Graphic Novel or Novel with Graphics?

While I’m waiting to hear back form two literary agent re: my novel, I’m considering hiring an illustrator and putting a portion of it online for free. We’ll see how this plays out. Here’s hoping…

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.

Some of my glasswork

Even though I do repair & restoration, and commissions,  my personal pieces tend to the eclectic, non traditional.

Here’s some recent work:

Last is a take on the usual Cape Cod nautical theme. It’s a single panel that measures 4′ x 7′.  It went in a private residence.

I’m thankful I still have plenty of work at the moment, with several interesting commissions coming up.

RUNNING BLACK – a science fiction novel

Writing a novel falls in the “Put Up or Shut Up” category. You can dream about it, think about it, talk about it, but it comes down to simply doing it. I finished the first iteration of Running Black this past Christmas.  I’m posting it here, polished up a bit,  in the hope of exposure,  pertinent feedback,  and to allow others to go along for the ride if they want.

“Science Fiction” might not be the best term here. “Near Future” seems more appropriate.  I’m trying to extend some current military and technological trends into the not so distant future, and use them as the foundation for an action, adventure story about a team of private military contractors. Nothing earth shattering in that premise, but I’m aiming for a more gritty, realistic tone.

I’m sure I’ll say more later, but for now, here’s the Prologue and First Chapter.

——-

PROLOGUE
LIKE CIGARETTES
Dawson Hull Conglomerate Regional Offices. London, England. New European Union. 2:18 a.m.
He wasn’t going to make it. His mind kept nagging him with that fact, but a primal part much deeper inside snarled back at that cold slap of logic and kept him running anyway. The slip-in had been so smooth too, everything going flawlessly right up to the last seconds of the download.
It should have been a simple loot and scoot. A small crew, the pass codes they’d received got the four of them past the building’s security like wily ghosts, while floor plans brought them straight to the mainframe hub. They’d been told exactly where to search there too, and after a crypto-crack and a quick cable to the terminal, they watched their flash drive filling up and passed a smile around in the stillness, buzzed on the thought of easy money. But someone in D-H cyber division must have strung a tripwire code in the transfer executable, because right at 97% the alarms went off, the thick dark exploded, and a perfectly good break-in got shot to hell.
Now the air was quivering with sirens and every light in the complex glared stark phosphorus. The freelancer was alone, flying through the maze of offices back the way he’d come, his world compacted by the tyranny of rage and fear.
He’d jabbed all the speed-stims at once and the adrenaline cocktail hit him like a freight train. Everything tumbled together into a rabid blur: steel gates slamming down over windows; the drop, lock, and swivel of ceiling turrets; night shift guards shouting, popping out in front of him like cartoon targets in a kill house. He focused on them just long enough to double tap neat holes in their tailored uniforms. He flowed right over them, ducked and weaved and rolled and ran on.
The intimate dead urged him on, stark and raw in his mind. Riko buried under the first response wave of spider ‘bots; Mahoud shredded by flechettes and choking on his own blood. Even Daffid, so cool and precise, had pushed him through a killzone and ended up spattered all over the lower parking level, just to buy him these last seconds. Lives snubbed out like cigarettes, littered in a trail behind him. He was the only one left.
Somewhere in another long hallway his brain took the opportunity to remind him about the U.A.V. The mission brief stipulated his team have the stealth drone circling overhead for the duration, ready to relay the files once they got clear. Talk about a clue – it had been the first item on the load-out list. Pass codes or no, whoever hired them hadn’t counted on a clean getaway. And they’d been so right.
An eye blink squeeze on the trigger folded up another guard, then the click, click, click of an empty magazine registered in his mind. Now even his ammo was gone.
What’s the use? his brain nagged again. But there was $25 million on that flash drive and the contract read no files – no funds. Four minutes ago he’d wondered what was worth so much, but now all he wanted was to get outside so it could be passed to whoever was up next in this horror show. His data pad was bluetoothed to the drone, but he got no signal inside the building. He needed clear sky, so he kept running.
He darted down a sharp left, bouncing off the walls. He was almost there. At least Mira and the kids would get five percent, plus benefits.
The final stretch was empty and for a second he imagined he’d actually survive. He almost laughed, but his lungs were heaving, his muscles burning out on the last ragged edges of the chemical overkill. As he burst through the basement double doors onto the service road, he instinctively looked up for the drone he knew he couldn’t see. The night sky was littered with stars, and the air was heavy with the sharp reek of garbage and bio diesel.
Someone shouted, but he didn’t stop. He was out.
Still at full speed, he raised his arm and thumbed the Send button. There were figures braced behind concrete barriers, their helmets silhouetted against muzzle flashes and flickering police lights. Rounds tore through him, but they were too late. He heard the electronic bleat and knew the machine valkyrie had caught the data and was bearing it onward. He did laugh then, deep and wet. He’d made it.
Tri-bursts scoured his body, punching his forward motion back until it ceased in jerks and shudders as he tumbled to the asphalt. Blood was running now. The freelancer lay there, staring up as all the overdue pain came crowding in. It was finished. He saw the sky, the stars, and thought of Mira. Then everything winked out.

CHAPTER 1
FULL INTRUSION PACKAGE
In the sky over French airspace, New European Union. 02:37 a.m. same night
Droning. Engines droning and the hiss of high stratosphere outside the compartment always made me sleepy. Soldiers sleep anywhere, anytime, and I guess if you do anything long enough, any familiar sound becomes a lullaby. Tam and I’d known this old Bulgarian who’d nodded off in his foxhole just before a firefight in the Balkans. He slept through the whole damn counter attack. Not a scratch on him either. He was pulped the next day when the AI on one of our tanks failed to recognize his IFF tags during a refit and reload. Bad mojo, but still…
A gust of turbulence rocked the sub-orbital.
I opened one eye. It was dark. Tam was still at the Command and Control holo-display, waiting. I could hear his boots shifting on the steel decking. Our team was on standby, tasked for the second phase of a possible mission, and if he got a green light, we’d only have a 3 minute jump window. All these moving parts made Tam uneasy. He didn’t show it, but he was. I could tell. There was money to be made here – a lot of money – and he didn’t want us to miss it. I looked back to see the cast of L.E.D. glow on his face. His matt black Mitsubishi sneak suit absorbed the rest and made him look like a bakemono ghost head floating in netherworld gloom. Christ, I needed more sleep.
“Jace”
I opened my other eye. “Yeah?”
“They prepped back there?” his head nodded toward the cargo compartment.
“Of course. Jeeze Tam, not like we haven’t done this. Been wheels up every night for a week waiting on a go sign.”
“Corp dime – Corp time. They keep payments coming, I’ll do this as long as they like. Better than getting shot at.”
“I read that.” I shut my eyes again. Then I opened them. “So those authorizations are real?”
“The money?” he kept focused on the display. “Yep, they’re real. Triple mission rates, even equipment reimbursements and bonuses. Rao thought it was a UN phish at first.”
I let out a low whistle. “You know what they say about ’too good to be true’, right?
His head looked up at me, “Yeah. Yeah I do. Our backup gear is still onboard, right? Tell me you brought our gear.”
“Yes mother. It’s in the back. I’ll need 60 seconds once the ramp drops.” I settled back to doze again. “Probably a no-go tonight too. If you’re still worried, I can do a search when we get back to confirm who’s footing the bill. If it’s an UNdie sting, their fingerprints are out there on the Net.”
“Nah” his ghost head smiled. “Your web-fu is Amish. I already said something to Poet. He’s on it.”
“Amish? Ha funny ha. I don’t know why they say Koreans lost their sense of humor.” I closed my eyes a third time, hoping it was for good until we landed back in Belfast. “If there’s a data trail leading back to the Security Council, Poet will sniff it out.”
“Rao says all signs point to Tokyo, which is good, because I like these kinds of paychecks. Besides, it’s not like there’s a pile of other outfits that could make this run. They need us here. If what the mission brief says is true,” he closed his eyes and smiled at me, “after we deliver, I’ll be packing my bags for that vacation.”
“You and your vacation,” I grunted.
“Gotta have goals. I hear Belize is nice.”
“Nope. Shining Path hit it last month with the Marburg virus. Still a Q’d zone.”
“Hell. What about Disneystan then? Some of the resorts are secluded. Separate from the parks.”
“You want secluded, you’re better off with Cancun or Cozumel.”
“Well sure,” Tam snorted, “if Rao can grease us past the North American Border Grid. Clearances are hard to come by.”
I shifted around trying to find a more comfortable position, “Jaithirth Rao is Mr. Wizard. He can do anything. Just follow the yellow brick road.”
Ten seconds later. “Jace?”
I opened one eye again. “Yes Tam?”
“Go back and make sure Poet and the Triplets are all set. Just in case.”
“Just in case,” I echoed and got to my feet.
The back compartment was bathed in red half-light, all fractured pale ruby and hard shadows. Our gear was perched on skids waiting patiently for the dark angled jaw of the drop ramp to open. Tam had made us bring all three of our Raytheon “Whisper” remotes up here with us. They were top grade surveillance drones, and I could see the tiny green status lights winking. Their multiple sensor lenses peeked out of the blue black wing shapes like the shining eyes of ravens. Between the drones, our Mitsubishi armor, and a full ECM suite, it was obvious that Tam loved the potential windfall on this job, but sudden corporate largesse hadn’t turned him into the trusting sort just yet. Teams had been left out in the cold before, and none of us wanted our Beneficiaries haggling with pond scum from Legal over the finer points of our contract’s Death Clause.
Poet and the Triplets were huddled together on the left. The small Mexican was saying something and the three hulking soldiers were repeating it after him. I stood there for a moment and watched.
Devante Peres, or Poet9, as he liked to be called, was our Splicer. Born and raised in the Mexico City Sprawl, he cobbled his first deck from dump parts and hot-lined the Public Access when he was eleven. For the next six years he was a slumdog celebrity; making candy runs for gang bangers and wiping police files for barrio drug lords.
Then one sweltering summer night, wired on Crank and tequila courage, he jacked in and went poking around the Ixe Grupo Financiero, and in a bizarre synergy of narcotics, raw talent and dumb luck, managed to jimmy his way in. He’d have gotten away with it if he’d just stayed calm, but with all those millions of dólares floating around, the smash and grab punk he was grabbed up funds by the fist full and ran yelling down the virtual streets. Loud and sloppy is a definite no-go for a cyber rat. I.G.F. counter intrusion services tagged him in minutes and backtraced right to his cinderblock hut. When they kicked the door in they found a scrawny teen covered with gang tats, acne scars and cheap bling passed out on a mattress. At some point during the next day’s interrogation they gave him an option: two in the head or entry level desk in their firewall department. He took the job, got a 20 year indenture, and wound up with a Cybernetic Interface Unit wet wired to his cortex.
The Triplets were a different story. Our team’s gunboys, they were Pretoria Series Seven combat clones, and the last of N’kosa Mambi’s fever dream of an African empire. Gene-modded to their eyeballs, literally, Mambi’s scientists had ramped up the stock soldier template until they broke it, reducing mental capacity to autistic levels and introducing albinism into the sequence. But that was fine by the General’s syphilitic racist logic. Series Seven clones had only two imperatives: total loyalty and killing with startling efficiency. They were lethal savants, and he fed thousands of his new shock troops into the savage brush wars. Under his command, they slaughtered everything in their path and burned through the surrounding Sub-Saharan nations for almost two years until E.U. forces brought the hammer down.
After the battle of Victoria Falls, all Series Sevens were declared illegal. Every one they could find was rounded up and executed, their bodies burned by the hundreds in deep slit trenches. Veterans say the veldt around the Zambezi River smoldered for weeks. Somehow these three stayed hidden and alive until Tam found them, and smuggled them out.
They’d never been given names, so we called them Flopsey, Mopsey and Cottontail; our Killer Bunnies. Now every time our resident doctor, Ibram Kalahani comes around, he says “Death awaits you all with nasty, big, pointy teeth,” and chuckles to himself for minutes. He still hasn’t told us what’s so funny.
My boot hit the door kick plate and all four heads swiveled my way.
“Hey boss,” Poet sang out.
“Hi Boss,” the Triplets said in unison.
“I’m not the boss. Mr. Tam’s the boss,” I said to them, then frowned at Poet. “You’re not teaching them Spanish again are you?”
He threw up his hands. “Just a couple things. All tactical stuff, I swear.”
“You swear is right. Doc Kalahani will have your balls in a vise, you teach them any more. He’s still mad about Lisbon.”
Poet laughed. “Buenas épocas!”
“Good times,” the three big soldiers thumped their fists on their thighs.
I shook my head. “Tam sent me back here to make sure we’re good to go tonight. Are we?”
“Same as all the other nights,” the little Mexican tapped the C.I.U. on the left side of his head. The gray electronics were partially hidden under a knit cap, but the awkward angles of the “Brain Box” made the graft look like a geometric contusion. “I’ve got the Whispers slaved on a high band channel on our Heads Up Displays. Anyone of us can access their camera views on the helmet visors. And they’ll start singing loud and proud if anyone violates our space.” He threw me a sly grin, “Seven flights so far, and you still haven’t told me what we’re stealing.”
“Who said anything about stealing?” I responded innocently.
“Jace, mano, it’s got to be a big party, or – ” he waved a hand at our drones, the racked weapons, our H.A.L.O. drop rigs, then placed it solemnly on his Mitsu’s armored chestplate, “we wouldn’t be bringing all our toys.”
I grinned back at him. “Asian Pacific wants us to jump on some labs in Toulouse. Some other crew is supposed to squirt the go-codes up to us, but we didn’t know exactly when. That’s why we’ve been in the air every night. Tam’s up front still waiting.”
“But we must be picking up a souvenir while we visit, right?”
I thought a minute before answering. “We’re after a N3,” I finally said.
He raised his eyebrows at me.
“I know, I know…” I answered his gaze, “but the mission brief states the Brits actually developed one. It says these labs actually have a working prototype.”
“Horseshit,” he said.
“Mierda del caballo!” three deep voices said in unison. The albino giants looked over at me, big expectant grins on their faces. I burst out laughing, but Poet9 was still serious.
“The Nanotech Neural Network is a myth, Jace. Can’t be done. The human body rejects the little machine bastards. Madre de Dios, this thing almost killed me,” he tapped his C.I.U. again. “Everybody and their cousin had lab geeks running R & D for years. The Bank even looked into it. Every one of those projects flatlined – all they got was bloated bodies.” Poet9 shook his head.
“Well, Rao says someone on high in the Asian Pacific executive is fronting our little expedition. From the money being thrown around, it looks like whoever that diamyo is, he’s a true believer.”
Poet9 sat back with a grunt, “As long as they pay up when we come back empty handed and say I told you so.”
“We say that, we might not get paid. And Tam wants that vacation.”
“Still with the vacation.”
“He’ll get it someday.” I turned to leave. “I’ll tell him we’re ready.”
“As always, “ Poet9 called out.
Tam was standing in the same place when I got back up front. There’d been no flash traffic yet.
“I told Poet about the N3. He thinks we’re chasing ghosts.”
Tam glanced over. “Chimeras actually; literal and figurative.”
“You’re a barrel of laughs tonight.” I sat back down. “They’re ready, by the way.”
“I figured.”
I’d almost made it back to sleep when the command and communication station warbled abruptly. I stood up. A large yellow cube appeared in the center display, rotating in the holo-field. It blossomed into strings of code, COBOL3 encryptions unfurling, arranging themselves to coherency. The top field was blinking lime green.
“Relayed traffic coming in,” Tam said. “It’s on. We’re going in right now.” I grabbed a hand hold as the suborbital banked hard to the left, going south. Tam started downloading the data, transferring the target schematics to his forearm pad, synching them with our crew’s command net. He scanned the projection as a message played out. “Damn, that didn’t come cheap.”
“What didn’t?” I asked.
“This is a full intrusion package. Somebody just nicked proprietaries and overrides for the entire Toulouse facility.”
I turned around and headed back to Poet9 and the Triplets. Tam was behind me and ahead I could hear the ramp whine open, and the wind come howling in.