Jericho 01-02

            Pete was occupied talking to my mother, saying things like “Becca, where did you get this fish?” and “have you heard back from Lydia about Thursday?”, but his words came out muddied with the sounds of half eaten fish flesh slowly mashing its way between teeth and tongue.

            Pete didn’t even try to have manners, it was one of the many reasons I despised him.

            My mother sat at the opposite end of the table and kept up with polite conversation between dainty bites.

            Daintiness was a side effect of her upbringing.

            My mother grew up in a political dynasty, her father, grandfather, great grandfather, and uncles were all leading members of various Earth 2 councils. The side effect of having such a well to do family was that she and her sisters grew up in a state of perpetual elegance where manners were essential and rudeness was condemned.  She grew up walking on eggshells, because if she made one misstep the entire family could suffer.

            So my mother kept herself in the background, just another smiling face in the crowd, and let her sisters (now both provincial Senators), steal the spotlight with their playful antics. She always knew that, when the time was right, she would use her natural beauty to find a man who was high enough in status to please her family, but unglamorous enough to avoid publication, and settle down.

            When my mother met my father she knew he was the one. He had a fantastic job in a field that was both lucrative and safe, but better yet he had the sort of infectious confidence that made you forget about your own shortcomings and believe you could do anything just because he said so.

            It didn’t take much for my dad to fall in love with my mother either; all he had to do was see the freckles on her face to know that she was the one.

            My mother was very pretty, in a sort of dried out way. Everything about her was thin and fragile, from her whisper blonde hair to her nearly translucent skin, she had become more and more like a china doll with age.

            Her freckles were unique. They danced across her face and arms like the stars dot the cosmos.

            As a baby I remember spending time drawing lines from dot to dot, making constellations on her skin.

            Freckles are rare on E2, they are part of a genetic legacy that our ancestors on old earth attempted to stomp out through selective breeding.

            The result was easily seen at this very dinner table, the people on Earth 2 and surrounding planets were blonde haired and light eyed, with skin that ranged from translucent white to the well sunned tan that Pete wore with pride.

            Father off, mostly in the outworlds, were people with skin colors that ranged across the entire spectrum… I had even heard of people with skin so dark it looked purple, but I didn’t know if I would ever get the chance to explore the outworlds.

            “So Sport, you nervous about the big move?”

            The sound of Pete’s voice derailed my train of thought.

            “Well sport?” Pete was a fan of diminutive names, he never called me Jason, it was always “Sport” or “Champ” or “Smalls”.  It made me want to puke on the table.

            My mother cut me off before I could make a sassy retort, saying “Are you all packed? Do you need me to go through your bags?”

            This was about the twentieth time she offered to go through my bag, she knew very well that the center would provide me with everything I could ever possibly want, but fussing over me seemed to make her feel better.

            It was hard for me to sustain my anger at being sent away when all my mother wanted to do was make sure every last second I spent at home was comfortable and happy, she even allowed me to sleep in the holochamber, something that had been forbidden after I had fallen off the platform in my sleep when I was seven.

            “He’s packed mom” David said for me, “and you’ve packed and repacked his bag every night this week.”

            My mother nodded. “I suppose you’re right, it’s just…”, she didn’t finish this thought, just looked at me and for a moment.

            “The boy will be fine Rebecca, he’s going to the best school in the system, he’ll be better off there than he ever was here.” Pete punctuated his words by siphoning some seaweed salad into his mouth and releasing a chorus of slippery sounds that resounded off the thick walls of the dinning room, thoroughly killing my appetite.

            He continued as a smile crossed his face in a small, yet menacing, gesture; “You know, we’re almost lucky he was expelled…”

            Pete’s words stabbed me directly in the gut.

***

            The chain of events that had resulted in my expulsion began with the most innocent of activities.

            One morning, months ago, as I sat at the table enjoying my breakfast, I had a sudden burst of inspiration.

            Today, I had thought, I am going to build a gravity field generator.

            This was fairly routine for me.

            A side effect of my genius was that the public school I attended really didn’t have much to offer me in the way of classes in math or science. When I completed the standard curriculum in those departments at age six my parents and the school came together and created a personalized education plan that involved allowing me to do projects of my own choosing.

            Each semester I would write one or more project proposals, submit them to my teachers for approval, and then spend the hours when I wasn’t taking classes in literature, music, or health, working in one of the school’s labs. They didn’t bother to grade me, the work was usually pretty far above most of my teachers.

            At 14 I had gone through the process around 20 times, all successful, and my teachers barely even bothered to read my proposals anymore.

             Still no one needed to question my plans, Gravity Field Generators are hardly rare, and I definitely wasn’t the first kid to build one as a school project. 

            What caused the trouble was how I chose to test my generator.

            You see, most gravity field generators work in such a way that when in use the entire area affected has the exact same amount of gravity. This comes in handy when applied to starships and space stations, ensuring that interstellar travelers don’t lose bone density over time.

            However, I made a Gravity Field Generator that could vary gravity on a millimeter by millimeter basis.

            Last Tuesday, in the school’s lab, there was 500 gallons of crystal clear water floating in a near perfect sphere just below the ceiling. I pressed a button and a sliver of that sphere compressed inwards. The touch of another button caused the same section to expand.

            I played for a while; enjoying the diverse combination of conditions I could render. The sphere grew spikes and divots. It became waveforms, spirals and flattened out until it was nearly one-dimensional.

            But then, it all came crashing down.

            I mean this literally, I pushed it too hard and the generator malfunctioned sending gallons upon gallons of water crashing down onto the lab floor. It swam across the floor, over the tables, and under the door into the hallways, damaging property and my reputation as it went.

            They dragged me into the office soaked to the bone.

            Accidents happen, but the level of property damage I caused was far beyond the threshold of what we were allowed to call an accident.

            My Mother and Pete were called in.

            The school wasn’t sure what to do with me; they had never really dealt with a situation like this.

            A meeting was held and the final verdict was expulsion, we would have the opportunity to appeal our case in twenty days.

            After the meeting I watched as Pete pulled my mother aside and whispered the words that fully sealed my fate. She would send me to the Center.

            She felt she had no other choice.

----
This is the end of Chapter 1 of my Jericho story. It is in desperate need of editing, but I think I covered a lot of ground.

More to come -KayPee 

Jericho 01-01

Jericho Fiction:

Chapter 1:

            I sat at the edge of space, my feet dangling within kicking distance of the most depressing little nebula I had ever laid eyes on.

            Normally there was no place that felt more like home to me than basking in the silence of space. I could spend eons contemplating the wonder of physics that allowed it to keep floating along down the winding river of time, but now, I took little comfort in the vast emptiness.

            Today I felt alone.

            Behind me there was the soft metallic woosh of a door opening, followed by the delicate vibrations of bare feet upon my platform.

            “Mom wants to know what you want for dinner” David said casually, as if he had forgotten that I wanted nothing to do with that woman.

            “I’m not hungry” I said, giving the sad little nebula a swift kick, and watching as my foot melted through the elaborate arrangement of light and air that formed the hologram.

            David sank down next to me on the platform, his body folding neatly like origami to fit on the narrow ledge.

            Sitting side by side it was easily seen that the two of us were related. We shared the same height, light coloring, and had very similar skeletal structures, but where I was thin and gauky, still adjusting to the newfound tallness that puberty had given me, David had filled into the lean musculature of a trained athlete and the confident posture that comes with being the older sibling. He even had enough facial hair to require proper shaving, while all I had was a dumb patch of peach fuzz tickling the underside of my nose.

             I envied him.

            “Where’s the feed coming from?” He asked, curiously poking a white dwarf.

            I sighed, “One of the telescopes around Old Earth, but I enhanced it with an algorithm that predicts movement, so theoretically this is how the universe looks today”.  This was dumbing it down, but David and I both knew that he wasn’t here to talk about the mechanics of space, holograms, or how sad and pathetic this nebula looks.

            Still, David took his time and appreciated all of the endless wonder that is space before he opened his mouth again, “you know, you really shouldn’t blame Mom, she’s only doing what she thinks is best for you.”

            I snorted at this comment. My mother wasn’t doing what she thought was best for me, she was doing what my step father, Pete, told her to. She knew damn well that my father hadn’t wanted me to go to the Center, and to change her mind now was like pissing on his memory.

            “It can’t be that bad, Jason, it’s just a school” David continued, “I mean, I don’t even know why Dad was so adamant about you staying here in the first place, most kids would kill for a chance to get into a school like that.”

            He was right, most kids would, and I knew for a fact that David had had his eyes on the state run sports academy, but since he was nearing seventeen the chances of him being invited at this point where slim to none.

            “It’s not a school,” I retorted, “it’s a prison. Dad knew that.”

            Here, I’ll admit, I was being a bit melodramatic. The Center certainly wasn’t a prison, but it did share some striking similarities, the worst of which was that most students from the center would never see their families again.

            “Fine, fine” said David, “You can stay pissy if you want, but at least have dinner with us one last time before you go.”

            “Ungh,” I grunted. I shouldn’t have been talking out my anger on David, but I didn’t have another outlet at the moment. “Tell Mom she can make whatever, just don’t call me until dinner is on the table.”

            With all that needed having been said David rose to his feet and silently made his way out the door, leaving me to stew in the juices of my own aggression.

           

            “Whatever” turned out to be fish, which my mother served whole so that as it sat on the table, its lifeless eyes could stare me down while I took heaping bites of its flesh. It probably should have been more unnerving, but I was trying to focus all of my energy into giving Pete the dirtiest glare I could muster.

            Peter Solomon came into our lives only three short months after my father had died. He claimed that he was one of my dad’s coworkers, and just stopping by to drop off some of Dad’s personal items, but I hadn’t heard of him.

            He was a deceptively good-looking man with a smile that could charm the pants off a snake, tanned skin, and muscled everything. His appearance spoke more of military training under the intense heat of the sun rather than being cooped up in a research lab.

            After his initial visit, Pete seemed to show up just about everywhere. We couldn’t take a trip downtown without running into Pete. His chiseled jaw and tousled blond locks made unexpected appearances at the mall, the museum, the park, and once we even ran into them at one of David’s football matches.

            It was always a coincidence, a strange coincidence.

            It took less than a year for Peter to solidify himself into our lives, the day he married my mom had been the worst day of my life until last Tuesday, when Pete finally convinced my mother to accept the Center’s invitation and send me packing.

            I had gotten my initial invitation to the “E2 Learning Center for Applied Intelligence” when I was just eight years old after figuring out an equation that lead to the discovery of a more efficient slower-than-light engine.

            Essentially I proved that you could fool gravity.

            It really wasn’t a big deal, but because of me it now only took weeks to travel to the farthest out world rather than a month. Needless to say the government was impressed and immediately issued my invitation, which my father politely declined on my behalf.

            The school must have been taken aback by the rejection, because soon after they began to send representatives to the house to try and entice me into attending.

            I’ll admit, I did like the sound of having my own private lab to work in and access to the best technology available, but I also knew then that the kids who attended the Center grew into adults assigned to top-secret jobs in government agencies with names you didn’t dare speak aloud. Kids who attended the Center rarely, if ever, came home again.

            The invitations and visits suddenly stopped shortly before my father’s death.  At the time it was a relief, but now I think it was a warning.

            My father worked in a lab that created better space ships. His job involved designing new propulsion systems to help whisk the human race to new and exciting locations across our little corner of space.

            He was a dedicated perfectionist, even at home. When putting together a new toy, he would always check things several times to be sure it was safe for David and me, and at work he always made sure the safety systems were engaged several times over before firing up an experimental engine.

            The day he died, the safeties had been disengaged when an experimental engine had an explosive misfire. Somehow, in a lab with 5 other people, he managed to be the only casualty. It just doesn’t add up.

            Since then Pete, who showed up exactly when my mom, still in the throes of a quiet depression, needed him the most, had replaced my dad fully.

            It was just too convenient for my liking.

            So here we sat, the fish staring at me, me glaring at Pete, and Pete enjoying his fish as if I didn’t exist.

----
This is the first part of  my planned YA sci-fi saga.  When I get down to hard editing I expect names of places and things to change, even the title "Jericho" is just a placeholder at the moment, but I expect the bones of the story should stay relatively the same 

So, for now each section will be posted with only basic edits (and some lacking even that) as I continue to write it all out. And to keep track of where in the story we are I will label my posts as such Jericho 01-01, the first set of numbers being the chapter and the second being the part of the chapter. 

I sincerely have no idea how many chapters I will end up having. Sorry.
-KayPee 

The Escapee

            Big Mike didn’t speak.

            Many believed that he had never spoken, saying that it was because his mother drank too often while pregnant, or that she dropped the poor child on his head before she even came home from the hospital.            

            Others preferred to believe his father was the cause, pouring caustic chemicals down Mike’s infant throat to stop his incessant wailing, or simply beating the noise out of him with a clean blow to the throat.

            Some swore to heaven that Mike had lost his vocal chords more recently in a freak accident, and more still assured it was no accident.

            Whatever the cause, the fact remained that for as long as he had been an inmate in the state correctional system Big Mike had never uttered a single syllable.

            The silence didn’t cause him much trouble, Big Mike was exactly as he sounded: huge, a solid six feet, five inches, and three hundred pounds of muscle and fat.

            It happened several times over that some newcomer, freshly convicted and itching to secure his spot in the prison hierarchy, walked into the yard looking to take down the biggest and baddest and singled out Big Mike for the job. The end result was always the same; the instigator awoke the next day to the annoying buzzing of hospital lights and the headache of his life.
            More conniving men sought to have Big Mike play on their team, someone as large as he would be a very useful tool for a gang leader on the rise, but Big Mike always politely refused their requests, and went about his business. (At least that’s the impression that was given.)

            An ideal inmate, Big Mike kept to himself, spending his time reading, working out, or sitting in quiet contemplation. He never bothered anyone and, for the most part, no one bothered him.

            That first week of August, however, something changed. Big Mike spent no time reading, or working out, he wouldn’t even eat or shower without being told. People weren’t even entirely sure if he slept at night.

            All the time he could spare was spent just staring out of his tiny cell window, face hopelessly pressed against the bars. No one was quite sure what Mike was looking at, there were several theories floating around, but most assumed he finally lost his mind.

            On the night of August 16th Big Mike was missing from his cell.

            It had been through a series of fortunate accidents that he had escaped. A door not fully locked here, a guard looking the wrong way there, and a forgotten tunnel dug during a former inmate’s escape attempts all aided him in his time of need.

            Mike was across the yard and jogging past the fence before anyone even suspected he was gone, and was well beyond the highway before the alarm started sounding. There was nothing that could stop him.

            He hustled his way down a steep hillside and into the darkened forest beyond.

            When unruly branches caught on his uniform he broke them with his fists, when faced with a stream he wadded through it without a so much as a grimace, and when he took a fall that shattered his ankle he stood right back up and kept moving until he found what he was looking for.

            It was the next morning when the dogs found Big Mike. He was about ten miles south in a small clearing lying in the soft mud with his arms wrapped snugly around a bundle of tattered sheets, petting it slowly with giant gentle hands, and crying silent tears to himself.  

            He gave up the bundle without any fight and willingly returned himself into the custody of the law.

            Inside the bundle police found the decaying body of Tanya White, a local girl who had been stolen from her bed little more than two weeks prior, on the eve of her sixth birthday.

            The authorities were flabbergasted as to how Mike could have found her corpse out in an area of the woods he could not have even dreamed of stepping in within her short lifetime.

            Back in the big house Mike was questioned relentlessly about how he knew where to find the girl’s body.

            Was it another prisoner? Had someone else let it slip? A guard or a visitor? Did he maybe see the murder occur from his window?

            They begged and pleaded with him for even the slightest bit of information, but it was no use; Mike’s lips remained as unmoving as ever.

            In the end it was easier for everyone to believe that Mike had found the girl’s body by accident, and he was shoved unceremoniously back into his cell to finish out the remainder of his sentence.

            That night Mike sat in his cell looking at his feet, as small invisible hands were placed lightly on his knees.
            Thank you, she whispered, the memory of her blonde hair bouncing behind her in an unseen wind, and the palest image of a smile crossing her face.
            Reaching up on her tiptoes the fading specter placed a fragile kiss on one of Mike’s tear-stained cheeks before disappearing entirely into the beyond.

            Goodbye, was all he thought.

----

The Escapee was originally written in June of 2010, inspired by my driving past the Stateville and Old Joliet prisons as I headed to and from my internship at the Joliet Area Historical Museum all summer. 

The original version of this story was barely a page long and the writing was sloppy at best. Still, the idea was enchanting so I spent the entirety of today (except for when I was creating this blog, or on facebook, or watching TLC shows about brides) revising it in order get it up to snuff. -KayPee

What is this?

Hello dear internet person,

This is my writing blog. It's that simple.

Fair warning though, I am a terrible writer, so I apologize in advance for trampling on grammar, killing adjectives, and generally pissing on punctuation.

Enjoy! (or don't.)

-KayPee