Heartbreaker: Speculation

Wait, how is Singer supposed to contact this shadowy figure if she can't e-mail him back? Maybe she's just that crafty....

-

I must have told someone, she thought to herself. At one of the office parties. For a cover story. Something.

Singer zipped up her thick leather flight jacket and stepped onto the patio. She looked down at the park, where the risers were already up and ready. She sighed and pulled on her helmet.

It had taken her a couple extra weeks to find an apartment on the right floor, but it was worth it. From her balcony, she could get into traffic easily. She tapped in the password for the gate and stepped through, off the edge. Mind buzzing though it was with the mystery at hand, she still have more than enough focus to fly. Singer slipped easily from a walk to a drift, floating out from her apartment until she heard the gate click.

Maybe it was Farmer.

She lowered her head and streaked forward, cutting through the faintly flickering yellow field into the stream of fliers. Other telekinetics made up the bulk of the traffic flow, but there was the occasional winged dragon-breed flapping along, clearing his or herself a wide berth with their high profile. One person, she saw, was standing on the safety net, the force screen coalescing around their feet and glowing bright. They straightened their helmet, strapped it tight, and took off again, regaining the fifteen foot gap back into traffic.

It had to be Farmer, now that she thought of it. He'd cornered her at the last holiday party, the previous winter. She knew he'd had a crush on her for as long as they'd worked together, and she thought he knew she wasn't interested. Something, apparently, was unclear. Farmer was an all right guy, but too eager. He'd poured out to her more awkward detail about his life than was fair, and she must have told him the story out of some misguided sense of justice.

Singer floated to a stop, the field ahead lit red. As the cross-traffic unspooled from its cluster and began to flow again, she remembered that Farmer had just gotten back to the office yesterday, from his assignment in Red Bridge. She'd actually heard him griping about the long trip back north in the hall.

The red field dissipated, and Singer rounded the corner, coming into view of her office. The Psionic Solutions, Inc. tower was an elegant steel-fiber and polyglass affair, mostly black, with the impression of a highly polished onyx shard. Human forms darted in and out at skylane level as couriers delivered packages and consultants made their way to and from their assignments.

In essence, the Corporation was a psychic guild, providing consulting services to individuals and organizations, or so Public Relations said. At some point, everyone had a use for a telepath or a telekinetic. Collective bargaining had just quieted down for the season, and they now had to rely on other contracts for their income. This was usually Singer's favorite time of year. Last year she had worked one private investigation – the executive was cheating and embezzling, it turned out – and two big projects, both of which she had loved.

She alighted on the entrance nearest her office, unstrapping her helmet and turning her focus to the small box embedded in the wall. With a thought, the door opened. Singer shook her head, thinking of what price that little box would fetch on the open market. Just a little vial of psychoreactive fluid in a vial, hooked up to a computer with some very proprietary security software. The first step towards a psionic computer interface. As yet, all they could get the system to do was recognize people and open doors.

As usual, the office inside was nearly silent. The occasional drift of music or talk show hovered around someone's console, but no conversation filled the air. Singer stepped through the sliding glass door, which slid shut with a hiss.

-Morning, Singer, came the telepathic voice of Derek Baker, one of the trainees she supervised. He was nowhere in sight. Must have been waiting for her.

-Hey, Derek. Lemme guess. Fletcher's waiting.

-Good guess.

Singer walked straight past the kitchen and its inviting coffee-and-spiced-tea smell, on toward her boss's office.

-Morning, Elaine. How's your morning going?

That was Terrence Farmer. Singer stopped in front of his cubicle. He had turned around, hoping to get a glance at her, and now he was smiling as she actually stopped. His skin was a few shades darker than hers, more the average human brown than her pale pink. His eyes were a light brown, almost tan, and betrayed his eagerness to please people. Not un-handsome, and not a bad guy. Just tended toward desperate more often than not.

She narrowed her focus, quieting her telepathy to avoid eavesdroppers.

-Terry, hey. Got a question for you. She was annoyed, and trying not to let it show. Maybe he hadn't just let it slip. Maybe.

[By the way, Farmer is based loosely on me. More to come.]

Heartbreaker: Enticement

Technically, due to the order in which I've posted the exerpts, today's story chunk is a flashback. I think this one is a little rougher than the others, but hey, it's a first draft. If you were wondering about the message Telfeyan sent so elaborately, read on.

-

Singer entered the 14-digit password from memory on the second attempt. Case-sensitive. She then stared at the kitchen table, frowning as the document failed to appear. She glanced back at the kitchen to see the text window on the kitchen wall, where Suq's call had come in. Singer sighed. "Over here." The window immediately blinked to the kitchen table. That's what she got for using a little-known, ill-supported notebook program, even if it was better than the mainstream software.

Singer glanced over what she had so far. Not much left to be said, really. The meeting had gone worse than she had expected - at least, worse for the Schwartzsten Group. Great for the Corporation's client, who was trying to find a way out of the negotiations. Which reminded her.

“Attach a note for Fletcher. Audio only. Set password as 'hedgehog milkshake.'” She snickered at the inside joke. “Record.” The waveform graph popped into being, fluctuating with her voice. “Hey, Fletch. Possible mode of approach for the meeting. Don't directly advise Gorok to back out, just keep suggesting that Schwartzsten is less than honest. Their rep has a crazy temper just below the surface. Keep pecking at him, and he'll blow, guaranteed, and Gorok will have all the excuse he needs to pull out. You can thank me later. Get pictures.” She had looked up the dwarf's name after the meeting, and was hardly surprised to find out that Roter meant “red.” Red he had been.

Singer was about to begin her work on the report itself when the new message chime sounded, and the floating envelope icon popped to the left. She'd forgotten to silence it before getting to work, which usually ended up costing her an extra half our. That icon was awfully hard to resist. She reached over and tapped it, rolling her eyes at her own predictability.

A text-only window scrolled open, revealing two short paragraphs. The sender was identified only as Secondshadow. No one she knew.

I hope this note finds you well. It was certainly an effort to find you in the first place, and, I pray, a worthwhile effort. An opportunity of untold magnitude awaits you. If such a grandiose but dreadfully general statement does not entice you, perhaps this statement will: my kingdom for a knight who hears me.

Her eyes stuck in place. A singular rush of cold recognition froze her. Those were her grandmother's words to her when she was nine years old. They were at the end of a fable she never forgot. They were how she knew she would marry Suqarin. She hadn't told that story to anyone except him.

If you are at all curious, contact me.

“Reply,” she ordered. A blank message appeared, with Secondshadow as the recipient. “Who are you? Send. Yes.” She barked the commands, anticipating the inevitable confirmation prompt. What she didn't anticipate was the error message.

[Error: Secondshadow is not a valid recipient.]

Singer glared at the box and stood up. The account obviously existed ten seconds ago. “Search network for Secondshadow, one word. Include Corporation.” No one knew that story. She hated mysteries.

[No results found. Did you mean second shadow?]

“Display properties for message.” A separate box appeared with statistics on the message itself. At the bottom was a series of network addresses the tiny digital parcel had been routed through. Singer slid her finger diagonally across the bottom of the box, drawing a selection rectangle around the information. She simultaneously tapped the right and bottom edges and dragged away a copy of the selection. “Call Dana Baker.”

Dana in IT answered a moment later, her small, dark face appearing on the kitchen table. “Hey, Singer. Mail problems?”

“Kinda,” Singer grumbled. “How'd you guess?”

“I don't wanna talk about it. Just found out this morning someone actually hacked through to our mail list last week.”

Oh, really. That was no small task. The Corporation had written their own proprietary operating system based almost entirely on the principle of data security. Their entire network was under layer upon layer of encryption, and was all but shut off to outside access.

“Funny you should mention. I just got an odd message and was hoping you could trace it back.”

“Yes. Forward it on.” Dana's game face was firmly in place. She was after the guy.

No sense in muddying the waters. “How about just the relay information?” She dragged and dropped the image onto the video feed, and watched as Dana reached offscreen to tap at the control surface.

“Mmm-hmm. That's all I need.” Her eyes had drifted away from the camera, and were flicking between several open windows. “Thought so. This address looks like it came from the Midlands.”

“Seriously? I thought their net access was junk out there.”

“Oh, it's enough. I'll let you know what I find out. So, what did the note say?”

“Nothing anyone in the Midlands needs to be saying to me.”

“Ksh. All right. I'll get back to you.” Dana flicked shut the window.

Singer glowered at the note. Contact me. The game was on.

Singer also hated games. Mostly because she couldn't resist them.

She thought of something else, and flicked the video window back open. “Hey, Dana?”

Dana looked up. “Aye?”

“I tried replying, but it said the account doesn't exist. And the search didn't turn up anything.”

“It said 'not valid,' right?”

Singer glanced over at the still-open dialog box. “Yeah.”

“Put that together with the Midlands network address, and you've got a flicker. Someone made a new account, sent you the message, and cut the network connection. The message would have gone through if they were still on the net.”

Singer knew how hard it was to get off the net here in the north. It had to be easier in the Midlands, where the tech was decades behind.

“Thanks, Dana.” Singer flicked the window closed and leaned on the table, scowling at the wall. She dragged her finger back and forth, waving the mystery message. Trying to shake the secrets loose.

[more to come.]

Gasp! Novel excerpt!

In November, I participated in National Novel Writing Month, further damaging my claims to sanity. The idea behind NaNo is to start on November 1 with a blank page, and finish the month with 50,000 words of a novel. I made a weak start, gained some momentum mid-month, and, well...



I'm quite pleased with what I did accomplish, though. I don't know if I've ever written this much for a given story. Ever. I plan on finishing the story, too, once I've planned it out a little better. I haven't been writing new material for it for the past few days, but I will be.

In celebration, I'm posting excerpts from what I managed to crank out during NaNo. These represent the roughest of rough drafts, but that's a lot of what gets posted here anyway. Heh. As yet, the story has no title, and will henceforth be referred to by its codename, Heartbreaker. A few of you will recognize a character, a name, or a setting, here and there.

Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.

-

A gentle swelling of light, and a gradual crescendo of harp music, and Elaine Singer awoke. The soft white light of the wall panels spread over the room, soaking the coffee-and-milk tan covers, the small lampstand, the many-colored ensembles just visible through the slightly ajar closet door. It took her a solid ten seconds to realize she was awake, ten seconds of staring at the red behind her eyelids. Subtle, embedded speakers in the wall above her futon grew slowly louder, insistently spreading the mystic sound of plucked strings. A vague memory of dream drifted away from her on a mental breeze, replaced quickly by another image.

In her mind, she was choking a harpist. Singer half-growled, half-groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her quickly-waking eyes in the pillow. A strand of her short red hair flipped into her ear. Itchy.

Have to minimize movement. We're not waking up. Not right now. Just gotta... oh, hell. She reached up at swatted at her own rebellious hair, knowing the battle was lost. Singer rolled over with a huff, tugging the covers off half the bed. Her voice was groggy when she spoke. “House. What time is it?”

The harp music quieted for the house computer's response, in a factual, but pleasant male voice. “It is 8:45 am.”

“Why would I get up at 8:45 am?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember. Right. She had to finish her report on Schwartzsten for Fletcher before the meeting today. Because she had put it off until this morning so she and Suq wouldn't miss The Judicator last night. And it hadn't been that great an episode. She had no idea what they were doing with Starlight this season. He was supposed to become the next Judicator, they said that in the last season finale, but they kept-

She had almost fallen asleep again when she caught herself. “Mmn.” She had to get up. With one last sigh, she gathered her thoughts. Her mental focus slid into place, though a little slower than usual, since it was morning. Singer turned one hand palm-up under the covers. With a little ripple out from her hand, the covers lifted, nearly flat, until they were nearly grazing the ceiling. Singer sat up, popped her neck, and stood, slumping toward the bathroom. She let go her focus, and the blankets drifted down to the futon with a flop.

If she had a more consistent morning routine, maybe her mind wouldn't take so long to warm up. One of her mentors had insisted that was critical: being able to wake from a deep sleep and be at her telekinetic threshold a second later. Thus far, that ability hadn't exactly been mission-critical. Thus far, Elaine Singer had thoroughly enjoyed taking mid-afternoon and late-night assignments and letting the mornings drift away like fog.

The harp music was still going, and had followed her into the bathroom. The waterproof speakers were a little tinnier. If she had to be awake, she was going to actually wake up. “House. Playlist “punching the walls,” on random. Play.”

Per her settings, the volume ratcheted up three levels, and thundering drums and distorted electric cellos hammered the walls. That intro she knew. “Rending the Gates” by Praxis Maleficus. Good stuff.

One lingering shower later, Singer padded into the kitchen in her loose, broken-in jeans and a tank top that had once been black, and was now faded gray. Outside, only minimal traffic sounds, since the commuters had been at their desks for a little over an hour. The woosh-pop of flash welders echoed from the construction yard down the block into her apartment. The charged glass door leading to the minuscule patio was halfway opaque, tinting the bright city light down to a manageable shade. She peered out into the world and saw, ten stories down and eight blocks away, they were setting up for some sort of big event in Koral'ia Park.

Oh, right. Carpenter's rally. Knowing Carpenter's following, she'd probably be able to hear them across the distance. The man new how to draw a rabble. Which wasn't why she was voting against him, but it certainly didn't help his case with her.

A familiar, soft guitar line filled the kitchen, and the wallscreen by the cutting board lit up with an alert. Singer smiled. “House, answer it.”

A video window sprung open. On the other end of the call was a scaled blue face, with a line of tiny horns running up the nose ridge and over the hairless head. The eyes were a yellow-orange, with vertical pupils. It had the beginnings of a snout, which smiled with pointed carnivore teeth. It was wearing, she noticed, the t-shirt she had bought him last week.

“Morning, love,” said Suq. Suqarin Myssir. Her fiancé.

[more to come. thanks for reading.]