Defiant, She Advanced
Legends of Future Resistance
George Donnelly, Editor
Cheverer
Contents
1. The Slow Suicide of Living Again
2. Thompson’s Stand
3. Under the Heel of the Aether Imperium
4. Yellowsea Yank
5. Doubleplusunhate
6. Get Kidd to Bounty
7. The Intruder
8. Workaday
9. Fluorescence
10. Death Shop
Did you Like this Book?
What to Read Now
Acknowledgments
Indiegogo Contributors
About the Editor
Also by the Authors
Defiant, She Advanced
George Donnelly, Editor
* * *
Copyright 2014 George Donnelly
Smashwords Edition
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
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ISBN: 978-1-941939-03-1
Defiant, She Advanced
Book 1 in the There Will be Liberty Series
From the Imperium-controlled aetherlanes to a tech noir restitution agency in the Free Zone and from a steampunk, 1894 China with clockwork automatons to a post-1984 Orwellian dystopia with mandatory goodpharm, here are ten science fiction stories of defiance and daring.
Split evenly between strong female and male leads, these heroes fight losing battles on principle alone, discover lies hidden deep inside themselves, execute daring rescues and fight for love and liberty in a society where human dignity is cheaper than obsolete swarmbots.
These original, never-before-published works are from veteran authors, including William F. Wu, as well as emerging talents.
The Slow Suicide of Living Again by Wendy McElroy © 2014 Wendy McElroy
Thompson’s Stand by Jake Antares © 2014 Jake Antares
Under the Heel of the Aether Imperium by J.P. Medved © 2014 J.P. Medved
Yellowsea Yank by William F. Wu © 2014 William F. Wu
Doubleplusunhate by George Donnelly © 2014, 2016 George Donnelly (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Get Kidd to Bounty by Jack McDonald Burnett © 2014 Jack McDonald Burnett
The Intruder by Robert S. Hirsch © 2014 Robert S. Hirsch
Workaday by Jonathan David Baird © 2014 Jonathan David Baird
Fluorescence by J.P. Medved © 2014 J.P. Medved
The Death Shop by George Donnelly © 2014, 2015 George Donnelly (CC BY-SA 4.0)
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors’ respective imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First edition, December 2014.
Second edition, October 2016.
Copyright 2014, 2016 George Donnelly, Editor
ISBN: 978-1-941939-03-1
Get 3 free books at GeorgeDonnelly.com.
To the Free Library of Philadelphia,
Welsh Road Branch —
where I discovered science fiction in 1980.
1
The Slow Suicide of Living Again
Wendy McElroy
I am the skin of darkness on walls. A cat in silent dance, I glide from shadow toward the staircase draped in night. I freeze.
“She came in here,” a hoarse male voice calls out from the sidewalk in front of the crumbling apartment complex. There must be two of them in the darkness.
I am trapped in the courtyard. The U-shaped building is two-stories with a staircase in the center leading upward. I need to crash for the night, in safety, and this place is as good as any — or was. Now it’s a cage. Shit. This didn’t need to happen. I stayed too long in the no-go zone and home won’t be ’til tomorrow.
The courtyard is dead still as the speaker and whoever’s with him listen. I can’t make it to the steps without risking detection. Cold sweat drenches my armpits despite the hot California night.
“Are you sure?” a baritone whispers from no more than six feet away.
“Yeah. And she’s a looker. I saw her in the headlights of that last car. Twenty something. She’ll bring a nice price.”
The baritone laughs. “And only slightly used when we’re through.” The chuckle breaks off. “No way out of here?”
“Only through an apartment and out the back.”
“Then I’ll cover the back.” Footsteps retreat to the sidewalk and fade quickly.
One down. One left. I chance a step toward the staircase.
He slams my back into the wall with teeth rattling force. “You’re not going anywhere,” the words float to my nose on the odor of cigars and tequila. “What’s this?” He feels the strap of an overstuffed canvas bag that’s slung over my right shoulder and the fingers of one hand fumble to take it off. I grab the distraction.
My left knee shoots into his groin, and he drops like wet sand, gasping to the ground. Why do men forget they have testicles?
I leap over his crumbled body, leather boots clicking on the stone stairs as I race upward.
“Bobby!” the grabber manages to scream and footsteps race into the courtyard in response.
A flashlight flicks on as Bobby kneels by the groaning man and demands, “What happened?”
I do not wait to listen. On the second floor, I kick open an apartment door and slam it shut but I stay standing on the outside. I move quietly down the outside hallway to where it blind-ends into a brick wall. Climbing onto the cast iron rail, I reach up to the ledge of the building’s flat rooftop and hoist my weight up and over just as the men make it to the slammed door.
“In here,” the kneed man speaks like a strangling chicken.
On the roof, I lie trembling from exertion and fear, trying to silence my heartbeat, to stop my breath. They are in the apartment below, tearing through the rooms, smashing items in frustration.
“She made it out the back,” Bobby declares as he steps back into the outside hallway. “She’s gone,” he accuses the man who still breathes in a soft moan.
They leave without another word. Soon there are no footsteps but the men are likely better at stealth than me. I need to wait until it is safe, until it is morning. I won’t move before dawn when traffic wakes the street and sunlight fills people’s eyes so that acts aren’t veiled by darkness. The no-go zone will be safe enough then to run as fast as I can to the nearest transit.
Meanwhile, the rooftop is chilly beneath my T-shirt in sharp contrast with the hot August air. A shiver of pleasure trips down my spine and, for a moment, it is enough to enjoy the sensation of safety, to soak in the cool and the warm, the fresh air and a rustling tree. My mind wanders.
The men are traffickers. They scoop up ‘recruits’ for the sex rings that are booming business in the no-go zone. And I am just their type because no one would notice — let alone report — a hole where my body used to be. Except, maybe, M. Blumenthal Restitution — the company for which I work. Murray takes a strangely personal interest in me. Strange because he doesn’t look down my blouse to check out its ample assets. How
ample? Men talk to my chest, directing conversation to “the girls” rather than looking me in the eyes. I once pulled a gun on a man for doing that and made him talk to my eyes. They are hazel and piercing beneath cropped brown hair. I think they’re my best feature. But I’m in the minority.
Ah, well, maybe it’s a fatherly thing with Murray. He is going to be so pissed at me. I sigh.
Today was a routine run to pick up paperwork in what used to be downtown Los Angeles. An easy job. Starting from the Free Zone that used to be Santa Monica, it is a straight shot east on Interstate 10 from the ocean to my destination — 7th Street in Old Town. My papers and permits were in order, and I had a round-trip ticket for the street trans. It slides right past the no-go areas between Free Z and Old Town, the areas where I get into trouble, and where I cause it. I lived in one of them before the city civil wars. Today, I watched familiar buildings flick by and I thought I saw…
Doesn’t matter. The image flashes in my mind. Graffiti on a wall: If you meet John Galt on the road, kill him. Even now the words draw me, disturb me, and I don’t know why. I push them away.
Murray is going to be so pissed that I got off and missed the last tran. At least I got the paperwork first.
The stars above me glisten as though wet, so wet they hurt my eyes, which I close. But it isn’t the stars causing pain. I hurt. As shock and adrenaline recede, I feel the impact of being slammed into the wall and my neck screams. I reach for the shoulder bag now lying to one side and scratch through the bottom for the hypo I keep loaded with pain killers. There it is! I let it drop from my fingers. I may need to be alert. Or, at least, able to come to in a flash.
I settle back down. Despite the pain, sleep begins to creep and I surrender.
7 a.m., when the first trans pauses at the pick-up point, I am waiting.
“Bad neighborhood,” the armed guard inside comments as I hand him the return ticket. “Especially for a little lady like you.”
The tone is friendly so I ignore the remark and sit down.
An hour later, Murray Blumenthal’s tone is far less friendly. “What the hell are you thinking?” Murray squawks at me from over the bright green bow tie that wraps his oversized neck. “Wait!” He raises a pudgy hand to cut off a protest that isn’t coming. “Don’t tell me… you aren’t thinking at all these days! Right? Am I right!” A deep breath heaves his chest. His restless fingertips tap the thick brown envelope I’d slipped immediately in front of him ten minutes ago when I entered the office. It sits unopened in the center of a massive wooden desk that fills the otherwise stark room. He taps the envelope throughout my short verbal report.
“Mac, what am I going to do with you?” he appeals to thin air.
The name is MacKenzie Jones but he likes to call me Mac… and I like it too, though I’d never tell him so. I stare down at my hands, mimicking contrition.
“Why did you get off in Westwood?” he demanded.
“Just an impulse, Boss. You know me, I’m wild and crazy.”
He grimaces. “It was the ‘If you meet John Galt on the road, kill him’ thing, right?”
“What?!” What the hell… “How do you know about the graffiti? Am I being followed?”
“Getting off the trans is not wild and crazy, Mac. It’s stupid. And if you wanna get yourself killed, make sure you drop off my paperwork first. We’re a team here at the agency.”
I bite back an angry response. Right now, Murray, this team player wouldn’t piss in your ear if your brains were on fire! “It is my life,” I protest instead.
“Ah, just get out,” he shakes his head in disgust. “And don’t think you’re leaving the Free Zone any time soon. You’re riding a desk until I say you’re not.”
“I’m the best field agent you’ve got.”
“You’re reckless and I don’t need the stress. So take some pity on an old man, and shut up and listen!” His hand slaps down on the envelope. “You’re grounded until I decide you’re not. And I want your report in writing by the end of the day.” This time the pudgy hand prevents my snap back. “Verbal isn’t good enough this time, sweet cheeks. In writing.”
I shove my chair away hard with a satisfying scrape. As I reach the door, his words stop me cold. “How did you know about the rail?” he asks.
“What?”
“The rooftop. You said it was pitch black and you’d never been to the building before. How’d you know there was a rail that’d get you to the roof?”
I shrug. “Hallways have rails. What’s the big deal?”
I open the door. Murray’s secretary Sophia looks up expectantly at me from her desk in the small outer chamber. “How did you know about the John Galt thing?” I throw the question to him over my shoulder.
“The same way you knew about the rail. Now get out of here. Write up the report and go home.”
If you’re lying to me, Murray, I’ll come back to chew your ass. I shudder at the sudden gruesome image.
Home is warm and welcoming like the shower I’ll take in a few minutes. I throw my shoulder bag into a corner by the front door and a flare of pain lances my neck. I bolt-lock the door behind me. No need to be alert any more. I retrieve the purse, find the hypo and plunge away the pain. A few bites of food, a splash of hot water, a few hours sleep, and I’ll be shiny. That’s all I need from life. That and a door to shut behind me.
Home is a modest tenth-floor walk-in that’s plenty big enough for a single gal who is AWOL half the time. I bought it for the tiny balcony that perches over the strip of park called the Palisades, with a clear view of the roiling ocean and the mind-stopping sunsets every night. When my brain gets too busy, I sit and let the thoughts clean out.
Like most people, I’ve a lot to forget. The SoCal wars left us all scarred and staggering. Widows, orphans, the maimed, the raped, the homeless, the heartless… Hard to believe the two years of blood started on a corner of Wilshire Boulevard in front of a post office. Started with a modest but persistent protest after the cops shot and killed another black teen in the back. Night after night, the crowd swelled and became raw with violence. Police retaliated like soldiers in combat against a foreign enemy. Looters blended in with those who called for justice or revenge. And, then, the racial tension boiled over and just kept coming, kept spreading. Blacks against whites, whites against Hispanics, the gangs against everyone, Asians on rooftops guarding their homes and businesses with guns.
Nowhere was safe. I was a graphic artist in Westwood when violence arrived on the welcome mat of my loft apartment. A gun I didn’t know how to use was all that stood between me and…
No! No memories tonight. The past can’t change. And the Free Z is as safe as any place can be. The price of moving to the privately owned community is to buy insurance from a private defense agency and learn to use a gun. There aren’t many rules here for those who stay peaceful but everyone provides their own defense. That way, an attack on the community has to conquer each street, one person at a time.
I grab the remnants of Chinese take-out from the fridge along with a fork and settle down at the table with one chair that I call “kitchen.” A newspaper from a few days ago is open at the obituaries. I flip through the rest of it slowly, skimming items without much interest, until I hit the last page.
A photo. A man in a lab coat stands in front of a white board covered with second-order differential equations. Beneath him is the caption, “Pacific U. Celebrates Physics Breakthrough by Fast-Track Prof.” I stare at the photo for a long time without moving. The room darkens around me.
I wake up face down on the kitchen table with dawn streaming over me. I wake up fast, jerking my head with neck-stabbing agony. Holy shit! Overslept. A shower starts my sprint to Blumenthal’s.
I will not admit it but I’m glad to ride an agency desk today because crunching numbers is the sort of challenge my brain can handle right now. I navigate a tower of file folders, being careful with data and calculations because each file is a person’s life. Each is a res
titution case that’s arbitrated and needs a dollar value or some other payback Blumenthal’s can collect. Murray’s reputation and profits rest on the payback being fair. Some cases are easy. A vandalized car gets repaired and the vandal pays for the garage, the inconvenience, the cost of crime solving and collection. The sticky stuff comes with crimes like assault. What’s the price of a broken arm or a shattered hand? Is it worth more to a pianist than a housewife? Math and precedent establish the answer — but it’s never a satisfying one. It’s only the best we can do. That’s why the Free Z’s emphasis is first and foremost on preventing the crime from occurring.
Number crunching is no-glamor work but as necessary to the justice biz as guns. Old Towners never get it but they never fail to ask me about it, usually over a drink or meal invite. What the hell, it’s free food and booze. I explain from rote how private police operate and defense is a business. The slice of justice that’s restitution takes place after a case is settled and payment is due. Over the inevitable next round of drinks, I give Olders a “see Spot run” version of private justice.
Smith is burglarized. Two detectives from Acme Defense Agency arrive. Their fee comes from the perp, just as a good lawyer’s fee comes from a defendant. They solve the crime to get paid and they want to avoid lawsuits for “bad” behavior because those destroy profits fast. Strong incentives to be quick and efficient. And, so, the detectives knock on Jones’ door with the damning evidence they’ve collected against him and hand him a bill. If he’s guilty, he usually pays up rather than face an expensive process, including arbitration. If he’s innocent, he usually arbitrates because the cost is likely to fall on the detective agency.
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