This was meant for Kraxon, but never made it. I then parked it as a potential 2000 post, but that isn't happening anytime soon, so have a look. I tried to make it standalone, although it was another of in my 'stepping stone' storyline - snapshots from different characters, varying perspectives, rather than a cohesive narrative.
I’m told that you shouldn’t begin a tale by describing the weather – in this case heavy rain. But as I’ve actually been there, I’ve been a thunderstorm, I’m calling it as my own.
So, OK, I’m sitting outside The Inverted Spin, rain drumming on the corrugated iron sheets that roof the veranda, just minding my own. It’s a fly-boy bar close to Henderson Field attracting the usual crowd of fighter jocks, test pilots, corporate lay-over. Man, some days you can almost taste the machismo. Not really my scene but I miss the background burble of tech, the bravado, the sky made flesh.
Anyway, Johnny-the-One sidles over, this thinstick dude in tow; all overcoat and rain-slicked hair. Johnny, he’s wearing a smile, but like someone asked him to look after it while they stepped out for a moment.
“Kelly, this here is the guy I said been asking after you. Name of Mason. I’ll let you get acquainted. Drinks on the house.”
On the house? Jeez, Mason must have laid out some serious sh*t finder’s fee for Johnny to open the bar. I rub a thumb along my lower lip. “Schooner of Bud and a shot of Jack. He’ll have the same.” Give Mason a smile, sincerity dialled down to zero. “My time, my rules. Sit.”
My sort-of-suitor takes the chair across the table and we wait in silence while Johnny beats a retreat and the drinks appear. From the get-go I can tell Mason is wound too tight for a place as boisterous as The Spin. Hell, he’d probably be a hazard to navigation at a church social. One of those thin, quiet guys, given to sudden jerky movements. Muddy brown eyes, like the corneas had leaked, but a stare that was all bad news down the line.
He tries a blink-and-you-miss-it smile. “Miss Kelly, or may I call you-?”
“Kelly. Just Kelly.” I depth-charge the Jack, down the beer, come up with the shot glass between my teeth, place both empties to the side. Mason gives me his best 1000-yard, but I’ve looked into the real black behind the eyes, so he don’t faze me none. Rotate my neck, get the kinks out, arch one eyebrow. “Wise man once said never trust someone who won’t take a drink with you.”
Mason places both hands, palms down, either side of his glasses. “You were a Poynter and we have need of your abilities. In return we offer ten million domestic, or its equivalent in any currency, paid into an orbital data haven of your choice.”
Man, take it from me, it’s real hard to hold a smile while your skin crawls. My left hand drifts under the table, real casual, towards the .38 snub in the thigh pocket of my cargo pants. “Say, what, man? Look, I don’t know-”.
“You were subject to complete physical dispersal, generating barometric dissonance while in psycho-kinetic congress with the proto-atmosphere. The lightning strikes you generated resulted in the deaths of an estimated-”
“Enough!” There it was, laid out straight, as real and ugly as it gets. “Yeah, you got me. They put me in the sky and I created storms. History, see under ‘Weather War’. I’m a relic, nothing else.”
“We prefer the term ‘remnant’, Miss Kelly. The inert nano you carry, your command interface, it can be reanimated.”
“No way!” I shrug, go for reasonable with a side order of resigned. “Look, dude, I’m the only one, the only one, to come out of Skybind intact. I pulled my three missions, kicked it in the head, honourable discharge. Everyone else ended up as semi-sentient meat. So, consider my luck, pushed.” I sniff. “Anyway, can’t be done. Private sector, I mean. Weather control is dead, and not just buried, incinerated.”
That gets me another snapshot smile. “Ways and means, Miss Kelly, ways and means. We can draw upon the resources of over a dozen trans-national corporations, a multi-disciplinary combine your former military masters could only dream of.” Mason steeples his fingers, giving off this fervour vibe like the heat from sunburnt flesh. “There is a person in The Preserve that we cannot reach. A person acting against the interests of our sacred mission.” He leans forward. “Humanity, safe in our hands.”
Man, I know a mantra when I hear one and that tightens my finger on the trigger. Awkward aim along my thigh, but I figure his balls are history if I have to pull a Solo. “So, you want to put me back in the air, zap some guy you can’t kill any other way, and take it on trust I’ll step out of the recombination chamber to live happily ever after?” I sit back. “Get real.”
“Western society is floundering, Miss Kelly. It will take a generation to recover from the Smarts virus and until then we must embrace A-I guidance, and embrace it completely. Those who speak out against our idorus must be silenced before public confidence is fatally eroded.”
“I’m still not hearing how I walk off into the sunset with a smile on my face.”
Mason magics a data spike between his fingers. “Full operational schematics of the Horst Energie facility in New Mexico where weaponised weather is being recreated. Names, dates, the money trail. You set this up for a time-delay release, keyed to your unique neural signature. This is proscribed technology of the highest order, so if you don’t get that happy ending, everyone from the Pope on down will happily see the entire site reduced to a smoking crater.”
Need makes me shiver. Not the money, no, but the chance to be – can’t recall who said it - one of Gaia’s handmaidens again. I get up and stand, looking out at the rain, gun forgotten. The downpour makes me want to shout, laugh, sing, dance. It makes my bones itch, it makes me hunger for the sky.
“So, Miss Kelly, do we have a deal?”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Just call me Jean.”
ACOLYTE
I’m told that you shouldn’t begin a tale by describing the weather – in this case heavy rain. But as I’ve actually been there, I’ve been a thunderstorm, I’m calling it as my own.
#
So, OK, I’m sitting outside The Inverted Spin, rain drumming on the corrugated iron sheets that roof the veranda, just minding my own. It’s a fly-boy bar close to Henderson Field attracting the usual crowd of fighter jocks, test pilots, corporate lay-over. Man, some days you can almost taste the machismo. Not really my scene but I miss the background burble of tech, the bravado, the sky made flesh.
Anyway, Johnny-the-One sidles over, this thinstick dude in tow; all overcoat and rain-slicked hair. Johnny, he’s wearing a smile, but like someone asked him to look after it while they stepped out for a moment.
“Kelly, this here is the guy I said been asking after you. Name of Mason. I’ll let you get acquainted. Drinks on the house.”
On the house? Jeez, Mason must have laid out some serious sh*t finder’s fee for Johnny to open the bar. I rub a thumb along my lower lip. “Schooner of Bud and a shot of Jack. He’ll have the same.” Give Mason a smile, sincerity dialled down to zero. “My time, my rules. Sit.”
My sort-of-suitor takes the chair across the table and we wait in silence while Johnny beats a retreat and the drinks appear. From the get-go I can tell Mason is wound too tight for a place as boisterous as The Spin. Hell, he’d probably be a hazard to navigation at a church social. One of those thin, quiet guys, given to sudden jerky movements. Muddy brown eyes, like the corneas had leaked, but a stare that was all bad news down the line.
He tries a blink-and-you-miss-it smile. “Miss Kelly, or may I call you-?”
“Kelly. Just Kelly.” I depth-charge the Jack, down the beer, come up with the shot glass between my teeth, place both empties to the side. Mason gives me his best 1000-yard, but I’ve looked into the real black behind the eyes, so he don’t faze me none. Rotate my neck, get the kinks out, arch one eyebrow. “Wise man once said never trust someone who won’t take a drink with you.”
Mason places both hands, palms down, either side of his glasses. “You were a Poynter and we have need of your abilities. In return we offer ten million domestic, or its equivalent in any currency, paid into an orbital data haven of your choice.”
Man, take it from me, it’s real hard to hold a smile while your skin crawls. My left hand drifts under the table, real casual, towards the .38 snub in the thigh pocket of my cargo pants. “Say, what, man? Look, I don’t know-”.
“You were subject to complete physical dispersal, generating barometric dissonance while in psycho-kinetic congress with the proto-atmosphere. The lightning strikes you generated resulted in the deaths of an estimated-”
“Enough!” There it was, laid out straight, as real and ugly as it gets. “Yeah, you got me. They put me in the sky and I created storms. History, see under ‘Weather War’. I’m a relic, nothing else.”
“We prefer the term ‘remnant’, Miss Kelly. The inert nano you carry, your command interface, it can be reanimated.”
“No way!” I shrug, go for reasonable with a side order of resigned. “Look, dude, I’m the only one, the only one, to come out of Skybind intact. I pulled my three missions, kicked it in the head, honourable discharge. Everyone else ended up as semi-sentient meat. So, consider my luck, pushed.” I sniff. “Anyway, can’t be done. Private sector, I mean. Weather control is dead, and not just buried, incinerated.”
That gets me another snapshot smile. “Ways and means, Miss Kelly, ways and means. We can draw upon the resources of over a dozen trans-national corporations, a multi-disciplinary combine your former military masters could only dream of.” Mason steeples his fingers, giving off this fervour vibe like the heat from sunburnt flesh. “There is a person in The Preserve that we cannot reach. A person acting against the interests of our sacred mission.” He leans forward. “Humanity, safe in our hands.”
Man, I know a mantra when I hear one and that tightens my finger on the trigger. Awkward aim along my thigh, but I figure his balls are history if I have to pull a Solo. “So, you want to put me back in the air, zap some guy you can’t kill any other way, and take it on trust I’ll step out of the recombination chamber to live happily ever after?” I sit back. “Get real.”
“Western society is floundering, Miss Kelly. It will take a generation to recover from the Smarts virus and until then we must embrace A-I guidance, and embrace it completely. Those who speak out against our idorus must be silenced before public confidence is fatally eroded.”
“I’m still not hearing how I walk off into the sunset with a smile on my face.”
Mason magics a data spike between his fingers. “Full operational schematics of the Horst Energie facility in New Mexico where weaponised weather is being recreated. Names, dates, the money trail. You set this up for a time-delay release, keyed to your unique neural signature. This is proscribed technology of the highest order, so if you don’t get that happy ending, everyone from the Pope on down will happily see the entire site reduced to a smoking crater.”
Need makes me shiver. Not the money, no, but the chance to be – can’t recall who said it - one of Gaia’s handmaidens again. I get up and stand, looking out at the rain, gun forgotten. The downpour makes me want to shout, laugh, sing, dance. It makes my bones itch, it makes me hunger for the sky.
“So, Miss Kelly, do we have a deal?”
I look at him over my shoulder. “Just call me Jean.”
