| TAKE A SNEAK PEEK AT FUTURE NOVELS LORENZO'S BURIED TREASURE Chapter One February 1780 Lorenzo leaned his shoulder against a palm tree and grinned. “Are you sure you know where you buried the chest?” “Shut up. I’m counting.” Blackie took fifteen paces from the palm tree, pivoted to the right, and counted out another fifteen. This took him to an egg-shaped boulder the size of a pony. He took three quick steps to the right, five long strides straight ahead, and drew an X in the dirt with his boot. “Here.” “About time,” Lorenzo muttered, straightening. He whistled to the three Spanish sailors who had followed them into the interior. Shovels in hand, they trotted forward and started to dig where Lorenzo pointed. Dirt and sand flew from the pit. While they worked, Lorenzo kept his musket at the ready and scanned the area for signs of trouble. Palm tree . . . palm tree . . . coconut tree . . . pelican on a boulder . . . palm tree . . . palm tree . . . coconut tree . . . A sea breeze carried the smell of seaweed and salt. Overhead a sea gull squawked while waves crashed against the bluff. Lorenzo strained to see the Santa Ana anchored a few hundred yards off Isla Mujeres, but the vegetation was too thick. His commander had given him the small, ten-gun ship to retrieve a chest containing $20,000 in silver. Two months earlier, Blackie buried it to keep it out of British hands. Only Blackie knew its location. Being on an island brought back memories. Five miles to the south lay Cozumel where Lorenzo and Blackie had been shipwrecked. The adventure created a bond between them and they now thought of themselves as brothers. A Brit for a brother. Inwardly, Lorenzo laughed. He had fought the British for three years, first in the Continental Army and now in the Spanish one. Blackie and Lorenzo bore no resemblance. Lorenzo had black hair and black eyes whereas Blackie’s hair was dark brown and his eyes, blue. Blackie was pale as a piece of parchment whereas Lorenzo was brown. As usual, Blackie dressed all in black, from the bandanna tied around his forehead to his shiny boots. Lorenzo towered over him by three inches. At five foot eleven inches, Lorenzo hoped he was finished growing. It was a standing joke among soldiers that it was better to be short. More than once, the bullet that whizzed over a short man’s head buried itself in the tall man behind him. Blackie joined Lorenzo by the palm tree. “What plans, pray tell, does General Gálvez have for the money?” “He plans to use it for frivolities. Paying his soldiers and sailors. Buying them food. Attacking Fort Charlotte.” Lorenzo paused. “Where did the money come from?” “Virginia.” It was hardly surprising that the $20,000 in silver came out of Virginia. That section of the United States had bred a host of patriots fighting the British crown. “Who sent the money?” Lorenzo asked. “I haven’t a clue.” Blackie lifted a shoulder. “Some Virginia gentleman.” “My grandfather is from Virginia,” Lorenzo said. “Isn’t he a loyalist?” “Yes. Actually, he once tried to kill me.” “Well, we can assume the money didn’t come from him.” Lorenzo wished he and his grandfather could patch up their differences, but he doubted that would happen. They hadn’t seen each in three years and their last encounter had ended on a sour note when Lorenzo’s grandfather betrayed him to the British. Thud! The sailors stopped digging. “Eureka," Blackie said, giving Lorenzo a victorious grin. “And you doubted me!” He strolled forward and peeped into the five-foot deep pit. Sailors clambered out, reached down, grabbed the chest’s rope handle and, with great difficulty, hauled it out. “This thing’s heavy as an anchor,” one of the sailors grumbled. “What’s in it?” “Never you mind about that,” Blackie replied. “Take it to the ship.” Lorenzo took the lead, going down the path the sailors had cut an hour earlier with machetes. Two sailors lugged the chest while the third man followed carrying shovels. Lorenzo kept his guard up as they headed toward the beach. When they were halfway there, a strange sound drew Lorenzo’s attention. He signaled for the sailors to stop. They obeyed without question, apparently glad for the rest. Two plopped down on top of the chest while the third one rested on a boulder. They mopped their faces with their sleeves. Lorenzo tilted his head and listened carefully. Blackie cast Lorenzo a curious glance and headed over to him. “Is something afoot?” he whispered. “Not sure,” Lorenzo whispered back. “Do you hear anything?” Blackie shook his head. “Everyone, stay here,” Lorenzo ordered. Having been in a number of tight spots, he sensed something was wrong. Very wrong. He gripped his musket a little tighter and headed down the path, slowly, quietly, all his senses on alert. As the vegetation thinned, the ship’s two masts came into view. Across the water, the sound of blows, oaths, and cries of pain rushed toward him. Wood thudded against wood and steel clanged against steel. At the tree line, he jolted to a stop. A fierce, mad fight was going on aboard the Santa Ana. Spaniards fought Brits using fists, clubs, knives and cutlasses. Lorenzo saw Hector Calderón, in charge of the ship, parrying blows with his sword. All was confusion, uproar, a mass of bodies, hoarse shouts. Each man fought for himself in his own way. Bodies littered the deck as Lorenzo watched, helpless. There was a shriek as a Spanish sailor threw a Brit overboard. Lorenzo focused on Hector, the ship’s commander. Three British sailors attacked, pushing him back until he was against the railing. Hector continued to parry their blows. Lorenzo winced to see one of them sink a knife into Hector’s side. The sword fell from his hand. Hector sank to his knees. An attacker raised his knife to give him a deathblow, but a British officer rushed over and stayed his hand. The officer shouted an order that Lorenzo could not make out. He stood over Hector and spoke with him briefly. Hand clutching his wounded side, still on his knees, Hector gave the man an awkward bow and handed over his sword. Lorenzo watched, stunned, as the Spanish flag came down and the British one went up. vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv FLINT AND STEEL Part One Chapter One FLINT Planet Berit Prime Flint Zuliram grabbed his kithara and slung it over his back. He walked as fast as he could through the orchard behind his house and hoped no one had seen him head out. If all went well, he would enjoy two hours of uninterrupted practice before someone missed him. He liked having six older brothers, but sometimes a lack of privacy bugged him. He hiked to the lake a short walk behind the orchard and sat on the shore. Shaded by a huang tree, he angled the kithara across his lap and tuned it, closing his eyes and cocking his head to block out all sound. He ran his fingers over the strings. Coaxing notes from the kithara was as natural as breathing. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t play the instrument. His mother said that he picked it up one day when he was three years old and started playing. Now, at age ten, everyone called him a virtuoso. Flint’s tutor had taught him the basics of musical notation. In passing, he had mentioned the kithara was an ancient instrument invented by Icaria’s first king. Flint couldn’t help feeling a spark of national pride, although he wasn’t supposed to. After the Great War, a conflict that brought the planet dangerously close to extinction level, Berit Prime united under one government. Even so, people still identified themselves as Atlantean, Nazcan, Icarian, Hamlyn or Pomer. Flint plucked and strummed, unaware of the passage of time. His mother encouraged his musical talents and expected him to attend the conservatory in Atlantea City. Flint wasn’t sure it was his life calling. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself, but he felt that he had a crucial job to do, something far more important than writing the next symphony or giving concerts. The sun crept across the sky. When spears of light angled through tree branches, Flint decided it was time to go home. A glint caught his eye. Something moved over the woods edging the lake. He shielded his eyes with his hand and strained to see. A shiny sphere skimmed the treetops and breezed over the distant meadow. It halted suddenly on the opposite shore, slowly descended, and hovered inches above the ground. It broke the silence by letting out a high-pitched whine as it thrust something into the ground. Open-mouthed, Flint watched it rise. Part of him said to run home as fast as he could. Another part said to stay. The object moved off, then stopped suddenly. Flint had the distinct impression that it was about to leave, but had spotted him and suddenly became interested in him. It eased across the lake’s glassy surface and hovered directly overhead. Flint looked up, amazed to see his face reflected in its shiny surface. It was three times larger than a toli ball, an object about the size of his fist. The orb moved to eye level, then slowly circled him. Flint turned with it, determined not to show the fear mounting inside him. The object whizzed behind him. Flint spun around. He reached out a cautious hand. The object backed up beyond his grasp. It moved left and right, as if silently admonishing him. Flint memorized every feature of the orb and felt it was studying him in return. Suddenly, without warning, the orb shot straight up into the sky and disappeared into a cloud. “Flint!” a distant voice called. “Flint!” He glanced over his shoulder to find his brother Addison topping the rise behind him. Flint assumed the orb had sensed Addison’s approach, the reason for its sudden departure. Of Flint’s six brothers, Addison looked the most like him. Only eleven months separated them in age and people often mistook them for twins. All seven Zuliram boys had light copper skin, straight brown hair, and dark brown eyes. “There you are!” Addison said. “Mother sent me to find you. It’s time for Last Meal.” “Did you see the orb?” Flint asked. Addison cocked his head. “What are you talking about?” Flint told him what had happened. Addison laughed and socked him on the arm. “Good try, Flint, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” “I can prove it! The orb planted something over there.” Flint pointed to the meadow across the lake. He dragged Addison to the spot where he had seen the orb thrust something into the ground, but found nothing. There was no sign the ankle-high grass had been disturbed. “Give it up, Flint!” Addison said, throwing his head back in laughter. “This isn’t one of your better pranks.” “It’s no joke!” Flint insisted. He could tell by Addison’s expression that no amount of talk would persuade him. He decided to drop the subject. One thing was certain. Someone had sent the orb. Someone or some thing. A week later, Flint sat at a desk in his father’s study and flipped through volume after volume, looking for clues about the silver orb. It haunted him like a bad dream. What was it? Where had it come from? Possibilities ran through his head. Maybe it was a toy, a kind of mechanical kite. Maybe a mad scientist made it. Maybe it was a top secret government project. Maybe it came from another planet. Flint mentally gave himself a boot in the rump. How ridiculous. A tiny spaceship with tiny people posed no threat to Berit Prime. Every chance he got, he returned to the lake to search for the object the silver orb had planted in the meadow. On cloudless nights, he slipped out of the house and set up a sling back chair in the botanical. He spent hours studying the heavens with night vision opticals, to no avail. The study door creaked open and shut. Flint peeked around books stacked in front of him and saw his tutor, Master Patandluke, step inside. The tutor frowned at him. “What are you doing, young scholar?” He put an ironic twist on the last word. “Just looking through some books.” Master Patandluke picked up a book and frowned at the spine. “Physics? Arduous reading.” “For an underachiever?” The tutor arched a brow. “I never called you that. I merely said you were not living up to your potential. Why the sudden scholarly interest?” Flint shrugged. “If you’re looking for something in particular,” the tutor said, “maybe I can help.” Flint studied him a moment to determine his sincerity, but kept his own counsel. “Does this have to do with the silver orb?” the tutor asked. “Addison has a big mouth,” Flint grumbled. Master Patandluke half-smiled. “I wouldn’t be much of a tutor if I couldn’t recognize behavioral changes in my charges. You’re worried about the orb, aren’t you?” Flint nodded. “Are you sure it wasn’t an optical illusion?” “I saw what I saw.” “How big was it?” Flint measured a circle with his hands. “In the Great War, people reported seeing silver orbs about that size.” “They did?” Flint asked in surprise. Master Patandluke had been a soldier, but rarely talked about the experience. It had scarred an entire generation, including Flint’s parents who were teenagers at the time. “Silver orbs about the size of your head skimmed over battlefields and hovered for a few seconds before moving on. Officials discounted it as battle fatigue. Eyewitnesses had the distinct impression they were being monitored.” Flint had experienced the same sensation. “Did you see the orbs?” “No, but I believe something odd happened during the Great War. When one person sees an orb, you can reason it away. But when fifty see the same thing, it’s time to take notice. If you ever need to talk--” “I want to go to the Peacekeepers Academy,” Flint blurted. The tutor blinked at him, as if he thought him crazy. “You want to go into law enforcement? Why?” “I just do.” There was more to it than that, but Flint felt too embarrassed to tell him the rest. He had weighed his options and becoming a peacekeeper seemed the only logical way to protect Berit Prime. “Your parents won’t be happy,” Master Patandluke said. “Your mother has her heart set on a musical career for you.” “I know.” “You’re sure this is what you want to do?” “Positive.” The tutor smiled at him benevolently. “Would you like for me to break it to them gently?” “Better you than me.” “It’s a good decision, Flint.” The tutor headed toward the door, but paused with his hand on the knob. He turned. “I must say, I never imagined you as a peacekeeper.” “What did you picture? A criminal?” “I don’t usually misjudge people. In this case, I might have been wrong.” Flint laughed. He put the books back their shelves and headed outside to study the stars. Would the orb come again? And if it did, would it come alone? But more importantly, was it friend or foe? STEEL Earth, the same day Steel trudged down a gravel road and shifted the knapsack on his back. A lift to the capital would be terrific, but he knew to avoid the main highway clogged with Privately Owned Vehicles. The last thing he needed was some do-gooder asking “Why aren’t you in school, little boy?” Or worse--a CCO, a Chief Compliance Officer, stopping him, finding out he had escaped from the workhouse and carting him back. Steel hated his job there: mowing rich people’s lawns in the blazing south Texas sun. Long before he reached Austin, he saw skyscrapers peeking above the canopy of trees surrounding the nation’s capital. Dirty bombs had leveled the District of Columbia, New York City, and Atlanta, destroying the eastern seaboard and forcing the capital to move to Austin. Steel didn’t know who was responsible for the attack and didn’t care. All he knew was that Austin, Texas, had become the center of the universe. It was also the last place he had seen his mother. The low hum of a car forced Steel to hide behind a cluster of bushes. He placed his knapsack on the ground and peeped through the undergrowth. A black car, an official government one with a gold seal on the door, jostled over the deeply rutted trail and rolled to a stop a few feet away. An alarm went off in Steel’s head. What was a POV doing in the middle of the forest? A door swung open. Out stepped a CCO in a copper-colored uniform. Steel shivered. Like all CCOs, this guy was muscular, well-built, tall, with sand colored hair and gray-green eyes. Steel had the same color eyes and hair, but the resemblance stopped there. The CCO went around the car and opened the door for his companion. A fat man in a green plaid suit and white shoes emerged, sweating from the effort. He pulled out a giant handkerchief and mopped his forehead. The CCO rolled a cigarette, lit it, and handed it to his companion. The fat man took a long drag, held it, and closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy. He exhaled a long plume of smoke and passed the cigarette back. “Good stuff.” “It’s pure Afghan. Keep it.” “Must have cost an arm and a leg.” “And worth every centavo. So what do you have for me today?” The fat man waved the cigarette admonishingly. “Money first.” The sour-faced CCO pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “Crap!” the fat man exclaimed, thumbing through it. “There can’t be more than two K here.” “Your info has been stale recently.” “I told you about those men at the university.” “Leftover chicken. We busted their asses last week. Come on, guy. I can’t vouch for your loyalty with the boss if you don’t give me something useful.” The man fidgeted, shoved his hands in his pockets, and scanned the woods as if he would find the answer to his dilemma there. “They’re getting savvy, Morgan. It’s harder to infiltrate them.” “You were supposed to get close to the ringleader. What happened?” “Word on the street is he smelled a rat and went back to Kentucky. I tell ya, they’re wisening up.” “What do you have for me this time--other than excuses?” “I got nothing.” Morgan pulled a taizy from his holster and tinkered with it a moment. A look of horror passed over the fat man’s face. “Please, Morgan. No. I’ll have more info by next week. I promise.” “Eeny meeny miny mo. Who will be the next to go?” Morgan pointed the taizy at the fat man. “You.” Wide-eyed, face ashen, the man looked down at the red targeting beam in the center of his chest. He took a step backwards, then whirled and jogged away. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. He tripped on a tree root, picked himself up, and set out again. Morgan snickered. Casually, as if it were a matter of little importance, he shifted the targeting beam from the man’s back to his head and fired. Steel watched in mute horror as it slammed into him and sizzled. The smell of singed hair rode the breeze. The fat man screeched in pain and fell face down. Grinning, Morgan strolled forward. “Bear up, man! I only set it on stun.” Steel strained to see through the foliage. The screeching stopped, but whether Morgan’s victim was dead or paralyzed by fear he could not tell. Morgan fired a single red laser. Tiny pinpricks ran up and down Steel’s calves. He wished he hadn’t squatted behind the bushes. Cautiously, he shifted his weight to keep his legs from going to sleep. Morgan cocked his head and listened intently. Steel froze. Every prayer he had learned in the workhouse suddenly leaped to mind. The CCO nudged the fat man as if he suspected the noise had come from him. Steel crawled away, forcing himself to move slowly so he wouldn’t make noise. He skirted a bush for fear he would shake it and give himself away. He spotted an enormous oak whose trunk disappeared into bunches of leaves. Perfect! For a heartbeat, he hesitated, but seeing no better place to hide, he scaled it. He eased from branch to branch and hid among the top section where he could keep an eye on Morgan still back at the clearing. In a moment of horror, he realized he had left his backpack under the bushes. * * * Head tilted, Morgan studied the stoolie’s body. “Now, why did you have to go do that and make me kill you?” He picked up the money envelope and put it in his jacket pocket. He readjusted the settings on the taizy to disintegrate, placed it against the man’s stomach, and fired. The body briefly glowed bright orange as the organs and bones liquefied, turning the stoolie into a pool of greenish ooze that was soon absorbed by the sandy soil. Morgan holstered his weapon and was about to return to his POV when he noticed child-sized footprints. He squatted for a better look. Someone had walked to the bushes, but had crawled away on hands and knees. Morgan scratched his neck and wondered what a kid would be doing out here all alone. He searched around and found a backpack stenciled with SAWH. The kid was a runaway from the San Antonio Work House. Morgan searched through the bag and found beef jerky, a comic book, an egg-shaped polished rock, and a slingshot. Nothing indicated the kid’ s name. Of course not. Teaching a juvie to read and write was a waste of time. The kid’s trail ended at the foot of an oak. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Morgan said, mustering the kindest voice possible. “I mean you no harm.” He strained, but heard nothing. Quiet permeated the forest, the kind of quiet that descended when a predator was on the prowl. Morgan returned to his POV and flipped on the locator. “Hello, CCO Morgan,” a female voice purred. “How may I be of assistance?” “List all escapees from the San Antonio Workhouse in the last month.” Two names appeared instantaneously. He discounted the one in red. That meant the kid had been found dead. He pulled up the other entry. It read: Escaped: June 2, 2192 Name: Boy Steel. Age: Unknown. Possibly eight years old. Description: Sandy hair. Green eyes. 4’ 10” tall. Last seen wearing blue shorts and t-shirt with workhouse logo. Carrying a SAWH backpack. Blood type: O+ I.Q.: 157. Disease free. Mother: deceased. Father: unknown. Crime: Illegal hunting on government land. The boy’s most recent photo showed a sullen-looking five year old and indicated it was taken three years ago. “Morph to June 2192,” Morgan ordered. The image dissolved and aged three years. It showed a face not terribly different from the first one. Morgan closed the locator. The average juvie lasted three months on the street. Most died of starvation or an overdose. Morgan would keep his eyes open and check morgue logs regularly to see if this kid showed up. * * * |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
|