Of cloaks, elk and Izax #ScienceFiction #ActionAdventure

TROPHY: RESCUE

by Paul M. Schofield


The cliffs began to narrow in the side canyon. The flat area Martin remembered was still there, the trees hadn’t taken over, but he saw no ship or sign of his companions. A huge boulder was near the base of the cliff. He couldn’t remember it being there when he explored this area as a youth, but that was five hundred years ago.
The boulder began to shimmer and lose its definition. It disappeared, unveiling the rotary-wing aircraft. The hatchway burst open and Janet and Kolanna ran out.
“Could you see us?” Kolanna said. “We could see you. What did we look like?”
“All I saw was a big boulder, the same color as the cliff. It’s amazing! Was this built into the ship, too?”
“No. Louis Franelli gave us this mini-cloak to try out. If you couldn’t detect it, it must be realistic. Louis programmed it to take on the form and textures of natural things around it.”
“Let’s go back in and turn it on again,” Janet said. “What did you find, Martin? Show us the images.”
Back in their craft with the cloak engaged Martin described the elk, the crew, and the ships he had encountered. “They’re planning to leave early tomorrow morning. By now they’ll have a full load of elk. Is there anything we can use as a locator to attach to their ship? There has to be some way to follow them or find out where they’re going.”
“I agree,” Janet said. “It’s possible they may be familiar with Galen Bestmarke or that character named Izax who we think has your father. They could lead us to more useful information.”

Hard-boiled Detective in Cybernetic Playground #Scifi #fantasy

Dragon's Teeth

By Suzanne van Rooyen

The Detective meets a contact in a less than salubrious establishment...

Cyrus gazed towards the stage, peering through the
smoky haze that billowed around the crowded tables.
The interior of the club was dark, the walls painted a
deep green--or perhaps even black. Life-size projections of Dizzie Gillespie and Miles Davis moved across the walls, living shadows in moribund dance. The patrons were a motley lot. Some were clad in sequins and feather boas, others sporting the slim-fit catsuits of the modern era, all engrossed in the speakeasy vibe of the club called Dixieland. The kid on stage dipped and swayed beneath the flickering blue and orange lights, the sax sitting snug in his fat cherub mouth. His lips, Cyrus decided, were
made for caressing a wind instrument into sonorous ecstasy.
The detective tapped his feet to the rhythm of the drums, his eyes still fixed on the saxophonist, his criminal accomplice: Cleo. The kid was young, not yet qualifying for longevity treatments. Still au naturale in the bloom of late adolescence, his face doused in freckles and framed by the tight springy hair of his African heritage. Young as he was, Cleo was smart with a ruthless street savvy cultivated by a hard life lived on the sidewalks. He was Cyrus’s connection to the underworld. Half Chinese and half black, Cleo was the poster child of the lower end district: part Chinatown, part 1940’s Louisiana. This strange juxtaposition was the new New Orleans and Cyrus loved it—the warmth of nostalgia in his belly, the hankering for a past he had never lived but only read about in books and seen in gritty black and white films. He had been born two centuries too late, a situation he lamented.