I heard this tapping coming from the parking lot behind my building.

Upon investigation I saw this guy hitting cars with a stick! Thinking he was checking for alarm systems, I thought, that bastard touches my vehicle – he’s toast!

Sure enough the bugger hit my car too. I ran downstairs, grabbed that stupid white cane and beat him senseless with it!

* * *

Driving down the road the other day I saw these 3 guys attempting to rob an elderly woman.

I pulled over, ran across the street to assist.

Do you know it took the 4 of of us 10 minutes to finally get that purse off the old bitch!

What do you call a guy in the foyer with no arms or legs?
Matt

What do you call a guy in the ocean with no arms or legs?
Bob

What do you call a little leaguer with no arms or legs?
Second base

What do you call a lawyer with no arms or legs?
Trustworthy

What do you call a surgeon with no arms or legs?
A good malpractice risk

What do you call a woman with no arms or legs?
Easy

What do you call a guy in the hot tub with no arms or legs?
Stu

What do you call a guy sitting in a hole with no arms or legs?
Phil

What do you call a guy on a stage with no arms or legs?
Mike

What do you call a guy in the restroom with no arms or legs?
John

What do you call a guy sitting in front of the Louvre with no arms or legs?
Art

What do you call a guy picking a lock with no arms or legs?
Jimmy

What do you call a guy sitting on railroad tracks with no arms or legs?
Screwed

True Jock Stories
It’s like this buddy of mine. We went to the gym together to work out. He strips off his outer clothes, and underneath he’s wearing bra and panties. I’m trying to be cool, but I finally have to ask, “How long you been wearing that stuff?”. He replies, “Ever since my wife found ‘em stuffed behind the seat in my pickup truck…”

* * *

True Business News
Those industrious Japanese have found a way to make a buck on the AIDS scare. Seems they’ve come up with a way to make a car tire out of 365 used condoms. They call it a “GoodYear.”

We are introducing the concept of “A Dose Of Daily Disgust”. No it has nothing to do with Teenage Angst or Nihilism or Anarchy. We just want to keep bored minds agitated with good fun. I am planning on posting a joke everyday on the new look website as a way of keeping the page updated with something new everyday. Tell me what you guys think of it. A bit of trivia or interesting factoid or an anecdote or a really vulgar joke – just to keep you busy and occupied when you are bored as hell in front of a computer.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Surprise Gifts

A couple had been debating the purchase of a new auto for weeks. He wanted a new truck. She wanted a fast little sports-like car so she could zip through traffic around town. He would probably have settled on any beat up old truck, but everything she seemed to like was way out of their price range.

“Look!” she said. “I want something that goes from 0 to 200 in 4 seconds or less. And my birthday is coming up. You could surprise me.”

So, for her birthday, he bought her a brand new bathroom scale.

Synopsis: Think the economy is bad? Unemployment? Here, a superhero loses privileges when replaced by superior powers.

About the Author: T.L. Bodine was born in 1986 in Durango, CO, and spent the rest of her childhood traveling with her blue-collar family and fostering a lifelong love affair with language. Ms. Bodine received her BA in English at New Mexico State University in 2007 and studied Creative Writing at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Arizona before returning to New Mexico, where she currently resides. She lives with her boyfriend, two cats, a toothless chihuahua, and runs a small-scale rat rescue from her apartment. The rats eat better than anyone else in the house.

In this superhero fiction, superheros will be let go to be replaced by alternative forces.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Academy
by T.L. Bodine

The water flows into the tub, churning the soap into a seething, sudsy cloud. I peel my clothes off, and add them to the pile in the tub, press them down with my hand so they stay submerged. The soap-bubbles consume them, and I shut off the tap and climb into the tub and feel wet cotton squish up between my toes, slick with soap. I step in place, stomp, meditatively trying to recreate the agitation cycle of a washing machine. I try to imagine myself stomping grapes. I try to imagine giving up an offering to Bacchus, for love and free-flowing wine. It doesn’t work.

When I looked it up on the internet, I was assured this process would be enjoyable. Green. Economical. Rewarding, even. But now, standing calf-deep in steaming suds, I can tell you honestly: this isn’t enjoyable. This is shit.

Things weren’t like this, at first.

I was a late bloomer. Most people, if they’re going to be Supers, figure it out by puberty: you get breasts and menstruation and super-powers, like a package deal. Some even show aptitude as young children. Not me; I was eighteen when the change came over me.

The thing about super powers is they’re instant. Unlike other changes in your life — growing up, learning skills, falling in love — the powers really do come from nowhere, like turning on a light switch. There’s darkness, then there’s light, and once your eyes adjust you can see everything. I fell asleep one night as nobody special, the same as I’d done every night in my not-very-special life. While I slept, I had the strangest dream. In it, I was a cat — a powerful jungle cat, all muscle and stealth and power — and I prowled through a drab gray cityscape, feeling as though I was the queen of everything. When I awoke, it was dark, but I could see my room in perfect detail. I could smell the reek of sex that clung to my roommate’s unwashed sheets. I smelled the stale weed from my suitemate’s dorm. I could hear the dull crunch of asphalt under tires, the squeaking of brakes, the thudding of bass in car radios. I crept out of bed, curious but unafraid, and my feet were soundless on the linoleum.

I was still a human — two hands, ten toes, bare flesh hidden under flannel pajamas — but I was something else, too. Something more. I padded silently from my room out onto the balcony, and cleared it with an easy leap, landing in the courtyard below crouched on all fours. My body wanted to run, so I let it, and for a long time that night all I did was scale buildings and jump across rooftops. I’ll always remember that night. I never had another like it.

You’ve only got two choices, once the powers appear: train for work at the Academy…or hide and hope to god they never find you. The latter option doesn’t really work out. The Academy has a special force that keep tabs on Super activity all over the world; they catch a whiff of Power and they’ll be on you in a second. If, somehow, you manage not to get caught, the powers themselves will slowly consume you. Unless they’re trained properly, focused and directed, the powers will eat away at your mind and body and soon enough you’ll go insane. It’s for your own good, the controls they put in place. For your good, and the safety of everyone. That’s what the Academy is about – the safety of everyone.

So when the agents came for me, from the Academy, I went with them.

I stare down into the tub. My clothes float around my feet like flaccid eels. The bubbles are gone, and the water is tepid and gray. I open the drain with my toes, balancing for a moment on one foot on slippery soap-lubricated porcelain. The superior balance is good for something, I think.

Now, if only the powers enabled me to find some goddamn quarters.

I turn the tap again, refilling the tub. First rinse cycle. More stomping. The clothes bleed gray-blue into the water and the chemicals in the soap sting the soles of my feet.

The old apartment was better. It had a washing machine of its own, tucked into the hall closet, and a garbage disposal, and a gate that locked at night. Not that I ever feared for my safety; lightning-fast reflexes and supreme night vision kind of negate the threat of petty criminals in the night. I miss the washing machine, though. Here I have to turn out my pockets for quarters and stand under the flickering sick-yellow fluorescent lights in the laundry room, smelling stale nicotine and discarded diapers.

Now, in the bathroom, I kind of miss the laundromat.

&&&

“We are gifted with the duty to protect mankind. We are granted the sacred birthright to work in service of the weak. Our humility is our strength.”

They taught us a lot of things at the Academy. How to focus and refine our power. How to utilize technology to complement our abilities. And how to submit to the authority of the weak, whose protection was our ultimate purpose.

We finished our Recitation of Principle — a superhero pledge of allegiance, essentially — and sat down. The classroom looked the same as any other: desks, arranged in rows facing a blackboard. On the blackboard the professor had drawn a very crude rendition of an enemy combatant. It had vacant circles for eyes and a crooked slash for a mouth.

“Ok. This is the enemy.” When they taught lessons, they were always vague on who or what the enemy would be. Specifics didn’t matter. The end result would always be the same. “As you all know, there are multiple ways to reach a single outcome — namely, here, to kill.”

The professor was short and fat, with almost no hair on his head but an unusual quantity on his knuckles. We didn’t know what power, if any, he had. Rumor was he was a Normal. But there’s no way to tell by looking — not unless you’ve got the Sense, that enables you to track Super energy, and even then it only works when powers are actually being used.

“Physical attack,” he continued, his beady eyes scanning over all of us to make sure we were paying attention. “Psychic. Molecular. Chemical. Stealth. Radiation. I want you to tell me how you plan to kill this individual. Five page essay, single spaced, explaining the benefits and methodology of your choice. On my desk Friday.”

We uttered a collective groan.

“Yes, Jade Falcon?”

Jade Falcon — that was her official name, but we mostly still called her Rebecca — had her hand up in the air. It spent a lot of time there. Nobody really liked her; not because she was a know-it-all — which she was — but because we sensed that the faculty tended to dislike her. We avoided her the way herd animals reject their sickly members, for fear of predators. “I was just wondering,” she said, her voice trembling a little — all eyes were on her, suddenly, and the room was more tense than it should have been. “For — for the assignment. Do we have to kill the enemy?” She blushed bright red.

“Why wouldn’t you want to kill the enemy?” The professor’s voice was low and cold and sounded like poison.

I felt bad for Jade Falcon, but of course I said nothing. No one did.

“I just — I didn’t mean — ” she was flustered. There were embarrassed tears in her eyes. “For the assignment. We can’t stun, or in-incapacitate?”

It seemed unfair that a bald, short, fat man who was almost certainly a Normal should have so much power. But that’s life. “No, Ms. Falcon.” His voice was thick with irony. “Assume that if you fail to kill the enemy, that he will not hesitate to kill you instead.” His words were sensible — pragmatic — but his eyes burned with loathing.

She said nothing further and we worked the rest of the day in uneasy silence.

&&&

I lift up a shirt and examine it. It smells like a spring breeze, but there’s a white film clinging to the pores of the fabric where the soap settled in. I poke at it, with a fingernail, and it smudges, white-gray and slimy. I sigh and drop the shirt back into the pile, carefully stamping it down with the other laundry, squeezing as much water out as I can. I suppose I have to do another rinse.

I have superhuman stamina, but even I’m starting to get tired. Maybe it’s just despair masquerading as fatigue.

After graduation — an event that happened when the Academy felt you were ready, regardless of age or time spent in the program — we were assigned to our jobs.

Mostly they used us in wars. Sometimes we fought crime — the big stuff, the things law enforcement can’t take due to danger or difficulty. Some of us aided in disasters. We worked alongside the CIA and the Black Ops and the National Guard and we were compensated well enough. Not that anybody was really working for the money. At the time, knowing you were a superhero was compensation enough.

Funny how things change.

Some of us — the favorites, the best and the brightest — went on to join the Special Hero Services. They’re the people who control the rest of us, the Super Police as it were. If a hero decides to go rogue, or a child’s talents get out of hand, or a hero needs disciplinary action, they’re the ones who do it. After all, you have to fight Supers with other Supers.

There aren’t any Super Villains, not really. Only those allied with the Academy, and those on the outside. The ones on the outside don’t tend to live very long.

I worked for the Academy for a long time. I fought a lot of people: civilian criminals, enemy soldiers, foreign Supers. I fell in love with a scientist. His name was James and he was so smart I thought he was a Super when I met him. We were at a party. The Human Tank threw it at his place, on some pretense or another, I don’t remember the details – we partied so often, survival being excuse enough to celebrate – and he always threw the best parties. Anti-Gravity Man was showboating, doing keg stands, and we were all drunk enough to humor him even though it wasn’t really that impressive.

James leaned against the wall, sipping at his drink and looking awkward and vulnerable. I asked him to hold my drink while I danced, and when I came back there was sweat in the small of my back and my body was tingling all over and James said something – I don’t remember what, now, but at the time it had been the smartest, funniest thing I’d heard all night, maybe in my life. He told me later he’d spent all the while I was dancing trying to come up with a good line.

Somehow we got to talking, and I leaned against the wall beside him and soaked in his intelligence and his vulnerability and then he kissed me and I kissed him back and we were a tangle of bodies and hands and by the time I figured out he was a Normal it didn’t matter anymore.

We got married six months later. It didn’t work out.

After we made love he would lay on his back with a stony look on his face, sweat pooling on his brow and his chest, and I would curl up beside him and feel restless and unsatisfied and neither of us would speak. It wasn’t just about the sex. It was about the insurmountable distance between us, the knowledge we both had that neither of us could put into words. He felt inferior. I worried constantly about hurting him. We both held back, and we both knew it but were too scared not to.

I tried to get pregnant, for awhile. I thought it might help. But the seed would never take, and whether that was my fault or his, it drove the last wedge between us. Sometimes I still think about the baby we could have had, but I try not to. It’s too confusing. Too painful.

One day, years after the divorce, James pulled me aside and asked, in hushed tones, if I wanted to see something amazing. It wasn’t the sort of question I could say no to, so I followed him down the hall into one of the dozen rooms they use for experiments and whatever else the scientist types do. Inside, there was a machine. It was humanoid, but just barely; it was all glinting steel and right angles and ball joints, like an overgrown action figure. “What is this?” I asked him.

James spoke with reverence and tenderness and awe, and standing beside him I could hardly remember how I’d ever loved him. “A robotic hero simulator,” he said, and reached out a hand to touch it, to stroke its steel boxy biceps. The robot stayed inert and vaguely menacing in its silence. “Available in a whole array of powers — technologically identical to any Super we want!” He turned to me, and he smiled. “Just think.  War between robots alone. No more casualties — Normal or Super.”

His eyes shone with pride.

If he truly believed in it, I’ll never know. But I saw the machine for what it was — the beginning of the end.

&&&

The clothes are clean enough. They’re not so slimy to the touch now, anyway, and I’m tired of looking at them. I wring them out, one at a time, and marvel at how much water a single pair of blue jeans can hold and how exhausting it is to squeeze it all out. I hang each item on the clothes line I strung up in the bathtub, and watch the slow rain of water drip down from the seams and edges into the tub.

The robots replaced the heroes.

The robots stood like titans, avatars of the geeks that stood on the sidelines and played their war games. Just like that, within a lifetime we had gone from heroes to washed-up veterans, relics of a bygone era, cursed with bodies and powers and skills we could no longer use. We were like puzzle pieces that had been warped and cut and no longer fit where they once had.

They offered me a position in Special Services when they laid me off, but I declined. I just didn’t have the heart to spend my days hunting the last of a dying breed.

It didn’t take long before robots were doing that job, too.

They debriefed me. I knew it all already, but I listened because that’s what a soldier does. I would live my life as a civilian; I would never use my powers again, under threat of being hunted by the same task force I had refused to work for. They gave me some severance pay, and a monthly stipend — a retirement pension — and wished me the best of luck.

A career in professional crime-fighting didn’t prepare me for the real world. I tried to go back to school, but they wouldn’t take me — they seemed to think I could cheat. I tried to explain to them that, even if I could use my powers — which I couldn’t, not without unbearable consequences — that I wasn’t psychic or anything, that I really didn’t see how heightened senses and some enhanced physical ability could really give me an unfair advantage in the classroom. It didn’t help.

I got a job with a supermarket, on their midnight stocking crew. My boss was a thin weaselly man with a pencil mustache and big glasses. He spoke in a high-pitched whine, like a petulant jet engine, and when he talked to me he never looked directly at me but kept his eyes averted just a little as though he were watching a solar eclipse.

“I know you’re able to work faster,” he said, for the hundredth time. He had a clipboard in his hand and some form with little check boxes. “We all believe in developing the unique talents of our team members. That’s one of the key foundations of ShopMart’s competitive business model, that is, performing to the best of our abilities.” He gave me one of his long sideways glances, and nibbled at his pen. “Do you think you’re working to the best of your abilities? Hm?”

I tore off my green apron and dropped it on the floor and walked out.

Behind me, I heard him calling “You have to turn in your box cutter!” but I just kept walking.

&&&

There’s a lot of distrust in the world now, about Supers. We can’t use our powers anymore, but they don’t seem to remember that. We also protected them from evil for centuries, but they don’t seem to remember that either. One of these days the robots are going to be replaced by the next enhancement in technology, the next tool of the elite and nerdy. Then they’ll be the ones trying to find a day job. Except I guess they won’t care so much; they can just be powered down, go into hibernation, cease to exist.

Lucky them.

**** THE END ****

Copyright T.L. Bodine 2012

Image Courtesy: Ebenezer

Synopsis: Sergeant Bert Dalton deals with the paranormal in this strange case of murder and intrigue

About the Author: ‘Bert and the Hag’ is the third Sergeant Bert Dalton tale to feature in the Freedom Fiction Journal. Bert Dalton is the creation of A D Dawson, otherwise known as the English Devil, who writes from the heart of Sherwood Forest. Dalton, an uncompromising police officer, holds firm all of the values that belong to a better age when the wicked were persecuted and the vulnerable were protected. Join Bert at FaceBook

In this detective fiction, a woman seeks revenge and may just get her way.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sergeant Bert Dalton and the Hag
by Alan Dawson

It can be daunting if you want to join a gym; especially if you have never worked out before and you want to lose a few inches from your waistline or tone up your bingo wings. Many will come to the foot of the concrete stairs of the Body Factory Gymnasium, and go no further. Others will get as far as reception and pick up a leaflet before quickly descending back down the stairs to the street…

…She stepped lightly up the stairs and opened the door that led to the reception. Reception was really a grand name for a home-made counter that ran the length of the back wall with shelves behind it holding up vast tubs of protein powder, weight gain, weight loss and other supplements; a small arch gave access to the main gym. She peeped inside only to stagger backwards nearly losing her footing to the stairs behind her. Too horrified to scream, she stumbled down the stairs and ran out into the street and straight into the arms of a bewildered shopper. Such was her anxious state; he quickly dialled for an ambulance fearing that she was suffering a paroxysm of some kind. He gasped as the full weight of her came onto him. She had fainted.

“What’s going on?” asked a middle-aged lady as she helped to support the girl.

The man shrugged his shoulders and hoped that the paramedics would be along soon.

&&&

The girls giggled as the short fat man stood on a small step ladder that he had brought with him. He tightened the noose, which was tied to a sturdy bough, around his neck and ordered the girls to fasten his hands around his back with plastic tie wraps. Just before they did as he asked, he handed them some money – quite a lot of money for two common or garden prostitutes. A grey cloud blocked out the late evening sun and a chill caused him to shiver. Sherwood Forest had seen some strange things in its ancient history, but nothing as strange as this ritual. He told one of the girls, a blonde wearing tight jeans and t-shirt, to kick the step ladder from under his feet. She gave it an almighty kick and his body swung free.

&&&

The stench was unbearable coming up the stairs; some police officers struggled to continue on into the gym itself. Instead they had to run down the stairs fighting to contain the contents of their stomach and gasp like landed fish for fresh air when they got to the bottom near the outer door. If they had stepped inside they would have been witness to the most gruesome of sights to boot. Even Sergeant Dalton, a hardened officer from the North of England, was traumatised by what he saw. Ten men and they were all dead. In wasn’t the fact that they were dead that was traumatic; although that in itself is pretty disturbing. It was the fact that they had been slain; chopped to pieces like second rate actors in a budget horror flick. Their guts and entrails hung hideously from their hacked bodies and their well-developed limbs lay helplessly on the floor next to their torsos; most of the men were bodybuilders and weighed well over 18 stone a piece. Who had done this to them?

Dalton knew that the suffering was not over yet. Evil like this had to run its course and this was only the beginning; he was sure of this.

&&&

The girl sat silently in the small interview room; her fierce grey eyes stared out through a window that wasn’t there. Dalton sat down opposite her and offered her a bottle of mineral water; she neither refused it nor accepted it.

“She’s not said a word since we brought her in, Bert,” said a young WPC who stood near the door.

“I’m Sergeant Dalton,” he said softly to no return. He was just about to stand to go when the girl spoke. The language wasn’t English and her voice trembled. “It’s okay,” said the Sergeant in the same gentle tone as before. The girl began to cry and she dropped her head onto the table top. “Look after her, Deborah, I’ll get someone in to translate – she sounds Polish to me.”

As he stepped outside the room, Inspector Clarke hurried by. He saw Dalton and turned to him. “Not a good day for us, is it Sergeant?” he said forlornly.

“It’s been a much worse day for those body builders and the guy that stretched his neck out in Sherwood Forest.”

The balding Inspector sighed. “Have you spoken to those bloody prostitutes yet?”

“Ballack’s dealing with that one, Sir; I’ve got my hands full with this other more serious incident,” Dalton replied incredulously

“Keep onto Ballack and make sure everything is kosher, Sergeant; the press are all over the place on this one… he is a member of parliament you know.”

“Was a member of parliament, sir,” he was reminded with impudence.

“No slip ups.”

“Ballack’s an experienced officer, sir.”

The Inspector sighed once more. “I’m sure he is… I’m sure he is.” With that he continued on his way.

Dalton was just about to continue along the corridor when a police officer called after him.

“Sergeant Dalton, I’ve got the gym owner in interview room five.”

“Thank you officer; did you get a statement from him?”

“Not yet but he spoke to us when we brought him in. He’s very much shaken, which is very understandable, but he’s cooperative.”

“What time did he leave the gym? Did you ask him?”

The officer looked upward and drew breath through his teeth as he thought. “I think he said, 11 AM.”

“You think he said 11?”

“No it was definitely 11AM. He left at 11.”

Dalton grimaced. “Approximately the same time as the first man was killed, according to the coroner, and off the record of course.”

“He was well lucky if you ask me; another second or so before he left and he would have been killed himself.”

“Is he lucky?”

The officer shrugged.

“Never mind… Get me a Polish translator for the girl and I’ll have a word with the gym owner in the mean time.”

“Okay, Sergeant.”

“And hurry the doctor along too, please.”

&&&

Dalton asked the gym owner, Dog Boy, as he is commonly known, to describe his movements from arriving at the gym to leaving at 11AM. Dog Boy was forthcoming.

“I lifted the shutters at 7.30AM and opened the gym. The usual big lads came in shortly afterwards – he gave their names. At about 9.30AM until another group of lads came to train – again he gave their names. By 10.30 there were nine regulars – he named them – and a tall guy who just paid for one session.”

Dalton asked who the tall guy was.

“His name was James Dawes; I’ve never seen him before today – he was all right though; he seemed friendly enough.”

“He’s a known drug dealer; do you like drug dealers in your Gym?”

Dog Boy shrugged. Dalton asked for a more detailed description and Dog Boy described the man to him. Dalton asked Dog Boy to continue.

“Nothing much happened between then and 11AM. Fid, one of the gym instructors, came in early to take me off – I had an appointment at the doctors at 11.15AM (Dalton made a mental note check this out).” With this Dog Boy got upset. “It should have been me that was dead, not poor old Fid… he was only doing me a favour… I’m going to miss him so much,” he wailed as tears streamed down his face.

&&&

The CCTV cameras gave decent street-level coverage of the area but it didn’t reveal anything amiss. A busy bus stop stood outside the gym and there had been plenty of people walking about hither and thither by the gym entrance that morning and everyone who actually went into the gym was accounted for… by death as it had come calling. Dalton scrutinised the tapes. A double-decker bus arrived at 10.59AM to spill its passengers onto the litter strewn streets. It didn’t pull away until 11.05AM after the driver had counted his fares. The girl arrived at 11.02AM; she walked past Dog Boy without a reaction and eventually disappeared into the gym by the only entrance/ exit.

&&&

Alec Ballack sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. He sighed deeply before continuing. “You’re asking me to believe that you thought Robin Pigg was wearing a safety harness when you kicked away the step ladder?”

The blonde girl sat across the table tearfully replied: “Yes I did. Why would I want to bloody kill him?”

“Why indeed, Dawn?” retorted Ballack smugly.

&&&

Dalton looked down from the gym onto the street below. It was just beginning to get dark and everyone was rushing for the buses to take them home after a hard day’s work. A pigeon stood on the top of a bus beneath where he stood. It flew up onto the window ledge with a flurry of feathers as the bus sharply pulled away. Inside the gym there was dried blood everywhere and Dalton carefully moved about lest he should stand in it; a man in a white paper suit busied himself taking measurements from chalked lines and scratching his head with a biro.

“You shouldn’t be here, Dalton,” he suddenly said to the big Sergeant, “It’s a crime scene you know,” he added in an unpleasant tone.

“I think your wife would agree that you shouldn’t have been in The Greek Temple last Friday,” said Dalton, “It’s a gay club you know?”

“How the… Fuck you, Dalton.”

Dalton chuckled. “Please, Aubrey, I’m not that way inclined like the rest of your friends are.”

“Very bloody funny indeed,” said Aubrey as he tried to compose himself.

Dalton rubbed his hand across a freshly made groove in a wall. “I heard one of your guys talking; he said that only one of the dead men put up a fight – is that true?”

Aubrey nodded.

“What did he look like?”

Aubrey reluctantly gave a description that matched the one of James Dawes given by Dog Boy.

Dalton pointed to the groove. “This is where he smashed a dumbbell into the wall isn’t it?”

Aubrey nodded.

“That would have hurt if it connected wouldn’t it? Why do you think none of the others put up a fight?”

Aubrey shrugged his thin shoulders. “They were probably too scared to move,” he opined. “Rooted to the spot with terror,” he continued under raised eyebrows.

“You could be right, my dear, Audrey.”

“Aubrey.”

“Sorry; of course it’s Aubrey; my mistake. You will let me know when you find out what the murder weapon was won’t you? Aubrey?”

&&&

“Listen, Beverley, Dawn has told me everything; Pigg was a regular customer of yours. You both used to regularly walk up and down his naked body in stilettos when he wasn’t in the City. He always asked for you both; one blonde and one brunette. I know.”

Beverley sighed.

“Makes me wonder why a bright girl like you does that sort of thing.”

Beverley reared up. “It’s all right for the likes of you, clever bastard. What do you think there is for the likes of me here? Market Town has gone to the dogs since the fucking East Europeans moved in and everybody in it. Where the fuck would I be If it wasn’t for Agnes helping me? I would be in the gutter working syphilitic cocks for a ten pound bag like the Poles have to! She looks after us and we’d do anything for her.”

“Sorry,” said Ballack with humility, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Beverley burst into tears and the thick-set constable handed her a tissue. “Thank you Mister Ballack; I’m sorry that I called you that horrible name.”

Ballack smiled. But his smile hid an anguish that only a father could feel. For in truth, he was the father of a lost generation – he thanked God that his very own children were happy and content. “The interview is over for now, but I’m afraid we’ll have to detain you, Beverley. Do you want to change your mind about having a solicitor?”

She shook her head. “The truth will out, Mister Ballack, it always does. You must speak to Agnes, she will verify our story… she knew well Piggs needs and devices.”

“A…gnus?” he stammered before picking up the phone to call Dalton.

&&&

Ballack pulled slowly and reluctantly up to the kerb. He switched off the engine and eventually stepped out of the vehicle and onto the path next to Dalton who was impatiently waiting for him tapping his foot. A long row of terraced houses stood before them. More than half were deserted and secured with grey metal sheeting which safeguarded the windows and doors from vandals and squatters. Thick black smoke bellowed out of a single chimney pot, it belonged to house number thirty-one. The pavements were litter strewn and graffiti ill-decorated the red-brick walls. Ballack nearly stood in some dog shit as they went. He knocked half-heartedly on the red-painted door of number thirty-one. There was no reply. Dalton went to the window of the two up-two down but couldn’t see in as thick curtains had been pulled over the windows. Ballack imagined that Agnes would be staring through the peep hole at him and he stepped back with a whimper. Dalton heavily sucked in air through flared nostrils.

“For God’s sake man up, Alec.”

“I’m sorry, Bert; it’s just that she frightens me.”

“For the umpteenth time she’s not a witch; witches don’t exist.”

“But what about…”

“…It was a coincidence,” bawled Dalton, not letting the officer finish the sentence. Fired up, Dalton went to the door and banged hard against the wood. “Open the door, Agnes before I come back with a search warrant!”

As if by magic the door opened. In the doorway stood a frail old lady wearing an orange cardigan and sporting a blue rinse to her curly bonce. She smiled to reveal stumps where teeth had once been. “Mister Dalton, how are you? And you Mister Ballack… how is the…”

“…Agnes!” checked Dalton.

Agnes cackled and invited them into the dimly lit house. She led them into the kitchen and shut the door. The kitchen was smoky and a blackened kettle boiled on the open fire. The greasy room was sparsely furnished and dirty pots and pans covered the sink and draining board. “Would you both like a drink of something… tea perhaps?”

“NO!” they let out in unison.

Dalton was just about to open the conversation but Agnes interrupted him. “You could be here for two reasons, Mister Dalton. First reason, the death of Pigg; very unfortunate but you know what those political fellows are like; you only have to read the Sunday papers.

“And the second reason?” Dalton asked.

“I’ve nothing to say on that matter and you can leave right now if that’s why you are here,” she said quietly as if she didn’t want to be overheard, her left eye twitched involuntarily as she did so.

Dalton smiled. “We’re here on the former, Agnes. Alec wants to ask you a few questions about your girls; that’s all.

Agnes perked up almost immediately. “Ask away, Mister Ballack, I won’t bite you, I promise,” she teased.

Ballack coughed and stuttered out some nigh relevant questions to the amusement of his Sergeant. Satisfied about Pigg’s ways they stood to leave.

Just before she opened the door to let the officers out after her interview of sorts, Agnes pushed a piece of paper into Dalton’s hand. He tightened his grip on it as they stepped out into the street. A sudden wind whipped up from the deserted street and blew Ballack’s cap off. A look of terror spread across his face as he retrieved it. Dalton smiled and looked towards Agnes to share the comic moment. However, the smile dropped quickly off his face as he saw that she shared Ballack’s terrified facial expression. She slammed the door shut and he heard the bolts being shot hurriedly into place.

Dalton unfolded the crumpled paper and looked down at the directions that were written on it. “Come on, Alec, we’ve got somewhere else to go before we knock off for the evening.”

“Anywhere is better than here, Bert.”

“We shall see about that my little fat friend.”

Agnes slumped back heavily into her chair as she gasped for oxygen; her heart beat like a tom-tom in her frail chest. She felt cold and she dithered uncontrollably. She could hear the police officers talking outside her door, but was too weak to call them to. It would be days before she was discovered.

&&&

The derelict office building was all that remained of the Market Town brewery. A lazy security man watched uninterested from his warm hut as the two officers pushed their way through a broken chain link fence and into the yard. They crossed the cluttered yard towards the front of the former administration block. Broken glass on the reception doors had been replaced by wood. One of the doors was slightly ajar and Dalton put his shoulder to it to open it enough to allow him and his podgy colleague entry. It was dark inside and Dalton lit up his torch. Ballack followed the Sergeant up a flight of stairs. They climbed the stairs until they came to the top floor. A steel door had been fitted into one of the office portals. Ballack tested it with the flat of his hand. “That’s not for moving,” he said. He tried his shoulder against its sturdy construction. He winced and rubbed at his shoulder as the door wouldn’t yield.

Dalton turned the handle and the door clicked open; he looked at the injured officer and smirked. They went to step inside…

“Aaaaaaaagh,” screamed out Ballack as a huge rat ran across his foot as it flew from the dark room.

“You are such a girl, Alec,” laughed Dalton as he entered.

“Did you see the size of that thing?” replied the quivering constable as he followed his sergeant inside.

Dalton’s torchlight followed the walls around. They had been painted black and a set of manacles hung down from the wall next to a stained mattress. Dalton gasped as the light came against a steel cage that had been set into the corner of the room – a pathetic creature whimpered under some sacking inside the bars.

“Bloody hell,” ejaculated Ballack, “it’s a right torture chamber in here.”

They went to the cage. “Are you all right?” Dalton asked as he slowly pulled back the sacking to reveal a teenager curled up into a foetal position. He tried the gate – it was locked.  “We want to help you, lad,” Dalton said softly.

“Please go away,” sobbed the lad; he had a thick mop of black curly hair. “She… she got James but she won’t get me,” he added in near hysteria. His dark eyes were like saucers and he stared straight at Dalton. “James was my brother… he looked after me.”

“Who got James, lad?” said Ballack, realising the boy had learning difficulties.

“She did… he’s dead… she killed him.”

“What’s your name?” continued Ballack. “You can really help someone if you know their name.”

“Can you?”

“Of course… what is your name? We can’t continue calling you, lad, can we?”

“Can’t you?”

“No; it’s not right.”

The boy sat up. He was wearing tight black jeans and a t-shirt. “My name’s Michael… Michael Dawes.”

Ballack smiled. “Well Michael, what are you doing in there?”

“I locked myself in so she wouldn’t get me.”

“Who wouldn’t get you?”

“The witch… she changes shape.”

“Are you going to open up so we can take a look at you; we want to see if you are all right don’t we, Sergeant Dalton?”

“Yes we do; we can’t have you locked up in there, Mike.”

“Will you protect me from her if I come out?”

Dalton smiled. “That’s what we do, protect people; we’re police officers and it’s our job.”

The youth produced a large key from his pocket and passed it through the bars to Dalton. Dalton unlocked the gate. “Are you coming out then?” he asked as he opened up the cage.

The boy nodded. “Will you take me to the police station? I’ll be safe there.”

“That’s a good idea, Michael. We can make sure you are fed and a doctor will check you over. How long have you been locked up in there?”

“Not too long… a day I think.”

“Are you hungry?”

The boy nodded.

“First stop the canteen then; how does egg and chips sound?”

They helped the boy outside. Dalton stopped just before they left; something glittered in his torchlight. He bent down to pick up a single gold cufflink – it had R.P. inscribed on its surface.

&&&

Nature had not been kind to her; one bulbous eye looked upward to the water-stained ceiling of her squat and the other to the bare boards beneath her toes. She had the face of a hag, aged and ugly, but with the athletic body of an Olympian, toned and tight. Put a bag on her head, they would say, but only if she was out of earshot. She was soon at the centre of it all in Market Town after her arrival into the country from Eastern Europe. After a few months the town’s drugs were her concern. She scattered a handful of local dealers, fit for revenge, when they came calling on her; they were soon away with their tails firmly between their legs… her legend grew but few knew little of her other than hearsay.

She laughed like a crone when she saw the pathetic boy, Michael, locked in the cage meant for her. She would let him be for now, let him suffer awhile to mourn his brother… She didn’t like the look of the big policeman, however, he was going to be trouble and she was not referring to the officer that had cried out in fear as the rat ran across his foot.

&&&

It was late when Dalton went out to his car; he had been catching up with his paperwork at the station. He looked at his watch; his wife, Tizzy, would be cross because he was late for supper again – the third time this week. The car park was deserted and he made his way carefully past a skip that the workmen were using. They were renovating the back of the station and their scaffolding stood tall fixed to the outer wall. Red rodent eyes watched him as he stepped over some rubble; a big brown rat nibbled at a discarded kebab; the leftovers from the lunch of one of the podgy builders. Dalton spun around as he heard someone call his name.

“Bloody hell, what now,” said Dalton as he made his way back to the door. There was nobody there so he turned and carried on back towards his car; I must have imagined it, he thought.

“Sergeant Dalton!” he heard someone shout as if in a panic. He turned to see a scaffolding pole falling towards him. He dived to the left and the pole clattered noisily to the ground. A young WPC helped him to his feet.

“That was close, Sergeant,”

Dalton let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll have those bloody workmen in the morning,” he raged.

&&&

He had a glass of wine waiting for him when he returned and he sat down at the dining room table whilst Tizzy brought his supper; it was his favourite, corn beef pie. Tizzy sat down next to him and began to chat. “On Saturday I’d like us…” she was cut short as Bert’s mobile phone rang.

“What is it?” he asked bluntly.

He listened.

“So who is onto it?”

He listened solemnly.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

He exhaled noisily and pushed away his pie. “I’ve got to go love; a young woman has been found dead.” He didn’t let on anymore to his anxious wife.

Dawn, the prostitute who had been involved with Pigg, had been found in the old brewery by a tramp seeking shelter; her neck had been snapped as if it were made of tinder. Further to this deep gorges had been made across her face, neck and chest – like a wild beast had been at her.

&&&

Michael Dawes was to be released; there was no reason to hold him because it soon became obvious he knew nothing about his brother’s murder. Although he rambled incoherently about a witch and panicked like a loon whenever the door to the holding room opened, his beardy social worker and the cold-faced doctor had no qualms but to release him back into the local community.

When Dalton returned to the station at the beginning of his shift he blew a fuse. “Why have you released him?” he raged to the custody sergeant. “That boy is simple and he is in danger… anyone connected with James Dawes is in danger. You should have detained him until we were…”

The custody sergeant bravely interrupted him. “…it wasn’t my decision, Dalton.”

Dalton looked like his head was about to explode he was so angry. He turned away from the sergeant lest he should rag doll him. Unfortunately he came face to face with Inspector Clarke.

“Dalton, the press are…”

Dalton didn’t stay to hear the end of the sentence. Such was his anger he decided to go out and get some fresh air. There had been some problems with kids throwing missiles down onto cars as they were driving into Town. He would go and investigate that himself; it would keep him out of the station for an hour or so. He was just about to leave when Aubrey came along. When he saw Dalton he scurried back in the direction he had come from. Dalton was onto him like a flash.

“Aubrey,” he said as he pushed the snidely man against the wall with his shovel hand, “were you coming to see me?”

“No, why should I?”

Dalton smiled. “The murder weapon; you were going to tell me what it was when you found out.”

“We don’t know for definite what it is yet.”

“Hmm, I see. So Aubrey, have you any theories?”

“No.”

“I think you have… tell me Aubrey, what is your theory?” said Dalton as he applied pressure to Aubrey’s pigeon chest.

Aubrey grimaced. “A scythe… the murder weapon could have been a scythe… Don’t let on I’ve told you Dalton or the Super will have my guts for ruddy garters.”

“What sort of scythe? One of those hand held ones I use in my garden?”

“Yeah we think so.”

“Not like the one used by the Grim Reaper then?” Dalton asked with a smirk.

“No.”

“Oh, Aubrey, the girl that was murdered; is it true that she looked like she had been opened up by an animal?”

Aubrey pushed Dalton’s hand away so he could get clear. “You’ll get yours one day Dalton, you mark my words.”

&&&

Looking down from the bridge, Dalton could view the whole of the north side of Market Town; including the Body Factory Gymnasium. A double-decker bus pulled up at its last stop before it went on to the bus stop next to the gym. The stop was just to the side of the bridge. Close enough for someone to jump down from the bridge onto the top of the bus, thought Dalton. It would be difficult but it could be done by someone agile enough, he mused further.

&&&

It was a cold dark evening and Michael pulled the collar of his coat up to his throat as the bitter wind bit to the bone. He searched through his pockets; he didn’t have enough money for a hit and his meal ticket was dead – the reference here is not to his brother, Dear Reader. He needed someone else to look after him and he made his way towards The Greek Temple. He took a short cut across the park. The fallen dried autumn leaves rustled as he trudged through them; as a younger boy he would have kicked them into the air as he went. He thought he saw someone near the bridge that crossed over the River Mourne. He was mistaken – there was no one there when he got to it. However, he got halfway across the bridge when a dark figure suddenly appeared at the other side with the light to their back. Silhouetted against the bright light Dawes couldn’t make out who it was. The figure who stood to his advance, wore a long woollen coat which skirted the ankles and a hood pulled low over the brow. He stopped in his tracks and gasped like an asthmatic in fear.

“It’s all right, love, an old lady can’t hurt you,” said the figure.

“Maybe we’ll fucking hurt you,” came a sudden voice to the rear of the old lady.

Before she could react she was sent sprawling with a heavy rabbit punch to the back of her head. Before she had a chance to recover from the fierce blow she was trussed up with plastic ties and a heavy man sat astride her while another pinned back her arms. She knew it was pointless to struggle so she waited; she waited like a cobra ready to strike when the opportunity arose for her.

“You thought you had seen the last of us didn’t you bitch?” said a tall man, mid-twenties wearing a hood under a cap. “Thought you might be after Dawes’ bro so we followed him for a while,” he added as he sniffed. He looked at Michael. “You’d better fuck off gay boy if you know what’s good for you.”

Michael didn’t need asking twice. He was gone with a whimper; like a whipped dog.

The tall man laughed. “You know what; they reckon you’ve got a good body for an old whore,” he said with a sneer. “Pull that fucking hood further over her face, Max.”

The two men knew what he meant and they intensified their grip on the old lady; she didn’t struggle or utter a word in protest even when the tall man lifted up her coat and roughly ripped off her woollen tights. He began to undo his trousers to the amusement of the two men.

“I’m second,” said one of them; a grinning idiot with big ears.

Just as the tall man spread her thighs open and began to lower himself down he was sent painfully to the deck as Dalton’s night stick smashed into the back of his head. Using the momentum and surprise of his attack the burly Sergeant booted one of the thugs under the chin with his steel toe-capped boots. He went for the other attacker but he showed a surprising turn of speed for a man of his immensity and was off. He won’t get far, Dalton thought as police sirens rent out in the still night air. He turned his attention to the old lady.

“Well fuck me,” was all he could say. All that was near him were two figures sprawled out in unconsciousness. The old lady had gone. Dalton bent down to see plastic ties scattered on the deck of the bridge.

He had parked up at the far side of the park and he walked back to his car. He scratched his head: where could she have gone? Even Ballack was scornful when he mentioned the old lady – the fat bastard that he is!

He went to open the door of his car when he heard someone move behind a security fence of tall railings next to the DIY superstore. A high row of gorse further secured the site from his view.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he heard someone say in broken English. “You saved me from… from … thank you.”

Dalton didn’t reply.

“It happened to me once before; when I was a young girl in Poland… no one stopped it then… I’ve hated men, and their whores, ever since,” she snapped maliciously. Her voice softened. “You are different.”

“You won’t get away with it; I’m putting it all together… I know how you did the poor guys at the gym…”

“…Who would believe you?” she interrupted. “There is no evidence… no camera footage, there is nothing… I’m but an old lady. How could I even get up the stairs?”

Dalton laughed nervously. “You’re a murderer. You’ve killed innocent… ”

“…Innocent? None who are dead are innocent; I’m doing you a favour Dalton. Keeping scum off the street… just like you are.”

“But YOU are scum; you are a murderer AND a pusher… two of the worst.”

“You’re unkind, Dalton… and I’ve given you a nice present. Look to the roof of your car.”

Dalton saw something resting on the roof. He picked it up. It was a podgy hand-sized clay figure with a small noose tied around its fat neck. Dalton gasped out loud as he saw a cufflink set into the midriff of the figure, for he had its partner in his pocket.

“He was the worst of them all.”

“I shall have you,” said Dalton in just more than a whisper, “if it takes a hundred years I’ll have you.”

The Hag had stopped listening.

&&&

Fid always wanted to be a superhero; a Jedi Knight at least. He was far from being a legend this particular morning, however. He heard a massive thud and stepped into the main body of the gym to investigate – one of the meat heads must have dropped a dumbbell, he thought as he entered. He was wrong… terribly wrong and he saw the blood stained figure of James Dawes drop heavily to the floor; slain by an unseen assailant. He reacted quickly… but not quickly enough – for he was no Batman or his ilk. He ran for the door to get help but never reached it. He felt cold steel burn into his shoulder blade and the force of the thrust sent him sprawling onto the counter. The pain was mercifully short as the second thrust smashed through his rib cage and entered his heart from the back. It was fortunate he died quickly because the blade continued to repeatedly hack at his limbs and torso until he was no more than pulp; his blood flowed like a river onto the floor.

Seconds later the door to the gym opened…

**** THE END ****

Copyright Alan Dawson 2012

Image Courtesy: Ujjwal Dey

Synopsis: In space, your spaceship is your best friend, especially if you are the sole soul onboard.

About the Author: Anna Sykora has been an attorney in New York and teacher of English in Germany, where she resides with her patient husband and three enormous cats. To date she has placed 101 stories in the small press or on the web, and 197 poems. Writing is her joy…

In this SciFi thriller, a woman fights dark evil in the deep darkness of space.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Flight of the Medusa
by Anna Sykora

Sleek and black like a huge, wet beast under the floodlights, the Medusa filled the Veracruz Space Station’s largest bay. Ava’s heart beat harder as she stepped towards the freighter, boot heels ringing on the steel-plate floor. Ready for another passage through the rings? Mother, you won’t believe our cargo.

The young woman stepped onto a platform that raised her smoothly to the open hatch. When she waved to the yellow bots below they rolled away in single file. Stepping inside the softly-lit pilot pod, she checked its glowing, concentric circles and leaned back into the full-body interface, whose mesh rose to fit her like a skin.

“Good morning, Ava.” Speaking from the nearest of a hundred ports, the Medusa’s built-in bot sounded husky, like an old-fashioned smoker from Terra.

“Hi, Mother.  Are we ready?”

“Sure. Why are we so heavy, dear? Doesn’t feel like a load of protein bars.”

“Our cargo today is classified. I can’t tell you what it is till we reach Alhambra.”

“Oh a secret. I love secrets.”

With her foot Ava opened a channel: “Veracruz 1, we’re ready for flight.” A green light pulsed above the bay’s outer doors, which started sliding open. Ava took a deep breath, willing her muscles to relax…  With Mother’s help she’d make this passage. Fingertips quivering, mind serene, she shut her eyes and reached for the ignition—

A siren shrilled outside: launch interrupted. Why? Steel gates quivered shut on starry space.

“Hey, Erwin, what’s the problem?”

“You’ve got a last-minute passenger for Alhambra, Ava: a VIP.”

“Great.  President Pond’s planet-trotting nephew?”

“No, Ambassador Troll.”

She groaned. “You know I can’t handle protocol.”

“Just get him safely to the capital.  He’s negotiating with the Luddite fanatics, who took 100 hostages.  I’m sending him aboard with his bot assistants.”

“But we’re not configured for passengers. They’ll have to sit in the bio-pod.”

“He knows and it doesn’t matter, Ava. Please try to hold your famous temper.”

“OK,” she said glumly. “I’m opening hatch 3.”

After ten minutes she got fresh approval to launch, and smiled as the gates slid open on the clean blackness of outer space, lit by near planets like swirl-patterned jewels. The Medusa’s engines rumbled and roared, and away the big ship bounded like a predator chasing prey.

Pressed back into the full-body interface, Ava felt like a goddess on a magic steed; she felt ready to face the universe, even the Rings of Stone, whose unpredictable asteroid collisions had killed 40 pilots of the fleet–men who flew by logic alone. Their mile-high obelisk towered next to the Congress Palace in the heart of Alhambra City…

Already Veracruz Station looked like a minor moon circling tawny Steinmetz. The mining planet’s surface, almost waterless, looked drab beneath pale swirls of clouds. Its precious ores sustained the Union, though, which had long since abandoned paper money…

Ava touched open the channel to Mother again and left it open: “Confirm: 32 minutes till we enter the first ring?”

“That’s correct. Time for a courtesy call on our passengers.”

“Well please scan the web for Ambassador Troll. Why did the Union choose him to talk to the Luddites, who want to turn us all back into drudging farmers?”

“A universal scan will take me 20 minutes.”

“You can report when I get back.”

&&&

Down in the bio-pod, Troll’s bots flanked him like guards, twin golden frameworks with eye-buds on jointed, silver stems. The ambassador, wearing long, purple robes, reclined on a mobile passenger berth, his face concealed by a golden mask, his small eyes green as bile. His thin lips twitched when Ava introduced herself, and he didn’t stand up.

She felt a shudder down her spine. His mean mouth reminded her of somebody. Who?

“Pilot Steele, I trust that conditions look good for our passage through the Rings today.”

Why did his voice sound so familiar? “I’m not concerned, Ambassador. I’ve been making this crossing for almost two years.”

“You’re supposed to be one of our fastest pilots.”

“I’ve trained hard to reach my astro-rating.”

“I see you grew up on Steinmetz though. You’ve got that physique: short and thick.”

Yes, she’d grown up battling the mining planet’s gravity. She’d never have the grace of a native Alhambran. “The Fleet chose me from an orphanage on Steinmetz when I was six.”

“Who was your trainer?” Troll asked abruptly.

“Ray Nero,” she said bitterly. “Maybe you’ve heard of the man: a great pilot, later a traitor to the Fleet.” Troll chuckled unpleasantly, and his gold-plated bots made tut-tut noises. “Please excuse my plain speech. I need to get back to the pilot pod. If you’d like anything to make your trip pleasant, please ask our shipbot, Mother, using any of her ports. We stock a full range of pharmaceuticals.” Ava pointed at a white wall cabinet adorned with a red cross.

“Thank you.” Troll’s thin lips twitched. “But I’d rather stay sober on this flight.”

“As you wish.” She spun on her heel and stalked away, feeling his green gaze probe her back.

&&&

Halfway up to the flight deck, she doubled over breathless; her head felt squeezed in a giant vice. A harsh voice warned, “Pay attention, girl–or I’ll make you wish you still lived in a public hut on Steinmetz.” Ray Nero’s voice?

Gasping, Ava clutched at a bulkhead’s grip, and the awful pain passed like a dream. How could this happen?  She stumbled forwards. She’d just passed her annual medical exam in perfect health, the doctors said.

Reaching the pilot pod, she sank back into the interface, trembling. Entry to the first ring, minus 12 minutes… She needed to prepare herself; Mother’s report on Troll would have to wait.

Already in her mind Ava saw a 3D image of this sector of the first ring. The bald stones hurtled themselves at each other, smashing with the force of ancient wars. No computer, working alone, could figure the trajectories of wreckage spewed by these collisions, and that’s where her long-practiced art came in: the art to which she’d devoted her life.

Passage through the rings was like a dance of life and death, with partners ranging in size from tall buildings to dwarf worlds. You had to anticipate their every move, and then glide the Medusa safely away; you couldn’t cramp up, which would slow your responses, risking your ship, your cargo, your life.

Suddenly Ava felt a qualm, as if she were a raw trainee again. The concentric circles of the indicator lights swam before her eyes.

Post traumatic-stress syndrome? How could the Fleet doctors miss this problem? Why was it cropping up today? What was special about this passage?

Entry minus 6 minutes.  “Hey Mother,” she called out, sounding calm. “You find anything on Ambassador Troll?”

“I note one discrepancy,” the shipbot replied right away. “He’s supposed to be human, born on Terra, but his brain waves look terribly distorted–almost like those of some pre-human beast.”

“Maybe he’s just having a bad day in outer space, like me.”

“I’m monitoring your heart rate and your breathing. You are feeling uncommon stress, and we haven’t reached the first ring. Ava, what is provoking you?”

“I don’t know. Please keep a few sensors trained on our passengers though.”

&&&

Inside the first ring, a small, egg-shaped asteroid hurtled towards them.  Several seconds before impact–and using low energy, to save costly fuel–Ava nudged the Medusa out of the way. She took a few, deep breaths then and settled down, relaxing into the all-absorbing work of navigation. Breathing rhythmically, after a while she felt calm and clear again; running the obstacle course in space she’d trained for all her life.

Now she focused on Q62, a crater-faced asteroid the size of Alhambra City. Mapped, its trajectory well known, in a minute it would slam the Medusa. As seconds ticked away though, Ava froze, and simply watched the jagged block veer nearer.

“What is the matter?” Mother demanded. “Shall I override you?”

“No.” At the last millisecond, Ava dove the sleek ship under the asteroid, like a swimmer diving beneath a wave. The Medusa shuddered from head to tail.

“Ava,” cried Mother irritably. “Would you like to tell me what happened just now? It felt like you were playing with doom. What’s the basis of your self-destructive compulsion?”

“That wasn’t me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It felt like someone fighting for control. Someone with telepathic powers.”

“How is that possible, Ava? With nobody aboard but Troll and his bots.”

“And you. Has somebody sabotaged you?”

“My functions are normal,” Mother said tartly. “Yours are not, my dear. Go ahead and run a thorough check on me.”

“We’ll hit the second ring in 17 minutes.”

“Then trust me to fly this ship alone. I need to check your nervous system.”

“OK,” Ava groaned, and stuck her head into a hanging helmet like an old-time dryer of hair. She heard a buzzing, and then loud clicking, and in a minute Mother said smugly:

“I found an anomaly under the skin of your neck, just above the bone of your right shoulder.”

Probing with her fingers, Ava felt the pellet, small and round as a Terran pea. “An implant? I got my physical Tuesday. Somebody could have placed it then.”

“Well I suggest we pull it out, right now. Would you like a pain killer, dear?” And the door of the red-crossed cabinet in the pilot pod popped open.

“No thanks, Mother.”

“Well, can you reach it all by yourself?”

“If you hold a mirror for me.”  A stem of light emerged from one of Mother’s ports, plucked a small, square mirror from the cabinet and held it up.

Using an all-file, quickly Ava picked open her own neck. She ripped out the implant with its wires, and slapped a no-bleed patch over the wound. She’d stitch it up later–after clearing the last ring.

Already the Medusa was dodging and weaving, piloted expertly by Mother.

“You’re doing fine,” said Ava softly.

“We share a common vision. Take a little rest, dear, before the third ring. It’s the hardest one, you know.”

Ava settled back into the interface and slowed her breathing, trying to compose herself. Though her neck ached from the crude incision, already her mind felt clear and calmer.

Why would somebody try to tap into her mind? Who would have the technical ability? Did somebody want to hijack the Medusa, with its heavy load of pure gold ingots? The ransom for the hostages the Luddites would surely massacre, if she failed to reach Alhambra…

She’d take no chances; she’d face Troll. Somehow she didn’t trust this man.

&&&

“Ambassador, I’m confiscating your bot assistants on my own authority. I need to disable them both until we land safely in Alhambra City.”

“You have no right.” His snake-like eyes narrowed behind his mask of polished gold. “We’ve got full immunity.  We’re on a diplomatic mission for the Union.”

“But I’m responsible for your security, and someone’s interfering with my steering. I’m not accusing you, but maybe someone has tampered with your bots.”

“Pilot, that’s ridiculous.”

“Then will you permit me to search them now?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll have to use force. I’m sorry.”

Eying Ava uneasily, the gold-plated bots had shifted apart. When one turned suddenly as if to flee, Mother shot a magnetic beam from a port, immobilizing the bot. When its twin tried to pull it free, she blurted them both out a hatch, into space.

“How dare you?” shouted Troll. “Those were custom models, programmed to my specifications. I’m going to seek damages from the Fleet.”

“That’s your right,” said Ava hotly. Cursing, he plucked up an oxygen pack and smashed it to pieces on the deck, and his mask slipped, baring his bloated face and bulbous nose.

“Ray Nero,” she gasped, “in green eye-lenses. What have you done with Ambassador Troll?”

“We buried him down a mine on Steinmetz.” He pulled a blaster from under his robes and aimed it at her heart. “My triad needs this vessel’s cargo.”

“Trainer, are you threatening me? I’m the only pilot who can fly this freighter. We still have to transit the third ring.”

“I want you to divert to Ferris 2. You should have ample fuel.”

“I’m not going to fly my ship to that nest of pirates.”

“Ava, you’ll do what I say. I’m your trainer.”

“Not anymore. I’m free.”  She kicked the blaster out of his hand, and wheeling he ran towards the propulsion chamber, smashing out the Medusa’s panels and lighting as he ran.

“What’s going on?” cried Mother anxiously.

“We’ve got a traitor to the Fleet on board: my ex-trainer, Ray Nero. He joined the criminal triads from sheer greed.”

“He’s shutting down all our communica–” Mother’s voice broke off.

“At least I know my enemy,” Ava muttered. “And I’m not crazy.”

“You’re weak and inadequate,” Ray’s voice boomed. “You’re the worst pilot I ever trained.” Amplified down the long passageway, he sounded like an angry god.

“And you’re a disgusting traitor and swindler! I’ll throw you into deep space, like your bots.”

“No, I’m gonna fly this ship to Ferris 2. I don’t need your help to truck a load of gold.”

“You’re not taking over my ship, Ray!”

“I helped design it. I can fly it.”

Then he’d have to bypass the main controls and steer from the ES interface… Ava raced down the darkened corridor, feeling her way towards the emergency station. How crippled was Mother? Could they still make contact, before they reached the third ring?

Never had she felt so alone, not since her childhood at Ray’s mercy, crying out her eyes in her bare niche in the basement of his hidden training barracks, the barracks surrounded on all sides by the thick, grey slag of Steinmetz.

No, she wouldn’t let him destroy the new life she’d made. She wouldn’t let him hijack the Medusa. Reaching a storeroom, she grabbed a pair of restraints and a heavy wrench, and groped on towards the emergency station…

Tripping over a cable spanned in the dark, she fell flat and split her lip. She spat out the rusty-tasting blood. Had she forgotten Ray’s cruelty? Warily now she inched towards the ES.

The pale glow of a flashlamp lit the emergency station like a lantern down a mine. With quick, deft motions Ray was splicing chips in a panel hanging loose from the wall.

Creeping up, Ava slammed the wrench down on his skull–and the heavy tool passed through his body. “A hologram,” she groaned as the image faded.

“Hands up.”  He poked her in the back with his blaster’s muzzle. “It’s still so easy to trick you, Ava. Didn’t I train you better as a girl?”

Her cheeks were burning, her ears buzzing with fury. How dare he humiliate her. I’m a top-rated pilot of the Fleet.

“Now I’m going to tie you up,” he was saying, “for the rest of our journey–little Ava.”

She took a deep breath, focused her mind. “There’s no need, master,” she said softly. “I see that you have beaten me.”

Hugging her tightly from behind, he cupped her small breasts in his hands. Skin crawling, she felt like vomiting, and voices in her head cried, “Kill him, or die! You can’t live, if he does what he wants to you, again.”

“Sit there now, like a good little girl.” He folded down a seat from the wall for her. “While I divert our ship to Ferris 2. It’s not as bad there as people say. I’m sure you can get used to the life.”

She forced herself to say evenly: “Whatever you wish for me, Trainer Nero.”

When he turned away, she flew at him again, chopping the back of his neck with her hand. He crumpled to the deck and then grabbed her knees, pulled her down and rolled on top of her.

“You’re hurting me.”

“I’ll show you who’s boss,” he growled as she breathed in his sour breath. “Just like I did when you were a snotty, disobedient brat.”

She punched him in the crotch and he roared; she grabbed his head and tried to bang it on the bulkhead.

“Now I’m going to have to hurt you.”

“Ray, you’ve hurt me enough.” In a flash she clicked plastic cuffs around his wrists. As he gaped she secured his ankles too, and his bloated, once-handsome face split into a demonic snarl:

“Honey, you’re making a big mistake.”  She tugged his blaster from the under-arm holster. “Like when you walked out of my training early.”

“It wasn’t enough for you to abuse me. You boasted about it to your friends.”

“You loved it, Ava; you wanted it! Such a precocious little girl.”

“You’re less than an animal, man.”

“But I chose you from that orphanage on Steinmetz. I chose you for your toughness–little Ava.”

“Don’t tempt me to kill you,” she hissed in his face. “You’ve been my bad dream since I was six. Wherever I fly, wherever I go, I’m burning my rage at you as fuel.”

With a piece of cable she secured his cuffed hands to a steel handgrip on the bulkhead. Snatching up the flashlamp, she left him alone in the darkness and rushed back towards the main pilot pod, hoarse laughter ringing in her ears.

&&&

It took her an hour to bring the Medusa back on course and navigate the third ring alone. Then she worked on restoring communications with the ship-bot. Poor Mother needed an overhaul. It would have to wait until they landed.

Exhausted, Ava sank into the interface and let herself take a healing rest, and when she awoke, the golden capital planet loomed in the distance like a full moon. Soon Alhambra filled her entire vision.

“Hey Mother,” she said hopefully, “if you can hear me now–”

A hairy hand clamped over Ava’s mouth, and a foldable bot, spider-shaped, went capering over the ceiling.

“You should have searched me,” Ray Nero leered. “I kept him in my robe, just in case.”

“The thought of touching your body makes me sick.”

“But you can’t escape, you know.” He tugged her out of the interface and pushed her down on the deck, on her knees. “Stay like that now, or I’ll have my friend here paralyze you with his toxic sting.”

Ray shoved himself into the interface. The Medusa shuddered and accelerated.

“What are you doing?” Ava cried.

“Crashing us into the Congress Palace.”  His bloated, yellow-tinged features seemed to sag. “I’m dying of cancer anyhow.”

“And what will you gain by crashing this ship?”

“I’ll be famous down the centuries, and you will be famous–as my victim.”

Ava saw the Pilot Obelisk on the horizon, the many-spired Congress Palace beside it.

“I won’t let you.” She lunged at him and forced him from the interface, and the ship veered sideways like a bucking horse. Thrusting her aside, he tried to push back in–but lighting flashed from the interface mesh, writhing around him like thick snakes while Mother cried like a spiteful little girl:

“Oh no you don’t.”

He sagged to the floor, shocked, eyes still open.

“Mother, stabilize us,” Ava pleaded. The spiderbot cowered in a corner. Grimacing Ava stomped it to pieces, under her steel-soled boots. The hot desire to kill her abuser raged in her heart like a poison storm.

She stooped over Ray Nero on the deck, his bulbous nose seeming to dissolve in his flaccid cheeks, his face already rotten as a corpse in the ground, rotten from his long life of evil.

“I’m not going to give in to you, Ray,” she hissed.  “I’m better than you. I have to be.”

She wound his hands and feet with several lengths of cable, and then pushed his head under an oxygen hood so she didn’t have to see his face.

Now she almost felt a touch of pity: this broken-down monster had no future.

She sank back into the cool, soft interface and steadied the Medusa’s controls. Thank you, Mother, for being here for me when I needed you.

&&&

Below, the golden capital of the Union spread to Alhambra’s far horizons, spire upon delicate spire, more beautiful than any passing dream; and she, Ava Steele, was bringing in more gold from Steinmetz, gold to redeem 100 innocent lives.

“Han 1, can you give me clearance to land,” she asked Alhambra Flight Control.

“You’ve got it, Ava of Steinmetz,” a strong, young voice sang back.

“Please have some wardens waiting at the spaceport. I’ve got a dangerous prisoner–Ray Nero, who plotted to hijack my ship. I’ve stowed him in fuel tank number 3. Please don’t let him escape again.”

“We’ll be standing by–with a max-mobile prison.”

The long landing strip unrolled before her like a ribbon of satin. She steadied the huge ship, dipping low, till with a gentle bump, like a lover’s tap, the Medusa touched down at last.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Anna Sykora 2012

Image Courtesy: Ebenezer

FFJ Anthology Vol 03

The very best of 2011 now in a 196 page A4 size book.
Cover Image by award winning photographer Eleanor Bennett.

The Twisted Tales – An eclectic mix of all flavours of genre fiction

“Trash*Can*Sam*” by Chris Castle
“Speech Bub” by Chris Castle
“How Do You Say This In Russian?” by Alexandra Burt
“According to Lizzy” by Aloysa
“Quit” by Jon-Paul Stracco
“Jury” by Jim Spry
“They Call Me Madman” by Andrew Bud Adams
“The Eye Of The Beholder” by Rob Ambrose
“The Thunderbird” by Emal Rustemi
“Vanguard” by Sam S. Kepfield
“Jackson Jones: PPI” by Nicholas Coriz
“Ravana” by James Newman
“Cleaning Man” by Tom Larsen
“Playmates” by Thomas Cannon
“I, Sita” by Shefali Choksi
“That Holiday Newsletter” by Diane Arrelle
“Last Bus To Home Planet” by Ujjwal Dey
“Beginners” by Chris Castle
“Voodoo Radio” by Chris Castle

* * * * * * * * * *

Editor’s Note

Welcome to all connoisseurs of fiction and pulp. What a year it has been. The quality of Freedom Fiction Journal (FFJ) publication has grown leaps and bounds through the incredible talent it attracts from the whole wide world. The exceptional authors presented throughout the year have made an impactful presentation of what FFJ now stands to be – a home to diverse and eclectic mix of all genres of superbly crafted short stories.

We launch this third Annual Anthology Edition with great respect and gratitude to the authors, artists and fans who have made us a common name on the internet. We hope to continue bringing a weekly dose of the best and most entertaining fiction spread in the new year as well.

We start of this anthology with back-to-back stories from our most successful and prolific author, Chris Castle. He weaves magic with words. The emotions and sentiments he brings to the fore with his human tales are unmatched so far in FFJ in all its years of existence. So two of his stories start the anthology and then two of his stories end the anthology.

We discovered many new brilliant writers in the past year. Alexandra Burt, Aloysa, Rob Ambrose and Emal Rustemi have brilliant new pulp tales that will make you wonder at the possibilities of fiction and how it can be used to map the human consciousness, endeavours and attitudes. Andrew Bud Adams, Jon-Paul Stracco and Nicholas Coriz surprise us with passionate writing that adds to genre fiction’s best.

Our last year’s favourite, Sam S. Kepfield returns with a historical fiction saga that will warp your mind. James Newman also returns this year with a modern take on a mythological villain. Lot more to name and discover but I won’t spoil your fun. I will simply state that we have 19 spectacular tales awaiting your pleasure in this book. Special thanks to Eleanor Bennett for providing the wonderful cover art for our third anthology.

We provide an eclectic mix of fiction from varying genres in short stories. FFJ is listed in both Ralan.com and Duotrope.com literary guides and meets their guidelines to be listed in their respective websites. We have contributions in fiction and/or art from diverse countries such as: USA, UK, Ireland, Canada, Australia, Germany, Sweden, The Netherlands, Slovenia, Israel, Philippines, Thailand, India, etc. We at FFJ enable sharing of thoughts and expanding of horizons. We also nominate stories for the Pushcart Prize every year.

We have a delightful spread for you in this Anthology. So let the ink flow, behold the canvas – the third Anthology is alive.

Best Wishes,
Ujjwal Dey
Editor for third year of FFJ
http://freedomfiction.com/

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