Category: Fiction (page 14 of 41)

Flash Fiction: Magnum Damage

Courtesy Alistair Cunningham
Courtesy Alistair Cunningham

For the Terribleminds challenge, Somethingpunk. I think this qualifies more as laserpunk than cyberpunk, but you be the judge.


Jack Magnum was never more at home than he was on the ground, a warm beamer in his hand, goons on his tail.

The incandescent neon of the street illumination and the various store signs were a counterpoint to the lances of hard light that sliced through the night. This had been a nice neighborhood once. Before Manhattan had been co-opted by the Cyber-Mafia, it had been making a comeback from the various financial failures of the early 21st century. That was before America got carved up and sold like so much cake at a desperate bake sale.

But Jack Magnum hadn’t given up on America.

“Jack! Two more on your nine-o’-clock!”

“I know.” The AI in Jack’s head, which called herself Artemis, was helpful in some situations and irritating in others. His cyber-enhanced senses and on-board radar could communicate with him at the speed of thought. There was no need for Artemis to engage his inner ear speaker to give him information he already knew. Still, there was a hard barrier between them when he was conscious, so he understood her desire to keep him safe. After all, if his body failed, she’d cease to exist.

He swung his .75 caliber heater in the direction and squeezed off two rounds. The projector snapped off two flashes of steel-melting light, and one assailant found his faceplate burned off, exposed circuitry sizzling and its CPU melting down its chin and faux leather jacket. The Cyber-Mafia liked to dress its goons up like bikers, so the human populace didn’t blatantly see the mostly robotic terrors that kept them in line and fed the syndicate its cash and bodies to maintain business with the struggling and laughable US government.

“That’s three total still on our tail, Jack. What’s the plan?”

“There’s a hoverbike 100 meters ahead. Can you hack it?”

“I’m on it.” The wireless transmitter in Jack’s skull hummed as Artemis tried to access the hoverbike’s security and key it to Jack’s DNA. Jack fired behind him, and heard a surprised, robotic squawk as another foot soldier got blasted. Two to go. If he couldn’t blast them, he could outrun them, and keep the information packet in his hard drive out of Cyber-Mafia hands.

“It’s ready, Jack!”

“Thanks, babe.”

He turned and sprinted backwards, taking his gun in both hands, firing a shot that melted the gun-arm off of one of his pursuers. The other opened fire, chewing up pavement just behind Jack. He had to turn quickly and jump, lest the half-molten pavement slow him down. The neon of the airbike snapped on, and Jack leapt onto it. He holstered his heater and revved the drive, getting the fans up to speed, and kicked hard off the ground. Standard airbikes didn’t have much in the way of altitude, but the hop threw off the aim of his pursuers. He whipped around the corner and tapped the holo-projector in his right cybernetic eye to call up his GPS plotter.

“They know your face, Jack. It’s going to be hard to get off of Manhattan.”

“The CIA didn’t hire me because this would be easy, Artemis. Now find me a chopper or a boat.”

“I’m on it. I’m just saying, they’re going to shut down the island rather than let you off.”

“I don’t get what the big deal is.” Jack swerved around a truck, which honked at him on general principle. “All I have is the shipping manifests for the Cyber-Mafia’s airplanes and boats for the next six months, and a detailed list of every government document to which they have access.”

“Which means they can no longer blackmail the government into holding Manhattan, I know. It’s what they wanted you to get.” Jack’s map was replaced by a holo-representation of Artemis. He knew it was a replication of one of her designers, a petite young woman with bangs, short hair in the back, and a form-fitting suit. “But Jack, the Cyber-Mafia’s been in control of the island for almost a decade. They have a private army. Hell, for all we know they have an air force by this point. How do you plan on getting around them?”

“If I can’t, I’ll just go through ’em. Just like in Casablanca.”

Artemis rolled her eyes. “Jack, after Casablanca, your organics were barely alive and your system was shot to pieces. You had to crawl onto the rescue boat and it nearly sank!”

“We’ll be okay, Art. Trust me.”

She sighed. “I hope you’re right.” She brought his GPS back up and plotted a course through the streets to a dock. Smiling, Jack revved the engine and made a sharp turn.

Minutes later, he brought the bike to a halt near the dock. He blasted the lock off of the gate with his heater, and made his way down to the boats. Artemis had picked out a small speedboat, rigged up for water skiing. It was a derelict, a relic from before the Cyber-Mafia. Artemis walked him through getting the engine running and disengaging the rig that could slow them down. When he looked up, he saw spotlights in the distance.

“Artemis, tell me those are CIA choppers on the other side of the sea wall.”

“Negative. Cyber-Mafia attack choppers on an intercept course. Three of them so far.”

“Well, shit.” Jack pulled out his heater and checked the charge. 50%. Probably enough to take down one chopper with a well-placed full-power shot. He looked down at the boat. “Artemis, I need to know how to drive this thing like a pro.”

“Jack…”

“Look, we’re the only hope the country has of getting back to what it was. It has to start with us. We have to at least try. Agreed?”

“You mess up, you’re going to get us both killed.”

There was a pause. Then, suddenly, a rush of information, part head-swimming kiss from a beautiful woman, part searing shock of straight whiskey.

“So don’t.”

Jack Magnum smiled. “Trust me, darlin’. Just hang on. It’ll be fun!”

Flash Fiction: Gods and Robbers

Courtesy Wallpaperswide.com

Chuck’s weekly demand this time is to include four random items. Can you spot them all?


They dragged him into the office by his arms. His legs felt weak; there was no way they could support his weight with them yanking him along. He was tossed onto the carpet like a sack of garbage. He found himself looking at the skull of what some might have considered a large lizard, but he recognized as a small dragon. It had been re-purposed to serve as the base of an umbrella stand.

“We found him, Father,” said one of the twins.

“He thought to hide from you among the mortal officers of the law.” The other twin tossed the badge onto the expansive desk that blocked most of his view. He struggled to look up, fighting down waves of pain. He got a kick in the kidneys for his trouble.

“Castor, Pollux, I’m surprised at you.” The voice from behind the desk was deep, grandfatherly, almost kind; yet in it was the rumble, the muted flash, the sense one gets when a storm is blowing in. “This is my guest, not some common churl. Get him in a chair, for Gaea’s sake. And clean up his face. I won’t have him ruining my carpet.”

The twins obeyed, hauling him into one of the chairs facing the desk. A wet rag all but smashed into his face, and as the blood was wiped away, he tried to will his bleeding to stop. Whatever charm they’d used to stunt his powers, it seemed to have faded, as his head cleared immediately. He blinked, and looked up to face the man he’d been dragged to see.

Behind the chess board on the desk sat what appeared to be an elderly man with broad shoulders and the solid build of someone who’d spent a lifetime perfecting his physical form. His suit was tailored, hand-made, and clearly costly. His white hair was long, and his beard was somewhat fluffy. Had the suit been red, one might mistake him for Santa Claus.

“Now, Prometheus. What would possess you to put on the airs of a policeman? In the game of ‘Cops and Robbers’, would I not be the cop?”

“It let me get close to one of Chronos’ servants. I was trying to help…”

Pollux backhanded Prometheus. “No lies before the mighty Zeus!”

“Pollux, please! Castor, look after your brother.” Zeus reached down and plucked the bishop from his side of the board, examining it. “Prometheus, you and I have had our differences. I’m still not certain how you escaped your prison in the first place. But we both know that my word is law. And that law cannot be countermanded, not by the cleverness of any being, mortal or Titan.”

“I could be back on that mountain now, if you willed it.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why am I here?”

Zeus smiled, and replaced the chess piece. “I’m curious more than I am angry. How did you escape, and why?”

“The how doesn’t matter. The why does. I told you: I can help you fight Chronos and the other Titans. Time is against us. You should hear what I have to say.”
Zeus raised an eyebrow. Thunder rolled in the distance. “Have a care, Titan. I am not so curious that I am willing to permit you to command me. Begin at the beginning. How did you escape?”

“I made a deal with the eagle.”

Zeus laughed. “A deal? What could you possibly offer it that was not the liver of an immortal?”

“I told it about America. I told it that it was a sacred animal there. It, too, could be truly immortal, and not simply tasked with devouring me. I said, ‘If you free me, I will take you there, and you will be adored and loved.’ It took a few days… and a few livers… but it believed me.”

Promet heus tried not to blanch at the memories. Centuries, millenia had gone by, and every day, atop that lonely mountain that killed any mortal that attempted its summit, the eagle tore him open and made him feel every snapping sinew and every bite at his innards until death came like a merciful, dreamless, abyssal sleep. He’d long stopped cursing his fate each time he awoke, and it was only through the tiny fraction of power he’d had left that he was able to learn of the far-off land the eagle wished to see.

“Where is it now?”

“A zoo, in Chicago.”

“Hah! Duplicity worthy of any of my children. Even as a fugitive you do not disappoint.”

Prometheus nodded. “I am happy to have amused you, my Lord.”

Zeus waved his hand. “Pshaw. I have Wingus and Dingus here to kowtow to me. You, however, never bowed. You defied me, and not from jealousy or fear or anger. You defied me to do what you felt was right. Defiance had to be punished, but I always respected what you did.”

Prometheus blinked. The admission felt earnest, but oddly timed. It slowly dawned on Prometheus that he was right, and Zeus knew it. Chronos and the other Titans were growing stronger, and time was getting shorter. Slowly, so as not to antagonize the twins, Prometheus reached into his pocket, produced the sealed envelope, and handed it to Zeus.

“This is why I escaped.”

Zeus looked at it. On it was written a single word. Hera.

After a moment, the King of the Gods opened the envelope. He read the letter within. Twice. When he looked up at the twins, his eyes were alight with the fire of the sky, the lightning that was his herald and his wrath.

“Leave us. Prometheus and I must speak alone.”

The twins bowed and retreated. Zeus set down the letter, glared at Prometheus for a long moment, and reached across the chess board to reset it. He moved his white king’s pawn forward two squares, gesturing at Prometheus.

“Tell me how this treachery began.”

Prometheus, in spite of the pain, smiled. He moved his queen’s pawn forward.

Flash Fiction: The Message

Courtesy Brand Properties

This week’s prompt from Terribleminds had me using this random plot generator. It coughed up the following:

The story starts when your protagonist tries to stop a robbery.

Another character is a messenger who wants your protagonist dead.

I hope you enjoy the result!


The gunshot cut through the muted conversations and soft rock in the bank lobby.

“Everybody on the ground! This is a robbery!”

Samantha hit the ground along with everybody else, quickly taking stock of the situation. There were three of them. All of them had pulled on balaclavas the moment the leader had pulled out his gun, a small automatic. The other two had carried shotguns into the bank under their jackets. The guard close to the door was already down, holding his bloody nose. She risked another glance up: the butt of the guard’s revolver jutted up out of the jeans of one of the guys with shotguns. Definitely amateurs. No pro stuffs a gun in the direction of their junk like that.

Putting her eyes back down as the leader gave a speil about individuals’ money being insured, she tried to remember what she had seen before the situation began. The robbers were wearing jeans and running shoes; from what she’d seen of their frames, they were in their late teens or early twenties. Some of Don Giorgio’s numbers runners were that young, but none of them would be dumb enough to undertake an unauthorized strong-arm robbery. The bank was on neutral turf between the Italians and the Chinese; either of them making a move like this would be suicidal.

It was difficult for her to keep her head down and thus limit her available information. She was next to the counter on the customer side; that meant she was about eight paces from the door. She didn’t know the actual distance to the vault or the offices from where the bank employees and homeowners looking for lower rates were getting dragged out. Samantha risked looking up a bit towards the fresh hostages: three employees, two housewives, one guy who had the look of an accountant, or perhaps an attorney. Either way, none of them were likely to be in a position or inclination to help her.

She heard a grunt from behind the counter, and it definitely sounded like it was above her, not on the same level. She tried not to tense up in anticipation.

“Hey, come here and give me a hand with this.”

So the kid in charge was at least smart enough not to say names. They could be difficult to identify if they got away. As one of the guys with shotguns headed for the vault, presumably to help get a door open or stuff more money into bags, Samantha gauged the position of the third robber. When he was close enough, she started faking a cough, rolling over onto her back. The robber came by to investigate, glaring down at her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Samantha didn’t respond, faking her cough, looking up at the ceiling. The robber stepped over her, one foot on either side of her, raising his shotgun. She could see the end of the barrel shaking. She would have to be very careful, and very fast, if she wanted to keep her head intact.

She sat up and grabbed the shotgun in one motion, pulling the barrel to the side of her shoulder and away from the others. Before he could react, she brought her knee up hard, slamming into his crotch. His eyes bulged out of his balaclava and he made a noise like a beached walrus. The shotgun game out of his hands, and as she stood, she reached down and pulled the revolver free of his jeans. Shaking her head at the kid, she smacked him between the eyes with the butt of the pistol. He collapsed at her feet.

The other two came out of the vault, but she was already taking aim. “Drop your weapons! Federal agent!”

The one with the shotgun complied immediately. The other one, his mouth a grimace of annoyance, had his semi-automatic pistol in the grip of a trained shooter.

“You useless shit.”

Before Samantha knew what was happening, he was turning his pistol to the back of his fellow robber’s head and pulling the trigger. The people on the floor started screaming as the dead kid fell to the tiled floor behind the counter. Samantha cocked her revolver.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Yes it does, Agent Barnum. I came here to deliver a message.”

She blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re tired of those old farts taking out their old grudges in our neighborhoods. Other banks in both the Triad and Giorgio territories are going up today. We’re cleaning house, and you’re in our way.”

“Who is we?

“Die guessing.”

Sirens and screeching tires outside made him glance away. Samantha took her shot. Blood flew from the young man’s shoulder and he staggered, slipping in the blood spreading from his fallen friend. She moved around the counter to get close to him, but as she did, she saw him putting his dead compatriot’s shotgun under his chin.

“Drop it!”

“Have fun with my dental records.”

He pulled the trigger. Samantha winced, feeling warm ichor spatter her face. The security guard had gotten to his feet to let in the cops. Samantha wiped her face with a tissue with one hand, holding up her badge with the other.

“Samantha Barnum, FBI.”

The officer in front nodded to her as he holstered his sidearm. “What’s the situation, ma’am?”

“This was made to look like a robbery, but there’s something else going on. Get on the horn, find out if any other holdups are in progress.”

“We’re on it.”

She glanced towards the vault, then looked again. The robbers had brought in duffel bags, presumably to make their escape with their ill-gotten gains, but one of them was laying open. Samantha saw several grey blocks, a tangle of wires, and large LED numbers, counting down.

“Better get your bomb squad down here, too. Then I’ll need your help getting these people out of here.”

“What’s going on?”

“In a word? War’s been declared.”

Flash Fiction: Bump In The Night Raven

Courtesy Alien

From the Terribleminds challenge “Last Lines First” comes…


“Truth be told, I’m not sure any of them are actually dead.”

The mug of coffee shook in the engineer’s hands. The nails were chipped and the fingers calloused from years of cleaning, changing, tightening, and banging the many moving parts required for jump drives. The man facing the engineer, wearing vintage suspenders over a tailored shirt with an open collar, nodded slowly.

“Just… take your time, Parker. Who was the first to die?”

“Rigger. Co-pilot. He, uh… he heard something, down in the bay. He didn’t check in for hours. Mosely, he was my partner, and he went to find Rigger. He… found Rigger’s comm unit. It was covered in blood.”

The well-dressed man exchanged a look with the room’s third occupant. Nothing was said. After the engineer took a shaky sip of his coffee, he continued.

“Mosely was next, of course. He went to the head – ate too much cornbread. He always ate too much cornbread. Anyway, I heard the scream. I ran to the head, opened the door, and his toolbelt was there. The vent was hanging off of its frame. I guess… I guess whatever it was grabbed him and yanked him up through there. His toolbelt wasn’t bloody, though. There was this… goop on it.”

“‘Goop’.”

“Don’t know how else to describe it. Doctor Bolton took a sample, and told us later it was a ‘viscous secretion’, whatever that means. That was after two of the mining crew got snagged. We still hadn’t seen the thing. It was down to me, Captain Hammond, Akers the pilot, Doctor Bolton, Lydia the company rep, and Des the mining foreman. We were talking about abandoning ship and looking for help.”

“What happened?”

“We… we saw Rigger.”

The man in the suspenders leaned towards Parker. “Describe exactly what you saw.”

“He was standing there, in the door to the mess hall. He had… this chunk missing from his neck. One good eye. He stared at me…” Parker gripped the mug in his hands, trying to steady them. “It was like getting stared at by an animal at a zoo. There’s something there but it’s not him. It’s not the guy I used to swap dirty jokes with over moonshine on third watch.”

“Was it just Rigger?”

“At first. He came into the room, went right for Captain Hammond. We tried to fight him off. But he was so strong. Stronger than I thought he’d be. Then Mosely came in, and… I got away. I ran.”

“Nobody can blame you for that. What happened next?”

“You need two people to activate the self-destruct. Nobody else made it out after me. So I grabbed a shuttle and flew out of there. I was never a good pilot, but we were in deep space. I just headed straight towards Proxima, and that’s when the patrol picked me up.” Parker finished his coffee. “Mister Cogburn… am I in trouble?”

Cogburn shook his head. “No, you’re not personally in trouble. The Company knows that there was nothing more you could do. But I wanted to get your story first-hand.”

Before Parker could ask why, Cogburn produced his tablet and showed the image on it to the engineer.

“The Night Raven, your prospecting vessel, was spotted by patrols on a direct course for the Sol system.”

“… Earth?”

“That’s right. If they get to Earth, they can either take control of the hub of space travel for all the colonies, or head for the surface to make more… things. We’re still not sure exactly what we’re up against here, but we do know we can’t let that ship reach Earth.”

Parker looked to the other figure facing him. “Is… is that why you’re here?”

Cogburn turned to the person next to him. “At this point, the Company is asking the United Colonial Military Command for help. Lieutenant Olsen here is in command of an Expeditionary Platoon operating out of Barnard’s.” He handed Olsen the tablet. “Do you think you’ll be able to help, Lieutenant? We need to intercept the Night Raven, capture at least one of the infected subjects, and determine the origin of this… contagion. The Company is willing to give you anything you need.”

Olsen frowned. “Are you and Parker coming?”

Cogburn shrugged. “I doubt Parker would want to come along.”

“Oh, Jesus, God, no.”

“Right. So it’d just be me. I’m the Company’s liaison and work in their R&D department. They wanted to send an executive but we were able to convince them that you’d find a brain more useful than a suit and smile.”

“You know how to handle a gun, Cogburn?”

“I’ve fired one a couple times. Never at anything living, though.”

Olsen’s face did not soften. She had yet to uncross her arms or move from her position of leaning on the desk, but she looked like the sort of solider who’d be combat-ready at the drop of a hat. Green eyes studied Cogburn from under a close-cropped mop of blonde hair, and the scar on the right side of her mouth for her lip to her chin made her scowl all the more intimidating.

“Don’t expect my men to hold your hand when things get dicey. Ship invasions are tense, close-quarter clusterfucks under the best of circumstances. I don’t like taking civvies into combat zones.”

“One: I’m not your typical civilian. Two: The Night Raven is owned by the Company and they want to protect their investment. Three: If you have to scuttle the ship, you need someone who can override the ship’s fail-safes quickly, and unless one of your soldiers is a former Company employee, that means you need me.”

Olsen snorted. “That’s extortion.”

“No, Lieutenant, those are the facts.”

“If you’re lying to me, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Fair enough.”

“Um.” Parker looked up at the two of them. “Does… this mean any of them are still alive?”

Cogburn tried to smile. “Maybe. Anything’s possible.”

“Either way,” Olsen said, “we’ll take it from here. We leave at 0800.”

Flash Fiction: The Great Hall

Courtesy http://www.octavia.net/anglosaxon/earlyEnglishArchitecture.htm

With this week’s Flash Fiction Challenge over at Terribleminds being less than 50 words long, I turned to The Brainstormer for a subject on which to write a longer piece. It gave me “Hero to Kin”, “Viking”, and “bard”. Enjoy some last-minute scribbles!


The fire danced and rose high in the hearth at the center of the hall. The king leaned back, bringing the mead to his mouth as he watched his sons and nephews carry on. Their wives and daughters mostly ducked out of the way of the flying insults and bits of carcass. It had been a hard season, and everybody needed to let off a little steam. The only thing missing was music. When the guard thumped the end of his spear on the floor three times, the king looked up to see if maybe that problem was solved.

“My lord, a musician wishes to entertain your evening!”

“Show them in, and let their music be judged.”

As the door was opened, the king could see the heads of the previous failures where he’d stuck them on the fence outside of the hall. The figure entering the hall now did not seem shaken by the sight. Indeed, under the furs and leathers, it was difficult to make out anything at all about the newcomer. The ruckus around the hall died down as attention was given to what would either be a worthy addition to the night’s proceedings or another demonstration of the king’s strength.

Before the king could ask the bard their name, they were removing their gloves and cloak. As the cloak fell away, they pulled a stringed instrument from their back, and began to strum. The king was about to call for the bard to stop and indentify themselves, and then the tune reached his ears, and he found himself leaning back. The melody reminded him of a happier time, a simpler time, before all of the bloodshed and conquest, when his life was his first wife and his child, the little cottage on a simple plot of farm land.

He took another long drink of mead. He was not certain where he knew this song from, but the bard played with adeptness and feeling that was moving some of the lords and ladies to tears. The king almost didn’t notice one of his nephews approaching from the right. The bard, apparently, saw it first and stopped playing long enough to produce a dagger from behind their instrument. Just as the last chord of the song was played, the bard shoot to their feet and threw the dagger. The nephew had been drawing his sword, ready to strike the king. As the king turned and stood, his own hand reaching for the blade of his kingdom, the would-be assassin was choking on his own blood. The king turned back to the bard.

In the commotion, the bard’s hood had fallen back. Long red hair, the same color as the king’s flowed down her shoulders. She looked at the king with flashing blue eyes. The king stepped back; they were the same eyes that looked at him when the old king’s men had rode onto his land and taken everything from him, the same eyes of the wife who’d spirited their daughter away, before the old king had found her and used her.

“Forgive me for being away so long, Father,” said the bard. She pulled her cloak off entirely, and stood before them all in the clothes of wanderer, boots and trousers and vest of leather, more confident and beautiful than any other in the hall. “Now that you have heard my song, am I worthy to remain in your hall?”

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