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Hebephrenica/ It's Time You Knew
by:  Ken Egbert (aka K. Griffiths), One More Haggard Drowned Man
MYRRH, the first book in the Ceremonies of the Horsemen, is now available via Dog Ear Books. Check out the book's new Web site,
NOTE: Only the paperback is on sale at this time ($18.95 plus shipping). All formats of Ebooks soon
September 29, 2014

The Human Game, pt. 281: The First Ninety Seconds in Red Hook

Upon our apperarance in the space between the basketball courts, the two pickup games stopped dead and all scattered howling. We began with a sharp turn to the left and swept around the square space as if attempting to cut off their escape. Piles of contraband and Federal trial evidence went flying. We watched for walkie-talkies and shot a few out of several agents’ hands.
It occurred that we’d seen Afghan tribesmen do something like this. No idea when we’d seen it or why the ploy came to all our minds simultaneously.
{-It’s what we do- W.}
Well, of course. Everything here displayed itself in shades of brown; even the impounded automobiles, whatever their color, had an ‘umber’ element to them. Small wonder everyone ran from us, as we appeared for all intents to be rainbowed outlines of men on horses, run through a shredder and recombined exactly as before. Yes, I peeked. Cut off from their escape, cursing mightily, the ball-playing agents turned and ran back to the center of the yard. A bit less like herding cats, or college students. One drew his sidearm at my far right; Francis nicked the top of it out of his hand with a bullet. He also fainted. They don’t make Feds… well, no time for that! Given how the ‘filmlike’ look of everything about us faded as slowly as it did, I did my best not to keep an eye out for old movie stars.
/-Ha ha –D./
-Test for signal strength? I guess? Anybody? –F.
Though who’d have time? We continued our turning and turning about the lot, our circle increasing, our horses daring any within the circle or without to approach and be trampled. Screams erupted from the other side of the impound area as a metal door began to open…
-Worked for the Confederate army/ won’t now –D.
David spewed projectiles across the double door to the front stairway, slamming it shut again. An office area was to be found upstairs, and it was emptying!
-This will be fun. OK, what do you say, one more ‘round of the space, and--? –F.
I pointed to one exit by the men’s room.
-That way. On William’s cue. –P.
Francis put another shot directly above another agent’s head. Bumbling about in the center of our circle, the moment we no longer hemmed them in they’d have their own arms up and out.
“Keep your compact with Dr. Bernheim.”
-It isn’t obvious? –D.
“What isn’t obvious?” came a distant voice in our earpieces. The ball-playing officers, slammed together, began to move out of the center as we receded towards the walls of the room; others who had frozen at the walls here and there, remained where we’d pinned them. For now…
-Whos that? Vortura? Robot? –F.
On our last circle of the yard I viewed an officer in a red T-shirt opening a different door; I slammed it shut it with a bullet and he went flying, but an alarm at last began to sound.
-David, recall where you were when you heard them. There must be a kind of damper here so prisoners can’t use cellular phones. Or something like that. –P.
-Y’ almost sound like ya know what yer talkin’ about… NOW! GO RIGHT! –W.
Excellent timing, for the front and right set of doors smashed open again and men with submachine guns had appeared, taking aim. Too late; roaring with appreciation, Red had already bowed in that left hand exit with his hooves. We cascaded down the now-empty interior hall. The klaxon, or whatever it was, nearly outstripped him in volume. Our mounts all neighed in appreciation. Action at last!
“We are still attempting to reach you. What is your position?” came another staticked voice. We turned the corner into the next hallway, some twenty bullets failing to follow.
-Perfect! Can you read us? Peter here! –P.
Some twenty feet from the corner, David turned and fired indiscriminately down the hall behind him. The barrage may have stopped the anti-raid team entering; until we turned the next corner he emptied his clip, then slapped in another.
-We are not going back that way… --F.
“What action do you need at this time? This is Dr. Schneider. Can you still read?”
-OK so far, have not yet reached the subject. –P.
We turned the corner, slalom- ing down the next hall… shouts followed us, barely hearable for the shrieking sirens located every fifty feet or so on the ceiling.
-Which way’re we going, anyway! –W.
-The way you’re heading! –P.
-But YOU know where he is! –W.
-Yes! In front of you! –P.
-Huh, I am good –W.
“It is G-d that is great.”
-Don’t start, again --D.

Copyright 2010 by K. Griffiths. All rights reserved.

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September 26, 2014

The Human Game, pt. 280: 'We have an Iron Maiden to Stuff'

“Question, Ted. Did the Gate’s COO ever read any biographies of Stalin?”
Shouldn’t have said that…
“Never asked, never answered. Shame on you, by the by,” snipped the spider. “I've only ever spoken to Silas. No more proper nouns, if you please.”
Pardon.” He gave it the French pronunciation, just to be irritating.
“At any rate,” riposted the spider. “To review..."
"Yes. We have an Iron Maiden to stuff."
"Some megalomaniac who pulls Silas’ strings, I assume, saw something in the cribbed Interpol report first draft after the bombing at CERN on Saturday as the raw interview logs were transmitted, and they decided that it was time for a 'multinational ‘merchant state’ to take its true place on the world stage in the same manner that all great empires begin."
"Or so the client thinks they do," said Philomene.
"With a new weapon. But behind a scrim, of course! They would never use the technology. Dear me, no. Unless somebody pissed them off. This is our understanding." The distant Ted seemed to want corroboration.
"They are up to their tushes in hackers and geeks. Look what they did to those two companies that downgraded your credit rating. Why do they want this?"
"Depth of arsenal? Silas' boss may never have read any bios, but he may know how Teddy Roosevelt sent the US Navy on a cruise around the world, just to show it off."
"So the client is both speaking softly and hiding the big stick."
"Anyone with a satellite array can track an FB-19 or a Reaper drone, Phil. Our analysts looked at the weathersat plots Bernheim consulted. It's a bitch to find the windows."
"She still did."
"Again, I underline that all of this is unsayable and has not been said. My country and your company need the money.”
“They could easily dump us and hire the Guoanbu instead,” Philomen admitted. “So to get in front of this...?”
“Pains me to say, but. Our client is incapable of learning from their missteps. They will utilize continued brute force."
"Assuming no one will suspect."
"They’re going to demand Bernheim’s head on a platter. Let’s give them all of her. If we can’t hand her over to them before the injunction is filed at the Hague, they will give us something really ugly to do.”
“This is rendering one of your own citizens. How much uglier could it get?”
The spider decided not to take that bait. “The Department of State is very ‘iffy’ about what we’ve been assigned so far. Some blather about ‘giving up our sovereignty,’ as if it were still 1910.”
"So you've cut them out of the loop."
"Quick study, there."
“You brought up their deep-sixing those regulators on le Bourse, or they did?”
“That was me. But it won’t shut their mouths for long. That we’ve put our profit margins through the roof the last 2 months does not appear to matter to State. So yes, let’s as you say ‘get in front of this’ and show the client our proactive side. Leaving State out of it, of course. I’d call doing this rendition a win-win. If Bernheim vanishes, who takes the stand at the World Court? Was anybody else at the meeting? That’s one.”
“Is CERN actually going to file?”
“Focus, Phil. You told me to. Of course they are. Two, if we already have her when the client makes the demand, we look like geniuses to them. Finally, Bernheim is something of a star over there and at Cambridge, it appears; she is not just kept around because of her high ‘babe’ factor. When we or you make her disappear, the big forebrains at CERN will do anything to get her back. Not that they will, once they’ve handed over their files, because we’ll already have given her to the client. One assumes that in the condtion she’ll be when the client is done with her, CERN or Cambridge may not want her back. So who wants to take a crack at her first?”
“…You forgot to say, ‘literally.’”
“You know too much and must be destroyed, Philomen.”
“We’re on site. You’d have to mobilize assets.”
“Very good. So you’re first.”
“I’ll send a contingent as soon as I make certain she hasn’t headed back to the UK via air or the Chunnel. Am I doing this for love or--?”
“…I’ll have to talk to our bean counters, but I’ll verbally authorize the work now and once I fill them in I think you’ll get a raise. Especially if you grab her.”
I believe I’ve heard more than enough.
[-You and me both. –F.]

Copyright 2010 by K. Griffiths. All rights reserved.

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September 23, 2014

The Human Game, pt. 279: 'There are still civilians?'

As before it doesn’t appear as if Robot World’s is the only multidirectional antenna. Leaping back into ‘Verse II as we have just done, I was confronted with this narrative, some ten to fifteen kilometers distant from the CERN command post on Route D35. American consulate, Geneva, Rue Versonnex 7. Same conference room as previous. One spider phone, one Philomen. Obviously, no O’Carlan.
“They will ask for him, Phil. Silas likes him. No compunctions. Well, almost none that he lets the client see. About the same thing. And you tell me that they’ve all vanished at about the same time.”
Philomen, still tubercular and acting as if he could use a tobacco intravenous, stood again at the window. “C’est vrai, Ted. We lost all of them, all but simultaneously. My four best men walked around the corner and the four monkeys—“
“See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil and do no evil?”
Si vous voulez… They followed them around a corner and they vaporized.”
“Finally found out what they’re good at. What about the physicist chick, Bernheim?”
“She is clearly smarter than we give her credit for. We sat in the office suite across the way and traced her car until it started heading toward the German border. She must have switched cars, or she found the tracking device and stuck it on another one in the garage. Again.
“Was just about to say.”
“And O’Carlan was in the Bern embassy this morning. Had slept in an upstairs bedroom. He signed a Chrysler out at about 3:30 AM. He went wherever he did go with a junior attaché driving. He certainly didn’t call me. I’ve heard nothing further.”
“Is his overnight bag still in the room?”
“It is.”
“May not’ve been planning anything cutesy, then. I expect a call from Silas any minute now, ‘tell O’Carlan to do this. Tell him to do that.’ I’m stunned he hasn’t so far today. Paris screwed everything.”
“Everything for the client.”
“OK, yeah, all except us.”
“…I don’t know that I want to discuss Paris.”
“How can we? We have no access to the interior narrative, and Silas has informed me that anything we do ask will make him, as he put it early this morning, ‘commence to wonder.’”
“If he doesn’t blame us, why is he not letting us in on how it flopped?”
“Not a question I’m ready to ask.”
“Stuck with what’s in the news, then.”
“Less than useless.”
“That’s why they haven’t rung you yet,” Philomen pointed out. “Housecleaning in progress?”
“Somebody sold them!” the Ted phone agreed. “They may think they’re out to sea in a pea-green boat.”
“So, we and Langley and Bern continue left in the dark.”
“You’re asking or you’re saying.”
“Maybe both.”
“That’s my line.”
“What is?”

“Want my opinion?” Philomen tried another approach.
“Regarding?” asked the arachnid on the table. “We had to have and we have to have deniability on these activities. Who did screw them, then? Bernheim and her merry men? Will Silas not ask us to find that out?”
“Is this line encrypted?”
“It’s in an American consulate in Switzerland, would stand to reason, I think.”
“I'm told the roof on the top floor here has been leaking for about a year now,” said Phil.
“Paperwork’s probably held up on somebody’s desk. Are you getting paid?”
“Directly, by Silas, as we asked.”
“So are we. First, locate O’Carlan. He was having just the slightest twinge of conscience yesterday. Did you notice?”
“We’re so stretched thin here, I admit I’d decided not to.”
“Don’t do that again. If he did a runner, we are—I don’t know what we are.”
“I may have pulled one of his bell ropes a little too hard. After you left.”
Quel dommage. He’s an adult.”
“I looked at his file again. He has kids this Dr. Bernheim’s age. Her apparent Irish colleen good looks have got to him on some level. Irishmen may stick together, looks like, even if one of them is female and Jewish.”
"Stick together how?"
"Wasn't that my line?"
“But why do you think he got the 'guilties,' Ted? Him!?”
A rote response. “I have been married to a wonderful woman for far longer than I deserve,” replied the spider phone. “Sad to say, the shots of our good Doctor got to me as well. On a somewhat lower level. So I said a few things. No details. For all his lack of scruple, O’Carlan still appears to think that one should keep ‘civilians’ out of the line of fire…”
“There are still civilians?”
“…wait up here.”
“I’ll be right back.”

Terrible on-hold music. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? John Philip Sousa marches, rearranged for woodwind quartet and strings. Francis, can I deputize you in here?
[-We are kind of busy right now! –F.]
And I’m doing what, my nails---?
“Philomen!” ‘Ted’ was back on the spider phone.
“Go ahead.”
Half the former volume. “Who is outside the door to this room, right now?”
Soundlessly Philomen made for the conference room door, jerked it open. He went in either direction for a few steps; satisfied, he eased the large portal shut again. “Coast is clear.”
“…O’Carlan has been arrested by Interpol. With his driver, in Geneva. Our listening post in Lyon just sent me their transmitted order.” Wordlessly Philomen returned to the desk, sat directly before the table phone. Before he could think of a statement, Ted interrupted, ‘If you say ‘Sacre bleu!’ I will have you terminated.”
“I’m not asking.”
“No further idea what the hell is going on! Oh, yes.” A pause. “An Inspector Jurgens called Bern about 10 minutes ago, told them to go get the Chrysler. It is parked on CERN property off D35.”
“CERN property.”
“Ah, do we really know for certain that this Bernheim is a civilian?”
“She’s a physics professor.”
“Don’t take her side.”
“I do not hear me doing that. Doesn’t much act like one, though.”
“Doesn’t retaliate like one, either. Repeat after me, young Phil,” snarked the phone. “O’Carlan pulls an ‘Omaha Beach’ on Bernheim late Sunday night. He nearly breaches her defenses. Not literally. There I go again. It is proven to Silas’ satisfaction that, given her dossier, Bernheim is absolutely the weak link. O’Carlan even makes it a point to tell Silas to hit Paris after the interrogation in order to sink her completely. She is not inclined to lie back and open her legs during their chat, however. She goes so far as to threaten him with an injunction in the World Court at the Hague. Some physics professor. Some weak link. So the time line goes like this. Early yesterday evening, Silas’ seven useful idiots are mowed down all over Paris. This morning, Bernheim and her four ‘associates’ disappear from the Hotel des Finances. Three hours later, O’Carlan’s hired car from the Bern motor pool is reported to be on CERN property, abandoned, and Interpol has arrested him.”
“Find out why?”
“Find out what! Did Bernheim invite him for a meeting? Did Patrick crash a party which only he knew was
being thrown? What the hell happened during same?"
"To whom do I report on this?"
"We both need to retain our client! We have to consider the lay of the campaign as Silas will view it. He clearly does not blame us for Paris or he'd be on the phone howling; also, look what his geeks did to those evaluators on the Bourse for the US’ benefit. He will, however, be a-scapegoating in the event that we cannot produce O’Carlan for his next errand, to say nothing of the sojourn he was to make to CERN at one AM tomorrow to collect whatever Bernheim was willing to hand over."
"Sorry, Phil." The spider sounded wistful. "Who, then, will best fit the Iron Maiden that Silas may demand that we fill? If he does.”
“Dr. Bernheim,” Philomen agreed.
“I wonder that she laid him a trap. Maybe literally.”
“Ted. Concentrate. What are the charges?”
“Jurgens did not say. That I was told. He spoke to a junior junior whatever at the Bern switchboard—“
“They still have one?”
“I am concentrating! All the brass asses were still home in bed. He did leave the phone number to the central office in Brussels. How much good is that going to do?”
“The listening post doesn’t have the warrant?”
“Only a transcript of the radioed order.”
“So CERN is not going to give up the research.”
“Let us recall that as far as you and I are concerned, Phil, CERN cannot possibly have a weapons-development arm. Eventually the European Superstate would take note and shut them down. They are not idiots. The only reason why the international community allows the ES2 to exist is because they are an economic, cultural and social entity. If they were to develop weapons of mass et cetera, if they were to call themselves the empire that they very nearly are, they would find themselves between two large rocks – the USA and Russia – and one former hard place, that being the PRC.”
“Loud and clear!” insisted Philomen. “The client pays the bills. We advise as best they can, but they call the strategy and the tactics.”
“Even if it’s indistinguishable from fantasy.”

Copyright 2010 by K. Griffiths. All rights reserved.

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September 19, 2014

The Human Game, pt. 278: Into the Next World

David may have assumed that PRC-17 required a response.
-OK, Dr. Schneider, here’s what you do. Drop the particle stream speed below 92% of ‘c.’ The CWs will disappear but they won’t move. –P.
-Nein! –D.
That may have been too much. Canisters of gas flew into our sight; David nicked each of them with a quiet bullet and they bounced back the way they came. I made sure of my own silencer.
“Oh, is that the way it works…” mused Victor.
“Peter, wait a minute! Where did you--?” asked Leah.
-Gas bombs… What can I say, I have had a good teacher. --P.
I did not quite hear Leah shake her pretty head, but I am quite certain that she did. In ‘Verse I, his own head lowered, William went through the CW, followed closely by Francis.
-GO! GO! –P.
-Brother mine – D.
And in he went. A massive fog emerged from the corner; soon I wouldn’t be able to see them coming. Yells erupted within the exercise space beyond the CW, but they would, would they not…
“So you think the companionways will vanish but can be recalled at the same location if we hold the Collider steady--?” offered the chief engineer.
“…I never did work through this part, did I?” Leah asked.
-That’s fine, Leah! I mean it, Victor, it will happen. On the other side of this CW is your ‘verse, just about 3500 miles away! Our earpieces worked here, they’ll certainly work there! We’ll call you and you’ll open it up again. –P.
“Try it, Dr. Schneider, I think it might,” Leah agreed. “Drop it below 92% of ‘c,’ I’ll back you.”
“You’d better… Down to 92% exactly, Peter, if you’re going to jump, jump NOW!”
And I left the last world behind, pulling the stationery closet door shut and leaping just as a hail of bullets ripped by.

Copyright 2010 by K. Griffiths. All rights reserved.

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September 16, 2014

The Human Game, pt. 277: The Flying Closet

At last the angel acknowledged our presence.
“How can I help? Assuming that’s why you call.”
-So it’ll be interesting to see what we look like when we come back out… -F.
(-You’re holding the Large Hadron Collider in ‘Verse I steady for us. –P.)
“Come to think of it…” Leah said.
“Very observant. If you want assistance with Swiss Special Forces, regrettably, I have my hands full.”
(-That’s PRC 17 out there? –P.)
“I assume I’m in the queue to connect to the UPS server,” Vortura said to nobody in particular. “How long it could possibly be, or why, I don’t know…”
“Excellent guess.”
[-They think it’s a malfunction. In ‘Verse I, here. Right? –F.]
“There is concern but there is no panic at the LHC, yet. An experiment may just have ended, or a new one not yet begun. Again, how can I help?”
Dr. Bernheim’s fingers began to slow on her laptop keys. A bit too much as if she could hear us.
(-We may shortly find out… are any other angels handy? --P.)
“That will depend, won’t it?”
{-Why don’ ya just run fer political office an’ have done with? Never mind… –W.}
“Fluctuation in the mains increasing, Dr. Schneider,” offered Thermos. “More like .006%.”
(-Can we get another angel for the NHC’s power input to do what you’re doing here? Now? –P.)
“Gentlemen, this is important. If these chaotic variances in mains input reach .01% the NHC will begin automatic shutdown. Your window will start to wink out and disappear, or shut off altogether, depending on how quickly the NHC drops below 92% ‘c.’ We are doing what we can. Hang on. You’re now at 7.6 TeV.”
“You won’t like who I call…”
An explosion of shards, at last, on the exterior glass doors.
-Well! Swiss workmanship –P.
-Yes, I believe I’ll come ‘round –D.
“Fluctuations now at .007%,” Vortura added.
(-Azrael, I don’t think I much care, right now! –P.)
To the hostages he shouted down the hall and pointed with his free hand in the direction of the back of the Anthro/Psych building…
-Sauve qui peut! –D.
“Very well…”
That same very large and insistent blunt instrument began to slam at the interior doors in the lobby. Screams erupted in the far hallway and pounding feet immediately began to doppler away.
-We’re letting everyone go now, Leah, in case you wondered –D.
“I can hear them…” our ‘den mother’ replied, hands speeding up on her laptop again. “Again, thanks, everybody…”
-David, you locked the interior doors as well? –P.
-Now, why would I forget that? –D.
Me of little faith… I looked back up the hall, heard Geist neigh loudly and the smashing against the door stop; next David and his mount tore around the corner.
“Can’t connect with the UPS server, Dr. Schneider, it keeps timing me out.”
-Moving like a shot now, gentlemen… and ladies. --F.
-Robot, any idea where we are over th’ water? I got my head out the CW, you should be able to get somethin’ off my headset. –W.
“Fluctuations now at .008%.”
(-Ah… Azrael? –P.)
/-Do you know, I think the Gate has declared war on another entity; is that the way they say it? --D./
The howling continued to fade behind us. David and Geist arrived by me and Whitey; voices in Swiss German sounded in the exterior lobby between the double doors. He shook his head at the decided lack of view.
[-Huh; maybe the paperwork’s on the wrong desk –F.]
-I too wish we could see something, David. –P.
/-Never understood the point of declaring war anyway; why warn them that you’re coming? –D./
“He is in place, Horsemen.”
At least four sets of hands tapped keysets now, holding to a Jajouka sort of rhythm...
“Thermos back in service; RePower claims the generating station closest to CERN is fully on line. No variances beyond the usual.”
-Bought us a minute! If that –D.
“OK, we’ll continue on for as long as we can, gentlemen,” said Schneider.
“HyperCAD is vague, William, there is nothing visible to broadcast off of,” replied the automaton. “Looks like you’re going across at about mach 2, though…”
-Good thing the CW isn’t facing the other way… --W.
“You’d be blown right off your horses. Vortura, mains variations are how bad, now?”
-You lunged at them! –P.
(-Don’t tell me. He came all the way from the roof of St. Severin in Koln. –P.)
“Weird. Down to .001%, boss, who knows?”
“Pleased to be of assistance.”
“Baruch Hashem.”
“Yeah, once more with feeling,” agreed the chief engineer. “Proceeding with flanking speed, then, or whatever it is…”
-You know me too well! They were expecting a nut with a gun, they were not expecting Death himself/ --D.
(-Michael. How long has it been? –P.)
“Still can’t connect to the UPS server, but it may not matter...”
-Very droll, brother mine. By the by. –P.
“You are correct, Azrael. She is a good daughter of her faith.”
“Now she is…”
“While it has not been remotely long enough, Pestilence, but no matter about that now…”
“Wait, David, what was that you said?” Leah. Whoops.
“Let us hope, Vortura,” replied Schneider.
(-The feeling is returned, Michael, with thanks. –P.)
-Uh… The old ways are the best! –F.
“As it was in the beginning…”
-Leah, you know we have our archaic side –D.
“Oh, don’t I. Good point. How’s the view of the CW?”
“One does wonder at the company Dr. Bernheim keeps, but that may not be entirely her fault.”
-From here all I see are two horse butts! Hint; at any rate, when I lunged at them, Petey, they fell all over themselves… hilarious –D.
The crashing at the doors began to sound anew.
Thermos suggested, “Let me call Security about this problem with the UPS link. Going off line again.”
-#17’s got their second wind… -P.
-Dave, you’ll get yer chance. –W.
“Very good, Thermos,” said the chief engineer.
“We have no angels to assist you with that little problem on the other side of the glass door, Pestilence. You’re on your own.”
-Hoo boy! Doc, you nailed it, I just saw Floyd Bennett Field! –W.
(-Not a one, in all the Time-washed Vaults on high? –P.)
-Confirmed. Slow it down, Dr. Schneider… --F.
/-Don’t quote me, not now –D./
At last one of the two glass panes began to crack, around the corner.
(-Wait, David, that wasn’t me? –P.)
“Down to 7.4 TeV… 7.35… V, please keep trying to access the UPS controller…”
(-“In Time-washed Vaults on high/ sits an island in the sky…”? --P.)
/-Probably is, then, I can’t rhyme to save my chops –D./
David reached for his equipment bag; he drew out two PTR-101s and handed one over. The glass took a further slam. He raised a finger to his lips. I know what I promised Dr. Bernheim. Words only go so far, and no further.
(-All right, Azrael, we’ll even take a djinn! –P.)
-Red Hook! There it is! –W.
“Yes,” agreed Thermos, “the weathersats do say we’re dead above it.”
As the only Horsemen in the hallway, we were of course the first PRC17 would see…
/-We are not dying in the reeds again… -D./
(-Hail, brother –P.)
/-Ah, your silencer? –D./
“OK, quad magnets going down, four at a time... let me know when to stop, William. Francis. Anybody.”
(-…pardon…! --P.)
-Gotcha. –W.
Though in all fairness, our Belisarius sat in Thames House in London being quizzed by MI5, quite preoccupied. A horrendous crack sounded from up the hall, but it appeared the glass still held.
-If, if, if –D.
-About 150 feet, Dr. Schneider… --F.
-Yes. Free will. Dear, dear me. –P.
Francis turned, drawing up his own PTR.
“Oh, yeah! New York City is closer to sea level…” said the head tech.
“See, Doctor, that’s why you’re doing this,” Leah pointed out. “You remember those things.” She once again returned to her typing.
-Wonder if the guards here are unarmed? –F.
“Thermos back in service, Security will check the UPS room.”
-Let’s assume not –D.
“I think another 8 magnets should do it.”
-Yeah, 40 feet… huh, we’re gonna land in th’ center storage room next to the interrogation areas. –W.
At last the glass gave way at the inside front door.
-What’s the address of the building he’s in? –D.
Voices shouting; a gun butt knocked the pieces out of the frame and boots began to sound on the floor.
-This one below us on C------ Street. He’s down the left-hand hall, so when we hit the ground that’s the way we all go. Never mind the men in the center room playing basketball. –P.
-And us in our good boots –F.
Eyes on the hall corner, David and I both aimed and waited. A heavily accented call.
“You will surrender!”

Copyright 2010 by K. Griffiths. All rights reserved.

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"A good writer is an expert on nothing but himself. And on that subject, if he is wise, he holds his tongue." --John le Carre

Exactly how interesting can the author be, anyway, when nobody has any idea where their creativity comes from or how the mechanics of inspiration works? Maybe it's something we all have access to. Maybe it's a sluice that empties into your head when you're facing in a particular direction and thinking a particular series of things. Then again, maybe not.
However benevolent inspiration really is, to say nothing of what it is, I suspect that any good fictional character is a lot more interesting than the person who dreams it up. So mine speak for me here.

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