“Thank you, commander, but you can go now.” The way the words were spoken, he might as well have said, ”You’re fired!”
Cole’s mouth was set in a hard line as he glared at Shelly or whatever her name was. He was barely able to contain his fury. He decided he’d better leave the conference room before he got himself into deeper trouble. The time had come to back off and make his exit.
Cole never noticed how Janson's hawk-like gaze followed him as he stepped out of the conference room. If he had turned around, he would have realized Synthetika's CEO looked satisfied as his lips bent into a thin smile, almost as if Cole had passed some sort of test.
CHAPTER THREE
SOUNDS OF RAUCOUS abandon filled the bustling watering hole. It was a blue-collar joint and everyone gathered here today was looking to knock back a few beers and blow off some steam. There was nothing trendy about this dive and it boasted a rough physicality that was becoming increasingly rare in a techno-centric world. The jukebox blared classic rock, drowning out the clacking of pool balls. The smell of bacon and grease wafted through the air.
Cole nursed a beer, but the alcohol wasn’t improving his mood. While he had traded in his AI-TAC combat gear for civilian attire, he was still wearing his armor. His expression remained guarded. His squad-mates had decided to grab a few drinks and he had foolishly accepted the invitation. But as soon as Cole finished his first beer, he knew it was a mistake. Instead of easing his tension, the alcohol was adding fuel to the fire and flaring his anger. The incident on the freighter and the subsequent board meeting had gotten to him and alcohol wouldn’t fix the problem, not even in the short term.
Facing him directly was Margo. She rolled her eyes incredulously. “You actually suggested they recall the whole line? I bet that went over well.”
Cole answered by draining a third of his bottle in a single swig. Another one of his men whose name was Ruger, 6’5 and 250 pounds of solid muscle, chimed in. His brutish features belied a sharp mind — AI-TAC didn’t accept dummies into its elite ranks. “Quick newsflash, Cole,” he said, ”The average American is 52 years old and has 0.5 children. This country needs AIs.”
“But do they need us?” Cole countered.
“Here we go...” Margo’s tone suggested that she knew all too well where the conversation was headed.
Cole knew it too. He was falling into an old pattern. His team had heard what he was about to say a hundred times before, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue. “They're faster. Stronger. Smarter. And they're starting to catch on. It's called evolution.”
“Come on now–“ Ruger’s meek protest couldn’t slow Cole down. The floodgates were open. There were forces at work inside Cole that made him steer clear of alcohol. Today, he had lowered his guard and was paying the price. Booze had a nasty way of driving his demons to the surface. Another person seemed to be in charge as he spoke. “We want mechs to be more lifelike, so we develop organic bio-shells. We want them to laugh at our lame jokes, so we up their emotional reactivity. But where does it end?”
“Synthetika just gives the public what they demand,” Margo said.
“And their greed feeds this demand without giving a shit about the consequences. We deserve what’s coming.”
Cole was surprised by his own harsh tone of voice. He hadn’t always thought this way. There was a time when things were… different. When he was different.
Margo finished her beer, took a deep breath and made a valiant attempt at rescuing the evening. From the fatalistic look on her face, it was clear she knew her efforts were doomed to fail. “Mechs will malfunction, Cole. Doesn't mean the machines are taking over.“
In response to her words, Cole's gaze traveled the length of the bar and came to rest on a mech go-go dancer. She was flaunting her perfect physique on an elevated platform. Feeling Cole’s attention, the android misread his interest and flashed him a seductive come-hither smile. Her invitation was met with an iron glare and she was forced to look away. She might be an older model (Cole doubted the dive could afford a top-of-the-line X-3000) but she must be running facial-recognition software equipped with the latest emotion-reading upgrades.
Ruger witnessed the exchange and flashed Cole a grin. He was a more recent addition to the team, a transfer from vice who still didn’t quite get that the commander had no sense of humor when it came to mechanicals. “I think she likes you. You know what they say: once you go mech, you'll never go beeeck.”
Cole wasn't amused. He drained his beer and dropped some cash on the table. Time to call it a night. “Ladies and gents, you have a great evening.”
As Cole disappeared through the bar’s exit, he could hear Ruger address Margo.
“He never turns it off, does he?”
“He's not the type.“
Cole saw Margo get up and go after him but he didn’t slow down. He emerged from the bar and was greeted by a blast of cold night air. He welcomed the sharp pinpricks as the wind knocked some effects of the alcohol out of his system. He could almost feel his thoughts clearing as the music from the bar began to fade behind him.
It didn’t take long for Margo to catch up with him. “Listen Cole, he's just running off his mouth,” she said. “Ruger didn't mean nothing.”
“It's all right. It's a free country.”
A look of concern flashed over Margo’s features. “You seem a little shaky — let me give you a lift.”
“Thanks, but I'll walk.”
“How about I join you? I wouldn’t mind some fresh air.”
The words held an unvoiced promise. A part of Cole wanted to say yes, wanted her to walk him home and spend the night, but the wounds of his past were still too raw to let anyone into his life. Besides, it would change everything at work. Sleeping with an officer under his command was a surefire recipe for disaster. “I'll be all right,” he said, already regretting the words. “I know my way home.”
Cole saw the flicker of disappointment on Margo’s face. Before he could change his mind, he turned away and left her warmth behind him. For the next half hour, he drunkenly trundled through the city streets. No one walked in Los Angeles. It was just him, his thoughts and the occasional car zipping past him, occupants reading or texting away while the computers in their vehicles took care of the driving, or a mech did.
He had almost reached his tiny apartment, a small one-bedroom near Mar Vista, when his alcohol-clouded gaze fell on a giant 3-D digital billboard. It was mounted on the roof of a commercial building at an intersection. An obvious eyesore for the neighborhood, and its flashing lights probably kept residents up at night. It was playing a Synthetika commercial for the new X3000.
The ads were everywhere, a pervasive, constant assault on the senses. Sometimes Cole felt the bots weren’t a product being marketed but part of some state sponsored propaganda campaign. This latest ad was a variation of the holo-file that had played during the Synthetika briefing, and thus it brought back his memories of the day in full force. On the screen, AIs performed everyday tasks with greater efficiency and enthusiasm than a human could ever muster. The tagline flashed below the images. EXPERIENCE THE DIFFERENCE.
The text suddenly fizzled and the letters shimmered and changed: "AI" turned into "I AM."
Cole froze. His eyes combed the rooftop and spotted a moving silhouette underneath the billboard. A digital graffiti artist, this tagger had hacker skills. A wafer-thin tablet computer was hooked into the digital billboard’s control panel.
“Hey you, stop where you are!” Cole shouted and the tagger reacted immediately. He unplugged his laptop and took off into the night. Cole made a dash for the building’s fire escape. He didn’t know how he expected to climb three flights of stairs in his current state, but he was going to give it a go.
Cole tried to leap and pull himself up on the first ladder, but he failed to get a good grip on the rail and fell back to the ground. His fall was cushioned by a collection of garbage bags redolent with the stench of rotting meat and fruit. He
felt the contents of his stomach crawling up his throat and furiously sucked in a breath of air, fighting back the nausea.
The kid must have retreated to the neighboring rooftops and in Cole’s condition he couldn’t overcome the vandal’s head start. Frustrated, Cole kicked a nearby garbage can. Trash spilled into the alley and rats scurried off into the shadows.
Cole didn’t remember how he got home, didn’t remember stumbling into his lonely apartment. That night he dreamed of the incident on the freighter.
We think… therefore we are.
In the dream, Cole was hunting the runaway mech. Once again, he pumped a round into the android’s chest.
Once again, the woman went down in a shower of sparks, and once again, she looked up at him, haunted expression imploring but there was one crucial difference this time around.
In Cole’s dream, the woman looking up at him had the face of his dead wife.
When his kingdom is threatened by an ancient evil, a king is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he is to defeat an army of monsters, he must become one himself! His victory carries a terrible price… An eternity frozen in stone.
Fifteen centuries later, the Celtic warrior is awakened when the world needs him most. A stranger in a strange land with his only guide a beautiful archeology student, he must battle his old adversary once again, all while struggling with his own darkness. For he is by day a man, by night cursed to become… The GARGOYLE!
“An Urban Fantasy Novel That Feels Fun and Alive.There's a cinematic feel in Gargoyle Knight...the experience is sweeping with entertaining action that builds to a satisfying climax"Fantascize.com
A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF
GARGOYLE KNIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
IRELAND, 525 A.D.
The Kingdom of Kirkfall
The sun lay dying amid clouds turning the color of bloody bruises. Crimson light bled over the smoldering carcass of the kingdom of Kirkfall. The horde of winged monsters had rained down death and destruction on the city, and the aftereffects of the battle were everywhere. Homes had been reduced to charred ash. Orphaned children cried out for their parents and the moans of the wounded grew weaker as the specter of death closed in. The few remaining healers desperately tried to quell the tide of misery and despair. There was no doubt among the survivors that the city could not withstand another assault.
At the center of the devastation stood a hilltop castle, an impressive stone fortress dominated by tall towers and heavily fortified ramparts. Armed knights patrolled the parapets and warily inspected the horizon, knowing their enemy was certain to attack from the sky. Within the walls, in the ward of the castle, a grim ceremony was taking place. Less than a week ago Artan McKeltar, king of the city-state of Kirkfall, had celebrated his eldest daughter turning seven; today he found himself inhaling the acrid smoke of her burning remains.
Flames engulfed the large funeral pyre and lit up the night, framing Artan’s face in a bloody halo. The fire had not only laid claim to his daughter’s remains but also the bodies of his wife Samara and their five-year old son Cian who, in a perfect world, would have one day been heir to the throne.
There was no time for elaborate ceremony and no offerings were made to any of the Gods.
As the black clouds of smoke billowed into the night, Artan recited every prayer he remembered from childhood, mouthing words that felt stale and empty on this darkest of nights. If the terrified cries of his dying wife and children hadn’t been enough to stir the Gods, Artan doubted his halfhearted words could hold much sway over them. But he prayed nevertheless. Prayed for the dead and the dying, prayed for his people and his city.
Prayed for vengeance.
Artan eyed the surviving warriors who formed a circle around the fire, heads bowed in a mixture of grief and exhaustion, their bodies still drained from the last battle. Their weariness mirrored his own. Artan normally cut a striking presence, but not on this night. His handsome, chiseled face looked aged and worn, his long black hair streaked with silver, his eyes bereft of any light.
A keening shriek shredded the silence of the night. It was part roar, part serpentine hiss, a sound not of this world. The hardened warriors flinched as the sound of the baying beast transported them back to the horrors of the preceding night, when they faced hundreds of creatures identical to the one now imprisoned in the castle. Artan’s brave knights had managed to trap one of the monsters. The action had come at the cost of many courageous souls. Artan vowed that their sacrifice would not be in vain. He nodded at his men. ”It’s time to end this war.”
Artan advanced toward a fenced-off area of the castle’s ward, trailed by his weary knights. The monster’s prison grew visible. A deep pit had been dug out of the ground and covered with a latticework of massive felled trees, preventing the creature from taking flight. The ground shook and the men stole nervous glances at their leader.
The king drew closer to the pit, moving with vengeful determination. He picked up the gargoyle’s dank stench and caught sight of a large shadow flitting back and forth beneath the latticework of trees. Sensing Artan’s approach, the gargoyle flailed against the wooden bars of its underground prison. The thick tree trunks rattled under the violent onslaught but held fast. The winged demon craved to serve the purpose it was made for – to rend human flesh and wreak havoc upon the land. But this particular gargoyle had been grounded and soon its roars of fury would be silenced.
Artan studied the creature through the bars of its subterranean cage. He caught intermittent glimpses of the gargoyle: the play of rippling musculature under burnished skin, a flash of membranous wings... There was an alien intelligence in the beast’s slitted eyes that went beyond mere animal cunning. This creature was sizing him up, as if sensing what the approaching human was up to.
Artan moved closer to the beast and a gauntleted hand grabbed his shoulder. It was his second in command Rael, one of his best and most loyal knights. The man’s handsome features distorted into a haunted mask. “My lord, I can’t allow you to go through with this!”
“There’s no other way, old friend.”
“Please let me go in your place...”
Rael broke off, the king’s steely gaze signaling that he could not be swayed – the course was set. Face taut and resolute, Artan cast off the pieces of his armor, an old skin for which he no longer had use. The creature in the pit grew still, silenced by its own growing curiosity.
Artan’s powerful legs and massive chest, thick with corded muscle, were bare now but he did not relinquish his sword – it remained inside the scabbard strapped securely to his waist. Exposed and vulnerable, he stepped up to the latticework of tree trunks. They were just wide enough for a man to slip through.
“By the Green Mother, you must reconsider!”
Rael’s words fell on deaf ears.
Artan bared his teeth at the beast, eyes filling with hatred.
Come and get me, you bastard!
Fueled by this thought, Artan dropped into the pit and the darkness swallowed him whole.
***
Artan’s hands snapped around one of the massive tree trunks, slowing his descent, and he dangled inside the hole with about 10 feet separating his feet from the bottom of the pit. For a split second, Artan was vulnerable and if the beast made a move he would be done for. But the gargoyle hesitated and Artan let go of the tree trunk. An instant later he touched down at the bottom of the pit, the impact sending shockwaves up his booted legs. His maneuver had slowed his descent and prevented him from twisting an ankle or breaking a leg.
Artan coiled into a defensive stance and drew his sword. The steel blade glinted in the moonlight trickling through the bars of the cage above. The reflection staring back at Artan looked wild and possessed.
His eyes bored into the darkness of the pit. The gargoyle remained shrouded in a pool of shadow but the creature’s presence was undeniable – its stench suffused the darkness. Part of Artan wanted to rush heedlessly into the dark, his blad
e lashing out at what crouched within.
But reason prevailed. So Artan waited, blade up.
He didn’t have to wait for long.
Even though Artan had faced these monsters in battle before, it had never been under such confined circumstances. The gargoyles’ shrieks announced their presence before they launched their furious attacks from the sky. They moved with uncanny speed but one could see them coming. The darkness of the pit didn’t afford Artan that luxury.
With a ferocious shriek, the beast lashed out from the shadows. Its talons would have taken off Artan’s face but his sword came up and deflected the blow, steel clanging against the gargoyle’s clawed paw. The impact sent Artan flying several feet and he hit the ground hard. Shaken but knowing he had to keep moving, Artan scrambled to his feet.
The beast thrust itself over his head. Staying true to its nature, the gargoyle was going to attack from above. But once again Artan was prepared. Steel flashed and this time it found vulnerable tissue and bone. Artan’s sword was of the finest quality and the druids overseeing its creation had named it the Blade of Kings for good reason. A fine weapon, it was imbued with magical properties fit for a leader of men. One of Artan’s knights had joked that it could cut through stone. Artan wasn’t convinced, but he knew that flesh and bone, human or otherwise, offered little resistance to the bite of the blade.
The sword sheared off one of the gargoyle’s wings in mid-attack. The beast’s bellow of pain echoed across the castle, making the knights outside the pit shudder. The gargoyle slammed to the ground in a geyser of dirt and black blood.
Artan backed away, bringing up one of his hands to shield his eyes from the blinding cloud.
Realizing that Artan posed a serious threat, the gargoyle shook off its agony and lunged at him. The creature was slowed considerably with its severed wing hanging by a thread of tissue and fragmented bone. But a slow gargoyle was still faster than any human opponent. And in the confines of the pit, speed had become less important.
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