KamiKazi… 

By Len Morgan 

   Carlie punched the air, “Yes!”  She’d just won ten matches in a row, and the crowd roared their delight.   In just three days she’d won the ‘human Drone pilot’ world championships.  She’d beaten ten contestants in single combat.  She’d also won the Pairs.  

   Now came the final challenge against the winner of the AI class.  The top Artificial Intelligence contestant was Majik.  It was just another game, that Carlie didn’t expect to win, AI had won ‘Final Conflict’ 10/0 over the last five years, and Majik had won three years running.  So, there was no shame in coming second. 

   She’d been so confident she could win, that she spent her downtime analyzing the attacks employed by all the AI competitors, but Majik in particular.  Majik was swift and ruthless, but Carlie detected a little predictability in the attacks.  The more she played the video clips the more she felt it would be possible to win!  However, Majik won the ‘Final Conflict’ 7/3.  Carlie felt deflated, she'd fought her best fights but she was just not good enough.  She brightened up when she realised she was the first human ever to beat Majik in competition mode. 

   She visited the restaurant area but left in a hurry after being mobbed by fans, wanting selfies and autographs…  

“If you’ll follow me I think we can escape this attention,” a young man in uniform led her into a private room. They sat at a convenient table, where a waitress left them with a pair of ornate looking menu’s.  

She gazed at the prices in disbelief, “I can’t afford anything listed here.” 

He smiled, “My name is lieutenant David Crosby.  Your meal will be on the RAF, we have a proposal for you but whatever you decide you can walk away without obligation.” 

“I could, if I knew what you were talking about…” 

“Let’s order and eat first.”  They ordered and ate in silence. “More wine Carlie?” 

“Please.  Let’s sit over there,” she indicated a snug seating area near the window.

“An unidentified group from the Eastern block have infiltrated our security and have intercepted and destroyed a number of our surveillance drones.  Once could be luck, twice coincidence?  But, it happened again yesterday…” 

“Was it a missile or a drone that attacked?”

“It was a drone, but the attack pattern didn’t match with any AI profile we’ve ever met.  The nerds are convinced the attack was from a drone driven by a human operator.” 

“Then they should be able to identify its origin.” 

“They have a general location, within a three mile radius.  We tried sending in a killer drone, but it was shot down before it even entered the area.  We need to fight fire with fire; we need a piloted drone and a pilot who’s better than him.  You are our best hope!” 

“When will your next drone be launched?” 

“According to the schedule I’ve been given, tomorrow, at noon.”

“I need to get some quality time piloting that drone.” 

“You’ll do it?” 

.-…-. 

Eight hours later, Carlie felt she had mastered the drone.  “I want two drones David, one with an AI in control, preferably Majik and one with dual controls, Majik and Me.  If it goes according to plan, I could override Majik if necessary…” 

She reviewed the unsuccessful drone flights a dozen times each, I think I have his measure she thought, his mode of attack and techniques put me in mind of ‘IvanO20’ he nearly beat me in the semi’s six months ago. I think your gook is a pilot with the handle ‘IvanO20’ and he's good."

“You know him.  But, can you beat him?” 

“I’ll have a damned good try…” 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you Carlie, one of the best drone pilots in the RAF, Guy Overton went up against him.  He destroyed our drone and honed in on Guy’s location…” 

“Did he…”

“Guy is in intensive care, we don’t know if he will pull through.”

“Wo~ah this is starting to sound serious, if he can locate me can you locate  ‘IvanO20’?”

“We can pigg-a-bak on his signal and locate him as soon as he attacks our AI drone.  But, be warned, I’ve looked him up, he is the Russian drone champion…” 

“I know, I beat him in ‘The World’s’, but my life wasn’t on the line then.” 

“We’d understand if you changed your mind.  Is there anything you want that would persuade you to stay?” 

She thought a while, poured herself more coffee, and took one of the fancies from the tray on offer. 

“I think it would be nice to learn to pilot a real jet, what would you say to that?” 

“Mmm, you know it would take you three years to graduate flying school…” 

“And…?” 

“You would still have to do basic training first.  Are you sure that is what you want?” 

“That’s what I want.  Look on the bright side, I may lose the fight…’ 

“There is that…  I’ll see what I can arrange.” 

.-…-. 

“You’ve been enrolled provisionally in an ‘RAF fighter training program’.  It’ll cost the taxpayers a fortune because I’m convinced you can nab Ivan.” 

“Will I be in a position to take him down?” 

“Of course, as soon as we have his coordinates they will be sent to the drones navcon.”  Do you want to eat first?

“No, I fight better on an empty stomach, let’s go!”

She strapped herself into the drone pilot’s seat, and both drones took off on their pre-planned route.  She would interfere as little as possible, letting them both behave as standard AI-driven drones.    

Two hours later as they approached the area where they thought Ivan0 was located, a third drone appeared in the sky.  

“So you return for another lesson in drone fighting ‘GuyFox’!  I’m gonna give you another beating…” 

“Ivan, is that you?  This is ‘Carlie.  Guy won’t be coming anytime soon your last drone followed his carrier signal and crashed on his location…” 

“I didn’t know, they never told me it was for real, he was an excellent opponent, he was almost as good as you…” 

Majik's drone zero’ed in on Ivan, Carlie tried to take over control of the drone but failed. 

“Ivan, get out of there, you’re about to be bombed for real!”  Seconds later, there was an explosion and the contact was broken.  

“He never knew it was for real, I’ve taken out an innocent man,” she thought as she closed down her connection. 

That evening she was in a low state, “how could I have been so gullible,” she thought. 

Then her Laptop announced ‘YOU HAVE MAIL’:

Thank you for the warning Carlie, I got out just in time.  I was up for taking out spy drones, but not harming fellow DP's, No sport in that! I plan to resign from the ‘Counter Espionage Program’.  So I’ll see you in the ‘Worlds’ next year.  

Carlie smiled, so she wouldn’t be going to the ‘RAF fighter training program’ after all, but she’d made a new BF in Ivan0. 

 SANDIE

By Bob French

I don’t know why, but I suddenly started to think about Sandie, a girl I had met in the Pink Toothbrush night club last time I was on leave in Rayleigh. I grinned at the memory of some of the antics we had gotten up to, and when we started to dance to some of the Garage and Street music, we fell about in stitches.  Exhausted, we retreated from the blaring music and jostling bodies of the dance floor to the tranquillity of the bar, where she told me to “keep up the dance classes.”

I told her that I was involved in travel.  She replied that she was a nurse and we exchanged telephone numbers.  Suddenly the night was over and I agreed to walk her home.  We talked about where we had grown up; she went to Fitz whilst I told her that I went to Swain. She lived just opposite Sainsbury’s supermarket down by the Weir and when we kissed good night on her doorstep I asked if I could see her again.  She smiled with her eyes and spoke softly.

          “I have your number.  I’ll let you know.”  That was the last time I saw her and that was nearly four weeks ago. I still think of her.

          I suddenly came to my senses as the distant horizon slowly started to change into a hundred shades of dawn and shadows started to appear.  A cold breeze cut across the wadi where our platoon lay hidden, spraying us all with a fine sand that stung our faces.  We had been making good progress until one of the forward recce blokes gave the hand signal to warn us that there were Taliban in the vicinity.  That was at 02:45 hours this morning.  Since then we had lain still; not moving.  When you are laying in the cold desert in total silence with your nerves ready to snap, you start to search your mind and ask yourself a lot of dumb questions, but I remembered what the Sergeant Major told us before we left our forward base. 

“Listen Up, when you’re out there waiting, do not start to think about things like ‘what am I doing here’.  It’ll screw you up.  Just keep your mind on your patrol tactics. Got it.”  So I did my best and started to think about Sandie.

Like Jake, my best mate, this was my first patrol in Afghanistan and the first time we had come into contact with the Taliban. The patrol routine was that every ten seconds or so we would look at our patrol leader, Sergeant Mike Hawthorn, for instructions.  But so far he, like the rest of us, had quietly sunk into the desert floor and watched and waited.  As dawn slowly brought light to a new day, he raised his hand.  He didn’t look back at us or say anything.  His three fingers pointed to his left meant that me, Jake and Muffin were to be ready to move in that direction.  He then raised four fingers and pointed to the right.  The suspense, waiting for the thumbs up to move was nerve-racking.  “I’ve never been this scared.” I whispered, knowing that Jake couldn’t hear me; ‘I never shot or killed anyone either,’ I thought. My heart was going like the clappers.  I felt the sweat running down my face and back and my leather gloves felt decidedly damp inside.

All of a sudden, he raised his fist; the sign to get ready, then up went his thumb and all hell broke loose.  The noise was deafening. Jake and I screamed at the top of our voices as we scrambled to our feet and rushed forward to our allotted covering positions.  I had started to fire my rifle before I even saw the enemy.  Then, as I skidded down the side of the wadi, I saw them for the first time.  Eight of them; were all armed with AK47 rifles.  Jake was screaming beside me as we went rushing in toward them.  I felt the zing and crack of rounds whizzing past my head, then a sickening thud, but I rushed on, thinking that if I was hit, I was damn well going to take one of them with me.  As I rushed in, someone to my left caught my eye. My training and instinct taught me to react and I turned; pointed my rifle and fired.  It hit the man in the chest, spinning him backwards like a rag doll.  It was over in seconds.  

Then there was total silence again. Sergeant Hawthorn quickly gave hand signals to effect a wide perimeter cordon and men started to silently scatter. When I looked around for Jake, the patrol medic was kneeling beside him trying to stop the bleeding whilst Muffin was beside him on the radio calling for medivac support.  My heart sank.  I wanted to go to him but Corporal Tavish grabbed my shoulder and nodded to my position.  He leant forward and whispered.

“Don’t worry kid, he’s in good hands.”

In no time at all the sound of the chopper could be heard thudding over the horizon.  After a mini sand storm, it had landed and bodies were rushing towards Jake and our patrol medic.  Then the radio crackled into life.

“Victor Lema 55.  You have bandits approaching your position. ETA approx 15 minutes, repeat 15 minutes. Out.”  Sergeant Hawthorn yelled above the noise of the helicopter to pull back to protect it.  He then pointed to me and three other men to act as stretcher bearers.  As I knelt down beside Jake, I heard the paramedic giving instructions to our patrol medic and instantly recognised her voice.

“Sandie?”  She looked up, recognised me and smiled.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you.  Been a little busy.  How you been keeping anyway?”  And smiled again.  She then seemed to ignore me as she started to inject a drip into Jake's arm and give rapid instructions to one of her team. We anxiously waited whilst his wound was being dressed and Jake was stabilised.  I kept thinking ‘time was running out.’ Then we heard it.  That blunt crack of the AK47.  The Taliban were here.  It was time to move. The sand around us started to spurt up as bullets peppered the ground.  Sergeant Hawthorn rushed forward to the paramedic and leant into her face.

“No time to wait, let’s move.”  As he stood up a bullet tugged at his shoulder webbing.  He just spun around and emptied his magazine into four men who were foolish enough to break cover and rush at him. 

We carefully lifted Jake up and started for the helicopter just as it revved up its engines to create a sand screen for us.  We must have been about ten yards from the backdrop when I felt a sledgehammer hit me in the back of my leg.  It spun me around and I screamed.  The last thing I saw was Sandie quickly filling my place on the stretcher and vanishing into the back of the helicopter.

I gradually came around to the smell of antiseptic, bright lights and murmuring voices.  I tried to swallow and realised that I had a mouth that tasted like a Turkish wrestler’s jock-strap.  I made a feeble attempt at sitting up, when someone spoke to me.

“Ah, I see we are awake.  How do you feel?”  I was about to tell her exactly how I felt, then realised that she was a Lieutenant in the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. My mind was starting to fill with hundreds of questions and I tried to speak but found that I couldn’t. The nurse seemed to sense what I needed and gently helped me sit up and made me sip a little water.

“Where am I?  What happened? I croaked. The Lieutenant stood and started to pull back the privacy curtains.  She spoke as she moved.

“Your patrol was ambushed by the Taliban during a helo’ medivac.  As you carried your friend out, you were hit.”  She turned and gave me a gentle smile.  “One of my girls, Lieutenant Sandie Bickford, went back for you and carried you back into the helo.”  I didn’t speak.  I felt choked up.

“Is she alright?  Can I see her?”  My eagerness made me feel excited and I could see the Lieutenant looking at me, then she gently sat on the bed and held my hand.

“I am sorry.  Sandie was hit three times during your rescue and died on the way in.  She told your Sergeant Hawthorn that you were to ”keep up the dance classes.”

 

Copyright Bob French

Dibbs

 PUTTING ON A SHOW 

by Richard Banks                                        

                                                           

Dibbs sits his hind legs on the pavement next to Benny and peers eagerly at the steady flow of people coming from the direction of the station. This he senses will be a good day. After a long winter and an insipid Spring, the first warm day of the year has finally arrived. 

         The punters are in a good mood, glad to be out, to feel the sun on their faces, and although not quite Summer bare shoulders and legs are also to be seen. In the winter they scurried from stall to stall buying what they needed before returning to the warm comfort of their homes. Today they are at their ease, unhurried, ready to browse and be generous. 

          The main beneficiaries of their largess today will be the market traders, but those whose only utility is in triggering the altruism of others are also hopeful of turning a profit. In this respect, Dibbs and Co have a rival in an elderly lady rattling a tin for the Red Cross. Benny mutters aggressively at her and Dibbs joins in, baring his teeth and barking like he’s about to go for her throat. After holding her ground for a few seconds and finding no one coming to her aid she moves several shop fronts along to the pavement outside Marks & Sparks.  

         Benny isn’t the first con man Dibbs has worked with and he’s far from the best but having smeared his face with cement he looks ready for the graveyard. Who can resist him, especially when the nutrition of his doggie friend seems more important to him than his own well-being. To illustrate the point Harry who works in the burger bar at the back of where they sit will come out with a bog standard burger and give it to Benny who despite his unhealthy appearance insists on feeding most of it to Dibbs. In return, he makes big, doggy eyes at Benny full of pathos and unconditional love which Benny in his uninspired way tries to reciprocate. Time this right when people are looking their way the result is likely to be a deluge of coins and the odd fiver or two. Happy days! 

         At half past eleven they give it a go. Cindy buys the burger and on slipping Harry a few quid he makes a big show of bringing it out and handing it to Benny who pretends to be pathetically grateful. 

         “Don’t you worry, mate,” bellows Harry in a voice that can be heard on the other side of the square. “I’m not going to walk by and let you starve. Ex-army are you?” 

         Benny nods his head in acknowledgment of his never-was past.

         “Thought so, can always tell. One day a hero and the next you’re on the scrap heap. What sort of people are we that don’t look after our own.” He strides back to the burger bar shaking his head at the shortcomings of his fellow countrymen. He’s really rather good and few can resist this sudden and unexpected assault on their conscience. Coins are flying from every direction and if Benny and Dibbs don’t keep their eyes shut they’re likely to be going legit for the white stick brigade. 

         Cindy passes by and smirks. She provides the wheels that gets them to the big events. She’s also the brains of their little enterprise and sets-up the stunts that draw attention to them. Right now she’s off to buy a new dress, she’s off clubbing tonight. At half one she’s back and we do the whole burger thing again. This isn’t just a good day, it’s the best ever. Everyone’s happy except some clod on the far side of the square who passes out, and falls face down on the pavement. Cindy goes over to take a look. An ambulance comes and goes. She returns, via several stalls, and Benny asks her what’s up.

         “Nothing much,” she says, “just that Bosnian woman selling the Big Issue. As thin as a rake, gawd knows when she last had a square meal. It’s her own fault, of course; doesn’t know how to work a crowd, no props, no patter, nothing, not even a mangy dog. No idea at all.  Bloody immigrant!”

The End.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Four haiku from Rob

 

By Robert Kingston

 

The following haiku appeared in the February edition of time haiku. A small British journal that reads and accepts most Japanese genre poems. Enjoy!

 

roadside reeds

the driver in front lets out

a huge plume of smoke

 

sun through fog

a seal surfaces

in a swirl of swarf

 

cock pit spider

dangling its thread

in the wind

 

thundering on

the Mallard disappears 

into itself 

 

 

Copyright Robert Kingston

DHSS ADVICE

DHSS ADVICE NOTE 338

Thanks to Richard Banks for the submission

In a recent survey conducted by Age Concern, street watching was found to be the favourite recreational activity of 63% of pensioners in the seventy to eighty-nine age group. The same survey, when  extended to people of non-pensionable age, also found that the visual intrusions of elderly neighbours cause more social friction than any of their other behaviours, including cat poisoning and witchcraft.

      The purpose of this circular is, therefore, to advise practising street watchers, and those about to take up this hobby, on how it can be carried out while at all times maintaining peaceful relations with the observed.

Tip 1

      All watching should, if possible, be unobserved. If someone doesn’t know they are being watched they have no reason to complain. Place a large pot plant in the watching window and sit behind it at all times. Camouflage jackets intended for jungle warfare can be purchased from many High Street outfitters and provide excellent concealment for those parts of the watcher likely to be visible on either side of the plant. If it should be necessary to peer over the plant, the wearing of a Christmas wreath on top of the head is also recommended. While many experienced watchers also apply face paint, it should always be removed when undertaking other activities, such as shopping or family visits. Forgetful pensioners prone to senior moments beware! 

Tip 2

      If your efforts at concealment should prove unsuccessful, maintain your surveillance operation by methods not requiring direct interface with the necessary window. The positioning of several large mirrors on the wall opposite the window will allow you to observe the street - and all those in it - while keeping your back to the said window at all times. While this has proved to be a satisfactory method of observation for many watchers it suffers from the disadvantage that reflected sunlight is a contributory factor in 4.2% of road accidents during the summer months, June to August. Ensure that you are adequately insured, otherwise claims for damages could make your little hobby more expensive than a second home on the Algarve.

      An option preferred by an increasing numbers of watchers is closed circuit television (CCTV). Installed ostensibly for reasons of security, cameras enable the watcher to view on-street activity on his or her television in a room not fronting the viewing area. It has the additional advantage that all passing movements are captured on film, enabling the replay of particularly interesting sequences.

      While static cameras provide only limited coverage of passing cars and pedestrians, much of the equipment presently on sale has one hundred and eighty degree vision enabling extended time viewing over distances of several hundred yards. However, beware! Modern day cameras are more collectable than much of the property they are installed to protect. Many go missing only to reappear outside the homes of bargain seeking watchers.

Tip 3

      The brazen approach. Make no secret of the fact that the street is constantly within your field of vision. Acknowledge all those passing with a cheery wave or a thumbs up sign. If challenged be ready with one of the following explanations:

i) I am a bird watcher undertaking a survey for the Wildlife Trust. To back up this claim you should ensure that several books on British birds are easily visible to anyone peering through your window from the other side.

ii) similarly, nocturnal observations can be justified by a professed interest in astronomy. Again, make sure that the necessary books are to hand, and that you have sufficient knowledge of the subject to identify at least three constellations. An additional advantage of methods i and ii is that they provide convincing explanations for your use of optical equipment, such as binoculars and telescopes.

ii) alternatively you can claim that you are a member of the Neighbourhood Watch, and that your watching activities are an essential part of the fight against crime. To prevent being outed by genuine members of the Watch, those favouring this approach should seriously consider joining that organisation.

Tip 4

      Outside activities, such as car washing and gardening, also provide excellent opportunities for street watching. Make good use of peripheral vision, and avoid excessive pruning of trees and bushes. Remember that although your neighbours may admire the cleanliness of your car, your readiness to wash it more than six times a week may arouse their suspicions.

Tip 5

    Street watching for periods in excess of nine hours a day has been identified as a category two psychiatric disorder requiring many hours of expensive therapy. Don’t let your obsession become your therapist’s goldmine. Join a branch of Snoopers Anonymous. Break the habit and take up a less harmful hobby, such as cage fighting.

For further advice and information see the DHSS website:dhssweirdthingsbestavoided. 

 

Submitted by Richard Banks

Tylywoch ~ 23

 Tylywoch ~ 23 Swordsmith IV 

By Len Morgan 

   For three days, Jax lay, pale and silent, in the arms of death.   Terrek was beginning to fear the worst, when suddenly without warning the young man took a deep and very noisy breath.   His eyes shot open, and he stared angrily at Terrek.   "You have killed me," he cried in a mortified voice. 

"Obviously not!"   Terrek grinned stupidly, "Thank goodness you're still with us, it has been so long I was about to call the mortician, you almost had me worried," he answered slapping Jax playfully on the cheeks. 

"You stabbed me!" said Jax undeterred.

"Don't carry on so, I did what had to be done?" he countered defensively.   "The fluid in the syringe was a viral blood plasma modifier.   It will reprogram your genetic code, making it a hundred times more efficient.   It's self-replicating, and will eventually reprogram your blood.   In time all your other cells will be changed, improving your physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional state…" 

"What is this gibberish you're spouting?" 

Terrek continued undeterred.   "For every fifty years you live, you will age but one, you'll become healthier stronger and faster.   Your brain capacity will increase.   Over time, you may eventually even become normal - but I don't want to raise your hopes on that…" he dodged a sluggish roundhouse punch.   "Take it easy young fellow, you've just slept for three days non-stop.   Your body is already changing."    Taking a knife from the forge racks and before Jax could stop him he slit his own arm.   Squeezing the cut flesh together he held it for twenty seconds, when he released his grip, it was already in advanced stages of healing.   In minutes there was a thin scar, in half an hour it was totally gone. 

“That’s Witchery!” Jax stood back…

"Wounds heal a hundred times faster, mortal wounds are as pinpricks, short of cutting you in two, separating the parts, and burying them on opposite sides of a hill, any damage to your body will repair within days.   You could lose a limb and regenerate it in the same time.   It will seem as though a mist has cleared from your mind, something that has hitherto prevented you from using it correctly, as if something was deliberately inhibiting your thought processes, preventing your mind from evolving.   Whilst at Ordens forge, you will have experienced heightened perception, and an increased potential to learn.   But, it will be as nothing to what is to still to come." 

"So, what is the downside?" Jax asked. 

"Downside?   Did you not hear what I just told you?   Do you think you have a choice? There is no going back…"

"It all seems just too good to be true.   Often life has its own little checks and balances, tradeoffs…"

"Your hair will turn grey like mine, you can't have children, your eyes will turn blue like mine, you will become increasingly desirable to women and…"

"Wait!   No children?"   His face told a story.

"It is not impossible, just less likely.   The genes are so radically altered that you would have to find a woman with similarly altered genes, a converted woman, it isn't impossible just unlikely."

"Don't you think you should have given me, a choice, a chance to say no?" 

"No!" Terrek answered.   "If you'd said no I would have had to kill you, we cannot afford to let outsiders know about us, that would be an unnecessary complication; you never showed any inclination to father children..." 

"I need to be alone," said Jax I need to think.    He sat for an hour saying nothing, Terrek moved away leaving him to his thoughts and waited patiently.   Finally, he stood up and turned to face Terrek.

"I can't explain it," said Jax "but I have to leave, I have to get away from here for a while.   I have to seek out Bianne wherever she may be regardless of cost." 

"That is a perfectly normal healthy reaction but, I must impose one condition before you do so" Terrek answered quietly.  

“What!” Jax shook his head. 

"You must create a repository for your alter ego, an elemental to be your confidante and conscience, strong enough to contain and sustain you in the years to come.   It should be any inanimate object we of the sword traditionally create a blade.   Now you have been made, you must fuse all you have gained - the knowledge, know-how, experience, the power, and the magic - into a blade that will do your will…" 

"I don't know if I could just now…" Jax began doubtfully. 

"I am afraid I could not allow you to leave without doing so," Terrek replied gently but firmly, a hard edge creeping into his voice that would not brook refusal.

Jax stared at him surprise registering on his face.   Several minutes passed.

Terrek stared back equally determined, placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, and said "This is not negotiable."   His eyes had become bright with flecks of orange and yellow.

 Just as it seemed they would come to blows, Jax said “I’ll do it.” He nodded and smiled conveying acceptance.

"You will need a familiar to protect you, guide you, and centre your life force.   It will take you but three days to accomplish the task if you forego sleep.   During that time the forge will be exclusively yours."   Slapping Jax on the shoulder good-naturedly he left the premises without another word, locking the doors behind him. 

.-…-. 

Towards the close of the third day, Jax viewed the blank steel blade critically, now sharpened and tempered.  It still required final hardening, a hilt, a guard, decoration, and furniture.    He cast his eyes up, outside the tall barn like doors, routinely left opened when the forge was fired up, the sky was cloudless.   He raised the rough blade to the sky chanting, a litany in a strange unworldly tongue, words of power, words of magic, shards of something else, something nonhuman that would unleash the fury of the elements.   At his final utterance, the world became quiet and still as if holding its breath.    Lightning burst forth from the clear blue firmament.  Randomly striking and enveloping the base sword and the man holding it, as if it were a life raft in a raging sea.   Living ribbons of coloured flame lingered seductively fibrillating, caressing, the singularity who is their familiar.   Great gouts of sinuous green blue and white fire burst into being, fed by bolt after bolt of lightning, licking tongues of flame assail and bath the seemingly immutable figure.   Randomly lashing and binding him to the rampant sword, blackened now from the continual assault, yet both the sword and the man remain.   Black, like the depths of the darkest ocean; the blade absorbed instead of reflecting light and, whilst in motion, become invisible to mortal eyes. 

"AAAAAARRGGEEAWWMMMAAA" his yell a bestial defiance, in answer to the heavens grumbling moodily, as if resentful at being rudely awakened.   An hour later the rumbling had subsided, Jax supine on the unyielding floor slept in a deep trance like state.  

Terrek gazes upon the creation with silent respect, proud of what his newly made journeyman had accomplished.  

He'd witnessed the thunder and lightning and knew he would have to contain his impatience for at least another few days.

Now, he would readily admit the wait had been worth it - three days in the forging, two for chasing and gilding, then the creation of furniture - hilt, hand guard, sheath, and belt.   Jax would then have imbued the living blade with his physical personality - thrusting it through his own torso and withdrawing it, inflicting what to a normal human would have been a mortal wound - that must have been painful. 

He'd seen the flashes of coloured lights, for several minutes before darkness returned.   For a second time, Jax sank into a trance-like state lasting a further two days.

As he slept, Terrek returned to the forge and crafted a matching dagger from the remainder of the strange black metal.   He ritually anointed the blade with his own blood by stabbing it into his chest.   When it was completed, he crafted a sheath to hold it. 

                                             .-...-.

He awoke ravenous.   Terrek had prepared him a sumptuous meal, which he devoured without uttering a sound.   Then he gathered his personal belongings, and took tearful leave of his mentor.   No longer a boy, he was not yet a man, whilst being far more than a man, he had things to do, big things, he did not need to explain.

This, Terrek understood, "It is as it should be," he said nodding a reflective but warm farewell to the new Swordsmith.

(to be continued)

Copyright Len Morgan  

JAMES BOND AND THE PELOSI AFFAIR 

By Bob French

Henry felt as though he was sitting in the very room as Bond entered the large office of the Director of the British Secret Service.

“You’re late Bond.  This is important.”  M sounded annoyed.

He glanced at the Minister and nodded, then smiled as the tall, stocky figure of Felix Lighter of the CIA stood up out of the high-backed chair and turned to face Bond. “Good to see you, Felix.  This must be serious to drag you away from the other side of the pond?”

“Bond, do you mind?  Take a seat and let me explain. You may not have heard that the American Congressional Delegation is visiting the Indo-Pacific region to reaffirm its strong and unshakable commitment to its allies.  The mission is led by Nancy Pelosi the Speaker of the United States House of Representatives and has the backing of the house and the President.

Bond nodded.  “Nothing new in that Sir.  Most of the first world nations are sending delegations out to the far east in the hope of picking up trade deals.”

What was omitted from the press release is that Pelosi intends to visit Taiwan in early August.”

Bond sat quietly and cast his mind back over the files he had read about the continued tension between China and Taiwan and the reputation of Nancy Pelosi and was momentarily worried.

“Not a very sensible thing to do Sir, bearing in mind the delicate situation between the two countries.  I find it hard to believe that President Biden approved the visit.”

Felix cleared his throat “That’s it, James.  She deliberately omitted to list her visit to Taiwan in her travel plans and No.  The President does not approve of her visit to Taiwan and has gone on record that he thinks that the visit is not a very good idea.”

“Then why doesn’t she wind her neck in and follow the advice of her president?”

The Minister put down his glass of brandy.  “Bond, the Americans have a different style of politics than ours.  Apparently, the Speaker outranks the President in certain matters of state.”

Bond frowned, then turned to M.  “So how are we involved, Sir?”

“The problem is that our Customs have been tipped off that there is going to be an attempt on her life during the visit.”

“Surely, then it’s their problem, Sir.”  He turned to Felix.  “No offence, but I think you need to get your house in order before involving us.”

Felix grinned.  “Not exactly James.  You see the CIA has come up with a plan which means for security reasons, Pelosi will be residing in the British Embassy instead of the American during her visit. They think it will fool the Chinese protesters.”

Bond looked at Felix with a question in his eyes.  “Nothing to do with me, James.  It came from on high.”

“Bond, it doesn’t matter.  The thing to remember is that our old friend The Spider is involved.  You will recall he helped to create the panic over the shortages of PPE, then offered Europe and UK masses of the stuff.  What we didn’t know at that time was that he was using this import of PPE to smuggle his drugs.  If you hadn’t stopped him, God knows what would have happened.”

Bond felt his temper start to rise and glanced at Felix. “Does anyone in your organization know where the Spider is at present?”

He shook his head, took a deep breath as though beginning a confession. “James.  This isn’t going to be easy.  We have found out that The Spider has connections inside the MSS, the Chinese secret intelligence, and the secret police service. And if that isn’t enough, Pelosi is a stubborn old bitch and when she makes her mind up, nothing will stop her.  You Brits can be arrogant, but wait until you see her in action.  She’s something else man, believe me.  You also have to remember that our country is having its elections this year, so a stunt like this will get her a lot of votes.”

The last words from M were, “get out there, find out what is going on and stop it, and if you should happen to come across The Spider, eliminate him.”  The meeting ended abruptly and as they filed past Moneypenny, she caught Bond’s eye and smiled then discretely slipped him an envelope.

Felix was met outside the offices of Universal Exports by a swarthy-looking man in a flashy grey Italian suit and keen steel blue eyes.  He was quickly introduced as Sirius Bromovitch, Section Chief of the Eastern Desk at the US Embassy.  Without any foreplay, he invited them around the corner to the Three Feathers pub, just off Craven Street, tucked away behind Charring Cross Station and off the tourist beat.   

Bromovitch ordered a Martini on the rocks, but Bond chose a black coffee along with Felix.

“So. How did it go Lighter?  Did you convince the Brits to cooperate?”

Bond stared at Lighter, then took a sip of his coffee, letting Felix start the conversation.

“Well, we have their cooperation but it is early days and ….” Bromovitch butted in.

“Listen Bud, we don’t have much time.  She is planning to visit Taiwan during the next few days so…” Bond lent forward so his face was a few inches away from Bromovitch’s.

“Listen.  If you are going to work with the Bits, as you put it, I suggest that you respect the confidentiality of the matter and not blab it around a place you know nothing about.”

Bramovitch jumped back and stared at Bond.  “What do you mean Bud?”

“Firstly, I am not your Bud, and secondly, this pub is frequented by the staff from at least four embassies all within a few minute's walking distance.  I don’t have to tell you that what is said in here will be reported back to their respective Charge d’affairs within minutes, so Bud! I suggest we go for a walk down by the Thames where we can have a little privacy.  Felix?” Bond nodded to Felix who was already standing.

As Bond and Felix reached the sunshine of the pavement outside the pub Bond spoke quietly.  “Who is this clown? Do we have to work with him?”  Before Felix could answer him, the arrogant American Section Chief joined them.

  “Sorry about that Bond. I agree, let’s take a walk along the Thames and go over the plan.”

After an hour, Sirus Bramovitch was happy that Bond was on board with the insertion plan and took his leave.

“Sorry James.  He’s new to the appointment.  He has connections in Washington, hence his appointment to London.”

 

Bond nodded, but said nothing. They parted at Trafalgar Tube Station and Bond explained that he would get back in contact once he had digested the details of how the Americans wanted to play this.  On the tube back across the capital Bond decided that he needed to think and decided once he got back to the hotel he’d go for a long hard swim in the hotel pool.  He thought better when he pushed his body to the limit.  After a blistering forty lengths, he pulled his tired body out of the pool and smiled to himself. His insertion plan was sorted. 

At ten that night he called his friend, Adrien Benoit, an ex-Sergeant Major who had served in the 2^nd Battalion of the French Foreign Legion Parachute Regiment before being recruited by the French Intelligence Service, in Lyon.  Adrien had been in on the first operation to take down The Spider.  The phone call was brief and within two hours Benoit was on a flight out to Taiwan.  

When Felix called just before seven in the morning to inform Bond when his car would be picking him up, he was not surprised to be told that Bond had booked out at five.  Felix knew that Bond had little trust in the CIA and like Felix, only dealt with people he knew and trusted.

Felix met Bramovitch at the steps of the Gulfstream G700 on the pad.

Before Felix could greet him Bramovitch demanded. “Where the hell’s the Brit?”

Felix ignored him, stepped past him, and boarded the private CIA jet.  He turned to the pilot at the top of the steps, “OK Jim, let’s roll.”

Bramovitch stormed up the steps and confronted Lighter.

“Hay! I asked you a Godam question.  Where’s the Brit?”

“He’s gone.” 

Bramovitch stepped back in mild shock. “What ja mean, gone?”

“Listen Bramovitch.  You’ve been behind a desk too long.  Out in the field things are a little different.  For a start we don’t advertise the fact that we are about to arrive in Chinese air space in a CIA private jet when on a secret mission.”  He saw the cogs slowly turning in Bramovitch’s face.

Realising it was taking Bramovitch too long to work out, he turned and sat down.

Bond met Adrien at the pre-arranged time in a restaurant outside the entrance to the Yangmingsham National Park.  Bond noticed the strain in hs friend’s eyes and quietly questioned him.

“What’s on your mind? You don’t seem at ease.”

Adrien casually glanced around to ensure that no one was trying to listen in on their conversation. “Before I left, a friend of mine from the old days told me that something was going down out here.  Is it to do with this American woman?”

Bond nodded slowly.  How on earth did the French Intelligence Service get to know about the job, unless there was a leak in the CIA, he thought.

“I have been sent out here because there is a threat to the life of Ms Pelosi.  The Americans think that the Chinese are going to try and take her out.”

Adrien frowned.  “That is not what I heard.  The word on the street is that the CIA are using The Spider as a decoy whilst their own team are going to take her out.”

Henry froze, then turned the page of his comic and cursed.

‘TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT,  BUY THE AUGUST EDITION OF “THE ADVENTURES OF JAMES BOND 007.”

Copyright Bob French