Week three of my short story, working under the temporary (terrible) title, "A Fold in the Rift." Hoping to wrap this up by next week, then start doing the editing process. Must resist urge to write 100,000 words...

"You'll never guess," Zeke said smugly.


"Hold on, hold on," Tyrin said. Zeke could easily imagine Tyrin pulling back from his game to poke and prod at Zeke's console setup, trying to find out what had happened. "Your throughput jacked like 500%!"


"That's what happens when you score a TR two-two-one," Zeke nearly exploded as he spilled the news to his friend.


"No way you got a Temporal Rift," Tyrin scoffed. "There's an injunction against them. Besides, it's practically stolen military tech."


"So?" Zeke said, offended.


"So it's dangerous," his friend replied. "I don't think you have one."


"You just can't handle that this is going to bump me over the top," Zeke said. "I'll be pro after this. You're jealous."


"If I believed you had one, which I don't," Tyrin said, "then I might be the tiniest bit jealous. Not enough to override my fear, though."


"Quit holding me back, man," Zeke said. Then, "I don't have time to argue in a fucking VR field. Let's switch matches so I can show you."


"Fine," Tyrin relented with a sigh. "Pick a new server and let's go."


Zeke stepped out of the match, his vision pulling away from the stunning map as if he was peeling his nose away from a display it had been mashed against, only instead of the real world filling his vision, he found himself in his virtual console, icons and words floating before him. He reached up a hand and flicked through several servers, finally coming to one that caught his eye.


"Tyrin, I'm joining a new server now," Zeke announced.


A falling sensation overcame him as he plunged back into the game world, a new map loading and replacing the one he was previously on. He flashed into existence in the middle of downtown Tokyo, the Shimizu Mega-City Pyramid burning in the bay. Zeke could actually smell the roiling smoke, which stung his nostrils and made him cough aloud. A moment later Tyrin materialized next to him. Zeke deployed into the game with the same assault kit, convinced it would give him the firepower he would need. Tyrin's soldier switched over to an engineer kit, equipped with micro-UAVs, mines, and equipment useful for hacking military networks.


"Zeke, tell me you didn't pick a tier two server," he said incredulously.


"The match starts in thirty seconds," Zeke said coolly. "You going to cry about it, or are you going to back me up so I can break into the tier one groups?"


"Fine," Tyrin grumbled. "Just don't blame me when you wreck your score and get bounced back to tier five."


"Not going to happen, man. I'm invincible," Zeke said, watching the game timer count down to the start of the match.


"I hope you know most of the guys in here are stimmed to the gills," Tyrin said.


Zeke didn't answer. Instead he saw the timer hit 00:00, then he exploded forward, taking off in a sprint towards Tokyo Tower, but having no intention of remaining on the ground for long.


"Where are you going?" Tyrin shouted from behind him, trying to keep up.


"Have to get behind their lines and flank 'em before they can dig in," Zeke said, his mind split between navigating the city and watching the map that floated in his HUD, red enemy markers already being flagged by the attack tiltrotors that now when blasting overhead, their shadows flitting from building to building.


The sun was setting before him, already low on the horizon, making it seem as if the skyscrapers before him were on fire, which many of them actually were. In the first sixty seconds of the match, both teams had already launched air assaults, missiles, cannons, and directed energy weapons knocking vehicles out of the sky even while cutting gouges in buildings, flaming debris raining down to the ground to be stamped out by the boots of the infantry that moved forward, backed up in the middle by columns of armor. It was digital warfare, but the emotions were real. Kill or be killed. Survive. Win.


Zeke and Tyrin were tiny cogs inside a large machine, but in order to advance in the game they would need to stand out, scoring more than the remaining 90% of the players to secure a pass to a tier one server and opening the gates to professional gaming contracts with major clans and corporations. Zeke could almost smell the sponsorship deals, so close was he to breaking out from his bleak life. Drive by desperation, he charged on, fully intending to emerge victorious, or else to die in the attempt.


Neon lights from hanging signs, each one several stories tall, were reflected in puddles of water on the moist asphalt, rain clouds still looming over the grim totems that rose up into the sky. Zeke's boots splashed through the standing water, turning the reflection into a rainbow kaleidoscope of commerce, karaoke, and pornography. Up ahead he heard armor exchanging fire, the ground rumbling beneath his feet as IFVs and MBTs maneuvered in their own conflict. Seeing an opportunity, he cut down a narrow alley, working his way through a labyrinth of izakaya, the low hanging lanterns brushing against his inflated shoulders as he kept up his manic pace. He had already outstripped the other infantry forces, only Tyrin doggedly remaining with him, following his trail as best he could.


He emerged in a pedestrian square lit almost entirely by a fifty story holoprojector that faithfully disgorged advertisement after advertisement. Though Tokyo was supposedly at war, the game designers had found that interest in the level dropped to nothing if they turned off all the tiny lights that made people interested in the city to begin with. Tokyo without electricity was just a collection of concrete, holding no more interest to anyone than the next pile of rocks. Crossing the square, Zeke entered the building itself, Tyrin catching up to him.


"We're way out of position," he said.


"Relax," Zeke countered. "I know what I'm doing. And keep quiet, you'll give away our position."


Swiftly climbing the stairs, his soldier unable to tire, Zeke emerged on the roof of the structure, giving him a view directly across the maglev line and the skyscrapers opposite his position. Below, tanks and walkers exchanged fire in the streets while a pair of fighter aircraft tangled in the sky above. The constant drone of ordinance spread over the city, bouncing off the glass, steel, and concrete, a symphony of destruction. Moving to the edge of the building, Zeke rested the handguard of his rifle on the concrete lip, getting his eyes down behind the optic.

"Now what?" Tyrin asked in his ear.


"Now we kill everything before us," Zeke said.


A.C. Harrison
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Continuing on with my short story, "A Fold in the Rift," the title of which I hate, by the way. Please, send me suggestions on that one as I progress. Part one was posted last week and is available here. Again, I'm writing this on the fly, then I'll go through the editing process and clean it all up. It's like real life writing! I'm trying quite hard to avoid my long form writing; it's a challenge for sure, but one I will keep working on. On to the text:

Strictly speaking, there was a whole song and dance Zeke was supposed to do to calibrate his unit. He blew through the bare minimum required, tweaking settings on the fly, his body craving "the game" in the same way a junkie needs another fix. He could even see his jitters and his shakes, the feedback from the unit advising him that his wound up state could impact performance. Hey, it was called twitch gaming for a reason.


Zeke finished with the setup application and bounced back to the home screen of his console. He jumped straight into his gaming system, "Mist," the menu changing over with a flourish of color, sound, and...scent?


"They better not have coded in corpse smell," Zeke muttered. Still, he was floored. How did each new sensation feel more real than, well, reality?


Glancing up at the top of the frame, Zeke saw that Tyrin was online and already in session, playing a ranked game of "Warfighter 4: Beyond Sirius." Reaching out with his hand, he tapped the icon to join the match, his finger dipping into the floating icon, the object rippling over his flesh like space jello. It felt cool to the touch, with a rubbery texture. Zeke saw that the system had even correctly set his skin pigmentation to match his actual flesh, making his virtual hand indistinguishable from the corporeal counterpart.


The maxed out GPUs in his rig didn't waste a single iota in rendering the level, so that in the blink of an eye Zeke was standing on a high ridge overlooking a cratered battlefield, hulks of destroyed vehicles still burning in the background while immediately before him a new menu floated, letting Zeke pick his soldier load out.


"Zeke, that you?" a voice sounded in Zeke's ears, the game adding a radio effect, making the message sound as if it was coming through a secure channel.


"Dude, you can't imagine how much hurt I'm about to bring," Zeke said by way of greeting.


"You wish," Tyrin replied, not believing him. "Grab a scout kit and spawn at delta. There's a squad of rocket troops we need to flank."


Zeke closed the channel and smirked.


"Tyrin, you have no idea."


Instead of picking the scout kit, built for speed and stealth, Zeke picked an assault kit, one of a myriad number of options in the game's multilayered rock/paper/scissors system. Instead of sneaking around, an assault kit carried heavy weapons and armor to wipe out enemy infantry, other gamers in the case of this ranked match. His kit selected, Zeke spawned in, and almost immediately regretted it.


"Whoa!" he cried out in panic, his mind disoriented, his vision swirling. "They weren't joking about calibration."


Clamping down on his runaway panic, he managed to get a grip on himself and stop the drunken spin that his mind was stuck in. Once things wound down, though, Zeke was blown away by what he saw.


"Oh my God, it's beautiful," the words slipped out of his mouth involuntarily.


Everything he saw on the battlefield, what had once been pixels and polygons, was now pure art. From the glint of the sun to the smell of the acrid smoke, his senses were assaulted  by the reality that came with standing in the middle of an alien world. He wanted to just stand there, to focus his eyes on the smallest detail, blades of grass, a strange blue bug, his own body and the strength that surged through it inside his soldier's armor. Not his soldier's armor, his own armor. This was his body now, and it was amazing.


"Man, I can kill everything," he said, grabbing his rifle off his back, amazed at the texture he felt through his fingers and palm.


"Zeke, what the fuck, man?!" a voice rang in his ears.


Turning, Zeke saw Tyrin moving towards him, crouching behind a rock to avoid enemy snipers.


"You were supposed to spawn as a scout!" his friend protested.


"No way, Tyrin," Zeke said. "Time for me to top the boards and move up the circuit!"


"What the hell are you talking about?" Tyrin said, letting Zeke actually see his friend's puzzled face through the visor of his helmet.


"Just watch," Zeke said smugly.


Taking off at a dead sprint, Zeke followed the markers Tyrin had laid down to show where the enemy was hiding. Leaving his friend in the dust, Zeke boldly jumped atop a ridge, precariously balancing on its edge as he ran, the sheer drop taking him directly behind the dug in enemy soldiers. As he reached their position, the sun cast a long shadow behind him, which fell ominously over the troops, alerting them to his presence.


"Too slow," Zeke grinned wolfishly as he vaulted off the tan rock formation, his body flipping through the air as he fell past the multitudinous strata.


He landed in a crouch behind a boulder and lobbed a grenade, the weight in his hand a tangible thing, the neural feedback astounding. Timing his moves to match the explosion, he burst from behind the rock as the grenade went off, wiping out two of the enemy soldiers, the points for each kill tallying up in his peripheral vision. He let out a burst from his assault rifle, cutting down two more men, then sprinted forward to viciously descend on the last man who was fitted with a cumbersome rocket launcher and thus was slow to react.


In one fluid motion, Zeke slung his rifle and pulled out an plasma knife, diving forward and tackling the man to the ground. With a single swipe he ended the man's virtual life, chopping the head clean off with his glowing weapon, warm blood splattering up onto his torso and mask so that he had to wipe it away with an armored glove. Standing up, Zeke looked around at the carnage he had wrought, literally out of breath from his actions. It hadn't even been close to a fair fight. His hardware was too slick to even be touched by these noobs.


"Holy fucking shit," Tyrin said behind him, only now catching up. "What the hell are you?"


A.C. Harrison
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Earlier in the blog I posted that I would be interested in writing short stories to hone my craft, and that I felt they would be helpful samples of my writing that readers could enjoy and hopefully share. That idea was placed on the back burner purely for lack of time, but today I had a thought that I would like to implement in order to see how well it works. Starting with tonight's blog posting, I'll be writing a short story "live," simply going point to point, week by week, until the story is done (which could even be in one night, but I doubt it). Then I'll edit it on the blog and everyone can read it and tell me how very, very disappointed they am with my life choices. It's okay, I'm disappointed to. I always  thought I was going to grow up to be a space shuttle door gunner.

A Fold in the Rift
A short story by A.C. Harrison


"Aw, shit, this is it," Zeke exclaimed, knocking open the door to his studio apartment, the heavy thing smacking a fresh hole in the wall. That would have to be repaired later, before the landlord found out. Right now all that mattered to Zeke "Two Gun" Saad was getting wired. Stepping into the darkened room, he expertly tossed his empty wallet at the old fashioned light switch, kicking on the single bare bulb that illuminated his tiny abode. He kicked off his shoes and stepped over scattered pizza boxes, his dingy socks somehow leaving the linoleum cleaner as he slid along the floor. Under his arm was a cardboard box, sealed up tight with packaging tape. He set the box on a small end table that abutted a large metal desk that was more like the hatch to a nuclear bunker, then pulled out a dull pen knife, using brute force to slice the tape. Ripping open the box with childhood excitement, he lay eyes on what he had been eagerly working towards for so many months.


Hiding inside the drab exterior of the shipping box was a gleaming case of injection molded plastic decorated in a mottled gray camouflage. Pulling out the plastic container with reverence, Zeke ran a dark skinned hand across the metal placard attached to the front. Engraved on the gleaming black piece were the bold words: TEMPORAL RIFT v2.2.1. Popping the latch on the front of the case, the hinges swung open to expose a padded interior, in the middle of which rested a strange apparatus that seemed to be composed of block shaped goggles, headphones, wire jacks, and coils of leads that ended in two-way sensor pads.


"Worth every fucking penny," Zeke grinned from ear to ear. Setting the gray polymer unit down atop the case it came in, he turned his attention to his desk where his gaming rig sat. It was an alien configuration, devoid of monitor, keyboard, mouse, or speakers. The only thing that vaguely hinted at a functional computer was the flag black aluminum box sitting under the desk proper, a soft blue glow rising and falling from lights embedded inside the box, the cadence of which mimicked relaxed human breathing. Atop the desk was a similar unit to the one he had just received, but smaller and lacking the sheer quantity of connections and wires. Printed on the side of the headband were faded letters that read "Ocul--" before fading out to nothing. On the flat front of the unit was the version number, this unit being the fifth iteration of the venerable unit that started the whole trend in immersion gaming.


Zeke wasted no time in pulling the plug on his old immersion unit and setting up his new model, a task made difficult by the nervous energy which jumped through his twitching limbs and fingers, making him have to take several stabs at securing all the network connections and neural I/O links. When he was done he stepped back and admired his work, the immersion set sitting front and center on his desk, wires trailing off in all directions, black tendrils of information that would soon push his brain directly into a light speed world of battlefield carnage, starship dogfighting, and alien slaying.


"Zeke, you should wait until you're not burned out from a day slinging wetware," Zeke told himself. "Yeah, fuck that."


He plopped his ass down in his black leather recliner, slipped the TEMPORAL over his head, then got his hands over their respective motion tracking fields. A plain black menu floated before him, completely real to his brain. Manipulating his fingers in the air, he tapped the initialization icon that hovered in the top right of his field of view. For a brief moment nothing happened, then all of a sudden Zeke felt a pressure at the back of his head, a low pounding as if he had stumbled and cracked his skull on the floor, only it didn't hurt. A strange, icy sensation slithered down his spine, extending out to his limbs, ending in his fingers and toes. The feeling actually terrified him, but ended before he could even react to the sensation. A strange sparking happened behind his eyes and he thought he could smell smoke, but then all of that passed and he was left alone inside his head.


At first there was only darkness. Then Zeke thought, "Let there be light," and there was light.


"Ho-lee-shiiiiiit," Zeke thought. "Wait until I shove this in Tyrin's face."


I said short story, yes? More to come next week. I'm digging this one.


A.C. Harrison
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Ingredients for a successful writer:

• Inspiration
• Motivation
• Persistence
• Organization
• Perspective
• Language proficiency
• An understanding of literature
• Ego?

When we think of writers, we think of many things, often including the items listed, save the last one.

When I say a writer needs an ego, I refer not to the psychological or philosophical, but instead to the term we are familiar with: one's self-worth. Some people might think of this as the 'jackass' definition (as in, "wow, what a jackass"), and to a certain extent that plays a factor. On more than one occasion I have been called conceited, egotistical, selfish, and (yes) a jackass. And the people calling me these things were right, and when appropriate I apologized. Reflecting on myself, however, I do believe that a healthy dose of ego helps a writer to survive, perhaps even to flourish.

When you look at the things writing entails, nearly every step requires the author to be confident, to have faith that what he is writing is worthwhile, and that it is better than the next person's book. Most of the time these beliefs probably are not true, but when actual involved in the act of writing it needs to be. To write a book, to work with an editor, to seek publication or to self-publish, to advertise, to accept criticism, to move forward with plans for another book--these are all the things that don't just require a little confidence, they can at times require blind faith bordering on religious zeal. How do you know your book is even worth your time? You don't, but you have to believe it is. Is it going to move a single copy, other than the one your mom bought? In reality you won't sell as well as you hoped, but you'll keep pushing. You've been turned down again by a publisher? Too bad, they don't know what they're missing. You're going to publish yourself, because you already know that what you wrote is that good.

All of this encapsulates what is is I'm trying to say about a writer's ego: that it's a good thing, that it's healthy, and that it's necessary.

Yes, writers can be humble. Many of them are, especially when the dust settles and they can look around at what they have done and then recognize each and every person that got them there, even if "there" is just local recognition or accolades amongst dear friends. In the moment of creation though, a writer is the god of his universe. He is alpha and omega, light and darkness, heaven and earth. A writer cannot be questioned in his domain. His ego drives him to create, to believe in his creation, to safeguard it against all those who would harm it.

So the next time someone calls you a jackass, you can just thank them and tell them when the book will be available to purchase.

A.C. Harrison
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I've been hitting the new retro wave hard, trying to balance different writing projects, of which I am currently split between four. Yeah, it's been interesting. The fourth came into being just recently, as I finally broke down and started to visualize "The Long Night," really giving it substance and weight. Then I did a bad thing: I started writing. Writing is what I love. Editing... I do okay. I'm supposed to be finishing up "Jupiter Symphony," and I am, but sometimes you need to get things down on digital before the feeling slips away. So, without further ado, I give you the first glimpse of my third book, "The Long Night." Take a look and get excited. Tell me how you feel, I want to know:

            He had been dreaming of Tokyo again, of his night in Akiba, a woman’s face among the colored lights, her longing achingly beautiful. The memories rose up to his now conscious mind, a lingering pain. His sheets were snagged and snarled around him, a living thing he struggled to free himself from, the fibers grasping at his body. He didn't have to toss and turn or sweat in his sleep, he chose to. His brain inside a perfect machine body, he could have just as easily locked down his hardware, leaving his body catatonic as his mind raced through a land of dreams, his perfect eyes staring and open, Caribbean blue icons that gave away nothing, never revealing what roiled beneath the surface.
            Finally kicking off the bedding of Egyptian cotton, the man cursed the pieces of fabric that bore the monogram of a long dead politician, as if the ghost of the senator had personally attacked him. With the ruby red sheets half on the floor, a snapshot spray of blood, he stood naked in the middle of the room, unblinking. Years spent being poked, prodded, and maintained inside his mechanical shell had ripped away any concept of modesty, despite his fully anatomically correct body. One would think that occupying a cybernetic frame would take away the worry of physical health, but it turned out the opposite was true. The Agency was very particular about who was fitted with cybernetics and how they were used. A daily rigmarole of calibrations, checks, and tests were required, taking up almost as much time as needed to be in top physical shape. The difference here was that top physical shape meant being able to snap a man in half without trying.

            A floor to ceiling mirror was mounted across from the bed, showcasing his body, the dim light and long shadows accentuating his heavily muscled physique. The body itself was impressive: a Delta-IX model, a classified frame with technology on the bleeding edge, topped off with capacity to expand as the science of cybernetics continued to surge forward. "Delta" was the body type, the highest currently in production, though those who know about the Delta model were few in number. Rich civilians or those with amazing insurance could get Beta-type bodies, while the terrifyingly wealthy could get their hands on a Gamma if they knew the right people. None of them would stand a chance against a Delta, much less a level IX, of which there was only one.
            He dressed in the dark, a Savile Row affair in charcoal coloration, felt notch lapels with Damask accents that repeated in the shoulders and cuffs. A royal purple tie in a tartan pattern, set over a cream shirt, rounded out the look for the day. All the while he was dressing, the sun was creeping across the land outside his photochromic window, a golden ribbon that flexed and snapped over the rising construction that was ongoing every hour of every day, a massive project that was designed to turn the whole of Washington D.C. into a giant underground city, insulating it from the domestic terrorism and foreign attacks that made agents at the Agency very jumpy.
            Donning his shoes and socks, he took one last look at himself in the mirror, noticing the perfect symmetry of his body, his excellent proportions, strong jaw, and long, powerful limbs, all the way down to his individual digits, each one of which could snap a human neck. He looked and he longed, knowing he wouldn't ever again have a neck to be snapped. He was trapped inside his body, forever encased in a foreign vessel that didn't even try to approximate his old body that had been so horrifically destroyed by a dirty bomb at a Boston maglev station, the one he was supposed to stop. A faint whisper of pain trickled up from his brain stem and he latched onto it, desperately trying to feel again, to remember what being a human being was. Despite his mental grasping, the sensation slipped away, once again hiding beneath the waves of his conscious mind, out of reach.

            Surrendering to the day that lay ahead, he headed for the exit of his lavish penthouse, not bothering to grab the holstered pistol that hung over the back of a mahogany chair that occupied the foyer. He didn't need a weapon, he was a weapon. The Agency had made sure of that. Should he need to fire back that badly, to argue lead with lead, well, the Agency had covered  that as well. The Agency reached out, watched, listened, and always came prepared.

A.C. Harrison
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