Romany Galactica ~ Part 1 of 4

Romany Galactica ~ Part 1 of 4

By Len Morgan

“Sonny, wake up we’re approaching Flagstaff!” She listened to his buzz-saw snoring. “We’re legally bound to observe their bylaws. A one-man cruiser cannot land on autopilot, and the master must present credentials and a retina scan. The penalty for non-compliance could be seizure of the ship.” She gave him thirty seconds then cranked up the volume. “Shift yer frikin arse, fer cry-sake. You have less than seven minutes. Respond to their hail man, why doncha!”

She listened to his asthmatic wheezing. He hawked and spat at a 1970’s poster for a Sonny and Cher concert. She waited. “C’mon Sonny, there’s a frothing stim-soba in the icebox. You got five minutes then I’m taking evasive action.”

“Quit naggin woman,” he staggered to the galley, fixed his gaze on the icebox. It opened to a snap of his fingers. He grabbed at salvation and downed it in one.

“Feel better now do we?” Her scorn was evident. 

He threw the bottle into the disposal, leaned over the sink and heaved, “Hersuse, what was I drinking last night?”

“We picked it up in the Scottish system. They call it Scotch whiskey.”

“Those guys should learn how to make decent Bourbon. That Scotch will never catch on.”

“Let’s pretend you never said that...”

“Oh no, what did I do? Don’t tell me…”

“You purchased three thousand cases of Scotch and two of Bourbon. You used up the last of our trading credit bozo.”

“I said don’t… So we sell it on Flagstaff, and head on back to civilisation—“

“Problem!”

“Go on?”

“This is a dry system. No alcohol or drugs planet-side.”

“So, why did you bring us here? Don’t—“

“You stuck a finger on the vidscreen and said take us there.”

“Shit!”

“That’s what I said but you’d already passed out.”

“You should have tried to wake me up.”

“I did. All you said was ‘Quit naggin’. Three minutes to abort.”

“Abort?” He spat several times and wiped his mouth on a napkin which he threw with pinpoint accuracy.

“Shit fer brains! Never heard of the recycling bin? You’re such a slob. Why does everything end up in the disposal unit? It took me three days to repair it last time, you have no respect for this ship.”

He grinned, entered the comms pod, and pressed [missed calls]. 

‘Captain of one-man cruiser Cher, y’all come back now. Confirm your origin and destination.’ 

--He pressed [Next]. 

‘Captain, answer our hail, we’re targetin ye with Nooks. If ye approach by half a mill miles, without identification, yer ship will be gas. Y’all hear me now.’ 

--He pressed [Next].

“You’re final warnin Captain, ye have two minutes…”

--He pressed [End OK], then [Reply]. 

“Captain Bono of the one-man cruiser Cher, out of New Chicago, ye hear me? Why don’t yous answer me damn-it, y’all comeback.”

“Captain, we bin callin fer nigh on an hour, mayhap your comms are fricasseed?”

“I can hear you just fine now you’ve decided to pick-up. We’re bound for Vegas with a cargo of Bourbon and Scotch.”

“Man, yer timin’s impeccable, Vegas’s nearin dry. You know our rules; you gotta turn 50% of yer poke into goods produced here on Flagstaff.”

“Hello, hello? I missed the last part of your message, thought you was telling me how to spend my money? Come back now. Hello, h_l_o…” He stepped out of the comms pod, “I thought you said Flagstaff was dry.”

“I lied!”

“Why didn’t I get a simple computer installed? Something reliable and efficient, no hassle…”

“Because I wrote your employment contract Captain Bozo.”

“It's Bono! The ship is your responsibility, but the cargo is mine. I’m not landing here with a clean-up cargo without knowing what I’m gonna get for it. What do they produce here, woman?”

“Heavy metals, radioactive's, crystals – diamond, sapphire, ruby – synthetic and natural - platinum, gold, silver, designer drugs…”

“You’re shittin me! Nothing of real value?” he asked.

“They mine deutridium on the outer asteroids; they design ships, and build some of the finest deep space cruisers in this arm of the Galaxy. They also do refits, something we’re in dire need of.”

“Deutridium, isn’t that used in the production of synthetic flesh?”

“Yea, they have a Synth Industry but their laws only allow inhabitants two synth bodies then they are expected to live out their natural span planet-side.”

“So they tend to live a full life before their first regeneration?” He smiled. “Find out what happens to their minds at the exit gate. Are they planted in standard CM's when their final synth pops its cork?”

“I’m on it!”

He sat down and opened a bottle of Scotch.

“I thought you said…”

“Button it! I do the thinking around here.”

“Haha, yea.”

“Have you got me an answer yet?”

“Their minds are recycled, and stored in standard Cryo Memory cubes, like mine.” 

“Ho Flagstaff, master’s credentials and ships manifest piggabak on this trans; will report for ret-scan on arrival, mess-ends 18:24 GST.” He pressed [Send] and took another slug of Scotch.

“Their nukes are standing down.”

“Did I ever tell you a distant ancestor of mine was ringed-up with the girl on that poster? The real Cher?” 

“A hundred times, but never while you were sober.”

“His name was Sonny too. She was a real looker, he was a lucky guy.” He had a faraway look in his eyes as he took another pull from his bottle. 

“Ah, can’t we dock before you get pissed out of your skull, man?”

His answer was to raise the bottle to his lips and slurp.

“Guess I’ll put some fresh stim-soba’s in the icebox.”

.-…-.

He dabbed his eyes with sterilene lint, ret-scan always caused his eyes to water and blurred his vision. He’d been advised to sit and allow them to recover naturally, but he wasn’t big on taking advice. A figure loomed ahead of him and they collided. Has to be a woman, he thought they don’t make ‘Midnight in Paris’ aftershave.

“Watch where you’re going, you drunken lout!”

His heart stopped, he knew that voice. He took a deep breath, “Anju?”

“Bono? The years haven’t been kind to you have they.”

He dabbed his eyes again enough to see the outline of her face, “It is you…”

“Ret-scan? It used to have that effect on me until I became head of security here, now I don’t have to submit to it.”

“Same old Anju, rules are for others eh?”

“Wrroah, and what scam are you planning to unleash on our unsuspecting populace?”

“Should imagine you already have them all tied up.”

“I’m now a responsible citizen, a pillar of the community.”

“Pillow? Ah, still sleeping around.”

“Whatever it is you’re up to, I’ve thought of it first and I’ll catch you at it!” she warned.

He raised his eyes in mock surprise, “who me?”

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Bono.”

“So let me see, it's, been five years? You marooned me on an uninhabited asteroid, stole my heart and my ship, now you’re accusing me of running a scam. You really must hate me.”

“Look I, I’m running late for a meeting but I’ll catch up with you, soon ok? We can snipe all you want and draw a line under the past,” she gave him a quick smile then she was gone.

He sat on a massage chair, he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He thumbed several coins into the slot and sat back to reflect.

Copyright Len Morgan

(to be continued/…)

Full Circle

FULL CIRCLE

By Rosemary Clarke

A long time ago
Nature was all
And then we came
We cut the forests
Burned the fields
Smashed the flowers
And now some of us are dying
Bees nourish our fruit and vegetables
Blossom cheers us
Bird song gives us the strength to go on
Nature unlike Mankind
Is not unforgiving

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 1b

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 1b

         Collapsing into his chair he looked at his meal with glazed eyes.   He pushed the plate away.

‘Got something to tell you,’ he slurred.

I glanced at him, only half of me paying attention; the other half fully occupied regretting his rapidly congealing supper.

‘Mm?’

         ‘I’ve joined up.’

 Food forgotten, my eyes jolted towards his face.

‘What?’

         ‘I’ve joined the army,’ he repeated, his voice suddenly loud.  ‘I leave at the weekend.’

         The ticking of the clock seemed deafening, echoing the thumping of my heart.   My mouth fell open as his words sank in.   Then, I shook my head.   This was pure nonsense:  but Frank was no joker.   I looked at him.    He was staring past me at the wall, his face stony.

         ‘What are you talking about?   Why on earth would you join the army?  You’re a farmer, you don’t need to.  Please don’t talk nonsense Frank.’

         His face flooded with colour; he made a quick movement towards me and I flinched.

         ‘Nonsense is it?  So, you think I can skulk at home while our boys are being slaughtered over there?’   He jerked his head towards the south.  ‘Good God woman! Do you think I’m that much of a coward?’ 

         His voice was loud and like thunder it rolled around in my head.

         ‘No, of course I don’t think you’re a coward.  But you can’t be serious.   Do you really think one man is going to make a difference?  And, what will happen to me?  What will happen to the farm?  I can’t manage on my own.’

         ‘There’s no need to worry.  I’ve arranged for some help.’

         Suddenly, I felt so angry I could have hit him.   ‘And what sort of help would that be, pray?   A pensioner?   Or perhaps the local half-wit?   Or maybe you’re thinking of Bill Rogers.  He’d be a great asset.  He could use his wooden leg to plant the spuds.’

         He shook his head, my sarcasm bouncing off him.   

         ‘There’s the prisoner of war camp down the road.  One of them’ll be drafted. I’ve arranged it with the Sergeant at the camp.  He’s a mate of mine.’  He stared harder at the wall.   Then I knew he was wrong.  He was a coward; he couldn’t even look at me.

  I knew all about the camp.  Newly opened, it had been thrown up to house the increasing number of German Luftwaffe pilots shot down from our skies.    Its presence had caused great consternation in the village and if the rumours were to be believed, all its inmates had horns and forked tails.  Once, I’d caught sight of a trickle of them marching in a drab line along the lane.   Immediately, I’d turned and gone the other way, my skin crawling at the thought of their eyes on me.   I hated and feared them: they were Nazis and the newspapers were crammed with stories of their brutality.

‘No Frank. Not in a million years and anyway, surely, that’s not allowed?’ 

‘Yes, it is.   It’s already been okayed.    You’ve got nothing to worry about.  It’s only a small camp and they’ve all been vetted.  None of ‘em are dangerous.  You’ll be all right.  I’ve left you the telephone number, it’s behind the clock.’

I felt my face freeze.

‘I’d rather die.  If you go, I’ll manage on my own.’  

Copyright Janet Baldey  

(To be continued/...)

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Ch 1a

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey

CHAPTER 1a

‘It’s only a few acres, I know.  Thing is to start small and expand. There are already some mature apple trees in the orchard.   We’ll buy a couple of cows in calf for milk, hens for eggs and a pig to fatten.   Any surplus cream you can churn into butter and cheese to sell in the market and next year…. ‘

         I looked at him; my husband of just a few months, the rays of the setting sun filtering through the trees reflected the fire in his face.   With an effort, I dragged my gaze away and towards the small cottage.   To some, it might appear derelict but to me, it was wonderful, my very first home and one that I wouldn’t have to share with scores of others.   I slid my hand into Frank’s and squeezed.   We could do it, Frank and I.   I was absolutely sure of it.

For a few years, we were happy.   We worked until we dropped but Frank’s predictions seemed to be coming true.   He leased a couple of extra acres and planted potatoes and beet.   We even had a bit of money in the bank.  Life was good and getting better.   Then, so gradually that at first, we didn’t notice, a shadow crept across our sun.   

         Neither Frank nor I were great newspaper readers, we were too busy for that but we bought one occasionally, usually on a Sunday, reading it over a late breakfast after we’d done the milking.   Gradually, its news became increasingly bleak until even we began to realise that, in the world outside our own, things were going badly wrong.   The name ‘Hitler’ became familiar and every edition carried pictures of an odd-looking little man with oily black hair, sporting a comic-book moustache from behind, there was the occasional glimpse of a petulant mouth.     

         ‘Don’t like the sound of this. That chap is getting too big for his boots.’  Frank dipped a piece of fried bread into his egg and lifted it to his mouth, the yolk dripping from his fork.

         ‘What’s he done now?’

         ‘According to this’, he shook the paper at me, ‘not content with Austria and Czechoslovakia, Hitler’s now threatening to invade Poland.  It’s causing quite a stir.’

         ‘Oh, surely that’s all talk.  He wouldn’t go that far.  That would raise a hell of a stink and he’d never risk another war.’

Although Frank and I were both too young to remember the Great War, we knew that Germany had been thoroughly thrashed, and had become a crushed and broken nation.   But then Hitler had risen to power and his belligerent speeches caught the world’s attention, although most ordinary folk didn’t take him seriously.   He was just another crank and surely, only a lunatic would dream of putting their country at risk so soon after the last disaster.  Anyway, the German people wouldn’t stand for it.  At least that’s what we thought, but it gradually became clear we might be mistaken and soon photographs of massed ranks of steel helmeted soldiers goose-stepping in honour of their Fuhrer, struck a chill in our hearts.

         It was a worrying time.  Every time we attended church it was a little more crowded; it was clear that people were getting the wind-up, especially those with sons.  Whenever Frank got back from the village pub, he barely got in through the door before blurting out the latest rumours, his face flushed and his eyes almost feverish.  But it’s only with the benefit of hindsight that I look back on those evenings and wonder if he wasn’t a trifle too excited and that maybe the shine in his eyes wasn’t entirely due to cider.   At the time, in all innocence, I did my best to play things down.

         ‘Don’t worry.  I’m sure it won’t come to anything.  I think he’s just full of wind.’

         But I was wrong and I’ll never forget that bright September day, eighteen months later, when we sat, glued to the wireless, listening to Chamberlain’s tired voice.  Hitler had ignored his ultimatum and the broadcast ended with sombre music.   Without saying a word, Frank reached forward and switched off the radio.   The carefree twittering of the birds outside seemed out of place as we looked at each other in dumbstruck silence.   We were at war with Germany again and we just couldn’t believe it.

         At first, a jittery silence enveloped the whole country as we waited for the next blow.   But, as the months passed very little happened and we got on with our lives.   In our remote district, this was all too easy. We’d always felt separated from the rest of the country.   We had our ways and they had theirs. We just got on with it.  True, food began to get a bit scarce but that did us, farmers, a good turn.   Our produce was in great demand, although we always kept enough back for ourselves and lived well.   The meat was scarce but with the occasional poor layer for Sunday dinner, we didn’t go short.  Anyway, the meadows abounded with rabbits and every morning Frank went out with his gun, as did most of the villagers.   The fields around us rang with the sound of death; it was like living in our very own war zone.  

In fact, it wasn’t until the Germans invaded France that we really started to worry; suddenly, the Channel seemed very narrow. Things went from bad to worse, culminating in the disaster that was Dunkirk and it was during this time that I first noticed a change in Frank.  Although everyone’s heart went out to the soldiers marooned on those windswept beaches, Frank’s reaction was out of proportion.   Their plight seemed to seep into his very soul.   As soon as he got back in the evenings, he’d retreat into the front room, switch on the wireless and sit listening, his face intent and still as if carved from stone.   Once I went to tell him that supper was ready; I touched his shoulder and he jumped as if he’d been scalded.   At the time, I didn’t take much notice; I thought he was just worried about the war in general.  I know I was.   During those dark days, we all felt vulnerable and the threat of invasion lurked in the back of everybody’s minds.  Partly to reassure myself, I tried to jolly him along.

‘Don’t worry love.  Our brave boys won’t let us down.’ Much later, I thought this was quite the wrong thing to have said.

One night, having gone to bed with only silence for company, a sudden crack of thunder split the heavens and I sat bolt upright, barely able to breathe in the sultry air.    Feeling a hint of panic, I turned to Frank but his side of the bed was still empty and when I ran my hands over the sheets they were quite cool.  Quickly, I slipped out of bed.   The cottage’s thick walls had trapped the heat and as I padded downstairs it was like wading through treacle.    I heard the low mutter of the wireless and found him in our tiny ‘best’ room, that we kept for visitors.   The polished oilcloth felt slippery under my bare feet as I stood in the doorway.   Sitting bolt upright on one of the shiny leatherette armchairs, staring straight ahead, Frank’s face was blank.  Mechanically, he was taking sips from his cigarette, its scarlet eye waxing and waning in the half-light.   It was three in the morning and we rose at five.

‘Frank, what are you doing?’

         Starting, as if waking from a dream, he turned his head. 'Couldn’t sleep. Too hot.’

         Clicking off the radio, he got up and came back to bed but neither of us slept again.  Once, I moved towards him but he shrugged me off and after that we both lay as stiff as planks, listening to the birds as the sky lightened.

         As the weeks went by we carried on working side by side but, brick by brick, I could feel him building a wall around himself.  Our easy banter was gone and he seemed to have forgotten how to laugh.

         Gradually all the joy drained out of my life.  Frank became increasingly distant and even worse, subject to black moods.  I found myself tiptoeing around him for fear of saying the wrong thing and unwittingly setting off another volcanic bout of temper when he would storm and rage and eventually disappear for hours on end.   I never knew where he went and never asked; to be honest his absence grew to be a relief.   But I did worry.  This was so unlike the Frank I’d married.

         One evening he was late for supper.  Inevitably it was rabbit but, for once, my pastry had risen like a dream and when I cut into it the golden crust fell away in soft flakes.   I could have saved myself the trouble.  Thursday was Frank’s ‘pub night.’   The one evening of the week that he allowed himself off, spending a couple of hours chewing the rag with his friends.  Although Frank didn’t drink much alcohol, he was far too conscious of how his mother had ended up for that when at last the cottage door opened, it was obvious he’d had a drop too much.  He swayed slightly as he crossed the room and there was a strong smell of cider on his breath.

(to be continued)

Copyright Janet Baldey

THE CHOICE

THE CHOICE

by Rosemary Clarke

"Are they really magical?"
"Metaphorically speaking."
I looked at the three jumpers in front of me neatly folded on the table they looked the same, creamy colour soft and shaggy, but if you looked closer you could spot that they're made of different types of wool.
"So what animals were sheared to make these?"
The old woman stopped knitting and put her needles and unfinished work into the basket.

 "This one is made from camel hair; wearing this you will always spit, metaphorically speaking, on any problem but you will have plenty,” She said. 

 “This one is goat, wearing this you will always complain and make people feel sorry for you, but there will be plenty of people in your life,” She paused. 

“This one is sheep's wool; you will be hidden from problems and from good people but you will be safe, although alone.  You can only choose one and be that person forever."
"Metaphorically speaking?"
"No, so what will it be?"

She picked up each jumper, feeling it against her face and thinking as she held each one; she'd hardly ever complained, in fact, she should complain more but she couldn't bear people to feel sorry for her, the Angora wool did feel soft and comforting.  Would she like people to feel sorry; it didn't mean they'd help if she had trouble and anyone can feel sorry while not lifting a hand, no she couldn't be miserable it wasn't in her nature.  The soft sheep's wool bounced lightly under her fingertips like lambs jumping in a meadow but hiding; she would only do that if really necessary, a sort of calming down before facing the world again, but alone?  Alone she could handle but no problems meant no adventure, no working out no growing...she smiled suddenly; as long as there weren't too many at a time, problems were good.  Lastly, she held the Camel hair; it was coarser than the rest, harder wearing and if she knew how to spit on her problems instead of worrying they shouldn't be too bad.
She turned to the old woman holding out the Camel hair jumper.
"This is the one; if I learn to spit on my problems, whatever happens, I can handle it."

The old woman smiled knowingly.

Copyright Rosemary Clarke

JINN AN EVIL SPIRIT

JINN AN EVIL SPIRIT

By Peter Woodgate  

So here I am, hanging onto the railings of the Golden Gate Bridge, looking down at the cold dark waters of San Francisco bay.

    I am somewhat disappointed as I notice that, the advertised addition to this iconic bridge, is now securely in place. A safety net, stretching along the length of both sides and installed to prevent idiots, like me, jumping into oblivion.

Oh well, I’ll just have to figure out another way to end my miserable life. How did I get to this level of desperation? You may ask, well, I don’t anticipate being in this world much longer so I had better get on with the answer.

    It all started about three months ago, it was a day like many others and I was on my way home after a hard day in the city. That sounds exciting but I don’t want you to think I’m a financial wizard, the fact is, I sell vacuum cleaners, or at least I try. I had sold two that day, which was about par for the course, the commission from which would see me scrape through with my minimum target.

My wife would not be happy as these mediocre sales of late would not allow savings for “that special holiday” I had been promising for months. No, I began to feel a bit low as I approached the Robin Williams tunnel; this is the barrier between San Francisco and Marin County and a further thirty miles to my home town of Novato.

    I began thinking about poor Robin, such a great actor and yet he was unable to free himself from tragedy. What causes such depression? I asked myself. I’d pulled myself together as I approached the tunnel exit knowing the sign for Sausalito would soon be in view. I love Sausalito, a quaint little town nestling in the hills in a north-west corner of the bay. The Marina was always packed with beautiful yachts and the little high street yielded plenty of places for refreshments and a few shops.

    It was as I exited the tunnel that I started to feel the car pulling to the right. I was having to hold the wheel really tight to avoid moving into the inside lane and as I reached the exit for Sausalito I decided that there must be a problem with the car and let it take the slip road exiting the highway. Once on the slip road, the car was back to normal steering and as I took a right turn heading into Sausalito I thought how strange, but whilst I’m here, I may as well pop in to see my friend who worked in a bar along the front.

I parked in the town’s little car park and set off down the street towards the bar.

If it wasn’t for the fact that it was getting dark I probably would have missed it but as I passed this previously innocuous shop I was drawn in by the flashing red lights. I looked at the words as they flickered annoyingly, they spelt out “Carol’s Curios I sell everything guaranteed.” I found myself inexplicably pushing open the door and entering. I was met by a musty odour and the sight of hundreds of antique odds and sods.

   “Hello, I’m Carol,” a rather plump lady grinned at me from behind the counter, “everything here 50% off for today” she continued in a somewhat musical tone. I looked at the pile of dusty books on a table in front of me.

    “Go on have a look at them,” Carol gave me a smile as she extended her hand toward the books, “you won’t find these titles anywhere and you get them for 50% off, priceless.”

Feeling rather embarrassed I started to look at the titles, “Body at the foot of the cliff” by Eileen Dover, “The Haunted House by Hugo Furst, How to get rich by Robin Banks and Gone with the Wind by Donald Trump.

    “You have to be joking” I turned round to face Carol with a wry smile on my face, “these are made upright?”

“No, no” she replied, “they are all first editions and you get 50% off today.”

I was about to make a hasty retreat to the door when a bottle on the shelf behind her caught my eye. It was made of dark glass and was sealed by a clip stopper.

It looked quite old and the somewhat faded label had the words JINN A SPIRIT written on it, in bold capitals. “What’s that bottle there?” I pointed to the shelf over her shoulder. Carol was rather hesitant as she replied.

“Oh that,” she acted sheepishly as she took the bottle down and placed it on the counter. “This bottle” she explained, “has been in my family for over 200 years, I’ve been told that once opened it could be detrimental to my health and here it is still intact.”

“But what’s in it?” I asked Carol.

“It’s what the label says, that’s all I can tell you,” she replied.

I immediately thought of that stupid advert “it does exactly what it says on the tin.” I then looked at the words again, JINN, perhaps it used to be spelt like that 200 years ago. I was now completely curious about what this bottle contained.

After all, spirits are supposed to mature with age and this was certainly not young.

“How much do you want for it?” I asked, not wanting to appear too keen.

She hesitated for a moment before answering, “well it is priced at 20 dollars but, don’t forget the 50% off so it’s yours for 10. However, Carol Paused; I must get you to sign this disclaimer in which you agree that you have been warned of the potential dangers of opening this bottle.”

“Of course,” I said, “I don’t think I shall have any problems handling this little beauty, in fact, I will go home right away, can’t wait to sample the contents.”

I thanked Carol and left the shop heading straight back to the car and then home.

It might have been my imagination, but I felt sure the car ran more smoothly than it had for years and in no time at all, I was pushing the key into my front door lock.

    “I’m home,” I shouted out, expecting a curt reply, but nothing. Just silence until Molly, the cat, rushed past me hissing venomously. I walked into the kitchen and placed the bottle on the table, it was then I saw the envelope.

I picked it up and tore it open using my forefinger. I was never very good at opening envelopes and, as well as making a right mess of it managed to cut myself. I unfolded the letter and read the message in disbelief, my cut paled into insignificance as the words I HAVE LEFT YOU pierced my brain.

“The silly cow has gone and left me,” I shouted.  Molly, however just looked at me and hissed like a demented Banji.

    I slumped into a chair, feeling dejected and looked at the bottle on the table.

Time to get plastered, I thought, as I pulled the bottle towards me. As mentioned before it was one of those bottle-tops with spring clips each side and this ensured it remained air-tight. I released both clips eagerly and pulled the stopper out, making a loud pop. what happened next was beyond belief as white mist began streaming from the bottle. I stood there, mouth open, eyes staring, thinking, someone has bottled the famous San Francisco fog. The mist began to twist like a mini-tornado, then Poof, it turned into a little figure. It was about twelve inches in height, floating crossed legged and wearing just pantaloons and a turban.

    I was flabbergasted, but quickly came to my senses, “are you a genie?” I asked, “and do I get three wishes?”

“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” the little man replied, “I am a Jinn from Muslim Demonology, Genii are made up for children’s stories. After all, you wouldn’t have me terrorizing little kids, would you?. “No, you don’t get three wishes, if you did the first would probably be, I wish I hadn’t opened that bottle. You, my friend, will be horrified to know that you must obey my every command, and I, being evil, they will not be very pleasant.”

    So there you are, since that fateful day, I have been forced to carry out every evil deed imaginable, hence I have come to the end of my tether. Now that I find my initial plan has been scuppered I am moving away from the edge of the bridge and I am about to throw myself in front of this huge truck heading my way. I close my eyes and jump.

    What's this?  I am waking up; it has all been a dream. I am slumped over the table my fingers outstretched towards an empty bottle, the label spells out Gin.

I feel like death but am, thankfully, alive and begin to think logically.

It is known as “Mother’s Ruin” and no matter how you spell it, too much can destroy your life. 

   Copyright Peter Woodgate  

THE SPIDER’S WEB Ch 2

THE SPIDER’S WEB

By Bob French

CHAPTER TWO – BEIJING, CHINA

The mood on the top floor of CIA headquarters at Langley mimicked the uncertain weather outside; a storm was coming.  Harry Miller put the phone down and waited for the knock on his office door. It only took her two minutes to reach his office and he yelled when he heard her tap.

            “Come!”  Emily Michaels pushed the office door open and strode in; confident and not out of breath, having just run up three flights of stairs.

            “Sir?” Her Chief of Operations looked up and smiled.  Emily had completed 6 years in the US Marine Corps, reached the rank of Captain and had been awarded two Bronze Stars for outstanding gallantry in Afghanistan. When she ended her service, she went back to Harvard to complete her Masters in chemistry.  It was there that the CIA spotted her and five years later she was a fully qualified agent with a Masters Degree.

            “Sit.  We have a telex from our office in Beijing. They got a problem on their plate and don’t know what to do.”  He paused whilst he took a swig of his cold coffee.  “Do you remember the bugs that went viral in 2002 and again in 2014?”  She nodded.

            “The SARS and the MERS Sir; killed a lot of people around the world.”

            “Well according to this telex, it’s happened again.  It looks like the Chinese didn’t clean up properly after the first two viruses, and now they have a more deadly virus in country.”

            “The Pentagon thinks that both outbreaks were as a result of some kind of biological warfare test by the Chinese military.  The first test did not impress the MSS, the Ministry of State Security in Beijing, the second was an improvement.  Our boys in Beijing think that this is similar to the previous two viruses, only this time, they think that there has been some sort of accident and the virus has been carried outside its initial confinement area.”  He stared at Emily, then glanced at his watch.

            “There’s a chopper outside.  You got an hour to get your crap together and be on the 12:45 out of Norfolk.  Bud Westerbrooken will meet you in Beijing.  I want to know what the hell is going on.”

            The air was warm and clammy, as she stepped down from the TWA Air Bus.  Before she had reached the tarmac of Beijing, a burly, clean-shaven man, with very short hair caught her eye.  The second her foot hit the tarmac, she was ushered into the back seat of a blacked-up BMV cruiser.  The door slammed and she was thrown back into her seat as it accelerated out of the airport.  The man glanced in his rearview mirror. “Bud Westerbrooken, Section Chief. Welcome to Beijing Emily.  Hope you managed to grab a bite?  We start right away.”

            The CIA office was in the same compound as the American Embassy in the Chaoyang District of Beijing. Once inside, Bud guided her to the briefing room in the bowls of the building where several men sat waiting.

            “Right Guys. This is Emily Michaels from Langley.  She’s a chemist.  Right Abraham you kick-off.”  She had just sat down when Abraham, a tall bearded man with deep brown eyes pushed back his chair and flicked on the overhead projector.

            “OK.  We think that the Chinese are trying to create the ultimate chemical warfare weapon, that when released, will kill thousands, if not millions of people within a couple of weeks.  We’ve discovered that the centre of this latest outbreak is in the province of Wuhan, about a thousand clicks south of here and five hundred west of Shanghai.”  Emily leant forward.

            “What evidence do we have that this virus is a biological weapon?”

            Bud took the lead. “Back in 2002, the SARS epidemic kicked-off in the Guangdong Province. It mainly infected Far Eastern countries. Then in 2012 the MERS virus erupted in the Middle East with the same effects. Now, the same type of virus has erupted in Wuhan Province.  We looked into the spread of the first virus and we think we discovered the reason it only spread in the Far East.  The Chinese authorities had invited about twenty or so people from a variety of settlements in the Guangdong province to go on a free state-run holiday.  According to our records, these were the carriers and none of them returned.  Same thing with the second virus.  People were invited to take part in a competition.  The winners got to go on a free holiday to the Middle East.  Once again, none of them returned.”

            Abraham cut in.  “My theory is they are testing its effectiveness.  Each strain has become stronger.  If we can believe the reports, this latest virus appears to be very strong.”

            Bud cut him short.  “This is speculation.  If it’s an accident, we need to know the extent of the spread.  If it’s a weapon, we need to know its capabilities.  Either way we need to know everything there is to know about it.”

            “Have the Chinese Government made a statement?”

            “Their official line is that this virus has been caused by ‘wet markets’ where the hygiene standards are so poor, it’s allowed the virus to jump from animal to humans and they've tried to contain it, but lost control.”  No one spoke for a while.  Emily glanced down at the notes she had made on the plane.

            “Who else knows about the extent of this virus to date?”

            Bud stood, “As far as we know, no one, but it won’t be long before CNN, the BBC or Al Jazeera gets wind of it.  Emily, your job is to infiltrate the province of Wuhan and find out what really is going on and damned fast.”

            “Am I safe out there?”  The room fell into silence. Bud spoke again.

            “As far as we know, the State Police and the MSS are on the ground, besides, you have a diplomatic passport, so no one should bother you unless you start walking around taking pictures.”

            “What about the underworld; the Triad’s, The Company, or even the Russian’s.”

            Bud grinned.  Hell, at this stage even the Russians don’t know about this outbreak yet.”

Copyright Bob French

(To be Continued)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.