Chapter 1

They explored the temple site, the hot stones preventing them from lingering at each shrine for more than a minute, and then only by hopping constantly from foot to foot, until overwhelmed by the forces of nature and man, one ferocious, the other sublime, their animated spirits could barely prop up their exhausted limbs.

They came out onto the village road and hurried into the shade of a roadside workshop, where a stone carver crouched on the ground putting the finishing touches to a fist-sized, blue-gray soapstone Ganesh. Around him stood the fruits of his previous labors, gods and goddesses of every shape and size, some scarcely bigger than a thumbnail, others huge enough to stand alone upon a temple floor or grace the household shrine of a wealthy family.

“Stone-cutting is a specialty of this region,” Ashok said.

Hannah picked up the newly completed Ganesh. Her eyes traveled over the reclining figure’s curved lines and the curling trunk of the elephant head. “He’s perfect. He should be the god of happiness.” She ran her finger over the smooth surface of the stone.

“He who is attired in a white garment…” Ashok took the figure gently from Hannah and smiled at her with his eyes. “…and has the complexion of the moon; on him we meditate for the removal of obstacles.”

Hannah’s eyes smiled back at him, awe-inspiring and yet awed, radiating desire and allure in equal measure.

“It is part of a prayer to Lord Ganesha,” Ashok said. He broke free from her gaze. He hated himself for what he had to do.

Chapter 1

The purchase of the new running shoes was anti-climactic after lunch with Alex. He had a boyish quality about him that Nara found appealing, yet she couldn’t help feeling a little guilty when she thought of Davis. She had eagerly accepted Alex’s invitation to dinner on Friday night, but Friday night seemed such a long way from Tuesday afternoon.

The clouds were moving in quickly as she pulled into the car park. She slipped into the Gate House, purchase in hand. The house was silent. Her father was probably upstairs napping at this time of day. Aunt Sue’s car was gone, so she was probably out somewhere. There was plenty of time for a run before tea, as long as the rain held off. She would slip quietly up to her room and change into her running clothes, and then slip out again.

Nara stifled a cry and dropped her package when she saw the strange man standing in the dining room studying the old photographs of the Gate House on the wall. She hadn’t noticed a strange car outside, so she didn’t think any guests were in the house.

The man turned, and with a shock Nara realized it was the man who had almost hit the car she and Micki had been riding in the day before, the man she had seen arguing outside the restaurant. Three times and it’s not a coincidence, her father always said.

As the man turned, Nara could sense an underlying hostility towards her, although she had no idea why. “Good afternoon. I’m Dennis Maxwell.” He extended his hand with the utmost courtesy. Nara automatically extended hers, as the blood drained from her face. She felt suddenly cold.

“I’m sorry I startled you. Here. Sit down.” He took her arm and led her to a nearby sofa. Then he retrieved her package and set it on the table in front of her. “An athlete, I see,” he said, looking at the label on the bag.

“Not exactly, I just bought some shoes,” Nara answered weakly. Dennis sat down next to her, just close enough to avoid touching her. Nara sensed that he wanted something from her, and was instantly on her guard.

“My wife and I are staying here tonight. She just went into town for a little shopping. You know how women are, always love the shopping.” He glanced again at her bag.

Nara breathed deeply and felt her energy and sense of self returning. She had just been startled, but his stereotype that women were all shopaholics grated on her nerves. He didn’t even know her. She knew more about him than he did about her, and that gave her a distinct advantage. She sat up straight and moved away from him a few inches. “You startled me, that’s all. We are accustomed to having guests here, but I didn’t see any cars outside and had my mind on other things when I came in.”

She picked up her shoes from the table and stood up. “Is there anything I can get you? Tea? A soft drink?” Nara forced herself into hostess mode.

“No thank you. I’m fine.” Dennis smiled, looking around the room. “I’m fascinated by this house. Has your family lived in it a long time?”

“No. My aunt bought it just last year. My father and I moved here just two months ago.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother died when I was three years old,” she answered.

Dennis seemed to show suitable sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He turned to the old photographs that he had been studying when Nara came in. “Do you know when these photos were...

Chapter 1
Two years ago I saw the Blessed Virgin Mary—or as Paul used to call her, the B.V.M. That year was my grandparent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. Christ, a lot happened that year! Oh, by the way, my name is Kerry Quinn and I live in Derry in Northern Ireland. My da actually wanted to call me Derry, but thank God my ma had more sense. I’m not too fussy about Kerry, mind you but Derry—Jesus!

Anyway, this year I’ve decided to write down what I remember about what happened that year. I’m doing this course in creative writing, you see, and my tutor has asked everyone in the class to write about an incident we remember in our past, an incident that changed our lives. Well here it is, the incident—or as much of it as I can remember. There are parts of my story where I have had to use my imagination and add to it, for there were times I only heard about what happened from my ma and da.

Anyway, a week before my granny and granda’s big night I called to see them. They are called May and Joe Mc Partland and they live at the bottom of Bishop Street. I lived on the Lecky Road in the Bog-side then and most days on the way home from school I would call in to see them. It was always nice and quiet there and I could get peace to do my homework. I have two younger sisters and it was almost impossible to do my homework when they were in the house.

Back then my granda was a wee wiry man with thick grey hair. He was always smoking a pipe and I had rarely seen him without it in his mouth. He was sitting on the sofa staring into the fire puffing away. My granny (who was at least four times his weight) was sitting beside him. Her hair was darker than my granda’s and she had pale yellowy skin.

“It just seems like yesterday, and here we are Joe, nearly fifty years married. God, fifty years—that’s a long time isn’t it? Yet it’s gone so quick.” She sighed then smiled. “Just think, Joe, they’ll all be here next week, all the wains. Wains, ha, ha, ha. That’s a good one. Our Kathleen’s some wain eh. She’s what? Forty-nine. Imagine Joe, we have a daughter who is nearly fifty years old.”

She nudged granda. “Remember the day she brought her Frank home from the Yankee Base to ask fer her hand? God Joe, he looked like a film-star in his American navy uniform.” She sighed again. “Aye, it only seems like yesterday.”

She looked up at the mantelpiece. Several photographs, some in silver frames were neatly lined across it. “It’ll be nice to see our Tom again. He says his Bishop won’t need him fer a whole week.” She frowned as she turned to granda. “How long is it now since we went over to England to see him, two years, last summer?” Shaking her head slowly and grunting she rose and ran her forefinger along the edge of the mantelpiece. “I’d better start gettin’ the house cleaned up. The curtains should be back from the cleaners on Monday.”

She frowned as she studied my granda. He took a long drag on his pipe then puffed softly. The sweet smelling smoke curled down into the fire and was suddenly whisked up the chimney.

“Joe, are ye listenin’ to me?”

Startled, my granda coughed then tugged the pipe from his mouth and looked up at her. “Aye May, aye of course I am,” he said hoarsely then coughed again.

My...

novel

“You know,” Roman said, his voice a hoarse rasp, “I could kill you now and no one would either notice or care.”

“Not necessarily.” John made a small slicing gesture. A bullet chunked into the oil soaked concrete feet from where Roman and his bodyguard stood. Roman didn’t flinch, but the bodyguard, a gun already in his hand, dropped to a crouch, searching for the shooter. The man was fast, but not fast enough. “Sure you could kill me, but you’d never make it out of here alive.”

A smile stretched Roman’s face for a brief instant. “Impressive. You learned something in prison after all. But you underestimate me yet again, my friend. First of all, what makes you think I care if I don’t make it out alive?” He gestured to his legs. “In my condition, death would be a blessing, especially if I have a chance to kill you first.”

This wasn’t going quite the way John expected. He tried to stay calm. Like a dog, Roman could smell fear. He tried a bluff. “But you won’t. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to hear what I had to say. Did you do as I suggested?”

Roman stared at him for a moment then gestured. The Asian straightened, strode to the car and extracted a leather case. A lap top.

“Put it on the table.”

The Asian looked to Roman who nodded. “Do as the man says.” While the lap top powered up, Roman looked John over. “So, what should I call you now? Chrome intimated you’d changed your name, though he failed to give me the new one. Allegiance to one’s friends is to be admired. However, if I find you’ve lied to me, I just might have to do something about misplaced loyalty.”

John shivered at the very real threat. Roman had never been good at subtlety. Perhaps he should warn Chrome to watch his back. He just hoped things went well, for both their sakes. “The name’s Wheeler, John Wheeler.”

Roman nodded. “Ah yes, Wheeler. Taken, of course, from your old gang name. Quite fitting. I see Mr. Chow has the computer ready. Shall we sit?”

John smiled inwardly. Roman liked to take charge of things. If it made him feel comfortable and in control; John had no objections.

Mr. Chow helped Roman sit in front of the computer. John slid the chip into the slot, called up the photos and pulled over the other chair and sat to Roman’s left. Mr. Chow leaned over Roman’s right shoulder. “These pictures were taken in 1963 in Dallas Texas. I’m sure you’ll recognize the subject.”

A long moment of silence as Roman scrolled through the pictures, then a loud gasp of surprise from both men. Roman turned to John, a slightly wild look on his face. “How do I know they aren’t fakes? That picture of the killer? No one ever suspected him. If those are real, the implications could be… staggering.”

“Please. Check them out for yourself.” He vacated his chair and offered it to the Asian. “That’s why I suggested you install some sort of digital image validation software.”

Roman nodded at Mr. Chow who sat in the empty chair and pulled the laptop in front of him. After several minutes of intense work, Mr. Chow turned and nodded back at Roman.

Roman’s smile looked almost sincere. “I’m impressed. Where did you get them?”

John smiled, completely at ease now that his own fears had been erased. He’d known they were real, but it was nice to be...

Chapter 1
At the town’s edge, a weather beaten old sign proclaimed “WELCOME TO DRY CREEK, NEW MEXICO”. As he read the sign, Jack noticed a commotion some ways down the street.

I don’t know what that is, Bess,” he said, “but it ain’t any of our business.” The closer they got to the ruckus, the more concerned Silverjack became. He did not like what he was hearing.

A young gunny held a .44 pistol in his right hand, with which he was taunting an ancient looking Mexican man. Although Silverjack knew Spanish, it didn’t take knowledge of that language to know the Mexican was pleading for his life. Tears had turned the old man’s face into a mask of salty mud. Blood trickled from an ugly gash on top of his head.

“This youngster must be thought of as a bad man in these parts,” Jack said to the mare. “I didn’t want to find trouble today, but I hate bullies more than just about anything.”

He moved Bess through the crowd until her shoulder was almost touching the gunman. A bizarre change began to take place on the left side of Silverjack’s face. On skin permanently darkened by the sun, an ugly gray scar, a souvenir of a long ago knife fight, ran from his temple to his jaw line. When Jack became angry, the scar turned deep crimson. Now, the old wound seemed to have a life of its own.

“What seems to be the problem here?” asked Silverjack.

The young bully’s head jerked up. Contempt masked his features as he eyed the stranger.

“Shucks, friend,” said the young man, spitting out the words. “There ain’t no problem here. I got everything under control. It’s just that I don’t like greasers, and today is my twenty-first birthday. So, for a birthday present to myself, I’m goin’ to put Pancho here out of his misery. After that, me and my friends are headin’ for the saloon to have a drink. We’re goin’ to drink to one less Mex to get underfoot, and one more year in the life of me, Bob Ray Woolens.”

“Turn the man loose,” said Silverjack.

Bob Ray eyed the big rough looking drifter dressed in old faded buckskins. The man wore a shapeless brown hat and silver-toed boots. A narrow scar traversed the man’s face and long silver hair hung down his back, Indian style.

The young tough looked up at Silverjack and smiled. “Whoa, now, old-timer, like I was sayin’, there ain’t no problem here, so far.” The smile faded from Bob Ray’s face. He stepped up next to Silverjack. “Saddle tramp, I think you’d better ride on out while you still can and forget everything you’ve seen here today. Otherwise, you might be creatin’ a big problem for your ragged old ass.”

Silverjack reacted with a startling swiftness that belied his age and great size. He leaned back in his saddle and swung his Silver-toed boot upwards in an arc, knocking the pistol from Bob Ray’s hand. Jerking his leg back down, Silverjack’s boot heel landed square on top of the young gunman’s head, crushing the fancy black hat. Bob Ray Woolens dropped like he’d been pole axed.

Chapter 10

James stared at that horrible face and punched it as hard as he could.

He certainly punch it hard enough to smash in that rotted jack-o'-lantern, to bash that crooked nose and shove those black, twisted teeth deep into the addict's throat. And indeed, Addict did fall backward and tumbled through the air, actually, before crashing against an idling bulldozer and denting the rusted metal as he hit. But then Addict did something strange. He didn't collapse to the ground or beg for mercy. He didn't run. He stood up and wiped a trail of black blood from under his nose and laughed.

He laughed and he laughed and he laughed.

"I hurt so much," he wheezed as his laughter finally trailed off. "Nothing else you do can hurt me as much as I already hurt."

For the first time as Hero, James felt fear. Addict, he realized, was a different sort of villain.

Chapter 1

Chalice and about four hundred other unicorns neighed and whinnied nervously as ten Weers came into the large chamber in which they were packed. Two huge pillars—each as round and as thick as towers and as tall as a three-story house—stood at the entrance to this chamber. Horrifying gargoyles covered each pillar and five glowing crystals jutted from each of the rough walls, dully lighting the chamber.

The roof was about twenty-five feet high and crawled with huge black insects that looked like scorpions. The main roof of the underground cavern where the Weers lived was so dark and so high, it was impossible to see what supported the earth and tall oak trees that grew above it on the surface. The cavern was the size of a football stadium, and in the very middle of the flat, smooth floor was a hole so big a house could easily have fit into it. From this hole belched flames, and the smell of sulphur filled the whole cavern.

Chalice snickered fearfully when he saw the Weers lash out at some unicorns near the edge of the herd. It only took seconds for them to cut about twenty of them out from the rest of the herd, driving them towards the entrance to the chamber. The unfortunate unicorn’s cries had the others trembling with fear, yet they pressed towards the ferocious Weers to try and save them. But now four of the Weer beasts sprang at them and cracked their whips to keep the neighing, kicking herd back while the six other Weers drove the twenty unicorns out of the chamber. Seconds later, all the Weers had gone.

Chalice neighed and stamped his feet, for he could feel his magic pumping through him. A tear of frustration tumbled down his beautiful boned face. There is no escape from this terrible place, he thought as some of the female unicorns near him began to cry.

Chalice was standing near the edge of the herd beside a family of five unicorns. He listened as he heard the youngest unicorn ask her father, “Where did they take those unicorns, Father?”

Her father neighed and glanced at his mate. “How would I know,” he snickered angrily.

Suddenly, the sound of loud crying echoed around the chamber. The unicorns nearest to the pillars began to push back to try and get away from the twenty unicorns who had been taken away earlier. They were a sorry sight. Chalice rose on his hind legs to see what the commotion was. His eyes widened with horror as he caught a glimpse of the nearest of the group. Tears were running down its face and its head was almost bent to theground. Now other unicorns began to cry when they saw what the horrified Chalice had seen. The horns of the twenty unicorns had been broken off. Their magic was gone. Soon the whole herd of unicorns was crying.

In its lair, Rashark heard them and began to roar with laughter. The monster reached for one of the pile of twenty unicorn horns that lay on a filthy cushion. Holding one up to its mouth, Rashark sucked hard on it.

Rashark was truly a monster. It had the head of a wolf with great glistening yellow fangs that dripped with black saliva. Its hands had nails on them as long as canoe paddles. Rashark wore a long black cloak with holes in it to allow room for its hairy muscled arms. The monster’s feet were bare and hairy, with toe nails as long as cricket bats.

Chapter 1
Senior Constable Alan Foster noticed the sky change color. It went that particular sickly yellow you don’t see very often—and he’d rather not see now. The wind suddenly gusted strongly from the north, picking up wrappers from the bins outside the shops in the main road and stacking them against fence posts, tree trunks, and chain link fences.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Not again.”

“What’s the matter, sir?” Lee joined him at the window.

“See that? That color in the sky? Bushfire. Perfect day for it, too. Let’s go out the front and get a better view of what’s going on.”

From the front door, they looked across Pelican East Road, past the little weatherboard church, to the steep, heavily forested hills beyond. A huge column of smoke billowed gray in the far distance, screening the sun and turning it into a softly glowing red disc. The wind slapped hot in their faces.

“North westerly,” he said. “Just what we didn’t need.”

“Will it come this way? The fire?”

“Depends on the wind. If it stays in this direction, with the air so hot and dry, then I’d say there’s a good chance. Ever been in a bushfire?”

She shook her head. The siren started wailing at the fire station up on the corner of School Road.

“Always turns my stomach, that sound,” Foster said. “Nothing good ever comes out of it. Fires, road accidents. Always something horrible.”

A fire truck and a tanker moved out of the fire station, laden with men still pulling on their yellow boiler suits and helmets. They watched as the trucks headed north, away from the police station.

“What do you think, boss? What should we be doing?”

“I’ll ring HQ to find out what the big picture is. Our job is to sit tight until we get word that it’s coming this way. Then it will be ‘all systems go.’ We’ll need to evacuate the kinder, the schools, the nursing home, set up road blocks—"

“What? Just us?”

Chapter 1

Alex’s voice rose. “Who killed him?”

“Fawlks took risks above and beyond—”

“Billy always took risks, both with the ladies and with his job. When he wasn’t on the job, he was at his job. Everyone knows that. He had a knack for escaping perilous liaisons with his skin intact . . . in both areas of his expertise. Billy didn’t make mistakes. So it’s bloody obvious, even for a supercilious prat like you, that he was betrayed, fingered, you choose the word.”

Grady spun around and leaned forward, fists on the desk, his face twisted with contempt. “And you’re the damned expert are you?”

On any other day Alex would have enjoyed the melodramatic tennis match, but today, Billy was dead. “I was.”

Grady skirted the desk, perched his skinny arse against it and folded his arms. “Was is the correct word. Past tense, old boy. Was makes perfect sense for a man like you. You walked out; we didn’t abandon you.”

“You left me no choice.” Alex shot up and tapped a finger against Grady’s ribs. “Your lot left me holding my balls in Kosovo. My cell was compromised, my contacts dead. Those Serbian monkeys were about to squeeze me into sausage skins.”

Any trace of pink vanished from Grady’s face to leave it sheet white. “It was unfortunate. We did what we could.”

“I was betrayed, but thanks to Billy I escaped.”

“We do things differently now.” The thump of Grady’s heart passed through Alex’s stiff finger. The weasel moved gingerly sideward, regained his chair and cleared his throat. “I suggest you leave before I have you thrown out.” “Give me a name and I’ll sort this my way. Let me talk to Fordingham, my old handler.”

Grady laughed, but it rattled with nervous undertones. “Fordingham’s retired. Go back to the safety of your eatery. Times are a-changing. Like I said, we do things differently now.”

Alex sat and twirled his thumbs. Because of the angle of his foot, the muscle in his left leg shook involuntarily beneath the khaki ginos while his black brogues tapped a silent rhythm. The pain in his shoulder worsened. “But people die the same way they always did . . . badly.”

“Grow up, man. Fawlks made himself expendable. The fool was into something way over his head, and . . .”

In the blink of an eye Alex was around the desk, his hand grasping Grady’s scrawny neck. He shoved him and the chair hard against the radiator. “You can’t breathe can you? Finger and thumb at forty-five degrees to the larynx. A twist, a crack and poof . . . you’re dead. Your lot trained me well. Ironic isn’t it?” He pressed harder. “No more private men’s club or Soho lap dancers for you . . . or are you into little boys?”

Grady couldn’t move a muscle. He couldn’t breathe. His face turned scarlet and his eyes rolled up. Alex had his complete attention, and like the old days, it felt good . . . bloody good. “A name, and get it right. I’m gonna release you and I want a name. Do you understand?” Grady managed a barely discernible nod.

Alex released his grip.

“Emile Cassel was the last man to see him.”

“Good old Emile. Still the...

Chapter 11

As Calley was reviewing one of her new cool down techniques with Jenna, revised from the video Breathin Thru the 80’s, she was surprised to see a crestfallen Anessa walking through the door.

"Hey girl. You’re in my class early for once. Gotta date later?" Calley asked with a wink.

"Who would want to date me?" Anessa replied, her voice breaking. There had been many long letters and a new bottle of perfume, and still no attempt on Donovan’s part to cement the relationship with Anessa.

Calley took her arm and guided her to the broom closet. Jenna got up and followed, uncertain of her role in that next Anessa trauma.

"Tell Miss Calley what’s goin’ on," Calley said soothingly. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Jenna had walked through the door and she motioned for her to join them.

Anessa relived her problem with Donovan and asked Calley where to go next.

"Y’all need to remember to breathe deep, like we do in class, and look him in the eye." Calley explained something she had heard from a video. (Strengthen Your Relationship and Your Abs, 1984). "He’s been readin’ your notes; that’s somethin’," she said encouragingly.

"Calley, I’m not even for certain he has eyes. Maybe the birds pecked ‘em out. He won’t look down long enough for me to see." Anessa’s eyes shifted back and forth and she looked at the floor uneasily.

"Maybe I don’t know how to… how to talk to boys. Maybe Greg didn’t know what he was talkin’ about when he told me…"

Calley noticed Jenna was shifting from one foot to the other. She was about to erupt, something that had been happening with more frequency these past weeks and as a surrogate mother figure, Calley was beginning to feel some concern.

"Oh for goodness sake! Really! We have to get him out of the tree and out of Pepperville and you aren’t helping! That idiot thinks he’s a bird, or a twig, or whatever and the more attention you pay him, the longer he’ll stay," Jenna snapped. The dark circles under her eyes were obvious under Calley’s fluorescent lights.

"Now, honey, let’s don’t…" Calley began.

"Why doesn’t anyone else see how offensive it is to have a stranger living here? Like that!" Jenna turned to Anessa. "And you—why don’t you hunt someone else? Preferably at ground level!" She turned and stormed out of the studio, pausing only long enough to restack her mat.

Anessa’s jaw was open, but she was uncharacteristically silent. Calley was experienced in dealing with crises of that magnitude. There was always at least one lady in class with man troubles.

"I don’t know what’s got into her. She’s needin’ some serious yoga, is what I think," said Calley, shaking her head. "You can just go ahead and like whoever you want, girl. They can live in a tree, on top of a car, or wherever!" She patted Anessa on the back.

"He does like me. He reads my notes and one of the other checkers told me that when I’m on break, he climbs down to a lower branch, like he’s wonderin’ where I went. He does," Anessa sniffed. "Just because he won’t look at me doesn’t mean he doesn’t…"

"You don’t even need to worry about lookin’ at his eyes. I’m sure he knows you’re there. Any hay—keep your options open! There’s more than one fish in the tree, if ya know what I mean," Calley winked at...

Twelve Lords A-Leaping
A ship was sailing towards him. Its pure white sails were made of silk, and its ropes glinted as if spun with silver. At its prow was the figure of an ivory woman, exquisitely beautiful, with two whole sapphires for her eyes.

A noble knight in those times never refused an adventure; filled with wonder, Girflet climbed aboard. There was no one on the deck, which shone as if no foot had ever trod there. Girflet could hear nothing but the gentle lapping of the water and a slight creak of timbers. Going below, he was amazed to find a bed, laid with the most expensive covers, all in various hues of white, cream and ivory, with white lace curtains hanging from the posts. The top coverlet was embroidered all over with delicate cobwebs and snowflakes of the finest silver thread. Girflet was afraid to stay there, lest the blood from his wound should spoil the bed’s perfect whiteness, but, against his will, a great weariness overcame him and he dropped down, laying his head upon the lacy pillow.

When he woke, he found the ship had carried him to a place he had never seen before. Great willow trees bent down to embrace the water on each side, and the prow of the ship cut a path through hundreds of white lilies. By the bank of the river stood a palace, the like of which Girflet had scarcely imagined in his dreams. Its walls were made of the purest, smoothest marble and seemed to shine in the rays of the sun. Many tall turrets pointed to the heavens, and the breeze caught banners embroidered with the same cobweb and snowflake emblems that had covered him while he slept. He rubbed his eyes, but the palace remained.

Chapter 1

The name's Harry Larkington, former able-bodied seaman, HMS Panther. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm sailin' in the waters of the south Atlantic on my yacht Valerie. Sun's almost down, and I'm ready for a nip of rum and some grub.

The world of the 22nd century has been tough to get used to, though it ain't my fault I'm stuck here. Strange how you leave a place you know, time passes and when you return, it's like the world you left never existed.

And look what we came back to: A London that was all silvery and shiny, though Buckingham Palace ain't changed much, 'cept for that glass tower to a Queen Lizzy Two, and there's this monument to Nelson. I think they call it Trafalgar Square. I mean, he was good 'n all, and we all loved the bugger, but a whole bloody square?? Don't make sense to me.

Worse, you leave with one king in charge and you return to find a new queen's in charge and you've never heard of her.

"Queen Sara?" Who's she? Oh, and Her Majesty flies around in this strange contraption. Seems horses and carriages ain't good enough anymore.

But you know, without Captain John Morrow I don't know if we'd ever made it back to see all this glass and steel. I'd follow the captain to hell and back. I guess I did, when you come to think of it.

Well, despite the changes, you can still get a nice cup o' tea and, if you look hard enough, a bite of kidney pie and a pint. And thanks to me you don't have to be in the Royal Navy to get figgy-dowdy! It wasn't like I invented it, but I gave it to the common man (and made a bloody fortune doin' it).

Can't stand the taste of the stuff any more, but when I think about it, it was the figgy-dowdy that got us into trouble and it was the figgy-dowdy that saved me.

So how did a topman like myself end up rich and happy, livin' on his own yacht? Well, I'll tell you, but first let me pour some of this good Jamaican rum.

It began in the autumn of 1807. We were returnin' from a refit to our squadron in the Indian Ocean. We'd just rounded the Cape (took a nasty beatin' in a storm, we did) and we were racin' along under a press of canvas, when a lookout yells, "On deck there. Flashes two points on the larboard bow!"

I was workin' off the fore topgallant yard when I heard the cry and looked. Flashes they were. Hard to say what it was: lightnin', cannon flashes or what.

The captain and first lieutenant had their glasses trained in that direction. Then the flashes stopped. There was no sign of a sail, so we continued on our way.

An hour or so later, after bein' piped to deck for the evenin' meal, the flashes were seen again, but this time they were much brighter, and they seemed to hang in a cluster just above the surface of the water. Worse yet, the flashes were movin' in our direction, and not a sail nor a pennant to be seen.

From the quarterdeck the captain ordered us to clear for action. Captain's a fine sight. Tall bugger but thin as a jib. He's a fightin' captain; in the thick of it at Aboukir. The man's scarred all over, includin' one nasty burn mark on his neck.

Whatever was out there was approachin' fast. The cannon were run out and smoke from the matches in the tubs wafted across the deck.

"Mr. Egan, if she doesn't show her colors, prepare to fire a broadside as she comes into range," the captain ordered.

Chapter 4
Ignoring her aching knees, Alethia knelt next to a small orange fern, her back to Foster. As she attempted to snag a beetle-like life form into a sample container, a rustle in the vegetation at the edge of the meadow broke her concentration. The beetle scurried away. Heart pounding, she put a hand on her laser.

Foster stood and pointed his laser at the stirring leaves. Alethia rose and silently moved beside him, anxious sweat making the laser slippery in her hand. An ape-sized creature burst through the bushes then skidded to a stop. Orange-and-brown mottled fur covered the beast. It rose up on two of its six appendages and stared at them with a pair of multi-faceted eyes.

Startled, Alethia grabbed Foster’s arm.

“Do you think it’s preparing to attack?” he whispered.

“Not yet. The creature’s studying us, like we are studying it,” she whispered back. “Except for the insect-like eyes, it reminds me of an orangutan.”

“Looks more like big hairy tarantula with those extra limbs. Tarantula…orangutan. We’ll call it a taranutan.”

“It’s the first mammal-like animal we’ve seen.” Her chest pounded with excitement now instead of fear because the creature still hadn’t moved toward them and seemed content to just observe them. Alethia’s training as a scientist kicked in and she slowly pulled out the camcorder from behind her back. Holding it close to her body, she pushed the record button.

“It’s big, as big as us.” Foster relaxed his stiff pose, but kept a wary hand on his weapon. “Given our aged bodies, I’m betting it’s a lot stronger, too.”

“It has some intelligence.” Alethia pointed. “Th end of that branch it’s carrying has been shaped into a point, like a spear.”

Foster extracted a communicator from his pocket. “Send Judith out here,” he said into the speaker. “We have a life form that she may be able to communicate with.”

The taranutan shifted the spear from one appendage to another, but stayed at the edge of the clearing. Hearing a noise behind them, Alethia turned and saw Judith step onto the gangplank assisted by Cyril. When they reached Alethia and Foster, Cyril placed a translation computer in Judith’s hand and pointed at the taranutan. “The beast’s over there. Can you see it?”

She peered toward the bushes and nodded. “What do I do now?”

Alethia shared a baffled glance with Foster. Why didn’t Judith know what to do? Cyril activated the computer. “Try the hello function.”

Judith’s hand wavered over the screen, then when Cyril pointed at an icon, she poked it. Greetings in various Earthbased human languages, bird calls, and animal vocalizations issued from the machine.

The creature jumped, dropped to four of its appendages like a bear, and glanced around the clearing. It emitted a short series of woofs from an orifice below its eyes then settled into a wary silence.

“Did you record that?” Alethia asked.

“Oh, no, I forgot.” Judith searched her screen and pressed another icon. “There. I think I can copy its, ah...”

“Speech?” Cyril prompted.

“Yes.” Judith handed the linguistic computer to him, lifted her arms in a gesture of open friendliness, and mouthed a few woofs.

The taranutan lifted its arms, shook the one holding...

Chapter 1
Breath steaming, Tom Carver tugged a latex glove over his frozen right hand, crouched, lifted back the plastic sheet and studied the corpse. Blood matted the middle-aged vagrant's thinning black hair. The well-tailored dark brown pinstriped suit, shabby and stained with vomit and alcohol, was not the usual attire of a tramp. A spent nine-millimeter shell was wedged between his mauve lips like a cigarette butt. Most professionals marked their kills, and would display the heads on their walls like big-game trophies given the chance.

With a decisive but gentle touch, he turned the shattered skull. “An execution. Close up. Single bullet through the brain entering at the back of the neck.” He peered up at his Detective Sergeant. “Benny, who the hell would sanction a contract on a wino? And why the hell do it on a freezing January morning when I ought to be home snuggled in with the wife.”

Benny shoved his hands into his duffel coat pockets and stomped his feet. “You were divorced two years ago, Tom.”

Carver grinned and snapped off the glove. “Chummy must've been an important bum to warrant a professional.”

He found a peculiar fusion of excitement and comfort whenever he hovered in the quiet roar that followed death, especially violent death. He forgot his surroundings for a moment; even the cold and the shadows of his colleagues melted into the incessant hum of the blinding halogen lamp. The lamp, which hung from an aluminum support pole, had burned away the hoarfrost from the tented rectangle of grass.

He glanced at the ashen face of the young uniformed constable positioned by the flap, and then at his murder-squad colleague. “I'd bet my pension no one heard or saw anything? Who found him?”

“I did, sir,” the uniformed officer said.

Grief, he was just a kid. They were churning out babies now and sticking them in uniforms. “How long you been on the force?”

“Just out of Training College, sir.”

“I wish I was.” Carver smiled at him. “Don't worry, son, you actually get used to this. Any identification?”

Chapter 1

"Prepare to die,” cried Uffin Gettorix, having finally shed the Roman Marcus from his name. He brandished the sword.

They leaped from the concealing rocks; the largest and the scruffiest was clad in a filthy brown tunic and leggings, a single lock of yellow-white hair hung amongst the tangle of dirty brown.

“Listen to him, lads,” said the leader of the brigands. “Prepare to die, says he and we’re the best three fighters in the Lunnif Hills,” he chuckled to his two henchmen, smaller and more tattered versions of himself.

“What is it you want?”

“Not much,” laughed the other. “Your horses, your clothes, that fine shield hanging at your side.” He put his foot on a rock and leaned forward, his forearm across his knee. “Maybe I’ll even take your lives, or maybe I won’t.”

Uffin smiled a thin lipped smile and felt goose bumps rise all over his body. He gripped the sword a little more tightly. “What tribe are you? All the tribes have pledged to the High Druids that they will offer no hindrance to us. Surely you know that I’m the Lord Uffin.”

Uffin’s pronouncement was met with silence, a silence that was broken by one of the brigands sniggering.

“Tribe? Why, we are a tribe of three, Lord Uffin. This is our land you are crossing.” He swept his sword around. “We demand the proper taxes.”

Uffin tightened his feet under the horse’s belly and urged it forward, the sword came up ready to parry or wound.

The three would-be robbers were taken off guard; the sword rose, swung, fell and rose again to chop downward. The nearer of the thieves lost an arm. The second, his life by way of a huge slash across his throat. The third also forfeited his life, the final chop had opened him from neck to sternum.

Uffin turned his horse on a shield’s span and dismounted.

One was still alive. He held his left hand to the stump of his right arm, attempting to staunch the flow of bright red blood. He was a dead man; he knew it, Uffin knew it. Uffin plunged the great blade into the brigand’s chest, cutting short the last few pain-filled minutes of his life.