Contents

1. An explanation

2. The President

3. The Father

4. The Kid

5. The Hardened

6. The Killer

7. The Militant

8. The Author

9. Bastian’s War books

10. Excerpt from The Killer

The Beginning

Bastian’s War, Book 1

Rick Jacobs

© 2013 by Rick Jacobs

Self-published with QuarkXPress

This book has been produced without Digital Rights Management software. Since this book is free, and I am hoping to get people to buy my other books with it, feel free to distribute it to anyone you think will like it. Maybe even to those who won’t as a vicious joke. Recite it in full at the next open mic night at your local pub. Announce it from the mountains: I don’t care. Just make sure that you give credit where credit is due and encourage people to buy my other books that I will be selling.

All that said, since I wrote this, you do not have permission to use it or claim any portion of it as your own. That’s copyright infringement, and while you may not get caught, karma will slip a rattlesnake into your bed while you are sleeping. So don’t steal it.

Thanks to those who supported me and pushed me with the sledge hammer of encouragement. Especially my boy, Bastian, for being the boy my book predicted. And Arya, for keeping me on my creative toes.

An explanation

I have been working on this series for 20 years. When I first came up with the idea, my friends thought how fanciful a lot of what I had written was, and how unlikely my view of a possible future could be. Over the following years, I would occasionally be contacted by those same friends expressing disbelief that what I had written had actually come to fruition. But I struggled to get the story out because of various things like life, work, and the misplaced belief that I could wait to write until life was stable enough for me to do it at my leisure.

Life is never stable enough. And if it is, then maybe I am not living enough.

When I finally decided that I had waited too long, recognized that this was a story that needed to be told, and that life was never going to afford me the opportunity to do what I wanted at my leisure, I decided to dictate to life that I was going to do this anyway. Then I was faced with “how” and have only recently determined the “what.”

First, the what. I knew it was a book set in the future. This was a future not so far off that we would have stopped using fossil fuels, but far enough that it utilizes advanced technology that is not common for us now, but is common place for those in this series. Typically, what we get in the civilian world is 10-20 years behind what the military uses, so I had to come up with technology that would be beyond what we have now, could be common place to civilians during the time of this story, but would pale to what the military would have available. I wanted it to be identifiable to how we live now, yet far enough in the future that it wouldn’t date itself or become obsolete. I wanted this to be relevant, but still science fiction.

But that created another problem for me: what genre does this book belong to? After first posting in “Fiction: Action/adventure” I felt uneasy and unhappy with how it didn’t quite fit with the other titles. I decided that my book is actually science fiction, even if it isn’t set in the far flung future of living in different star systems. I decided that my book is “Threshold SciFi.” And then I really liked the ramifications of the idea. Far enough into the future that there is SciFi attributes and opportunities for fantastical technology, but not so far that fossil fuels are irrelevant. If you think about it, 100 years ago they had cars using fossil fuels, but regular space travel was science fiction. iPhones would have been as stunning to those in 1945 as they would have been fascinating in 1970, and “communicators” were still science fiction in original Star Trek. And now we are using lasers to torment cats.

Now that I had the “what,” next was the “how.” I don’t do anything very easily.

I write each character one at a time, then weave their story together to tell you what is happening by how it interacts with their lives. Originally my first character told me that his story was 30,000 words (120 pages), but he wasn’t half way to what I thought the first book’s end would be. That caused a problem. The days of epic tomes are beginning to wane, and I didn’t want to try and hard sell a 300,000 word (1,200 pages) book as my intro. I needed a different plan.

I decided that since I love to develop my characters, I didn’t want to trim them to tell the story. I also don’t want to trim the story development for the characters, or have a ridiculously drawn out story with 600 page books coming out every 10 years. I hate that, and I was sure you would too.

My answer: one series with two almost parallel sub-series. Bastian’s War is composed of two other series: one series is of individual main characters — Bastian’s War: The People — and one series is of the stories of those characters integrated — Bastian’s War: The Battles. A character book, a People book, for each main character will be introduced before a Battle book, then the Battle book will overlap with those characters, with additional minor characters to fill in gaps.

Preceding each new Battle book, I will introduce new main characters with People books. These characters will be new to the whole of the series, not just previous main characters. So far, I know I have multiple Battle books planned, and I know I have 6 People books for the first Battle book: The Collapse. I also know some of the People books that will be coming out in the future. Sometimes a character surfaces, and I don’t know if they have an amazing story to tell until they introduce themselves.

I am excited about this serial concept for several reasons. First, I get to develop all the stories I want to. Second, I can develop the characters and the story with detail. Third, I can write smaller books faster. And fourth, you don’t have to wait 10 years between books. Plus, I think this is a fun concept that will provide a lot of challenges and spread sheets. I like spread sheets.

This first book, The Beginning, is an introduction to the series. It started out as the Prologue to The Collapse until Trevor came along and mucked the whole thing up by having a fascinating, to me, development. Titles for each chapter of The Beginning are the titles for the People books that will follow. The first People book is The Killer and will be released shortly after this book. The second will be The Hardened. After that, each character will have to step up and let me know they are ready for their story to be told. I have no idea, at this time, who will be next.

Hope you enjoy!

The President

August, 1 year Before The Collapse (BTC 1)

It was a tight primary race that brought the President back to the top for his party’s nomination. It was only the sixth time a Presidential incumbent had been challenged in a party primary since WWII, and only the fourth time a challenged incumbent had retained his position. President Chancer recognized that the real battle now lay ahead: convincing the population that what they had experienced for the past four years was not in fact the truth but an elaborate misrepresentation of what he really believed and had accomplished. I really need to eliminate the holes in my administration and circles, he thought to himself as he deftly picked through the leafy substance in front of him. Maybe then I will be the first to win re-election out of the six, even if it takes all of my resources to do so.

His reelection wouldn’t be the first history making thing he did — it would be the first big win in a list of even bigger wins he had planned once reelected. He would be the equivalent of George Washington when he, President Chancer: “George Washington reborn,” won his next couple of battles. He may very well be the President who replaces George Washington as the most influential, the most important. Such title and prestige would be only appropriate for the man who would reshape America into what it should have been all along.

Chancer pulled deeply through the stem of his bowl as he lit the slightly moist, green material he had placed in it after sorting out the stems and seeds. He listened to the familiar singing crackle of his pot catching light. As he held his breathe he smirked at the thought of his official Presidential portrait carrying a bag of Doritos under one arm, making a “hang loose” sign, and holding a bong with the free hand. He could see it now: his painting hanging slightly askew while next to ole Georgie W., the first. If only I were President number 420. Chancer snickered at his joke and choked a bit as he slowly breathed out the blueish-gray smoke he had been holding in for as long as possible.

Ever since he had successfully pushed the legalization of marijuana, he would, at the end of a particularly difficult time, take advantage of the law he had helped craft, and take a toke or three. This primary had been exceptionally difficult, so there had been many nights of relaxing with his medicine of choice. It was only right that the one who had contributed to the greater freedoms of this country also get to enjoy those same freedoms. It was fair. It was justice. It had been ridiculously profitable.

It had helped a lot to have relatives who were involved in legal grow operations in the states with legalized medical marijuana. Since he was THE President, he was forced to divest all of his interests so he could eliminate the appearance of impropriety. Lucky for him that he had family and “friends” who were very generous in setting up retirement accounts for him in off-shore banks. Good thing that he had also revolutionized the banking system just in time. These were just some of the many changes that he had either instigated directly, or planted the seeds for, while in public service. He snickered at his pun. Planted the seeds for...ha! One of many bills that lead to the greater ones that he still had in mind.

The taste of peppery haze entered his mouth as he pulled again and held it. Yep, plenty more change a’coming. Of course, all for the betterment of the people of this country. After all, he was a people of this country, too. He almost lost his hold from the guffaw that seemed anxious to burst from his lungs.

He leaned back in the over stuffed leather recliner he had inherited from his great grandfather, slipped off his $700 Earl Enslen loafers and took another drag as he pondered the upcoming battle he was going to force. It would be the culmination of his entire existence, the ends that justifies his 30 years of means in lining up his loyal, faithful and extortionable supporters. It was going to be a wonderful new world, one that every citizen of this planet would associate with his name for the rest of human history. He only needed two terms to accomplish his goals. And he would win his second. He knew this for a fact.

With all he had invested, especially in the new digital voting systems, he knew he was a lock. He needed to make sure he practiced his “fear of losing” look, his gaze of “reluctant hope,” and his absolute “stunned at victory” stare. He would need them as the returns came in showing that he had somehow remarkably managed to come from behind and barely eke out a win. Of course, the final results would show a landslide in the electoral college, but the popular vote had to have drama.

The bioputer geeks who were in on the fix were helping out of fierce loyalty and faith in the mission. Chancer couldn’t believe how easy it was to find willing programmers and hackers who would program in the subtle logarithmic adjustments that would randomly reassign votes to him. They explained their system was based on a statistical likelihood that votes could legitimately go his way, the density of the population, and the antiquity of the voting systems of the different district. It was subtle, it was slight, and he couldn’t believe how cheap it was. All he had to do was promise them the Star Trekian society that they believed in so passionately and they would justify to themselves why the means were in no way shape or form unethical, immoral, or illegal. The greater good, the needs of the many, blah, blah, blah, whatever they wanted to hear. Ethics is crap anyway, he pondered absently. He had even dropped a “to boldly go” into his speech. He hadn’t received such a standing ovation of such fanatical adulation since when he had removed all taxes off the innerspace and eliminated income tax on anyone making less than $75,000 a year, all in one bill. The cheapest script is the one printed out of faith.

January 20th will be the first day of the rest of humanity’s life, he thought wistfully, smirking slightly as he fondly remembered the many silken threads he had woven towards this feat. Caesar had nothing on him. What Caesar accomplished in Rome he did with an army behind him. Caesar had put the senate in fear of him by crossing the Rubicon with thousands of fanatical soldiers, bonded by the blood of battle. But he still had been required to convince the soldiers that this action was for the greater good of Rome. President Chancer had merely used wit and charm, and he had cashed in his debts greatly. I do have an Army of sorts, he thought to himself, but not like Caesar’s. Mine is made of minds and motivated by power and money. More easily motivated, easier to control, and far more easily removed. Give a man a sword and he fights for survival and his brother. Give a man a taste of greatness and he will fight for money and power. And will stab his brother and friend alike to see it through. Things hadn’t gone so well for Caesar because he hadn’t acknowledged that little truism. Thank you, Brutus, for a lesson well learned.

The President continued to finish off his bowl of insanely expensive British Columbian Cruxify as he sat in contemplation on the rest of the afternoon. Well, expensive for the slobs without my connections, anyway. He had a long day coming up and it was his due, a man of his accomplishment, to take a break and indulge himself. A king would do no less, why not a President? For the President of the Free World, the most powerful person on the planet — whether diplomatically, militarily, or in low and dark places — this was a reasonable expense. Or it was a research project. Or it was whatever fabrication was necessary to justify his having it at wholesale. At least he was fairly certain it was at wholesale: he hadn’t paid for it himself; that would have been silly.

He pulled on the pipe long and held his breath again. He popped out the remaining smoke in a few short puffs. I so love making these little circles.

The Father

August, BTC 1

Jack Warnyr was standing rigidly at the window of his office, just outside the door of his boss. He was looking out over the Mall, mouth set, teeth grinding slightly, absently churning the swizzle stick in his hot chocolate. People in the office liked to kid him about his hot chocolate intake, telling him he might as well drink coffee, since he drank enough to get the same caffeine buzz. Jack’s hot chocolate was already cold, but he didn’t think about it since he had no intention of drinking any more of this round. It was merely serving its purpose by giving his anxious fingers something to do. Besides, in case he may decide to drink the frigid liquid, stirring it made sure that the amaretto flavoring was nicely blended with the special dark chocolate richness of his signature drink, just as he liked it. Drinking it at this point would only be for the reactions of those in the office who were watching him intently while not looking directly at him, fidgeting with whatever mundane thing they were trying to make look important enough to justify their still being there. He knew that they would slightly curl their lips in sympathetic disgust at the grossness of drinking three hour old and cold hot chocolate. For Jack it would be a fun little prank, internally getting the satisfaction of seeing the people who were pretending not to watch him still cringe at his subtle action.

Senator Sean Hansen was in his office conference room, holding an emergency cram session of thinkers with the other top members of his party. Jack was supposed to be in there, since he was Sean’s right hand, but they were being circular in their arguing about how to handle this crisis. He had needed a break, so he had volunteered to order dinner. Now he had the convenience of needing to be out of the office waiting for the delivery. I hate wasted air... The thought struck him funny and he grinned just a bit. I am Chief of Staff to the most powerful Senator in politics currently, in the city that generates the most hot air in the world.

He could empathize with the men and women in the conference room though. When you are scared and cannot act there is nothing to do but either sit in silence contemplating something completely different or talk at length about your options and plans for the upcoming battle. He had seen this pattern so many times in the trenches and tents of the Bolshevik war. It was human nature. Those who feel that they have to have control over their world will talk, while those who recognize that the world does what it does, won’t. Jack wasn’t a talker. Politicians always want control. Politicians, by nature, talk incessantly. One of the many reasons that he and Senator Hansen got along so well: Hansen was a quiet politician.

Jack had no answers. No one in the room did. Occasionally he would look at the door when the muffled sounds would start to get louder, as if he could discern the exact point they were in their argument. Only a handful of people knew the goal of the current President. Those who opposed his goals were the ones carrying on in the conference room, trying to decide how to handle the situation without dire consequences. And trying to find out why the President was so confident he could pull it off. What’s more, they were worried about how much Chancer knew of what they knew.

People who had been very vocal in the past about some of the things the President wanted to do either suddenly retired, quit, disappeared, or worse, became his most vocal supporters. Those who suddenly switched their opinions were the scariest. Of course, they always stated that they had suddenly seen the wisdom of the arguments the President put forward. You just couldn’t tell if this change was a result of a sudden recognition of wisdom discovered out of fear, or if it was a recognition from something more sinister, like greed. Politics was just like battle: the enemy you feared the most was the one wearing the same uniform as the one you wear. You could plan as best you can, but you could never know when someone would suddenly turn on the unit. It could be someone you trusted, who had proven themselves in many harrowing moments. Then, in the quiet doldrums between battles, or the surreal place of pitched battle, there would suddenly be the ping and clank of a grenade spoon releasing out and a look. A look of fear, a sinister look, or no look at all. The absence of a “look” was the most chilling. Too many looks in the Bolshevik War were looks of nothing.

With a sudden, waxing sense of exhaustion Jack realized how much he missed his family. He longed for the mountain property in Colorado that they had purchased 11 years ago, that they went to three times a year. Heck, I wouldn’t mind going to the farm in southwest Virginia right now. He longed for the feeling of a wood handle in his hands, violently swinging the heavy steel head toward the innocent wood standing on the stump before him. As he absently stared out over The Mall, he could feel the axe dragging along the grain of the wood and slowing from the resistance. He could hear the satisfying “whock” of the steel suddenly coming to a stop in the stump below, seeing the two halves fly apart through the air. He could smell the fresh scent of musty wood that was suddenly released. Then there would be that moment of peace in the world, that quiet that immediately follows violence, like the hole left in water after a large rock has been tossed in, waiting for the rush of liquid to refill it.

He should take the family to the farm next weekend. Maybe he and the boys could ride the perimeter checking fence posts, looking for new deer trails that may have sprung up, or find a new cave they hadn’t seen before. It isn’t like the world is ending this week. The President has to be elected first for that to happen.

The buzzer at the front door startled him enough to slosh a bit of the cold hot chocolate from his cup onto his hand. As he walked to the door, he shook off the bit of cold sludge that had dribbled out, dumped the rest into the sink by his bookcase, and dropped the cup in the trash. He opened the door and found his old friend Koji Kobayashi at the door with their bags of sushi and tempura. He had met him years before when they were both young entrepreneurs in DC. Kobayashi’s father had just opened a sushi bar, near Jack’s apartment complex, that boasted of the daily fresh fish deliveries they would fly in from Japan. The place was very expensive, and very worth it. Jack would go in several times a week for a bite and to read. He loved discovering the new and fascinating treats they would get in. Kobayashi’s father retired three years ago having opened twenty-three stores on the east coast. Kobayashi ran everything now and still worked every position, but he only delivered to Jack.

They talked for a while, Jack paid him and tried to tip him, but Kobayashi wouldn’t let him. This was their ritual and they always laughed about it. The things that never change help balance the things that always seem to. A point of stability in a world rending in chaos.

Kobayashi left and so did his excuse for escaping the stress of this meeting. With a sigh, and a resigned lift of his shoulders to eschew a sense of confidence, Jack opened the door to Sean’s office and stepped into the verbal bull fight of the night. While shutting the door behind him with his foot, he reached into a bag and tried to remember if he had called his wife or not. Too late now. Maybe I can use that excuse to escape the meeting again soon.

The Kid

August, BTC 1

Bastian was at Angel’s house, with his best buddies Freak, Jerome, Gilly, Hassab and Vasquez, looking over his cards with an intensity only a 14 year old boy could muster. They had been at this round of Bolshevik’s for over two and half hours, and there was no sign of letting up. It would have been nicer to be outside, but it had become too hot and humid to run around in the forests. August was always a hot and swampy time of year, and while Bastian didn’t care so much about his physical comfort, he did care about his friends, and they didn’t like feeling sticky. For Bastian, it was just one more thing to control with his mind: his physical comfort. He had always been considered strange because it seemed that the more miserable the conditions, the happier he was.

Besides, Bolshevik’s was a game they could play for days, several times each day, and never have the same game. Bastian loved the tactics of it: loved the pre-planning, and then the adapting to the changing conditions. He used to get very stressed when he lost. Losing was bad. Being bad made him a bad boy: he didn’t like being a bad boy. His dad helped him see his way out of that. His dad taught him that losing was only bad if you didn’t learn anything from it or if you quit. Learning and refusing to quit was good, so he was a good boy. I miss my dad. I wish he would come home so we could play a game.

This current game was the final match to decide the command structure for their entry into the club competition that would also establish additional command structures down the line. August is the time of year that determined how all the rest of the year’s competitions would be laid out. He believed that this was the year that they could make it to state, maybe even further.

Bastian made platoon leader last year, he hoped to make battalion commander this year, skipping company all together. He had started playing only two years ago and was pretty well regarded as one of the best in the area. At the very least, he was seen as having the best potential. If he could just advance faster, maybe he could start winning in competitions that got out of regional. Unfortunately, and agreed on by many, he had been hindered by higher commanders of lesser intuitive abilities, resulting in the ultimate failure of their competitions. But to be fair, as they should always be, dominance is established at the troop level. To progress in leadership beyond squad level, play had to be through a verifiable competition to establish your position in the next round.

This game was to establish which one of them would be squad leader. Some teams just arbitrarily made assignments, but that would only guarantee that the hardest headed got to lead, not the best overall leader.

Bastian and his buddies had agreed early on, when getting into Bolshevik’s, that they would accept the results of interplay as their standard for leadership. The team leader was decided by whoever reached 5 wins first. This made for some long games, but they were always a challenge. It also kept individual skills sharp, and increased proficiency in reading one’s opponent. The seven of them were the best in their grade and considered the best in the school. Even so, rules were rules, and the ones who won consistently were allowed to lead.

There were sixteen other groups of seven within their school who competed in a round robin to make two platoons to compete district wide. Everyone gets to play, but not everyone gets to lead. Bastian’s group would play to establish the squad leader. From there, they as a squad would compete with the other squads in their grade to establish leadership among all the teams. The winning leader of the squad competition would be made leader of the school team, with the squad members forming the chain of command. Once the chain of command was created, the squads would be reformed into twelve man squads, each with a leader from the top squads. Then they would scrimmage platoon against platoon. In Bastian’s school that meant two platoons of four twelve man squads and 16 reserve forces. Bastian had already decided that if he were to make team leader this year, he would use platoon scrimmages to train against his likely opponents. His teammate Jerome was equally good at getting into the heads of other leaders and anticipating their plans. Bastian only edged him out on how to counter with creativity.

As the school team leader rose up through wins, the units that were part of his wins also advanced to become leaders and populate larger forces. Each school district provided a battalion to the regional competitions with reserves in tow. As the advancement continued, so did the promotion of the leader. This year the rules had changed so that there were no more legacy leaders, which meant that anyone could rise to any rank. Before, people with a desire to lead had to compete for leadership with old leaders to gain promotion. This led to a lot of corruption, with the previous leaders banding together and twisting games to the advantage of the established leaders.

Now Bastian scrutinized the map, looked at the pieces already played, and saw his move. On his next turn he rolled the die. The die that determined battlefield advantage didn’t matter with the cards he was holding, so he played the three cards he had that were perfect for this scenario and then rolled again to determine the amount of damage done. But the roll didn’t matter much either since the cards were perfect and all the die could do was enhance his victory. His friends stared in disbelief. Angel and Vasquez didn’t see what his cards meant at first, Hassab started laughing at the beauty of his move and Jerome tossed his cards down in disgust — he hadn’t seen this coming. Freak and Gilly just looked at each other as if it made total sense: of course that was going to happen.

With this victory, Bastian had his fifth win. Five out of six games played, not too bad, but I could have done better. I shouldn’t have lost the other one.

It was time for them all to go home anyway, so it was good timing. They had all wanted to lead, but they had all figured Bastian would win, so they weren’t too sore about it. As they all slapped him on the back and gave the requisite insults, Bastian smiled, looking at the ground in embarrassment, and donning his coat. Hassab lived next door, so they both walked out together, the others waiting for their parents to pick them up.

As Bastian walked with Hassab they discussed the actions of the last couple days. Bastian was listening and contributing absently. He wondered if his father was going to be home so he could relive the final play with him. During campaign time, they really didn’t see a lot of him, and he had been gone more this time than in the past. Bastian didn’t really know what was going on, but he did know that his big brother and mother had both been looking concerned recently, while also becoming increasingly secretive.

He hoped his dad would be there: he missed him, was looking forward to telling him that he won squad leader again, and sharing his plans. Thinking of his dad, he absently touched the wallet in his back pocket, visualizing the Bolshevik Hero card tucked inside that held Jack Warnyr’s visage. It was as close as he has been able to get to his dad lately. He hoped that would change soon.

The Hardened

August, BTC 1

Misha sat in his living room, the ruckus on the HoloVision (HV) providing the only sound in his half empty house. He slumped in the lone chair in his living room, in front of his 32 inch monitor, a Pepsi Original beading up with condensation next to the crumpled, empty bag of Ruffles lying next to his left arm. He was listening to the holo feed of CSPAN as he read the news updates scrolling across the bottom of his innerspace browser. Occasionally, a chime would remind him that it was his turn on the innerspace casino poker table and he would make a move. He always had to have three or four things going at once. The only light in the room came from the monitor and HV, the air slowly stirred by his slightly wobbling antique ceiling fan.

This was his life, and he liked it this way. After losing everything important to him, and getting closure by watching the exacting revenge the government sought for his loss, he really had no interest in people or activities anymore, with only a few exceptions. Well, maybe to be more accurate, he had lost interest in the vast numbers of humanity that insisted on riding the same broken mare of inanity.

He would get up to go to work, read insatiably as he was paid to do now, analyze, processes, write opinions, and then go home. Unless, of course he was at home, and then he would just transfer his mind from the room that was his “office” to the front room where his paradigm shift of being “at home” would happen. Often times he could do his work from home, unless there was a reason to go into his office or another agency. He would post his view of politics and society on his blog for the six readers that loved his words, and then turn off. Once a week he would be an assistant Scout Master with Jack. A couple times a month he would participate in a young men’s activity, and then he would go to church for two of the three hours they were expected to. No one begrudged his isolation, and no one really worried about his attendance. The young men loved him, but adults were always very uncomfortable with his intensity. His sullenness. He had a sense of danger about him, especially to those who knew his past, and especially to those who had seen his work — and not the work that he got paid for, but the work that put him in the job he had now. He was loved and appreciated, treated with kindness, but allowed his distance. Allowed with relief in most instances.

This night, not being much different from other nights, he decided he would go ahead and load his truck. Might as well get it done now, so he could sleep in a little bit the day he was leaving. He paused at the holo quality memories that constantly played in his mind. He watched them as they spun through the key moments that had gotten him to packing his truck. His loss, his recovery, his revenge, his current appearance of mundanity, his real activities, and his friendship and brotherhood with Jack Warnyr.

He and Jack were very good friends, both having served in combat roles in the Bolshevik war, and both having done things they would sooner not remember or dream about. Jack was really the only person he felt at peace around, the only person that he felt understood his sadness, rage, and quiet. They would often sit in complete silence at Jack’s mountain property in Colorado or at his Virginia farm, drinking a Pepsi or canteen water, just listening to the random sounds of the wilderness. They didn’t need to say a word, they just knew the world was right at that moment.

It had been a long road. Misha thought about how he and Jack had first met and become friends, too many years previous. He thought about the family times that they had shared together. He thought about how Jack was the only person he wanted to see after his loss. Well, Jack, the few brothers and sisters he still had from the War, and some of his former brothers and sisters in blue. They all knew Misha like no others could. Except his wife, of course. They all wanted to be there to keep him grounded, all wanted to assist in his recovery, and all pledged their willingness to wage war again — but in his, his son’s, and his wife’s names.

Misha thought about how society had the quote wrong “blood is thicker than water.” Society thought that meant that family is thicker than friendship. Not in the least, and actually, the opposite. Although lost to time, this was actually a reference to a blood bond. Some said the idea of blood bonds came through religious affiliation and practices, but Misha chose to believe that they actually reference the bonds between men and women who fight alongside each other in battle. The oath to defend themselves and each other, together, for a common cause.

The bond shared through the blood of battle is thus stronger than the bond shared through the water of the womb. Only those who have bled together, felt the blood of their brothers hot on their skin, quickly cooling, or have washed the blood from their clothes and equipment, can understand the true meaning. Battle brothers don’t need to swear oaths and promises: it is just there, known. Besides, his family, his water, only showed up when there were attention-gaining opportunities. They soon disappeared as soon as effort was required. His blood instead showed up in time to do the work and disappeared before they could be praised for their labors.

Misha reminisced through the many battles, in the war and out, that he had fought with his blood. This time, his memories rested on good times, laughter, and camaraderie. To hell with it. I don’t need to pack, I already have everything I need. I definitely don’t need to sleep in, I wouldn’t sleep long anyway. With that, Misha pushed himself up in the chair with a new conviction. He finished crumpling the Ruffle’s bag and threw it behind himself with a no-look toss directly into the waste basket. He set his aged and worthless bioputer for a complete purge of all data and information, collected his go-bag and took a look around his house. Nothing of value and very little food. All the house had to offer was protection from rain and wind. Strategically it was useless for anything more. If things went bad, at the worst it would be burnt to the ground or squatted in. If nothing happened, then he would just return from his camping trip and reload his bioputer with the archives he kept in various places.

Satisfied that he hadn’t left anything of value or interest, he shut the door, locked the dead bolt, and walked over to his 1986 GMC Jimmy. He tossed his bag onto the passenger seat, touched the little shoes dangling from his mirror, and started up the gas guzzling, 8 cylinder 350 engine with a roar that only a carbureted engine could make. These old fossil fueled cars were quite the rage now, and he was admired for the condition it was in, but he didn’t own it for the prestige: it was functional and dependable, especially for what might be coming.

He eased his way out onto his nondescript street, in his cookie cutter neighborhood, and made for the most direct route of the four he had for leaving his subdivision. After stopping to fill the tank, buying another Pepsi and a micro-Twix bar, he made for I-95 and started heading south. He had nothing better to do, so he might as well get to the mountain property and get it prepared for the worst. He didn’t know when the worst would come, but he knew it was coming. People had a sense that there was change in the air. Very few had the wits and instincts to sense what that change implied. He had those instincts, as did the few people he trusted. It might happen while he was on I-95, it might not happen for two years. At least he would have some peace and quiet until then.

The Killer

August, BTC 1

Trevor sat in front of two monitors, waiting on the bioputer on his left the to finish its system check. Occasionally peeking at that monitor to see if it had finished, he surfed the innerspace sales channels on the right one with the rest of his attention. Today he was looking for the exact leather jacket to get that “I am a hard core biker” look. He had already bought the used chaps and rough leather boots that felt “Mad Max” to him, but he knew that in order to show his real self, he needed a jacket. Then maybe everyone would take him seriously.

He really didn’t like the snickers he got from people, and having been picked on for being geeky and intelligent most of his life, he decided it was time that people knew he really was a dangerous, hard guy. After watching the classic reruns of Sons of Anarchy on his innerpsace HV channel, he knew who he really identified with. He started making the change. He was a biker at heart. He was bad. He was tough and scary. People always underestimated him, always saw him as weak.

At first he got a tattoo, but it really hurt and was high enough on his arm that no one saw it. He decided to get another one, went to the shop and picked out a particularly mean looking image they had on the wall in the poster display racks — a skull with flames coming out of its eyes — and had it put on his right forearm. Three days later his manager called him into his office and told him that the employee dress code required covering visible tattoos, so now he was forced to wear long sleeve shirts. The other employees smirked, especially because Virginia was a very hot and humid place in the summer, but they didn’t see the real Trevor who was starting to gnaw through the cocoon.

He bought a hand gun and started training with it. He took all the self defense classes he could, then the tactical firearms classes. He was really good with his gun and very proud of it. He then got his concealed carry permit and started carrying to work. Of course he had to leave it in his car, but he liked the feeling that no one at work knew how tough he had become. If someone ever tried to break in and shoot up the place, he would run to his car, get his gun, and save the day. Then they would know he wasn’t the simple geeky tech guy they thought he was. Besides, although he had never been a victim of crime, he knew a couple people who knew someone who had, so the gun made him feel prepared.

He started logging in on biker single sites and set up a name for himself that sounded really tough: L0n3W0lf1. He didn’t realize then that he essentially was claiming to be an unaffiliated outlaw biker, but when he discovered this, he decided to play it up. He didn’t post pictures of himself and talked about his accomplishments in a vague enough way to maintain his “secrecy” and therefore his safety. He referenced events that sounded real enough, even they typically were plots from some of the old shows he watched or stories from remote newspaper articles. There was no way someone would be able to look into it and know he was lying, so he could maintain the mystique of being a dangerous biker.

Finally, after getting enough responses from biker chicks, he decided he should get an antique Harley-Davidson. He had already started growing out his head hair to be long and his facial hair into a Fu Manchu. But then he had another idea. He was a dangerous guy and he knew it, but maybe he should only convince those he thought necessary to know. He decided to keep his real self, the hard core biker guy, on the down low. After that he kept his hair short, much like the military guys he worked with, and stayed clean shaven. When he started meeting the women he talked to online, he would tell them that looking like everyone else helped him keep his identity quiet. If you are bad guy, you don’t want people to know you are a bad guy until they need too. This only made the women that much more excited.

The screen to the left chimed, saying the report was done. Trevor wasn’t finished looking for his jacket, so he ran another report. It wasn’t entirely necessary, but it gave the impression to his supervisors that not only was he working, he was being proactive. The report was useless, but it bought him time to find the right jacket.

He made his purchase off a specialty channel that he had just found and then decided to read some innerpsace news channels. He didn’t really care about the crisis going on, but he was concerned about things that directly impacted him, so he kept a close eye on what was going on. He was irritated that evil President Chancer won his primary, but Trevor was still receiving his government contractor paychecks, so as long as that continued to happen, he didn’t really care all that much. He was also annoyed that there were people who wanted to change the Constitution, but the likelihood of that actually happening was remote, so he didn’t worry too much about that either. He was more upset that his boss told him he shouldn’t spend so much time using bandwidth watching news, but Trevor rebutted his criticisms by saying that he was interested in how politics might affect their contracts. His boss now made comments under his breath instead of directly challenging him, but it still made Trevor mad that his boss thought he could dictate to Trevor what to do with his time: he got his work done, that should be enough. He was mad a lot, but this was something he could focus on.

He clicked off the news channel and started looking for new chrome for his Fatboy. He had bought it for a great price off of an auction channel. It was a little more beat up than the pictures showed, but he liked that: it gave him some street credibility. He continued to surf the innerspace non-secure channels for the next 40 minutes until it was time to go home. He paused the report so that he could use it for cover the next day at work, clicked off his overhead florescents, and went to his hydrogen-electric hybrid Honda in the parking lot. As he was climbing in he decided that since he had nothing better to do he would go get another tattoo on his way home. He decided he would get a snarling wolf on the outer-side of his left forearm with naked women behind it looking all hot and bothered. He wore long sleeve shirts that came standard with two long sleeves; might as well take advantage of it now. He also decided that after that tattoo he would call up the Mad Max series channel again and watch it until he fell asleep. As he pulled out of his assigned space, ignoring the whine of the powder blue hybrid’s engine, he thought that maybe he should really just buy the series on holodisk for as often as he watched the blasted thing. Why waste the money on paying channel fees when he could buy more ammo, chrome, or first-person shooter games? He could definitely use some more tactical training: he should buy a new first-person shooter game. Maybe one with aliens.

The Militant

August, BTC 1

General Stark sat in the passenger side of his High Utility-Low Exposure (HULE) vehicle, sweating slightly in his BDUs, his personal driver a respectful distance from the vehicle. Sweating is part of the job: something he had grown used to since the days of boot camp. Something as common as the air he didn’t think about as he breathed. Having spent the bulk of his career in hot, humid conditions, he was acclimatized to it so his body didn’t need to sweat as much as recruits or the visiting contingents of the softer services did. Stark glanced in the review mirror at the Air Force general in the back seat who was watching the demonstration intently, methodically wiping the sprinkler system that was his sweat glands, and he chuckled to himself. Now he was really aware of how little he sweated, only because he was starting to be worried about whether his counterpart was drinking enough water or might need a salt tablet to boot. Poor Air Force cats, sitting in their air conditioned rooms, in front of cooling fans for the bioputers, swigging their ice lattes or whatever, looking down on the other services because they had to get dirty. Well, buddy, this is how we get dirty doing real work.

He didn’t give Braddock too much grief though. There was a time when Braddock was as hard as any Marine, almost. Braddock had made his rise through the Air Force starting as a rescue jumper, the Air Force’s elite rescue team: their flavor of special forces. They were hard guys, great sense of humor, and very capable. If the Marines were the men’s department of the Navy, the PJs were the men’s department of the Air Force. Stark watched his old friend as he wheezed a little under the strain of the humidity.

“Braddock. Need some water there, buddy?” Stark asked trying to withhold any trace of smirk while holding a damp bottle of slightly salted water towards the back. Braddock knew that he had become relatively soft in his years of increasing command. He was still harder than any basic ground troops of any service, but he wasn’t the same limber, brush-beating, fire-breathing, nail-belching monster he used to be.

Braddock looked at him through a squint, trying to measure the smirk that Stark typically had on his face. Of course he knew it was there, but this was their game, one that had started long ago when they were both stomping around in the Bolshevik holds that were scattered about the planet. Can’t conduct air operations without a team ready to get them out. Can’t have a team in that war that wasn’t a joint effort. There was little time for intra-service rivalry when each member was watching each hour position of the clock, everywhere you went. They had started the smirk and squint game on their first deployment together. It was their personal bond now.

Braddock reached forward for the bottle while watching Stark through his squint. Daring him to make some snide comment insulting his manhood, his service, or the animal of the day that would be named his wife. “Suuuuuure, I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m still tougher than you, so I’ll go ahead and swill this piss water you Marines pass off for ingestible. When in Rome, right?”

Stark chuckled. He who insulted first won. But they would take turns. They heard an explosion and both casually glanced toward the games they were supposed to be observing. They had taken this joint exercise to find the opportunity to talk. Since they had been blooded together, they knew each other without having to use communications in a traditional sense. When Braddock advised Stark that he was going to Camp Lejune to watch a joint exercise in the name of a readiness check, Stark knew Braddock was signaling a need to talk. These were careful, dangerous times. There was a very fine line between patriotism and treason, a line typically defined by the current power in charge. Americans had been seditionists to the British. Iraqis had been insurgents to the Americans those many decades ago. Stark knew that he and Braddock were patriots of the first order, but there were plenty of sharks in the dark ocean of military politics who would still see treason, especially if it advanced their power and careers.

Stark got out of the HULE and opened the door more widely for Braddock to step out. They walked a short distance toward the war games and spoke in a code that had come naturally, born of battle and turmoil.

Braddock made a casual gesture of looking like he was moderately interested in the movements of the Marines in their new BeeTrees: the BioBattleBots that were being deployed into the fleet. He casually pointed at some of the moving Devil Dogs as the machine gun fire began. “How is the 5th looking?”

Stark, nodding his head, replied “The 5th is set. So far we have been able to effectively weed out the weaker units and group them in places where they appear effective and ready, but can’t hinder a major campaign too much. As you know, we have to be very careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings in today’s climate.”

“Exactly. I was worried that the elements I recommended for special assignment would see it as being dismissed rather than the promotion that it really is.”

“No, not at all. It was explained that although it may appear that they are being relegated to far off areas, it was the far off areas that provided the Bolsheviks the most support. They were told that because, due to their abilities, we knew they would be useful as Watchers of the World, and ready to take on the first wave of any challenge.”

“Excellent. They didn’t feel it was political BS that you were spewing?”

“No, sir, especially since I had all the intelligence and previous battle reports at hand for them to read before they were told of their assignments. I gave each a packet of information with vague locations and explanations and let them draw their own conclusions. Reinforced in their minds that they were indeed the right people for the job. Took off with pride of God, Country, Corps.”

“That’s pretty much how I handled it as well, although I didn’t pre-stage the conversation with the reports like you did. I called them into a briefing and made it a volunteer situation, with a little “pride in service speech,” and “I would be afraid to take this job,” etc. Which, of course, made them want it that much more.”

Stark thought about that. They had prepped the battlefield as much as they could have in the last 3 years, once his brother-in law had told him of the danger ahead. Stark knew exactly what had to be done. He made efforts to clandestinely research his service record and call in the brothers who he knew would have his back, as sure as the sun would rise. With Jack’s assistance in Senator Hansen’s office, all but five of his Bolshevik battle team was now on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They knew they couldn’t dominate the board, they just needed to make sure they had access and eyes on as much as they could in order to prepare.

Within six months, they would be as ready as they ever could be. Which was good, since all indications showed that it would be within three months of Chancer’s re-election that all hell would break loose. Chaos that would test the last three years of preparation. I wonder if this is how the Bolsheviks felt while they were prepping...

As he pondered that question, one cliché that always proved true in battle came to mind: plans are only good until the first shot is fired. Stark prayed nightly that there would be no shot at all. I, at the very least, hope that the first shot fired isn’t one into the back of my head if all these plans are discovered...

The Author

Rick Jacobs doesn’t sit still well. He defines himself simply as “artist, philosopher, cop.” Besides writing, Rick also has been a professional photographer and a graphic artist. He has worked in many industries, has had many adventures, and seeks out as much experience in the world as possible. He maintains an active interest in foreign and national affairs, political, cultural, ancient, and military history and has been involved in several levels of political campaigning and government employment. He also has way more education than any reasonable person should have and can’t seem to stop pursuing more.

Bastian’s War is his first fiction series, but he has also written and illustrated a children’s book that he hopes to someday fund the printing of. He has also started two nonfiction books that he researched while on a 50-state solo motorcycle ride that he hopes to return to in order to finish them. He writes a lot for business, politics, school and just for the hell of it.

If you would like to read more of what Rick writes, you can find his observations and ponderings at http://www.rickjacobs.com.

If you would like to catch his infrequent news and updates, please like his page at http://www.facebook.com/rickjacobsapcpage

Next book: The Killer.

Bastian’s War books

1. The Beginning

Bastian’s War: The people

2. The Killer

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The Beginning

Copyright © 2013 by Rick Jacobs

Self-published

PO Box 2279

Round Rock, TX, 78680

www.rickjacobs.com

978-1-893363-10-6

Excerpt from The Killer

He had met the “biker” at a traffic light and struck up a conversation. They went to the Rusty Rim where no one recognized him anymore and had a few beers. The poser was regaling him with stories of his exploits, but Trevor recognized them for what they were; he had told the same stories the same way. They parted ways and didn’t see each other until Trevor went to his house (the guy had bragged about his nice house and the area he lived, Trevor drove around until he saw his bike) and started trashing his motorcycle. The guy came running out with a baseball bat, something Trevor might have done those first few months, and threatened him. Wearing a mask, Trevor dealt with him easily enough, took the bat from him, and beat him down something serious. When he finished and threw the blood smeared bat on top of him, he noticed that a kid had come out of the house in his Spiderman bottoms, no top, and holding a bear half his size. His eyes were wet and wide, he just stood frozen, not knowing what to do.

Trevor stood over the kid’s dad for a minute as he and the kid looked at each other. Trevor moved slowly over to the kid and squatted on the balls of his feet, going eye-to-eye with him, and sighed out deeply. The kid didn’t move, eyes bugging, scarcely breathing.

“What’s your name, buddy?”

“Kevin.” He said without a twitch of expression. This was abject fear and horror. It was kind of funny. Trevor thought about how much he looked like one of those cartoon characters he used to watch as a kid: the ones that had just seen a ghost come out of a mirror or some other inanimate object.

Trevor maintained eye contact with him, although he was keenly aware of the mask he was still wearing. He paused for a second as he looked back and forth between Kevin’s eyes still wide and unblinking in terror. “What do you think happened here, Kevin?”

“You beat up my daddy with a baseball bat.” he said quietly, almost reverently.

“How much did you see?” Trevor asked without any emotion.

“I saw you hitting my daddy with a bat.”

“Did you see your dad try to hit me with a bat?”

“No.” Kevin looked confused, curious, and concerned now. “He did?”

“Yes, he did. Did your daddy tell you it was OK to hit someone over a toy?”

“No, he said I should get a grown up if someone was breaking my things. That I would get in trouble if I hit someone that was being mean to my stuff. He told me it was just stuff.”

“Your daddy was absolutely right, Kevin. Your daddy should have called the police instead of trying to hit me. Or, he should have made sure he was able to do more than use a bat.” Trevor placed his hand on the kids shoulder and, shockingly, the kid relaxed a little and started to show more emotion.

“My daddy tried to hit you because you were breaking something? His motorcycle?”

“Exactly. He was pretending to be something he wasn’t. I was trying to help him change his mind so he wouldn’t get in trouble like I did once. But your dad wasn’t grateful for my trying to help him, so he tried to hit me with a bat. The problem is, I don’t need a bat to hurt someone. A real man doesn’t need a bat, he can hurt people without one if he wants.”

“But you hit him with a bat.”

“I did. But after I took it away from him, see.” Kevin looked over Trevor’s shoulder at his dad, still lying motionless on the pavement. “If he had just asked me to go away, I would have. But when he swung his bat at me, I hit him and took it away from him, then decided he should know what it’s like to be hit by a bat. I know what it is like to get beat up; I learned my lesson. Now he has learned his. It’s kinda like I gave him a grown-up spanking.” Trevor chuckled at how cute that last line was. Kevin chuckled nervously, mimicking Trevor unwittingly.

“What should I do?” asked Kevin with a bit of confusion, fear, and curiosity.

“Well, buddy, you should go inside, get a blanket, put it on your dad. Then when you see the clock turn 3:30, which is in about 15 minutes go next door and start ringing the door bell until someone comes out. When the police come, tell them that your dad was being punished for starting a fight.”

“OK.” Kevin replied, still a little bit nervous and confused.

Trevor started walking off and had a last thought. “Oh, and Kevin? As you grow up, don’t be weak or this could happen to you. Be stronger than everyone around you and don’t let them hurt you. If they try, do what I did to your dad.”

Kevin nodded and stared as Trevor walked down the road to where his bike was tucked in the trees, off to the side of the road. He started up and took off, peeling off his mask as he went.