Excerpt – Humanity Undeniable

“The Aura is the key to all Kinetics; it defines them, it comprises them. It is the unifying characteristic of all Kinetics, to exemplify our power and to use it in the most deferential way possible–to prove we are still human.” – From “Kinetic Stability and Aura: Meditations on Our Being” by: The Unifier

What follows is the prologue to “Kinetic”, a sci-fi novel that can be explored in the links above under “Extraction One: Original Works”.  I need to expand on that menu quite a bit, in order for readers to get a better sense of the little universe I’ve created here, but I think this prologue will help exemplify the world in which these characters will live.  It is a bit chaotic, and the people involved never appear again in the story (at least in person), but this is intentional.  But enough about that.  I’ll elaborate on the “Kinetics” in the links above more.  But know just a few things about them; on Sha’di 6 they are feared and banished from civilized society.  They are powerful, they are easily uncontrollable, but at their hearts are human beings with leaders who further the cause of integration and attempt, often at the cost of their own lives, to reintroduce themselves into society on a world where that very concept is often strange and foreign.

Please enjoy!



Central Solar Date 3034.5

The Acropolis, Arcon Solar System; Class ST Planet Sha’di 6

At the very least, he knew where he was.  The pink-purple sky of Sha’di was so recognizable now, that although the ringing in his ears drowned out all sound, although his body would not seem to respond to his constant barrage of commands to sit up, he at least knew that he was home.  He was still on Sha’di.  How he had ended up outside though, that was another quandary.

Slowly the ringing began to dissipate, and the silence that wound around him was unnerving.  It curled up over his slowly reviving limbs and stole any warmth from that invigorating process.  He lifted an arm; there, that seemed to work.  Then came the next arm so he could push himself up on his elbows and roll to one side.  Though cloudy, the scene around him began to come into focus.  The waves of blurry landscape flattened and he could see…  Oh, gods he could see–!

The rush of memory came back in a burst so overwhelming that he cried out.  His ears began to pound with the grinding sound of his voice as it echoed across the debris laden field in front of him.  Gods, the lab!  The lab, the facility, the compound—everything!  Everything was gone.  The breeze around him was comfortable, serene, but somehow full of an overwhelming and profound energy.  As chunks of flex-glass and fiber hurtled by him, he remembered.

“The explosion,” he croaked as tiny shards of metal nicked his palms.

He blinked.  The deep orange sand of Sector 4 was everywhere, covering the wreckage of the lab, the structures that were somehow still standing, and the bodies…  Oh, gods, the bodies!  But where was the specimen?  Where was he?

A distant keening, like that of a lost dog, echoed from across the debris field and over the bodies.  He lifted his chin toward the sound.  It was certainly human, that much was clear.  But was it one of the many victims surrounding him, or was it the specimen?  Surely, the young man would have been more resilient than the others inside the lab.

“Where are you!” he called to the voice.  The keening continued, rising steadily in volume until it became a steady wail.  How old was that male specimen now, he wondered?  Thirteen Earth years?  Fourteen?

He pushed himself painfully to his knees.  The shards of metal and fiber dug against his skin, through the torn ribbons of his trousers and into his legs.  He winced and planted one foot firmly on the ground so as to give himself proper leverage.  Albeit wobbly, he stood.

The wailing had stopped, but the silence that washed over the devastation around him was now punctuated by wrenching sobs.  The specimen was close—somewhere close.  He turned on his right foot and bobbed a bit as pain shot up through his leg.  He hissed and gripped a handful of the ruined fabric against his thigh.  Gods, there was a gash seven inches long there.

“Where are you, Number Twelve!” he called again, to assure the specimen that he would aid him however possible; to make sure the subject knew who he was.  There was no answer, and the sobbing had ceased.  Silence crept back over the devastated landscape, and none of the other bodies moved, jerked or even moaned.  It might have been reassuring, he thought, to at least hear someone else…  Someone else!

“Gods,” he said, and his face crumpled into agony.  “Gods, where are you–?!”


The voice came at him from his blind left side, where he realized with a stunning tempo that blood had obscured part of his vision.  Number Twelve was there, lab clothes torn and hanging from his adolescent body in a macabre dance with the wind.  Remarkably, not a scratch appeared on his pale skin.

He sighed once with relief and felt a rattling in his chest.  That would be a punctured lung, surely.  Any doctor like him would know that.  The specimen’s hand shot out for the doctor’s neck, but their skin did not touch.  The doctor gave pause, and realized that although the specimen did not touch him, he was indeed choking him.

“The—Audmium!!  I can help you!”  The doctor croaked.  The disembodied grip on his neck tightened, and the specimen’s eyes filled with tears.  He snarled:  a haunting and distressful sound.

“Make it stop,” Number Twelve said.  No other action would do.

The doctor flailed wildly against the ghostly hands that blocked his airways, and realized that his feet were now dangling in the air.  He gazed down at Number Twelve and marveled at the incandescent rings of purple light that haloed the specimen’s hands.  He had only seen those once before.  Before—the—?

“I can stop it!” the doctor hissed, grasping out at the hands that held him, yet did not.  The purple light grew deeper and brighter all at once.  “I can stop the Audmium!  But you must let me–!”

“No.”  This time, the voice was different, he thought.  Number Twelve’s grip intensified, and his mind reached out for the doctor.  “No,” he said again.  The voice was not that of an adolescent boy, but something far more menacing.  Something more powerful.

“You can’t stop us anymore.  But I can stop you.”

The doctor stopped struggling then, and his eyes widened to saucers until all he could see was purple light.  Number Twelve’s voice erupted into a cry that drowned out even the vortex of air and energy around him.  On and on it went until the tattered remains of their clothes disintegrated, dragged outward and upward against the kinetic energy of Number Twelve’s aura.  The blood continued down the side of the doctor’s face and yet he could see–?  He could see that Number Twelve’s body was still unharmed; it was pure like the Audmium gem lodged near the base of his neck.

“Please…”  The doctor managed.  But all was lost, he could see that now.  Number Twelve glared back at him with eyes as blue as the oceans near the Cloud City of Sing-ha, and his outcry stopped.  The purple light around his hands pulsed, traveled up his arms and into the Audmium against his neck.

A sonic boom.

Then blackness.


“The Psychosis of Duquesne Ja’Rad”

I joined a writing group on nearly two years ago and managed to meet some quite lovely people there.  During each meetup, the group would offer a prompt and then you would write for a set period of time (for the life of me I can’t rightly remember how long it was now…).  You could choose to use this prompt as a basis for whatever you were writing, or you could choose not to.  I chose this particular prompt from 11/29/2011, because it fit perfectly for a character study I was performing on the main antagonist in my most recent original sci-fi work, tentatively titled “Kinetic”.  The prompt was “So, tell me about your childhood…”  A FINE prompt for this Psychology major who never wanted to deal with other peoples’ problems and chose never to go to grad school for such things.  ^_~

The antagonist, or villain as some would call him, is a product of his environment.  Duquesne Ja’Rad is a member of a powerful political family who is unwilling to relinquish the possibility of a despotic role in his society.  Planet Sha’di 6, his home, has been ruled by the same benevolent political family for nearly 15 Earth Years – about 4 Sha’di years, and highly unusual given that the political climate on Sha’di is by nature very unstable, being a young colony of only about 170 Earth Years.  House Ja’Rad is a radically right-wing political force.  They value purity and the right of purity to make decisions for those who are NOT pure above all other things.  The current ruling family oppose this and consider themselves the mediators between politicians like House Ja’Rad, and other radical groups.  Most have acquiesced to this mediation, but House Ja’Rad is an old and mysterious family, and it is evident to the reader even after a few interactions with Duquesne (referred to by his closest friends and family as ‘Kane’) that is he is not what one might think.

His unfounded hatred of a certain group of people called “Kinetics” – I will delve into this once I figure out this bloody blog page structure lol and create a page for those original works and their summaries – could perhaps be explained by his upbringing, but he has an off-balance from the other characters, and even his inner monologue is often disjointed and random.  Kane instead chooses to chase his mind wherever it may go at any particular time, whether he has willed it there or not.  Here, I’ll include this mock “psychoanalysis” I created.  I’ve discovered that Kane is a most interesting person, through my own research of him.  I often fall in love with my antagonists and try to make them sympathetic.  Although, I’m not sure about Kane’s ability to force a reader’s empathy.  We’ll see.  ^_^


“So, tell me about your childhood…”

Kane is reclined on my couch, his long legs draped over either side as though he were straddling a very short horse.  He takes a deep and sudden breath.

“I… don’t really have one.  Or, I didn’t have one,” he says gently.  His answer is not uncommon.  The grammatical confusion stops me for a moment, though.

“Well,” I say, “at least tell me about the memories you have from that time.  Or tell me why your experience would lead you to say this–?”

“No,” he interrupts me, “you don’t seem to understand.  I have no childhood.  Whatever I would have, should have remembered: it isn’t there.”

This is indeed curious.  Although self-induced amnesia is not impossible, it is a rare and interesting phenomenon.

“So,” I venture, “you can’t remember, or you won’t remember?”

Duquesne Ja’Rad sighs irritably.  His eyes roll back into his skull for a brief moment, and he places a hand behind his full head of curly hair.  One would almost believe him a child.  He exhales so forcefully from the “o” of his lips, that a long black curl blows back from his forehead.

“No,” he says again.  “I’ve told you; the childhood you speak of, it isn’t there.”

“I see.”  My response seems so frail.  But I’ve seen this kind of stubbornness before in patients, so I press on.

“What, then, is the first thing you remember?”

There is a pause this time.  Ah!  I’ve got him, I think.  his narcissistic psychosis won’t allow him to ignore such an open-ended question about his life.

“I remember moving to Sing-ha,” he says.  I find this odd, since, in his initial interview he had mentioned moving to that mysterious city in the clouds east of Karsus at the age of eighteen.  “Yes,” he continues, “I remember the crashing waves against the cliffs there by the sea.  The steep, steep cliffs.”

“But Kane,” I say to him, “you were eighteen.  There is nothing before that?”

His eyes open slowly, and he lolls his head to the side to look at me.  His brown-black eyes are faintly, psychotically amused.

“I’ve told you, no.  For a therapist you seem quite stupid.”  There is a hint of joy in his condescension.  “I remember Sing-ha, and  I remember that my brother was dead.  That is all.”

“Yes,” I reply suddenly, elated at this admission.  I’d been aiming at this all along.  “Yes, tell me about your brother.”  I urge.

“There is nothing to tell,” he says.  “I remember that he was dead by that time.”

“Yes, but how?  Your parents must have told you how.”

“They told me he was dead.”  Kane’s voice has changed now, and it is full of an emotion that, even for a seasoned therapist, is difficult to name.  This time he continues without prompt.

“They did not tell me how.  I did ask though, you know.”

“And what did they say?”

“They said, ‘your brother was very sick, Kane.  He could not have lived as we do.'”

“As we do?”

“I’m sure they were referring to his infirmity,” Kane says in reply.  He looks away from me again, shuts his eyes, and shifts only slightly on the couch.  I can see the walls going back up again, so I change the subject.

“If you–had no childhood, as you say, then tell me about… Now.  Tell me about your memories in the recent past.”

His eyelids slide open slowly.  I may have touched a vein this time.  But I cannot tell if it is a mere vessel or a throbbing artery.  To my shock, his mouth quirks into a half-smile.  His handsome face seems to twist into something else, even as he stares into a distant vision behind his eyes that only he can see.

“You want to know about her, do you?” he asks.

Without my meaning it to, my jaw falls open until I am sure he can see.

“It’s alright.  Everyone does.”  His reply is not at all what I’d expected.  The recent death of a loved one is, for anyone, a difficult hurdle to mount.  This is especially true if the death was sudden, or in his case, well…

I shake my head a bit and close my open mouth.

“You don’t have to go there yet, Kane.  Not if you don’t want to,” I tell him.  The quirky smile on his lips begins to grow unexpectedly.

For a moment I think, God, have I unleashed the monster that easily?  Could he really be as mad as it is believed?  But no, I am a doctor, a scientist.  There is reason deep inside every human being and I have seen it drawn out of the most unlikely case, the most desperate character.

But perhaps Duquesne is here to prove me wrong.  The smile is bigger now, and he is chuckling.  The sound sends a chill down my spine, and all the way into the tips of my fingers.  It grows until he is laughing quite heartily.  His head of thick curls lolls over toward me again.  The sound of his laughter is now filling the room.  My whole body is shuddering.

“You…”  he can barely speak over the guffawing.  “You speak as if I’d lost a–a person of great importance to me.  Perhaps even a–a dog or a beloved horse!”  He laughs more and puts one hand on his forehead as if to stifle the maniac living inside it.

“No…” he sighs after the word.  “No.” He laughs more softly now.  “It’s as though I’ve finally stomped on a roach I was chasing through the kitchen.”  A pause, and another chuckle.  “Or perhaps, as though I were myself a hound, and I’ve finally caught up to the fox, and gutted it.”  His hand lifts and clenches into a fist.

My insides twist.  I can feel sweat breaking out on my lower back.

“So you’ve–you’ve come to terms with it, have you?” I say; is it really a question?

“‘To terms?'”  He repeats the words as though they are disgusting to him.  He chuckles once again, aloud, and rests his head back on the couch, on top of his long fingers.

“That bitch was not human.  She had become something entirely monstrous  Her death was not just my obligation.  It was my pleasure.” Between my gasps for air, I can hear him say, “her death made me a messiah.”