Charles Sheehan-Miles's Blog, page 30

Review: Tommy Nightmare by JL Bryan

Not long ago I read J.L. Bryan's Dominion, which for quite a long time had been paired with one of my books on Amazon. Overall I loved the book, and went on to read Jenny Pox, a sort of paranormal fantasy. The premise of Jenny Pox is simple: teenage girl whose touch causes people to break out in plague. Despite the simple premise, the author develops believable and likable characters and made for a very good read.

Tommy Nightmare is very much a worthy sequel to Jenny Pox. The book opens with a new character, Tommy, who suffered from a childhood so ghastly you can't help but like him. Soon, however, the story picks up immediately after the end if the first book, returning to main characters Jenny and Seth.

I can't get much into the details of their situation at the beginning of the story without giving up major spoilers from the first book, and in order to get this book and enjoy it, you really need to read Jenny Pox first. That said, the stage Bryan sets in book one lifts to a new level here… higher stakes, eventually bringing in involvement of a number of new supernatural types, the federal government, and setting the stage for what I suspect will be a major conflict in book 3.

My only disappointment was the development of the relationship between Jenny and her father. Given the events detailed in the climax of Jenny Pox, I expected and would have liked to have seen much more detail and development of their relationship. As it was, it seemed glossed over.

All in all, an excellent book, one that I really enjoyed. I'll be waiting for book 3, and highly recommend it!

What's up with Insurgent?

Just wanted to post a quick update to let folks know what is happening with progress on Insurgent.

As of this week, I'm about 70,000 words into the first draft, and the basic framework for the novel is complete. I've got quite a few gaps to go back and fill in, and some changes to make, but as long as I continue at the same pace, I expect to have the first draft completed within another 60 days or so.  I get 10 days vacation at the beginning of June, and will likely wrap it up while on that vacation.

The next step, of course, is NOT to publish. It's to rewrite. I hope to send the book to the editor (I'm hoping to use the amazing Shakirah Dawud again) right after that, and with luck and some good timing will have the book ready to go to print by the end of summer.

As a number of folks have requested, I do plan to podcast the entire book.

If you'd like to keep updated on progress and to receive an announcement when the book goes to print, please sign up for my mailing list (you can hit the subscribe box on the left hand pane of my website to subscribe). In the meantime, I'll continue posting rough draft chapters here on the blog and on The Next Read, and I'd love any and all feedback!

 

Insurgent Chapter 6.1

The razor didn't precisely shake in Jim Turville's hands as he carefully shaved in the small mess-kit mirror.  Nonetheless, Turville paused, took a steadying breath, then quickly finished. He packed away his kit, placed a soft-cap on his head instead of the more familiar helmet, and walked to the front door of the home the Army was renting.

Outside, the crickets and other insects made a roar, the sound resembling a jungle.  Turville approached the humvee, where Lieutenant Blake stood next to Sergeant Nguyen. Both of them darted their eyes to Turville when he walked into view.

Blake had a frown on his face; Nguyen a resigned stare into the distance.

"Corporal Turville," the Lieutenant said.

Turville straightened his posture, replied, "Sir?"

"For the record, your sergeant disapproves of this little outing. I'm pretty close to that myself, but I recognize the fact that some good might possibly come of it. You are on notice: don't fuck up our relationship with the locals.  Am I clear?"

Turville swallowed, replied, "Yes, sir."

Blake frowned.  "I'm not sure you get the seriousness of this, Corporal, so I'm gonna be as blunt and crass as I feel necessary. We're fighting what looks to be the beginnings of a full fledged insurgency here. You know what's going on in your little corner of the world, but you may not realize that the attacks aren't just taking place here.  We had half-a-dozen MPs killed in Morgantown this week, too. We absolutely depend on the goodwill of the locals.  Especially the local government.  Especially the mayor."

Each time he said "especially", the Lieutenant poked Turville in the chest, hard.

"In short, everything we're doing is at risk of being completely and absolutely fucked if you decide to try to stick your dick into things. Or more explicitly, into anybody.  Am I absolutely clear, Corporal?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

The Lieutenant and Sergeant Nguyen looked at each other, then back to him, as if to gauge the sincerity of Turville's response.

Turville cleared his throat. What exactly did all this mean? We don't approve, but we're going to let you go ahead anyway. We think you're going to fuck it up, but we're officially disclaiming responsibility?  Was this their way of placing blame on him? It sounded a little too much like, "We're going to send you into a fucked up, violent, seething, angry neighborhood, armed to the teeth, but oh, by the way, you can't protect yourself, and if you do, we're going to blame you for whatever happens."

He was a little too familiar with that kind of buck-passing.

"Sir, may I ask a question?"

Blake eyed Turville. "Go ahead, Corporal."

"If you are so strongly opposed to it, why are you giving the okay? Why not just restrict me to the barracks?"

Nguyen snorted, shook his head as if in disbelief.

Blake's face took on a flare of anger.  "Because, Corporal, I got overruled. When the CO found out that the invitation came from the mayor, he told me I'd better roll out the red carpet for you. Clear?"

Turville nodded.

"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. It wasn't my intent to put you in a difficult situation."

Blake's face tightened in anger.  "You, Corporal, are the one in a difficult situation. I'm sure it will all be fine, provided you can maintain the presence of mind to keep your fingers — and your dick — out of places they shouldn't be.  Am I clear?"

Turville took a breath to calm himself, then responded, "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed, Turville."

Turville resisted the urge to salute the Lieutenant, which would have been a beacon to any watching insurgents.  He muttered, "Thank you, sir," and walked as far away as he could get and still be within the bounds of their little outpost.  It was getting dark out, and the insects were even louder now than before, if that were possible.  Few electric lights came on in the town as the sun went down: perhaps a few with generators and access to diesel fuel.  For the remainder, a window or two was visible in the distance, with the telltale signs of natural lighting: flickering, yellow and brown shades.

As he looked toward the ridge, a pair of headlights pierced the darkness.  That would be her, he hoped.  Few enough people went out after dark these days, and when they did, typically they hurried home.

The headlights slowed to a stop. That would be the tactical control point, or roadblock, at the north edge of town. Two minutes later, the lights started moving again, and Turville heard the radio in the humvee crackle. A disembodied voice crackled out of the vehicle. "Blue four, this is gate post.  Turville's girlfriend is approaching, over."

Sergeant Nguyen, the Lieutenant and Turville all muttered curses simultaneously, though Turville felt certain his reasons were different from theirs.

He straightened his posture unconsciously, and tugged the uniform blouse into a reasonable straight position. He rubbed his hands across his clean shaven chin and watched the lights approach.

She pulled to a stop and opened the door of her pickup, slid out of the driver's seat. She wore a white dress embroidered with red flowers, trim around the neck and waist, and matching dark red pumps. Turville caught his breath at the sight of her in the light. She was absoluty beautiful. Turville approached, and was annoyed to find Lieutenant Blake right behind him. She simply smiled and said, "I'll have him back by midnight."

Turville stifled a laugh. She looked at him, eyes bright, and said, "You ready?"

"Let's do it," he replied.

Rebecca blushed furiously, and for a moment Turville was merely puzzled. But the Lieutenant's face had also turned bright red—with anger—and Turville stammered, "I uh, not …um… 'it,' …. I mean, let's go?"

By that point he was so flustered he couldn't think of what to say. She burst into laughter and said, "Come on," then got into the truck.

They rode in an uncomfortable silence until she had driven back north past the roadblock. The forest swallowed the road, and she slowed down, taking the broad switchback turns slowly. "You look stunning in that dress," he said.

She blushed, and allowed herself a smile.  "Why, thank you, Jim."

Abruptly she slowed the vehicle, then said, "I want to show you something."

Seconds later, she expertly turned off onto an unmarked road into the woods, then began climbing a steep road up the ridge line.  Tight switchbacks through the woods. Every time she turned, he swayed a little in his seat.  He felt naked without his rifle.

Turville was startled then, five minutes later, when the sun shown through the trees. She slowed, then came to a stop at an overlook on top of the ridge.  To the west, just near the horizon, the sun still shown over a ridgeline, casting deep orange hues across the sky.  Behind and below them, the valley was shaded in complete darkness.

She turned the ignition of the truck, then slipped out of the vehicle.

Turville opened his door, stood up.  She smiled, said, "I come up here sometimes to watch the sun set."

A concrete picnic table sat next to a stone wall.  She sat on the table, smoothed her dress over her lap. He approached, tension in his body, and sat down next to her.  He looked out at the setting sun, then back to her.  Her back was straight, hands folded in her lap. Looking at her now, he realized she had nail polish the same color as the red flowers on her dress.  A tiny spot of mascara had smeared on her upper eyelid, but it didn't look bad… if anything, it made him more aware of just how pretty she was.

"You're nervous," he said.

She giggled.  "A little."

"It's okay, so am I.  I … something about you…"

She turned toward him, looking up into his eyes. "You don't seem like the nervous type."

"What you see is a carefully cultivated appearance of competence and skill.  Inside I'm … scared as hell I'm going to screw this up."

She swayed, leaned against him. He put his arm around her, resting his hand on her waist.

They sat there as the sun slowly set, and tentatively, they began talking. She told him about her dream of moving to New York, performing on Broadway. She'd been accepted to NYU, but there was no money to pay for it, so she'd ended up also applying to Jefferson State in Charleston. In high school she'd performed in the drama and glee clubs, and did competition cheerleading outside of school.

He told her about growing up in Virginia, and about his father, and the bitterness in his home after his dad came home from Iraq. The nights of drunken rage, his dad sitting staring at the television, there but not there, unable to break free of his self-imposed isolation and anger.

"Are you ever afraid that you'll end up like that, if you stay in the Army?"

He sighed.  "Sometimes, yeah. I mean… I can understand it. I've not been in the Army long, but I've seen some really screwed up… I've … it's not easy to talk about it."

She responded by putting her arms around his shoulders and leaning into him.  "It's okay. You don't have to."

"You might be better off finding someone more like you to hang out with."

She laughed, a low sexy sound in the back of her throat. "That's a bigger challenge than it might seem. Most of the guys I go to school with don't have any ambition bigger than watching Monday night football."

He stared out at the rapidly darkening sky, and said, "I'm no prize, Rebecca. Just a guy trying to get through life."

She wrapped her hand around his arm and said, "Maybe, we're still getting to know each other.  But here's what I know about you: you're a guy who believes in something. Every day you get up and put your own life on the line to help other people.  When that mess started downtown, you didn't duck or hide.  Your first response was to find the nearest person in danger and help them.  That's … remarkable."

He looked at the ground. "Don't think that's all there is to it."

"What do you mean?"

Turville sighed.  "You're right, I did that.  But… I've also done some really dumb things. Last year, do you remember when Dale Whitt was assassinated?  And the Army was sent into the city in Charleston, and that kid got killed?"

She nodded.

"I was the guy who killed him. I wasn't … I didn't follow orders properly.  I got scared, and when that kid came running out of the alley I thought he had a gun. And I shot him."

She tilted her head, looked at him closely.  Turville saw that her eyes were watering. "Jim… I'm so sorry."

He continued talking. "It's not something I can ever take back. Or change.  Whatever else happens, for the rest of my life I'm going to know that I ended that kid's opportunities to have a life, to have a dream. I took him away from his family, and then walked away scott free."

She hugged him, and whispered, "That makes you a human, who makes mistakes. Nothing else."

Her closeness was intoxicating.  He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply, the scent filling his nostrils like a field of flowers.  "Deadly mistakes."

Turville pulled away just slightly, enough to look in her eyes.  She met his, not flinching or turning away. His eyes fell to her lips, and he slowly leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers: not demanding, a bare touch.

She responded, tightening her arms around him, her lips open, the tip of her tongue just touching his.

The feel of her lips against his, her arms around his shoulders, the warmth of her waist underneath the cotton dress combined to make him lightheaded, a simple bliss he couldn't remember ever experiencing. He looked in her eyes and smiled.

She smiled back, openly, and said in a voice rich with emotion, "I could stay right here with you forever."

"They'll be expecting us soon."

She nodded.  "Yes."

They stood together, and walked arm in arm to the truck. Simply separating to get into the cab was a loss.

Rebecca turned the keys, and a low whining sound emitted from the engine.  The starter engaged, but not enough to catch.

"Oh, hell," she said.  "Battery's low. I should have thought, this has happened a couple times recently. I think my alternator's going out."

He laughed.

She turned toward him, her face incredulous. "What?"

He chuckled again. "Are you sure you didn't plan it? Get me into an isolated spot in the mountains, and oops, conveniently the battery is dead? Now we're stuck together."

Her mouth twisted up wryly, and she lightly slapped him on the shoulder.  "Don't get so excited about yourself hotshot. In fact, get out and push. If we can get it rolling down the hill, I can pop the clutch and get the truck started."

Turville howled with laughter and opened the door.  She put the truck in first gear and pressed in the clutch, turned the key to "on."  He leaned, hard, against the doorframe, and the truck very slowly began to roll forward.  A little further, and then a little further, and the truck began to pick up a little speed.

In silence, the truck began to roll forward on the slope. A few steps further, and Turville jumped back in the cab and slammed the door shut.

She had a look of intense concentration on her face.  The truck moved a little faster, and when it hit around ten miles per hour she took her foot off the clutch.

The truck shuddered, almost stalled, then the engine caught.  She switched on the headlights.

Turville caught his breath at the flash of a man standing in the road when she switched on the lights, then she let out a scream and slammed on the brakes.  The engine coughed once and died.

The man in the road was gaunt, his black hair long and on the edge of unkempt, a bristly beard growing in all directions.

Rebecca put her hand flat against her chest, took a deep breath.  After just a second she leaned her head out the window and said, "Oh my God, Uncle Joe?"

Turville blinked in surprise.  She knew this man?

Rebecca jumped out of the cab, ran forward and said, "Uncle Joe, oh my God, what are you doing here?  I almost ran you over! You scared the hell out of me."

Turville slowly got out and followed her.  The man hugged Rebecca, but his attention was on Turville.  His eyes scanned the uniform and combat boots, then up to Turville's eyes. Turville shivered. There was no warmth in that expression.

The man … her Uncle … broke off the hug and said, "I was just headed to your place actually, Rebecca.  Sometimes I like to come out here and watch the sun set when I'm in town.  I wasn't expecting to find you here."  He emphasized the word "you."

Her eyes flashed to Turville, and she held her hand out to his.  Turville took it, but somehow he felt this was a mistake in front of this strange looking man.

"Uncle Joe, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Corporal Jim Turville.  He's the man who saved my life."

Turville said, "It's nice to meet you, sir."

The man looked at him, no warmth at all in his eyes.  "Joe Blankenship."

Blankenship scanned the uniform again, then said, "No mistaking what you do for a living.  What M-O-S?"  He was referring to Turville's military occupational specialty.

"Infantry, sir."

Blankenship grunted, and Turville couldn't make out the meaning for sure, but it felt like contempt.

The three stood there in an awkward silence, broken only by the sounds of the night: an owl in the distance, crickets, frogs, who knew what else.

Turville felt Rebecca's hand tighten on his.  She pulled him a little closer, then said, "We're headed back to the house right now.  Can you follow us, Uncle Joe? I'm having some trouble with the truck."

Blankenship stared at her for a moment, no expression on his face.  Then his eyes darted to Turville again, then back to his niece.

"Yes. We should move out."

A few moments later they were moving again. Turville sat in the truck with Rebecca, with Joe Blankenship following behind them in his own truck, a much older pickup completely covered in mud and dirt.

As she drove, Turville said, "Your uncle… I don't think he cared much for me."

She frowned.  "He did seem odd, didn't he? I've barely seen him in the last year, just once or twice. He's grieving though. Ever since my aunt died last year, Uncle Joe's never been quite right."

Turville asked, "How did she die?"

Rebecca sighed, her voice said, and answered, "She was killed when the DHS raided the factory where she worked."

"Oh God, that's awful," Turville replied. He started to ask her if she thought Blankenship was involved with the insurgents, then stopped himself.  Blankenship was family to her. Not a reasonable question. He made a conscious effort to change the subject.

***

"Jim, would you like to see some pictures of Rebecca growing up?" asked Rebecca's mother as they finished the dishes.

"No, he wouldn't," Rebecca replied, at the same time Turville said, "I'd love to, Mrs. Mays."

Rebecca rolled her eyes.

"Call me Zoe, please," said Rebecca's mother. "Bob's mother was Mrs. Mays."

Turville smiled, said, "Zoe, then.  Yes, I'd love to see them."

Rebecca dried the last dish with a towel, set it in the rack next to the sink, then stuck her tongue out at Turville and crossed her eyes. Turville laughed, then stood and followed Zoe into the living room.

Zoe took a thick album off the shelf, sat down on the couch, and patted the seat next to her.  "Sit down next to me, dear."

Turville did, and she opened the album and began flipping through the pages.

"Here we are," she said, pointing to a photo of a tiny girl, a toddler really.  In the photo, Rebecca, three years old, wore a pink ballet outfit with a flower.  "Rebecca's always been a fantastic dancer."

Standing behind the couch, arms crossed over her chest, Rebecca said, "Oh God, mother, must you embarrass me?"

Zoe smiled at her daughter.  "Why be embarrassed, darling? It's true."

Rebecca flushed red.

Zoe flipped through the pages.  Many more photos: Rebecca at school, at museums.  A group of photos of the family together in Washington, DC. Rebecca looked six in that group of photos.

More recent photos.  Rebecca on a stage, at sixteen. She wore a white dress with bare shoulders, lace cuffs on her arms and a tiara: left leg and arm extended in the air behind her back, right arm extended forward, head up, a smile on her face. Turville caught his breath, then said, "That's beautiful."

Rebecca almost choked behind him, but Zoe simply said, "Yes, it was.  Rebecca was in the River City Youth Ballet before the war shut it down, last year she was the Snow Queen."

Turville looked up at Rebecca and winked, then leaned close to Zoe.  "Any chance you could email me a copy of that?"

Zoe's smile grew, and she said, "I'd be happy to, Jim."

Rebecca shook her head, said, "Oh, God. I should have known you two would hit it off."

The next page showed a photo of the entire family: Bob and Zoe sitting next to another couple, Rebecca seated on the ground in front of them. The resemblance between Bob and his sister Mandy was obvious. Joe Blankenship in the photo looked completely different than the man Turville had met this evening: younger, happy, with his arm curled protectively around his wife.

Turville glanced at the door of the study. Bob Mays and Joe Blankenship had gone in the room and closed the door as soon as dinner was finished.

Turville touched the photo. "That's Joe's wife? The one who died last year?"

Zoe nodded, her face sad.  "Yes. Mandy was a wonderful, generous hearted woman. Joe's heart broke when she was killed."

Unexpectedly Rebecca leaned forward and put her arms around Turville's shoulders.

Zoe looked at them, a thoughtful look on her face, and she asked, "It's serious between you two, isn't it?"

Turville felt an unexpected rush of emotion as he felt, rather than saw, Rebecca nod.

"Well then, I'd best prepare your father."

As she spoke the words, the study door opened. Bob Mays and Blankenship came out of the study, both of them looking serious and unhappy. Blankenship walked to the front door, putting on his jacket as he walked.  Turville caught a glimpse of the tattoo on his huge bicep as he put on the coat. "De Oppreso Liber," it read, and displayed a knife and a green beret.  Special Forces.

Blankenship opened the front door and walked out without a word. He shut the door behind him forcefully.

Bob turned toward them, and his eyes fell on Rebecca, her arms around Turville.  He frowned, then said, "I think it's probably time for Jim to get back to the Army, isn't it?"

Turville checked his watch.  11:30.  "Yeah," he said, "I'm afraid so."

Rebecca stood up, leaving behind an empty feeling as her arms left his shoulders.

"Is Uncle Joe leaving? Without even saying goodbye?"  She sounded depressed.

Mays frowned.  "Sorry, Berry, your uncle had some business to take care of.  He promised to visit again soon."

Something in his tone seemed off. Turville tried to ignore it: he didn't really know the man, after all.

The four of them stood, and Rebecca said, "Mind if I take him back in your car? The truck's acting up."

"Sure, honey," Zoe said. "Let me get you the keys."

Turville walked around the couch to stand next to Rebecca. She reached for his hand and took it. Mays' eyes dropped to the held hands, and Turville couldn't help but notice the lack of warmth in them. It was marked change from before the meal.

Zoe hugged Turville as they left, and Mays shook his hand.

In the car, Rebecca said, "Well that was just uber-weird. You'd think it was my dad hitting menopause, not mom."

Turville laughed.  "I suspect he just isn't comfortable with some soldier hanging around his daughter."

She touched his shoulder.  "You're not just some soldier, Jim."

They drove in a comfortable silence, back to town, through the road block.  She stopped a block short of their destination and whispered, "Jim… I had a really nice time with you. Despite the fact that you got along with my mother."

Turville smiled, reached out with his left hand and lightly touched her neck.  "I did, too."

She leaned close, and slowly they kissed.

As they parted, she looked him in the eyes: a promise, a level of emotion that shocked Turville to the core. She whispered, "Call me."

He smiled, then said, "I'll be thinking of you, short girl."

She smiled, and he slid out of the car and gently closed the door behind him.  He walked toward the humvee, light headed and happy.

 

Shrinking word count!

I know a couple weeks ago I posted a note here that Insurgent was 60,000 words, which was a cool milestone… two thirds or so through the first draft.

But then I deleted 5,000 words of pure junk. Bummer. But trust me, you didn't want to read them anyway.

Back to work. I still expect to finish it this spring.

J.L. Bryan's Dominion

About a year ago Amazon's "people who also bought this book" recommended Dominion by J.L. Bryan to me as a book commonly bought by people who also bought Republic.

I finally picked up the Kindle edition of Dominion this week, and I was blown away.

The premise of the book is simple: it's 2036, and the United States is ruled by a totalitarian regime that came to power following a nuclear explosion in Columbus, Ohio. Daniel Ruppert, the main character, is a newscaster for a popular nightly news program, where he recites manufactured news before his audience every night. But we learn that Daniel longs for the days of journalism he was originally trained to do, and he has been secretly logging on to non-monitored networks to pick up information that hasn't been pre-processed by the federal government.  As the story progresses, he stumbles onto more and more dangerous information that brings him very unfortunate attention from the Department of Terror, the Dominionist Church, and others.

The first third of the novel, which sets the stage for what will come, is very reminiscent of George Orwell's 1984, but about a third of the way through takes off in a different direction.

The book was well written, with believable and likeable characters and suspense that kept me stuck to the page when I should have been asleep or writing something of my own. If you liked Republic, you'll almost certainly enjoy Dominion.

 

Insurgent Chapter 5.4

1998

Mandy Mays accepted her diploma from the Principal, and smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. Her eyes darted to the audience and met Joe's eyes and felt a shiver of pleasure go down her spine. Following her brother, who had received his diploma moments before, she returned to her seat next to Joe and hugged him hard, giggling.

He whispered in her ear, "I love you so much, babe."

A few minutes later, the last senior had received his diploma and the principal called the graduating seniors to stand, then dismissed them for the last time.  Mandy hugged Joe again. He leaned close and their lips touched, initially in a chaste kiss that turned to passion. She felt the pressure of his lips, the very faint stubble, and a lightheadedness that could have swept her to the floor if her love hadn't been holding her up.

They parted a few inches, looking in each other's eyes. Joe's smile was as big as hers: his beautiful, strong smile that was enough to convince her that everything would always be all right as long as she was in his arms.

Then she heard her brother say, in a low, shocked tone, "Oh, my God."

Mandy's eyes darted to her brother, then followed his gaze to the woman approaching them.  No. Not possible.  No, no, no.  Why now? Mandy's feeling of ecstasy flip-flopped into a clench in her stomach and tears came to her unwilling eyes.

"Mom?"

The woman, her face a haunting older mirror of Mandy herself, stopped three feet away, a hesitant smile on her face, and said, "Mandy… Bobby. Oh my God, you're all grown up."

Bobby moved to hug his mother, and she wrapped her arms around her son.

Mandy grabbed Joe's hand, squeezing it for reassurance. Her mind was frozen in place. Her mother.  Her mother was here? After more than ten years, she just walked in out of the blue?

A rapid flash of thought and emotion passed through Mandy. How many nights had she prayed for her mother to return. How many times had she begged God for her mommy to come home; how many times had she cried herself to sleep. What the hell was her mother thinking? Disappear for ten years, then just walk back in?

The words burst out of her mouth before she could stop herself.  "What are you doing here? What do you want?" Mandy's tone of voice was cold.

"Oh darling," her mother said. "How could I miss your graduation?"

"It shouldn't be that hard. You've missed everything else in our lives for ten years."

Her mother's eyes watered, and she said, "I didn't want to, Mandy. I've always loved you… I was hoping… I don't know what I was hoping for really. I'm sorry."

She's sorry! Mandy's mind was still stuck. The nights as a nine year old girl when she'd wept for her mommy.  The missed events from school, the shock and embarrassment of having to go to her friends's mothers for advice when she had her period, then when the nightmares really started, when she had to lock her drunken father out of her room at night, barricading the door with a bureau because God only knew what he would do once he started drinking.

How many times had she begged God to bring her mother back? Well, now it was just too damned late.

Mandy's voice rose to a screech.  "You're sorry! You run away for ten years, you disappear on us and leave us in the hands of your abusive pervert of a husband, and you're sorry?  You leave me with your rapist husband and expect me to forgive you with a simple I'm sorry? Go ask God for forgiveness, because you're not getting it from me."

Mandy's shout brought a sudden, oppressive silence to the crowded gathering.  The families of thirty graduating seniors stared in shock, then quickly began moving for the exits.

Mandy's mother's looked stunned. "Oh god, Mandy, I'm…."

"Shut up!" Mandy screamed.  "How dare you?"

Joe quietly said, "Easy, hun, let's just go."

She yanked her hand out of Joe's and screamed at her mother, "Get out!  This is my graduation and you're not welcome here. Get out!"

The older woman shook her head, and she backed out, weeping.  "I'm so sorry, Mandy."

"Go!" Mandy screamed.  Then she collapsed into a chair and began to weep. Joe swept her into his arms, and whispered, "It's okay, babe.  I'm here for you.  I'll always be here for you."

Mandy felt her whole body shake and shudder, and she began to moan and weep.  "I hate her, Joe.  I hate her.  How could she do this to me? Why did she leave? Why!"

The image of her mother–face stricken, backing away toward the exit–flashed through Mandy's mind. What had she done? After all these years of wishing her mother were there, she'd shut her out, thrown her away.  A fresh bout of tears burst forth, and she whispered, "I want my mommy."

Joe just kept hugging her, knowing better than to question her contradictions.

She barely noticed as the people she loved gathered around her and they moved on to dinner and later back to her foster parents' home. Finally, Joe kissed her goodnight and she shuffled off to bed, thinking she was still numb. That was a dream though, because for the first time in years, she cried herself to sleep: bitter tears of loss and rage.

 

***

The morning after graduation, Mandy slowly forced herself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen still in her nightgown. Face still splotchy from crying, her hair in a mess, she poured herself a cup of coffee, mixed it generously with cream and sugar, then sat down at the table across from her foster-father.

Rich Ellison owned a car dealership just outside Charleston. Not necessarily the most sensitive of men, all the same her deferred to his wide on most, if not all, decisions affecting their life. One of those decisions, made not long after the then young couple learned they could never have children of their own, had been to become a foster family for the county's Child and Family Protective Services. Mandy and Bob had lived in their home for several years now.

Ellison carefully folded his newspaper and set it on the paper and looked across the table at Mandy. "So," he began.  "Do you think you'll live?"

Mandy stared at him, stunned. Then she saw a corner of his mouth jerk upward in a quirky smile, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"Yes, I think so.  I'm sorry I was such a nutcase last night."

His quirky half smile turned into a full grin, and he responded, "Teenage girls are entitled to be nutcases every now and then. And you had ample reason, I'd say."

She cupped her hands around her coffee cup, took a sip, then said, "Thank you for that."

He waved his hand, said, "There's nothing to thank me for."

She sighed.  "Yes, there's plenty. You've been there for me and Bobby… through everything. That's far more than I can say about our parents, and you didn't have to do it."

He chuckled.  "Sure, I did. My secret to living a happy marriage is simple, Mandy: do what the wife says. That said, you and your brother have done as much for us as ever did for you. Having you in our lives has been a gift."

A gift her mother had walked away from.

"So," he said slowly, "With your mother in town… what are you going to do?"

"Do?"

He nodded.

She frowned. Why the hell should she do anything? Her mother wasn't part of her life, never had been, never would be. Mandy would be fine if she never saw that woman again.

"I don't really see any reason to do anything different."

He nodded, then said, "I see. I only ask because…"

She interrupted. "She doesn't deserve anything from me."

He raised his palm in the air as if to say, 'Stop,' then responded.  "It's not really about what she deserves. I happen to agree with you about that: what your mother deserves isn't at issue here. She gave up her right when she left. But I am concerned about what you deserve."

"I think what I deserve is for her to leave me the hell alone."

He nodded. "That's probably true.  On the other hand, you might also deserve an explanation, and an apology. You deserve some closure. I don't know what her reasons were… in the end it doesn't really matter, because it won't change the fact that she left. She left when you were vulnerable and couldn't protect yourself.  I think you deserve an opportunity to tell her that."

At the words, 'She left when you were vulnerable,' tears began coursing down Mandy's face. She sniffled, then said, "It's hard for me to imagine an explanation that would be good enough."

He nodded. "I'm fairly sure there isn't one. You're going to find as an adult, Mandy, that very often things aren't good enough. But sometimes not good enough will be all you have.  I'm going to leave it alone… you'll have to decide on your own what you want to do. I know it will be the right thing for yourself. But if you do decide you want to get in touch with her, here's the number."

He held out a sheet torn from the notepad on the refrigerator door, a small sheet of paper bordered by flowers and a cocker spaniel in the lower right hand corner.  The details of a life she'd never imagined when she'd been a little girl living with her drunken father: imagine taking the time and effort to find a notepad for the refrigerator that reflected some small bit of beauty. It was inconceivable.

Mandy took the sheet, folded it twice, then whispered, "Thank you."

Ellison stood, then said, "Whoops, look at the time. Gotta run, Mandy. Let me know what you decide, okay"

***

Mandy's quiet knock on the door of the motel room did nothing to express the extreme anxiety she felt; the pounding of her heart, the fear that dug deep in her gut and made her want to start crying before she even started.

The door opened, framing the five foot two, brown haired woman who had abandoned her.

Elizabeth Stanton-Mays looked across the threshold at her eighteen year old daughter, fear reflected in her own face.  She seemed to study Mandy for a moment, then said in a rough voice, "Mandy. Thank you so much for calling me. Please come in."

Mandy walked into the hotel room and glanced around. The Whitesville Motel wasn't exactly a five star accommodation, but it was all that the town boasted. Her mother's second story room was small, with a slightly slumped bed draped in a threadbare bedspread.  A small table was shoved against the wall next to the window, overlooking Boone Street.

Her mother had set out cups of hot tea. Steam rose into the air in a lazy pattern that caught Mandy's eye.

"Please, dear, sit down."

Mandy sat down stiffly, on the edge of her seat. Her mother sat down across from her, equally awkward, and said, "I'm grateful you called."

Considering how to respond, Mandy finally said, "I didn't do it for you. I'm here for me."

Her mother nodded. "In that case, tell me … how can I help?"

Mandy bit her lip, trying to force back the wave of emotions that were threatening to overwhelm her.  "I want to understand…. I want to understand why you left us."

Her mother's eyes watered, and she whispered, "I hurt you so much, didn't I?"

Oh, now she feels bad about it. A little late for that, isn't it, Mom? "Just tell me the truth."

Her mother slumped in her seat.  She whispered, "I just couldn't take it any more. I'm so sorry."

"Couldn't take what?"

"Your father… this town… this life! I … it was never what I wanted. I love you and your brother more than you can ever know.  But it was killing me.  Every day I was dying a little more, and I knew that if it went on much longer, I'd really die, at my own hands."

It was as if her mother had stabbed her through the heart.  "Were we so horrible, then?"

"No!" her other cried. "It was never you! It was me."

Mandy leaned forward, unable to stop herself, and said in a vicious tone of voice, "Make me understand. Make me understand why you left us all alone with him."

A tear ran down her mother's face.  She said, "When I met your father I was at Julliard.  All my life I'd done nothing in the world but dance. It was my life… the life I'd worked and bled for, but it was … so narrow.  Then your father swept in to my life. He was … so amazing back then… glamourous."

Mandy found that hard to imagine, but didn't interrupt her mother. "Your dad had served in Vietnam, and stayed in the Navy when the whole country scorned Vietnam vets.  I was … very young … when this  white jacketed fighter pilot swept me off my feet.  We got married. I thought my parents were going to go insane… I dropped out of Julliard and followed him to San Diego."

Mandy stared at her mother, incredulous. Her father a Navy fighter pilot in Vietnam? Her mother a dancer at Julliard? What the hell was this?

"What happened?" she whispered.

Her mother grimaced.  "Life happened.  Your dad was in a bad accident… he had to eject from a crippled jet, it went down in the Mojave desert.  His parachute deployed, but he landed unconscious on bad rocks, broke both his legs and cracked his skull. He was in a coma for weeks, we didn't know if he was going to live or die.  Finally the Navy medically retired him, and we came here… back to his childhood home."

Mandy struggled to assimilate this information. It was… not even believable.

"So," her mother said, "We made the best of it. When he'd recovered enough to work, your dad went to the mines, and I taught dance at a studio in Charleston.  But… you can't imagine what it was like. Your father was so bitter about losing his Navy career. He would fly into a rage at the drop of a hat.  He drank… so much. When he was drunk he would…"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He'd hurt me."  She buried her face in her hands.

Mandy stared at her mother. Now that was the father she knew. A cruel, uncompromising bastard.

But even he hadn't abandoned his children.

Mandy said, "So you just…left. Abandoned your children to the abusive drunk?"

Elizabeth's eyes widened.  "No!  I … I didn't have any choice. I couldn't stay here…not in this horrible town, with him, with my whole life narrowed down to absolutely nothing. I couldn't be stuck here in Whitesville, West Virginia, with absolutely nothing in life to look forward to but another beating."

Nothing in life to look forward to, Mandy thought.  That's what Bobby and I were to her. Nothing.  Slowly, forcing the words out, she said, "So what did you do?"

"I … I went back to New York.  I tried so hard to get back to my old life… to work on Broadway, or a ballet troupe. I auditioned … everywhere. I tried to keep tabs on you and your brother, but from such a distance… it was too much."

Auditions and Broadway. Way more important than protecting your children. That made sense, if you were a heartless bitch.

"Did you get back to it?"

Her mother shook her head. "No," she whispered. "It was too late… I'd lost it. I never got a single part… I ended up waitressing. Finally I realized I had to come back here… to you… before it was too late."

Forcing herself not to cry, Mandy said, "You missed that boat, mother.  It was too late the first time your husband tried to rape me. It was too late when you walked out the door without considering how much you were hurting a nine-year-old girl. I don't want you in my life, mother. I don't ever want to see or speak to you again. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. You can go to hell for all I care."

She stood up quickly, knocking the flimsy hotel chair over.

Her mother sobbed.  "Mandy, please! It's not too late, I know it's not.  I can… I promise… "

Mandy whispered, "I had enough of your promises when I was nine."  She turned her back, opened the hotel room door and walked out, letting the door slam shut behind her.

***

Joe Blankenship awoke to faint tapping on his window. Disoriented, his darted around the dark room before the quiet tapping came again. Fingernails clicking against glass.

He jerked to his feet, then untangled himself from his blanket and moved to the window without turning on the light.

Mandy was outside in the dark. What the hell? He felt for the lock on the window, sprung it, then slid the window up.

He whispered, "Mandy? What are you doing?"

"Let me in," she replied.

He reached outside and took her hands and lifted her to the windowsill.  As she got inside, he switched on the desk lamp.

Her face was blotched. She'd been crying.

"What's wrong, babe?"

She came into his arms, furiously kissing him.  Then she whispered, "Make love to me, Joe. Please."

Joe didn't have to be asked twice.  Afterward, they lay entwined on the bed. Drowsy, he turned to kiss her, and was stunned to see a tear rolling down her face.

"Mandy, what's wrong? Talk to me."

She stared at him, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. Abruptly, she got out of the bed and began struggling into her clothes.

Desperation seeping into his voice, he called her name again.

Finished buttoning her sweater, she sat down in his desk chair and faced him.  She said, "Joe, listen to me. I don't have the strength to say this more than once."

A leaden feeling in his stomach, he nodded, then said, "I'm listening."

Her face twisted in grief, then she said, "I can't do this.  I can't do it to you. Or to me. Or to what we might have one day. If I stay here in Whitesville, I'll die.  Or even worse… I'll be like my mother. I'll leave you and our children when they need me the most.  I cannot do that. I can't be that person, waiting to find out every day if you'll live to make it out of the mine."

She sobbed, then said, "I'm leaving, Joe. Tonight.  And I won't be back."

Joe was paralyzed.  He tried to speak, opened his mouth even, then snapped it shut.  Finally he whispered, a choked, painful sound forced past his breaking heart, "Please, Mandy. I'll do anything."

She shook her head furiously.  "It's not you, Joe.  Don't you see it?  I'm the one who is broken.  I just … I don't have the strength to keep loving you.  Please don't fight me on this. If you love me, please let me go. I'm begging you."

She couldn't be doing this.  No, no no no.  Mandy was his life. Who would he be without her? Just another kid bound for the coal mine. A nothing.

A horrid sound of grief escaped his throat.

"Mandy… I love you."

She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.  She whispered, "And I love you. That's why I have to go."

Then she turned and slipped out the door of his bedroom and out of his life.

 

Awesome new reviews

Just a note on some awesome new reviews of Republic:

"I cared for a lot of the characters and none had a happy ending with so much death around them. the book was well written and I could not put it down. It wrung out my emotions."

"This is a well balanced read and I will think of "Republic" with "Seven Days in May", "Fail-Safe", and "Foxbat" and with authors like Clancy, Coyle, and Brown that give us a taste of what could be if small changes occurred.

I could not put this book down."

"Well written, with realistic dialog and characters, "Republic" gives a glimpse into a possible future for a United States overburdened by an aggressive and intrusive federal government.

Once started, you will want to finish this book."

More at Amazon.com

 

MobiPocket, Amazon, and Why I'm not Dooooomed!

So here's what happened.

Way back in January 2008, I hit a brainstorm. My thought at the time was: I'm a really obscure writer, with what I think is a great idea for a book.  Can't get many people to buy it?  I'll just give it away!

At the time, this was a fairly novel idea, and got quite a response. Enough to crash my webserver until I moved the files elsewhere. I got a fair amount of ink out of the move, including Techdirt, The Long Tail (Wired blog network), and a bunch of publishing blogs.

The result? Something like 50,000 downloads, quite a few readers, and nicely, dramatically increased sales on Amazon. Particularly for the ebook, which at the time was published through the services of Mobipocket, then the only entree into Amazon's ebook ecosystem.

Along comes Amazon, which buys Mobipocket, and eventually introduced their own publishing platform for the Kindle, which I paid little attention to. Why? Because, frankly, sales were good.  Really good.  For most of 2010, enough to pay my rent, which a real accomplishment for any writer. By December 2010, Republic had been sitting in the top 25 books on the Alternate History bestseller list for more than 2 years, right alongside S.M. Stirling, Newt Gingrich, John Birmingham and other ranking authors.

Then the hammer fell.

To explain what it was, I have to back up and explain a little bit about Amazon's sales rankings and recommendations system. See, when you look at a book on Amazon, there's a little strip of books right there on the page under the heading "people who bought this book also bought…." and shows other works likely to be of interest to the shopper.  And when you buy that book, you are usually prompted then with additional "also-bought" recommendations.  Amazon occasionally sends out emails to its customers who have opted in saying, "Since you bought" whatever, "you might like" something else.  All of those things contributed to sustained sales of the book.

Not to sound mercenary, but I really want to be a full time writer one day.  And to do that, I have to sell books.

So here's what happened.  Mobipocket, now wholly owned by Amazon.com, is being folded up and shut down as a platform for getting your books onto Amazon.  Mobipocket publishers, such as myself, are being migrated to the new Kindle Direct Publishing platform.  Good news! Means quicker access, ability to make direct edits, upload new editions and corrections, etc.  Except for one little tiny problem which has rocked my world in a very unfortunate way.

With the migration, the books were assigned new ASINs, or catalogue numbers, in Amazon's system.  And with that migration, all of the "also-bought" recommendations simply disappeared.

Overnight, sales ranking for Republic on Amazon plummeted.  And my revenue from Amazon was zeroed out.

This is bad.

So the question for me is, what next?

First thing, make the book accessible as an impulse buy to new readers.  Set the ebook price to $0.99 cents. Done.

Second, trying some new promotions. Giving away copies on Goodreads, Librarything and elsewhere hoping to generate some buzz.

Third, counterintuitive as it may seem to give away a book when you're trying to generate sales, I'm pricing the book for FREE temporarily on Smashwords (and ultimately Apple, Sony and other other outlets Smashwords feeds to).  Because Amazon spiders other bookstores to identify the lowest offered price of a title, I'm hoping this will drop the price on Amazon to free sometime in the new future (the lowest I can actually go through KDP is 99 cents).

So, I'm making an appeal to my friends, fans, enemies, whoever is reading this.

Go get a copy for the Kindle (99 cents) or Nook (99 cents) or iBooks(99 cents) or any e-reader format (Smashwords: FREE). Tell a friend about it and encourage them to buy it (or download it free, I'm happy either way).  Help push it back up on the bestseller list. Because while I expect to have Insurgent finished within the next few months, I'm hoping to be able to push through and continue the series and finish it, and to do that, I'm gonna need to be able to spend some real time on it.

I'll report back as I have time on how this experiment goes.  The main take away is this:

a) The book is free, for now.  Feel free to go get it (or even better, BUY it)!

b) If you like it, tell a friend! Post a note or like the book on Facebook (and don't forget to click the SHARE with your friends button), a review on Amazon or Goodreads, or wherever! Word of mouth is the one thing that distinguishes a bestseller from an invisible book. You can make that difference (and earn my forever gratitude).

And to the folks who've been writing me about Insurgent and when am I FINALLY going to get it out there… except it by the end of this year. Nearly finished with the first draft, and will go into editing mode as soon as possible.

 

New Librarything Review of Republic

Just posting a quick update: new review of Republic up at LibraryThing

Republic Chapter One (#SampleSunday)

If you are wondering what #SampleSunday is, see this post.

Chapter One

May 24

Kenny Murphy, Jr. waved goodbye and turned to go into the school building. The faint lines at the corners of Ken Murphy's eyes crinkled just a little as he watched the little blonde boy walk away. He'd changed so much that Martha wouldn't have recognized him if she'd still been alive. A very serious boy, he had problems they'd never imagined when he was just three, problems Murphy felt ill-equipped to deal with by himself, even three years after she'd died.

He got back on 340 moments later, hands tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as the slow moving traffic crept up the four-lane highway. At least he had an automatic shift now; the clutch in his old truck hadn't agreed with the prosthetic he'd worn since Iraq. His eyes glanced off the wedding ring on his left hand, then back to the congested road. Brake lights flashed in the heavy fog. Murphy hated foggy mornings.

When he'd first moved to Highview with Martha back at the turn of the century, the town had less than five hundred residents. There were at least four times as many now, and the rest of the county had grown even more, with thousands who commuted all the way to Baltimore and Washington, DC. Traffic got worse all the time; what had once been a five-minute drive to work had turned into twenty.

He grimaced as he pulled into the plant. A new fence had been under construction for some weeks. Security, said the executives. Hadn't been any need for a fence in the last twenty years, and he didn't see the need for one now. Waste of money.

He parked the pickup in his reserved spot near the entrance to the building. A small hybrid pulled in next to him, in the spot reserved for the employee of the month. Karen Greenfield. A little older than his daughter, Greenfield was a rising star at the plant, and one hell of a leader. He knew her well from the National Guard. She was a company commander in his battalion, confident and assertive. Attractive young lady, too; every junior officer in the battalion, plus most of the men at the plant, had tried at least once to get her to go out on a date. They rarely tried more than once—when provoked, her eyes could blister enough to crack your skin. Like Murphy, Karen wore stout jeans and a casual shirt.

"Morning, Colonel."

"Morning, Karen. You can call me Ken when we're not on drill."

She smiled. "If I did, I'd be the only person around here who did. Any word on what's going on in Vienna?"

He shook his head. The day before, his boss, plant manager and vice president of production, had been called to northern Virginia for a meeting of the executives that was supposed to be secret. Nothing stayed secret around here. The rumors said they were considering layoffs.

"No, nothing. I wouldn't worry too much. We're one of the most profitable units in the company. They'd be fools to mess with a good thing." Karen smiled as they walked toward the entrance of the plant. "There's no shortage of fools in the world, Colonel."

"I suppose you're right. Nothing to be done for it now, though. We've got to get those bugs worked out of the new run. Best to think about that instead of rumors."

They entered the building and she headed off to her office, while he went to his. Despite the confident front, Murphy was worried. The fence was just part of it: spending thousands of dollars on security for a building that had never suffered a break-in? It was a very visible reminder that the company was changing, and quickly, since it had been bought by Nelson Barclay's Vienna Holdings.

Barclay had a nasty reputation in the high-tech industry. An incredibly wealthy man, he'd built his company by gobbling up smaller competitors, and avoided regulators by keeping plenty of campaign dollars flowing into the right pockets. He was a good friend of President Price, which didn't do him any good in Murphy's eyes. Murphy had voted for Price's opponent, a struggling underdog who'd been trounced in the election.

Murphy walked past his assistant's desk and into his small office. Like most of the rest of the plant's workers, she wouldn't be in for another hour. Murphy's habit, for more than a decade, had been to get to the office at least an hour or two earlier than the rest of the shift. Without interruptions, he was usually able to get more done then than he did during the rest of the day.

Every detail of the office was organized. His desk, usually clear of everything but the framed photograph of Martha, was currently stacked with the reports that had been rushed through yesterday for the executive meeting. Like the fence, the reports, describing the efficiency of the plant and its workers, made him uneasy. They showed a solid profit, but Murphy wondered if it was enough to satisfy Barclay.

They'd know soon enough.

 

***

 

The next morning was apparently soon enough.

The new twenty-foot high chain link fence surrounded the plant, topped with razor wire. Raw earth was exposed where the posts had been buried. New security cameras mounted on the high fence posts pointed at the roadway and the gate. The gate was locked tight with a chain and padlock, and unfamiliar security guards stood outside the door of the plant, well inside the grounds behind the gate. A brightly painted sign hung on the fence.

 

Effective immediately, the Saturn Microsystems Harpers Ferry Plant is closed.

Personal items and severance pay will be mailed to all employees on completion of inventory.

 

Murphy climbed out of the car where he had parked it off the side of the long drive leading to the gate, his lips curled into a frown. Karen Greenfield stood next to her rusted pickup across the drive, slapping at the buzzing insects swarming around them. She looked at him, the query in her eyes clear enough that she didn't have to say a word.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and stared at the sign and the fence in disbelief. He was Director of Operations at the plant, the number-two man, and he'd gotten no word. Why the hell had they done this?

More cars drove up the tree-lined drive to the plant and parked on the gravel next to the drive, and a small crowd formed at the gate. He'd known all these men and women for two decades. He'd worked with them and seen them around town. Now they all wore the same puzzled look. No anger had surfaced yet, but that would come. In singles and pairs, they approached him for guidance and information. He had nothing to give them.

David Firkus stepped out of the passenger side of an electric van and walked toward Murphy and Karen. David's expression carried a noticeable lack of focus that made him seem younger than his thirty-five years, with the mannerisms and speech patterns of a ten year old. Mildly retarded, David had worked at the plant for several years. As always, he smiled when he saw Karen; he'd had a crush on her for a long time. She returned a reassuring smile. David was one of the few men in Highview who hadn't found himself wanting to crawl away in response to a cutting glance from her.

Murphy surveyed the growing crowd as Karen tried to explain to David what had happened. David started to look confused and upset as she spoke quickly in a low contralto. He didn't understand.

Murphy didn't either.

By seven, the crowd had swelled to hundreds of men and women, including some from other shifts: the word had spread. They talked in low murmurs, bunched in small groups.

Murphy's eyes darted upward when he heard a helicopter.

A ripple of voices surged through the crowd as a helicopter with the "blue blob" of the Saturn Microsystems logo on its sides appeared over the trees. It landed in the parking lot where their cars should have been, and two men jumped to the ground and approached the gate. Murphy's boss, in a suit and tie, carried a megaphone. He must have come from corporate headquarters: no one wore a suit at the plant. The other man wore the West Virginia State Police uniform. Murphy heard the indignation of the men and women behind him. Why did he bring a state patrolman with him? Was he afraid of them?

The crowd fell silent as the two men approached the other side of the fence, but the tension remained—a tension Murphy didn't like at all. Take away people's livelihood all of a sudden, and there was no telling how they would react. Murphy's boss's eyes met Murphy's, then looked away. No answers there.

The plant manager raised the megaphone to his lips.

"Folks, I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. You know that for the past couple of days I've been in Vienna for a meeting with Mr. Barclay. There isn't any way to break this easily, so I'm just going to lay it out. All three of Saturn's US-based plants closed this morning. Everyone is laid off, effective immediately."

An angry roar rose from the crowd.

"Hold on a minute," he yelled into the megaphone. "Let me have my say, please. This will hit me just as hard as all of you. There's nothing we can do. The board decided this months ago, and a new plant in Jakarta opened today. Now listen to me. The company is making a…a generous offer…of new positions for some of you. If you accept the offer you'll have the same seniority you have now. The company will even pay your relocation expenses, and there is a good English school near the new plant."

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Where the hell is Jakarta? We're Americans!"

Another yell, "How much is the pay cut? What will they pay us there?"

"Is this how you saved your job, you bastard? You sold us out to some other country?"

The plant manager frowned, and then spoke again, his voice shaking, barely audible even with the megaphone. "I didn't save my job—I can't move to Indonesia. I'm staying on to supervise shipping out all the equipment, then they're letting me go, too."

"Liar!"

"Folks, listen to me. You have to keep your cool on this. Next week, checks will go out to everyone for six weeks' severance pay, plus extra depending on how long you worked for the company. Also, for some of you there will be an enclosed job offer at the new plant, with the new salary, doing the same job you have today. The company will pick up moving expenses. This is a generous offer. All the details on the move will be in the information packet. Now please. Go home. Go back to your families and try to figure out what is the best move for you, all right? I'm sorry, I wish I had better news, I really do. Good-bye."

He shook his head and walked away, the state trooper following.

Someone pitched a glass bottle, the sun glinting off the glass as it spun end over end before shattering against the fence and showering the two men with broken glass. The trooper spun around and fumbled for his pistol, and someone in the crowd shouted.

Murphy backed away from the fence. Half a dozen men stood on the hoods of two trucks, shouting at the plant manager's back.

Murphy said in a tone he expected to be obeyed, "Captain Greenfield." He motioned to Karen and they grabbed David by the arms. Murphy hadn't been in an angry crowd like this since Iraq, and didn't want to be in one now. This could get ugly real quick, and David didn't need to be in the middle of it.

"Come on, Dave, let's get away from the gate," Karen said. She smiled at him, attempting to keep him calm even as the crowd grew more raucous. They pulled him away from the gate, toward the woods beside the road.

David said, "What's going on, I don't understand!"

Another bottle bounced against the fence, then shattered against the pavement. One of the workers started to climb the chain links.

"Sir, you're going to have to get down," shouted the state trooper. He unhitched the strap over his pistol.

Murphy pushed against the surge of the crowd, trying to move David and Karen out of it as screams rang out.

Behind him, Murphy heard a gunshot as the trooper fired into the air. Murphy's ears rang, and David screamed, then started to cry.

The crowd fell back from the fence, as if from the crack of a whip. The gunshot seemed to drain the angry energy from the crowd, or at least frighten them enough to back off.

Karen said, "It's all right, Dave," and hugged him.

"Go on," the trooper yelled. "Get out of here."

People started to move back to their cars. Much more quickly than the area had filled this morning, it began to empty. Murphy and Karen helped David back to his carpool as with a funereal air, the former employees headed back to their homes. Murphy looked back at the fence. The trooper still stood behind it, Murphy's boss not far behind him.

That was all the good-bye he got, after nineteen years with the company.

He looked at Karen, and she back at him, both of them helpless to do anything about the situation. Without another word, they got back in their cars and drove away.

 

***

 

Sally's Diner in Highview was as busy as Murphy had ever seen it. The usual lunch crowd was there of course, but the place was packed with an extra twenty people or so: folks like him, who would have normally been down at the plant. The old building, with its rundown interior and flaking paint, was a favorite meeting spot in Highview. On the corner of Main and Tipple streets, it was a small standalone building, a wood frame with peeling white clapboards.

Murphy had a seat at the scuffed counter, a cup of coffee set before him and an unread Washington Post next to it. The coffee had been sitting, getting cold. He absently rubbed the joint between his knee and the prosthetic left leg he'd worn for more than a decade. He needed to get some new liners; it had been irritating him lately.

Walter Haggett's teenage great-grandson Frank frantically washed dishes behind the counter, slinging the trays of dishes and glasses around with a crash. Frank was sixteen, and should have been in school; he'd dropped out earlier in the school year. It was hard for Murphy to see the gangly, greasy-haired teenager with acne and rings in his ears and nose: he'd been a confused young kid at Haggett's funeral three years earlier. Walter had been laid to rest during a closed-coffin service the day after Martha's.

"Hey, Colonel Murphy, look at the tube—isn't that your daughter?"

Murphy looked up at the aging television, tuned to CNN. Someone turned it up. congressman Al Clark stood in the chamber of the House of Representatives. Directly behind him was Murphy's daughter Valerie, Clark's assistant. At the bottom of the screen the words "Welfare Reform Bill" flashed.

Clark spoke, a lopsided grin on his face. "The wisdom—no, the celestial guidance—behind this proposal is almost too stellar for me to see clearly. Applaud, I tell you. Applaud! Now, I have only one suggestion, one little morsel—an amendment to offer to Mr. Skaggs's wise proposal. Let us send a mission to the moon to carve up the cheese and give it to our senior citizens. Let us send it back in huge rockets to land in the ocean, not only providing for our dear sainted grandmothers, but at the same time revitalizing the shipping and dairy industries."

The diners in the restaurant broke into laughter as the screen switched to Representative Mark Skaggs from Kentucky, his face flushed. It appeared the other representatives onscreen were also gripped with hysterical laughter.

"My suggestion will have just as much opportunity to help our country as the one proposed by the gentleman from Kentucky," Clark said. "Gentlemen, Ladies: this proposal will likely bring revolution down on our heads. Our people are bleeding, fellow members of the House. Bleeding. Yet there he is, the gentleman from Kentucky who wants to take away their last bandages so the wealthy can use them as fancy headdresses."

Voices rose in the diner again, as if by common consent, and someone turned the volume back down on the television as the screen shifted back to the anchors. The goings-on in Washington had little to do with them, anyway. If it hadn't been for the brief view of Valerie Murphy, the news would have attracted little interest.

Murphy's waitress poured him a cup of coffee and said, "That Clark, he sure is a card, isn't he? How's Valerie doing working for him?"

"She loves the job, got promoted again last year; she's running his whole office now," Murphy said.

"Well, isn't that something. I remember when she was nothing more than a toddler, thought she owned everything."

"Well, some things never change," he said, grinning.

She laughed and walked away, and Murphy returned to the newspaper. Depressing stuff. Unemployment. War in the Middle East. Someone had poisoned the reservoir in Milwaukee.

Murphy looked away from the paper for a moment and his eyes landed on a couple he knew, holding hands over the table as they talked. He jerked his eyes away and returned to the bad news in the paper. Of course it was always bad news—at least what they chose to print. All the same, lately things just seemed to be getting worse.

"This seat taken?"

Murphy looked up at the words. Karen stood to his left, still in the jeans and flannel shirt she'd worn to the plant earlier in the morning.

"Sit down," he said.

She did, apparently unaware of the appreciative glances from the men across the room. Karen didn't socialize in town very often.

"What are you planning to do, Colonel?"

"Well, first I'm going to ask you to stop calling me that when we're not on drill status."

She smiled. "Seriously."

Murphy shrugged. "Don't know. I'll get a job somewhere. Kenny can't go without health insurance. But I'll be damned if I know what to do. I've been making chips at that plant for twenty years."

She nodded, her expression serious. "Yeah. I'm at a loss. It's for sure there's no other decent jobs around here."

Murphy tossed back the rest of his cold coffee, then waved to the waitress for a refill. "Maybe you should think about applying for active duty status."

She grunted. "Maybe. But they'd probably make me switch branches, be a nurse or finance officer or something."

She was probably right. President Price's predecessor had signed an executive order integrating women who applied into the combat arms, and Karen had received her Armor commission as a result. Then Price had rescinded the order; consequently, only a small number of women were grandfathered into Infantry and Armor.

"You're probably right," he said, "But they'd be fools to do it. Don't repeat this, but as far as I'm concerned, you're the most capable company commander I have."

"Why thank you, Colonel. I don't have any illusions though."

"Maybe I could talk to my brother. He might be able to swing something."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Tommy's taking command of a brigade down at Fort Campbell."

"Infantry?"

"That's right. West Point." He grinned. "I never thought my little brother would outrank me."

"Do you believe them about the severance pay?"

"I imagine so. If only to avoid lawsuits, they'll be scrupulously fair. But six weeks pay won't go very far. Not for most of these folks."

"Yes. Definitely not for me. I'm still paying off my damn student loans."

"You went to Bowling Green, right?"

"That's right. And this all has a familiar feeling. I grew up in Kentucky coal country. When they finally closed the mine for good, it seemed like the town was going to dry up and blow away. A lot of folks never recovered."

"Yeah," he replied. "I never thought I'd be facing a layoff at this age. Happened to me once, a lifetime ago it seems. I got laid off from the GM plant in Atlanta twenty-five years ago."

"What'd you do?"

He laughed. "Joined the Army. All I had was a high school diploma, Martha, and a new baby to feed."

He looked around the crowded diner, and said, "This sure is going to hit Highview hard. Eight hundred families…I guess more than half the town worked at that plant."

He didn't finish the thought aloud. Desperate people tended to do desperate things.

You can read the rest by purchasing Republic in paperback or ebook at any of these retailers:

Amazon: Paperback | Kindle Edition

Barnes & Noble: Paperback | Nook

Apple iBooks

Smashwords (Any ebook format)