Inspired to go old school and look to get an electric typewriter working (OK, not completely old school) I ended up meeting some interesting people and with two working typewriter. My old college typewriter I rediscovered has no number-one or exclamation point. And I don't mind the long Winter but the dog, an active hunting breed, does. Every time I sit down to the typewriter he tries to jump in my lap. If I block him out of the room he walks around dejected for days, until I take him to the park.
I prefer working with the typewriter. I've promised two previews this month. First one off the typewriter and the other digital, started well before I got the typewriters working.
Partisans of the Blue
A Dauntless Recruit
from yet to be named chapter
A man sat at one of the tables, his
figure tucked behind a pillar. He rose and turned towards Mike. It was Mike’s
friend Pete Morris. Extending from atop his head was a Donald Trump style
combed out visor of blonde hair; unchanged since High School. Large gold metal
framed glasses housed transition lenses, still shaded despite the gloom of the
establishment, shielding brilliant green eyes. They rounded out a narrow but
attractively proportioned face. He stood fit and trim, looking unchanged since
first they met, now decades ago. His V-figure and thin limbs were covered with
a high stiff collared dress shirt of light blue. The cuffs were identically
starched and were held with gold cuff links. Nicely creased navy-blue dress
paints dropped elegantly over a pair of rattlesnake skin cowboy boots.
Pete stepped forward and stretched out
his hand in greeting. “Mike! Good to see you.” he said as he waved his other
hand towards the bar.
Mike clasped Pete’s hand firmly and
said, “It’s been a while.” as they angled towards the bar.
“Yes it has.” Pete responded as they
slipped up to adjacent bar stools. “What can I get you? They’re only allowed
one brand of beer right now, but we’re greasing some wheels and hope to be
permitted for two more. That will give this place a leg up over its’
competitors.”
The bar girl walked up as they leaned
on the bar rail. Short cut jeans and high healed white strapped sandals rounded
off her ensemble. Mike glanced up her soft curved forms and turned to Pete.
They looked at each other, instigating correspondingly sly smiles.
“I’ll have a ginger ale.” Mike said.
“Still not drinking?”
“It sure sounds that way, doesn’t it?”
Mike and Pete were friends, classmates
from one of the several prominent Catholic Prep High Schools that used to
compete for dominance back in the day. They and others had kept in touch
throughout college but Mike had become somewhat estranged from his friends. He
had turned to the building trades. He was a mason. His conversion to an
evangelical movement had broken most remaining social bonds.
“I’ll have your tap beer.” Pete added
with an admiring gaze.
“Coming right up.” The bar girl said
with a glow of appreciation for their attentions. Her hips swayed pleasantly as
she turned to get their drinks.
The two former classmates had shared
few dealings since college. They all got together at the big reunions, but Mike
hadn’t seen or heard from Pete in over three years.
“Sorry to hear about your wife.” Pete
said. “It must have been tough.”
“Thanks Pete.” Mike said sardonically.
“I heard they threw you in jail.”
Continued Pete a bit excitedly, not catching the mood.
“Yeah.” Mike said slowly, the life
draining from his voice. He stared empty and blank as his mind was spurred to
dig up buried recollections. He never noticed the bar girl bringing their
drinks nor Pete throwing down a twenty in payment. He remembered the pain he
saw, felt himself, in the rigid reaction of his wife’s body as he lifted her
from the hospital bed. But in her eyes, those lovely brown eyes, was only
relief and an all-embracing love. They stared into each other’s eyes, never
turning away as he carried her to their car. One arm hooked his neck as she
tried to hold herself up. They had hardly arrived home and placed her in their
bed when the police arrived.
Pete fidgeted uncomfortably finally
reading the moment and took a swig of his beer.
Mike finally snapped out of his stupor
and said, “They arrested me for taking her out of the hospital and denying her
care. Then they said she didn’t need hospitalization to treat her pain. She was
too far gone for treatment they said. The same thing they said eighteen months
earlier.”
Pete stirred awkwardly on his stool
and continued to drink his beer in gulps. Why
did I have to go there? he berated himself.
After another long pause Mike
continued, “She died while I was still in jail. They hauled here off and
cremated her the same day. Our son couldn’t do anything to stop them.”
“I’m really sorry Mike.” Pete
fidgeted.
Mike paused still once more before
raising his head and with a surge of conviction proclaimed, “Dignity! … It’s
all about human dignity, no matter what the cost. I wouldn’t have done it different
if I could.”
Pete struggled over where to go in
their conversation. He wondered how or if he could or should get to the reason
he asked to meet him.
“Is your son doing well at school?”
Pete interjected into an uncomfortable silence. Mike’s son and Pete’s sons had
all attended the same preparatory school, had most all sons of alumni.
“He has his moments, some kind of
computer guru. More than I can understand. …We don’t really talk much, you
know. Your kids must all be out of college by now.”
“Yeah, the youngest is pursuing a
Masters in Cultural Affairs.
“What’s that, the science of the grass
is always greener?” Mike asked pessimistically.
“He’s alright, but it’s the only path
where he thinks he can make a difference.”
“Difference? It’s a little late for
that now. How many times have we heard about change? Making a difference? We
send one conservative touting politician after another to Washington and in the
end all but a few sell out. And those that don’t end up ruined or in prison. It
makes me sick.”
“Well,” Pete now said with trepid
excitement, “that’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed at he looked at
his old sometimes estranged friend. Pete looked away, down the bar. Mike’s gaze
followed and he was surprised to see another old friend walking up behind the
bar; Brian Hart.
Brian wore a forest green golf shirt
and new jeans. His clothes rounded over his soft yet stout frame. He had a
plump pleasant face, somewhat rounder than High School. Dark hair just shy of
black ran short, straight and flat. He greeted Pete and Mike with his typical
broad smile and joyfully glowing brown eyes. “Mike! It’s good to see you.” he
said with sincerity mixed with a tinge of concern.
Mike said surprised, “What? Do you own
this place or something?”
“Yeah.” Brian answered indignantly,
scowling at Mike, “What’s wrong with that?” Mike was taken aback by the
uncharacteristic defensiveness expressed by his friend. Suddenly Brian leaned
over the bar and punched Mike in the shoulder. Then he broke out into laughter
and jovially exclaimed, “Man! You’re just too serious.”
“Phhhhh” Mike shook his head with
annoyed amusement.
“So are you planning to become a
regular?” Brian asked.
“I guess I’ll have to.” Mike responded
politely.
“Yeah” Pete cut in, “That’s sort of
what we’re talking about.” Pete nodded to Brian as he took out his smart phone
and slid it across the bar to Brian.
Picking up Pete’s phone, Brian held
out his hand to Mike.
“What?” Mike whined.
Brian put his finger to his lips and
held out his hand again. Raising Pete’s phone in the other he signaled that he
wanted Mike’s phone.
Mike looked confused and offended. He
took his cell phone out of his side jean pocket and handed it to Brian. Looking
over to Pete, Pete waved him back to the table as Pete stepped away from the
bar.
I
must be the only one not dyeing my hair. Mike conjectured, perplexed and
self-conscious.
As Mike grabbed his ginger ale and turned from the bar a pearly voice
in smooth jazz tones came over the bar’s speakers as the DJ booth lit up.
“Welcome to ‘McGuffin’s’ ladies and gents. Home of the famed single tap and pizazz
baked frozen pizzas. Praise and adoration for a job well done to the
illustrious owner Brian Hart.” spoke the DJ as he waved to Brian behind the
bar. Brian’s lips moved yet produced no sound in response.
Mike looked up again surprised to see
yet another High School friend, Jerry Kromer, playing DJ. Jerry’s hair of short
wiry locks had receded since last they met. He was as thin and spindly as ever.
Hollow cheeks highlighted his bony facial features. A smooth brow, gentle
smile and mischievous brown eyes gave an otherwise harsh face a friendly glint.
He wore a red silk dress shirt open to just above the belly button, exposing a
bare chest. Tight white bell-bottoms clung to his thighs.
Turning to Pete Mike asked, “What …is
this some kind of class reunion?”
Pete gave his distinct toothy smile
and breathy laugh as his head nodded in affirmation. Everyone but Pete realized
that he subconsciously shook his head to the affirmative or negative when he
laughed at a question, and he always laughed at a question.
Jerry continued in his monologue, “And
a special McGuffin’s welcome to my good friend Mike Barter. If you have
anything to buy, sell or trade Mike …Barter is the man to see.”
Oh
my God! Mike thought; I’m back in
High School.
“And I’ll be your musical host
tonight, Jerry ‘Vinyl’ Kromer, every woman’s favorite appetizer. Well grooved
Rock n’ Roll is on the menu. We’ll drop way back on the dial tonight with
‘Cheap Trick’ and side one of everyone’s favorite entree “Dream Police.” as
Jerry spun the record and dropped the turn table’s arm.
“You mean he’s just going to play the
whole side?” Mike asked with amusement and a bit of disgust.
Pete laughed, his head bobbing up and
down.
“Don’t tell me he’s got the band back
together.” Mike continued with worry in his voice.
Pete laughed louder and slapped his
hand on the table, his head shaking slowly left and right. “No, but he’s on
stage more than not when we have karaoke.”
“You mean, no one’s told him he can’t
sing?”
“No, but he took lessons.”
“But he can’t sing.”
Pete spread his hands palms up and in
a humorous plea repeated, “But he took lessons!”
“Don’t tell me he’s still wearing
those blue suede shoes!?” Mike huffed as he strained to see Jerry’s shoes.
Pete laughed even louder, his head
nodding in the affirmative.
Mike rolled his eyes. The two old
geezers at the bar cursed and jeered in approval of the selection, two thumbs
up, as the music began to blare. Then the geezers turned back to their beers,
shouting in conversation to each other.
Shards of blue, green and red lights
danced about the surfaces of the bar as the dance lights warmed up. It was fine
to recollect over days gone by but now Mike felt irritable over men past their
prime acting so juvenile.
“So why did you call me here Pete?”
Mike asked confused, already suspicious over why he had to give up his phone.
“I was just wondering how you’re
doing.”
“What?”
Pete, fearful over if he should take
the chance, finally blurted out with an awkwardly crackling voice, “So how did
those 8mm rounds I reloaded for you work out?”
Now Mike understood the general
direction Pete was headed. Pete was always a bit of a gun enthusiast, a nut to
some. To both of them a gun had always been a useful and necessary tool. He sat
silent for a moment, conflicted over whether he should go on with the
conversation. The title track from “Dream Police” began to play and Mike
couldn’t help but think of the Super Bowl parody commercial from his youth
‘Green Police’, now banned. Suddenly his interest was primed and he was willing
to hear Pete out. In his own cautious tone he answered, “Well, that was a long
time ago. I imagine you had to turn in your reloading equipment under ‘The
Citizens Liberation Firearms Bill’.”
“Well… yes and no.”
“So you’re looking for customers?
Working the black market?”
“Something like that.” Pete grew
inspired. “Whatever happened to your Mauser?”
“I bought a scope mount for it and a
really nice scope. Then the confiscations came.”
“So you turned it in?”
“I told them it was stolen along with
my 12guage. There was a lot of that going around then. That 12guage had a sweet
tactical platform too, with LED lights and a laser site.”
“Sweet, so were they really stolen?”
Now they both leaned in close to speak
directly into each other’s ear.
“I think you know better.” Mike said.
“They searched my house but didn’t find anything.”
“So you had a good hiding place?”
Now Mike leaned back and paused again.
He reflected over the last two decades and what had become of his country in
preparation for what he believed he was going to be asked to commit to. A
sudden patriotic resolve burned in his gut. A serious expression swept over his
face. He leaned in close, elbows on his knees and said, “It’s not only about
the hiding place, it’s whether they really want to find something or not.”
Pete smiled and said excitedly, “I
know what you’re talking about. I think we’re on the same page.”
To assuage his nervous speculation
Mike cut straight to the point. “Listen Pete, if you’re talking some kind of
revolutionary underground militia that’s just crazy talk. We aren’t in High
School anymore. Besides no number of citizens can compete with drones and all
the other crap the government has. …Unless a good portion of the military
turns, it’s hopeless. And all the military cares about is diversity and this
seasons new uniform designs.”
“Exactly! Remember Jonah Gray?”
“G.I. Joe? Is he still in the army?”
“No, but he has connections with
current and ex-military. We’re just organizing to join in when they make their
move.”
“Like I said, that’s crazy talk.” Then
Mike smiled and said, “Where do I sign up?” Mike had his reservations but he
was fed up with the tyranny he and so many he knew were suffering under; the velvet
boot of government on one’s neck. He had had enough.
Pete nodded with a shrewd smile and
said, “You won’t regret it.”
Oh. I know what you're thinking. You've read my other stories and your thinking, Oh! He certainly will regret it. But I guarantee you that he wont. Now let's see what is going on with the Major, now Colonel Hammer.
Chuck Hammer Rebooted
in
Loyalty's Fertile Soil
Colonel Hammer stood up straight.
He felt dizzy and swayed. He stepped towards the window and leaned over, his
hand upon the wall. He looked out and thought to himself, A cell! What the hell. Is this place is some kind of monastery?
He peered upon the Marius Hills of
the Oceanus Procellarum; the Ocean of Storms. And a storm was coming. He could
feel it in what was left of his soul. The kind of storm he all too familiar
with. Surviving storms was all his life had become; his sole value. The
landscape looked as shear and barren as his heart.
The view of the glaring-dark
desolate landscape was obscured by a circular complex of connected horizontal
cylinders and corresponding spheres of which his cell was apart. The backdrop
of the deep empty blackness of space drew Colonel Hammer’s gaze. A chill swept
over the fading embers of faith and hope in his near stone cold soul. He
perceived nothing but absolute desolation before him.
…
What had been thought fancy just
five years prior was now a growing reality. After Red China’s breakup their
secret lunar colony program was exposed. Soon afterwards it was bought in whole
by a Korean industrialist; a religious guru and his worldwide cult, the New
World Federation; NWF. They believed their leader brought a new beginning for
all mankind and only those having received the graces only he could bestow were
entitled to stand as the true and worthy stewards of God’s creation; worthy of
colonizing the universe.
The NWF’s private space program was
met with scoffs by those in the industry. NASA along with other national
programs as well as the private industries working closely with the more
traditional programs ignored their seemingly hapless efforts. But when they
started launching from a former North Korean space center in Musudan-ri, in the
northern wilderness of a unifying Korea, the scoffs turned to calls for the NWF
to be stopped. Japan outlawed the religion. Religious riots broke out in most
of the Far-East between certain Christian evangelicals and NWF followers.
After more than a dozen launches in
support of their moon colony, the NWF was nearly stopped cold by the United
Nations threatening military intervention. But all that changed after the Tokyo
Massacres.
On a sunny March Sunday a sarin gas
attack upon a prominent protestant church in Japan, was quickly attributed to
the NWF. The surviving congregation of the victim church refused to respond in
haste or violence. Yet churches that considered the NWF heretical, those who
seemed obsessed with destroying the NWF more than spreading the salvation they
professed to believe in, went on a rampage.
By day NWF businesses were
picketed. The picketers worked the crowds into a furor, enticing riots across
the country. Shops were looted and industries torched. Factories burned as fire
fighters stood idle. By night homes of NWF members were invaded. NWF families
were beaten, women raped and homes burned.
The attacks went on for three day
with a lack-a-dazicle response from the authorities. Only after Korea, and
eventually the United States, asked for the UN to intervene did the Japanese
police forces move in to quell the attacks. An international investigation
finally linked the sarin attack, the catalyst for all the violence, to the
actions of the NWF’s major antagonist; a radical church bent on the NWF’s
destruction. They were found to have instigated the violence directed to the
NWF.
The Japanese media never reported
the true cause of the attack and the surviving NWF members were eventually
driven from Japan. Sympathy for the movement spread amidst a world already
wrapped in increasingly growing religious turmoil. Their views were highlighted,
sometimes in unbiased fashion, among several major media markets. The NWF
promised a vision of peace and projected the forbearance to make many believe
it could be. The slowly changing perceptions made them all the more feared by
some and all the more dangerous in Colonel Hammer’s eyes. Colonel Hammer
wouldn’t let himself be fooled by slick media campaigns.
A
bunch of blind brainwashed religious fanatics. Colonel Hammer thought to
himself, Another Jonestown extra-large,
extra-high. That’s all I need.
Even with their growing acceptance,
the NWF’s goal of colonizing the Moon and beyond was far too much for any
nation to accept. The colony morphed by force into a joint venture between the
NWF, NASA, the International Space Agency, and a Chinese mining consortium
aligned on paper with the NWF. Still the colonization was predominantly driven
by private industry investment, most predominantly the NWF and their worldwide
industrial complex.
It had been more than three years
and over one-hundred launches since that first launch. Sixteen families with
children of various ages and an assortment of needed staff and technicians of
the NWF called the Moon home. They made up a third of the current residents.
They called their colony New Eden. It was simply known as Lunar Colony One to
the rest of the world.
Colonel Hammer looked out over the
colony. The one-hundred-twenty cells were connected to forty living quarters,
three apiece. The living quarters were seventy-feet long, thirty-feet in
diameter tubes laid into the prepared lunar surface. The sixteen foot exterior
diameter cells extending inward from each living quarters were connected with
airlocks. It looked like a circle of wagons from days long past; wagons that
had been squashed, their protective covers laid flat. Broad rigid protective
canopies covered with solar panels stretched over each complex.
…
His stomach growled loudly. He went
light headed and sat back down. How could
they have allowed me to sleep so long? He thought. A rush came over him. He
rose and peered out the window again. He surveyed the surroundings as if
already consumed in his mission, to compensate for lost time. Nearly directly
across from his cell he could make out one cell set askew affront a torn open
living quarters. Mangled strips of metallic skin attested to an interior explosion
that ripped a hole in the living quarters above the airlock of the central
cell. The protective canopy had been stripped of its solar panels for use
elsewhere.
The bombing had produced no
fatalities. It occurred in a yet to be occupied area between the NWF and
Chinese portions of the station. The nature of the device used was never
determined. The investigation capabilities of the facility in regards to such
matters were limited.
It was not only a mad bomber
Colonel Hammer was sent to hunt down, but also ‘The Harpoon’ if they were not
one and the same. The Harpoon was a hacker said to be responsible for the
collapse of the power grid in Japan a year to the day after the start of the
Tokyo massacre.
Previously The Harpoon had been
known in hacker circles for making people disappear from the Internet. Every
image of an individual traced and erased from the cloud as well as private hard
drives and digital devices connected to the Internet. An accomplishment of
immeasurable value to some, yet The Harpoon and his tactics had never been
considered a serious threat to most. His worms and Trojan horses slowly
saturate all things digital with scarcely a notice. The parameters of their
targets far from related to information considered sensitive and requiring protection.
The targets of The Harpoon’s antics
were images of individuals from persecuted groups, whether targets of
governments or the general public. Other targets included images of first world
politicians campaigning in supposed free elections. The largest number of
targets, or benefactors, consisted of threatened NWF members.
The name ‘The Harpoon” came from
witnesses who claimed to see digital images struck by a whaler’s harpoon before
dissolving into oblivion. The Harpoon was identified as a singular individual
through his only official communication. His message came after several
notorious criminal’s images disappeared from the digital world as well as the
images of several conservative political figures in the United States running
for high office, frustrating their campaigns.
The message was simple; “The
harpoon does not hinder the common good.”
No,
he just helps crazies in cults. Colonel Hammer thought to himself. I’m stuck between a bunch of brainwashed
zombies, probably looking to off themselves, and the damn Chinese. Why is it
always the damn Chinese?
The belief that The Harpoon was
actually in Lunar Colony One was untenable. Yet, if the Harpoon was there it
was crucial to discover. A battle for control of the Moon was looming. Intel on
positions and capabilities was invaluable. A
good old fashioned manhunt; Colonel Hammer thought. He would have preferred
to be hunting another prey, though if their paths were ever to cross by chance
this would be the place.
I'll have more to blog about Chuck Hammer and where the story is going.
