here is the second chapter of my ongoing Sci Fi story

enjoy or die.

Gaius

When Gaius spit, it was red with warm blood. He but down on a medical capsule, too early, and the submerging after effect was like a solid weight pulling him to the ground. He was leaning over the edge of time and space itself, overlooking a deep void of nothingness, and headlong plunging in. The med capsule tasted bitter and he found it hard to stomach, but there was sweet relief coming, and it rushed over him like a storm; a wave of disregard to the pain. They’ll be coming back for me, he thought, sending their tamed beasts. That thought wasn’t much comfort, but the hired guns and mutated monstrosities didn’t faze him; all in the work, I guess you could say. It was the bolt in his belly that worried him most. 

"Fucking squids..." he muttered amidst a mouthful of blood, "it was always the fucking squids." He threw his head back and swallowed two more medical capsules, enough to keep him alive a little bit longer. Just until he reached "The Dagger," just long enough to make it. 

"Fucking squids," he said again. They had come out of nowhere, like they always did, and at the worst possible moment. Gaius had handed his contact, a black man with pale white eyes named Francis, 40k in Federals for an external memory unit containing the blueprint for a powerful computer virus. But he never got the unit, so he was out 40k, which by the way didn't even belong to him in the first place. 

"Fuck this," he laughed, "this has got to be the worst fucking day ever."

"Gaius."

It was her again. She wouldn’t give it up. 

"What do you want Saura?" he gritted his teeth, "I thought I told you I didn't want to hear it." Her voice cackled from his ear piece, soft but stern. 

"I'm not going to give up on you," she said. 

"Fuck you."

"Gaius," she was pleading and trying not to show it, "you're going to die!" He bit into another medical capsule, and paused to catch his breath. 

"I'll be fine," he said, coughing, then spitting out some more blood, "just get over it..."

"I'm coming for you," Saura's voice was like a tasty poison to him. Sweet but ultimately defeating. 

"Don’t," he said. 

"You can't stop me," she said. 

"Fuck you," he said; "if I see you..." she interrupted. 

"You can't stop me."

"If I see you coming after me," he said, "I'll shoot you."

"No," she said, "I don't think you have it in you."

"Fuck that, and fuck you," he bit his lip and groaned. The pain was more that he could bear much longer. 

"You bitch," he was fighting the tears, "you fucking bitch, why did it have to be you?"

"Gaius," Saura was calling out up him, "Gaius, listen to me," but he was letting go. He was barely there anymore. The life was soaking out into the carpet of the hotel basement. 

"Fucking squids," he said again. 

"Squids!" Saura came over the ear piece again, "what the fuck! How did they know?"

"There’s a rat Saura," god, how could she not know by now? It was so obvious. He needed her. 

"A rat?" she was firm, resilient, the kind of woman he always dreamed of, "there can't be a rat!"

"Are you fucking stupid?" he wanted to tell her, he had always wanted to tell her, "there's a goddamn rat and we got fucked Saura!"

"I'm coming for you," she said. 

"Don’t," he said, "just don't. Stay away." He should have told her a long, long time ago. 

"I have to," Saura said, "you're too important to me! I can't just leave you out there." he should have told her. 

"I love you Saura," he said, "but if you come after me, I'll kill you." He unplugged the ear piece. He was feeling better now; his life was almost at its end, and Death? Death would be so much easier. The bolt in his stomach would see to that. 

"Saura," he said, "I wish it wasn’t...but...it's only..." he was feeling faint. He wanted to sleep. He knew he couldn't. That would be it. 

"Fucking eh," he laughed, "god, you're a real asshole, you know that. If I had a chance, I'd fucking bust your jaw." He tried to sit, but fell into a heap on the ground. He was sleepy. Very sleepy. The blood was pouring from his mouth. 

"Fuck...this..."

He imagined her body, soft and supple and beautiful. Her pink nipples, her ivory white skin, her fiery green eyes. He imagined them lying naked in bed, making love, bold and righteous in the most primal of heats, her face flushed, her body laid bare before him. Why? In these final moments, why did he think only of her? Why did she torment him so?

"Fuck," he breathed "this shit...fucking sucks."

He raised his pistol. Voices up ahead. Wizards, he thought, he could hear their guttural Kemling voices. 

"Good timing," he whispered to himself, "you little fucking trolls." Kemlings were one of many races of alien slaves the Squids had gathered in their vast special purges. The octopi had the Tronians, who were only a little bit nicer. Kemlings were easily frightened and weak when alone, but were deadly in large groups. Gaius only saw three, but undoubtedly there were more. And their magic’s would sense him soon. He had little time to formulate a plan. 

"Fuck," he took the last few capsules he had and bit into each. The adrenaline flowed through him with violent electricity. He was on fire. For the last time. He acted without thinking. 

The first Kemling looked up, feeling a breach of the magical barrier, and caught Gaius' bolt in the forehead. His tiny body took flight, crashing against a far wall in a shower of blood and bone and glass. The second was turning when the bolt cut his legs out from under, sending him tumbling face forward into the ground, his breathing unit severed and he rolled around the ground grasping at his neck while Gaius fired at the third Kemling, who had dove behind a table for cover. Gaius unloaded at the table, to no avail. He heard the gut wrenching Kemling words, and threw himself back as the spell came flooding out from the caster’s hiding spot.. 

He was a second away from instant death, screaming green with all the seeming of unholy dragon’s fire, and though his acrobatics ripped open the wet bolt wound, he would live to tell about it. At least for now. He stared into the abyss the wizard had cast and saw the space within its magical field collapse. There was a silence then a thunderclap that deafened him for a moment. He froze. The words were coming again. The spell, red and green and black like deamonfire, came at him, but luck was on his side. His shield, an amulet of souls, raced out with a bluish purple ice that met the wizard's death curse head on, and deflected it back toward him. The Kemling dove from out behind the table, and it exploded into splintering pieces from the combined energies rushed through it. Gaius fired at him, but the little bastard rolled out of the way and returned fire with his peashooter. The blunderbuss blasts ripped three foot holes in the walls around Gaius. He ran toward the exit behind him, debris and rubble falling all around him like snow. 

He was dying now, he knew it. Without medical attention, he would bleed out in the next few hours. Exhaustion would take over first; pretty soon he would simply collapse. His sight was already going; the wall in front of him was fading into an obscurity of clouded imagery. I am dying he thought, and this is how it feels. Ecstatic. Orgasmic. Natural. It feels good. He tried to recall her face one last time. Saura. His love. His only love. He smiled. The end was coming now. He lay his head down on the carpet. He heard the footsteps of the Kemlings, and the heavy boots of a couple of overweight Tor stomping around about him. He wanted only to sleep. 

Ed

To my Dearest Friend and Confidant Marcel DeGuitan 

My brother, it has only been a day’s travel from the estate of our grand benefactor, through the narrow lanes and tall trees of the Welsh country and in, ever deeper, into the unmanaged sprawl that is the capital as we know it. London is an absolute cesspool, my brother, he streets urchin littered and filthy, her buildings crumbling and left to disrepair, her waters dodgy and full of soot and dirt and tuberculosis, green and white and black they float past. Upon this mildly milky sheet ride skiffs and schooners, waylaid by the economic downtime, broken cracked sails lying limply upon the decks, shot full of holes and patched back to take them up river. I saw one this morning that was so wet with waters she would scarce return to safe harbor, and as she effectively sunk her way past me, I noticed the crew rapidly casting water from the ships fore and aft with great big wooden buckets. Their supposed first mate, a beast of a man, bald with broad shoulders and a face wrapping mustache that connected up to some very heavy looking side burns, shouted encouragement to his crew, all green boys and first time sailors from the looks of it. His voice carried over the edge of the Themes, and lolled into the fracas that was the bustle of Lansdowne St, like an orchestra warming up before launching into some great human opera, and a small crowd had gathered by the water, so I stopped myself and joined them in a gander at the strange little ship. 

I must say now that I have become great friends with much of the crew of the "Desiree" as well as her captain, Sir Alan Mainwater (knighted after that last bit of nonsense with the Spanish) and that bald fellow, the first mate Sam Guffy, in the days I have stayed. This ship, named apparently after Captain Mainwater's long dead lover, was a small skiffer of only maybe thirty feet stem to stern and could carry a crew of fifteen to twenty five easily and comfortably, however she was at my fist sight sinking into the Themes. That is no matter now, as the ship, with me following from a safe distance, reluctantly reached its resting place, a tiny alcove where the slate was level enough, and the waters low, so they could hoist the front over and beach the vessel for repairs. Alas, my brother, they sailed, and I followed, straight into the heart of the slums, where thrive thieves and ganglanders and highwaymen who wait in the realm of the shadow to waylay poor rich men, like yours truly, and take their well-earned ducats. Well, you had better believe I wasn't about to let that happen, and lucky for me, old chap, I always keep a pistol and saber on my person when walking these streets, for they are dangerous beyond measure and even the soldiers and policemen are thieves and murderers. My cloak was also quite dirty from the ship into London, being sequestered in the hold with the rats for a few hours while a naval ship boarded us and searched the cabins for French loyalists. I had my papers ready, and they barely looked at them at all before moving on, but it was a moment which afforded me more fear than I would like. So, dirty with rat shit and soot, stinking of the spray of the ocean, not to mention well-armed, I marched myself straight into the very heart of it brother, prepared to unleash every bit of my training upon whomever tried to stand in my way. 

Luck was once again, and hopefully not for last, on my side as they say, for I made it through the slum market (if it can even be called a market, what with them selling grilled rats and snakes and radishes) and what appeared to be where most of them sleep, to an overlook, quite nicely looking over the very ledge where "Desiree" had been run aground. Sam Guffy, in all his strange glory, was below, barking orders up at the top of his lungs as the crew unloaded the cargo onto the dock, where more crew members, more teenagers from the looks of it, were placing it into donkey carts and bringing it up toward the market. They winded up the hill and right past his overlook, bringing in spices and food, clothing and dyes and salts and metal and stone and wood and everything you could imagine, packed tightly on the animals with precision and care not accustomed to the younger generation. I called out to one of them, asking him what news from the island, and he turned and laughed. 

“It’s war and poverty and death," he said in a lilting Irish accent, "and whatever else the crown sees fit to levy."

"War though?" I said, and he nodded. 

"Aye, least that's what's on every tongue in every dark corner of every pub Cork up to Belfast. It's war or nothing."

What a bother, I thought, war can be a real to boom to some businesses, but mostly our profession is very much delighted to see two world powers engage in fierce combat, there is a profit to be made on England and France and Holland and Spain and Russia and Sweden and so on, full, untapped coffers of billions and billions of coins and bills and gold and jewels. But these revolutions. These men standing up to the authority, fighting the good fight against a superior rival, they do not make us a red cent brother. They cannot afford our services, and though they loose most valiantly under the heavy fire of their oppressors, supplied of course with the special prowess of ours, we do not starve, yet only break even. And to hear the war has come to the shores of my homeland, it saddens my heart. So I took liberty, and seeing the captain counting wares and checking off his stock list, made for him most casually. He wore a rather humble black tail coat, heavy and lined with furs, with another sash slung around his shoulders of deep burgundy red, and a wide brimmed, three cornered hat. He is tall yet unassuming, with a fierce and animal like face, sparse red beard and hair, but so cleverly ordinary in general appearance one is scarce to think him anything more than a roving trader or government clerk. I approached him, and waiting for him to finish his count, thrust out a merry hand and introduced myself. He looked at me with cold, calculating eyes, but smiled warmly as he puffed at his tobacco. 

"And what do you want with me?" He asked, amused apparently. 

"Introductions are of course in order," I said, "I am Edwain Stevenson from the Allerton Arms Company," producing my card, which he snatched from my hand. He studied it a moment, and then looked back at me, with that same smile. After a moment he held out a ragged, bandaged hand. 

"Alan Mainwater," he said, with a grin, "Sir Alan Mainwater, future king of England." With that there was a brief and uncomfortable silence, only broken by the howling laughter of the crew, led of course by the man mountain Sam Guffy, who somehow had snuck up right alongside me while I spoke with the captain. 

"Come with me, Ed you said right?" He showed me toward the ship, past more cargo and crew and onto the deck, which I could now see had been thoroughly shelled. 

"Have some trouble Captain?" I asked, sidestepping a gaping hole. He turned with a bit of flourish. 

"Fucking river pirates," he said, turning once more and leading on, "they hit us about ten seconds after we left port in Cornwall," he stopped suddenly in the midst of the deck and got very close. 

"Ne'er trust the fucking Welshman," he said then led on once more as quickly as he had stopped. I followed him if only because I had become intoxicated with his bullish and brash personality, weaving my way across the deck behind him and into his tiny cabin, where he pulled a bottle of brandy from the low cupboard and motioned for me to sit and share a smoke. He gave the impression of a casual interrogation, so I decided to play along with his little game. As I've told you when we were in Marseille, these, shall I say, independent contracts are the wave of the future, and I intend to line every ship in the North Sea with Allerton hardware. 

"Who did you say you work for?" He asked after a few snuffs of his brandy. 

"Allerton Arms, captain," I said handing him our bulletin, "I work in the sales division, as well as R and D."

"Right," the more I spoke the more I realized he was a man of small mind, "and what's that then?"

"Cannons my good man," I said, noting a flicker pass through his eyes, "muskets, pistols, cutlass, halberd, axe, swivel guns, grape shot, whatever you need, we can supply!"

"Dynamite!" He shouted. 

"Of course my good sir," I said. 

"Axes?" 

"Yes. Hatchets, knives, clubs, rifles, whatever your heart desires," I said, and produced for him the current spring season catalogue, which he began to ogle most vehemently. 

"And the prices?" He flipped through the book, excitement building, "current."

"If you order today I can give you a special 2% discount on ammunition." Bagged. My brother, you should have seen his face, the deal was done before his ink could hit the contract (which I also enclosed, do file that for me old chap). Sam Guffy, the first man, captain sent him with me, we're taking six men and four carts back to the midlands to pick up those cannons and rifles. We'll be taking the overland route, as there are no ships sailing out North for the next two weeks, due to high seas, which is about a four day ride. We'll go up into the hill country, with its winding turns, ill kept roadways, and keen eyed bandits, and this letter should reach you before my arrival, so do keep a lookout for me over the next few weeks. 

Yours

Ed. 

Ps. the "future king" and I also spoke at length about that...other thing you and I have been working on. Do prepare Rodney for an apt demonstration, would you? I won't speak of it in this letter should it fall into the wrong hands, which of course would be disastrous for Allerton, especially for our part in it. But, as you have said before, it is the way of progress and the future shan't wait for someone else to invent such technology. We must be the forebears of this new grand era. I will speak with you soon.