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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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
Support indie authors! Like me on Facebook or follow me on Twitter.
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