nothing…no problem!” Mobius stammered his small hands almost rattling inside the pitted blue-steel gauntlets.

Mobius was small statured, a halfling in the common parlance. His grandmother always said that the proper name for his race was ‘Kender’, but his mother and father always gave such sharp looks of disapproval when she had used the word that Mobius dared not. From his boots to the tip of his wild hair he was only three and a half feet tall. This put his head just below the breasts of the snake-eyed woman who stood behind him. When she exhaled, they dipped ever so slightly, brushing the sides of his head — causing pronounced eye dilation and small puffs of smoke to erupt from his ears and from somewhere just south of his belt buckle.

“You promised me that you could get us in, thief. You promised me that locks would fall open when you whistled ‘Valleydown,Susannah. That you could smell traps, hear ambush, see the gleam of gold through a mile of dark catacomb,” Varatene’s hands moved from his shoulders to his bare neck. “You promised me.”

The touch was silk, but Mobius heard the jagged, bloody steel in her words.

“I got it, Vara. I got it…just …just need a minute,”the halfling said with desperate cheer.

The thief and the snake-eyed lady stood in a circular room, golden blocks of rough-hewn sandstone. Stairs led downward to the Temple of Silent Flames and hundreds of Sarmadi acolytes of Nasirah. Mobius and Varatene had taken advantage of the holy festival in the city beyond for this night’s endeavour.

Most of the acolytes were busy in the city, leaving only a small guard inside the temple. Easy enough for a halfling of Mobius’ talents to move from shadow to shadow, evading the sparse patrols. He had taken great care to wait until the last possible second to scoot around each patrol, finding the most elaborate way to remain hidden. Handstands, last minute flips behind columns and tall urns, a long swing on a crisp white banner over the heads of two guards with axes. He had ended each escape with a surreptitious glance at his lithe partner, Varatene. He was showing off as hard as he possibly could, it would have been a waste of energy if his efforts were not being suitably enjoyed.

She smiled at him once or twice, but focused mainly on remaining unseen herself. Kissing each shadow, an alluring absence.

The top of the tower was just as she had described. A massive door fashioned from marble and steel – a glorious sun. A stone column, top sheared off to make a simple table was in the center of the room. A pair of gauntlets riveted to the top of the table were the only other feature of the room.

Mobius had inspected the door with every ounce of unruly skill he possessed. He was convinced that the only way to open the door was with the gauntlets, somehow they were the locking mechanism. Cunning pressure plates were installed at the pad of each finger, just the right amount of pressure was required.

But the gauntlets were too big for his hands.

Even if my hands were the right size — I’d have to know the exact weight of each finger. This thing’s probably set for a very specific pair of hands, whoever runs this place probably. Mobius spread his fingers as wide as he could, but still could only manage to cover three plates in each gauntlet.

“I hear someone.” Her lips were at his ear. “Two pair of leather sandals and the butt of two long-axes hitting the stone floor. Guards, soon, here.”

“….what?” the thief managed. “Oh! Guards. Yeah, guards are bad.”

He could feel her lips bend in a thin smile. “Do you find me distracting, thief?”

“A…a bit? But in a really, really, really good way.”

“Ah, but you must focus, Sir Mobius. The boots are coming closer, and the long-axes with them. We are cornered here and will not last long against the acolytes of Nasirah, Goddess of Law and Fire. You must open the door now. Now, Mobius.” Varatene delicately began to bite down on the lobe of his right ear.

“Grrruhh?” Mobius said.

The snake-eyed lady pulled back and whispered again. ” Open the door, thief. And I will ravish you. I will show you pleasure that will be spoken of in hushed, reverent tones as a holy sacrament of lust. I will leave you a shattered husk, stumbling and blinking through all the remaining years of your life as a man long blind who first sees the sunrise.”

“I will do that thing. I WILL DO THAT THING.” Mobius declared, and immediately brought his head down as hard as he could on the stone slab in front of him.

Zac Gorman - Lost [in the] Woods — Zac Gorman – Lost [in the] Woods

Mobius’ grandmother had always said that he was a little ‘touched’. That he had something in his blood, a little touch of the old magic. It was mostly useless, he had decided as a kid. Sometimes he could guess what color underwear his cousin was wearing without looking, sometimes he could throw a rock in the dark and hit a passing bat dead between the eyes, sometimes the wind would blow just a little when he wiggled both pinkies.

But sometimes, when he really needed it, his touch would help him. Mostly in dreams, but sometimes he could see over the horizon — in the fields of the world, and in the folds of time.

And he needed this. Bad.

The pain in his temple was sharp and his head rang with pain. But he saw it. Like a mummer’s show through a fog, a man in long white robes painted with a red and gold flame entered the room, and placed his hands in the blue-steel gauntlets. Mobius could see each of the mans fingers inside the gauntlet as they pressed down on the pads.

Still in the fog, he reached up and took Varatene’s hands. He slid them into the gauntlets, and laid his smaller hands carefully on top of hers. The woman’s hands were fine, but large enough for the purpose.

The tramp of the boots, the thump of the long-axe handle.

Mobius looked up, as he gently guided Varatene’s fingers with his own. Her eyes, flat and empty looked back. “You…you wanna…make out a little?” he said shyly.

Their hands moved slowly into place, as he guided the pressure needed — the dream-fog fading in his brain. There was a sharp click and the sun door slowly began to slide open.

Varatene smiled and pecked his brow. “Later, thief.”

She spun away, pulling him behind her. In two breaths they were through the sun door and Mobius pulled a nearby lever. The door quietly began to shut again.

The halfling started to shrug out of his vest, his hands going to his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?” Varatene hissed.

“Uh. You know? The lust thing? The thing you just said, back in there.” Mobius nodded his head towards the gauntlet room as it disappeared behind the closing door.

“Now?” the woman said with exasperation. “Right now?”

The halfling’s pants hit the ground.

—

“That never happened, Mobe. It never ever did.”

“Yeah it did, JJ! Gods honest truth, it totally happened.”

“She did you right there, on a pile of gold and jewels?”

“Well, there wasn’t a whole lot of gold, some weird thing about the Sarmadi — they think gold is evil or something. But there was a hell of a lot of opals and rubies. And a big pile of silk, where we Did the Deed. Twi…Three times,yeah. Three times!”

“That don’t make no sense, Mobe. And you know it!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You think I’m stupid, or something? How did you start this stupid story? Huh?”

“Oh. Well.”

“HAR. I gotcha. I’ll bet her gauntlet was…”

“Shut up!”

“HHAH HHAH!”

“Shut your fat face!”

“HHAH HHA—hey, why is it windy in here all of a sudden?”

Blanket Times

February 4, 2013 G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

I’ve been withdrawing a bit over the past few weeks.

That isn’t innately a bad thing — we all need time to recharge, flip the switch from Extra to Intra — but its something I have to acknowledge. Acknowledge and control.

Partly it’s a reaction to how busy and involved I was in various projects over the past few months. Directing a show, working on the book, etc. And partly it’s a reaction to some family and life issues.

I’ve been describing it as a “responsibility allergy”, but it’s more of a reversion. To all those

Skottie Young - Artist — Skottie Young – Artist

halcyon days when I could crawl inside a book or a video game and the world would leave me be. Honestly, in those days, the World had precious little interest. A fuzzy blanket of disinterest over my head as I traveled with Link, or Crono, or Serge, or Long John Silver, or Garion, or Paks, or Mulder and Scully.

As I said, it’s not innately harmful — and honestly it’s damn therapeutic. I’ve beaten two [!] video games in the past month or so, finished up some books, and been binge-watching Netflix like whoa. If I could just lay in my house for a few days and play Ni No Kuni, that would be simply grand.

But I also Have Shit to Do.

Work, performing in A Few Good Men, Play Reading Committee, Sexy Bassoon Listening Party, Burlesque Beta, Shadeaux Bros., Titan’s Wake, The Ocean of Not.

And writing.

Most importantly WRITING.

Puppet monologues. My A Few Good Men fanfiction. Working a little more on The Option sequence. I kind of liked that snippet I tossed off, The Lines — maybe pursue that, forward or backwards in time.

And always Spell/Sword. I’m on hold until the last few of my Beta Readers finish their review, but the final push is coming. I’ve also got lots of background work to do with my cover designer on the layout for the print edition.

So, Blanket Times — but only in moderation.

Spell/Sword Cover Art Revealed!

January 21, 2013 G. Derek AdamsLeave a comment

Artist - Mike Groves/poopbird — Artist – Mike Groves/poopbird

And there it is. The cover art for my book.

This is real. IT’S REAL.

Let me let me tell you why I love this art.

1. It’s fun. Looking at it just makes me smile. It’s unapologetically goofy and cartoony. Most fantasy art takes itself so freaking seriously.

2. It’s different. This doesn’t look like 98% of the fantasy novel illustrations I’ve ever seen before. Not on the shelves at Barnes & Noble, not on Amazon.com or anywhere else.

3. It’s clean. All of the negative space just pleases me aesthetically. A traditionally published novel would want to cram more information and more verbiage on there. I’ll probably have my name on their, somewhere very small, but that’s it. I also think it’ll really stand out when seen online as a tiny thumbnail on someone’s Kindle.

4. It makes me think of Chrono Trigger. My book sits very comfortably in the mental space occupied by Dungeons & Dragons, JRPGs, and manga. I adore that this would not look terribly out of place on the cover of any of those three.

5. It will make people vaguely embarrassed to be seen reading it. Not so much with the Kindle version, but people who have the paper copy. Anyone reading this will be broadcasting to the world that they are a Huge Nerd.

Huge props to Poopbird on the illustration, you should follow the link from here or the image itself and check out his entire portfolio and buy stuff from him.

I hope this gets you marginally excited about reading the book. I know it gets me far more than marginally excited about finishing it.

Bubbling Brew of Malaise

January 21, 2013 G. Derek Adams2 Comments

Grump grump grump.

I have entered into a period of vague dissatisfaction.

There are many exciting things on the horizon for Spell/Sword: final edits are almost done, designer is lined up for my cover, cover illustration is complete, entered into the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, should be ready to self-publish in February or March.

I’m very excited about these things. Every time I look at the cover art, my body begins to emit a

pearlescent light and strains of violin music can be heard by passersby.

But, you know, meh.

Nerd Concerns are also going well. I’m running two tabletop campaigns. Titan’s Wake, in Pathfinder, and Ocean of Not, in Legend of the Five Rings. Got a shiny new 3DS for Christmas from my beloved and have been playing with it more than I should. Beat the sublime Virtue’s Last Reward and am currently scratching the nostalgia itch with Legend of Zelda:OoT.

But still — grumble.

I even have ample TV fodder at the moment. Twin Peaks for my brain, and Bones for my stomach. We have a new dog that we’re fostering/becoming permanently attached to. My beloved is wonderful if over-busy.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the old, familiar desire to escape — to slip out of this reality for a while. An MMO would fit the bill nicely, but all of my computers are old clunkers that can’t handle it. Actually playing some tabletop would be nice as well, but I’m kind of booked with DM duties.

I guess it boils down to this: I just feel too damn ‘adult’ of late.

I’m ready for the book to be done and people to shower me with riches, so I can sit quietly in my apartment and play video games and work on the sequel. Buy a big house with a yard for the dogs, with a gigantic craft room for my beloved, and plenty of hammock space for all the burlesques. A swank kitchen for the Yellow Devil/Ladle to play in and a ton of guest rooms, so my family can come and stay whenever they want.

I did it.

January 18, 2013 G. Derek Adams3 Comments

I’ve entered Spell/Sword into the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest and Breakfast Buffet.

Fortunately, I still have right at a week to tweak my pitch, and fuss with the various parts of the entry forms. But I have officially entered, so I’ve got a slot, and I’ve got a chance.

If nothing else, the massive amount of editing I’ve done this week are suitable prize enough.

But I would not mind the $50,000 grand prize.

Or that plate of yum pictured above.

It’ll be nearly a month before I know if I even made it through the first round. So keep your fingers crossed for at least 5 weeks.

One question.

January 4, 2013 G. Derek Adams2 Comments

What will make you buy my book?

G. Derek Adams – Writer of Minotaur Poetry

Tag: publishing