Tiffany's Bookshelf: And You Thought Your Family was Dysfunctional!, by Paul K. Dayton

Tiffany's Bookshelf: And You Thought Your Family was Dysfunctional!, by Paul K. Dayton

The Eye of the Idol has been reviewed...

A well known review site has reviewed my new book, Eye of the Idol, and I'm the author of the week.
Here's the review (but you can also read my author interview on her site here)


Our review of 'Eye of the Idol'

In Eye of the Idol, Paul Dayton has crafted highly memorable work with three-dimensional characters. Each new character introduced to the reader have their own set of worries, complexities and characteristics so believable it seems as if they could be standing right before you.



Before I was even through the first chapter, I already knew this book was a winner. Immediately attention grabbing and intense, Eye of the Idol seizes the reader’s attention and refuses to let go.



With his excellent use of descriptions, Mr. Dayton pulls you into the setting of the book seamlessly. He has an amazing talent for transporting the reader well into the past and back to the present in one fluid motion. The writer opens a portal to yesterday so intriguing, that one cannot help but step through willingly.



The first character introduced in the book stirred raw emotion within this reviewer. Even through the remainder of the book I carried his burden with me as if it were my own. The reader feels as if he is a long-lost friend.



With a complex, well designed plot and fast paced storyline, this book left me positioned at the edge of my seat in anticipation of what would happen next. A subtle, yet warming amount of humor graces the pages of Mr. Dayton’s book, making it a joy to read.



As the past and the present begin to form ever more solid ties to one another, the plot thickens and the reader is left breathless with suspense, wondering what will happen on the next page.



As multiple scenarios begin to build in the reader’s mind of what the conclusion of this work might bring, Mr. Dayton once again surprises the reader with his fantastic ending. Try as I might, I couldn’t guess what was in store for me; which made me love this book even more.



I would highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a fast-paced, quality read. For this reviewer, Paul Dayton’s Eye of the Idol has earned five well-deserved stars. I look forward to reading further works by this remarkable author.

If you'd like to know where you can buy my new book, or my just released non fiction "Dying of the American Dream, a realist's guide to a happy retirement" click here.

The Eye of the Idol

Welcome to me new book in progress, The Eye of the Idol. Read, enjoy, and if you have any comment, like or dislike, please let me know! Anyone offering constructive help will be acknowledged in the last page of my book!

Prologue

1660 A.D.

Jacob looked down at the bag sitting between his outstretched legs, the drawstring stretched fully open. The hardened bread had disappeared two days ago, but the corners of the bag still had crumbs of cheese and bread, together with lint and dust. He concentrated on the powder, wondering if bile would rise in his throat if he tried eating it. In the end, he decided it didn’t matter. Two days before, upon entering a deserted village, he had filled his water skin at the town well and taken a hefty drink. Within six hours he realized his mistake – the town well had obviously been ‘purified’ with cow dung, and the little he had previously eaten had come up in violent fits since then.

‘Dear Jesus, why was I sent here?’ he said to himself, as he had done a hundred times before. He looked around again, and could see smoke rising from a number of areas. The upper range of mountains where the source of the Coleroon river was found looked beautiful in the distance, but they might as well be a mirage to him, as the heat rising from the plains surrounding Kanakapura added to his torment. The heat was brutal, almost as bad as what he imagined hell to be. And then there were the people – somewhat less of a mass of humanity compared to Calcutta, but a dirty, impoverished, desperate and poor mass nonetheless. Fortunately, they recognized him as more of a beggar then they were, and usually left him alone.

He thought back to his assignment. After spending thirteen years in Gujarat teaching in the new school established there by his three cum pane[1], he was recalled in a terse note that included no specific details, and more importantly, enough money to charter a ship from the port in Jamnagar to infidel territory in Guraine[2], and from there, on the treacherous road that led to Jerusalem where the Superior General was now temporarily located. At first it seemed as if he had done something wrong, though he couldn’t fathom what, but the money quickly told him otherwise. He had never seen so much money, let alone have it in his possession. But that wasn’t the most notable thing – according to the note the request, if you could call it that, came from none less than the pope himself. Now, after four months of travelling and by the grace of Christ, he had made it without being robbed, only to receive more terse, cryptic instructions from the Superior.

“You are to seek out the temple of the Hindu abomination called Sita, located somewhere on the Coleroon river, and you are to search carefully for an object of great importance on or near the idol.”

If it weren’t for the years of respect beaten into him, he would have laughed. Instead, with bowed head, he quietly waited until the words ended and asked, “Superior, the river is long, and the area hostile to Christians. How will I be able to find this object?” What he really meant to say was how he would find it without being killed.

“You are to disguise yourself as a beggar. Your skin is well tanned, and you look somewhat like them. You speak the language well, do you not?” The Superior looked down on the kneeling Jesuit, waiting for confirmation.

“Well, I speak Hindi passably well, sir. But there are many languages...”

“Excellent!” the Superior interrupted, clearly not wanting to hear more. “Ask. Tell people you want to worship at Sita’s temple.” The Superior could see that he was troubled, and guessed as to the reason.

“Did not Abraham lie about his wife, calling her his sister? Did not David clothe himself in madness in the wilderness? You are on a mission for Christ. We chose you well.”

“Yes, Superior,” he replied. It was true, although Abraham’s wife was really a half sister, and so, it technically wasn’t a lie. However, Moses did lie when he told Pharaoh he wanted to take the Israelites away for three days. Walk like sheep among wolves, said Jesus.

“And the object I am looking for?”

“The object...is astounding, and of immense value to the church. Use any means necessary to acquire it, and once in your possession, return as quickly as possible with the item. Tell no one, not even the company. You are being sent on your own, and if stopped, your only response shall be that you are on a pilgrimage to worship at the Shrine of Sita on the Coleroon river. On your return, you are to say that you have seen the mercy of Sita and want to tell others about it. That is all.”

“But how will I recognize the object?” Jacob cried, trying hard to control his frustration amidst Superior’s shortening patience.

Superior sighed. “I was told that if you look into the abomination’s eyes, she will tell you. Now go!”

He got up and as he turned to leave, he spied a cloaked figure standing in the shadows of Superior General’s meeting room. He hadn’t noticed him before, and felt somewhat embarrassed at his outburst now that he knew the man had been watching. Jacob sighed and continued walking, knowing there was nothing he could do. Although the figure was wearing the cloak of a monk with the hood carefully drawn over his head, Jacob noticed his expensive turned shoes, which clearly indicated he was either of noble birth or rich, and not the monk he was pretending to be. Jacob passed him without saying anything, and left the room.

***

The cloaked figure approached into the light cast by the oil lamp. “Do you think he will succeed before being plagued by self-doubt?” he said with a smile.

“Only time will tell. If not, no harm is done. He is of little consequence, albeit sincere in his efforts. His sincerity will drive him, and Ignatius will protect him,” the superior general said.

“And if not?”

“Well, our Lord did tell us to send them out two by two. That’s where you come in.”

“I doubt he meant that!” the cloaked figure said laughing, but his laughter was cut short.

“It is not your place to tell me what our Lord meant!” the Superior hollered, and the cloaked figure stepped back in fear. “Of course not, Superior! I meant no disrespect. Please accept my apologies.”

A silence ensued, and the superior general stretched it out until the cloaked figure squirmed. He needed the upper hand for the next part.

“And your fee? Standard, I assume?”

“In this case, no, I’m afraid. If the rumours are correct, both the object and the risks are monumental. I suggest this: If the object does not exist or if I cannot retrieve it, then my fee is nothing. However, if I bring it back to you, my fee is four times the usual.”

The Superior General was about to complain, but stopped himself short. He thought about the issue and decided to agree, knowing that the value of the object, if real, would be incalculable. Under those circumstances, anything less than a good payout ran the risk of the object never arriving. Yet, he couldn’t let it pass without some argument.

“Four times the standard amount is a wealthy sum for someone who is already travelling to the region on his regular diamond purchase trip.”

“I am a businessman after all, Superior. These are the terms of any humble service I may perform in addition to the means I use to put food on my table.”

The superior smiled. “Of course. I have nothing against making a living. Very well. Your terms are accepted. However, I do expect either one of you to succeed.”

***

Jacob was given a package containing enough funds to pay for the voyage back, but no more. He looked at the funds and gave thanks to Ignatius, but it was obvious that the Superior was keeping the costs down for fear he might not succeed. Perhaps the Superior was even in doubt as to the object itself, its value or even its existence...

‘Find...an important but non-descript object. I’ll know it when I see it, or then I am to look into the abomination’s eyes, and she will tell me.’ The task seemed impossible. And now, as he looked into his almost empty food pouch, he was more convinced than ever. He had travelled from the southern branch of the crocodile infested Coleroon river where it was called Kaveri, and worked his way northwest, through the ramshackle city of Anicut, on through the Tiruchirapalli district, asking everyone he passed where the Sita’s temple was so he could worship there. He had gone to many Sita temples along the way, but none held any sort of astounding object. When he asked for the temple, the one that was unlike any other, vague references were made about the holy temple somewhere else.

It’s up river, but distant...on another river, one we haven’t seen...at the source of the holy Coleroon river, in the mountains...it’s where you cannot go, in heaven...a great distance... I worship Siva here and you should too...it is but a story...

Each one with a different response. Everyone knew where it was, even if they didn’t know.

But he could feel it in his bones now. He was close, thanks to the grace of Christ and the help of his patron saint, Ignatius. A number had reported the existence of a ‘sublime’ Sita in Kanakapura, and he was now sitting on a small rise on the eastern side of the river overlooking the town, looking at the shrine as it glowed in the morning sun.

‘Saint Ignatius,’ Jacob prayed, ‘give me the strength through our Lord to fulfill my mission. If I fail, remember that it is through this weak body that I attempt to serve you, to the glory of our Lord and Father.

He got up painfully and made his way to the shrine. People were already preparing their morning meals and drawing water from the river to bathe in. He ignored them all, as he did the hunger in his stomach and pain in his guts, and made his way carefully to the shrine. As he approached, he looked at the structure, apparently unscathed from the Muslim advance that had destroyed so many shrines in the last few centuries. The front doors were already opened, and he could see an initial line of pilgrims already coming in to do their morning prayers. This was good, as he could hide among the devout and search for whatever it was he was supposed to find.

Coming in through the impressive doorway, the guard asked for the fee of 5 paise, but Jacob was ready. He had already rubbed onion oil under his eyes, and by the time he looked up at the guard’s face, tears streamed down his.

“Sir, I have nothing. I have not eaten in two days. Allow me the privilege to thank the goddess before I die! Have mercy on me, dear sir!” Jacob said between sobs. The pain from his guts fuelled the sobs, and the guard either sympathized or was accustomed to the begging and allowed entry in the large structure. He walked in head bowed in respect to the abomination as he had learned to do, removing his slippers before entering. The line shuffled forward slowly and spread out, forming a semi circle at the feet of the idol. The dimly lit chamber allowed little light through, and the few candles helped little to clear the gloom which was perfect for what Jacob had in mind. Having been avoided by the mandir[3], he shuffled over to the side as far as he could go and kneeled down in a position of prayer, as did everyone else. Carefully looking up, he spied the tremendous feet of the abomination. He figured it must be huge with feet this large. Looking around, he noticed he was ignored by everyone else as they looked up at the idol’s face. Venturing that the move was acceptable, he looked up too, and the shock of what he saw made him fall back. Beautiful, glittering Sita stood there in all her glory staring at him, staring through him, directly into his soul. Her robes shimmered and sparkled, her eyes glinted in the little sunlight that entered the tiny window, but all he could do was cry under her cold blue glare, grovelling on the floor.

He now understood. Here was the object, and thanks to his St. Ignatius, he had found it. He was astounded that such a thing could exist, and even more astounded that it would be his very soon.

***

“It was stolen, right from under their very noses two weeks ago!” the innkeeper said as Tavernier did everything he could to avoid the horrendous beer.

“No! Someone desecrated the temple? And what was the reaction of the mandir?” he replied in bad Hindi.

“Not the temple sir. Worse! They desecrated Sita,” he said in a whisper, as if mentioning the words aloud would bring a divinely sent lightening strike. “And the mandir proffered a most terrible curse, sir. Once the mandir discovered that Sita had been...had been desecrated, why, a tremendous cry arose. The mandir said...” and at this point the small crowd in the inn stopped to listen to the account as the inn keeper puffed out his chest and raised his arms, “Cursed be anyone possessing the glare of Sita! He shall die a horribly, and cursed be his family, his children and grandchildren until the 20^th generation!” The innkeeper looked smugly at Tavernier.

Tavernier did his required shocked expression, and finally got to the question he wanted to ask. “Was the thief ever found?”

“No sir. Never. But then, it is no surprise, as he is likely dead because of the curse.”

“Of course, of course,” Tavernier replied. He raised his voice and added, “Let that be a lesson to all thieves attempting to desecrate, not only Sita, but all the other hindu gods!”

So, Jacob escaped with the object and somehow made it out of the area alive. He was already masqueraded as a beggar, and he likely had no money. Tavernier was at a loss as to how he hadn’t been recognized as he fled. Perhaps he did die, but then, nothing was ever mentioned of the object being found. 60,000 people worked in the mines not too distant, and although the land was less populated in this area, no one could die and not be found, no matter where it happened. He thanked the innkeeper and asked for horse drawn buggy, and the innkeeper raised his eyes.

“Have you concluded your business at the mines, sir?”

“Yes. The pickings are poor this time, and I’m afraid I found little useful. Please have the buggy ready, together with the usual four guards.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tavernier set out in the only direction he expected Jacob to go – west. Figuring Jacob would avoid all roads and towns in the vicinity, he figured he could make better speed and eventually lie in wait at the port in Jamnagar, if he didn’t cross paths with him sooner. There were three months left before the winds became unfavourable for sailing, and travel over land would be impossible. India was big, but Tavernier knew where Jacob was going. ‘It’s only a matter of time ‘till we meet, my friend.

***

Jacob sat near the dirty, muddy road in the place he now called home, the port area of the city of Mangalore. His mind raced from one extreme to another, conscience warring against heart as he mumbled my Bathsheba over and over again. He refused to hold out a cup – his mind was lucid enough to know that if he had coins, he would be robbed, and if he was robbed, well, there was no use in living then. Instead, he held up a plate to those walking by as they hurried to work at the Tile factory.

A cough racked his thin, sickly body, this time accompanied with more blood, but he didn’t notice. A well dressed man was approaching, and this was the perfect opportunity to ask for food. As he came closer, Jacob could see the man carefully navigate the puddles, hoping to keep the mud off his shoes. Something was familiar, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it troubled him that he couldn’t remember as he watched the man with the fine shoes approach.

“Bhōjana for the belly?” Jacob said, partly in English and partly in Hindi.

“Hello Jacob.”

Jacob stared up into his face, and looked back down to the shoes again. He broke out into another fit of coughing, coughing that eventually turned to wheezing as bloody spittle trickled down his lip. Those shoes. “Hello, shoes,” he said as he stared at them. “I know you. The last time we spoke, your person was wearing a cloak.” He broke out into a maniacal laughter that was cut short by more coughing.

“I am he,” Tavernier said.

“And I am, well, I am...” This time, Jacob started sobbing as tears freely flowed down his mud caked face. “I am failed, I am,” he sobbed, “but Father understands. He does, I tell you! He’s spoken to me, you know. Spoken to me and told me he’s forgiven me, and to tell me about her.”

“Who is her, Jacob?”

“HER! My Bathsheba, my devil. He forgives me, you know. He’ll be a saint soon, and he says I’m forgiven...” Jacob broke into tears again as he mumbled the words over and over again.

Tavernier looked at the pitiful wreck dying of consumption and wondered who the Bathsheba was he was talking about. He hoped the wreck was lucid enough to answer his questions. “Jacob, do you have it? Did you complete your mission?”

“My Bathsheba...I am here, are I not? So it is obvious I did not complete it. But Father Ignatius said I was forgiven. He said that, you know?”

Tavernier looked him over, disappointed that everything had come to this – a dying wreck with nothing in his possession except a hunchback. As he turned to leave, the thought struck him. Turning back, he bent closer and looked at the lump on his back. “Jacob, why is there a hump on your back? You weren’t cripple when I met you last.”

Jacob looked at him and smiled. “My Bathsheba, to keep her safe, you know. She’s just as close to my heart from the back as she is from the front. And this way, she can’t persecute me with her glare,” he added, and winked.

Tavernier looked around, but there was no one in sight. He pulled out an iron dagger as Jacob watched. Tavernier was surprised to see relief instead of fear in Jacob’s eyes. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he said.

A second passed before he replied. “Yes, Mr. Shoes. I am so tired. I have been nothing but cursed, just as the Mandir said.”

“Perhaps it’s time to rest, then.”

“Perhaps it is. Thank you.”

Tavernier couldn’t believe he was being thanked for killing him. He carefully opened Jacob’s tunic and cut the straps holding the back pouch, and then he quickly slipped the knife into his chest. A desperate grip, one final wheeze, and it was all over. Tavernier pulled the well padded pouch out and opened it, only to find a thin book closed around a thick piece of paper at it’s very top. He pulled out the loose paper and looked at the Latin words:

Meus Bathsheba , meus errores!

Incendia of vestri puteulanus obtutus agitet mihi dementis per rabies.

Quam Volo EGO had nunquam seen vos , meus meretricis, meus diabolus

ut vos sensim drove gelu chalybs of vestri perturbatio per meus pectus pectoris

Inviso mihi iam! A moestifer pessum do

bellator bestia pro victus , ut Porto vos dilgenter iuxta meus pectus pectoris.

Quam EGO contemno vos

Quam EGO can non secui vobis!

Abbas Ignatius , indulgeo vestri vernula Jacob!

Sanctus Nicholas, oro meus theca!

He shook his head at Jacob’s resourcefulness, masquerading himself as a hunchback and hiding the object in the perfect location, the place people would be disgusted to search if they tried robbing him.

Moving the paper aside, his eyes widened in stunned shock once he took a look inside. ‘My god!’ was all he said.

---

[1] Lat. for ‘Eat Bread,’ referring to a group of people who eat together regularly. Eng. - Company

[2] Kuwait

[3] A Hindu religious leader or teacher.

We've Seen the Enemy

Here's an excerpt of chapter one of my new book We’ve Seen the Enemy. For more info on where you can download this ebook, go to www.pauldaytonscifi.com.

Prologue

Excerpt from Ivanov’s last log, now sung as a children’s rhyme:

The first ant looked up at the sky and said: “I think it’s a big egg because it’s round.
The second ant looked up at the sky and said: “I think it’s the sun because it’s shiny.
The third ant looked up at the sky and said: “I think it’s the moon because it’s not warm.
The fourth ant looked at the three and said: “You’re ALL wrong. It’s Thor’s Hammer, and it’s coming…”

Keenan sat on the Abadon’s bridge watching the split viewscreen in front of him, his attention divided by the two items displayed.

At the moment, the five surviving members of the crew were at their stations, dressed in full uniform and wearing their small but distinguished VALOR IN DEATH decoration on their chests. Keenan wasn’t so sure he should be wearing his. The rare medal was normally awarded posthumously to any volunteer who, knowing he or she would not survive the mission, agreed to fulfill mission objectives nonetheless. Keenan and his crewmembers, both those still alive on the bridge and the dead ones resting in Sanctuary in the front of the ship had all been awarded that medal while still alive, something that had never happened before. And here was the problem staring him in the face.

On the left side of the holographic viewscreen was the alien homeworld they were commissioned to destroy - surrounded by hundreds of thousands of dismantled, shredded or exploded pieces of space junk that had either been launched into space and discarded or towed to near planet orbit from some sucker planet, stripped and abandoned.

‘What to do…’ he said to himself as he stared at this nightmare. He turned to the bridge crew and repeated his question out loud this time.

“I think we should take our chances with the cloak,” Jane said. “The ants have nothing like this, and even if they see our lasers clearing a path, they’ll be confused. It will buy us time.”

“It´ll be a hell of a lot of laser firing once we get near Low Planetary Orbit,” Mike countered.

“Yeah. Once they get wind of us, we’ll have to chuck the cloak and use the shields.” John added.

Jane frowned at the idea. “Do that, and the shiny mirror surface will be seen clear back to Earth. It’ll be suicide with those planetary lasers.”

“Well, this is a suicide ship, you know.”

Keenan listened to the back and forth argument between the three. Ivanov was the only quiet one, lost in thought as he watched the right side of the viewscreen. They hadn’t yet gotten to the issue of the 142 ounces of antimatter in the containment bay.

“What of the antimatter?” Keenan finally asked. “If a piece of space junk slams into the containment bay, we’re toast.”

“All the more reason to use the shields,” John said.
Keenan hated both ideas.

And then there was the second object displayed on the split screen.

He studied the image closely. The medical supply ship St. Helena sat in the center-right with all running lights off, rotating slowly on the 3D screen. According to his most recent records, she had a crew of one hundred fifty plus injured and medical supplies. It slowly sailed by, ‘Dead-In-Water’ from the two alien Disabler mines on its hull. An unmanned alien tug was towing it to the same planet orbit that contained all the other space junk.

‘Damn,’ he said to himself again. He thought of his dead wife and daughter, and of those on the medical ship. ‘If the aliens haven’t killed the crew already, they’ll soon be dead anyway,’ he thought, not realizing he had mumbled the words out loud.

“It’s possible they’re still alive Captain,” Jane said. She had recently been promoted to Targeting following the death of Alexie, and Keenan laughed as he thought about it. Promoted. They’d be dead in six hours, one way or the other. His aptly named ship - Abadon, an old Hebrew word that meant ‘annihilation’, would end up doing the very same to them.

Jane continued her argument. “Being a medical ship, life support would be set up separately from all other systems and insulated against power failure, including DB’s.”

Keenan thought about her past – orphan, abandoned on Nigel Prime, living off the streets but somehow making it as a service fighter and ultimately getting here. As if this was some reward.

“Sir?”

His mind wandered to Ivanov, the ship’s magician, now sitting painfully erect at the engineering console watching the display of the St. Helena. His mastery of machines meant he could make even the most hopeless piece of junk work. At the moment he was dying a slow death from body rot and had only been able to drink simulated chocolate milk for the last two months. How he kept up his strength was a mystery to everyone.

He watched John and Mike listening in to Jane’s comments. They were quietly scanning the freighter for life signs. Keenan was about to say something but noticed it was only a level one scan, and he was enjoying their sneaky attempt and the cat and mouse game they were playing with him.

“Find anything?” he finally asked.

“Find what?” Mike replied, embarrassed that he was caught.

“We was doin notin, boss,” John added, doing his mobster impression. His attempt at humor was seriously sub-par, as the final moments of their lives was emphasized by the objective slowly rotating on the screen. The last two days had really taken their toll, and Keenan had made a note of Mike and John’s continued efforts at keeping morale up. He wanted to make sure EVERYONE knew they died true heroes, and had been updating his logs to reflect this.

Having served with both of them on Helo Prime, he was amazed they hadn’t been killed yet. He was sure they had used up all nine lives, and then some. Of the twenty two who had started out on this mission, he felt only a little guilty at the pleasant thought that these two had made it this far. He knew that the light banter was only a façade, but the twins helped relieve the heavy stress resting on all their shoulders right now.

“We can’t just let them die…”

Keenan mentally sighed. It was obvious Jane wouldn’t let this go, but he didn’t bother replying. Nobody here wanted anyone to die. Still, their only mission was to destroy the homeworld, and he couldn’t allow anything to put that mission at risk. The silence became awkward as Keenan sat there. The split viewscreen didn’t help, with the planet on the right and the St. Helena on the left. The cloaked Abadon was 100 meters off her starboard side while he went back to the task of figuring out the issue with the homeworld.

Ivanov cleared his throat. “Sir, I have an idea.” Keenan watched as he turned in his direction, wincing in pain.

“We can use that alien tug. Three of us can drop down to the freighter, disarm the DB’s and prepare to spool up the generators…”

Keenan considered interrupting, but his respect for Ivanov kept him quiet.

“A fourth would drop onto the tug, get inside and reprogram it to continue without the freighter to planetary orbit. I stay on board, and our cloaked ship trails behind in the tug’s shadow, allowing the tug to open the way for us through the debris. Once the tug reaches Low Planetary Orbit, I pop out from behind it and drive the Abadon home.
The freighter stays inactive until mission is completed, and then it escapes, to the wonder and amazement of the idiot ants. Just think, it’ll be like Santa sneaking down the chimney to deliver the gift!”

Keenan, who had been only half listening was now paying rapt attention to what Ivanov had just finished saying. ‘I’ll-be-damned’, he mumbled to himself as a rare smile showed on his face. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was close.

“Input.”

“I like it,” Jane said. “Except the part where you stay behind.”

‘Yeah, you would,’ Keenan thought to himself.

“Well, it’s all good,” John countered, “but I can see what you have up your sleeve, Ivan. It’s a little greedy, I would have to say.”

“Yeah,” Mike added, “You’re just a glory pig. I could see the headlines: ‘Ivan the Terrible, single-handedly bringing down an enemy empire yadayadayada’. Don’t think we didn’t see that. And anyway, it’s been done. By Ivan the Terrible. People would just get confused if there were two of you. Give someone else a chance-”

“Yeah,” John said. “Mike’s right, for once. So Captain, plan is perfect except it should be Mike and me staying.”

Keenan waited for Jane to say something and wasn’t disappointed.

“Nope. Should be me,” Jane said. “You two pussies don’t know your right from your left. I’ve watched you trying to tie your shoelaces. I can multitask, and I can do it better.” Jane’s face darkened as she said the next words. “Captain, all kidding aside, it should be me and you know it.” Mike and John didn’t know how to reply. They hadn’t seen shoelaces since they entered the elite Combat Command Team.

“Jane, no. But thank you,” Ivanov said. He and Keenan looked at each other with knowing eyes. There were only two people here who could do this alone. “Thank you to all, I appreciate your…sacrifice. But-”

“Ivanov, you continue to surprise me,” Keenan said, cutting him short. “Your plan is perfect. Get suited up, the four of you, and prepare to drop. I’m staying behind. Don’t worry Ivanov, you’ll get credit for the idea.”

Everyone started to protest, but Keenan raised his hand to silence them. He had made his decision. Refusing to look into Jane’s eyes, he got up and rested his hand lightly on Ivanov’s shoulder. “Ivanov, that’s a medical ship. M-E-D-I-C-A-L. They have medicine and equipment that can cure you. If you think there’s any way I was getting off this ship in your place, you’re very mistaken.”

“But sir, it’s my plan. And at this stage it’s too late anyway…”

“My order stands!” he barked, looking at all of them to make sure they understood they had just crossed the line. He knew Jane would take it hard. She had never made her feelings openly known to Keenan, but he could clearly see she loved him. Ivanov, however, had just given them all a lease on life, and this was the best Keenan could do. They all loved Ivanov dearly and everyone knew he likely wouldn’t make it, but Keenan was grateful and wanted to make sure Ivanov would at least get the chance.

He looked at the alien planet with a renewed hope that they could pull this off after all. Payback would be late in coming. 743 years late, to be exact. But it would definitely be a bitch…

Chapter 1
Slight complications…

Jack picked her usual spot, trying hard not to be noticed which was next to impossible. Lithe, tall and unusually dark for one who had spent all her life on board a stellar craft, it was her mysterious grey eyes that were known to stop people in mid sentence. At the moment, no one was stopped in the unusually busy cafeteria that doubled as an impromptu social area.

She cringed as she saw Susan come near. “It wasn’t your fault, Jaclyn,” her wingman said. Very few people knew Jack’s real name, and Susan was one of them.

That morning on a training run her student, Mike ‘The Knife’ as he liked to call himself piloted his ship head on into a rock. Jack had spied the failing thruster just before it happened but she couldn’t do anything in time. He was one of the best they had, and Jack knew he had an immense crush on her which she played out for fun, but now he was frozen organic space dust. ‘He was only thirteen,’ she had repeated all morning to herself.

She ignored Susan, but soon the others came around too. After hearing repeated “There was nothing you could have done” comments, Jack couldn’t take it any longer and was about to get up and leave when Jason came by and said, “Why all so gloomy? Someone die?”

He realized too late that he had just put his foot in his mouth.

“Oh. Uh, I didn’t mean…I mean, I had no idea…” Jason mumbled as he tried to diffuse the angry stares. Jack felt the gravity generators fail again and took advantage of the opportunity. She had been holding in her anger, but Jason had split it wide open. She launched herself straight at him, giving him a solid blow to his nose as she floated by. The gravity came back on and Jack landed hard, but she picked herself up and walked away.

The crunch she felt as she smacked Scratch in the nose reminded her of the fights she had as a teenager. The kids in school teased her with her name, calling her Jack instead of Jaclyn. The girls were jealous of her quick physical development and early beauty; and the boys were angry she ignored them, which ended up being Class 101 in the school of hard knocks.

Once her parents were reassigned to WF221, she chose to call herself Jack. When people asked why she had a boy’s name, she said it was because she fought like one, and offered free demonstrations. Few took her up on the offer.

“Jack, I didn’t know!” Jason said while holding his bleeding nose, but she had already gone around the corner. He ran after her and eventually caught up.

“Hey, SLOW DOWN!” he said and grabbed her shoulder. She turned, ready to explode at Scratch again but saw the blood covering his old fashioned flight jacket as he held his nose.

“I didn’t know! Honestly! What happened anyway?” he said in a nasal tone.

Her anger simmered down as she saw the concern in his eyes. “Damn computer glitch! Or screwed up thruster! I don’t know. All I know is that he’s dead. He’s thirteen and dead Scratch! It’s bad enough losing someone because he got jacked, but this is just stupid, a stupid waste!”

Jason was quiet for a few seconds as Jack stood there trembling with anger and frustration.

“That’s not your fault Jack and you know it,” he finally said. “And he’s not the only thirteen-year-old killed either. It sucks, but by rights we’ve gone way past our due date too. Those ants should have had our number, but it’s the luck of the draw. And…” here Scratch was guessing, “Mike, I take it…his luck ran out, pure and simple. It really sucks,” he said as he saw her anger flare again, “but there’s nothing any of us can do about it. Except keep on beating those damn ants and pushing our own luck,” he added.

“Lucky for us, we’re smarter than they are,” she said, not particularly including Jason in the comment.

“Yeah,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.

At that moment, the COMBAT klaxon sounded as WF221 geared for battle.

###

“Sir, Unidentified Object in Low Planet Orbit,” Jumal, the acting Tactical Officer said. Commander Dietrich turned to the main Tactical display and watched as a UO, symbolized by a bright yellow triangle in LPO around Beta-9 slowly came into view. The triangle started blinking which made Dietrich very curious, because it confirmed what the object was, but couldn’t discern if it was ‘Friend or Foe’.

“Comp, list specs on main screen.”

Dietrich read the description as a high definition view of the object was finally processed. ‘Class 1 Orbiting Weapons Platform, origin – Human, Second Generation,’ had scrolled down the side, with the standard weapons inventory listed as per database.

“Confirm lack of transponder.” Dietrich couldn’t understand why the platform wasn’t sending a ‘friendly’ symbol.

“Confirmed sir,” Jumal said. “Our systems are fine. Pinged it five times. No Transponder.”

Now Dietrich’s eyebrows raised up in surprise. “Didn’t Intel establish this as unoccupied?”

“Unoccupied, light alien activity.”

“What do you make of it, Captain Hollander?”

The Captain of WF221 looked at the convoy commander and said, “Never heard of this before. If the transponder’s down, you communicate. I would say the platform is no longer ours.”

At that moment, all eyes turned as Council Intelligence Officer Ian Anderson walked onto the bridge. Dietrich didn’t blame them. In the twelve years Anderson had been on WF221, he had NEVER come to the bridge and had remained an enigma to the crew. He silently came to stand by Dietrich’s side to watch Main Tactical.

“Sir, we got more bogeys!” Jumal yelled as two more red triangles now showed up on screen, their tactical information scrolling down the side.

“We’ve got CAP ships! COMBAT ALERT!” Captain Hollander yelled as soon as the info was confirmed.

“Did you know of this?” Dietrich asked the Intel officer, but as usual Anderson remained quiet.

The Commander turned to Tactical with a sour look on his face, tired of the lack of answers he got from the secretive CIA. They had been set up by the Council over seven hundred years before. Rumor was they kept in constant contact. However, no one else had heard from them at all, and Dietrich doubted they even existed anymore.

He watched as the two Cap ships neared the orbital platform.

“Sir, what should we do?” Jumal asked, worried about its fate.

“Nothing, yet,” said Anderson, to Dietrich’s annoyance. “Tell me when they’re in attack range of the platform.”

“They are now sir, and have been for the last two minutes. Two more Cap ships have just jumped in!”

“I see. Captain Hollander, Commander Dietrich, make sure the convoy is aware of the situation, and set an intercept course for the orbital platform. You are to destroy it, and then attack the nearest Capital ship.”

Hollander looked incredulously at Anderson. “You’re telling me I am to position myself between four Capital ships and destroy a human platform, and then each Cap ship in turn? This is your order?” he asked, thinking that it was perhaps some joke.

“Yes,” Anderson said as left the bridge.

Knowing he had no choice, Dietrich confirmed the order and the bridge crew resigned themselves to their inevitable death.

###

Jack was startled by the combat klaxons, but they only meant one thing as she sprinted down the hallway to the launch bay. It was a mad scramble as everyone got ready, surprise showing on almost all their faces. Ever since Abadon destroyed the alien home-world, no one really expected to have to engage aliens in any serious fight. Jack didn’t know what to think. It was true they were hive oriented, but she guessed they could also function far from home independently of their queen. Intel kept quiet on the matter of course. As the saying goes, if you want to know anything, DON’T ask Intel.

As she ran, she thought of the brave crew that accomplished the impossible. From the very beginning no one thought that the mission objective could be achieved. Antimatter was extremely difficult to make, and it was almost impossible to store properly and safely for any length of time. At Luna 13, when ten ounces of antimatter reacted, the 180 petajoules obliterated not only the station, but the moon itself, killing over one thousand people in the process. But to store, transport, and somehow thread their way through enemy defenses and actually reach their target was a true achievement, an incredible win in a long string of losses. Jack would like to have met these heroes. The Russians were still ecstatically celebrating over their dead comrade, a crewmember called Ivanov on the fateful ship. Jack even joined them for a day of drinking from their very well designed still. What would happen now? What would the aliens do? She didn’t know, but after what happened to Mike she was ready to kick some ass and find out.“Nancy, Jack here. Did you check my suit? I had that interface problem the last time…” Jack waited at the wall comm while Nancy searched her memory.

“My Drop Suit? You know, suit to ship interface…got a lot of static, my ship would miss a beat…” she added, frustrated that Nancy couldn’t remember.
“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Nancy replied. “The terminals were corroded. Too much moisture and the oxygen was a little rich in the storage compartment. Checked your other links too. Should be fine. Let me know if you have a problem.”
Nancy’s voice carried over to her suit comm as Jack suited up. Within seconds she was being dropped into her ship by the overhead carriage when she heard Nancy’s last words. A firefight was not the time to discover any problems with her interface connections.

“Just one more question Nancy. This morning, my student had some prob with his thruster. Any idea who serviced the ship last?”

“Who was your student?” Nancy said, as the launcher engaged.

Jack chose her words carefully. “It was Mike.”

“Mike, as in Mike the one who-?”

“Yeah. That Mike.” There was a pause and Jack activated Tactical and Targeting while she waited.

“Just checked. Nothing on the logs. Must be corrupted data.”

“R-i-g-h-t…” Jack replied. It was no surprise Nancy wouldn’t say. Mistakes always happened with the overworked crew, but in Ship Repair and Maintenance it usually resulted in injuries or deaths. When an error occurred in this department, it was common practice to delete the maintenance files to prevent revenge and keep things going smoothly. The person in question would normally be reprimanded and dealt with privately.

“Nancy, he was only 13 dammit!”

“And now he’s dead Jack!” Nancy shot back. “What do you expect to come out of this? Someone MAYBE didn’t notice an ignition wire screw loose out of the thousands we have to check every week, and you’re…what? Gonna nail this person’s ass? We’re doing the best we can here. If you don’t think so, come down and give us a hand! Maybe you’ll see why a person can forget to tighten a screw, or check a relay, or miss a short, or the million other things too few of us have to take care of! Now leave me alone. I’ve wasted enough time here and I don’t want to miss anything!”

Jack knew she was right, and hated herself for it all the more.

Self Publishing

Caveat: I am no expert. But having perused writers' forums actively for 8 months as I struggled to get my work known (www (dot) pauldaytonscifi (dot) com ) I've learned a lot as to why now is possibly the hardest time ever to get anything published, and why more and more people are going the new self pub'd or ebook route.

The economy has severely affected the publishing industry. Yes, you still see book stores busy with customers (who are purchasing much more carefully now, by the way), and although sales are down, the problem isn't really the consumer.
The issue is that every major organization is cutting down. Less T.V. shows, shorter seasons, fewer writers, fewer journalists, fewer, fewer, fewer. The result is of course a huge group of jobless, professional writers, journalists, T.V. show writers and so on, sitting at home twiddling their thumbs. Many of them turn to what they do best and write the novel that has been sitting in their heads for x number of years but never had time to write, until now.

Worse yet, the average Joe/Jane Doe reader is also laid off, and as they get pogey, suddenly get the idea that they can write too, and wouldn't it be a great idea to get some extra income?
Result - slushpiles are now huge. Great MSs get missed because there simply isn't the time or the manpower to go through them all. I've found about half the pub houses haven't sent me a reply to my query, and of those that did, it's the standard reply that has me guessing they haven't even read the first page of my MS.

What IS happening at pub houses:
They stick with known, successful writers, which are less of a gamble. They stick with known formulas - is your book over 100,000 words? Does it have vampires? Are you unpublished?... REJECTED

However,
Publishing an ebook is getting easier and easier, even for major online retailers such as Barnes and Noble.
This also comes with a caveat. Because publishing an ebook is now so easy, the list of crappy ebooks out there is huge and growing. So, an author has two choices in this matter:
Send out queries AFTER your MS is as good as it will ever be, or
publish it in ebook format, and ADVERTISE, PROMOTE, BEG AND PLEAD.

Tough, isn't it?