A collection of Short Stories Page 4

My cabin was dark when the bridge officer called my name over the ship's intercom. I hadn't been sleeping well lately. I kept having a dream, but when I woke, I couldn't remember it. Only the feeling of fear remained.

  "Lieutenant Commander Reeves report to the bridge."

  "Lights!" The lights came on dim, and then automatically brought themselves up to full as I fumbled my blankets off and threw on my uniform. I took a quick glance at myself in the mirror. I would need a shave and a hair cut soon. It wouldn't do for me to start looking rough, even if this was a basic assignment. I was in charge here and I needed to look the part. I quickly decided shaving would have to wait. It was unlike my First Officer to wake me without cause, even more so since we were only on a routine supply run.

  It took me a while to get my door open because the proximity sensor malfunctioned again. I will have to remember to mention that to the engineer next time I see him. Once on the bridge, my First Officer motioned me over to the sensor station. "Sir, there's a shadow on the very edge of our scanning range. It seems to be on a parallel course to us."

  I moved closer to him, and watched the monitor, noting the shadow he indicated. "Have you tried to hail them?"

  "Yes sir. No answer."

  "Okay, whatever it is, they seem far enough away for the moment. It could be just another supply runner or even a glitch in our own systems. God knows we have enough trouble with them. Keep your eye on it and if anything changes let me know right away."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm heading back to my cabin."

  "Aye aye sir."

  Once I wrestled my way through the door, I flopped back onto my bed, but left the lights on. I was worried about the shadow on the sensors. It was probably a glitch, but we would have to watch it regardless. We were a cargo delivery ship not a military vessel. There were some basic weapons on board for self-defense, but if push came to shove, our best option was to turn tail and run. With the exception of our cargo and basic supplies, there was nothing on board for pirates to want. Even our weapons were low grade compared to what most pirates used. There hadn't even been a sighting of them in this sector for years. I knew this mission was a cakewalk as far as danger levels went, pick up, deliver, and head home. If it wasn't for a little tricky navigating in the asteroid belt the miners worked in, this whole flight could use an autopilot. I couldn't get my mind off the simple dot on the sensors. For some reason something just didn't feel right about it. Eventually my eyelids got too heavy and sleep took me again. The lights remained on. I didn't sleep well the rest of that night, dreams full of anxiety played around the edges of my consciousness. I still didn't remember my dreams but a feeling of fear was all around me when I woke to my alarm. It took a long time for me to shake it off.

  "It must be a sensor glitch." I told the day shift when I checked in before heading down to the mess hall for some breakfast.

  I stopped at Helmsman John's personal quarters to see if the shadow had changed in any way during the night. He confirmed it had held a parallel course and after repeated attempts, it had still made no contact.

  Once in the mess, I had the usual fair of something that resembled eggs and some kind of mush they pretended were hash browns. You didn't want to look too closely at them. It was just better to chew and swallow. They were nothing compared to the cooking I used to get at home.

  Back on the bridge was business as usual. Daily logs, sensor sweeps, and a full computer check to make sure the shadow wasn't a glitch. The diagnostics came back negative, and I wasn't surprised. The computers were so old on tubs like this one they could rarely diagnose themselves correctly. On a more frustrating note, maintenance told me there was nothing wrong with my door. They tested it ten times, and it worked every single one.

  We were still three days out from the Tripper Belt, and until we got closer, it was a straight shot through space, nothing to avoid, and no changes in course. In terms of travel, it was boring as hell. I didn't have to be on the bridge after I checked in for my morning shift. Regulations stated I should remain close, but on simple runs like this, close meant anywhere on the ship. Perhaps this would be a good time to head to Engineering and see if Farley knew what was happening with my door, or why we might be seeing a shadow on the sensors all the time.

  Climbing down to the lowest levels of the ship turned out to be more annoying than I remembered. Getting to the Engineering area was much nicer on the newer rigs where they had elevator shafts to use. The ladder-style deck tubes on this rig caused so many problems when one crewmember was going up and another down. I got lucky this time, and no one was heading the opposite way.

  "Farley, you down here?" A loud bang followed by cursing came from the far end of the room.

  "Cap'n? Dat you?"

  I sighed, "Farley, how many times do I have to tell you I am not a Captain?"

  "Sorry Cap'n. Won't happ'n gain."

  I had flown with Farley on dozens of missions over the last four years, and not once had he ever gotten my rank right. I tried to explain it to him but he always had the same reply. "You da man in charge o dis tub, so dat makes you da Cap'n"

  In all honesty, I didn't mind, it was just when he did it in front of a real Captain that it caused a problem. It was a good thing his service record was impeccable. Most Captains simply ignored him when he did it, or pretended it didn't happen. Many high-end ships would have loved him as their Maintenance Chief. His skills with computers were becoming a thing of legend.

  "I think we might have a problem with the sensors. We have been tracking a shadow on the very edge of our range since last night. It seems to have matched our heading, speed, and doesn't respond to hails. Think you can tell me if it is a glitch in our system or not?"

  "Sure nuff Cap'n. I should be able tuh figure that out fer yah real quick." Farley waddled off to a panel covered with books and gadgets. With a mighty push, they all fell off and tumbled across the grated flooring. A few hard taps on the screen followed as Farley mumbled.

  "You ran a diagnoxtik?"

  "Yes, the computer reported everything is working perfectly."

  "It wuld say dat." More hard taps followed, plus a well-placed kick to the side of the terminal. "Everyting seems on da up-n-up Cap'n. It dun seem ta be a glitch."

  I ran my hand over top of my close shaved head while I considered his words. The fuzz growing on my cheeks was starting to get itchy too. "Thanks Farley. I guess that means…"

  "NOW HEAR THIS! NOW HEAR THIS! GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! LIEUTENANT COMMAND REEVES TO THE BRIDGE ON THE DOUBLE!" My ears rang with the urgency in the call. Farley stared at me a moment with a look as if to say why are you still here? I took the hint and turned tail rushing back up the ladders to the bridge.

  "Sir, I have been watching the shadow as you instructed. Up until a moment ago it hadn't changed, that is until we started turning the ship for our deceleration run. At that exact moment, the shadow started moving closer. As we get closer to our halfway mark the shadow is closing in on us."

  "So what are our options? Can we wait and turn later?"

  "No sir. This run might be easy, but it has a very limited margin for error. If we wait too long we will crash through the asteroid belt leaving pieces of this ship all over the Gamma Sector. We are already in the middle of our turn and starting the deceleration. The gravity will be dropping out within a few hours as we reverse our thrust. At the rate of approach the shadow will be on top of us at that same time."

  "Have our sensor's picked up what this shadow is yet?"

  "No sir, we know it's there, that's all."

  "It seems we don't have much choice then. Whatever this shadow is we can't communicate with it, and with the asteroid belt in our way we can't outrun it. We had better get ready for the worst. Let's just hope we won't need it. Prepare for battle stations."

  "ALL HANDS BATTLE STATIONS!" I didn't hold out much hope for a peaceful resolution on this one. We have an unknown shadow mirroring our course and now it was moving to intercept us wi
th no form of communication. If it did turn out this shadow was a pirate ship they would have a taste of our weapons before they took us. I would make sure of that.

  The waiting was almost excruciating. I had our scanners and the main view screen showing the area of space the shadow was approaching from, but as of yet we couldn't see anything in the field of stars. "Helmsman, shouldn't we be seeing something by now? We are almost down to zero G."

  "Yes sir, you're right. Our sensors say the shadow is still there but it appears they must have some kind of cloak."

  "Hail them again."

  My helmsman sent out a standard greeting message on all frequencies and waited for a reply. After a moment, he turned back to me and shook his head. "Sorry sir, nothing."

  "Weapons station, can we lock on to the shadow and send a warning shot? Let them know we're on to them?"

  "The computers won't lock on to anything since the targeting beam is just getting scattered sir."

  "Damn it! Take a guess. We can't just sit here and wait. If who or whatever is out there refuses to communicate, then we will have to talk in another language. Take your best shot, one-quarter power at first. "With the help of the view screen, I watched the laser streak out. It shot directly into the area where our scanners told us the shadow was hiding, nothing happened.

  "No more messing around. Hit it again, full power this time." My weapons officer readied the laser to fire, his hand hovered over the button and every light on the bridge went out.

  "What the hell happened?" The darkness in the ship was complete. "Who cut the power?" The second I finished speaking, the panels flicker back to life. "Can anyone explain that?" A chorus of shaking heads and 'no sir's' filled the bridge. My helmsman was the first to get his station back up and running.

  "Sir, it would appear that we have stopped."

  "What the hell do you mean we have stopped? That's impossible!"

  The view screen flickered back on and my helmsman pointed to it stuttering. "a-and we c-can see the ship now sir."

  I followed my helmsman's shaking finger and saw what had locked him in place. The screen showed the oddest, most mismatched ship I had ever seen. It was a personal habit of mine to study the ships built by other races. During my down time on ship, as well as at station, I spent countless hours going over alien ship design. A few plans remained classified, but if you knew whom to ask, you could get at least a picture if not a basic break down on hull design. My friends would often argue that I was perhaps the most knowledgeable person to come to when anyone needed information on alien vessels. Of the two hundred or so races I had researched, I had never seen a ship like this. It looked like it had a base design of a transport cruiser, much like the one we were in now, but it was different. It appeared to have pieces from other ships attached to it seemingly at random. Their design was completely baffling to me and it showed in my hesitation. I was simply fascinated with it. There were no ships like this one anywhere in the galaxy. I was sure of it! My thirst for knowledge left me wanting to find out more about this vessel. Snapping back to reality I realized the crew was waiting on me for directions.

  "Helm, scan that ship and see if you can get any information from it now that we can see it. Tactics I want to know what happened to our ship when we tried to fire our laser, and someone tell me why our entire computer system shut down!"

  "I tink I can answer dat Cap'n" The intercom crackled.

  "Farley, what have you got?"

  "The ship out der's got us in a trakor beam. Itz messin wit our power systems Dey needed us tuh have no gravity tuh stop uz."

  My mind raced as Farley's idea sunk into my head. "So you are saying that means whoever is inside that ship knew where we were heading. It explains why they followed us and then choose this exact time to lock us in their tractor beam. They must have needed our engines to reverse, and our gravity off, to lock us down somehow."

  "Sounds like you got it Cap'n. Now what er we gun do?"

  "Farley, I have no idea. I will get back to you." The intercom fuzzed out as the he cut the signal. "Tactics, any ideas for me? How did they shut our systems down like that?"

  "Sir it looks like at the exact moment we were going to fire, the shadow-ship hit us with that tractor beam. It disrupted our power generating systems and the backups didn't have enough time to kick in before our normal systems came back up. I don't know how they did it sir, but by hitting us with that beam, they stopped themselves as well as us. We are sitting dead in space right now. Neither of us is moving."

  "Is there any chance of getting this ship moving again? Being somewhere that is not here would be a really good idea right now."

  "I will get on it right away, sir."

  "Helm, any luck with the scan? Can you tell me anything else about that ship we can't already see in the view screen?"

  "Sir, our sensors are still being bounced back. I've started a basic hull scan to try to get a classification but it is coming back with confusing results. If I lock on to one section it says the configuration is Chigarian, another section reports Septonian. I have even managed to come up with a human report."

  "Human? Find that area and focus the screen on it."

  "Aye aye, sir." The helmsman centered in on the area that showed definite signs of human design. "That's it sir. It isn't much, the rest of the pieces seem to have almost been built right over top of it."

  I concentrated on the view screen looking for anything that might hint at what design this ship might have been. I couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity, even though this monstrosity looked like nothing in the records. A faint blurring on the lower right caught my attention.

  "Helm, bring the lower right section into full screen. Magnify, twenty times."

  The area came into focus and I could just make out the badly worn and faded call letters printed on the side of the ship. "Helm, tell me what that says."

  "Sir, it looks like SFSCE013. Umn…Sir…aren't those our call letters?"

  I was stunned into silence. Sitting in space right in front of me was a twisted, distorted ship holding us without any kind of communication, and it was my own ship.

  "Helm, I want to talk to whoever is inside that ship right, fucking, now. You got me?"

  "Sir, yes sir!"

  My helmsman put out the call repeatedly but still got no response from the other, or, the same ship. "I'm sorry sir if there is anyone inside that ship they aren't responding to hails. I can't even tell if they are receiving them."

  I needed to talk to whoever was inside that ship. "Tactics give me a laser pulse. Lock onto the call sign on that ship. Let's knock on that door and show them we know someone is inside."

  "Aye, aye, Sir. Locking on and firing."

  The laser was right on target, but the pulse seemed to dissipate before it hit the hull. "Fire again!" A second bolt lanced out, but had no effect.

  "Sir, we are getting an automatic hail. It would appear they understand your knock and want to talk. The message is in Roshling but it translates that you are to come aboard via shuttle. There is a bay open on the other side of the ship."

  I unstrapped myself from the command seat and began to float. I pushed my way over to the door leading to the shuttle bay. This zero gravity was annoying, but I was glad I had taken the course when I skillfully managed not to crash into the wall.

  "Sir, you aren't seriously thinking of going alone are you?"

  "Unless you can think of an alternative, it would appear I have no choice." The room stayed silent with everyone's gaze locked on me. "Thought so." I pulled my way through the doors and floated to the cargo bay where we kept our only shuttle. Unfortunately, basic flight training was not my strong suit. I would have to manage since I didn't have much of a choice.

  It took a call into Farley and a well placed fist to a control panel but I managed to get the shuttle out of the docking bay. Farley promised he would fix it as soon as I got back. Maneuvering over and around the alien ship, I took in the scope of changes the vessel hold
ing us had taken. Now that I knew what to look for I could see bits and pieces taken from dozens, if not hundreds of other ships. The alien craft looked built out of almost every kind of known ship, and a few unknown types thrown in for good measure.

  Using the thrusters, I maneuvered the shuttle to the back of the alien ship. I saw the bay doors were already open for me. Inside was an exact copy of the shuttle I was flying except for modifications similar to what the ship had. The call numbers on its side were also a direct match of my own ship.

  I unbuckled myself and was surprised to find the gravity inside this ship was working. This ship might have once been the same as mine but it sure isn't now. I wonder how these aliens got over the containment problem of a micro black hole, or did they find another way to create their own gravity all together. I forced myself to snap back to reality. Here I was in the belly of an alien ship that was holding my own cruiser hostage. This was no time to examine the science of the alien vessel. Removing my blaster from the holster at my hip, I looked around the bay for any signs of life. The entire place seemed deserted. The door that would lead up towards the bridge on my ship was wide open as if to say, go this way. I didn't seem to have much of a choice.

  The long climb was much harder than simply floating as I had in my ship. It did little for improving my mood, and I found myself jumping at every corner. Whoever is in charge of this tub had better have a damn good reason for all this, or I might just shoot first and ask questions later. The entire path was opened for me, and not once did I see a single other person. If I didn't know any better I would have guessed this ship was completely on autopilot.

  I began to walk more carefully as I approached the bridge. Listening for anything out of the normal, I kept my blaster out in front of me. If this was a trap, I wondered why they didn't bother to spring it on me earlier. Carefully looking into the bridge, I saw the lights were out but the panels lit up. Even the bridge configurations had pieces of alien hardware attached to everything. The glow of the original panels created an eerie lighting effect through the added fixtures. I didn't notice the captain's chair slowly spin around, until a voice broke through the silence.

  "Hello Nathan Reeves, I have been waiting a very long time to see you."

  The sudden break in silence startled me, and I pointed my blaster directly at the stranger. "Who the hell are you and how do you know my name?"

  "You can put that away Nathan, you won't need it here."

  "Yeah, I don't fucking think so. Not until you give me a few answers. What have you done to my ship and, what the hell do you want with me?"

  "So many questions, I guess that it would be proper for me to answer them. It has been a while since I have had to conform to social standards. Okay, let me see…you wanted to know who I was first. Maybe this will explain it better."

  The stranger stood up and moved toward a console I did not recognize. I kept my blaster trained on him and I had no intent of letting it down. "Look, if you don't stop moving I am going to use this thing and just sort out the pieces later."

  "I really wouldn't do that if I were you." The stranger didn't even bother to look back as he kept moving towards the panel.

  I had enough and I didn't trust this stranger at all. In a moment, I made my decision. "Okay, have it your way then." I pulled the trigger. For a moment nothing happened then my body felt as though a thousand Septonian bees had stung me all at once. Blackness overtook me as I felt myself collapse to the ground.

  Lights flickered in front of me for some time before they eventually coalesced into something I could make out. How the hell did all those bees get in here?

  "I told you that you wouldn't need that weapon Nathan. The internal security disables all unknown weapons fire, and the person firing it."

  A face formed in my field of vision, it was fuzzy as my eyes tried to focus. Blinking heavily, I concentrated on that face. The shape was human, and the eyes were dark like they hadn't seen sleep in weeks, if not years. The hair cut close, military style, and grey shot through it everywhere. A slight beard was starting to grow on his face. It made my cheeks itch with my own need to shave. That face, it was familiar it was—

  "What the fuck! You are me. How can you be me?"

  "Relax Nathan. You had a hell of a shock. The important thing to remember is that I am you, and not you. Let me try to explain, I am you, but twenty years in your future. Starting from today, the day your timeline broke."

  "What do you mean my timeline broke? How can you be me?"

  "It really doesn't matter anymore Nathan. My time here is almost up and your life will be back to normal very soon. A deep sigh escaped from my older twin. My fight is finally over. To ease your mind, while we wait the last few minutes, I will fill you on a few details."

  "You were on your way to a mining colony in the Tripper Belt, just as I was. What you didn't know was your guidance system had failed, and you were way off course. After you reversed your engines on a deceleration vector, you were going to run into a Kerr black hole. It would have tossed you twenty years in your future and into the middle of a galactic war. It did toss me there. You would end up chased, out gunned and forced to run and hide for the rest of your life. My life—"

  "How could you, we—have survived then?"

  "It wasn't easy. As you can see from our ship, I had to take what I could salvage and build up my own fighting vessel. There were times I didn't think we would come out alive. For twenty years, I have fought almost everyone while building this ship. Farley was invaluable, but he always felt guilty for not keeping the guidance systems in check. It was hard on everyone when he died. I almost didn't keep going on, but I had to. Through a pilot from another race, I learned if I could find the same spot, the same black hole, I could come back and stop you. I just had to go back through it completely reversed."

  "Ok so if I take everything you are saying as fact. How will we know it worked? What is going to happen?"

  "That’s where things get interesting Nathan. The alien Captain couldn't tell me what to expect. He told me not to even try it. So no one really knows, but the time is here. I can see it in your eyes that you are going to change my past. You now have the knowledge, and I have stopped you long enough to make you miss the black hole. So you will find out for—"

  A loud popping sound hit my ears and I was standing back on the bridge of my ship. The ship I had been in was gone, and my future self with it. John was looking at me with a very strange expression on his face.

  "Sir, is there something we should know?" His gaze flicked down to my hand where I had my blaster. My fingers still held tight around the grip.

  "Where did the ship go John?" I gestured to the screen waving the blaster.

  "Scuse me sir, a ship?"

  "Yeah, the shadow, our ship, where did it go?"

  "Sorry Sir, I don't know what you are talking about."

  He was right! Or, I was right. Whichever it was, I am back to my old time line. If things turn out to be back to normal here, I can change my future! "Someone get me Farley on the comm, I need to talk to him about a little error with the computers we need to fix right away!" I slid my blaster back into my holster to an audible sigh from the crew. I reached my hand up and scratched at the beard I was unwillingly growing. I think now is a good a time as any to get a shave.

  The Voices in Your Head

  By Jamie Heppner

  My mailbox was full yet again. How the post office forced so much inside such a small box always baffled me. Long ago, I learned to use red envelopes for my queries, it cut back on my wasted time opening junk mail. It made looking for return letters from agents much easier. The batch of mail in my hand held at least a couple new replies.

  In the early days, my heart would skip a beat, my breath would catch, and I would rush inside for the letter opener. Those days were long gone. Now the distinctive red I had chosen for these envelopes mocked me. One time, I had gotten a good paper cut while opening a reply. It was almost impossible to distingu
ish where my drops of blood ended on the red envelope. I felt no desire to open this latest batch of rejections.

  My daytime job consisted of working in an office building one of those extra large skyscrapers where you had to use an elevator if you wanted to get anywhere. The job didn't pay well, but I didn't have much of a choice. Good jobs were hard to find in today's economy, and if you were lucky to have a job that paid the bills, it wasn't a good idea to quit just because you didn't like it. I did have that going for me this job paid the bills, if only barely. Unfortunately, I had to cut back on my expenditures to keep up with the postage from all my query-letter sending. My friends asked why I didn't just steal some stamps from work, but I knew an employee named Darcy who had tried that, he was still looking for a new job. It was up to me every day to deliver the internal mail.

  The thought of opening letters made me sick, and it was the last thing I wanted to do when I got home.

  The moment I got inside my house, I threw my mail onto the table by the door. Walking past I heard some of it fall to the floor, but I couldn't be bothered to pick it up right now. It had been a long day and all I wanted was a beer, some food, and to sit down with the tube a while.

  After heating a frozen dinner and somehow managing to get it to stay down, I remembered I had unopened responses sitting on the table. My stomach did a little flip…I wasn't sure if it was from the reconstituted potatoes in the frozen dinner or the fact that maybe this time they weren't all rejections. Either way, I felt I was going to be sick.

  Opening the small drawer from under the table, I pulled out my hand-made letter opener. It was a gift from one of my best friends. The handle had a shape exactly like an old sword from the days of knights and maidens. It felt good to hold it, the weight solid in my hand. The blade kept a good edge. I had only needed to sharpen it once, and it had held the edge ever since. Of course, I only used it to open letters, so there wasn't need to keep it that sharp. Encrusted in the handle were tiny rubies, and if you held the blade up to a bright light you could get a perfect spear of red to flash against a wall. I had learned this by accident when I left the opener on my desk and the sun hit it just right. The beauty inspired my writing that day. That single moment had started me on the writing path. It had brought me to this place. Now I was working so hard trying to find a publisher or an agent for finished work. I knew I had done an excellent job, and it was just begging for readers. At least that is what I used to think.

  I lost track how many rejections I went through. The first ones hurt the most, but as they kept coming, I developed a tougher skin. Most agents just sent a form letter, and somehow that made things easier to take.

  "Thank you for the chance to look at your work. We are sorry, but at this time we are unable to accept your book for representation."

  It didn't matter who sent it, or what they typed in the response, it was always the same idea. They didn't like it, they couldn't see a market for it, or it just wasn't what they thought would sell. The reactions all summed up to the same thing, "No sale". I watched my fingers trace over the letters I had put on the front of these same envelopes.

  "Return to: Robin Crows" followed by my address. Even in my small, hand written letters I could see the lack of effort starting to show. At first, I had been meticulous in my penmanship, as if by sheer will alone I could show my desire for an agent to pick me up. Looking at this last bunch of returns, I alone could see the quicker hand I had used to pen the address. My writing appeared hurried, bunched up, and claustrophobic. Others wouldn't notice, but I knew I was reaching the end of my rope.

  I popped open the seal of the first package and was instantly hit by a form rejection. "This work is not right for our agency but I am sure another agent will feel differently." Yeah right. If they were so sure, then why not give me the name of that agent? I tossed it aside and opened the second envelope. It ended up being more of the same drivel, nothing new. I toyed with my letter opener, flipping it around my fingers with practiced precision, when a hint of red caught my eye. A third envelope had fallen off the table. Reaching over I stabbed it through with my impromptu dagger.

  Using my blade again, I tore open the seal. This envelope seemed different for some reason. It felt warm to my touch, as though a residual heat was coming from it. Inside the envelope was a letter, and it began very different from any other. There was no sorry, no please try again, no form letter. This agent was different. This agent was worse.

  It started with a teardown of my work. The page dripped with red ink. Not a single paragraph left untouched. I scanned to the bottom of the page. I needed to know the name of the agent who decided I was the one they wanted to destroy today.

  At the very bottom, signed in what looked to be blood, the page was marked…Desmond Damian. I barely remembered sending my work to him. A fellow writer had seen his name buried in a literary agent directory. He was so far down the list I didn't bother to submit to him until my friend insisted, "You might as well."

  What did I have to lose?

  I sent my gaze back to the top of the letter and worked my way through his destruction of my work. The more I read, the harder it became to read. This Desmond tore down everything from my sentence structure to my over use of the word "the". For some reason he didn't even care for the font I used. Not a single piece was left untouched.

  Staggering my way to the bottom of my manuscript there was a personal note. A handwritten piece, directed specifically at me, it rose off the paper as if written in Braille. The red ink under my fingers felt like it had bled out of an old quill pen. The teardown left my work and entered an entirely different field. It became a personal attack.

  Desmond started by telling me exactly how much of his time I had wasted. He had it written out to the second. He explained that I stole those moments of time from his life, and he would never get them back. From there he moved into an attack on my tools of writing. The printer I used had a slight slant when it printed text, and the dots on top of the "I's" didn't center properly.

  On and on it went. It was a complete spiral into literary anarchy. In the end of his rant, Desmond actually went as far as to say I should delete every file on my computer. Donate it to Good Will, and consider a completely different lifestyle that had nothing to do with writing…ever. If I couldn't do that, than perhaps, it would be best if I just ended my life. He even went to suggest hot bath, and a very sharp razor blade.

  This was too much. It went beyond the realm of good taste, past the point of constructive criticism, and right into the Seventh-Level of hell. This agent wouldn't be happy until the headlines told him I had snapped. He got his wish.

  I lost it.

  I no longer had the wish for publication, nor did I have the desire for an agent to find my work and take me under their wing. As of right then, my goals had changed completely. With the reading of Mr. Damian's obliteration of my work, my entire direction in life had changed.

  My fingers wrapped tight around the handle of the letter opener. The rubies in the hilt no longer brought good thoughts to mind. Now they mocked me, they hinted at the red ink that covered my work. They called out to me for revenge. In an instant, I heard them, and knew what to do. This same knife would taste revenge, it would drink it in, and Desmond Damian's days were numbered.

  I lost all coherent thought for days after reading that letter. I became a robot, pretending to live, while a plan formed inside my mind on how I would get my revenge on the agent. It would take some doing, but if I was smart about it, I could make it happen.

  The thought of anyone finding out didn't matter to me. In fact, I think I was secretly hoping for it. I remembered P.T. Barnum who said, "There's no such thing as bad publicity." A little voice inside my head told me if I managed to get to this agent of the devil, than I would have all the media coverage I could ever want. With his assassination of my work, no jury in the world would convict me of anything but self-defense. If I did end up in jail, I would have all the free time I could want to write
. Hell, the government might even pay to get me a few more writing classes with all that free time. This was a win-win situation, no matter how I looked at it.

  I realized I had a basic plan it just needed some work and this was going to happen because I was going to make it happen. The biggest problem that faced me right now was the where and when. Desmond worked for a well-known agency, so his work address was readily available online. Unfortunately, for my plans to work, I couldn’t just walk into his office and take care of business too many witnesses. Someone might stop me. I would have to find a place where I could have at least a few minutes alone with him.

  It was time to get down to the research. I started with the Internet and social media. Agents made a pretty big deal about where to find them at shows, what events they were attending, and if they would be available for pitching or not. It took a bit more work to find Desmond’s activities since he wasn’t high up on the sought-after list. I finally found out he was going to be attending the Backspace Writers Expo for a brief conference on the agent panel. He would be unreachable then, but perhaps after the session, I could find a way to lure him away without tipping him off about my intentions. The agenda stated there would be a mixer in the early evening. Perhaps I could use that opportunity to prove the sword is mightier than the pen.

  I had to max out my Visa to get a return ticket to New York. It left me with almost no money for a room. I decided I would have to figure that part out when I got there. I heard hostels could be helpful, and I should have enough cash floating around to stay the night if I needed to. It wasn't my plan to stay long though. This trip was all business.

  I asked a friend drop me at the airport. He was curious where I was going, and kept pushing me for any answer other than, "To the airport" I eventually did tell him it was a writer’s conference, but that just brought out the ever-present questions I had grown to hate. "How is your writing going? Any luck on being published? Has an agent picked you up yet?" I turned my face away, and with my continued silence, he eventually dropped the subject. It was safer for him not to know my intent.

  The conference floor looked packed with writers, shoulder to shoulder they aspired to get close to an agent, to steal a moment of their time. My goal was the same as theirs, only my purpose in this moment in time was different.

  It took a while to track down my target. I saw him at a panel first. The conference committee had him sitting at the very end of the table, closest to the door. No one asked him questions, and even the agents closest to him looked uncomfortable in his presence. The atmosphere around him seemed to bubble with tension. People standing around him gave the impression they had no choice but to be there, as if chance had forced them to sit at the losers table at a wedding, or at the kids table because you lost a bet. On his immediate right, the agent kept pulling at the tie around his neck as if it was hard for him to breathe. The entire area around the Agent of Doom seemed to be darker than everywhere else. It was as if a bulb had gone out over their heads, yet when I looked up, they all worked just fine.

  When the time for questions came, I did my best to be recognized, but so many other hands went up it was impossible to get the attention of the speaker. One by one, authors had their turn to speak. In the end my opportunity never came. Cursing my luck, I watched as the Agent from Hell departed the panel. It even seemed other people left him a larger personal bubble as he moved through the crowd.

  I tried to follow him but a person I had met years ago and whom I barely recognized from another conference stepped out in front of me, blocking my line of sight.

  "Robin! How great to see you! I didn’t know you were coming this year. How is your book coming? Any luck getting picked up by an agent yet?"

  The questions came as fast as bullets from a gun. I tried to keep my sight on Desmond, but he slipped away around a corner. "Sorry, I am trying to catch up to someone. I don’t have time to talk right now." I pushed past the author I barely knew and heard him mumble about me being rude. It didn’t matter. He didn't matter. I was on a mission, and any other person in my way had just become an obstacle to avoid.

  Tracing Desmond’s steps, I tried to see where he had gone. I scanned the sea of faces, but couldn’t track his down. A string of curses broke free from my mouth before I could hold them back. People around me looked at me with curiosity and disgust. If Desmond got away now, I didn't hold much hope of finding him again. The crowd of people around me made it impossible for me to see more than a few feet. In desperation, I began casting around, hoping to bump into him somewhere. It wasn’t working.

  Eventually I found a set of stairs that gave me a slightly elevated view of the common area. I realized if I could see him, it would be very possible that a space would form around him, as people seemed avoid his presence, aware of them or not. Scanning back and forth, I searched for the gap, but none showed up. However, I did notice a tight group of people forming around a face I recognized. Fans were flooding the child actor turned cameo king, Wil Wheaton. Perhaps I could take a moment to try to get a word in with him too. I always had been a fan of his.

  It took a few well-placed elbows, and a crushed toe or two, but I managed to get within speaking range of Wil. I could see by his face that he seemed to be losing interest in the adoring fans. His attention looked to be wandering and many times his hand came up to poorly hide a yawn. If I played my cards right I thought I might be able to work this to my advantage.

  "Wil! Long time no see. Hey you want to hit the bar and grab a beer with me?" I shouted out over the throng pressing in against him. A quick twitch of his eyebrow, and he seemed to realize what I was trying to do for him.

  "Um, yah, sure…Lets go."

  Making excuses, Wil worked his way through the crowd, over to me, and nodded his head in what I took for approval.

  "Thanks um, sorry, what's your name?"

  "Call me Robin, and you are welcome. I'm a big fan. I am glad I could help you out of that mess back there."

  Wil looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Don't tell me you're going to be the same as all those people back there."

  "I wouldn't think of it! I just saw you were looking kind of trapped, and I hoped I could give you a way out of the adoring throng."

  "Yeah, it was getting a little bit tight there. Thanks for that. So what brings you to this conference then?"

  I pushed open the doors to the in-house bar. I couldn't help but feel a little excited. If anyone in this place could help me find Desmond, I thought it would be Wil. He knew everyone at these things.

  "Err, actually I was hoping you could, maybe, see…"

  "Spit it out Robin, I am not here all day."

  "Well there is this one agent, I was hoping to get some...one on one time with him, but I haven't even been able to get close. I was hoping you knew him. His name is Desmond Damian."

  I wasn't sure, but it looked like Wil actually shivered a little when I said the name.

  "Yeah, I know the Dev…I mean Desmond."

  My heart began to race. This could be my chance. "I don't suppose you know where he went to? I tried to get his attention, but I got held up, and couldn't get to him before he walked off."

  Wil looked like he wasn't sure about answering me. I did my best to keep my face calm and collected, even trustworthy. It must have worked.

  "Yeah, I think I know where he ended up. Are you sure you want to get involved with him though? I have heard his contracts come with a pretty high price."

  "I can't think of another agent in this whole building I would rather see tonight. If you could tell me where he went, I would really appreciate your help."

  "Okay Robin, if you say so." Wil called to the bartender and got two beers. He downed one in a flash and handed the other over to me. "If you are going to see Desmond you might need that first."

  I followed suit and drank mine down as quickly as I could.

  "Okay, it shouldn't be too hard to find Desmond. He really hates these things so he doesn't tend to stick a
round too much. It turns out this hotel has an old bowling alley attached off the back end. When the guests complained about all the noise the bowlers made late at night, the hotel bought it, and closed its doors. They never tore it down. Desmond goes down there after the show and bowls a few rounds. Sometimes he brings a client or two so they can talk more privately. I would bet he is down there right now, if you…still want to talk to him."

  This time the shiver was real.

  "Are you–sure–you still want to talk to him?" Will's hand was white around the empty beer bottle he held. His eyes searched mine.

  "Yes, we have very important business to discuss."

  "Okay…the door you are looking for is down that way. It isn't clearly marked but you can tell the right one by the burn marks near the bottom."

  "Burn marks?" That confused me some.

  "Yeah, word is it was some kind of prank a while back. It didn't cause much damage though, so they never got it fixed. Almost no one sees the door anyway. Good luck kid."

  Wil ordered another beer and tossed it back as fast as the first. He gave me a dejected, lopsided smile and walked away without another word."

  That Wheaton can sure be an odd person sometimes.

  My goal was in sight! Checking under my pant leg to see if the letter opener was still there, I moved towards the door Wil had pointed out. It was red, and it reminded me of my return envelopes. It was almost exactly the same color. Dark burn marks snaked up from the bottom side of the door towards the handle. As I turned the knob, I couldn't help but notice the brass seemed charred somehow. I touched the doorknob and flinched away at the odd texture. My hand came away with soot on my palm. How long ago did he say that fire was?

  The thought left as quickly as it came. I knew my target was inside. The end of his torturing authors was nigh. I turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

  Disco lights, heat, and seventies music hit me full force, almost pushing me back out of the door. Desmond was standing with his back to me, a bowling ball in his hand.

  I had watched many movies, and I knew that dialoging only ended up getting the wrong person killed. This was my chance for revenge and I was going to take it. Pulling out the letter opener, I gripped it hard, my hand beginning to sweat. With slow measured steps, I walked up behind Desmond until I was within striking distance. Not once did he turn around, he seemed to be in a trance as he held the bowling ball up, waiting to roll it. I couldn't help but notice the ball was the deepest black. Yet it didn't reflect anything, it seemed to draw light into it. I shook off the odd sensation as I readied myself.

  "Desmond you bastard, you wanted me dead? Well now it is your turn to die!" I yelled as I watched him turn towards me.

  The person who turned was the Desmond I saw upstairs, but a weird trick of the lighting seemed to make his eyes, and skin, glow red. I could have sworn that his hair took the shape of horns. Ignoring the tricks of my mind, I used one swift thrust, and I pushed the miniature sword into his heart. I felt the resistance as my blade pushed through skin and between bones.

  Desmond didn't make a sound. His smile just got wider as blood poured from the wound, and over my hand. The skin of his lips parted in a smile that engulfed my vision. Desmond had wanted this. In that instant I realized I had made a big mistake, perhaps the biggest of my life. I tried to pull the opener back out, but it was wedged in. A voice yelled out from behind me.

  "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

  I turned to see Wil Wheaton standing at the door, a look of horror on his face.

  The realization of what I did hit me like a ton of bricks. I turned back towards my victim only to find him gone. The puddle of blood was still around my feet, and my hand was slick with the warmth of it. The dull thud sounded out of place in the disco music as the letter opener fell to the ground.

  What happened next was all a blur. There were police, and questions, so many questions. It appeared that Desmond Damian had gone missing. The cops arrested me, and I became the prime suspect in his murder case. I became the center of a media frenzy, and the police had me undergo multiple physiological exams. I have to say, that part didn't go well for me. When I described what I saw when Desmond turned around, the questions all stopped. Things got fuzzy after the nice man in the white coat gave me some pills to calm me down.

  When I woke, all I could see was white. The floor, ceiling, what I could make out from the bed I was strapped to, everything was white. It slowly dawned on me that I was strapped to the bed, and in a padded room. I couldn’t remember who started screaming but they didn't stop until after I had fallen asleep.