Harry Goldman slept in his bunk and dreamed of the day when he’d get parole. At the age of eighteen, he had around seven hundred days to go. Maybe he’d be out of here on his twentieth anniversary of life, just in time to vote. So far, he’d served two months, and with good behavior he might be...
Ten days after the funeral. While the crew was over the initial shock of a fellow member dying in the line of duty, there was still a lot of bitching over the delay in Mister Particle’s rescue. Why hadn’t he been there? Was he even doing his job? Wasn’t he supposed to be ready for this kind of em...
It was night and he was running through a field, seeing nature up close, not as person looking down from the vantage point of five feet or more, but from the viewpoint of an animal slipping and sliding through the foliage at ground level on all fours, legs moving in a ceaseless, effortless rhythm...
“From what Intelligence and your geek friends in New York said, we figure the main group of transgenics is under the Vatican.” By “geek friends” he meant Jason and Maze. Although he casually tossed off the term and probably meant it as a joke, it came across as being shallow, snotty and self-righ...
Ten seconds later a secretary, short, plump, and forty-ish with a bad dark-hair dye job and glasses, walked through the open door carrying a file. Her professional demeanor suddenly cracked when she caught sight of Anastasia. The file slipped through suddenly nerveless fingers and fell to the flo...