THE GUARDSMAN: Book 1: Honor of the Fallen – Chapters 17-19

Welcome to the adventure!

Your newest SciFi, Mystery, Thriller started YESTERDAY AFTERNOON!  If you missed it, please feel free to click back to the beginning, or read on and see if you like what you’ve found & loop back later! 😉

This page is for those who wish to READ the full Guardsman book series here for free.

If you would like to listen to the author-narrated version OR own your copy please click HERE…

Enjoy!

The Guardsman, Book 1: Honor of the Fallen:

Chapter 17)

Samson was grateful that the irritation was finally slowing to a stop after a longer-than-usual shower. He was typically frugal in the shower. This time he took the time and enjoyed the much larger shower enclosure and water that did not irritate his eyes.

Interestingly, not only had the water been clear but it produced no additional irritation, like the water in his apartment did. The pressure held steady, and it stayed warm too. Samson’s mental list of things to do was growing by the minute as the nano defenses continued to sweep his system and his brain came back to its full faculties again.

The towel at the base of the door and the overpressure from the ventilation system in the bedroom of the suite did a better-than-expected job of keeping the air clean, and Saffron Pot free. That little luxury, added to the cool clean air from the circulation system, made the room extremely pleasant. He was feeling good as he walked around the bedroom, drying off with a thick towel.

The man who was now ‘John Smith’ rolled over several nagging questions from work, which would be a true irritation tomorrow morning. He walked through several ‘to-do’ items that could justify his ‘tardy’ to ‘very late’ appearance to work. He was paid for the job. Why that control freak idiot of a boss jumped on people for not showing up on time was something John did not understand.

Until the last six months the man who had been ‘Samson Rockpoint’, and was now condemned as merely a ‘John Smith’, had experienced total freedom in the performance of his duties. As long as his objectives were achieved, his commander’s intent was satisfied, and all moral, legal, and ethical obligations and standards in the performance of duty were maintained, he never heard a cross word in his whole military career.

If you were late to class because the one prior ran over time, it was your own responsibility to catch up on the missed notes and work. Combat training for all levels of hand-to-hand, weapons, vehicles, and tactics never ran to time, that was always ‘do it until you get it right, then do it a bunch more times to make sure it stays right’. Once those tasks were perfected, they were continually studied, refined, and retrained to maintain and improve upon perfection.

Samson thought back to active combat duty status during his mandatory Guardsman combat rotations and shrugged to himself. He conceded that that had been to time schedules. You did not want to be the idiot who started the attack while the artillery shells were still inbound. Samson also grudgingly accepted the need for discipline in his new civilian world. Even if stupid civilians did not know what they were doing or why, he refused to allow himself to accept the hypocrisy of castigating his new boss for standards he himself had maintained zealously.

The man had a business to run after all. That was his boss’s livelihood, and since the man was now higher than ‘John Smith’ on the social strata, which was the end of that. ‘John’ worked for the man. Samson grunted and decided to appreciate his irritating boss a little more. Samson was still adjusting to his new role as a ‘John Smith’. He needed to live with more quiet dignity and less of his haughty self-righteous attitude.

His own moral construct directed him to behave better than he had been acting. His recent hypocrisy bothered him. Samson Rockpoint and ‘John Smith’ both should have been better behaved than he had been the last few months. He actually had been behaving like a ‘John Smith’.

He ran his hands through his hair and did not feel the telltale greasiness from the expelled nano-gunk.

He thought about school sporting events where he was evaluated as a child to continue training as a Guardsman. Those started on timed schedules too. He mentally kicked himself again.

Samson was just pointlessly irritating himself now.

He decided one more shower and soaping should have him free of nano-gunk. By then the final fraction of a percent of the toxins remaining processed out of his system would be too small to notice.

He strolled back into the warm bathroom, tossed the wet towel into a corner, and set a new one on the towel rack by the shower. He turned the water back on and flicked his hand through the still-warm water for the second shower.

Life was so much more bearable when a prick boss was to blame. Now he had to shoulder many of his recent employment, and difficulties with co-workers, squarely on his own arrogant shoulders. Samson wondered if this humbling experience was what working stiffs felt every day.

He decided he preferred combat to commuting. At least in combat, he could go shoot bad guys when someone pissed him off.

Samson felt completely different when he left the bathroom the second time. The towel tucked around his middle and the second in his hand, getting wet from his hair. Even after Persephone’s typical artful work on his mop early that morning he still carried more hair than he was used to. She had cut and faded a nice artful and almost styled look. When Samson was on his own, he typically set the trimmers at one short length and ripped everything off his head, in a few hacking passes.

Once upon a time he could run his hand over his head, watch the water spirits out, and be dry seconds later. Now he needed a towel like some little girl. All thanks to the hair she had left on the top of his head. She would say she liked running her fingers through it, so he rubbed the towel over his new haircut and decided he liked it when she ran her fingers through his hair.

Samson realized that he had not cut his own hair, except during the last six months, for over five years. Persephone had done it almost that whole time. She had made some crack about how terrible his hair looked after he had cut it. She had not stopped teasing him about how she hoped he had not paid anything for it until Samson had playfully snapped, at his then sixteen-year-old charge, that the next time she should do it to see if she could do any better. She had cut it ever since. He had to admit that she did do a nicer job than he could ever manage.

The doorknob bounced and flipped back into place followed immediately by a loud thump, a groan, and muffled, “Ouch, that hurt,” chased immediately by giggling he recognized as Persephone’s. The door fumbled again, this time it scraped across the towel as Samson shook his head and smiled. He pulled the towel back with his toes and Persephone crashed into the door jam, smacking her shoulder and forehead. “Ouch… Oh! It feels all tingly.”

Samson caught her, twisted her out of her tangled state between the door and frame, propped her against the wall, then closed and locked the door. When he bent over to replace the towel, at the base of the door, Persephone slapped the back of his head, “I like your hair short, you big ogre. And keep it that way.”

He reminded, “You cut it remember, or is that an order, little queen?” Samson tucked her into his arms and maneuvered her to the bed. On the way, she lost her shoes, with much squirming and giggling.

While he was pulling the sheets back to deposit her, Persephone retorted, “How dare you demote me peasant, as handsome as you are! I am Empress of the known Universe and even the ones we don’t know.” She flung her shirt as if to punctuate her delivery, “They just don’ know it yet!”

Placating the loopy girl, He agreed, “Okay little Empress. We can talk to your mother about that when we get you home.”

Persephone giggled as she caressed Samson’s face, neck, and chest, “She is only keeping my chair warm for me. Now all I need to do is find myself an Emperor worthy of my interests.” She purred her sexy intoxicated purr and asked, “Do you know where I could find any?”

Samson asked dryly, “Have you tried employment agencies?”

She made a face, and snapped, “No! Those dreadful places are too impersonal!” Wistfully she sighed, “I was thinking of more intimate interviews. With only one pre-screened candidate, for example, that is,” Persephone yawned happily as she snared Samson’s head and shoulders and pulled him close, “Less paperwork that way.”

Needling her, Samson asked, “Oh, so now the Empress of the known Universe is worried about a few trees?”

She dreamily tickled her fingers along the back of his neck, “No just my pretty fingernails and nice soft hands. Paperwork is so messy of course.” Persephone was so close during their wonderful kiss he could smell her core, feel her heart race, and inhale her warm sweet breath during their kiss. Samson realized as her pretty fingernails and soft hands passed his waistline that she had not only managed to pop the last clasp on her skirt but managed to snake her hands around and slip the fold of his towel. “I’ve missed you so much…”

Chapter 18)

“Vladimir Dominio Lee? Let me guess, you are a second-plus generation failure and your mom and dad decided to fix that with the name. And you joined the Ground Warfare Support Corporation to erase the ‘stain’.”

The elder stated, with a shrug, “Got it in one.” And then stated flatly, “Then, I got blown up.”

Samson laughed, “Well yeah! But you left out a bunch of parts in between. And just a tad bit after, like fifty-eight years’ worth.”

The old soldier shrugged dismissively, “There is a lot to tell… and no one is ever interested in hearing some old fart ramble on about his worthless life in the mists.”

Samson swirled the brandy in his glass, “Bullshit, you are just advertising to the wrong clientele.” The long pregnant pause was interrupted by Vladimir’s equally long and extremely loud bark of laughter. “Where the hell did you get this brandy? This drink smells and tastes real, though I do need to admit brandy for breakfast is a new one for me.”

The correction arrived, “Bullshit! Wait no, never mind, you are a new arrival in ‘Mist-Land’. I guess you just have not learned that there are no day and night here. They are made-up concepts, spun into commercials with pretty dancing girls and sweet-sounding jingles, by sun-side corporate fat cats, to sell us alarm clocks.

It was Samson’s turn to bark a laugh and take a drink. “Where did you find this?! How much did this run you, this is really good stuff, I do not imagine it fell like mana from heaven. That is an awful long drop for a bottle to survive. I need to get a bottle.”

The old gray man shrugged and mumbled, “Thousand.”

Samson snapped, “You paid a thousand a bottle for this!”

The elder corrected with disdain, “No, you dumb shit. I’m a distributor and I have that little bar out back. Remember? I buy by the case and sell the bottles for seven fifty.”

Samson agreed, “Twelve bottles to a case, I guess that will keep the lights on for a few days.”

Vlad barked a laugh in return, “Yeah right, like I have bothered to pay an electric bill in six decades.”

Samson rolled his eyes and killed his second glass that morning, and admitted, “Damn.” Persephone was sound asleep after their two hard romps the night before, while she still carried the effects of the Saffron Pot and wanted to enjoy her body full of tingling sensations. She had almost killed Samson. Then again, slow, and soft, in the morning, before she fell back to sleep.

Samson pulled a stack of bills from his pocket and tossed eight hundred credit bills onto the desk.

Vlad scoffed, offering, “Put your money away, you’re not paying for these drinks.”

Samson corrected, “No, I’m not. I want to buy another bottle for myself.” Samson placed his glass back on the counter for a refill and Vlad matched him, with his own glass. Samson smirked and let out, “Besides, it’s those kids’ money. Didn’t you see me rob all those rich kids last night? I took eight ten-K credit coins off them and paid a thousand credits for the room, security, and gratuity. That’s a nice little margin on the night for me.” 

Vlad shook his head and smiled, “Fair enough, we can kill this bottle and you get the one to go on the kids’ dime.”

Samson prompted, “I do have two questions for you if you do not mind. Both are curiosity only. One is simple, the other is a little more complicated.”

Vlad bargained, “Fine, but I get to ask one ‘easy’ and one ‘complicated’ question also.”

Eyeing the old swindler, Samson finally agreed, “Deal. First question, how the hell did you fix the hole I made in your counter?”

The elder exclaimed, shaking his head, “Damn you are dumb!” He then reconsidered and speculated, “Maybe just new, I have to keep reminding myself. We will see. I used a ‘plastic press’. It is just a clamp that heats and squishes the plastic back together. I just put a few shavings in there from other chunks of plastic and crushed them together. It heats to below the melting point, but above where the plastic starts to get pliable. It only takes a few minutes, and the hole is fixed. It makes it so I only need to find plastic colored like I want, not whole intact pieces that have fallen to the ground, in the exact shape I need. Why do you think it is so rough? Look what you did to my face, you barbarian. It is from all the patches I have done over the years. You are not the first to put a hole in my counter, I must admit, you are the first to do it with a knife, that you snuck past my bouncers, that is for sure.”

Samson shrugged and admitted, “Sorry about that, but you pissed me off. Your turn for a question Vlad.”

Vlad prompted, “Here is an easy one. How in the hell did you get augments? I know about the repair shop rebuilds, but augments are expensive. They do not just give those out.”

Samson answered, without preamble or hesitation, “I was a Guardsman.”

Shocked, Vlad blurted, “What the hell is a Guardsman doing down here, and why the hell is your name John Smith?”

Samson reminded, “That is two questions, and you are out of turn, Vlad.”

Vlad mumbled, “Fine, your turn to ask.”

Making his next move, Samson asked, “My bigger question is how do you get the power and clean water and all the amenities down here? You have everything. And the water is cleaner than my apartment which is in a corporate tower, and that is in a building structure and at the mist line. It is interior, so I do not have a window, but I still live inside a building. I have been thinking about that all night.”

Vlad casually informed, “I jacked into the systems. Water and data are easy, find a pipe or box with what you want, preferably under a structure, so your hack is not crushed by falling debris or crashing wrecks. You make a hole, attach your pipes and you are in. Electric connections are a little harder.”

Samson exclaimed, “I’ll say! Those are liquid-cooled superconducting mega lines! One mistake and you freeze-fry your hands off even through gloves. Another mistake and you explode into giga-volt charred scavenger food.”

Vlad confirmed, “Didn’t you listen when I told you yesterday that I was a fuel cell tech?”

Recalling, Samson acknowledged, “Yes… Oh, never mind, I get it. Superconducting mega lines are run on the same principles as superconducting liquid fuel cells when they convert energy from cell to vehicle. So, you took that small connection between the vehicle and fuel cell, copied the plan, and made it longer. Instead of being just a fuel cell with a short superconducting transfer to the vehicle, you extended the fuel cell connection’s length so you could work with it safely away from the main lines. I bet you ran it to some conventional electric junction box you set up here and you split it to the restaurant, hotel, and club.”

Vlad accepted, “You got it in one. There may be hope for you yet. My skills are highly valued down here. I was nothing but a crippled pile of dirt up above and stumbled down here with friends after work one day. I had no attachments and no prospects. Most of the shanties were running generators or battery banks. I realized what I could build down here. I bought all the basic tools I would need with my savings and an advance on my campaign residuals. I started building all of this a little over fifty-five years ago.” When he finished a few seconds passed before Vlad’s eyes flicked up, over Samson’s left shoulder.

As he turned to see who was behind him, a soft loving hand ran over Samson’s head hair and back down his neck, while the rest of Persephone settled in his lap. She looked stunning last night while they were out, but this morning, without the make-up, in just a simple robe with sleep clothes under, and flat simple shoes she was breathtaking. She mumbled, “I’ve been looking for you.”

The elder spoke flatly, “Oh, I see now.”

Vlad’s comment snapped Samson out of the trance he had fallen into when he looked into her eyes, “Shit.”

Confused, Persephone asked, “What’s wrong Samson?”

Vlad answered for Samson, drawing Persephone’s mild irritation, but stronger curiosity, “He is upset because you just answered my next question for me, and now I get to ask him one more, that is much more interesting. And he is honor bound to answer in payment for trade.”

Visibly confused, she told them both, “I do not understand. Payment for what? You have our money from last night.”

Like it was the most obvious thing in the world he told her, “Information, Lass. We are asking questions back and forth, and we cannot let the other get a better hand because everything down here is a dance between predators. The first one that slips becomes lunch. Now I have a decided advantage over him because he only has two answers, and I have two now thanks to your arrival and am about to have my third when I ask the next question.”

Confused, Persephone asked, “What did I answer? All I said was ‘I was looking for him’ and ‘I asked what’s wrong’.”

Nodding at her, Vlad offered, “Yes, you did. That is all you said. But you told me a lot more. That was a lover’s touch, and now you are sitting not with, but on him. He was a Guardsman, drummed out of service and you just answered for me the ‘why’, which would have been a very interesting question to hear him answer.”

She asked, still perplexed, “How did I do that?”

Vlad teased, asking, “She is new, isn’t she? Visitor?”

Admitting weakness, Samson sighed as he answered, “Yes, she is Vlad. Please, take it easy on her; she does not know the rules of the game.”

The old spider practically salivating at the opportunity, “Fine, since you paid for the next bottle.” Both men took a drink, and Persephone plucked Samson’s glass from his fingers, smelled, and sipped Samson’s glass.

Persephone complimented, “That is good Vladimir. It is a little early for brandy though.”

Vlad retreaded the tired old joke, “There is no time down in the fog, young lady, just what we make. So, I can drink whenever I want, and nobody can tell me otherwise.” That early morning joke brought a smile to Persephone’s lovely face while she reclined comfortably, “To answer your question he is here because of you. My guess is that he was your Guardsman, and he touched the forbidden fruit. I suspect a long sordid tale that resulted in his banishment from the light. Now what to ask next. The anticipation sets my lecherous old bones to tingling,” Vlad rubbed his hands together and grinned a mock evil smile at the pair.

Now that she knew the rules of this particular game, she found that they were similar in many ways to corporate courtier politics. Admittedly, there were slightly different forms to this game. It was refreshing because of the drawn blades to the front, instead of shadowed blades behind innocent smiles, or hidden in a crowd, seeking the victim’s back. She sat up to capture the full nuances of the pending question and the questioner. “We are ready, Vladimir. You may ask when you please.”

Vlad was slightly taken aback by the formality of the tone, precise phrasing, and the odd use of what sounded distinctly like a royal ‘we’. Before he caught himself, Vlad uttered, “Who are you?”

Persephone felt Samson’s legs stiffen and his augmented pulse pound beneath her. His left hand drifted from her leg and hip.

Vlad’s eyes flicked to the retreating hand that he knew from the night before hid the ceramic blade his idiot bouncers had missed. Vlad realized he had just asked a very dangerous question, as Samson’s right hand disappeared from view.

Persephone caught and gently reversed the direction of Samson’s hands, slid them back around her slim waist, entwined her fingers from her right into Samson’s left, then secured both his hands in place with her left pressing Samson’s hands to herself. Persephone reclined against Samson and replied simply, “For clarification only, are you asking Samson or myself?”

Correcting her, Vlad snapped, “I’m asking you, lass.”

Persephone giggled mischievously. Samson dreaded where this would end up and groaned slightly. It was always trouble when he followed that laugh anywhere. “Well then Vlad, it seems you have just lost your turn because you broke the rules. You were playing with Samson, not me. So, it looks like you and Samson broke even with two answers each after all.”

Vladimir’s jaw hung open for several moments while his mind caught up with what had just happened to him. “Well, I’ll be a tower barrier fried rat! I just got suckered by a girl at my own game! Well played young lady! Apparently, there is a predator down here smarter than either of us two silly old men!”

Chapter 19)

Persephone questioned, “Samson, where are we?”

Looking around, he mumbled, “We’re in the fog little princess.” Samson checked his bearings as he worked the group from structure to structure, deep in the dark mists. The grayed celestial lighting was next to nothing at this level. Lower-level building lights, and rigged light sources, lit the gray mist-shrouded flickering way from point to point.

Frustrated, Persephone snapped, “I know we are in the fog; I cannot see a thing. And I’m not ‘little princess’.”

Samson checked the last few degrees of his circular security ground scan, to make sure they were not being followed. If things dropped in the pot, he planned on grabbing Persephone and letting the others try and keep up. The predators would eat the stragglers. The sheepish gaggle would never keep up with him, even with her slung over his shoulder. So, they might as well serve the useful purpose of slowing pursuit. Samson replied absently, “You are smaller than me, and a corporate heiress and princess, so yes you are a ‘little princess’.”

Samson spotted the particular constellation of building lights he was looking for, on the horizon.

Getting down into the mists had been easy. Meeting the young nobles, explaining the rules, and getting them to follow the princess to the underworld had been no trouble. They wanted to bask in the glory of her family’s wealth and power, to elevate their own status. But once there and totally surrounded by the mists, the inexperienced group had become totally disoriented.

They wanted to go home. They were getting antsy, and frustrated. Samson paid them no mind and let them twist in the breeze-less mists while they stewed in their own confusion. The condescending pricks could learn that their control and power were fleeting. This was a life lesson for them whether they wanted to participate or not. He was enjoying it slightly. His modest satisfaction never reached his schooled and calm exterior but that little sliver of his persona that chafed under their condescending looks wanted to smirk back at them.

After that morning’s entertaining discussion with Vlad, Persephone, and Samson returned to the suite and went to retrieve his gauss guns and blade. The hung-over youngsters had been nothing but a pack of tirelessly nattering irritations all morning.

When Persephone had contacted and told them where she was planning on going, they had insisted on tagging along. Of course, she knew they would tag along. Since their evening out and ‘private party’ in Persephone’s suite, followed by lack of sleep and their hangovers, they were not enjoying themselves anymore. They routinely cursed Samson, the headaches, the walk, and anything and everything else but their own general lack of self-control and endurance.

Samson mercilessly drove them through the steaming bowels of the empire’s capital city. They passed the squatters and gangs. They passed the ‘free resident’ tenements, which had nothing to do with payments received, and all the other societal support structures that grew around this shadowed parallel society.

The distant constellation of lights was flickering faintly in the distance. Like an ancient mariner Samson was navigating by light constellations, but these lights were produced by humans and not distant stars. Samson counted three more sets of tower base supports between them and the ground transportation hub under those lights. He cursed his luck and the idiot nobles who did not drink the water he had ordered them to finish that morning before leaving.

Persephone was doing fine, she knew and trusted Samson’s judgment implicitly and never argued with him in matters of survival. The others had taken it as an insult to their pampered nobility. One particular fool had drained his water bottle on the floor in front of Samson just to spite him. He was lagging in the rear while cursing the loudest.

The space between the corner base supports of each tower was almost five hundred meters. That meant that it was a little over a kilometer to the transit hub. Samson cursed his luck. Since each tower’s base was an even five hundred meters with a modest gap between buildings, the middle two supports were close together.

Persephone asked, “You said you had to go back to Vlad’s, why?”

Breaking from his distraction, Samson asked, “What? Where did that come from Persephone?”

She stated, “You said earlier that you had to go back to Vlad’s. I think you were talking to yourself, but I heard and have been wondering why?”

Snapping back to reality he answered, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t understand. I missed what you were referring to. Yes, I was griping at myself for buying that second bottle of Brandy and not remembering that I still had to wander around. There was no way in hell was I going to pack that bottle all over the mists, while taking everyone back to the surface.” He lazily wagged his thumb over his shoulder indicating Persephone’s little court behind them that was struggling to keep up. “I know I would just trip over my own feet, and break that expensive bottle, so I could wander around stinking of brandy for the rest of the day.”

She teased, “I guess you were distracted then. Too many wonderful things on your mind?” 

Samson intentionally ignored the innuendo she tried to slip into her feminine wiles. He replied as glibly as he could without going overboard, “That is true; I do have wonderful things on my mind. It was good brandy.”

Samson’s left arm swept forward. Her playful slap missed him without effect but swirled the mists. Still laughing she caught his shoulder and slid her hand down into the crook of his arm so she could walk comfortably warm. Her little travel backpack sling and both hands stealing warmth from Samson. “Is that where we are going in front of us?”

Answering directly, he told her, “Yes, that is the ground transportation hub. We need to pass under the rest of this building and the next before we get to the tracks under the smelter.” A steady drizzle of condensed moisture continued to descend. It made the nobles more irritable, since none of them had bothered packing a change of clothes as he told them, and they were all still in their ‘party gear’, silly shoes, and none of their outfits included over-jackets of any kind. “It is easy to get down here. The trouble is getting back into the buildings. I come down here on business every once in a while and on that last assignment. There were a few others before, so I have some practice. You know I was down here hunting some petty criminal a few days ago. Getting back up is tougher because the systems are in place to keep the things on the ground out. This is my preferred route because the ground transports eventually climb to the upper roads higher in the mist.”

Shocked, she asked, “Really? Do we still use ground transport? I have only seen air transport and military ground units lifting from the port complexes.”

Samson told her, “Yes, we still use them. The majority of it is for bulk supplies and lower value cargoes that cannot be piped from point of origin ‘A’ to destination point ‘B’. It is mostly things from one corporate division to another like plastics, ores, some bulky machinery, and low-value ship components like armor plates or low-value things that are subcontracted from the shipyards to contractors. They are generally things too large to ‘walk away’ on their own and low value enough that they are not really worth stealing. My guess is a lot of the intact things you find down here were lifted from broken-down transports that failed to move fast enough, as the scavengers peck over the carcasses. The tracks and ground roads, for smaller loads, are fairly resistant to flooding. Most of the more valuable but smaller cargoes, the ones that warrant a truck equivalent, can travel the upper-level skyways anyway, so it is mostly those long multi-hundreds of ton bulk trains that are down here.”

Interested, she responded, “Really? I never thought about it before, but you are right. I know we make starships. We have our own major ground formations, and all those subcontractor combat regiments need to buy their arms somewhere and those are all multi-ton vehicles. I suppose that makes a lot of sense. So, the mining corporations dump the minerals down here. When they are processed, they are railed over to the factory corporations that pick up the cars and use the ores, and send finished products out the upper levels?”

Samson answered, “Yes Persephone, that is basically correct. There is no point guarding rocks. When you are sending hundreds of multi-ton cars, no one really cares about a few lost rocks. Who cares if these people down here may pick up some from the trackside? It is cheaper to ‘lose’ the ton of processed materials than to ship that much cargo by a more secure method. Systematically it is cheaper to suffer the minor loss than create a massive additional cost to prevent that tiny theft.” Samson was pleased with their pace. The conversation was helping the two of them cover ground and pass the time. They were entering the open flood base of the second structure.

For the most part, the two of them had managed to stay out of the dripping slime, falling from above. The slime was not really water. It was too thick and slimy. It was condensed water that had picked up oils and cleaning products from above and had algae growing in it too.

The outline of the transit hub was becoming apparent through the mists and large lights. The squat gray outlines of endless train cars and grubby ground service buildings began to grow with every step. The entire terminal was automated by giant arms, giant mechanical rollers capable of shuffling the loaded cars forward, gear, and sprocket rollers under the tracks to assist the forward movement of the entire line. The massive yard connected the center of a spider web of tracks. It was surrounded by the mist which obscured the outlines of the massive mining, mineral, and refining corporation smelting plant. The yard spread farther than was easily comprehensible, and it was impossible to see in the slimy and polluted mists. The whole receiving area operated with an infinitesimally small ground staff that covered and managed hundreds of kilometers of tracks and service facilities.

Curious she asked, “So how do you get in and out Samson? We came down that access ladder but that pulled back automatically into the building after we got off the ladder.”

He answered, “Easy, everything mechanical breaks down. The management does not like it, but I use their maintenance hatches to get onto the habitable levels. I avoid management though. I checked in with the private security identification and they let me pass. They do not even check me for weapons. They figure I’m on contracted business and do not want to ask or know… And I’m just so popular that everyone I meet loves me.”

Persephone pulled her hood closer around her face, and wondered, “You fascinate me, Samson,” as she got closer to the edge of the mining building they were under. Nearby, the massive loading arm arched over the tracks and empty cars like an enormous elephant trunk.

Persephone’s ‘trouble giggle’ pulled him out of his ground scan. “What?”

She leaned in as close as their height difference would allow and whispered, “That looks like a giant penis that pees rocks.”

Shaking his head, Samson corrected, “Woman, you have a one-track mind. If the building ‘peed’ rocks it would hurt. Those sharp rocks would hurt really badly, I would imagine.”

Persephone’s giggling turned to mischievous laughter. Her good spirits in general did nothing to improve the attitudes of her hangers-on. They were paying for their desire to rub elbows with the third most powerful person in the empire. Not only were they being ignored and snubbed in favor of some illiterate peasant, but they were getting wet, cold, and covered in drops of slime. Worst of all they were ruining their expensive club shoes.

Persephone did not care about shoes. People gave them to her all the time for free, generally just to get her attention. Persephone’s attention lasted about as long as a polite ‘thank you’ and it was forgotten as soon as the item was hustled away by some porter to one of her closet rooms. She alone out of the whole group was smart enough to bring a change of clothes and an overnight bag. She had no sympathy for people who could not plan ahead for something as simple as a night out, especially when she told them that they would spend the night down below the mists. That all they brought was silk shirts, frilly pants, leather shoes, or high heels was their problem.

Persephone was the only one in their group who had brought a toothbrush, to say nothing of a change of underwear.

By the time the sodden and haggard motley group reached the far side of the second building and the tracks under the smelter and began to clamber over the various pieces of equipment, they were frayed thin; a broken heel off a high-heel shoe, they had ripped several pairs of pants in ‘compromising’ places trying to climb over rail cars. Never mind the skirts and forced modesty attempts while the unprepared females were being passed from male hands to receiving male hands. How does a girl in club clothes possibly maintain her modesty in that situation? She cannot exactly cross her legs and close her eyes when she is climbing over a rail car. Everyone was exhausted, except Persephone and Samson who had prepared and dressed comfortably, of course.

The haggard group climbed over scores of tracks, around and over cars, when they got their first rest as they waited for a moving train with several hundred cars to pass. They then went around a maintenance building to an access stair. The stairs were well-lit and guarded by two armed and armored security personnel. The thin material of the stair was further secured by a humming pinkish-red field that refracted its light from the beads of moisture in the mist. Its color, volume, and intensity told Samson it was an active incineration field. The pointed rifles were just for the guard’s moral well-being.

Samson had his identification out. He was quickly followed by Persephone; the rest staggered to a halt in an awkward gaggle and fumbled to produce their identification. “Damn your eyes, Miller Lee! You do not recognize me yet?! I passed you every few days for the last three weeks.”

The response came back, “Suck my raging hard-on you jackass! You have nine strays with you this time. What the hell are you up to John?”

Samson responded, “Contracted security escort; the party got a little out of hand.”

Snapping back, he challenged, “Apparently it did. And I suppose you idiots wanna come up then?”

The shuffling and grumbling behind Samson was silenced with a look over his shoulder and was accompanied by Persephone’s warning glance from under her hood that she pulled back with two fingers from her right hand. Samson could not see her face, only the top of her hood but whatever she did silenced complaints instantly. She returned her view to the guards from the shadow of her hood, while she looked up at them on their suspended and secured stairwell.

Samson answered, “Yes, we would like to come up if you can find it in that black rotting heart of yours.”

The top barked back, “Go screw yourself, John. At least my black rotting heart beats your horrible sense of personal hygiene,” Miller slapped an illuminated button that immediately switched from angry red/orange to a mellow blue/green as the security field snapped out of existence. “Well, get your asses up here before the giant bugs make it up the catwalk and we have to decontaminate before going home tonight. I swear if I see one of those nasty suckers on this walk, I will hit this button and fry your asses right along with that creepy crawly.”

Samson groaned, “Miller, someday I’m going to meet you in a dark alley when you do not have armor, a rifle, and a kill switch just so I can beat your ass.” Samson started counting off a hundred credit notes in his pocket while he stood next to Miller, not wanting to pull the whole wad for the world to see. He counted one note per person in the group. He split the stack between Miller and the other man, as the door opened.

Miller scoffed at John’s impotent threat, “Bring any army of drowned club rats you want, and I’ll still kick your ass, you overgrown babysitter.”

Samson smiled at the good-natured ribbing, pushed Miller’s shoulder into the door jamb for grins, and asked, “Hey man, can I steal a piece of paper and pen from your desk?”

Miller offered, “Sure. For two and a half weeks’ pay, to both of us up here, for hitting a button and opening a door, you can have the whole pad of paper. Just leave the pen when you’re done writing.”

Unconcerned, he answered, “No, I just need the one piece. Thanks though.”

As they twisted and turned through the stinking bowels of the ore processing structure, they stirred the ever-present dust that coated everything from electric conduits to ventilation systems that should have worked to cool and ventilate the areas. The piles of dust had been trampled into dunes over the years against every tread and stair of the catwalks where the particles could cling.

Samson spoke in passing and waved to every employee he knew. Persephone was amazed by the casual attitude these people had toward intruders in their workspace. She had always assumed everyone jealously guarded their workstations out of pride and patriotism.

She had never been to a factory before. Not even one where they made ‘clean’ things. Never mind a dirty and dangerous smelting and ore processing center. The place fascinated her.

She tried desperately to trace the flow of materials, and pipes, the twisting catwalks, and the massive cauldrons suspended above their heads moving liquid metal to cooling stations or pouring it into giant things that only seemed to splatter metal and make sparks.

Towards the middle of the twisting winding route, the perspective started to form into a subtle bird’s eye view and things started making sense. The massive smelter took rock and ores from light freighters and tenders into the top of the plant, almost fifteen hundred meters over their heads. It took lots of climbing before that aspect came into view from far below where they started the climb. They were still less than a quarter of the way up. Persephone had completely lost track of time as her mind raced to incorporate all the new sights she was observing, now that the cauldrons and massive iron cooling machinery were no longer obstructing the view. The building digested the rock and ores; the machinery high above crushed the rock. That created all the dust. Then the metals were sifted out from the waste materials. The waste was diverted into giant ‘ducts’ that repeatedly removed more and more waste materials, while continually pulling out useful materials and circulating them up to the top where they would be reincorporated into the smelting process. Separated wastes disappeared into the side of the massive cavern.

Their twisting march up catwalks past brown/gray-faced, near-charred workers, confused Persephone’s sense of direction until she looked down and saw a top view past the lowest smelting cauldrons, to a duct that looked like it could be the inside of the one that passed over the train cars waiting outside.

Her legs began to burn with the exertion. She realized they had climbed almost five hundred meters of stairs. The ridiculous feat of exertion was probably going to cost her most of this week’s ‘friends’, but there would always be more, where these had come from. If they could not keep up with a pampered princess, they could all go and sulk in their plush Corporate Executive suites.

Persephone was too fascinated by what she was seeing to care what they thought at the moment.

She let her hood fall back from her face several hundred meters of stairs before, so she could see the whole process. She realized very late, that she was receiving a few disbelieving looks that were soon shrugged off as fancy of the mind by the low-level employees. Persephone had no idea that they rarely saw their own managers, in this cauldron of hell, let alone executives or corporate officers from the corporation that employed them. They would never allow it to enter their minds that they might see one of the fabled noble or royal ‘owner’ caste in their daily work. They had probably all seen an image of her on some vid or tabloid, but their eye had to be lying to them.

As she continued her mechanical climb, twisting up the massive building’s wide spiraling catwalk lattice, she was annoyed by a hand gently grasping her arm and turning her to a sidewalk that opened to some kind of rough stone corridor. “This way Persephone, the exit is over at the other end of a few of these corridors.”

Persephone grunted noncommittally when she realized it was Samson who had spoken to her. Persephone asked absently over her shoulder as she continued to marvel at the view slowly being obstructed by the walls of the corridor and the hangers-on, “Samson, why didn’t we take a lift? Or even a glider?”

Samson told her, “Because there are no lifts down that low Persephone. Gliders are too expensive and very dangerous for this type of facility. This is an industrial plant, not a residential section. If that boiling iron splashed a glider or the pilot both would fall to the base of the tower.”

She asked, again demanding clarification, “Well, that does not mean anything, how do the workers get where they need to go?”

Samson looked at her with a brow furrowed in surprise. He stated the obvious, “They walk like we just did; they do not start getting paid until they are at their stations. They look at all the walking as free exercise. The workers at these plants laugh at pudgy managers who pay for gym memberships.”

Confused and feeling like she was misunderstanding some part of her world, Persephone demanded, “The nearest exit is five hundred meters up? Well, what happens if there is an accident, and they all need to get out?”

Samson stated flatly, “If there is an accident everything falls to the bottom of the plant and stays there. If the accident is large enough, the workers are all dead anyway, and they know it. So, they do not worry about it. They call these places ‘Hell’s Furnaces’ for a reason.”

Samson could see Persephone mentally and emotionally trying to reconcile those brutal facts of life and pitied her struggle, but not her charming innocence. As she wandered up the twists of the stone corridors, her brain whirled with realization and she asked weakly, “What about the Corporate Hegemony’s safety regulations?”

Samson looked and in a deadpan response informed her, “Persephone, the building is in compliance with every safety regulation, to the letter of the law.”

Confused, Persephone snapped, “But what about all the workers? If there is an accident on the loading platform it could rain tons of ore and debris on them!” She was getting more frustrated and angrier as she spoke, “It would fall and bounce down the interior and could land in the cauldrons and splash molten metal everywhere! The workers would be trapped in the burning steel! The hot slag will splash everywhere!”

Samson’s tone hardened to a glacial calm, “Persephone,” to counter her growing fire, “The floor is made of soft metal. Didn’t you wonder why we are now in a giant ceramic building with multiple switchbacks and corridors, that drift gradually ‘up’, and that the first corridor was over five hundred meters above the ground floor?”

The sycophants were listening now, as Samson’s statement drew Persephone’s full ire, “Well, what does that have to do with anything?!” The political implications of her anger could rattle their personal fiefdoms. They may not have understood on an intellectual level what she was struggling with, but a furious almost Empress of their mega-corp Hegemony was not to be taken lightly.

“Persephone,” Samson automatically switched to his detached combat mentality where he had nothing around him but the battlefield, his weapons, and his objective. He rounded on the crown princess, to face her fury square. The procession behind the pair crashed to a halt at Persephone’s back. None of them ever dreamed that they would ever see someone confront her. “If debris falls to the bottom, it bounces around and stays there. Then they get a crane from the top and lower prefabricated replacement parts for the ruined catwalks. They clean up the dead and move on.

“If the accident is catastrophic, thousands of tons of boiling rock and metal will splash and spill everywhere. It will flood the lower levels. When the molten metal reaches the bottom level of the plant it will pool and incinerate everything up to and beyond its level. It will burn through the bottom of the plant’s hollow central chamber and empty out the bottom of the tower at its lowest point. Eventually, it will spill onto the ground where cleanup crews can reclaim the metal, repair the tracks, and recycle the materials into the top of the plant.”

She realized and demanded, “But that is where Miller Lee is standing guard! He’s your friend!”

Samson stated flatly, “Persephone, he won’t even hear it coming. It will happen so fast that Miller will be dead before he can scream. And he knows it. It is the cleanest and most efficient way to clean up after a massive accident in one of these facilities. They bag the remains they can find. They scrape up the cooled metal. Then they restart the whole process with a new shift of smelters. They promote everyone who survives, and they hire new guys under the people they just promoted.”

Shattered and angry Persephone growled, “That’s horrible!”

Samson told her directly, “That’s the truth, Persephone. And there is nothing we can do to change it.”

Persephone positively bristled when Samson turned his back on her and started strolling back up the sloped ceramic corridor.

The rest of the climb out of the facility to one of the many upper levels where air cars and public trams accessed the building was both long and silent.

It was obvious Samson already had a route in mind. His finger ran down the list of transports on the map, found the one he was looking for, tapped some positions on the touch screen digitally flagged pickup for ten, and sat on a bench at the edge of the tram landing.

Persephone stood alone and brooded angrily, by the edge of the landing, looking over her lovely city, the jewel of her home world. She did nothing but fume.

The sycophants clustered in groups of two and three and quietly ignored Samson. They made only occasional, carefully disguised glances, at Persephone, which momentarily interrupted their quiet conversations. They tried furiously to disguise the topic, but it was painfully obvious that they were failing. They discussed Persephone’s rage.

When the tram arrived, it was empty, and Persephone was the first on board. She claimed the rear of the tram as her own. Her fury crackled as she left the plant. Samson was the only one who dared to be near her and occupied himself by scribbling with the pen and paper.

After his lines and ledgers were completed, they were followed by mathematical calculations, followed by a careful re-computation, and a final check to make sure he included all expenses. Finally, Samson stood and took the page to the fop he disliked the most. “Please, sign the bottom.”

The blurted reply, “Do not instruct me, commoner,” failed to impress or intimidate Samson who slowly retracted the page and stood straight and firm.

Samson’s hands joined at the small of his back inside the coat, and the pen and paper shuffled to his left hand. He bent at the waist so he could be at eye level. He spoke with his glacial calm, only barely holding onto his own volcanic rage, “I didn’t ‘instruct you’. I asked politely and even said ‘please’ when I asked.”

The arrogant idiot droned in front of his friends, “Your apology means nothing to me, peasant,” now that he was back up in the light of day and his confidence was back. He was supremely confident and sure of his place in the world again. He could do anything he wanted with impunity. He had money, wealth, and a position of plenty to ward off any threats from the common riffraff of the world.

The instant rasp and ring of Samson’s blade, drawn in fury, from the small of Samson’s back bit the fop’s neck. The blade pressed from the base of his left ear and bit uncomfortably under the jawbone. Samson’s reversed grip meant he could draw the blade with lightning speed and deliver a lethal punching strike to a surprised opponent with his thirty-one-inch Ikazuchi double-edged assassin’s sword. The spinning, rising strike could remove a head, or pistol and hand, from an opponent before they could twitch.

Samson’s left hand dropped the flap of his coat, as his hand moved to his front.

Samson’s blade control was phenomenal; he was at the top of his graduating class in the blade. It was formed of a class of elites, refined and trained into elites, winnowed and reduced until there were many fewer elites over a dozen years. Acceptance to ‘The Imperial Guardsmen Academy’, which started at the age of five, was a prestigious mark of success in its own right. ‘Failures’ went to top preparatory schools on scholarship, followed by the top universities in the empire, followed by fast-tracked military and corporate careers of their choice. For every four-thousand-one hundred of the elite candidates who were accepted to training, in the Imperial Guardsman Academy, one hundred graduated to become the core of the Chroynos Imperial Military Elite.

Samson graduated third in his class of one hundred. He was also the best in his class with the weapon of highest honor, the sword.

The paper appeared in front of the young nobleman, the pen imposed over the top, “I tried asking nicely. Apparently nice does not work on you, so I will now instruct you. Sign that paper in the fifteen seconds following the conclusion of my instructions, or I will cut off your arms, remove your private parts, and shove them into your mouth to put an end to your prattling. Then, I’ll toss your whole bleeding mass of flesh out the window of this tram, for the fog scavengers to eat. I will move to the next one of your friends in line, ask them the same question, and see if they are more amenable to signing my little expense form. I already have your money so do not quibble about the change.” 

The kid shrieked, “What the hell do you think you are doing?!”

Samson kept counting, “Ten… Nine…”

The paper was snatched out of Samson’s hand. His blade backed off an inch so the younger man could turn and scribble his name, house, and authorization signature at the bottom of the expense sheet. He punctuated the act of handing it back signed, by saying, “I should have you drawn and whipped for this!”

The blade flicked and changed directions with the smallest manipulation of John’s wrist. The tip nicked the pants just above the knee, tearing a hand’s width gash. The blade was now perpendicular to John’s body. The flat was on the underside of the youth’s jaw. The flat lifted his face by slightly applying uncomfortable pressure under the arc of his jawbone. Samson slowly leaned forward to hold the boy’s eyes. “Boy, there is an ancient warrior tradition surrounding these blades. Once drawn in anger they must taste blood before returning home.” Samson stood slowly, maintaining contact, blade to skin, careful not to let the young noble move.

The boy defiantly shouted in Samson’s face, “Do not think to threaten me! I’ll have you hunted down and killed like the mangy animal you are!”

Samson heard Persephone sigh in disgust. His peripheral vision was good enough to see her head roll. He refused to lose contact with the young noble’s eyes to watch her rolling her own eyes. “My name is ‘John Smith’. Hunt all you want. I am returning to the shadows after this adventure into the light once I have deposited you all in safety. I look forward to killing anyone you may send my way. I will put their pieces into little boxes and send them back to you personally. I need the exercise anyway.” Samson flipped the cutting edge of the blade to an angle with the jawline again and rode the young man’s jaw from ear to chin, opening five inches of ugly and fiercely bleeding, but non-lethal laceration. The skin peeled back from the outside of the left underside of his jawbone and nicked the earlobe, splitting both. It hung ugly and bled profusely.

The blade reversed and bit the left sleeve of the shirt.

Samson plucked the signed document off the bench as the blood began to run flipped it in half with his left hand and pocketed it for later use.

His fingers gripped and ripped the arm off the fop’s shirt. He calmly folded the material square four times to reduce the length, wiped the blood off his blade, and zipped the razor’s edge of the blade over the young man’s other shoulder. Samson homed the blade with a comforting click, letting him know the blade was home.

The screaming, moaning boy thrashed on the seat, until Samson’s left hand crushed his face with his palm, suddenly pushing his head against the glass window of the tram, and secured him in place with his fingers pinching temples. The young man helped the case by grabbing Samson’s hand and arm. The folded cloth in Samson’s right hand slapped the underside of the young man’s jaw. Samson peeled the death grip with his left hand pulling both of the boy’s hands away from his face. Samson rotated his wrist grabbed the young man’s own left wrist, and applied the boy’s hand to pressure the wound.

The rip on the right sleeve was a totally unnoticed surprise to the panicked boy. The others jumped suddenly at the change of events.

The shirt flayed easily along the seam and Samson threaded the cloth between the other’s hands and arms, to loop it under the jaw, while both of the boy’s hands still held the wound closed. Samson gently removed the outer hand while slipping the loop closer to his target, he cinched the loop tighter over the head, then pulled back the second hand so both now rested over the top of the cloth he made into a bandage.

Calmly, Samson spoke like he had seen it a thousand times, which he had, as he reassured, “Good boy, stop squealing like a little baby and we will have you fixed in no time.” The plaintive moaning and miserable thrashing slowed slightly. Samson fixed the loop and tied a knot at the top of the head opposite the jaw and behind the right ear. “I need to tighten this; it is going to hurt. Make sure you have even pressure on the outside of the bandage with both hands. Keep your fingers out from under the looped pressure bandage. Put your teeth together so you do not bite your tongue. Nod twice if you understand…”

The double nod came.

Samson injected calmly, “Good boy, here we go. On one… Three.”

The squealing moan of pain turned into a juvenile growl as Samson cinched the pressure bandage in place early, wrapped and secured the square knot. He had gone early to prevent his charge from jumping in anticipation.

The babble of questions, complaints, comments, and profanity uttered by the guests was coolly ignored.

Samson smiled ruefully as he thought of two separate and distinct phrases that soldiers have used since scars and healing first graced the human race, and spoke them out loud, “Don’t worry kid, I’ve had worse. Besides, chicks dig scars.”

Samson grasped the young man’s exposed hair, in the back of his head, and torqued him down and to the side so he could inspect the knot. He wanted to make sure it was snug, and his ear was uncovered. Samson pushed back, tilting the head back and exposing the wound to his inspection. He was satisfied that it was not still bleeding. When his inspections were finished, he leaned down and whispered several sentences to the young man, who replied with several curt nods. The boy’s curt irritated nods were followed immediately by a slow set of nods that could only be him resigning himself to his fate.

As he stood, Samson slapped the kid’s good cheek twice like an older brother would do to a kid brother he had just beaten into place, as he walked away, to let him know there were no hard feelings.

The look in Persephone’s eyes was somewhere between amusement, maternal concern, and confusion, “What was that all about?”

Samson mumbled, “Nothing, I was just letting him know there are no hard feelings, and he should think before picking a fight with a guy holding a sword. The next guy may not be nice like me or nice enough to patch him up afterward.”

Persephone just shook her head at her irritating, wonderful, clever lover and wished they had more time together.

Thank You!

Thank you for reading this chapter!

Your next chapter is HERE.

If you liked what you read and you are interested in the full book the links are HERE on the Honor of the Fallen book page…

However, if you are more interested in the narrated version, you can catch the start of your author-narrated series HERE:

Enjoy!