FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Excerpt: Hell’s Reach

The Tomereader twitched with eagerness to descend to the lower level to see if Mass indeed survived. He knew the captured warrior would not. Even if he was brought alive before their leader, he would be tortured and left to die, punishment for all the ills that beset Jesteel’s broken mind, as well as the crime of killing at least two of her mere eleven living guards.

Of all the creatures conjectured, whispered and breathlessly rumored to inhabit Hell’s Reach, only thirteen were alive. A cursed number, to be sure. The rest, numbering maybe five times that, worked the mines, though not by choice. But choice is for the sane, and sometimes the living, but not those living in the shadow of this accursed mountain, nor among the scraps of its ruin. And death is no escape.

Excerpt: In Human Shadow

Wrank felt as if his backbone was melded with the stone of the ceiling; was sure his knees would burst, spewing bone and cartilage in a shower of liquid red and shattered white shards; he no longer felt his arms and shoulders, fleshy struts propped against his knees; his legs trembled violently with constant muscular eruptions; his hips were folded iron being heated at the joints. Moisture leaked from every pore and ran down his body as if each salty bead were racing the others to the stone floor. All that he was, had ever been, was being slowly crushed to an unrecognizable pulp.

Blood pounded in large fluidic knots through the veins and muscles in Wrank’s head and jaw. The rush of dark red fluid seemed to flood his brain and the edges of his vision went black. He sensed an encroaching line of blindness, a strange, blank area at the edges of his sight. His mechanistic foe never tired, pressed easily onward, downward, while Wrank’s will and strength waned.

The half-orc imagined Toj Alfaron’s head crawling from its sack to roll over and sit upright on the ragged edges of skin, muscle, and bone below its severed head. The now fleshy pulp that was the back of its skull leaked ichor and the thing smiled grotesquely at Wrank’s inevitable demise.

Wrank’s lungs heaved, his body desperately trying to do the impossible, to send enough oxygen to his muscles and his brain to keep him going. His ribs spread-and-collapsed-spread-and-collapsed so quickly they felt as if they were a door slamming shut with each exhalation, never to allow another breath passage through the fleshy corridor. His heart was a pulsating, melon-sized ball of pulp about to burst from hammer blows.

Excerpt: the room, The Door
Particular Passages 4: South Wing

As I stood, wondering what to say to her, the sobbing quieted and her breathing, broken at first, became regular, and I guessed she was asleep. I went to her side and took her hand in mine.

I awoke, refreshed. I sat up and my mother said, “I didn’t know if you would come back.”

“Why wouldn’t I?’

“Well, it’s just that… Where did you go?”

“To the door.”

“Oh.”

“You knew it was there.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would want to go see it.”

“I did anyway.”

“Don’t leave me, Son.”

“Why would I?”

“I’m dying. I’m aged.”

“Mother, why didn’t you tell me about the door?”

“It’s no good, you know.”

“What’s not?”

“No good, son. It ages and kills. I’ve seen what it does. Don’t open it, not even a crack. Oh, I know alright, it’s done it to me. But not to you, no son, not to you. It won’t get you; I’ll see to that. I’ll warn you. You’ll know, and it won’t be able to hurt you. You’ll know.”

Excerpt: God of the Supine Obelisk
Navigating Ruins

Nyman, through one slit eyelid, looked down his nose to see if his plea had indeed been answered. With a smile, Tenedrün waved him in. Nyman stepped unsurely over the threshold and into the chamber again.

“Quite an honor I’ve bestowed upon your little temple, eh boy? It’s not often your god visits you,” he beamed.

“Er, no, um, Your, uh, Tene . . . I mean, that is, Lord…” Nyman stammered, overwhelmed.

“Just call me Tenedrün,” he said, and paused. Nyman was about to do just that when he continued with a flourish, “Lord and Master of the Known Universe, Banisher of Chaos and Bringer of Order”—he turned sideways and threw a dramatic hand skyward — “Wielder of the Sacred Trust, Keeper of the Six Systems of Sanity, Beacon of the True Order, Protector from the Ancient Corrupter Pandemonium.” Hand upraised, he paused again.. Nyman thought he might continue, but his titles had apparently run out. He peeked sidelong at Nyman, then cleared his throat and lowered his arm. “Well?”

“Um, yes Tenedrün, Lord, er, Lord and Master of the Known Universe, um, that is, Bringer, er, uh, Banisher, I mean, of Chaos . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Tenedrün interrupted, waving off the formal address with a nonchalant flick of the wrist. “It is quite a mouthful. Tell you what. Just say ‘Tenedrün,’ but when you do, think all of those other things I told you.” The god winked.

Excerpt: Like Screams from Deep Space
Recovering Villains Anthology

I found the red handle of the utility drill just as the embedded tool somehow re-engaged and busted itself free with a blowtorch exhalation of gas and air. Shards of rock and metal shot outward, the bulk of the fish immovable against the percussive accident.

I turned and ducked but caught several heavy chunks across my shoulder and forearm. My vac suit ripped open and I felt a momentary sting, the cold of space invading before the reactive elastomer in my suit swelled to seal me back in my own personal space bubble. I heard a scream, maybe my own, I wasn’t sure. I was so used to my own screaming it seemed a permanent part of myself; the only thing I knew belonged to me. A whimper of fear escaped my throat before it was all drowned out by the pounding of my heart as I tumbled backwards, the magnetics of my boots having failed.

My body tried to wretch as I skidded back toward the decom chamber portal, but thankfully there was almost nothing in my stomach to give up. The bacon-flavored protein gels, filled with tasty nanoparticles that carried designer molecules to perform ongoing gene and tissue therapy normal on near space mining vessels, had smelled only mockingly of cold, sweet pork this morning. A sort of scratch-n-sniff, greaseless fat that sat stale and flat in my nose. The several small swallows I’d managed were now spattered across my faceplate, adorned with flecks of yellowish bile.

I thumped hard against the back wall, arresting my thrust, but rattled around in the corners, banging arms, legs and helmet until I could grab onto a handhold. I slumped, finally without explosive inertia and mostly still, shivering, sweaty and about to shit myself.

“Jesus Christ,” I rasped, “how about a little help over here!” But the wailing I’d heard earlier persisted, and now I knew it wasn’t me. I should’ve known. This reality held little fear for me.