Sleeper's Run by Henry Mosquera (Excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE

“What’s your name?” the police officer asks me.


“Eric Caine,” I answer rubbing my temple while lying on a hospital bed.


“Do you know where you are?” the cop says. Like me, he looks to be in his thirties, and has
the same body type. The officer has short brown hair, gentle blue eyes, and a youthful face that tells me he hasn’t been in this job very long.

Doctor Goldman, the man I saw when I woke up this morning, stands behind the officer. He’s a prematurely balding guy with glasses and a pleasant demeanor; probably just out of med school.

“The Miami VA,” I say scratching my scruffy black beard. “Listen, I already went through this wit h Doct or Goldman this morning. Whats t his all about?”

“I’m Officer Tucker with the Miami-Dade Police Department. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Maybe you should’ve talked to the doctor first, Officer. He would’ve saved you some time by telling you I can’t remember much.”

“Mr. Caine, your employer has filed a missing person report on you. That was eight days ago. Since then, no one has had any idea of your whereabouts. That’s why it’s important to establish what happened.”

“Eight days?” I mutter as the idea dawns on me.“How did I get here?”

“You were found wandering the streets of South Beach by a gentleman,” Doctor Goldman says. “At first, he thought you were just a homeless man, but the fact that you were speaking Arabic caught his attention, so he decided to help. He saw the military ID card in your wallet when you passed out,and decided to bring you here.”

I study the doctor and the policeman with the same quizzical look they cast on me. Why the hell was I speaking Arabic?

“Mr.Caine,what’s the last thing you remember?” Officer Tucker says.

I lie back looking out t he window, and rub my face t o force my memory t o spit up somet hing, anything. “I was at a bar downtown called Tobacco Road. I remember walking to my car. It was late... that’s all I can remember. The rest are just fragments of me walking down the street, and then I woke up here.”

“Were you alone?” Tucker begins taking notes. “Huh?”


“At the bar.”


“Yes, I went by myself.”

“Did you drink that night?” Tucker’s eyes search for an answer even before I can speak. “I had a few drinks,” I say,looking down a little uncomfortably.


“I noticed on your record you got two DUIs about a month apart from each other,” the officer says giving me a hard stare. He’s clearly not buying it .


“It’s been a rough year,” I say holding the officer’s stare.


“It must be,” Tucker says returning to his notes. “You were also detained for getting into a
fight with some guys at another bar a couple of weeks ago.” His eyes shoot back at me. “Luckily for you, nobody pressed any charges.” He continues reading, “The police were also called t o your home t wo mont hs ago, about shot s being fired in your apart ment . An accident al discharge of a firearm involving a television set.”

“Like I said, it’s been a rough year.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder?” Doctor Goldman asks.

“Listen, I’m not some deranged vet,” I say. “If you want to charge me with something, go ahead. So either get to the point or go away.”

I can see both men are taken aback by my outburst. I take a deep breath and lay back, rubbing my eyes and trying to compose myself. I’m still confused as all hell and now my head hurt s.

“Do you remember anything about the accident?” Tucker asks right on cue.

“Accident?” I say freezing. Images of my old man killed by a drunk driver bombard my mind, accompanied by a growing sense of dread.

“You were involved in a car accident near the I-95 not too far from the bar,” Officer Tucker says scrutinizing my face for any signs of deception.

“Was anybody hurt?” Isay before the cop can continue.


“No.”


I feel as if my blood starts to flow again.


“You crashed your car into a tree,” Tucker says. “The vehicle was declared a ‘total loss.’

There were no witnesses.”


I suddenly feel as if t he ground has been pulled from under my feet . Officer Tucker repeats the question, but my mind is miles away. An accident? I can’t recall anything about a crash. Did I finally snap and try to take it up with God? That’d make sense if I actually believed in him.

He seems sufficiently satisfied by my confused look to proceed with the questioning. “There was reportedly a fight at the bar that same night; you wouldn’t happen to know anything about that,would you?”

“No,” I say in a daze.


“Do you have any family?”


I shake my head.


“Friends?”


“I just moved here three months ago.” My answers roll off my tongue automatically.
“From where?”


“Fayetteville, NorthCarolina. I was stationed at Pope Air Force Base.”


“How long have you been working as a paramedic?”


“Pretty much since Igot here,” I say.


“But you live in a luxury condo.” Tucker’s street smarts take over his bedside manner.


“It was my mother’s. Does this have anything to do with your investigation?”


“No,” the officer says closing his notepad. “Don’t worry; this is more of an insurance concern than a police matter. You seem in good health. You didn’t injure anyone or damage any property for that matter. So, aside from a couple of fees regarding the towing and storage of your car, you have nothing to worry about.”

“Other than my memory,” I say.

“Mr. Caine, you seem to have suffered a severe contusion that affected your short-term memory,” Goldman says.“This combined with the shock of the accident must have left you in a confused state. This is, of course, a peculiar situation, to say the least; but not impossible. Fortunately, all your tests came back fine. As far as we can tell, you’re in excellent health.”

“Yet I feel like the floor of a taxi,” I say rubbing my sore body.

“Nothing that a nice bath and a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” the doctor says.

Officer Tucker stands up and hands me his card. “If you remember anything, give me a call.”

I take it and wait for him to leave. He stops, remembering something. “One more thing...” “Yes?”

“Where did you learn to speak Arabic?” “The Air Force,” I say, lying.

“Of course. You have a good day, Mr. Caine.” 

• Winner of the 2012 IndieReader Discovery Awards for best mystery/thriller
• Winner of the 2011 Reader Views Reviewers Choice Awards for Best South American Novel
• 2012 ForeWord Reviews Book of the Year Award finalist
• Honorable mention at the Paris Book Festival
• Honorable mention at the San Francisco Book Festival

War on Terror veteran, Eric Caine, is found wandering the streets of Miami with no memory of the car accident that left him there. Alone and suffering from PTSD, Eric is on a one-way road to self-destruction. Then a chance meeting at a bar begins a series of events that helps Eric start anew. When his new job relocates him to Venezuela-the land of his childhood-things, however, take an ominous turn as a catastrophic event threatens the stability of the country. Now Eric must escape an elite team of CIA assassins as he tries to uncover an international conspiracy in which nothing is what it seems.

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Genre - Political Thriller

Rating – R

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Connect with Henry Mosquera on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://redroom.com/member/henry-mosquera

Orangeberry Book of the Day - Tongues of Angels by Julia Park Tracey

Ordinary Time 

CHAPTER 1

Rob searched the crowd in the Italian restaurant for a friend. His sun-darkened skin was bronze against his white collar. He felt the heat through his many layers, the weight of black clericals on an August day, the rub of his collar on his brown neck, and wished himself again on the soft shore of Kauai, with cool-warm water lapping his toes, an iced drink at hand. But vacation was over, summer almost gone, and the pace of church life about to pick up dramatically. Rob cupped a hand to his eyes to see across the outside courtyard, where tables were set under an awning, and patrons lounged with wine glasses at the outdoor bar.

There, Rob spied the sun-bleached hair, heard the distinct laugh, recognized at once the erect posture of his best friend, Father Lawrence Poole, bantering with the bartender. They hadn’t seen each other all summer; Lawrence had been in Italy for a month, then Rob had gone to Hawaii to visit relatives. Rob had missed Lawrence more than he’d expected, felt the loss of the regular afternoon call which filled that empty portion of the day; he had missed Lawrence’s wicked laughter through the phone line, the gossip and the companionship that only two souls with the same vocation could know.

Lawrence greeted Rob with a hug. “Hey, there, sweetie. You look relaxed. Did you get lucky over the summer?”

“Ha, ha.” Rob hugged Lawrence back. “You’re projecting. Is there something you need to confess?”

Lawrence put his hand over his heart and made a tragic face. “My lips are sealed.” Lawrence kissed his fingertips, eyes closed reverently.

“I’ll bet.”

The maitre d’ arrived to escort them to a table.

As Rob and Lawrence passed through the restaurant, a lingering trace of perfume met them, to Rob, as familiar as the scent of his own pillow, his own warmed bed, sweet and musky as a woman. And there was a woman somewhere in the room, nameless, anointed with a certain scent, one that pulled him like a ribbon of memory. Another woman had worn the same perfume for him, long ago, a fragrance forever associated with her, that time, that place, that choice, leading down to this moment, this life. Rob pushed the thought back as they came to their table, and he took his seat. A waitress stood by to take their order.

“Have a drink with me,” Lawrence said, dropping into his chair. “I want to celebrate.”

“Let’s get a bottle, then,” said Rob, taking up the wine list. He pointed to a Sonoma Chardonnay. “This one’s fine,” he told their waitress. As he spoke to her, he noticed a fading red mark—knife slice, cat scratch?—on the back of her hand.

The young waitress in her black trousers and crisp white shirt noted the wine and nodded. Rob handed her the list, watching the curve of her jaw as she walked away, the one brown strand of hair at the nape of her white neck that her hair clasp had missed. He made himself look around the restaurant, noticing instead the marble counters, the open windows where the breeze came in, and the terra cotta tile of the floor.

“Tell me what we’re celebrating,” Rob said.

“Ah. Yes. Something wonderful.” Lawrence smiled, his face still glowing with a Southern California tan, sun-bleached bangs that he tossed from his forehead like an impatient colt. “I met a man last month when I was home in La Jolla for a few days.”

“Oh, don’t tell me—you’re in love.” Rob covered his ears.

“Oh, no, nothing like that.”

“Thank God.”

The waitress returned with the bottle of wine. Rob watched her strong hands as she presented the chill green bottle, deftly opened it, poured, and left them again. When Rob had attended St. Joseph’s Seminary, the nuns who had cared for them—washed the seminarians’ clothes, cooked and served the meals—had belonged to a cloistered order. They never showed their faces, but worked silently in the refectory behind a screen, raised just enough to push out plates of food, with only their hands visible. He recalled their unadorned hands, some freckled with liver spots and others blue-veined with age. One particular pair of hands was youthful, smooth and slender, the color of coffee ice cream, with short squared nails. Rob’s first years at seminary had been a torment, dreaming of those hands.

Rob had never stopped yearning. He knew desire that could sweep through him: the untwisting of a tourniquet, the full heat of blood that floods into a pallid limb, the deliberate twist again to stop the flow. He coped with Zen-like mantras, a Hindu’s control of the physical self, a Jewish sense of guilt. Rob tasted the wheat-colored wine, letting its crisp-tart flavor lie on his tongue before he swallowed its coolness. “So what about this guy?”

Lawrence swirled the wine in his glass and held it to the light to admire its pale color. His long tapered fingers, as if shaped in the womb just to play piano, curved gracefully around the stem of the glass. “It turns out this guy works for Archangel Records. I told him about my plan to compose a Mass, and he was interested.” Lawrence had often talked of composing the Propers for an entire Mass.

“Well, so, he’s interested, so what? That means nothing. I gave him my number and flew back up here, thinking, shot in the dark, chance in a million he’ll call me. My typical luck.” Lawrence sipped his wine. “But this week he actually called. He connected me with this agent in L.A. who handles church music, and they gave me a deadline. I have till June 1 to compose the music, score it, arrange it, make a demo, and get the package to them. And if I make the deadline, and if they like it, we’ll record it. I’ll have a compact disc out for liturgical use—and royalties, I hasten to add. Not bad, eh?” He raised an eyebrow.

“You lead a charmed life, don’t you?” Rob clinked his glass to Lawrence’s. “What’ll you do with the money?”

“Give it to Mother Church, of course. Use it to fund some music minis-tries—like maybe a new cathedral choir.”

“They do need help.”

Lawrence sighed. “But there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“There are only two priests at Resurrection and we’re both booked solid with meetings every night and weddings every Saturday. I have no free time to compose now. The timing is awful! Autumn is the worst, you know, with all these activities, and next thing you know, boom, it’s Advent, Christmas, then it’s Lent, and where’s the time gone?” Lawrence jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Out the window with my recording contract. If the timing was different, I’d be fine. I can’t pass this up, but I don’t know how I’m gonna make it, either.”

“Why don’t I take some of your weddings? Let me know the dates,” Rob offered, as their entrees arrived. The waitress leaned against him, a brush, a nudge, as she worked; setting plates before them, grinding pepper, offering Parmesan, smooth and efficient. Rob and Lawrence waited until she walked away, and then they bowed their heads for a silent prayer. They began to eat.

“So Italy was good?” Rob asked, blowing on a forkful of steaming pasta.

Lawrence held his hand to his heart again. “The best. It always is. I should move there. I will, someday.” He sighed. “How was Hawaii?”

“Hot.” Rob remembered the warm wind, the heat of white sand at his back. “I just lay around at the beach most of the time.”

“Oh?” Lawrence paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “And?”

“And I got a nice tan. End of story.”

“I’ll hear your confession later, my son.”

“You’re a real funny guy, you know that?” Rob gave Lawrence a look. “Hysterical. Of course I was good.”

“Nothing less than perfection from St. Robert, virgin martyr.”

“Give me a break.”

Lawrence crossed his fingers as if to ward off a vampire. “Next you’ll tell me the ‘Poor Celibate Rob’ story again.”

“Ah, bite me.” Rob grinned as he twirled another forkful of pasta.

“You just have to get over it, Rob. You made your choice. Offer it up.”

Rob reached to pour the wine, but the waitress stopped at the table and took the bottle, poured more wine into their empty glasses. Rob thanked her, his eyes on her hands, that red scratch, the bottle firm in her clasp.

“No confession, huh?” Lawrence rested his chin on his fist, and grinned at Rob.

“’fraid not.”

They sat back as a busboy cleared their plates. Lawrence’s eyes followed the slender young man as he carried the plates away. Lawrence turned back to find Rob watching him. Rob clucked his tongue at his friend.

The waitress, returning with their coffee, smiled sweetly at Rob. He looked away, knowing that he must seem rude.

When she departed, Lawrence said, “She could have been another chip off your chalice.”

Rob said nothing as he poured the last of the wine.

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Genre – Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG13

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Blog http://modernmuse.blogspot.com/

Author Interview – Nhys Glover

How long have you been writing? All my life ( a very long time)

When did you first know you could be a writer? A published writer? When Barbarian’s Mistress had 16,500 downloads world-wide in five days. Suddenly I realised that I’d found my way to my readers.

What inspires you to write and why? Writing is an obsession with me. It’s an addiction I’ve had since childhood and have only been able to feed when my life allowed it. Now I have a lot of time to write. It’s a way to escape the ‘realities’ of life, but more importantly, it allows me to explore my inner world. I write because it feels good. And I like doing what feels good.

What genre are you most comfortable writing? Romance – particularly adventurous, different romances like time travel, paranormal and the less-popular historical (Roman).

What inspired you to write your first book? I wasn’t inspired to write and publish Labyrinth of Light, I was driven to write and publish it. I was symbolically processing the trauma of the worst year of my life – cancer and the death of my son – and I did it using a tool that had always been my favourite: storytelling.

Who or what influenced your writing once you began? Traci Harding is an Aussie fantasy writer that I discovered at the time I started seriously considering publishing my work. She talked about being the channel for non-physical ‘people’ who wanted to get their story out there and her stuff resonated deeply with me. I realised that I could do something similar.

Who or what influenced your writing over the years? My own life experiences and the people I worked with in a variety of fields, from prison in-mates to gurus. My life has been eventful.

What made you want to be a writer? I didn’t want to be a writer, I just always was one. Finding readers who ‘got’ me made me want to write professionally. It’s addictive to have people read and enjoy what you can create.

Three loves are discovered as the clock counts down to 11.40 pm April 14, 1912. Karl Ontario is a medical researcher not an adventurer but when an audacious mission is proposed to go back in time to save doomed children on the ill-fated Atlantic liner, RMS Titanic, he makes sure he’s included on the team. Little does he realise that his own future happiness depends on saving the life of just one passenger: Lizzie Faulkner, an unwed mother-to-be.

Eilish Cork is a time travelling Retriever and this mission is like any other to her until she falls in love with her handsome Target, London barrister Maxwell Ingham, and is asked to risk everything to save him from his fate on the maiden voyage of that tragic ship.
And sweet Pia Rogaland, whose only goal is to rescue the children on board the Titanic until she meets Marco Lorenza, a man she’s not permitted to save.

With time running out, is it possible to rescue those victims history determined went down with the unsinkable Ship of Dreams or will more lives be forfeited trying to carry out this dangerous mission?

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Genre – Romance

Rating – Between PG13 and R (sensual but not erotic)

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Website http://nhysglover.com/

Orangeberry Blast Off – Night Chill by Jeff Gunhus

Jack Tremont moves his family to the quiet mountains of Western Maryland hoping to leave behind a troubled past and restart his life. Instead, he finds himself caught up in a nightmare when his daughter Sarah is targeted by Nate Huckley, a mysterious and horrifying stranger driven by a dark power that will stop at nothing to possess Sarah.

When Sarah goes missing, suspicion falls on Jack and he must uncover the secrets of the small mountain town of Prescott City and face the evil secret hidden there. As he digs further, he learns the conspiracy reaches more deeply than he could have imagined. Finally, he will have to face the question, What is a father willing to do to save his child? The answer? Anything. Anything at all.

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Genre – Supernatural Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://www.jeffgunhus.com/

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Orangeberry Book of the Day – Aberration by Lisa Regan

FBI analyst Kassidy Bishop is assigned to the “For You” killer’s task force after a series of sadistic murders bearing the same signature arise in different parts of the country.

The homicides are both calculated and savage, occurring in different states, but bearing the same signature: the words “for you” scribbled at each crime scene. The case chills Kassidy, bringing back memories of her own encounter with a violent criminal five years earlier.
Kassidy’s mentor, legendary agent Talia “The Confessor” Crossen knows the task force assignment is Kassidy’s chance to prove to her colleagues that she belongs in the Behavior Analysis Unit. For five years, other FBI agents and profilers scoffed at Kassidy’s appointment to the BAU, believing she was only offered the position in exchange for her silence about the brutal assault that almost killed her.

The stakes rise when the task force links the killer’s signature to Kassidy. As more and more bodies turn up, Kassidy must delve into her past and the mysterious death of her twin sister, which holds the key to uncovering the killer’s identity.

The closer Kassidy comes to finding the killer, the closer she comes to a deadly confrontation that could cost her everything—including her own life.

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Genre – Crime Thriller

Rating – R

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Website http://www.lisaregan.com/

The Garden by Paul T Harry

IN THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 4

It’s got to be here somewhere, mused Adam as he studied the computer screen in front of him. Where was the breakdown occurring? Was it within the supplemental DNA coding? He raised his head and looked across the lab to see if his assistant, Jera, was having better luck. No . . . he was still busy at his own terminal.

Adam looked back at his console, his light blue eyes darting back and forth across the monitor screen. It should be here, he thought. Everything was working until now. He reread the DNA sequence that ran in block-like configurations across the entire screen. At the end of the array, he scrolled down to the next section, searching again through the chemical formulas that made up section 1044. It had to be here. Somewhere in this genetic mess was the minor disruption that had stopped their experiment cold. It was exasperating.

One by one, Adam reread each phrase, studying each link with no luck. He touched the screen and waited for the next supplement variation to appear, the light from the monitor reflecting upon his lightly hued violet skin.

“Why was the photosynthesis breaking down?” he pondered aloud. What was he missing?

With a frustrated shake of the head he looked over toward Nata, his lab assistant.

“Nata, I’m ready to look at the next section series. Would you correlate the molecular formula for Chromosome 17, sections 1045, 1046, and 1047, including the supplemental variations?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Nata replied, her voice cool and succinct. “Accessing the data now.”

Adam watched hypnotically as Nata’s twelve fingers fluttered over her keyboard like a musical instrument. She was fast—a virtuoso when it came to processing his needs and interfacing with the main computer. This was not unexpected. She was, after all, a Q-l hybrid Trifeme—the very latest in Gios bio-tech engineering—and specifically geared for their type of research. And not bad looking either—considering. Her pale green face was long and slender and off set with small, delicate features, while her lips were a soft yellow, and her hair dark and black. It reached passed her shoulders.

“Sir . . . ?” Nata queried softly. Her voice interrupted his musing. “The information you requested is on your screen.”

“Thank you,” he replied, shifting in his chair—it was back to work.

Once again Adam’s screen was filled with an endless chain of molecular formulas—DNA sequencing that stretched from top to bottom, illuminating a broken, one-celled protozoa that couldn’t process its own oxygen. He bent forward and began to review the new series when suddenly from across the lab he heard an excited yelp.

“I think I found the problem!” the voice cried.

Adam’s head shot up. From the other side of the lab, Jera was rising from the second series terminal and heading toward them. Almost running, he passed the main terminal sections linking the entire lab’s facilities. As he got closer, Adam could discern the grin etched upon Jera’s face.

“Thank Jhira,” he thought. “If he’s found the answer, maybe we’ll get out of here early tonight—fifteen hours is enough.”

Rounding the colax memory boosters, Jera bounded to a stop behind Adam and Nata. His lightly colored mauve face was flush with excitement and his long, black hair flew from his rapid approach. Adam smiled. Jera was always animated.

“What sections are you reviewing?” asked the younger scientist, breathlessly.

“Chrome’ 17, Section 1045,” answered Adam.

“Well you’re practically on top of it then. Move over to section 1046 and look at supplement “B-2110. That’s where we’re experiencing the disruption.”

Adam pushed several keys on the computer and highlighted the area that Jera had indicated.

“See, right there . . .” noted Jera, pointing to the screen. “. . . see where the breakdown of photosynthesis begins. I don’t think we’ve given the cell enough chlorophyll to keep it actively functioning in Krella’s environment.”

Adam traced the formula on the screen, analyzing Jera’s observation. “You may be right,” he finally responded. “The structure does tend to weaken within this phrasing. “Any suggestions on how to correct it?”

Jera rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It seems to me that we haven’t compensated enough for energy output. I’d like to try increasing chlorophyll production by a factor of .00045. It should boost the energy levels sufficiently for cell reproduction without affecting heat dissipation.”

Adam studied the formula again analyzing the DNA supplement while considering Jera’s suggestion. “All right,” he said finally, sitting back in his chair. “Let’s give it a try. Nata, throw everything up on H.O.L.D.”

“Yes, Sir . . . coding now . . . Sir, its ready,” she replied a second later.

“Nata, please—call me Adam. You’ve been working here three months already. I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

Nata’s face flushed. “Yes Sir, I mean—Adam. Sir . . . H.O.L.D. is online.”

Adam turned and winked at Jera, who responded with a small chuckle. Poor Nata, she was an unbelievably good secretary and computer analyst, but her nature was almost seemingly inbred for unerring professionalism. Oh well, things could be worse.

Back to the business at hand, Adam rose from his console and walked with Jera to the Holographic Opticom Laser Display, or H.O.L.D. as it was referred to. The holographic screen loomed before them, its large, rectangular shape illuminating nearly thirty metrons of the lab’s west wall. Stopping in front of it, the two scientists gazed upon the project that they had been working on together for the last year and a half. There was a lot of sweat and hard work here.

H.O.L.D. was impressive. It was a computer interface, divided into three sections, each section measuring five metrons in height and ten metrons in width. Its primary function allowed DNA scientists, like Adam and Jera, to create and build new trial life forms, as sanctioned by the Genetic Research Academy. It was on this interface that DNA formulas could be projected and tested to see if they worked, before physical implantation. Contamination in a real world environment had to be avoided at all costs—no one wanted an errant microbe on the loose.

Adam studied the first section of H.O.L.D., the one closest to him and Jera. This was the primary code board for their DNA formula—it looked like a black chalk board filled with equations that were moving in sequence across the screen. It was here that the scientists could play with their formula, essentially “chalking in” their experimentation by hand with a laser pen. Once the data was entered, the Opticom would assimilate the input and the results would be projected over onto the next two screens. Already, this first section was crammed with data—a theoretical hypothesis for a new life form that the two scientists had been working on for months on end.

“Nata, enlarge and freeze Chromosome 17, section 1046, supplement “B-2110, on all screens,” instructed Adam.

“Immediately, Sir,” replied the secretary, her fingers flying.

Adam waited as Nata instructed the computer to correlate the three points of reference on H.O.L.D.. The first screen took less than a minute, the second and third a little longer. The two scientists watched as the colored DNA ladder on the second screen slowed, its three-dimensional graphics becoming deliberate.

The third screen was the last to fall to Nata’s instruction. And without a doubt it was the most impressive of the three screens. Displayed on its surface was the computer’s pictorial combination of the first two optic-screens. In this case, the image was a delicate singled-celled life form floating in a water-based life field. Eventually, it too slowed and stopped.

Adam nodded to Jera, “Go ahead and note the areas of change,” he instructed, “I’ll correlate from the main terminal.”

Jera crossed to the first screen and removed a zithron laser pen from his pocket. Making several quick parenthetical notations on the primary board, he noted for the computer where his changes were to be inserted, then waited as the formula separated, providing him with the blank space in which to write. As he made his notations, Adam correlated the information from his terminal, feeding the new data into the computer’s memory. After several minutes of writing, Jera finally stopped and checked his work.

“I think that’s it unless you have any suggestions.”

Adam looked up, “No, we’ll give it a try just as you’ve noted. Give me a second to initiate the parameter fields.”

Jera turned back to the screen and waited while Adam reactivated the computer’s main memory. Slowly, the first screen began to shift, coming back to life as the DNA equations on the primary board realigned themselves. Immediately after, the second screen followed suit and the DNA ladder reassembled itself, rebuilding on the new molecular patterns that Jera had written for its latticed framework. Finally, the third screen wavered and the single-celled protozoa pictured on its surface glided back into motion.

Both men watched the tiny entity pulsate and twirl, spinning in a circular fashion as the computer quickly rearranged its molecular makeup. Adam glanced down at the readout on the console. The changes Jera initiated seemed to be working. There was even an additional hint of chlorophyll in the cell’s translucent membrane wall.

“What’s the readout say?” asked Jera from the optic screen. “Any improvement?”

“Yes,” answered Adam, double checking the readout. “It says the photosynthesis has been raised to level +.00022. That should put the life form into an improved energy vector, considering Krella’s limited sunlight. Well, well, well, look at this. Not only is the photosynthesis up, but the oxygen output level has also been boosted—a factor of +.00013. Very nice. I think you’ve solved our problem. Perhaps with a little more work this little creature might survive on Krella after all.”

“Yes, but will it reproduce?”

Adam glanced up at his coworker and chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll find a way. And when we do we’ll submit a rough draft to the Genetic Examiners. If they find in our favor we might even get preliminary approval for a planetary implantation.”

“Wow,” replied Jera—he moved toward Adam. “What do you think our chances are? How does this life form compare to others you’ve worked on?” 

“That’s a difficult question to answer,” said Adam, suppressing a yawn. “After all, up till this point most of my experience has been on a theoretical level or as an under-sci working on simple, basic bacteria and viruses with other scientific teams. This is my first project beginning with conception and design, all the way to implantation. It’s been exhilarating to say the least, but we still have a lot to accomplish. And we’ve been lucky—our experiments have gone well. For this, I must give you a measure of the credit. Your assistance has been invaluable.”

“Thank you,” Jera replied.

“You’re welcome—and you too, Nata. Your skills here have benefitted us greatly.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“I just hope that we succeed in rising to the expectations of the genetics council,” continued Adam. He rubbed his eyes. “Krikla! It’s been a long day. I’m tired. What do you say that we wrap it up for the day and get a bite to eat?”

The other two were voicing their agreement when a tone unexpectedly sounded from across the lab. “I wonder who that’s for?” asked Jera.

“Allow me,” said Nata, rising. She crossed the lab and stopped in front of a small opt-screen near the lab’s entrance. Pushing several buttons, she activated the communication device which lit up to display the face of a silver-metallic opt-tech.

Nata addressed the device. “This is GRL-4171-15 responding to a communication signal.”

“Acknowledged,” responded the opt-tech. “Please hold for incoming communication.” It then responded with a message: “Mirra Directory to GRL-4171-15, a request is placed for Adam Korton #14-311 of the Genetic Research Academy. Private communications sphere is forthcoming. Do you wish delivery? A privacy code will be required in order to forward this communication.”

“Adam, it’s for you,” Nata called back to the scientists. “It’s a commsphere.”

“Have them sent it,” responded Adam, “use the lab’s sub-code to authenticate.”

Nata shook her head and encoded the lab’s numbers. Within several seconds another tone sounded signaling the arrival of the sphere. She turned off the screen and opened the small opaque door that sat under the unit. Inside was a small, iridescent pink orb about the size of a marble. Nata picked it up, feeling its warmth upon her fingers. She walked back to Adam and Jera and handed it to Adam.

“I wonder what this is about.” he reflected, setting the glass orb onto the memory port of his computer. The commsphere rolled to the center of the port’s saucer-like dish and came to a rest.

Pressing a button at port’s base, Adam waited as its clear shielding rotated out and around, encasing the orb. A small light went on and the device began to hum. Immediately, the orb rose into the air slightly where it bobbed and danced, balancing itself on the currents of magnetic waves that bathed its surface. It then began to whirl faster and faster, twirling like a miniature planet floating in space. A tone sounded.

Adam glanced at the monitor. It was requesting a personal access code. He began to type. Seconds later a message was streaming across his computer screen.

“Is everything all right?” inquired Jera, noting Adam’s raised eyebrow and inquisitive expression.

“Yeah,” replied Adam, glanced up, “Take a listen . . .” He put the message on audio.

The computer began to speak.

“. . . Adam Korton, citizen #14-311 of the Genetic Life Academy of the Planet Mirra is hereby requested to appear before the Metra Examiners at the Center for Governmental Direction, tomorrow morning at ten. This meeting will finalize the commencement proceedings regarding the disposition of the Terran Council.”

Jera whistled softly. “I don’t believe it—they’ve chosen you?”

“This is incredible,” interjected Nata.

Adam shook his head, looking at both of them. “Now don’t get your hopes up. This may not be what we think it is.”

“Ah come on, Adam!” exclaimed Jera. “Who are you kidding? We know the decision was due sometime soon.”

“True . . . but that doesn’t mean that Eve and I were actually chosen.”

“Speaking of Eve,” queried Jera. “Do you think they’ve contacted her?”

Adam shrugged. “She told me this morning that she was going to be wrapped up most of the day lecturing to a group of medical students on the Oconia system. It seems there’s been an outbreak of disease on several of the planets in the system, so they’re preparing a group of med-techs to inoculate the inhabitants.”

“Well, why don’t you give her a call?” suggested Nata. “Maybe she’s returned.”

Suddenly, as if on cue, the door at the end of the lab abruptly swung open revealing a tall, violet colored woman with shoulder length, light brown hair. She stood there for a second looking about the lab, finally catching sight of Adam’s waving arm.

“We’re over here,” he called out.

Eve moved across the lab, her white smock rustling crisply against her long, slim legs.

“Adam,” she called out breathlessly. “I just received a communiqué from the Metra.” She held up a small spherical orb for him to see. “Hi, Jera . . . Nata . . .”

“Yes, I got one too.” he responded.

“Do you think they selected us?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered, rising to his full height of seven metrons. “It’s possible.”

“Oh I do hope so,” she replied, hugging him tightly. “We’ve waited so long.”

Adam smiled and looked into his wife’s turquoise colored eyes. He could feel the excitement of the Metra’s news coursing through her body. He squeezed her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, the thought of being selected by the Metra running through his mind. Perhaps ... he thought ... perhaps. It was the feel of Jera’s hand on his shoulder that brought him back to the moment.

“I can’t think of a more qualified couple than you two,” Jera commented. “Jhira’s blessings are with you. And I am definitely honored to have shared in your friendship and your research.”

“We’re being premature,” coughed Adam, slightly embarrassed. “Besides, even if we have been chosen there’s still a great deal of work ahead of us, and plenty of time before we’re ready to leave Mirra. At any rate, we don’t know for sure that we’ve been chosen.”

“Well even so, this calls for a toast,” said Nata. “Let me get the vin from the freonic and some glasses.”

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Genre – Sci-Fi / Historical / Contemporary

Rating – NC17 for explicit sex

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Website http://5moons.com/

Amidst Traffic by Michel Sauret

“Amidst Traffic” is a collection of high-caliber, interconnected short stories with a literary flair:

A short-order cook digs a hole in his back yard to escape nightmares of mutilated children; A woman covers her body in tattoos to hold on to emotions that continue to slip away; A soldier who returns home from Iraq struggles with the idea of gratitude, which, if resolved, may save his marriage; A man begins a game of watching strangers to see what it feels like to play God.

All of these stories, and others, are linked somehow. With each tale, more lines and connections begin to form. What initially feels like chaos, gradually begins to take order. A purpose exists that is unveiled by the end.

Every story is crafted with a sense of compassion for the human spirit, while seeking answers about the conflicts we live through in everyday life. The characters in these stories will make you care about their struggles and hope for their redemption.

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Genre – Short Stories / Literary Fiction

Rating – PG13

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