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The Year of Maybe Virtual Book Tour

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Act II of Nyra’s Journey

New Adult Romance

Date Published: November 2022

Publisher: PhoenixPhyre

 

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He’s nothing like her hopeful dream—and everything she
wants.

Nyra’s transition from college grad scrambling for her first career
job to full independence is as on track as it can be, these days. With her
new marketing job is going well, even if she’s still living at
home,Nyra’s pretty sure the light at the end of the tunnel is not an
onrushing train.

Still, she gets bored, sometimes. A whimsical decision to take up surfing
brings her together with Tai Abrega, a professional surfer and shaper so
delicious Nyra’s imagination hasn’t even gotten around to
fantasizing about a man like him, yet. Surfing awakens a latent, mystical
connection with the sea along with a driven passion for the man
himself.

But embracing one possibility often demands abandoning another. How can
Nyra fit Tai and the seductive siren song of freedom into her
“safer” vision of perfect? Can she blend her conventional world
with his freespirited lifestyle, or is she doomed to disappointment and
heartbreak? New Adult fans of It Ends with Us and Finding Perfect are sure
to enjoy this upbeat tale of hope.

 

The Year of Maybe Act II of Nyra’s Journey continues the story begun
in Best-Case Scenario.

 

The Year of Maybe tablet
EXCERPT

EXCERPT

The darkness inside is almost a physical thing as Tai opens the back door to the shop. Nyra steps in as artificial dawn ripples down from the overhead lights. She’s alone with him now, in his mysterious, secret world.

A row of perhaps three dozen finished surfboards wrapped in plastic fill a rack on the left wall, just inside the door. Brand new, shiny—and ready for shipping. The wall on her right is occupied by a haphazard jumble of dull, clunky white things, faintly reminiscent of surfboards, but…

 “Blanks,” Tai explains, following her eyes. “That’s what surfboards look like before they grow up to become surfboards.” He picks through them, selecting one about seven feet long. “We’ll use this one.”

She gets it now. The energy she feels is Tai’s anticipation. He’s excited. Without asking or needing to know anything more about him, she knows beyond a whisker of doubt that he was born to do this. Tai flips the lights on in the shaping room and drops the blank on a padded, two-legged stand. It’s set in concrete, obviously constructed for shaping delicate blanks into surfboards. He picks up two dust masks, donning one, handing the other to Nyra. 

“If you don’t mind, stand there.” Tai points at the doorway. He plugs his planer into an outlet and tests the connection with a couple quick flicks of the trigger. The symphony of the planer blade biting into urethane foam is a plaintive scream spawning an excited twist in her gut and the corners of her lips curl up beneath her mask as her heart beats faster. An act of pure creation—and a sense of somehow being part of it. 

Foam dust pours from the diverter, coating Tai’s arm in urethane snow as he walks the length of the blank. He reverses direction in fluid, graceful movements. It’s like his dance with the waves, Nyra thinks. Like this morning, as he carved up Windansea. Only now it’s like he’s making love to the blank, creating an almost living thing.

This unfamiliar dance, this symphony she’s never heard before, seeps into her blood. Arousing, sensual—almost sexual. They’d cut their surf session short, as Nyra’s intimidation became evident, but mostly because Tai had to shape another board. Nyra has tagged along, ostensibly to see how surfboards are made. 

After one full pass over the bottom of the blank, Tai sets the planer down on a shelf built into the wall of the shaping room. “That removes the cure crust,” he explains, his voice muffled through his dust mask. “Fortunately, blanks today come out of the mold so close to tolerance, it only takes one pass with the planer. But for this client, I need to add a little more tail rocker.”

“Tail rocker?”

Tai holds the blank up so Nyra’s viewing it from the side. His finger skims the freshly exposed foam. “See the curve along the bottom?”

Nyra nods, suppressing a shiver as she imagines his finger skimming the exposed skin of her neck, rather than the blank he’s shaping.

“That’s called rocker. Rocker and vee combine to determine how maneuverable the board is, how well it paddles, and how fast it is down the line. The guy I’m shaping for today is one of our team riders and he likes extra tail rocker and vee in the last couple feet of his boards for maneuverability.”

“Vee?”

“I’ll show you later,” Tai promises. He flips the board over on the padded shaping stand, retrieves his planer from the bench, and thumbs the trigger to start on the deck.

Nyra slips two fingers under her dust mask to rub her nose. Itchy. Even here by the door, little flecks of pristine white foam are already dusting her arm like snow. It makes her skin look darker. Probably in my hair too, she guesses.

The faded board shorts and sleeveless t-shirt Tai’s wearing leave powerful legs and arms exposed, a study of sinewy, rippling movement. Not for the first time, she wonders if that’s his entire wardrobe. He can pull it off if anyone can.

As Nyra watches him work, curiosity and sensuality get tangled up in her head. When Tai uses the template to draw the outline of the board on the blank, the subdued whisper of pencil evokes another shiver. Immersed in his world, experiencing him in his element—craftsmanship, blended with artistry. 

For the first time, Nyra makes the connection between the subliminal sexuality of the sea, surfing, and surfboards. It’s getting warm in here, she thinks. The August sun beating down on the roof?

Tai removes the excess foam from the blank with a crosscut handsaw, and Nyra’s eyes pinball between what he’s doing and how he looks doing it. There’s a delicious guilty joy to the focused attention she feels. Watching the play of muscles beneath his skin, she imagines using the excuse of brushing the foam from his arms as cover for touching him—for caressing him.

The back door to the shop opens abruptly, bathing Nyra in midmorning sunlight. A man she doesn’t know is backlit in the doorway, looking directly at her. 

“You in here, Tai?” he calls.

Tai joins her in the doorway and waves with the SureForm he’s using to true up the outline of the board he’s just cut out. “Hey, Pepper. I’d like you to meet Nyra.”

An unruly tangle of hair streaked with gray and a weathered face. Pepper looks like he’s spent the last thirty years in a pickle barrel. The age in his face isn’t mirrored in his frame. He’s lean, strong and moves with graceful, almost feline movements.

“Howzit, Nyra?”

“Hi, Pepper.” Nyra pushes her dust mask down and takes the hand he offers. It’s work-rough, but the grip is gentle, almost loving. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Welcome to my shop. Come to watch Tai shape?”

Nyra nods. “He’s teaching me to surf this summer, and I was…curious.”

Pepper’s lips twist in a knowing smile. “Good. You go out today?”

“For a while,” Nyra says. “A little big for me.”

“Plenty to work with,” he agrees. He turns to Tai. “Mattie’s new stick?”

“Yeah,” Tai says. He waves at the half-finished blank, now recognizably a surfboard in the rough. 

Pepper walks into the shaping room and raises the tail off the shaping stand about a foot, looking down the curve of the outline on both sides. “Sano. Be ready for the airbrushing today?”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”

“Perfect. I’m going to go ahead and open the shop.” It’s early, but…” He smiles, shrugs, and leaves them alone.

Tai pulls his dust mask back up and winks at Nyra and switches from fluorescent white light to UVA, then flips the blank deck up. 

Three more passes down both sides, and he’s cut three rail bevels into the foam with his planer. He flips the board back over, adjusts the depth of his planer blade, and takes a couple less aggressive passes in the tail.

“Is that the tail rocker you were talking about?”

“Yep. And the vee.” Tai picks up a straight edge and lays it at right angles to the stringer running down the center of the board. “See how the bottom angles just a little from the middle to the outside edge? That’s called vee. Makes the board easier to turn.”

Tai switches to a padded sanding block. Long, loving passes, more caress than anything take down the uneven lines left by the planer. That’s why the black light! she realizes. The flaws stand out better. 

The longer she watches Tai work, the more sensual—okay, sexual—it all feels to her. Imagining Tai giving her that same focused attention leaves her underarms damp and her skin feeling prickly. The foam dust, she thinks. Maybe… 

“I’m shaping this one for the Islands,” Tai tells her, breaking the silence. “It’ll be perfect for V-land and Rocky Point.”

“You shape for specific breaks?”

“Not usually. But for team riders?” He shrugs. “Mattie has some very specific ideas about how his boards should work.”

“So Pepper has a team, I guess. And Mattie is one of them?”

Tai nods and pushes his dust mask up for a swig from the water bottle he brought with him. He offers her a sip, and she takes it, her fingers caressing his as she takes the bottle from him. Their eyes meet and stick as she hands it back. 

He pulls his mask back down and picks up the sanding block. In another fifteen minutes, he’s finished blending the rail bands around the deck into the rails. He turns the board this way and that, sighting down from the nose.

Another hour transforms the blank into a finished shape, ready for airbrushing, a glass job, and fins. Resting deck up on the shaping stand, it screams speed. 

As Tai sweeps up most of the foam dust toward the back of the shaping room, Nyra studies the board he’s shaped. “So, that’s how boards are made?”

Tai shakes his head and leans the broom into the corner. “Not most of ‘em, anymore. Machines shape most of them to much finer tolerances than can be achieved by hand, other than finish sanding.”

“Then why—” 

“Shape by hand?” Tai finishes for her.

Nyra nods.

“There’ll always be a demand for hand-shaped boards,” Tai says. “Purists love ‘em, for starters. And we mostly learn what works by tinkering with existing shapes, changing one element at a time, then testing them out in the surf.”

“Couldn’t you do that faster by computer?”

Tai laughs. “Maybe. But developing software to run the simulations and manage all the infinite variables?” He shakes his head. “And think about it. The way each surfer rides is as unique as their fingerprint. Like each wave we ride, each surfer is one of a kind.”

Nyra feels a ripple of sensation start just below her heart and shiver its way through her body. God, I want him!

 

About the Author

D. B. Sayers,

Dirk’s path to authorship wasn’t quite an accident, but almost.
Through his two previous careers, first as a Marine officer and subsequently
as a corporate trainer, Dirk started way more stories than he
finished.

But when his employer filed for Chapter 11 in the backwash of the 2008
financial melt-down, he found himself cordially invited to leave and not
return. Out of work and excuses, he focused on finishing his first novel,
West of Tomorrow, while looking for another career position.

Since then, Dirk has written and published Best-Case Scenario, Act I of
Nyra’s Journey a collection of short fiction entitled, Through the
Windshield as well as Tier Zero and Eryinath-5, The Dancer Nebula, Vols. I
& II of the Knolan Cycle.

The Year of Maybe, sequel to Best Case Scenario, is due out in Novemeber
2022.

Dirk also contributes to Medium, blogs on his website, and will accept
editing work, by special request. Besides his work as a writer, he is an
accomplished snow skier, woodworker, photographer and a compulsive gym
rat.

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Eryinath -5 The Dancer Nebula – Blitz

 

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Knolan Cycle, Book II

Science Fiction

 

Date Published 11-01-2021

Publisher: PhoenixPhyre Publishing

 

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After returning from a successful mission with the Knolan Shock Forces, Hāthar needs a break. With Arra his mate pregnant and he still recovering from his last mission, Hāthar has compelling reasons for sticking close to home. But newly developed stealth technology has enabled Knola’s enemies the Valdrōsians to ambush one of Knola’s Deep Space Fleets, inflicting heavy losses.

Intelligence has identified the facility from which the new technology originated. Developing countermeasures, however, will require a raid to steal the technology and abduct the stealth project managers. Having recently defeated just such a raid, Hāthar is asked to evaluate the feasability of the Knolan plan.

The plan is insanely risky, but Hāthar senses he is the best choice to lead it. With the fate of his adoptive home hinging on the success of the mission, he sets aside his personal preferences in favor of duty. Eryinath-5, The Dancer Nebula continues the chronicle of Knola’s thousand-year war with the Valdrōsians—and the coming climactic clash that will determine the fate of Earth and our corner of the galaxy.

About the Author

D.B Sayers

Dirk’s path to authorship wasn’t quite an accident, but almost. It’s not that he didn’t write. He did. Still, through two previous careers, first as a Marine officer and subsequently as a corporate trainer, Dirk started way more stories than he finished. But in the backwash of the 2008 financial meltdown, his employer filed for Chapter 11. Cordially invited to leave and not return, Dirk found himself out of work and excuses.

Since then, Dirk has published West of Tomorrow, Best-Case Scenario, Act I of Nyra’s Journey, a collection of short fiction entitled, Through the Windshield and Tier Zero, Vol I of the Knolan Cycle. All are available from Amazon in paperback and Kindle. His latest work in progress is The Year of Maybe, Act II of Nyra’s Journey, due out in 2022.

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West of Tomorrow Tour

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Military/Corporate Romance

Date Published: 2015

 

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“Fate hunts us down in our sleep.” Clay Conover, retired Marine
officer turned corporate trainer has successfully re-careered and has a
long-term plan. A plan grounded in a sense of duty, loyalty, and tempered by
clear-eyed realism. Unfortunately, Clay’s plan doesn’t account
for the hiring of Sheera Prasad. Young, hungry and ambitious, Sheera has an
agenda of her own.

In the collision of wills that follows, Clay is confronted with a choice
that will define him, not simply professionally but personally. Will he take
the ethical high road, or opt for self-serving rathionalization? West of
Tomorrow is an intelligent romance, laced with corporate intrigue, betrayal
and the undiscovered phoenix living in all of us.

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Excerept —In which Clay Conover’s past rmeinds him of who he is.

 

Chapter 1—Saturdays Never Lie

 

Saturday, October 17, 2009

 

The rain drumming on his helmet began subtly, rising in a crescendo Lt. Clay Conover had come to recognize only too well—overwhelming sound, drowning thought. Monsoon in Cambodia.

Late afternoon sucked the light out of the triple canopy, muting everything to shadow. Shadow that slithered into his thoughts, tugging subtly on his mood. A look back confirmed third squad following in trace, greasy orange mud sucking at their boots. Clay checked the progress of second squad up ahead—soundless apparitions navigating the downpour. It would be dark in an hour.

To his left, first squad’s nearest fire team struggled through tangles of liana vines, prompting Clay to move forward to adjust second squad’s rate of advance. Even before he got close, Corporal Knickerson glanced back. Clay signaled him to slow the advance, pointing to first squad, bogged down in heavier undergrowth.

Knickerson nodded, scrambling forward to match his squad’s pace to that of first’s. Should’ve made first squad base, Clay thought.

The rain subsided to a drizzle, making Clay’s breathing seem unnaturally loud. His pack straps dug into his soggy, rain-soaked armpits, raw now from days of chafing friction. His neck was stiff from the weight of his brain bucket and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dry or when he’d been so tired. Static from the radio startled him back to alertness.

“Six this is deuce, over,” Thompson listened a moment. “Wait one.” Thompson’s gangly form covered the twenty feet between them in under five seconds. “It’s the Skipper,” he said, passing Clay the handset.

“Six Actual, this is Two Actual.”

“Two Actual, hold at the ORP. SitRep on arrival,” Capt. Mortensen commanded.

“Two Actual roger.” Waving Thompson to follow, Clay caught up with Corporal Knickerson to update his orders. In the forty minutes it took to reach the Objective Rally Point, the rain started and stopped twice. Clay halted second squad at the ORP, squinting through the waning light to confirm first squad had also stopped. Partially hidden by ground foliage and the gathering gloom, Clay could just make out the nearest fire team.

Third squad, ghostly in the jungle twilight, was closing up. Ramirez, the squad leader appeared in a sparser patch of undergrowth and Clay held up his fist, pointed at his eyes then back in the direction they’d come.

Ramirez nodded. Clay could count on him to tie his squad in with the other two. They could refine their positioning later, if necessary.

Clay took the handset from Thompson. “Seductive Snake Six, this is Two Actual. At the RP…all secure.” He headed for the left flank, waving his radio operator to follow.

Less that thirty-five meters over, they caught sight of Lance Corporal Brown, Clay’s youngest squad leader. Hunkered behind a decayed log next to his radio operator, Brown held the handset to his ear, beneath the rim of his helmet. Thompson’s radio crackled with static. 

Brown heard it and rolled over. Eyes wide, he came to a low crouch on his knees, frantically waving them down. On his way to the mud, Clay heard the first round catch Thompson with a sickening smack, followed by the angry crack of its passage. More distant, the hollow thump of mortar rounds leaving their tubes came to his ears. The left flank erupted in pin points of light and the rattle of small arms fire.

Clay sprinted for his radio operator, dove prone and dragged him over on his back. Dead. He pried the handset loose and keyed it. Also dead. The first mortar rounds impacted close by and his gut jumped to the concussion, as his ears rang and went cottony.

From the flank, muzzle flashes winked in eerie, malicious quiet through the gathering darkness. The shadowy forms of the Peoples’ Army rose from spider holes, firing AK-47s that seemed not to miss.

Another mortar round impacted near Brown, blowing off his helmet to reveal a blood-soaked death mask. Brown stared at him reproachfully, with missing eyes Clay could nevertheless feel.

The throaty chuckle of a diesel starting up rose above the din. Tanks? When the hell did the PA get tanks? The engine noise swelled to the accompaniment of strengthening wind and the incongruous beep of a back-up alarm.

Clay came awake to the drone of the fan he used for white noise and the continued beep of a back-up alarm somewhere outside. Tow truck. He lay there, his chest jumping to each beat of his heart. As it slowed, the nightmare he’d always feared but had never quite materialized retreated.

But now as then, he remembered the endless wait that night for Kinseth’s medevac bird—his assurances as the morphine kicked in that the bird was on the way, knowing it would arrive too late. 

He thought of the long, flight home from his first overseas tour, laced with a confusion of hope, disillusionment and dread.

After a cup of coffee, Clay stretched and prepared for his pre-dawn run. Seated on his front porch, he garroted his ghosts in the laces of his running shoes.

 

About the Author

Dirk came within a cat’s whisker of never publishing. Through two
frenetic professional careers first as a Marine officer and then as a
corporate trainer, he started way more stories than he finished, until full
retirement left him with the focused attention he needed. West of Tomorrow,
his first novel draws on his experience with the military, corporate America
and the unpredictable nature of life.

Since then, he has published Best-Case Scenario, Act I of Nyra’s
Journey
a New Adult romance, Through the Windshield, Drive-by Lives an
anthology of short stories and Tier Zero, Vol. I of The Knolan Cycle. He
currently lives in Laguna Niguel where he surfs,  snow skis in the
winter and facilitates an author’s critique group.

 

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Tier Zero Tour

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The Knolan Cycle, Book 1
Science Fiction (First Contact)/Science Fiction (Romance)/Science Fiction (Military)
Date Published: November 26, 2019
Publisher: PhoenixPhyre

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They’re already here, and no one knows about it…yet.
Two bedrock assumptions seem to find their way into almost all science fiction tales of first contact between Earth and a hypothetical alien race. The first is that we will necessarily know when it happens and the second is that alien motives will likely be malevolent. In Tier Zero, Vol. I of The Knolan Cycle, first contact occurred over thirty years ago and no one on Earth…not even SETI…has a clue it has happened.
Martin Tellus is a graduate student at UCLA. His past is riddled with mystery, including a lifelong recurring dream he cannot explain. And just as a volcano’s first discharges of gas and magma often signal a coming eruption, Marty’s dreams signal a transformative change. The transformation arrives in the form of a “chance” meeting with Lysia in philosophy class. Their connection is instantaneous.
A seductive Asian woman with an untraceable accent, Lysia sticks to Marty’s thoughts. During a casual conversation after their next class, Lysia offers to teach Marty “eastern” philosophy. But to Marty’s surprise, her teachings open a mind-bridge between them, accompanied by an intense physical connection. And Marty’s progress doesn’t end with the connection he and Lysia share. As her teachings progress, he discovers new powers, at once exhilarating and disquieting. Not for the first time, he wonders,  who is Lysia really?
Marty’s questions have answers, but Lysia isn’t telling. At least not yet. The truth is she’s a Seeker and Waykeeper of Knola, in a nearby arm of our common galaxy. She’s been waiting for Marty’s awakening, specifically to be on hand to mentor him in the Way. As Marty’s powers grow with Lysia’s teachings, she realizes he’s unique in ways not even the Oracle, to whom Lysia answers foresaw.
Lysia finds Marty’s growth in the Way at once inspiring and unnerving. Sharing her concerns with her superiors back on Knola, she precipitates a fateful decision that will change Marty’s life and alter the history of both Earth and the Knolan Concordant. Tier Zero begins Marty’s perilous journey to a destiny beyond his—or anyone’s—imaginings.
Tier Zero, Volume I of The Knolan Cycle was published in November 2019. Eryinath-5, Volume II in the series is due out from PhoenixPhyre Publishing in 2021.
Tier Zero tablet

Excerpt  (from Chapter 25, “Death Rose”)

When his half of the station powered up, Marty imitated Arra’s movements, surprised at how smoothly the target ring tracked the red icons corresponding to incoming Valdrōsian fighters.

The deck beneath him shook to the discharge of Arra’s first shot.

His canopy display glowed amber, like the sight on the shuttle, but it followed his eyes, as he tracked the incoming red streaks on the screen. 

Cool! Damn thing reads my mind! 

Marty locked up one of the incoming fighters by sight and touched the triggers in the grips when the sights winked blue. The hull resonated with energy as both barrels of a disrupter he couldn’t see fired. He watched the trace of both plasma bolts miss high.

“Shit!” Not so easy. He tracked another, fired and missed again. “Goddamn it!” He engaged two more fighters, flashing past after a gunnery run, missing both. 

The next few minutes were the busiest of Marty’s life. He lost count of how many enemy fighters he acquired, tracked and fired upon, all misses. Fear of death and letting Arra down made him desperate, but he talked himself off the ledge of panic. Focus!

He acquired another fighter, boring in almost head-on. He felt the impact of its disrupters ripple through the hull as he fired back. The fighter winked out and Marty howled in triumph. He trained his weapon at another fighter arcing away and fired again, watching the track of his disrupters intersect the fighter’s path. It disappeared from the screen, in anticlimactic silence. Keep firing!

Now in rhythm, one fighter after another died under Arra and Marty’s weapons. He began to hope, until a violent impact threw him from his seat. Another salvo of missiles from the fourth cruiser? As if to confirm, a second more violent shock slammed him into the bow of their ship, throwing him from his gunner’s station. Two more detonations rang through the hull, followed by an almost human groan as the ship’s hull distorted. He jumped back into the gunner’s station.

Another shock wave rippled through the ship and the weapons stations went dark. Arra jumped from her station, dragging Marty after her with surprising strength. 

“Follow!” she commanded in High Language. Hustling Marty toward the Bridge, Arra slapped the open button to the door. When it didn’t budge, she grabbed Marty by the shoulder of his cruiser suit, hustling him back to the junction of the passageways wrapping around the bow. 

She opened a panel in the bulkhead and slapped an amber button, pulling Marty around the corner with her. An explosion sent a shock wave and chunks of debris rattling off the bulkheads and past them. Sound went cottony and an acrid smell like gunpowder wafted down the passageway, along with a veil of smoke.

Pulling him to his feet, Arra led him down the passageway, through the Bridge. Deserted, except for the crumpled bloody mass of the Navigator slumped behind her station and the DCO next to her. Did he die trying to save her? Had everyone left?

“No! Follow.” Arra led him down the passageway, half-running, half-swimming in the failing gravity. It got stronger amidships. At a levi-tube, Arra punched the actuator and squeezed in before the door was fully open, jerking Marty in after her, before the door could close. Their combined weight overwhelmed the one-person grav-rings and they plummeted down the shaft, landing with a jolt in an undignified heap at the bottom of the shaft.

Arra pushed Marty off and scrambled to her feet. The hangar deck, minus the shuttles. Launched? Jettisoned? What was left of the crew stood in orderly lines, donning suits of some sort.

Standing next to Captain Vaís, Kholôtha caught sight of Marty exiting the levi-tube. She hurled all her worried exasperation and relief into a single thought. “Hero? Really?”

Arra took Marty’s blood-slick hand and dragged him toward Kholôtha, firing a volley of Knolan at her. She squeezed Marty’s hand once before leaving. Marty watched her go. 

She must assist with the demolition,” Kholôtha explained.

“Demolition?”

“Yes. Cygnus is dying. We are sinking rapidly into Ashilear’s atmosphere. For the safety of the settlements, we must destroy the ship so the pieces will burn up before they impact the surface.”

Marty looked at her, blankly.

“We must abandon ship before Cygnus hits atmosphere,” she yelled, out loud. “There is no time.” She looked down, taking in the gash on his leg, still oozing blood and his bloody hands. 

“Zero gravity in a drop capsule with those wounds will prove messy.” She reached into a pouch on her utility belt. “Take my battle dressings. Bind up your hands and leg while I prepare your drop suit.” “Welcome to the Concordant,” she added, with an incongruous grin.

Kholôtha returned inside of two minutes, to help Marty into his suit. “Your suit has enough oxygen to last about one of your hours,” she told him, handing him a helmet. “Do not don your helmet until so ordered. You may need every molecule of oxygen in your breather. 

“You will be assigned a drop capsule…” Kholôtha waved at the far bulkhead, stress blocking out the English word for it. “Over there. Get in line and follow instructions. The ride down will be bumpy, and the landing violent. Stay with your capsule. I will find its beacon. May your Way be smooth.” Kholôtha laughed at the irony of her words.

“Kunathir, Kholôtha,” he replied.

She met his eye, then pushed him in the direction of the bulkhead, where a Knolan officer shepherded him into line. 

In five Earth minutes, Marty had climbed into one of the padded capsules in a line of launch tubes recessed in the deck. It was only a little wider than his shoulders. 

The officer motioned for him to don his helmet, then sealed the capsule. In another minute, a vicious detonation launched him into space, adding a ringing sound to his already cottony hearing.

What had Kholôtha called the planet…Alsheer…Ashtear? Marty couldn’t remember. The ride proved smoother than he expected, after Kholôtha’s warning. And there was a lot to see, through the narrow view slot. Hot gases from burning ships bathed near-space in a ghostly spectrum of shifting color. 

Pieces of Valdrōsian and Knolan ships captured by the planet’s gravity rained down, streaking toward the surface in fiery, man-made meteor showers.

Marty had never been in a battle, much less one in space. He’d gone into it with no notion what to expect. He hadn’t expected to fight in it, and clearly, Kholôtha hadn’t wanted him to. He realized he was shaking violently. Fear? Reaction setting in? Both? 

“Welcome to the Concordant,” Kholôtha had said. Her displeasure at being disobeyed notwithstanding, Marty had detected pride that he’d chosen to fight, rather than scuttle for safety. 

There is meaning in this! he thought.

Self-congratulation was cut short by his entry into the atmosphere. The capsule began to shake and yaw wildly in the stratospheric winds. In moments, his shoulders were bruised, and he was shaking even more uncontrollably. Fear for sure, this time. His ears kept popping as he descended, and the capsule was getting warm.

Twice, his capsule ricocheted off debris as he plunged toward Ashilear, spinning on one axis then another. How long had Kholôtha said? Thirty minutes? 

It was getting very hot. She hadn’t mentioned that. The capsule was almost too hot, now, even through the thick padding of his cocoon. Or was it his coffin? Impact extinguished thought.

About the Author

Dirk’s path to authorship wasn’t quite an accident, but almost. It’s not that he didn’t write. He did. But through two previous careers, first as a Marine officer and subsequently as a corporate trainer, Dirk started way more stories than he finished.” But in the backwash of the 2008 financial meltdown, his employer filed for Chapter 11. Cordially invited to leave and not return, Dirk found himself out of work and excuses.
Since then, Dirk has published West of Tomorrow, Best-Case Scenario and a collection of short fiction entitled, Through the Windshield. Works in progress include A Year of Maybes, sequel to Best Case Scenario and Tier Zero, Volume I of the Knolan Cycle now available from Amazon in paperback and Kindle.
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