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Dear Mr. Agent
I am inquiring of you because of my knowledge of your preference for complex military political struggles that satisfy a reader’s desire to savor a fresh stylized work.
Quantum physicist Pierce Daniels is lead up an alley of death to see if he can survive a gauntlet of assassins. A new technology leads to a struggle between America circa 2012 and an infinite array of futures viewed that always lead to America’s annihilation. Thirteen miles of Hellfire separate America’s death from
our protagonist 7337th death.
Each thoroughly crafted section of THE INCANTATA is a tightly mapped stand alone Science Fantasy saga of 125,000 words written for a broad audience based on comprehensive research and state of the art
understanding of the subject.
The first five pages are appended for easy browsing.
Paralyzing force bound Pierce Daniels to the black chair. It was always a different face and always the same gun. The only constant known to a man who walked a lonely razors edge between two nations
forever at war.
Growling in the pit of the stomach sent gentle waves of euphoric
relief trembling across his slow silenced mind. The first word would come soon after wondering what the first word might actually be. Seven Three Three Seven.
He was known to both Gog and Magog as Mr. Magoo. A cartoon character nickname for someone both sides felt they could play with as they chose and slap around with impunity. No wife and children and parents buried long ago lead both versions of the United States of America to under estimate the titanic level of resolve with which he played this most fatal of games.
His eye twitched and he tried to smile but his body wasn’t ready yet. Alert to his quarry the shooter shuffled his feet. Pierce relished the return of his hearing. With that sense restored he fantasized about the sounds of waves and pieces of music he had heard and grown to love. Trying to rock forward from his chest he detected the movement in his groin area. Clocking forward he knew only two minutes remained before he would speak. Now, thinking clearly he silenced his mind voluntarily restoring his true instincts.
Sitting on a soft, carpet, antique desk-map to his right; was a bold typed message awaiting decryption. The encoding was obvious to anyone who had the knowledge to survive the great war of 2012. There were only two very popular television shows ever broadcast and viewed by a colossal sized audience in real time. The type of effect the government clandestine experimenters had sought to use as a process to acquire a benchmark gauge that would determine the power of synchronized mass consciousness on the quantum fields that generated the future and past.
The first show broadcast in 1966 was the hopelessly titled; THE TIME TUNNEL. Experimenters were unaware people existed who were already capable of using such simple cause and effect relationships as a
television broadcast and the power generated by the viewing audiences’ consciousness to initialize the type of devices required for time travel.
Einstein was long gone and the picture of reality had changed dramatically since his departure into the grave.
HUGO=HUE GO HUG15
MR. EKO=51115 OK5
OG218=OG Vs. MAGOG
MR. FIVE = KNOCKOUT
The decoded message was a shop worn deception.
Pierce opened his eyes and looked at the shooter. This was the first executioner he had ever recognized. Struggling for composure he allowed no...
“Where is Einstein?”
“Heads in a jar; his dicks in Doc’s flux capacitor.”
Pierce waited for the muzzle flash. The shooter had yet to raise his weapon. Looking downward he noticed it was still the same Arsenal 44. Magnum used on him every time before. Unable to move his limbs yet he studied the face of the look alike wondering why it took the NSA so long to finally try this trick. The shooter looked at the single gold pen on the desk before moving to a semi-squatting position to examine the underside of the white board drafting table Pierce used as an oversized work board for math problems.
“There are no marks under the table.”
“The count is accurately reckoned at precisely 7337.”
The shooter put the weapon on the table while asking if Pierce was a fan of Star Trex.
“Portnoy’s Complaint is more my cup of tea mate.”
“A Fool’s Mate can easily be avoided.”
The shooter began preparing a pot of tea by selecting three bags from the glass jar on the old kitchen’s counter.
Three bags were silently denuded of their strings and labels before being quickly watered logged in the stout white china tea pot now headed towards the far end of the top floor apartment in the 1920’s art deco building.
The shooter paused before entering 6:00 into the microwaves key pad. Pierce picked up the pistol and glanced under the table. Reassured there were no jump calibrations marked underneath he placed the gun in
his mouth and pulled the trigger. The shooter pressed the start button on the key pad hoping to avoid an awkward moment. The pistols firing hammer clicked resolutely against the empty chamber.
“How many times have you made it to Canyon De Chele and succeeded in jumping off the cliff?”
A sinking heart and an empty pistol were laid on the table for his opponent to play with as he pleased. The long interrogation followed by the innocuous opportunity for an escape was the standard script from this point on. The long drop from Mummy’s Cave into Canyon De Chele was now certain to lead right back into this chair paralyzed again by time.
“The CIA put LOST together for you with great care to assure you the mission was understood and very successful.”
“The Chekhov’s gun on the table bit then?”
“Orientation time. Can you move your legs?”
“Load the gun.”
The shooter pulled Pierce to his feet shouldering him forward and out the door left open on the previous trip to the microwave. The shooter loaded the gun while leading his target to the roof of the building. Loaded and replaced in its clip-on belt holster; the snap of its removal audible.
The weapon and holster were passed to Daniels, he complied by walking towards the sleek dark red four seat jet copter.
One minute later they were in the Shell gas station parking lot on the southern side of the railroad access way
obscured by well fed overgrown brush. They crossed the intersection formed by a rural highway and the rail bed.
Pierce knew the snipers nest were arrayed at both treetop and ground level interspersed at fifty yard markers all the way to Facility-1 of The Advanced Intraphase Research site.
Shooter and target walked calmly through the dense bramble curtain of prickly brush. The shooter smiled after holding the web of tangles aside for Pierce’s passage into the kill zone known as The Bell Devil’s Walk of Hellfire.
“Hurry Pierce.” That phrase was never spoken before. Daniels composure broke as he quickly tapped his beltline for tranquilizers. The first five dozen silenced shots spit out entered the shooter who let go and fell on his back quietly smiling. “God’s luck to Self 7338. Hang tough Doc.”
Pierce walked inwards. “Today is a good day to die.”
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