Another False Quote, This One From Bridge Of The Broken

“The responsibility far outweighs the opportunity here: no other will ever be the first human to handle or interact with an alien device. The only thing greater would be actual interaction with an alien intelligence. Still, I am aware of how out of my depth I am, I truly am.” -Rupert Troisrivieres, inmate and forced laborer, Ast-Block 19, shortly after discovering the first of the artifacts of the Leos civilization

Recovering From The Pee-Pee Slap

Well, I think I am recovered, at least partially, from having my hopeful writer's pee-pee slapped by the vast and brutal hand of reality.

This weekend was a very nice time spent with my girls and running Greedy Little Bastards. We went and watched the latest Pirates of the Caribbean. I found it the best of the movies since the first, but that may be because of the mermaids (Oh man, the mermaids), or Penelope (Oh man, Penelope.).

I also resumed work on Bridge Of The Broken, something I have been unable to dig into with any real fervor since the pee-pee slap. It is flowing well, and rather pleasantly fast. I am hoping to keep it thundering along.

And as Peter said, "It's not over until you quit."

I don't plan to quit, that's certain.

Chugging Along

Some days I get quite a bit done. It seems today was one of those. Here, another excerpt from Bridge of The Broken, is a portion of that produce:

Venkman waited for Larissa to clear the door before following her from the building.

“This was nice,” she said over her shoulder, catching him watching her ass. She snorted, punched him in the shoulder as he took two long strides to catch up.

As he felt no remorse for appreciating her assets, and showed none, instead asking, “How so?” suspecting he knew the answer.

“Working together. Reminds me of how we met.”

He grinned, “Yes. Yes, it does.”

“What do you think is up?”

“I think it’s all mental masturbation until your guy gets back with more details.”

She nodded, a thoughtful expression he knew well creasing her brow, “If he finds anything.”

“True. Sometimes you don’t get anywhere until it drops in your lap.”

Larissa laughed, “Again, like how we met.”

His phone started to vibrate. He took it out, glanced at it. Now why is the Lieutenant calling me? he thought as he answered.

“Venkman, your partner was involved in a shooting,” the lieutenant said without preamble.

“I know, that’s why I took the day off, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

What the fuck? Venkman thought, barely holding his tongue in check.

“Oh, no, I’m not talking about the one yesterday. Sorry. There’s been a new incident. This one involving Baptiste.”

“He’s alright?” he asked, sudden concern spiking his bloodstream with chemicals.

Larissa looked at him in alarm, sensing his sudden stillness.

“Yes, he’s uninjured. I just thought you should know… And I thought to ask if Baptiste has a girlfriend or something. I tried his home, but got nothing. I seem to remember a woman at the Christmas party…”

So you can scare the shit out of Myrna too, you fucking twit? Venkman thought. Rather than lie, he said nothing.

A moment passed in silence.

The Lieutenant broke it, “So, do you know a number where his girlfriend might be reached?”

“He must not have updated his record, Lieutenant. You can’t ask him?” he asked, knowing the man couldn’t.

“Oh, no. You know how it is. No one can talk to them but their representatives and the investigators from Homicide and Internal Affairs.”

“I’ll be there in a bit, Lieutenant.”

“No need.”

“I know. Still.”

A sigh, “See you soon, then,” the Lieutenant answered.

Not if I see you first, Venkman thought as he ended the call.

“What’s up?” Larissa asked.

“Light on details, but the LT says Baptiste was involved in a shooting. He’s alright. I need to go to Myrna’s place and get her.”

“Shouldn’t the Lieutena-“ she began.

He shook his head, calling up the address, “He about stopped my heart delivering the news. I won’t have him doing that to her.”

She stepped close, wrapped an arm over his shoulder, “You’re a good man, Nigel Venkman.”

Venkman smiled, kissed her cheek, “Thanks. Can I drop you at home or the office?” Baptiste and Myrna hadn’t had Larissa over to their home, mostly because Myrna held a grudge against Larissa for not executing Rankless Wardlaw when she had him in her power. Venkman didn’t want to take the chance Myrna would add this incident to her list of complaints against the former Imperial.

“The office is closer,” she said, releasing him and starting toward the truck.

Joining her, Venkman felt a warmth in his chest that had everything to do with her effortless understanding.

Still More Bridge of The Broken

Someone (Yes, I'm looking at you, K) asked that I stop the violence. Here is another piece, this one with more than a little dialogue. There's some anger, too. But no overt violence.

“He did what?” Baptiste asked with a yawn. The cortex had eaten more than half of Caron’s report last night, with the result he hadn’t got home before midnight. Myrna hadn’t yet come home when he’d gone to bed, something he had yet to talk to her about.

“Made a mess in my store, le con,” Gerard answered, looking Caron up and down with an appreciative eye.

“No,” Baptiste shook his head, “before that.”

“What?” Baptiste wasn’t sure if it was his words or his movement that dragged the man’s attention from Caron’s chest back to his face, but was certainly bone weary of Gerard. “Oh, He fell. I thought he was just trying to blackmail me, you know, trying to get a free drink, but then he broke the bottle too,” the clerk said, again looking sidelong at Caron’s chest.

“Then what?”

“He took off, like I told him to.”

“So, he didn’t steal anything?” Caron asked.

“No, but he was about to when I caught him.”

“Are you serious?” Baptiste grunted.

“What?” the clerk said.

“You want the guy we’ve both known for years arrested because he fell and broke a bottle in your store?”

Gerard’s face closed up like a stubborn fist, “Yes. He broke what he’d planned to steal.”

“Sorry, we aren’t the mind police,” Baptiste said.

“Don’t you go blowing me off, Jean-Hervé. I know your brother, and he s-“

Baptiste had enough, pushed his face into the clerk’s “He says what?”

Gerard blinked, stood up straight, trying to increase the distance between himself and Baptiste without retreating, “He listened to me, thought that arresting Mad Morgan might get him some help.”

“Oh, so now we can heal the Broken?” Baptiste snarled.

“Well, no.”

“That’s right. No, he can’t. Even he can’t, though that clearly isn’t enough to stop him meddling in police business.”

“Look, I didn’t mean anything by it, just wan-“

Baptiste thumped the counter with his fist, “If you’re so bent on saving Morgan, perhaps you should stop serving him and all the other drunks come through here looking to get liquored up!” he said, motioning at the ranks of bottles behind the counter as he turned to leave.

“So you aren’t going to take my report just because I mention your brother?” Gerard asked, his tone clear evidence of his inability to sense ground he shouldn’t tread.
Caron stepped forward into the space Baptiste had vacated.

Baptiste bit down on the desire to shoot his mouth off as Caron replied in his stead, “No sir, I will not take your report because you are not reporting a crime. What you have reported is not a crime, it is a civil dispute, with one party absent. We will now leave. Good day.”

“Who the fu-“

Baptiste whirled on the clerk, pointing a finger at him, “Don’t you fucking say it, G. She’s right, she said it more civilly than you deserve, and we are out of here.”

Baptiste turned and led the way out of the store.

Outside, he slowed to let Caron walk beside him to the squad car, “Well, done Caron. I blew my stack a bit and you covered nicely for me. I appreciate it. More to the point, it’s what partners do for one another.”

Caron hitched a thumb back in the direction of the store, “You aren’t worried he’ll complain?”

“Gerard can complain all he likes. I was civil ‘till he brought up my brother, and I didn’t get out of hand even when I did bark at him. Besides, my brother shouldn’t have been involved at all, and knows it.”

She popped the doors on the squad, “Can I ask who your brother is?”

‘A sanctimonious sack of shit,’ Baptiste thought but did not say. She might be religious, and he wasn’t about to open that can of worms, not while he was training the young woman.

He sat in the passenger seat, looking at her before answering aloud, “He’s a priest in the Church. Some call him The Penitent.”

She blinked, opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, “He’s your brother? I knew you came from old stock, and have a lot of family in the Department, but he’s not the kind of guy I would think was related to- well, anyone.”

Baptiste grunted as a placeholder while he moderated the first comment that came to mind, “He hasn’t been at the family table in years, but yes, he is my older brother.”

She looked away. Her adam’s apple bobbed as she swallowed something hard.

“What?” he asked.

“My brother… He’s not someone the family lays claim to easily either.”

“Oh?” Baptiste asked.

“Yes, he was sent up the well some time ago. Financial crimes.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard some trite shit like this before, but having been there, I can really say you can only choose your friends, not your family.”

She shrugged, started the car and put it in gear.

The rest of the day passed pretty quietly. Baptiste didn’t mind, and Caron’s daily progress report would reflect how well she’d handled him going off on the store owner.

More Bridge of The Broken

Wrote this today. There is a preceding section that is all pursuit. I am taking on officer involved shootings with this, or I plan to.

Hope you enjoy:


“Fuck it. Go. I’ll be-” Baptiste started. Caron didn’t hear the rest, already out the car and running for the ramp.

The officer from the Eastern Station unit was putting on distance, sprinting. She was alright with that. Some were built for speed, some were built to run all day.

She grinned, breath coming in easy drafts, ’And this is for real, girl.’

“Going to force a dismount,” Trudeau broadcast as the officers negotiated packed vehicles at the corner.

A car door opened right in front of the other officer, some lookie-loo thinking to see what the hold up was. The officer hit the man in the back, crushing him into his own door, the rebound sending both to the pavement, hard.

Caron turned between cars, put one foot down on a bumper and vaulted the narrow space. Her hip bumped the barricade as she turned back on course, helping to restore her balance.

She couldn’t see the rider ahead, could see the light bar on the sergeant’s unit about twenty-five meters ahead. She put on more speed.

The distinct whip-crack of a stick discharging reached her ears. A second later and the sound was followed by the shriek of metal on pavement.

“Got him off the bike, but he’s still running,” Sergeant Trudeau’s voice, sounding a bit odd.
Caron was sprinting at her best speed. Uphill, armored and carrying all her gear, it was nothing like the speeds she posted for her daily runs.

The bike was down, smoking. Trudeau was limping to her unit. Beyond, the man was running along the barricade bordering the elevated freeway, glancing over his shoulder at the continuing traffic and his pursuer. Caron continued to run, quickly closing the distance on the sergeant.

Trudeau, uniform torn and bleeding at the knee, waved her on, “Fucker caught me with the bike. Keep him in sight, I’ll bring the car up.”

Hacking at Pierpont’s lead one step at a time, Caron managed to close the distance considerably in the next few seconds. At about twenty-five meters, the suspect ran into the roadway proper.
A motorist slammed on his brakes, sliding to a stop. Other cars did the same, with varying degrees of success. There were several crunches and at least one explosive hiss as liquid hit something very hot.

Caron continued to close on the suspect, who was approaching the motorist that had just prevented his vehicle from making a hood ornament of him. The suspect’s hand went into his jacket.

Hardly slowing, Caron broke leather, weapon coming free in her hand.

‘Don’t run with a gun,’ the words of her instructors ran through her mind. She held the pistol down and to the side, trying to comply with that sensible order and still get close enough to safely engage the target.

Pierpont reached in the open driver’s side window, pulling at the man behind the wheel. His other hand held a metal object.

Not sure it was a gun, Caron stopped as fast as she could and raised her service weapon, “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”

Pierpont turned his head, face a mask of rage and fear. He'd skinned his head in the wreck of his bike.

The motorist used the distraction to pull from the man’s grip and scramble for the far door.

“Drop it,” she said, lining up her sights between brown eyes.

He looked down at the gun in his left hand, back at her.

“Drop it!” she yelled.

She saw it coming; watched his eyes go hard with resolve.

“Don’t!” she screamed, even as he raised the gun in her direction.

She pulled the trigger.

The gun hand kept rising.

She fired again.

Pierpont’s weapon discharged. Something stung her cheek.

She fired again.

He dropped.

Updatery

Not much to rant about today.

I had a good weekend, watched UFC 126 at a friend's place with a bunch of his other friends, whom I did not know. 'Twas a very pleasant time, even if the fights held almost no surprises in their outcomes.

I wrote 2,ooo words this morning on Bridge of The Broken, a pretty mean feat for my slow typing ass. This is good as, due the stress of waiting and some financial difficulties, I haven't sat down to write with anything like my post-WFC zeal. I finished the first three chapters today and, for a miracle, I know where things are headed.

When tempted to whine and ask for some cheese to go with it, I consider those of my friends facing real hardship of late: Several are looking down the barrel at the break-up of their marriages, and two have their mothers in hospital.

Here's hoping that whatever happens, it isn't too much to survive, hearts intact.

Another Bridge of The Broken Excerpt

This is some of what I have been working on lately. I hope you enjoy. I certainly needed to pick on someone, even if it was a character in my mind:

“Who was that?” Vytas asked Cory, hating the man, his manner, and his disdain for common courtesy.

They’d been negotiating the disposition on another shipment when Cory had taken a call, ‘Just like that, in the middle of talks, while all this shit is up in the air with Prometheus and I shouldn’t even have taken this meeting, the round-headed little chimp decides he can tell me to wait while he talks to some whore?’

“Nobody, just a girl.”

“Which is it?” Vytas asked.

“Huh?”

“Nobody, or a girl?”

Cory smirked, “Both.”

Vytas let that witty comeback drop between them like lead, just stared at Cory, trying to hold on to his temper, ‘I can be reasonably sure Alaric and his people weren’t into the attack on Prometheus. Of course, given what I’ve learned about Alaric’s opinion of Cory, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were willing to let cousin Cory get smoked to make it look good.’

“What?” Cory asked when he could take the silence no longer.

“Why allow this nobody of a girl interrupt important business discussions?” Vytas asked, just to see what kind of response the twit would give while he concentrated on other things, ‘I am pretty confident Alaric’s crew couldn’t have organized a hit down here, in orbit, sure, but some kind of word would have reached someone in Prometheus’ organization otherwise. Then there’s the fact that Alaric called me direct, offering to help.'

“What? No, she- I…”

‘God save me from morons,’ Vytas thought with feeling.

Cory missed the point, of course, decided in his discomfort that blundering into even deeper water was a good idea, “Look, I hear things ain’t all that good in your organization.”

“Really?” Vytas said, “And who would be saying shit about how things are or are not in Prometheus’ organization?”

Cory made a smoothing-out gesture with his hands, leaned away, shrugged, “I don’t know.”

Vytas leaned into the space vacated by the smaller man, “That’s right, you don’t know. You, and whoever else might be talking out of turn ought to keep their mouth shut about shit they know nothing about, lest some of that shit seep in and choke the life from them.”

Cory digested that a moment, shrinking further before swallowing his pride, “You’re right.”

Pressing the point home, Vytas lingered in the smaller man’s space.

Cory grunted, looked down at the schedule on his databoard.

Satisfied, Vytas relented, “Now. We can expect the drop at oh-three hundred, correct?”

“Yes, that’s when the shuttle is scheduled. So long as your man is there, we’ll be in business.”
Vytas nodded.

“I mean, your guy has to be there, not chasing fish or some shit,” Cory persisted, despicable smirk back on his face.

Patience vaporized in the heat of the man’s stupidity, Vytas felt his lip curl and -barely stopped his hands from wrapping around the man’s neck, settling for poking two fingers in the smaller man’s chest, “Motherfucker, if you say one more word about this organization or how it’s run, I’ll beat you till the color runs out your eyes, understand?”

“What? What did I sa-“

“So, you’re too stupid to know what you’re saying, is that it?”

“No-“

“Listen, fucktard, I have had enough of your snippy little comments, your shitty attitude, and your general lack of professionalism. Get your shit straight or I will end you.”

Cory sucked in a breath, face paling, but rallied with “You wouldn’t start a war over some stupid comment, would you?”

Vytas snarled, “You think Alaric would go to war over me kicking your ass? I think you overestimate your value, you knobby, dried up little cunt. I don’t think he even likes his wife that much, let alone her cunt cousin who can’t keep his fucking mouth shut and earn his way.”
Cory’s mouth snapped closed and his face drained completely of color.

‘That’s right, you piece of shit, I know all about who you’re related to and why I’ve been saddled with your bullshit these last couple months,’ Vytas thought as the other man tried to recover. Determined to put the other man’s bullshit to bed for good, he went on, “Now, no more of this shit you think is funny, or just idle commentary, or whatever. We are not equals, and I will fuck you up if you give me the least reason. Got it?”

Cory nodded, swallowed.

“I’ll have you say it.”

“I get it. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Now, get out. My men will be on hand to take the next shipment.”

“Yes, yes. No problem,” the man said, already heading out the door.

Vytas’ phone buzzed in his pocket. No one was supposed to be calling…unless Prometheus’ condition changed.

Dreading the call, Vytas answered, “Speak.”

“Vytas, there’s a problem down at the warehouse,” Gopti, the organization’s front man at the warehouse, said.

“What?” Vytas said, ‘Motherfucker, was I that off about Alaric’s crew?’

“Someone came asking questions.”

“Who?” Vytas asked.

“Nevermind. Meet me at the usual. I’ll be there in a few.”

“The man was strange, said he knew you.”

“See you in a few, Gopti. We’ll talk then.”

“Very well, I will be seeing you.”

“Yes,” Vytas said, hanging up.

About to Be Read: Brayan's Gold...

I have some writing I want to get done, and I'll be sending off Eyes of The Alley today. I have hopes for it, though they are not terribly high. I am trying to build a head of steam up to work on Bridge Of The Broken, but I am generally in a not-quite-funk of late. Not too tired, nor too happy, nor all that rage-filled, just kind of cruising in this mediocrity of the soul that makes me feel like I am missing something, like I have a bit of meat stuck between the teeth, making me want to suck...

In aid of pulling me from my rut, I just received Brayan's Gold by Peter V Brett in the limited, signed edition from Subterranean Press, with artwork by Lauren K. Cannon. I am sure that by reading it, the Dark God of My Jealousy will make an appearance, focus my will, and use his clawed spurs to drive me to greater effort.

I gots book to read...
I will review when done...
If I can drag myself from self-pity long enough...
L'ate.Erh.

More Music That's New To Me

Yesterday I was tooling the internets, looking for entertainment (I had already written a ton for Bridges of The Broken, so relax.) when I went to Eileen Andrews' site. She had there, for my listening pleasure, the Midieaval Baebes. I found their music a wonder and pleasure to listen too, and particularly appropriate as I was reading SM Stirling's The High King of Montival, which I received for Christmas.

Check Medieaval Baebes Out:



And, for fans of Simon & Garfunkle:

Bridge of The Broken Excerpt

Schrader, stuck in stop-and-go traffic, was bored out of her mind. Gone were the days of flitting from scene to scene in an AFV, her people ready to do violence on her behalf. Now she had to drive herself, and since the government had yet to fully define her position, she had relatively few police powers, including the fact her car had no siren she could use to bull her way through dense afternoon traffic.

Her passenger was not all that great a conversationalist, despite being a relatively good guy. She supposed that, like her, he was working outside his training, and therefore his comfort zone.

The boredom was shattered by the explosion. Debris shot skyward less than ten car lengths ahead, closely followed by the teeth-rattling sound of the detonation.

She slewed the car sideways, dropped it into park and had her handgun out before her passenger could even ask, “What the hell?”

Larissa didn’t answer the doctor, just forced his head down and scanned for threats.

A smoke trail drew a faint line from the second story of a building ahead into the line of cars she’d just occupied. The silence which followed the detonation was eerie.

The usual screaming cut through the silence as people slowly began to react to the incident. Smoke began to billow, drifting back across the vehicles stopped by the sudden violence unfolding before them. The smell of burning plastics and hot metal drifting in through her open windows made her nose twitch, put her in the zone like nothing else.

Moments slid by without a second strike, which meant either the ambushers were out of missiles, had destroyed their target, or were displacing for another shot.

It went against all her trained instinct to stay put while an ambush went on, but the more time went by, the more certain she was that she wasn’t the target, ‘And you’re certainly not geared up for combat,’ she thought, trying to reinforce the sensible notion she shelter in place.

A coilgun went off. From her front. She couldn’t see the shooter.

Another shot, this one sounding like a handgun.

A man appeared out of the smoke ahead, firing a carbine into the line of parked cars as fast as he could pull the trigger. More screams. People were starting to flee their vehicles, fleeing the sudden war zone that had erupted in their midst.

Schrader ignored them, kept her eyes on the gunman, who stopped shooting, gestured in the direction of the parked cars, then turning his hand to point in Schrader’s direction.

Another gunman darted into view between the first one and Schrader’s car, the launch tube on his back explaining the lack of additional missile fire. He read his comrade’s hand signal, began sprinting her direction.

‘Shit,’ Schrader thought, ‘Their target is moving this way.’

“Stay down, Doc,” she said.

“Where the hell you going?” Doctor Z asked, raising his head.

“Nowhere, just don’t want you getting plugged ‘cause someone mistook you for a threat,” Schrader whispered, pushing him down again.

Only two cars in front of hers the gunman slowed and turned into the line of parked cars, weapon at the ready. The first gunman reared into view in the background, mounting the hood of a car.

The nearer gunman fired once as he reached the far side of the line, his shot drawing a flurry of return fire. One round got lucky, spreading a thick red mist for near a meter from the back of his head. Brain dead, the man collapsed like string-cut puppet.

Schrader blinked, saw the gunman atop of the car aim, fire. She heard a pair of shots that must not have come close, as the gunman didn’t even flinch. In fact he reloaded and sauntered closer, still using the cars for his path.

It was the casual, careless nature of his walk more than anything else that engaged Schrader’s rage, ‘Ambushing- No, murdering people in the street like it’s nothing? Fuck that!’

Fighting the loss of control the anger tried to drive, she dragged her attention from the man to look for any further accomplices. Seeing none, Schrader pulled her upper body atop her passenger to poke the barrel of her sidearm out the window. She settled her sights on the man’s head as he stopped moving.

She drew a breath, the smell of Zoltan’s cologne registering even as she released the air through her nose.
Empty, she squeezed the trigger.

Her sidearm discharging just centimeters outside the vehicle jabbed needles of pain in her ears. She ignored it, gave a feral smile as her target dropped lifeless atop of the car he’d been standing on.

Again she checked for further targets. Still none.

“Who’d you kill?” the archeologist asked from beneath her.

She noticed he didn’t try and raise his head to check for himself, “Damned if I know, Zoltan.”
“You mean you actually shot someone? Across my back?” his voice was high. Not panicked, but not happy either.

Sirens began to wail, adding their noise to that of the screaming bystanders.

She chuckled, the archeologist wasn’t a bad guy, just very civilian, “Yes. Thanks for staying still. Stay here. Call the police.”

Schrader checked again for shooters before sitting up. Still seeing no threats, she popped the door and exited the car in a fast crouch, ‘I know the gunmen are dead. Now to check on their target.’

What I've Been About, And Mad Chortles

I only just realized I hadn't posted a thing yesterday and had yet to do anything today. So, here goes:

Isabelle and I went to see Tangled, and both enjoyed it immensely. It was also the first movie using modern 3-D techniques I've seen. Quite remarkable. I don't feel it was a requirement for the film, which quite stood on its own without such gimmicks. Then again, Isabelle stretched out her hands many times to touch things, which was a joy to watch. My heart swells each time Isabelle reaches out that way to take my hand.

The rest of Thanksgiving was quite nice, with friends and family about. The meal was excellent, as usual. I think next year I will get to frying turkeys again. I had a request for one, and wish I could have filled that order.

Today was sit around, nap, put the brain in neutral and enjoy leftovers and my daughter's company. Tonight, more of the same. Tomorrow, dare I hope, even more.

As part of today's fun, I also watched a movie I never expected to watch, let alone enjoy: Bandslam. It stayed with tropes, but the characters were well performed, and the character motivations seemed much more keenly adhered to and different from those of the average teen movie.

The only thing, aside from this post, that I've done that was close to writing was downloading the new version of Scrivener and attending #litchat and #scifichat in the twitterverse.

I might write some tonight, but ideas for Bridge of The Broken and Eyes of The Alley are currently percolating in the back of my mind. While they are edging toward the front, they don't yet feel quite ready to flee out through the fingertips.

Part of what drives this desire to let things percolate is, having written a solid section for Bridge of the Broken, I found that while I intend to keep it, its proper place is not in the book. I will instead use it as my guide to 'what really happened'.

I will enjoy reading, polishing,tweaking, even chortling madly over it. Those of you I've run roleplaying games for will surely know what my mad chortle means, and fear for the characters...

Speaking of which, tomorrow night The Greedy Little Bastards will be getting together at my place again. I plan to bring the pain. Indeed, I actually have a plan this time. Yes, there was a mad chortle there... You just might not have heard it.