It has a curious beginning. I belong to a science fiction writer’s workshop and one of  the members (the President) posted a short “start” as an excersize. We were supposed to take her beginning and write a short story from it.

When one of our members read my entry, he wrote, “when are you going to make this into a book?” or words to that effect. I hadn’t thought of that until then, but it got me to thinking.

So, I got permission from the President to use her beginning and started creating a universe of the future where mankind has migrated to other planets, gone through some wars of consolidation, and settled into four camps.

Three of the camps are faith-based. Christian, a quazi-Christian cult, and Islam. The fourth “camp” are the worlds that are not aligned with any of the three dominant religious groups (this includes Earth). At the start of the book, the Holy Christian Empire is fighting a defensive war against the Cult.

Because of the beginning, I was stuck with a female lead, so I’m going out on a limb to write the story from her viewpoint.

Unlike my previous book, this one has no sexual scenes in it and no aliens. It should get a PG rating, but only because of some rough language and the violence of war and assassination.

Here’s chapter one. I’ll be posting more as I move forward. No guarantees that the final book will be the same. Publisher’s editors can be cruel.

God’s Assassin

by

Al Philipson

“The world has no room for cowards. We must all be ready somehow to toil, to suffer, to die. And yours is not less noble because no drum beats before you when you go out to your daily battlefields, and no crowds shout your coming when you return from your daily victory and defeat.”

–Robert Louis Stevenson

Chapter 1

Charlotte carefully adjusted her leather purse, slung its strap over her shoulder, and casually walked around the corner into the almost empty debarkation area of the spaceport. The fat albino behind the desk looked up from his monitor to stare at her, his right hand sliding slowly out of sight and down by his side.

“Ah, Miss Stereo, back so soon?”

From behind her, a familiar voice growled, “Charlotte! Stop!”

Charlotte froze as she heard the recognizable whine of a Mark 3 blaster powering up.  She carefully held her hands out to the side, palms open.  “Brother Bliss,” she spat without turning her head.  “What are you doing on Merlin?”

“Following you, of course, Sister Charlotte.  I’m worried about your soul.” He paused.  “And the intelligence on the Lord’s troops you managed to steal from our offices here.”

Charlotte continued to look straight ahead.  The albino smiled through blubbery lips while his piggy pink eyes scanned back and forth.

She stalled for time as the last passenger in the terminal left through a gate halfway across the spacious area.  “What makes you think I have anything like that, Brother Bliss?” She couldn’t help making the word “Brother” sound like something dirty.

Why in God’s name did I let myself get talked into this fool mission.  One of these days, my luck is bound to run out.

The terminal was now empty except for the three of them.

“You neglected to disable one of the monitors in the office when you broke in and copied the information,” he snickered with a slight wheeze in his voice.  “You shouldn’t feel bad about it, Charlotte.  The camera was well disguised.  Most of those you blinded were dummies meant to distract sinners like you.

“Now, will you kindly, and very carefully, remove the microcamera from your purse, lay it on the floor, and then we can take it — and you — back. We have a nice reeducation facility here on Merlin.  I’d be honored to personally conduct your course of treatment.”

Bliss’ voice sent chills of fear down Charlott’s spine. She’d escaped “reeducation” two years ago. It took six months for her to recover from the damage to her body and her mind.  She nearly lost faith in God during that time. Charlotte didn’t think she could survive another bout with the “kindly” ministrations of the Angels of the Lord, much less those of a fanatic like Brother Bliss.  She vowed to retire after this mission was over — if she survived.

The albino raised his eyebrows, then looked left and right without moving his head.

Charlotte blinked her eyes once, deliberately, then started a slow count.

On two, she raised one hand to her forehead. “Oh, I …” On three she “fainted” to the ground as the albino pulled a needle gun and fired three times over her now prone body.

She looked frantically over her shoulder in time to see Brother Bliss collapse to the floor.  The exploding needles had made two very bloody, five-inch holes in his torso and the third had blown away most of his face.

“Hurry,” barked the albino as he caused the needler to disappear.  “We need to be out of here before someone reviews the monitor recordings.”

“Where?”  Charlotte leapt up from the floor.

“There’s a ship lifting for New Jerusalem in three minutes,” the Albino said. “We can go through gate 3 and sneak over to gate 5.  I know a way to avoid the monitors.”

Charlotte sprinted after the surprisingly swift bulk of the albino.  They slipped through the arch of gate 3 and broke to the right.  She asked, “Do we really want to go to New Jerusalem? That’s kinda like jumping from the frying pan into the lake of fire.”

“The ship makes a stop at the transfer terminal above Hadrad.  I issued a request for Vengeance to meet us there.  Once aboard, we’ll be safe.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.  “Here’s your boarding pass.” Then he made a quick motion and a pressure pop “appeared” in his hand. He  slapped it against his neck.

As they ran down the back corridor, the pressure pop dissolved into his skin, and directly into his arteries.  His white skin faded back to normal and he lost half his apparent weight.

Charlotte pulled a pop from her bra and did the same thing. “Charlotte” disappeared. Her blonde hair changed to its normal chestnut brown and her blue eyes faded to hazel. Her hips slimmed down to her normal athletic figure and her face went through some fairly major changes but the result was still not her own face.

She glanced at her boarding pass.  Her name was Hazel Running Deer of the Chirakowa Tribe from Earth.  She was traveling with her husband, John Bear Claw, also of that tribe.  She wondered if anyone would ask about their very Caucasian skin tones.

* * *

Forty-three hours later, her “Charlotte Stereo” disguise completely gone, Victoria relaxed in the Admiral’s Wardroom of her bosses’ flagship, trying to figure out how to tell him she was quitting. The tacticians at the other end of the wardroom were pouring over the intelligence she’d provided.

Admiral Duncan Frazier of the Emperor’s Royal Navy sipped coffee from the opposite side of the table. “Lieutenant Willingham, you and Sergeant MacLaren may have given us a huge tactical advantage over the Angels.”

She nodded.  “Thank you, Sir.”

“Do you think anyone beside Brother Bliss knew of your activities?”

“No, Sir. Bliss likes to work alone so he can claim all the credit,” she took a sip of coffee.

“Well if that’s the case, we’re truly blessed. It turns out that Admiral Favored-of-the-Lord will be visiting his family on Bethlehem in two months.”

Victoria sat up as a twinge of apprehension coursed through her body.

He leaned forward. “Would you care to take a shot at assassinating him?”  The Admiral smiled ingratiatingly.

“Sir Duncan, I just came within a couple of minutes of ending up in another reeducation center.” She swallowed some bile. “If Brother Bliss had caught me before I got into the terminal, I’d be going through all that again.” She started to shake.  “I couldn’t handle that.” Her voice quavered and she swallowed again. “You remember what a mess I was in when I came back. I came that close …” she held up two fingers very close together, “to breaking. If Cully and his squad hadn’t gotten me out, I’d have spilled everything I knew to Brother Bliss when he got back to the center.”

She was perspiring now. “I would very much like to retire from Intelligence and go back to flying fighters.”

Now that she’d finally said the words, she felt much better.

The Admiral sat back in his chair as his face lost all expression. When he got that look, she knew he was most dangerous.  It was his “poker face” and he’d conned her many times when he got that “look”.  She braced herself for a verbal assault.

But instead of a barrage, he switched to his “sympathy” routine. “I understand, Vicki.”

Ah the familiar “friend of the family” approach. Nice try, godfather.

“You must have had quite a fright when your old nemesis blindsided you from the rear,” the Admiral continued, his voice and manner dripping with concern.

The problem with this ploy, is that he really is concerned. Damn him anyway!

“But of course, he’s dead now and no one else is alive who knows what that particular disguise looks like. You never should have used it while there was someone alive who knew you.”

“I thought I could get away with it,” Victoria said. “With only Brother Bliss left, I figured he’d never be anywhere near Merlin.”

“Vicki, I thought I taught you better than to assume something like that.  If we make even small errors, eventually the odds catch us and we’ll never stop the Angels’ advance into the Empire,” the Admiral sighed. “I hate to tell you, but they overran another planet last week.”

“God’s breath! Which one?”

“Ropa.  It’s pretty close to the front.  Admiral Favored of the Lord masterminded a feint against Guangdong and snuck a fleet behind our lines.  By the time we knew about it, they were in firm control with ground installations and a guardian fleet surrounding the world.” The Admiral looked quite dejected and tired.

“One of our ships was fortunate enough to slip through while things were a bit confused and drop a supply of weapons, munitions, and field rations on several pre-arranged drops in the mountains.” He brightened slightly. “Since ‘Ropa’ is Russian for ‘mountain’ and the planet lives up to the name, being covered with mountains, any resistance will be able to hold out for quite a while.”

He glanced at her, probably to see how I’m reacting.

“They’re probably closing most of the churches there as we speak and installing their own preachers in the ones remaining. And you can bet that all of the school teachers are being given their “new curriculums” at the point of a gun.” He looked straight into her eyes. “That’s why it’s so important to do something about that Admiral.  He’s entirely too capable.”

Oh, crap. He’s setting me up to look like someone who doesn’t care about God or duty if I back out on this one.

“Why don’t you take some leave and think this over,” Admiral Frazier continued, kindly, and steepled his hands just under his square jaw. Then he smiled warmly, “Maybe spend some time at home. We can create a cover identity for you while you’re away so it will take less than a month to insert you and get you established.”

Yeah, sure.  Go to all that work so I’ll feel obligated.

“No, Sir,” she leaned forward.  “You know I prefer to set up my own covers.  The fewer people who know who I am and what I’m doing, the better.”

Oh, damned!  He conned me into saying that.  He knows my habits.  Damn, damn, diddly, ding, ding, damn.

The Admiral didn’t give her time to retreat.  “Well, of course, Vicki, if you prefer that, we’ll just set up your travel arrangements as usual and leave the names and cover to you.”

He stood up, which required her, as junior officer, to do the same.  “Will you want Sergeant MacLaren on this one?”

God’s Breath! When did I volunteer for this? “Yes, please, sir.”  Damn him, he cornered me – again. “I’ll let him know, sir.”

“Very well, Lieutenant.  Dismissed.” He paused. “And give my regards to Sir Neville.”

“If I do, father will ask when you’re going to visit.”  There goes your next leave, you con artist. Serves you right.

“Hrrrmf!”  Admiral Frazier paused.  “You can tell his Lordship his old First Officer will try to get some free time within the next few months.”

“I’m sure he’ll hold you to it, Sir Duncan.”  Victoria snapped to attention and saluted. Admiral Frazier stiffened and returned it crisply. She turned on her heel and left the wardroom, still cursing herself for a fool.

An assassin!  Dammit, I never wanted to be an assassin.  The training was just supposed to help me get out of a jam.   Never this.

She stopped at her unit Commander’s office on the way out of officer’s country. The Commander’s Yeoman was behind her desk, but snapped to attention when Victoria walked in.

“At ease Petty Officer,” she said.  “As you were.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” she replied as she resumed her seat.  “The Commander isn’t in at this moment. May I help you?”

“Actually, I came to see you, Blanche.  I wanted to put Colin MacLaren in for a promotion. Do you have the proper recommendation form for us to send to his C.O.?”

“Just a minute, ma’am.” Blanche waved a hand at her computer terminal to shoo her current jobs off to the side.  Her fingers flew over her keyboard very briefly, then she turned the back of the projected screen on so Vickie could see it.

“The usual. Fingerprint it in the box, retinal scan, and the paperwork will be in the Commander’s in box for his chop the next time he’s at his desk.”

Victoria complied while asking, “Why do you use a keyboard instead of voice or a cerebral link, Blanche?”

“Well, ma’am, I can type faster than I can talk, so it saves time. And sometimes it’s more private if I’m dealing with classified material. And I can’t control my mind well enough to keep secure information from ending up in a file that isn’t properly protected.”

“I envy you then.  My typing speed is so slow that I could dictate a full report before I typed the first sentence.”

“We all have our skills, ma’am.  Was there anything else?”

“No. Just the promotion and a chance to wish you a happy birthday next week.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am.  Won’t you be at the party?”

“Nope. Admiral gave me some leave and I’m gonna spend it at home.  See you when I get back,” she turned to leave.

“Have a good trip, Lieutenant,” Blanche said to her retreating back.

She stopped at a terminal and asked the ship where Sergeant Collin was.

“Sergeant Collin MacLaren is in Marine Enlisted Personnel Lounge number two.” The ship’s computer flashed a three-dimensional holographic map showing her present position and the lounge. She ignored the map and made her way out of officer’s country into the Marine section of the ship.

Sgt. Collin “Cully” MacLaren was playing solitaire with a real deck of cards at a table in a corner of the compartment, his back to one of the bulkheads. He looked nothing like the fat albino from the space terminal on Merlin.  His 6’ 1” frame was packed with muscle, not flab. Blue eyes, not red, surrounded by laugh lines peered out of a tanned and weathered face that still managed to look younger than his 34 Earth Standard (EY) years.

Cully’s hands did something to the deck of cards, so fast that she almost missed it. Then he turned a queen and played it on a king.

Probably cheating as usual, she thought.

“Cully, do you have a couple of minutes?”

The Sergeant looked up and smiled, not with his lips, but with his entire face. “For you, lassie, always,” all traces of the Albino’s accent replaced by his normal New Scotland brogue. He stood up running his hand over his short red hair. “Here okay or som’ere else?”

She looked around. No one was near enough to hear them over the general hubbub. She checked the color of a ring on her right hand. No electronic monitors.

“Here will do fine.” She took a chair at the table, with her back to the other bulkhead out of habit.

“Admiral has another job for us,” she said in a low voice. Her hand covered her mouth from the view of the rest of the room.

“So soon?” Cully’s eyes widened as he resumed his seat. “Me see-oh jus’ ga’ me leave.”

“I just got leave as well. We don’t kick off for a month, standard, and we’ll have another month to get inserted.”

“An’ the job?” Cully studied a card that “happened” to cover his mouth from view.

“An assassination.”

“Assassination? That’s nae your normal task.”

“So I told the Admiral, but he tricked me into it anyway. I won’t do the same to you, Cully. This is strictly volunteer.”

“An’ leave you t’ do it withoot me in your corner? Nay, lassie, I could’na ’low that.” He played the card and drew another to replace it in front of his mouth. “Who’s tha pigeon?”

“Admiral Favored of the Lord,” she said flatly.

“Ah! The great high executioner he’self. That be nae easy thing. How’re we go’na pull it off?” Cully played the card.

“I’m not sure just yet. I’ll think about it while we’re on leave. “ Vickie shifted in her chair. “It may involve poison,” she said with distaste. “In the meantime, we should be ready to use the Ruth Michael and Henry King covers. From what I know about the Admiral, Ruth might be his type.” She turned to face Cully, her hand still hiding her mouth. “If you can handle the disguises, I’ll get the gems. Can you get me enough makeup and such for Ruth before we abandon ship? I’ll need it for my trip to Jewel.

“Oh,” she said, interrupting Cully as he opened his mouth, “and I think it’s time to abandon Charlotte Stereo. She almost got me caught again. Do you think Otto Gurgen is in trouble?”

“I think the wee albino’s cover be blown as soon as some lad sees the security tape. I agree that Charlotte be better off dead,” Cully said from behind another card.

“I’ll get the Ruth disguise to you before eight bells tomorrow.”

“Okay, Cully. Anything else?”

“Nay, lassie, as long as you be comin’ up with a good plan. I’ll craft a wee stinger ring for you in case you wan’na use poison. A fake jewel okay?” He played the last card and started gathering the deck together.

“Perfect. I’ll keep it in mind.” She got up while Cully remained seated. “Say hello to your wife and kids for me.  I’ll see you in a month at Clyborn.”

“An you give the Earl me best, lassie.”

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004NIFSXO

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42055

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Update 9/30/2011:

Too many people were put off by the title (and it turns out that too many writers have used similar titles). Seems people thought it was a religious book of some sort (unintended consequences of poorly-thought-out choices). While it does have a small element of faith in it (the characters do worry about how their choices will affect their chances in the hereafter), that is hardly the main thrust of the story.

I’ve always thought that authors need to recognize that people (and possibly aliens) DO worry about “higher powers”. Some reject the idea, but they at least think about it. So, just about every society will have some sort of religion either dominant, hanging around, or underground and to ignore that reality is poor writing indeed, no matter what your personal beliefs.

Anyway, I got together with FTL (after a long discussion with some other talented authors and writers) and convinced them to rename the book Children of Destruction.

It’s out under that title now on Smashwords and Barnes & Noble, and will eventually filter out to Amazon (Kindle probably by 10/1/11) , Kobo, and Diesel.

Wednesday 2:00 am Pacific Time

“Flight 423 heavy, descending to 500 feet. On approach.”

“Flight 423, you are clear to land runway twenty-five R.”

“Roger tower. Turning to …”

“Jesus Christ!” Dr. Herman Proust, PhD yelled as the passenger next to him suddenly disappeared, leaving only his clothing, which settled into a disorderly pile. Frantically, he looked around the cabin of the airplane. All of the seats seemed to be empty.

Dr. Proust unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, but could see no one. Those seats he could see had clothing in them, but no passengers or members of the flight crew.

The plane’s port wing suddenly dipped, almost dumping him back into his seat. “Holy shit!”

He looked out his portside window and saw the airport runways where they didn’t belong.

Dr. Proust screamed, hysterically, and wet his pants as the Boeing 747 continued its descent and crashed, in a pyre of flaming jet fuel, into the middle of a shopping mall — one mile from the runway.

* * * * *

Jack leered at the pretty girl he’d picked up at the bar, and handed her into his car. He hurried around to the other side and slid behind the wheel as she moved closer and cuddled up to him.

He thought about seat belts, but decided he’d rather not disturb her mood — or his. The well tuned engine turned over on the first try, and he pulled smoothly away from the curb, then accelerated down the street — missed the turn at the end of the road, and crashed into a hardware store. Except for their clothes and a bit of ash, the car was empty.

* * * * *

Paul’s electrician lounged at his station as the 47-car freight train slid through Junction City. Paul dutifully sounded the horn at each crossing, interrupting George’s tall tale of his latest fishing trip.

As the train cleared the last crossing, Paul’s clothes collapsed over his seat, as did George’s. The dead man switch engaged and the train ground to a halt.

* * * * *

In Portland, Maine, ten suddenly empty automobiles on their way to work collided in a major intersection.

Wednesday 7:00 am Pacific Time

Buck hit the light at Division just right, cruised into the intersection, and turned his dark blue Nissan south, toward downtown Spokane. With no traffic in front of him, he was able to travel at the legal limit. The weather was unseasonably warm, so he rolled his window down to enjoy the fresh air.

He checked the rearview mirror, and with no traffic behind him, turned on his signal and moved into the right lane.

Friends who rode with him often remarked that he signaled even when no one was around to see it. Buck contended that he would rather overdo it than be one of the idiots who never signaled. In fact, he’d almost gotten into a fight with one fellow who overheard him shout, “Nice signal moron!” when that driver failed to signal a lane change. Stephanie had stopped that fight by stubbornly insisting that Buck keep on driving, rather than accept the driver’s invitation to pull over and settle it.

“Well he was a moron,” Buck mused half aloud as he thought back on the incident, “and a jerk.” His sour mood after the incident had almost spoiled their date.

By regulating his speed, he was able to hit each light while it was still green. This was the easiest commute he’d ever had. It was almost like a Saturday morning, except that there would be at least a few other cars on the road. The traffic lights worked normally, but no other cars were traveling the street.

That jolted him out of his semi-trance. He checked his watch. The indicator along the top was under the “W” for Wednesday. Traffic should be heavy. Even if it were a holiday, there would be some traffic — and it was definitely not a holiday.

Buck turned on the car’s radio, evoking only a carrier hum on his favorite station. He searched up and down the dial. There were more carriers, but no programs.

What was going on? This didn’t feel right at all. Something was very wrong. Bile soured his mouth and flowed past a tongue suddenly made of cotton.

A nuclear attack on its way? Surely Civil Defense would broadcast instructions. An air raid siren should blare out the warning. But all was still.

Now, the quiet streets mocked him. His palms began to sweat, which made the steering wheel slippery. He sped up a bit, driving a few miles above the speed limit. This put him out of sync with the traffic lights, and he had to stop for a red one.

He looked down both side streets. No traffic. The roads should have been full of impatient drivers on their way to work. A check in his rear view mirror confirmed that Division was still devoid of traffic. The silence was no longer peaceful.

Empty streets now looked ominous. Did hostile eyes watch from the darkened windows of the closed businesses that lined the arterial?

Everything is wrong, his mind screamed at him.

Then he did something he would never have done until today. He accelerated through the red light, his trembling hands locked on the wheel.

Detractors had teased him as “unimaginative” and “stodgy”, but he certainly didn’t have any trouble with his imagination now. His mind leaped from one horrendous possibility to another.

Ignoring red lights, he sped towards the downtown area in top gear. The high whine of his engine’s exhaust echoed off the silent storefronts.

Buck plunged the car into a corner where the street doglegged towards the business district. He braked hard, double clutched to downshifted into third, and fought the car into the corner. As he accelerated out of the turn, a stalled pickup loomed directly in front of him.

The Nissan’s tires screamed in protest as his brakes locked up. It hit with barely enough force to send the other vehicle rolling forward.

Agitated, but uninjured, he stared at the truck as it rolled to a stop a few feet away.

He climbed out of his car on rubbery legs and examined the front of his car. It was only slightly damaged, so he walked to the truck to exchange insurance information with the driver. It was an older truck with faded red paint. Rust showed in many places, especially in the cluttered truck bed. A worn bumper sticker instructed, “Honk if you Love Peace and Quiet”.

There was no driver.

On the front seat was a pile of clothes. Two shoes with socks were on the floorboards. Gray dust littered the clothes, shoes, the seat, and was scattered over the dirt on the floorboards. But the driver was absent.

Strange, the logical part of his mind thought. The little animal part of his mind that jumped at strange sounds and turned nighttime shadows into monsters, retreated into a corner and cowered. His bowels threatened to disgrace him.

He left his business card on the pickup’s dash, took down its license number after scraping away some of the dirt on the plate, and crept downtown at a more sedate pace.

He saw a couple more cars in the street. One had crashed into a light post, the other into a parked car. Not a soul was in sight. The silence was eerie.

Since his office was near a major hospital, he stopped there to search for signs of life. This particular hospital had a fallout shelter in the basement. If it were an enemy attack, the hospital staff and patients would be there.

No one was at the information desk, but a nurse’s uniform, shoes, stockings, undergarments, and a pile of dust lay in the first hall he strode through. The antiseptic smell typical of all hospitals hinted that all was normal.

The little animal portion of his mind howled in fear. Sweat blurred his vision and soaked his collar. The underarms of his fresh shirt felt sticky.

The basement area, normally given over to offices and physical plant, was deserted. All shelter supplies were there and undisturbed. Most of the lights were still off as if it were still night.

He rushed back to the lobby, grabbed the desk phone, and dialed “9”, followed by his firm’s phone number. Surely Ruby is in. Four rings got him the firm’s recorded message, but no human.

He dialed “911”. The phone rang 10 times. “Answer the damned phone,” he yelled into the mouthpiece. He finally hung up.

“Maybe it’s just Spokane.” He grabbed his cell phone and tried the phone of a Portland, Oregon business he had done consulting work for, then another in Seattle, but got no answer at either location.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. The animal inside wedged itself more tightly into its corner and gibbered insanely. Doggedly, he fought off the instinct to run — and run — and run.

The trip to his office required only two minutes. It took three tries to fumble his key into the lock.

The reception desk was empty, with no indication that Ruby had come in yet. No coat, no purse. The desk and reception area was as immaculate as she always left it in the evening. All the magazines were put precisely where she always placed them when she tidied up. He’d always liked the image the reception area gave of the firm. It fitted his sense of neatness and order.

San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York all failed to answer. Vancouver, B.C. switched him to their answering machine.

He called his sister’s home phone in Colorado Springs. After four rings, she picked up the phone. “Hello”.

The sound of her voice almost made him pass out. “Hello, Dix, I’m sure …”

“You’ve reached the Turner residence,” Dixie’s voice continued. “We’re not able to answer the phone right now. You know the drill.”

Buck almost cried aloud. A tear trickled down his left cheek. After the beep he restrained himself to an almost normal tone of voice. “Dix, this is Buck. Please call me at home, or work as soon as you get this message. If I’m not in, please, please, please leave a message. Try my cell phone. Everything is strange here and I need to know that you and Jim are okay.”

He tried all the phone numbers he had for his two brothers. Dixie’s work phone was equally unproductive. He left similar messages on their answering services.

Tears mixed with sweat dripped off his chin and stained his tie.

What had happened? What caused this calamity that left bodies a pile of dust in their clothes? Why everyone else and not him?

Bill and Jan had talked to him yesterday. They planned a vacation in two weeks, but should be home — no answer. Calling Stephanie’s phone at home and at work produced the same results. He tried the numbers of the 2 other girls he was currently dating and got nowhere. He left messages at all the numbers that had machines or service.

Buck ripped the Spokane phone book out of his bookshelf and dialed numbers at random. Surely someone would answer — but no one did. He did hear some very creative answering machine messages. Then he flipped to the business listings and dialed every tenth number. No one answered.

“Right now, I’d give anything just to hear the boss complain,” he cried.

Dumbly, he sat down at his desk and stared through tears at his desk calendar. He turned the page to today’s date and reached for the power bar switch that would start his computer. He glared at his hand, the index finger poised on the switch. Why am I doing this? he wondered. His hand fell into his lap.

Would the Internet have anything? He flipped the switch on his power bar and fidgeted while the computer went through its boot-up process and connected itself to the office network. Once on the Internet, he switched to the Drudge Report. It was all yesterday’s news. All of the other news sources he’d bookmarked were in the same condition. Even the latest bulletins, all time stamped very early in the morning, gave no clue as to what was happening.

He had several e-mail items, but they were all from late yesterday; an e-zine that he subscribed to, an offer to surf a site with “hot” women on it, and two other items that were clearly SPAM.

“Maybe the airlines.” He grabbed the phone book and frantically turned to the yellow page listings. Northwest, no answer. He called Delta and listened to it ring for what seemed like hours. Southwest, American, and Alaska produced the same results.

“There has to be someone!” he almost screamed. He called Federal Express. Fedex always answered on or before the first ring. Not this time.

He stared at the phone book for a while, his mind in a fog, then dumped it into his trashcan. Buck went to Ruby’s desk and found the master list of all the firm’s clients throughout the world. It took him over an hour to try all the numbers on the list. When he was done, he threw the list into the trashcan along with the Spokane phone book.

He stared at nothing for a while, then got up and walked mechanically to the break room to start the morning coffee. There was an unwritten rule in the office: First one in makes the coffee. He didn’t want any coffee himself, but the next person to arrive would be miffed if he failed in this duty.

The smell of the fresh coffee grounds soothed his mind a bit. After he got the pot going, he wandered to the water fountain, took a drink, meandered back to his desk, and sat down, still in a daze.

The darkness that had started in his bowels rose up through his stomach, past his heart, and spilled through his eyes in a renewed waterfall of tears. He bent his head into his arms and wept out his grief. He hadn’t cried like this since his parents died in an auto accident five years ago, 10 days before his 27th birthday.

It seemed like hours, but it was only minutes later, when his tears subsided. He wiped his eyes on a tissue from his desk drawer, and then loudly blew his nose with another. The little animal portion of his mind stopped gibbering and settled down to a constant whimper. Buck sat and stared at nothing.

An hour later, he did what any sensible man would do under the same circumstances. He turned off the coffee, drove home, and went back to bed.

Wednesday afternoon, Russia

“Sergei, I need those calculations now!”

“Da, Professor. I have them right here.” Sergei’s speech slurred a bit.

“Did you drink your lunch again?”

Sergei looked at Professor Dustov, his face all innocence as he handed the computer sheets to him.

“You know that too much vodka will kill your liver. No, don’t bother to deny it, just assure me that the calculations are correct. Did you double check each one?”

“Da, Professor, all … correct. I personally entered the formulas and checked them afterward.”

Professor Dustov rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he punched the final numbers into his machine. Stupid alkonavt. He’s been a good lab assistant so far, but one of these days he’ll drink too much and foul up something important. “Set the focus on the chair while I finish this.”

Sergei wheeled the machine around. Its main feature was a large flat plate about 6 inches thick. It stood upright on a squat, homemade machine that made up the rest of the “business” portion of the machine. A stout cable connected the machine to the computer control. A heavy power cord lead to a large connector on the wall.

“Okay, Sergei,” Dustov finished tinkering with the computer, “you run the machine, I’ll be the subject for the first test.” Dustov picked his way, through the makeshift lab equipment and cables, over to the chair while Sergei replaced him at the controls on the other side of the machine.

It was unfortunate that Sergei did have one too many vodkas for lunch. The error he made was only a small one. His hand shook a bit as he entered an asterisk to tell the computer to multiply. The result was two asterisks (**), a command to raise the number to a power. So, instead of “P times R” it became “P raised to the Rth power”; in other words, “P” multiplied times itself “R” number of iterations. It was also unfortunate that “P” stood for “power” and that “R” was a fairly large number.

It was also unfortunate that when Sergei threw the power switch, a squirrel jumped onto both power wires leading into the building, sending a 44,000-volt surge into the device and frying the squirrel in the process.

If Dustov had been on the other side of the machine, he might have survived the consequences. Certainly, Sergei did not.