Phil Elmore's Blog, page 13

Episode 44, “Something I Can Grab”

 

[image error]Peyton tasted blood. Stillwater’s fist crashed into his jaw a second time, a third time, hammering him back, throwing him against the cracked facade of the bodega. Peyton sheltered his head, tucking his chin, feeling Big Bill’s attacks crash against his forearms. Shards of the bodega’s plaster dig into his kidneys.

He brought his elbows down on Stillwater’s back. The sharp blows staggered the other giant, long enough for Peyton to ram his right fist into Stillwater’s jaw. He threw shovel hook after shovel hook, left and right, left and right, chiseling away at Stillwater as if he would knock the man’s jaw free of his skull. When he judged the timing right, he threw an uppercut that snapped Bill’s head back. Then he threw a vicious front kick that pressed the air from Stillwater’s lungs. The mustached giant staggered back, across the pedestrian walkway, into the street–

Big Bill turned in time to see the hovertruck that hit him. The collision crumpled the front of the vehicle and caused it to yaw into oncoming traffic, where it smashed a unmanned robot hydrogen cycle to pieces.

The screaming started.

The hydrogen cycle detonated, creating a fireball that cast Bill’s bloody face in orange relief. He staggered through the smoking, burning debris, headed for Peyton, who faced him through the chaos. Vehicles collided as they tried to avoid the flames. Several cyclists went down. Ground cars careened around the growing clot of fallen riders and their machines. An automated traffic klaxon began to sound. The stream of drones overhead was scattered by the whoops of a hovering traffic supervisor, a turbofan model equipped with cameras, loudspeakers, and strobe lights. The supervisor started shouting synthesized calls for orderly movement away from the crash area.

Stillwater jumped and caught it. The drone’s fan screamed in protest. Bill swung the drone like a weapon, smashing aside a pedicab and knocking its driver to the pavement. The drone spun away as if thrown from a catapult. Stillwater was already charging Peyton again.

The two crashed against each other, chest to chest, grabbing for each other’s arms, clinching up in a mammoth, standing brawl that saw them clawing and ripping at each other’s flesh. Stillwater’s hands found Peyton’s face and he tried to gouge his opponent’s eyes. Peyton broke his own hand up and through Stillwater’s arms, slamming the heel of his palm against the other man’s chin. Bill’s head snapped back. Peyton drove the web of his hand into Stillwater’s throat.

Staggering, Bill dragged Peyton to the ground with him, locking his hands around Peyton’s wrists. Around them, people ran, shouted in alarm, even stood and watched in horror or fascination. Peyton rolled his wrists and grabbed Stillwater’s, locking the two together at the arms. Both men exerted as much force as they could, their arms straining, the veins in their forearms and biceps swelling against their livid skin. Stillwater leaned in. His breath was hot and foul in Peyton’s face.

“No room for you,” said Stillwater. “I was first. Me. Big Bill Stillwater. You shouldn’t be here. Now you won’t be.”

Peyton could feel his skin growing hot as he struggled against Stillwater’s grip. The two were so evenly matched that neither could break the wrist hold. “You don’t owe them anything,” he managed to say. “Your life is yours. Don’t be their hammer.”

“I was nothing before they changed me,” said Bill. “Now I’m strong. But there’s only one king of the mountain. There’s only one top dog. That’s me. You die so I can be me again.”

“They’ll hunt you,” countered Peyton. “They’ll kill you.”

“They couldn’t kill you,” said Bill. “They made a mistake. Should have kept me asleep. I liked being asleep. But they woke me up, told me they made you. Couldn’t live with that. As long as you live, I’m nobody. Only one top dog. Only ever one.”

“They’re using you,” said Peyton. “Killing me won’t get you what you want. It only helps them.”

“Helps me,” said Bill. “Killing you is for me. Takes the top dog to kill you. Takes me. Makes me king of the mountain. All I want.”

Stillwater might have said more, but Peyton wrenched his arms apart. Tucking his own chin, Peyton drove his forehead up as Bill’s face came down. The brutal head-butt drove Stillwater’s nose back into his face, crushing it, spraying blood on them both. The maneuver caused Bill to lose his grip.

The sirens of private police cruisers were audible now. The crowd continued to swirl around the two men, while vehicles bypassed the widening ground zero of wrecked conveyances and fallen bystanders. The air smelled of copper and burning plastic.

“Police are coming,” Peyton said. He stood, untangling himself from Stillwater, and turned to run.

“Don’t care,” said Bill. “I was nothing. Nothing until they made me Big Bill. They wake me up. They tell me they made you. Big as me. Strong as me. But you’re not. When you die, Big Bill is left. Big Bill is the best. Nobody’s better than me. I won’t be nothing. Not again.”

Stillwater lunged, grabbing Peyton’s leg and pulling him to the pavement again. The two men rolled back and forth, finally rolling into the burning wreckage of the hydrogen cycle. Peyton felt his skin peeling back under the flames. Stillwater’s howl of pain echoed his own. Still Peyton’s fellow giant held on, tying him up, keeping him pinned to the ground. Heat from the burning cycle licked at his neck and shoulders. A puddle of lubricant plasma began to spread around the bike; this too burned. Bill roared as the plasma reached him, igniting him, clinging to him like napalm. He began pounding on Peyton’s chest with his clenched fists, trying to crush Peyton’s ribs and collapse his lungs. Peyton shifted, catching Bill between the scissor of his legs. The two giant men strained against each other, locked in position.

The burning tire of the hydrogen bike was within his reach. He grabbed it, heedless of the pain, and ripped it free of the chassis, shoving the fiery tire into Stillwater’s face. Bill began to cough and choke as he fought off the clinging, burning synthetic rubber. When the flames reached his eyes, he screamed.

Peyton had to get away. There was no telling how long he and Stillwater might stay locked in combat. They were too evenly matched. The flames turning his skin black were painful, so painful. He would heal quickly enough, but first he had to get clear, get free, roll the fire out, let his skin–

No, he thought.

Peyton fought his instincts. He reached into the burning wreckage of the hydrogen bike, breathless as the inferno took his arm, burning through his flesh, scorching him to the bone. The pain was… indescribable. He thought the word as he clawed deep into the burning corpse of the bike, deep into the oven that was baking his arm. He could not feel his fingers. He prayed he would still be able to will his hand to clench.

Hissing and spitting, the jellied tissues of his eyes weeping down his cheeks, Bill reached for Peyton’s face. Peyton stretched, pushing his legs to full extension, holding Bill out and away from his torso. The wounded giant still would not give up. He dug his fingers into Peyton’s thighs, trying to separate the muscles, pulling himself along Peyton’s body. Blinded, he crawled upward, his fingers curled to pluck and rend.

He’s going to claw out my eyes if he can reach them, thought Peyton.

Peyton would have screamed, but the boring of Big Bill’s fingers was nothing compared to the tunnel of fire in which his arm was lodged.

Give me something I can grip, he thought. Give me anything I can grab.

There! His arm stopped; his shoulder joint registered the resistance. He forced himself to make a fist, to roll to one knee, to raise the burning hydrogen bike above his head. His vision began to blur, to gray, to turn deep purple. He was passing out. The pain was so intense it had almost left him.

Stillwater howled. Peyton could not hear his voice. The sirens, the screams of the bystanders, the downdrafts of the drones, the police and news helicopters now whirring overhead: he heard none of it. His head felt thick. He had only moments. He had to do it. He had to succeed. It was the only way to fight his way back to Annika.

It’s selfish to want what you don’t need.

“I WANT MY DAUGHTER!” Peyton screamed, swinging the burning bike like a club, crushing Big Bill’s skull under the flaming frame of the vehicle.

Over and over he lifted the bike up and swung it down, smashing Bill’s face, splitting his skull, smashing his brains to burning pulp and digging a furrow into the pavement beneath. Before he was done, the fire was almost extinguished. Finally, inevitably, he dropped the charred bike frame, extracting his smoldering, blackened arm and ashen hand. He stared at the limb and flexed fingers he could not feel.

It would get better. It would get better soon enough.

“Stop where you are!” came an amplified voice from overhead. “You are under arrest!”

Peyton was already running. Cradling his injured arm, he pumped his legs with all his remaining strength, crashing through the crowds and smashing aside trash containers in the alleys he forded. He barely felt the pavement beneath his feet. He ran faster than he had run in his life. He ran for his freedom. He ran for Annika.

“I want my daughter,” he said softly. But Annika was gone. He stumbled from alley to alley, his arm and hand aching, Annika was gone and he did not know what to do.

He stopped at a public medical kiosk. He had chits in his pocket. He could at least spray his arm with burn gel. He reached out to touch the screen.

The kiosk’s screen illuminated. The caduceus symbol rotated slowly. But at the touch of Peyton’s uninjured fingers, it disappeared. The screen turned black.

The image of a gold pocket watch began to dance across the screen.

Technocracy: Fake-News Foolery and Facebook

There is so much fake news out there, in fact, that entire “fake news desks” are devoted to debunking it.

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the plethora of unfunny fake-news “satire” sites that lure in gullible Facebookers and other link-sharers.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 43, “Red Like a Beet”

 

[image error]He was still carrying the metal post when they caught up to him. He felt his legs being taken from under him; felt his center of gravity shift; felt the sting of plastic and metal against his face and chest as he was pushed through the facade of a robot bodega. He and his enemy landed in a heap of shelves and broken merchandise, most of these cartons of dehydrated, preprinted food.

His hand found the post. He hefted it, standing. The robot proprietor beeped from behind its podium and Peyton turned to it. He hesitated for a moment. Perhaps this was–

Perry ripped the robot’s head off. Sparks flew. The one-eyed man threw the head at Peyton, who dodged it. He charged Perry, swinging the club, smashing merchandise from nearby shelves and shattering the shelves themselves.

“Go away,” said Peyton. “I don’t know you.”

“You don’t want to,” said Perry. He pointed to the bleeding, weeping mess that was his eye socket. “But I owe you now, Peyton. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to take both your–”

Peyton hit him in the jaw with the metal post.

Teeth flew. Perry’s bloody face was knocked sideways. Something cracked. The big man howled, holding his head, trying to straighten his neck. Peyton had never seen that happen before, but then, he had never before fought someone roughly his own size.

Big Bill loomed in the entrance to the shop.

“Think you broke him,” he said. His voice was mockery and bass and nothing else.

“You’re puppets,” said Peyton. “Puppets of VanClef.”

“I’m nobody’s boy,” rumbled Stillwater. He seemed content to watch Perry floundering on the tiles of the Bodega’s floor, pushing at his neck, trying to turn his head. It was if Peyton’s strike had locked Perry’s neck off-center. “Never seen that before,” Stillwater said.

“I was just thinking that,” said Peyton. He let the metal post fall to the floor.

“Maybe he dies,” said Stillwater. “Maybe he lives. Don’t care. You’re a job.”

“I don’t have to be,” said Peyton. “You were in the Program. You had to be.”

“Just before you,” said Stillwater. “They put me in the freezer. Thawed me out and gave me a job. You.”

“You were in storage,” said Peyton. “Why? You look just like me. Why not use you?”

“Tried,” said Stillwater. “Sample rejected.” The red-haired man tapped his skull with one large finger. “Something loose up here, they said.” He smiled broadly beneath his handlebar mustache. “Could be true. Don’t care.”

“So you’re nobody’s boy,” said Peyton, “but you let them give you a ‘job.’ Let them tell you what to do.”

“Don’t care about them,” said Stillwater. “Don’t care about you. Care about me. Big Bill Stillwater is the biggest. Big Bill Stillwater is the strongest. Prove it. Kill you, then go. Free now. Out of the freezer. Done taking orders.”

“Does VanClef know you’re not under his control?” said Peyton. “Maybe he’ll send an army to kill you.”

“He’ll need to send two,” said Stillwater. “Maybe more.” Again the red-haired man grinned. “Kill Perry. Prove he’s weak.”

That got Perry’s attention. He squirmed around on the floor, looking up at Stillwater as best he could. There was pleading in his eyes.

“He’s not going to help you,” said Peyton. “He doesn’t have a kind heart.”

“What?” Stillwater asked.

“Nothing,” said Peyton. On the floor, Perry tried to say something. His words came out as a breathy moan. His face started to turn red.

“Dying,” said Stillwater. “You holed him up bad.”

“He could take a while to suffocate like that,” said Peyton. “Maybe half an hour. Maybe more. You should put him out of his misery.”

“Don’t care about him,” Stillwater repeated.

“Then I will,” said Peyton. He reached for Perry. When his fingertips brushed the man’s arms, Perry exploded, throwing furious punches, snarling and drooling with his head cocked to one side. His fists crashed against Peyton, incredibly strong, fueled by adrenaline and desperation. Peyton used his thick forearms to ward off most of the blows. Perry, still on the floor, tried to kick him off. The strikes against Peyton’s shins were painful and, if he was not careful, Perry would break his leg or his ankle.

Stillwater chuckled from his spot in the doorway. “Doesn’t want to go. Look at him. Red like a beet.”

Perry was indeed turning a violent shade of red. Whatever damage had been done to him, he was not getting air, and the exertion was killing him as surely as if Peyton were choking him from behind.

Peyton fought past Perry’s desperate guard and pinned the man. He was very aware of Big Bill standing there, and of the vulnerable position he would be in if Bill jumped in while Peyton was dealing with the wounded man. But Bill simply leaned against the wall. Annika had used a word the other day, a word to describe a television character she found arrogant and dismissive. Watching Big Bill, he thought of that word.

“Insolent,” said Peyton.

“What?” said Bill.

“Nothing,” Peyton said again. He managed to work his way around behind Perry, wrapping his arm under and against the man’s damaged jaw. With his other arm, he braced the head. Perry moaned something Peyton could not understand. He was starting to move sluggishly now. There was no telling how long it would take him to die, lying on the floor of the bodega, but Peyton thought it would be a long time.

The loud snap! of Perry’s neck signaled the end of his problems. Peyton threw the body off and stood.

Big Bill was gone.

Peyton stepped out of the bodega. He looked up and down the street. Where had his enemy gone? Had Bill given up? Gone to live whatever life he could, now that he was free of VanClef?

Standing on the street, Peyton swore.

No. That wasn’t it at all.

Peyton looked up.

Big Bill was clinging to the roof of the bodega.

“Kill you now,” he said.

He dropped.

Technocracy: Surveillance? Worry About Your Neighbor First

A civilian drone, cheaply available on Amazon or a dozen other websites, could be used to snoop in your windows, case your property, or watch your daughters undress.

MyWND Technocracy column this week was inspired by a recent incident in which a man shot down his neighbor’s camera drone.

Read the full column here in WND News .

Fighting Patterns of Kuntao and Silat

There is a distinct dearth of books on Liu Seong Gung Fu in general and Liu Seong Kuntao in particular. While there are a few, the art of Willem Reeders remains elusive and, for the most part, available only through in-person instruction from schools scattered around the country. Reeders first came to the East Coast of the United States before migrating West, and as a result there remain tiny colonies of his system throughout New York State (where I first trained with a student of a student of Reeders. Chris Derbaum very helpfully includes in his text small portions of the history, timeline, and lineage that contribute to Reeders’ legacy. There is also a very helpful section on how to train the signature “whip” strike that characterizes the system. This, and the pieces of lore from the system that Chris shares, are what drew me to read this book.

This is not, however, a textbook of technique. Most of the book is devoted, as the name implies, to the all-important footwork of Kuntao. This is very helpful if you know what to make of it; students of Liu Seong systems and offshoots will find it very interesting and possibly helpful. This is foundational material and as exhaustive a book on footwork and movement patterns as any I’ve seen compiled.

You will not learn to “do Liu Seong” from this book, nor should you try. You, will however, gain great insight into it from reading this text if you are not a student of the art. If you *are* a student in a Liu Seong lineage, you too will find this book worthy of your time and contemplation, although you will have also the tools required to apply what you are reading. Regardless of your motivation, the book is worth reading and has been nicely put together, with pride and attention to detail.

Episode 42, “Hello, Annika”

 

[image error]Daddy never came into the park. That was so strange. And he had changed his clothes. He always wore the same clothes, the ones she had purchased for him. She had cleaned them for him herself just yesterday. What was he doing? She took her pocket watch out and opened it. It wasn’t nearly the time they had agreed to leave.

Putting her watch away, she climbed down from the Tiltrotor and hurried over. If Daddy was breaking all his own rules, bringing attention to himself and coming for her early, it must be some sort of emergency. She had better be ready to move quickly.

But it wasn’t Daddy. It wasn’t him at all.

The man was every bit as big as Daddy. His skin was the same pale color, his jaw as big and strong, his hands as huge. But he looked nothing like Daddy. He had red hair and a thick handlebar mustache. Who could it possibly be?

The big man saw her. When he did, he stopped walking and started running. He was coming straight for her.

Annika screamed.

 

* * *

Stevens shook his head. He used the fence to pull himself to his feet. Congealed blood connected his nose and mouth. He wiped this away with the back of his hand.

Peyton had listened. Some part of him had, anyway. He could have crushed Stevens to pulp under his foot. Instead he had barely stomped the operative at all, opting instead to knock him unconscious.

He’s thinking about what I said, Stevens thought. He’s wondering if I’m right.

A little girl screamed.

That got Stevens’ attention. With his palm he hooded his eyes against the overhead lights, his left arm braced against his side. Every breath hurt. He was going to need his ribs knitted.

He saw them, then. Amidst the crowds inside the amusement park, he saw the alpha, Big Bill, lumbering toward one of the rides. The flash of blonde hair he also saw could not be a coincidence. Bill had acquired Annika and was bearing down on her.

He barely saw the blur that was Ian Peyton. He had never seen anyone or anything that large move so fast. The giant knocked down anyone in his way, cleaving a path through the crowd that left stunned, cursing, and fist-shaking patrons in his wake. He ran as if he didn’t see them.

Big Bill sensed something and turned just as Peyton hit him.

The escaped giant collided with the alpha, wrapping his arms around Big Bill’s waist, throwing his counterpart to the ground.  Something that looked like a sawed-off shotgun spun away from the combatants and disappeared under a park bench.  Stevens swore he could feel the vibration through the pavement as the two enormous men dug a furrow with their bodies. Big Bill roared in defiance. Peyton never made a sound — that was, until he spoke two words.

“Annika,” he shouted. “RUN!”

Stevens started toward the two. He reached to his ear for his transceiver, but it was gone. VanClef would have been monitoring Stevens’ conversation with Peyton. He had interpreted the abrupt end to their dialogue as failure. That must have prompted him to release Stillwater. The move struck him as reckless. This park was full of civilians, full of children and their parents. To release a dangerously psychopathic individual like William Stillwater among civilians seemed needlessly messy.

The sound of bone crashing into bone reached his ears. Peyton was swinging mighty shovel-hooks into Big Bill’s ribs. He had landed in the superior position, mounting Stillwater’s waist, and he seemed determined to punch a tunnel through the man’s chest. Bill bore the onslaught with cursing and howls of revenge to come. He was trying to protect his head with his own massive arms, but Peyton was sawing away at him, smashing the alpha’s arms into his face, ramming elbows and forearm blows into Stillwater’s abdomen.

It was remarkable, thought Stevens, how viscerally, how instinctively, the two realized they were enemies. They struggled with mortal ferocity, every strike a killing blow to anyone but Stillwater and Peyton.

Stillwater’s laughter reached Stevens’ ears.

It took Peyton a moment to realize what was happening, and that was enough for everything to go wrong. Perry and Mulligan appeared in the crowd, probably held back by vanClef for this very purpose. While Peyton was occupied with Stillwater, the other two subjects grabbed Peyton’s arms and pulled him off their leader. They pinned Peyton against the corrugated wall surrounding the Tiltrotor. Stevens could see the pleasure radiating from Bill as he postured about, stepping this way and that in front of his now-captive enemy.

Big Bill began hammering away at Peyton’s stomach. Peyton endured the blows in silence, his muscles tensing, sweat making his forehead and his bear arms shine under the overhead lights. The more Bill punched, the more Peyton flexed.

Sweat, thought Stevens.

The alpha realized it a heartbeat later, but Peyton was already moving. His right arm, slick with sweat, pulled free of Mulligan’s grasp. In the same motion, Peyton brought his arm around in a tight arc and drove his thumb into Perry’s left eye.

Stevens watched, fascinated, as Perry’s scream froze Mulligan in place. Bill was smarter; Bill was more aggressive. He didn’t waste time surveying the injury to his subordinate. He simply threw himself at Peyton. But Peyton wasn’t there.

Perry fell to his knees, clutching at his face, and Peyton used the man’s eye socket as a stirrup to pull himself onto and over Perry’s shoulders. He landed on the other side of the Tiltrotor’s wall, inside the ride, which was still running. People inside screamed. Bill looked momentarily confused, and in that moment, Peyton reappeared by the ride’s entrance. He dwarved the rusty bollard that bore the legend, “You must be THIS tall to ride.”

Peyton reached down, grabbed the post, and ripped it from the pavement. Bill stopped himself in mid charge. Mulligan wasn’t as smart. The subordinate closed on Peyton at full speed, perhaps thinking to shoot for Peyton’s legs and bull him to the ground. Peyton swung the heavy metal bollard like a cricket bat. Mulligan’s skull split like a boiled egg.

Perry was still screaming. Bill rounded on Peyton, arms out, circling. Stevens crept closer.

“Gonna die,” said Stillwater. “Gonna die screaming like Perry. Big Bill Stillwater gonna kill you.”

Peyton did not answer. He turned, saw Stevens, fixed the man with a look Stevens could not identify. Casting a last, contemptuous glance at Stillwater, he turned away.

Then he ran.

He’s realized it, thought Stevens. He knows Bill and the others are a delaying tactic.

Peyton tore through the amusement park, heading for the exit, with Big Bill Stillwater hot on his heels.

 

* * *

Annika hurried through the crowd. She thought about stealing a hydrogen bike; she thought about paying for a pedicab. But she was not sure where to go. The enemies Daddy faced were just like him. She did not know how to factor that, did not know precisely how to gauge that danger. She could not make a decision without–

She heard the big truck behind her. She turned in time to see it collide with the curb, bump up over it, then slide off. Its grille was bearing down on her.

The driver’s door opened. A man in a black leather coat leaned out. He reached for her. He grabbed her by her sweater and pulled her into the cab of the truck.

“Daddy!” she cried out.

“Hello, Annika,” said Marion VanClef.

Technocracy: “More groveling to LGBT whiners”

There is no more leveling a policy than requiring people to be who they are.

My WND Technocracy column this week is the equivalent of throwing a lighted match into a room soaked in gasoline.  Let me start by saying that I have no problem with anyone’s sexuality and I am completely indifferent to what your own proclivities might be, provided you’re not a pedophile.

That said, I absolutely despise identity politics, and I hate political correctness even more.  When we start doling out special treatment to variously-acronym-identified interest groups because they’re screaming that we “hate” them, political correctness is being used to bludgeon people into giving the interest group’s constituents whatever they want, whenever they want it, however they demand it.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 41, “Count of Ten”

 

“Put as at the curb,” said VanClef from the passenger seat.  “Keep power applied.  We made need to reposition if they change  course.”

In the driver’s seat of the truck, Stevens nodded.  He put two fingers to the transceiver in his ear.

“Stevens,” said the younger agent. “Go ahead.”  He waited for a few moments.  “Get back here as soon as possible,” he directed. Then he touched the transceiver to disengage it.

VanClef sighed.  Without looking at Stevens, he said, “They’ve failed, haven’t they?”

“All three, sir,” said Stevens. “Smith last night. Klyter and Korth this morning. Moxley and Neiring remain at large.”

“Perhaps we should assign Orrin to them. Assuming the capture and recovery goes as planned.”

“It’s a thought, sir. I’d rather we not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Good man,” said VanClef. “I may forgive you for the Ms. West matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

They waited in silence for a few moments.  Finally, VanClef pointed with one gloved finger.  “There,” he said.  “Ten 0’clock.”

“Sir?”

“Sixty degrees left, damn you,” said VanClef.  “Unmistakably Ian Peyton.”

Peyton stood head and shoulders above the rest of the nighttime crowd. He walked with one shoulder canted; that would be the side to which Annika was attached. She was not visible past the other pedestrians.

“Should I release the subjects, sir?”  Stevens asked.

“Not yet,” said VanClef.  “Let’s see where they go.”

“They’re headed for the amusement park,” said Stevens.  “They go there frequently.”

VanClef nodded. “Move us down the street. Stay well back. But keep with them.”

Stevens guided the truck down the street, hopping blocks slowly, moving around other vehicles with care.  When they had paused once more to let Peyton and Annika enter the amusement park, Stevens turned to VanClef.

“Sir,” he said.  “I have an idea.”  VanClef stared at him.  Stevens said, “If we send in the subjects, there will quite possibly be collateral damage.”

“I would say that’s certain,” said VanClef.

“Let me go in on foot, sir,” said Stevens.  “Let me talk to them. It’s the one strategy we haven’t tried.”

“Do I need to remind you of the damage Peyton did to the school?” asked VanClef. “With his bare hands?”

“Respectfully, sir,” said Stevens, “He is with his daughter. I’ve studied his psychological profile extensively. He was willing to die, even wanted to die, until a mysterious computer error alerted the Warden to her presence in the gallery.”

“Richards’ big mouth,” said VanClef, “has cost a great many people their lives.”

“My point, sir,” said Stevens, “is that I can play to his desire to protect her. Mentally he has almost no guile, sir. A purely average intelligence quotient at best. He’s no match for me.”

“Very well,” said VanClef.  “If it will prevent us from garnering any more attention, it’s worth a try.  Keep your transceiver open.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stevens left the heavy panel truck. He crossed the street and entered the amusement park.  When he was a dozen meters from the front gates, he stopped.  He saw Annika Peyton, alone, climbing aboard a ride called the Tiltrotor.

Of course. Peyton was too large to ride any of the rides with her. The crowds, the bright lighting inside the park… he would not be here. He would be outside, just outside, where he could keep her under watch. Stevens retraced his steps.  He turned left, found nothing, and walked back toward the main gates.  The right-hand path took him around the perimeter fence.

He never saw the shadows come alive. He was walking, one moment; the next he was being held aloft by the neck.

“Follow my daughter,” said Peyton.  “Follow me. That’s not good for you.”

“Wait,” Stevens managed to say, gasping.  “Please. I just want to talk to you.”

Peyton threw him to the ground.  Stevens felt something crack inside his chest.  He coughed and instantly regretted this.

“Ten,” said Peyton.

“I’m with Government Intelligence, Peyton,” said Stevens.  He tried to rise.  Peyton planted one enormous boot on his chest and pressed him back into the pavement. Stevens’ ribs ground together. He screamed and almost passed out.

“Nine,” said Peyton.

“Listen to me,” Stevens said, talking quickly.  “You can’t protect your daughter, Peyton. Not forever. You’re one man against the endless resources of the Northam Federation. What happens to Annika when they take you down? I can help you!”

Peyton removed his foot.  Air, precious air, rushed into Stevens’ lungs.

“Eight,” said the giant.  “Seven.”

“VanClef is here,” said Stevens.  “He’s ready to take you down. To take her into custody. He’s got men who are still loyal to him. And he’s got weapons you aren’t prepared to face.  This won’t be easy for you, Peyton.”

“Six,” said Peyton.  “Five.  Four.”

“If you give her to me, now,” said Stevens, “she’ll be safe. Turn yourself in. You can live out your life in the Promontory if that’s what you want. We can pull a few strings, get your death sentence commuted. Annika could even visit you in prison.”

“My daughter,” said Peyton, “will never see the inside of that place. Three.”

“Don’t you understand?” Stevens said.  “She’s not yours, Peyton. Not in any way that counts. The two of you are nothing alike.  You’re an ant compared to her intellect. How long before she outgrows you, Peyton? How long before she leaves? She can’t stay with you forever. She has a destiny, Peyton.”

“Two,” said Peyton. His voice was a whisper.

“What can you offer her?” asked Stevens.  “You’re a murderer, Peyton. A criminal. When she gets old enough to understand who and what you are, when she’s smart enough to stare into your heart and see the monster that dwells there, will she still accept you?”

“One,” said Peyton. “Stop talking.”

“How smart is she now, Peyton?” Stevens went on. “How soon will it be before she reaches that level? Not long at all. Not at her current rate of development. What happens then? Do you think you’ll still be her father?”

“I’ll be her father until I’m dead,” said Peyton. He raised his heel again.

“You’re nothing,” said Stevens.

“You first,” said Peyton.

He brought down his boot.

Technocracy: Are Your Friends Secretly Taping You?

If you have committed any sins, they will be exposed.

My WND Technocracy column this week is about the rash of secret recordings that have made the news… and which portend ill for the future of privacy in a society saturated with recording devices.

Read the full column here in WND News.

Episode 40, “Shenzhen Boulevard”

 

[image error]Neiring crossed Shenzhen Boulevard, dodging pedicabs and hydrogen bikes, to join his contact at a sidewalk hash-hut. The table was covered in grime, but outdoor tables always were. It was also wet. Everything was wet with morning rain, including his plastic chair. He did his best to ignore the seeping sensation in the seat of his pants.

“I’m not sure that’s going to help,” said Neiring. His phone buzzed. He tapped it with his thumb. If it was anyone unimportant, it would take a message; if it was one of his preferred contacts, like his supervisor, it would text his current location and explain that he was busy.

“It couldn’t hurt,” said Jase Calvin. He was sipping a hash latte and looked agitated. Calvin was a government administrator and looked the part. He was a thin, balding man in his late thirties, wearing a linen suit two decades out of fashion and half a size too small. Except for his hairline, he looked exactly the same to Neiring as he had at the University of Van Nuys.

“So what were you able to get?” Neiring asked. He waved away the slicker-covered serving android when it wandered past.

“Just so it’s clear,” said Calvin. “If it gets out that you got this from me, it’s my job. So don’t tell anyone. This report was… spontaneously generated by the environment.”

“Right,” said Neiring. “Can I see it?”

Calvin passed over the plastic folder full of prints. “This VanClef is a bad guy, Ray. Bad as they get.”

Neiring started sifting through the files, which were signficant. “Have you read this?” he asked.

“Marion W. VanClef,” said Calvin. “58 years old. He’s a xenobiologist with degrees in chemistry and physics. He was also a sergeant in the Border Wars; saw combat in Arizona and New Mexico before Tucson went nuclear. Twenty years ago, Intelligence recruits him to head up a new division, nominally called Genetic Applications. It’s a bioweapons division, Ray.”

“That’s all in the files?” Neiring asked. “None of it’s classified?”

“There’s been a data dump,” said Calvin. “Half of this wasn’t available two days ago. The government is disavowing VanClef. You know, painting him as a rogue agent? They’ve declassified his work and claimed he conducted it without official sanction.”

“And that work is?”

“Project Violet,” said Calvin. “Developing a reproducible bioligical weapon based solely on genetic manipulation. The idea was to create a small army of–”

“Peytons,” said Neiring.

“That’s really not what matters,” said Calvin. “VanClef went off the reservation two days ago. Killed a bunch of government employees and tried to burn down the hospital they were using as a front. The government sent a kill-and-capture team to pick him up. They tagged him, Ray. He’s walking around with a radiotransmitter singing in his veins. I’ve got the frequency right here.”

“This is incredible,” said Neiring. “Nobody would suspect…” he paused. “Calvin?” Calvin had put his head in his hands, as if he meant to sleep sitting at the table. His latte tipped over and spilled, splattering the back of his head. Neiring reached out for him. A furrow opened in the plastic table.

That time, he heard the shot.

There were a pair of killers, each armed with an automatic nail gun, walking in lock-step across Shenzhen with their weapons at waist level. They wore black body armor; their helmets had smoked visors. The armor was government issue. As Neiring threw himself down, pressed his face to the sticky pavement of the sidewalk cafe, he saw the shooters rake their weapons from side to side, heedless of the innocents killed.

They’re here to kill me and anyone I talked to, he thought. VanClef’s making good on his threat.

He managed, from his prone position, to get his service automatic out of its holster. The spray of sharp metal kept him pinned. The tabletop disintegrated in a shower of plastic splinters.

Working their way lower, he realized. That’s it. I’m dead.

Neiring closed his eyes. There was so much more he had wanted to do with his life. He was afraid. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt too badly.

The sound he heard next was not the meaty thud of nails in his body. It was instead the crash of something heavy into something heavier.

The rain of nails subsided. Neiring, gun in hand, stood, just in time to see Harold Moxley backing his car over the body of one of the gunmen.

The nose of Moxley’s car was a bloody mess. Tires squealed and sprayed blood as the detective pushed his old vehicle over the dead man’s body. Already, the second shooter — missed in what must have been a suicide charge by Moxley — started pumping nails into the rear of the car. The armored shooter’s weapon held a large disc magazine.

Neiring braced his pistol in both hands. He sank into his stance, drew a breath, let half of it out. Holding the rest, he let the trigger come back, let the gun fire itself when it was–

The triple burst spanged off the gunman’s helmet, whipping his head back, knocking him down. Neiring ran for the fallen shooter, knowing that the hit was not lethal. He had to get to the man before he regained his feet.

Moxley’s abused car was spewing black smoke fore and aft. He threw the door open and stepped out, trench coat whipping around his legs like a cape. As Neiring ran for him, Mox walked deliberately to the fallen gunner and kicked him in the head. The helmet went spinning across the pavement.

“Stay down,” said Moxley. He whipped his revolver from its shoulder holster, lined up the low barrel, and fired once into the shooter’s skull. Panting, Neiring reached his friend just as Moxley pumped a second explosive round into the fallen man.

“You okay?” Neiring said. Moxley’s hand bore a clumsily sprayed bandage. His coat was flecked with blood and torn by nails.

“Bad night,” said Mox. He jerked his flabby chin at the dead men. “Bad morning, too.”

“I know how to find VanClef,” said Neiring. He held up the plastic folder Calvin had given him.

“Then let’s make today worse,” said Mox.

“You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Get in the car, Ray.”