Quite the Character

Joanna Mallory

        

         Nuts! I twisted both hands into my hair and pulled until my eyes watered. I'd lost my train of thought before, but never like this: vanished out of my mind, tracks and all.

         I took a furtive peek around. If the handful of people getting their caffeine fix had noticed, they were ignoring me. The regulars were probably used to me by now: the weird guy at the corner table, typing a marathon on his laptop.

         Except my fingers weren't even crawling now. I pushed my glasses up into my hair and pressed my palms against my eyes. There was a reason for the word "dead" in "deadlines." If this one didn't kill me, the next one might.

         The chair across from me scraped the ceramic tile floor. "Robert J. Hawke?"

         I didn't move. Deep voice, authoritative. He said "J," not "Jules," so it wasn't a court summons. Always a good thing.

         He'd used my professional name. I pressed harder on my eyes and little lights flickered. This wasn't a good moment to impress a stranger. Then again, he wasn't interrupting anything.

         I raised my head, slid my glasses back into place, and put on a smile. Eyes blurry from their massage, all I could make out at first was a lean silhouette in the opposite chair. I blinked a few times and his features sharpened.

         Then I stared. At the darkest eyes I'd ever seen, in a battle-seasoned, handsome face topped with thick black hair in an all-American crew cut.

         Another blink. Harder. I knew this face better than my own, but....

         "Robert J. Hawke?"

         I clasped his outstretched hand. "Call me Bobby. You have the most uncanny resemblance—"

         "I am Travers. We need to talk."

         His hand felt solid enough. I released it and searched for a file in my word processor. If he wasn't a hallucination, he was a trickster. "Birthplace?"

         "New Berlin."

         "Parents' names?"

         "Cameron and Jena. One sister, Salli. She's marketing director at Leighton now."

         That made me look up. "Says who?"

         "It just came through."

         Ah, found the file. When it opened, I scrolled through, frowning at the lines of type. Something obscure...here. "Why were you nearly expelled from your final year's training?"

         "Stick-fighting with the administrator's son on the dormitory roof. He'd framed another student for his own thefts. Somebody had to get him to own up."

         He reached for my Starbucks mug, sipped and set it back, grimacing. "Travers. In the flesh. How can you drink that stuff?"

         "Chai latte. You can't be here." Part of me ached to believe him, but my rational side pitched a new question. "Even if you could...how did you find me?"

         He flashed his trademark one-sided smile. "As I said, we need to talk. Privately would be best."

         If this was Travers, we certainly did need to talk. If he was an impostor, I wasn't keen on taking him home. But my address was in the phone book. He could track me down. I drained my latte mug and stowed the laptop in its case. When we stood, he was the taller of us by the expected six inches.

         "Hello, Bobby. Coffee break again? Good thing Rennie has a steady income."

         My face fused into the grimace-smile reserved exclusively for my wife's friend, and I turned. "Deidre."

         I could have saved the smile. She'd spotted Travers, and her approach shifted from mild contempt to something almost star-struck. My skin crawled.

         She addressed me without looking, a musical lilt in her voice I'd never heard. "Who's your drinking partner?"

         Travers stepped around the table. "Jett Travers." I watched him hold her hand a fraction too long and give her the benefit of his dark eyes.

         She melted, like hundreds of women before her. "Are you a friend of the Hawkes? Perhaps you'd all like to come for dinner tonight?"

         "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Hawke, but—"

         My throat constricted. "Rennie's not going to meet him. He's just passing through."

         He glanced at me. "Indeed. I'm on an urgent mission for help only Mr. Hawke can give. Please excuse us."

         Travers strode ahead of me to the exit. I watched his purposeful, fluid pace and fumed. At least he hadn't shown up in uniform. But then, he knew how to blend in. With his muscle-hugging tee shirt, casual pants, and open leather bomber jacket, the only second glances he got were admiring.

         He waited at the door. Had to, gloated my nasty streak; he didn't know which car was mine.

         Outside, I led him to my 13-year-old Volkswagen, trying not to think of how he usually traveled. "Listen, Travers—or whoever you are—you can't just stroll in here and take command. This is my turf. I made you what you are."

         Travers watched me open my door, then went around to the passenger side and opened his. "I've bypassed the chain of command and come to the top, but this is not a coup. I need your help."

         I fastened my seatbelt; his clicked a second later. As I slid the key into the ignition, he asked, "Why does that woman not respect you? She wouldn't know the full impact of your work—I didn't until recently—but she must know your occupation."

         Respect me? What a concept. I turned to him. "Deidre thinks working from home means living off my wife."

         Dark eyes searched mine. "Why don't you want your wife to meet me?"

         Why? I surveyed my soft hands on the steering wheel, the way my stomach inched over the seatbelt. "Look at us."

         He shrugged. "You're a visionary, a world-builder. I'm just your stereotypical action hero."

         I put the car into gear and backed out of the parking space. "Rennie's read about you and it'll disappoint her not to meet you, but you're too...impressive in person. Witness your effect on Deidre."

         "A tactic to make a point. I got her attention, then I deferred to you. That shows you outrank me."

         "Right."

         "Hawke, even when my heart was free I never poached another man's relationship. You know that. But help me and I'm gone."

         "I still don't know how you got here." I waited for the chance to nose onto the street. Didn't anybody work office hours anymore? "So what's wrong with being a hero?"

         "Most days, nothing. Never a dull moment. But it can get lonely when the dust settles."

         "Too bad the women don't find you attractive."

         Travers arched an eyebrow. "I'm a novelty to them. My commitment to Ranger Seven takes first place, and women don't like that. They can't share. Most women." He seemed suddenly fascinated by the view from his window.

         I nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "I'm mentally...away...when I'm exploring new ideas. But Rennie's independent, feisty...and supportive. She's one of the few who sees value in what I do."

         "Then she's a special lady. Trust her."

         I saw my chance and pulled a left turn across traffic, faster than normal to shake him up. "She's a lot like the red-haired chief pilot on that courier ship you're looking for."

         My house was only a five-minute drive away, but he didn't know that. I could give him the tour, keep him talking, show him the pierced and painted teenagers who strolled the trendy strip near the bars.

         He looked relaxed, if cramped, in his seat, but I knew how he worked. He'd be assessing, cataloguing, taking in everything we passed. Who was I kidding to think I could shock Jett Travers?

         If he really was Travers, and I was beginning to believe him. If he was a nut case, his surroundings were nothing new and I shouldn't rock his boat.

         Okay. Home by the shortest route. "Travers?"

         "Yes?"

         "When we get to my office we can talk about your problem. For now, how about telling me how you found me—and how you got here?"

         He continued scanning the fast food outlets and apartments we passed. "You gave us the clue."

         "Excuse me?"

         "We were in engineering. Costa and Sartil swore the equipment failure was sabotage. They had me half convinced when Rayton buzzed in an emergency call."

         I nodded. "To get you off the sabotage track."

         "What Rayton said over the intercom was, 'You'll never believe this.' He'd been tracing that unusual power signature he found."

         "So? A diversion, but hardly a clue."

         Travers' laugh sounded more harsh than amused. "It certainly was diverting. Rayton's theory is that any creative energy weaves a link between creator and creation. It's faint and on an unusual frequency. He could tell you more. Even he only found it because I had him checking every band and combination for traces of the missing ship. Like it or not, we had the truth via direct link to your computer."

         "Impossible."

         "You had trouble with the next scene, as if we were all wooden. We were in shock."

         No way could I get my head around this, let alone imagine how Travers and his crew felt to discover they were characters in a science fiction novel. "But how are you...here?"

         "Inter-Reality Travel. Rayton and Sartil designed it in their off-scenes. I was the messenger for two reasons. One, you know me best, so I transferred easier."

         "And two?"

         "We didn't know if you'd agree to help. I'm in nearly every scene. You can't write about me if I'm not there."

         I remembered the evaporated scene in Starbucks. "So this is a reverse hostage-taking?"

         "I hope not."

         Starship captain or not, he wasn't going to order me around. "So what's to stop me writing you into sickbay and working with Lain?"

         "Readers don't trust him."

         "How do you know?"

         "I've read the reviews. Your computer is a window into your world."

         What else did I have on the blasted computer that Travers could use as leverage? He was a man of honor—thank God I'd written him that way—but the situation must be desperate for him to leave his ship in the middle of an emergency.

         My fingers twitched on the steering wheel. Why didn't I know what that emergency was?

         Two blocks later we pulled into my driveway. I unlocked the front door and led him to my basement office. Taking my leather swivel chair and waving him to an upright wooden one, I pulled out my laptop and booted it up. "Be glad I was in Starbucks and not working here in the buff."

         "Tell me you're not serious."

         "Nah. That's when the courier would show up." I leaned back in the chair, trying to project authority and wisdom despite my faded Dale Earnhardt tee shirt and baggy cargo pants. "What can I do for you?"

         "Our mission is to locate and retrieve the courier ship Star Dancer. She's carrying sensitive cargo, and you've alluded to my feelings for her pilot, Elyse."

         I stared at him. "You didn't come here to cry about the mission being too hard for you."

         His dark eyes showed emotions he wouldn't voice. "You've given us a slim chance of success. I can work with that. But we have a bigger threat: we have a traitor on board."

         "News to me."

         "The equipment failure Costa swears couldn't happen."

         "I put that in to increase the tension."

         "The pirates that came out of nowhere?"

         "More tension. You want an easy ride?"

         Travers stood and began pacing my cramped office like a caged panther. "You know me better than that. I want a fair one. We know who it is, we've traced her activity between scenes, but we can't take her out of action when you keep bringing her back onstage.

         "Asrita?"

         Travers' face darkened and he nodded.

         "She's been with you for two years, always dedicated. Why now? And for whom?"

         He pulled the series' previous novel from my bookcase and scanned its cover. "This says 'Robert J. Hawke.'"

         I sighed. You're the writer, you figure it out. "Okay. Even if she is a traitor, what would she gain?"

         "You don't know what Star Dancer's carrying." His tone was flat, his face expressionless.

         "Not yet. I'll figure it out when I need to."

         He stood feet apart, hands behind his back, a military captain "at ease."

         "Archaeologists on Renfrew 12 cracked a vault under the emperor's private quarters. They found the usual gems and trinkets as well as twenty rough, grey rocks each the size of your fist. One of the junior translators saw them and almost went into orbit. She'd been deciphering medical records.

         "Turns out the correct combination of sound waves aimed at the heart of one of these rocks transmutes it into a fragrant, golden liquid, mere drops of which apparently sharpen mental acuity and reverse the effects of aging."

         I whistled. "Essence of youth." Could I have made that up? "I can see how there might be one or two interested parties. Maybe I'd better name you as co-author of this one."

         His gaze hadn't left my face. "You don't know these things ahead of time?"

         "I'm not a detailed plotter, I'm an SOTP."

         I waited for his raised eyebrow, but baffling him with writer jargon did nothing to recover my self-esteem. "Seat Of The Pants, as in 'flying by the.' I have a beginning and a rough end point, and I'll find out the middle along the way. It's more of an adventure that way."

         His eyes smoldered. "I can tell you the ending if you don't help us. Asrita's friends capture Star Dancer, steal those rocks and kill the crew. She blows up our ship but escapes in a life-pod for them to pick her up."

         "But—she can't do that if I don't write it."

         "Your Internet bookmarks include a number of writing sites. I skimmed those, too. Haven't you heard of characters hijacking the story? She can get you so twisted around that when the ship blows you'll not only think it was inevitable, you'll think it's a stroke of genius."

         I picked up a pen from the desk and rolled the smooth blue plastic between my fingers. "Now that you mention it, I've been getting tired of the whole series. Maybe it would be good to go out with a bang."

         Travers planted his feet in front of me, fists on his hips. "You want to write about other characters, fine. We're not always crazy about your plots anyway—we'll find our own. But keep your destructive impulses away from my ship."

         He dropped into his chair, empty palms raised. "I'm a man of action. Hand to hand, ship to ship, I fight for what's right and I win. How can I convince my creator not to sacrifice two good crews on a whim?

         "Hawke, we're real. We feel, think, breathe. I'm begging you—for the lives of each man and woman on my ship and on Star Dancer. Don't throw them away. Take me if you want. I've cheated death more than enough. That would put paid to your series."

         I stared at him for a minute, thinking about all those lives. Not paper and ink lives, but actual beings I'd somehow made real. The idea of cutting my losses with this series and moving on whispered seductively, but my benumbed brain snagged on the thought of destroying two shiploads of innocent people. What would that make me?

         Travers was right, his death could make a moving finale. Except.... I gave him a wry smile. "I don't know what would happen to you if you died."

         "You designed our reality with the same hope of eternity we found in your online copy of your holy book. I've walked in that way, and I'll die in it." Again the one-sided grin. "We'll see how far your creative powers extend."

         "I can't kill you."

         "Why?"

         "I just can't."

         His stare burned into me. "Then will you help us?"

         I felt like I was waking from a bizarre dream. I'd joked with Rennie that Travers and his crew were my imaginary friends. They felt more like the offspring of my dreams. "The destruction—that was just frustration talking. I couldn't have done it, not in the final draft."

         Travers let out a long breath. "Robert J. Hawke, today I've met a new kind of hero." He scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I risked this journey for the crews' safety. Since I'm here, may I ask a favor?"

         "Shoot."

         "When we rescue Star Dancer's crew—we will rescue them now—could you find an opportunity for me to propose to Elyse? I'd like to take her to the waterfalls on Kendara, but I can work with ten minutes alone together in my briefing room." He withdrew a silver chain from his jacket pocket and dangled it to show the polished, grey-green stone it held. "I've been carrying this around for six months."

         He watched the stone twirl on its chain, then looked at me. "You didn't know that either?"

         I sighed. These people were taking on lives of their own.

         He grinned. "Why did you think I ducked into the jewelry merchant's during the chase on Ti'Kari? The coffin maker's was closer, and it would have made a more interesting fight scene."

         "I suppose."

         "I wanted this." He ran the chain through his fingers and cupped the stone in his hand. "You should have known about it."

         "How could I?"

         "Perhaps you're taking us for granted. I've read the character chart files you did on us before the first book, and they don't go deep enough. Plus, we've changed after three years and untold missions." He slipped the pendant back into his jacket.

         I shrugged. "Well, I didn't know you could pop in for latte."

         "Now you do, although I don't expect we will. It's a tremendous power drain. Rayton rigged something else that might interest you, though."

         Note to self: pay more attention to Rayton. The man's a genius. "Oh?"

         "Open your email program."

         "Already on. I'm a compulsive email reader—when I don't have a visitor from another reality."

         "Send a test to travers at ranger seven—spell it out, not the number—dot IRT."

         My fingers stumbled over one another. Could this work? Seconds later the reply hit my inbox. "Test received. Link stable. Captain Travers?"

         I typed back, "Robert Hawke here. Rayton, you're brilliant. Good to meet you. Your captain's just about ready to go home."

         I turned to Travers. "This means a lot."

         "To both sides of the link. It comes to my data terminal, but you can reach any of us. Get to know us. Not just who we are but why we are."

         He tipped his chair back on two legs and studied me. "What's my favorite color?"

         I opened the file and scrolled through. "Green."

         "Good. Why?"

         "How should I know? Color of your first girlfriend's eyes? Your home world from space?"

         "No reason, I just like it. What's my deepest, driving desire?"

         I knew this. "Find Star Dancer, and apparently make a move on her chief pilot."

         "Beyond that."

         "I don't know."

         Travers dropped his chair back onto all fours and stood. "I'll get back to you. Right now there's a ship to save—make that two. I have your word?"

         "My solemn word, but, Travers..."

         "Yes?"

         "Might I ask a favor in return?"

         He spread his hands. "Anything."

         "What was happening before you came? The scene was there in my mind, then it was gone and you appeared."

         "Sorry for that. Ranger Four transmitted that Star Dancer was discovered downed on a hostile planet. Four was under heavy fire from an unidentified ship and unable to contact the missing crew. We were en route."

         There it was in my mind as if it had never left. Body and brain relaxed. "Thank you."

         "Thank you." He squeezed his belt buckle, saluted me, and vanished.

         I stared at the space he'd just occupied, remembering the salute, the crisp military stance. Jett Travers had called me a new kind of hero.

         Then I opened the manuscript file before the scene could flee again. When I found my place, I stopped and hit control-home to take me to the beginning. Caps lock on, I began to type:

Copyright 2007, Joanna Mallory

Cover: "Knight of Sorrows—Marushan's last battle"

What drives the knight into desperate combat?  What burns within?

This illustration was done for the story "Knight of Sorrows" by Jonathan Moeller. The image was made in PSE2 and is completely hand drawn. This is the final big scene in which the Knight of Sorrows fights the dark Marushan who has transformed just for the fight.

 

Copyright 2008, E.J. Mickels, II 

E.J. Mickels II, aka "Hisart", is a multi-talented artist, has a BFAA in Drawing with Minors in Illustration and Graphic Design from the University of Akron. A veteran of the USAF, he has traveled through Europe and most of the USA.

E.J. ventured out as an illustrator and has appeared in The Sword Review, Ray Gun Revival, Dragons, Knights, & Angels, and Fear and Trembling. He also writes and maintains his own website, which contains a small fraction of the art he has produced. He works in any medium and is just as comfortable sitting at a PC with pen and tablet as he is with a chainsaw, airbrush or welder. He has done custom motorcycle and helmet work as well as, in the distant past, worked as a tattooist. He is also a writer; he participated in NaNoWriMo 2005 and maintains his own blog "Sword and Pen" at < www.hisart777.blogspot.com >.

E.J. is currently the ArtWrangler at the DEP magazine Fear and Trembling.