3rd world products book.., p.1
3rd World Products: Book 15, page 1
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Abintra Press
www.abintrapress.com
Copyright ©2011 by Ed Howdershelt
First published in 2011, 2011
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Abintra Press titles:
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3rd World Products, Inc.
Book 15
Copyright 2011 by Ed Howdershelt
ISBN 9781932693379
www.abintrapress.com
Chapter One
January 7th dawned with a blanket of fog, but the sky was clearing fast and bright by eight or so. I'd almost finished answering emails and checking other messages on a field screen at my kitchen table when I heard my bed creak. Bare feet slapped softly on the hallway tiles as Angie headed for the bathroom and a new email appeared in my box. I sipped coffee and opened another email.
Some guy wanted to know whether I worked from outlines and how long it took to write a book. I answered, ‘No outlines here. Writing takes as long as it takes. Only you can decide when your book is finished.'
The next email was a December earnings statement from one of my distributors. I glanced at it, then moved it to their folder and opened the next message, which was from the woman who headed NecronomiCon in Tampa every year.
'Hi, Ed,’ she wrote, ‘Will you be available for panels this year?'
I wrote back, ‘Well, gee, lady, I dunno. This is pretty short notice, isn't it?'
In fact, it wasn't. Necro's in late October. Her reply came quickly.
'Well, I do truly hate to rush you, of course, but we're already planning events.'
Angela padded into the kitchen behind me as I typed, ‘This year I'll want a fat raise, a personal assistant, and a private room with a bar, ma'am.'
'Ha! I'm sure you would. Sorry, Mr. Highfalootinauthor, but times are hard, as always. Same pay as last year.'
'Figured. Envision me sighing heavily and looking disgruntled. You drive a hard bargain, lady, but ... Okay, count me in for Saturday. Only two panels, though.'
She wrote back, ‘Will do! Thanks, Ed! :)'
Angie moved to the coffee pot as I hit the ‘send’ button. She wore one of my old khaki shirts and apparently nothing else. I admired her lovely legs as she filled her mug. In the reflection from the toaster, I saw her grinningly watching me watch her.
Turning to face me, she sipped, then said, “Good morning, Mr. Highfalootinauthor. Are you making personal appearances now?"
"Every year since about 2001, I think. Good morning to you, too, by the way. That's a nice outfit. And your legs are just as wonderful from the front."
"Thank you. How much do celebrity authors make at those things?"
"At that one? Nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada."
"Then why do you do it?"
"NecronomiCon is one of the few truly fan-operated science fiction conventions left, milady."
Canting her head, she asked, “Which means what..?"
"Too many others have turned into heavily commercialized operations. To them, fans are just sheep to be sheared. NecronomiCon isn't like that."
Nodding, Angie sat down with one foot up on the chair and sipped again, then asked, “What's for breakfast? And don't say ‘you’ or ‘me'."
Eyeing her knee and thigh for a moment, I met her gaze and sighed, “Well, damn. I guess that cunning ability to read people is why you're a major now, huh?"
She rolled her eyes and sipped again. “Well?"
"Okay, food, then. You can cook it or we can buzz over to Denny's."
Trying to look taken aback, she asked, “After a full week of my ... attentions ... You won't even cook me breakfast?"
"Extend your stay another week and I'll grab a skillet, ma'am."
With a slight shake of her head, she replied, “Can't. And you know it."
"Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before. Duty and all that stuff."
"Yes. All that stuff. Sorry."
"Making major sure messed up your free time, y'know."
"Believe me, I'm well aware of that. Again, what about breakfast?"
Canceling the field screen, I stood up and said, “Yeah, what the hell ... Spiff up and saddle up, ma'am. You've been pretty good company this week, so I guess I'll feed you, even though you're just going to run off to Carrington later."
Angela stood up and stretched gloriously, smiling as she watched me watch her again, then stepped over to give me a kiss on the cheek.
"Don't worry,” she said softly, “We'll come back here after breakfast."
With that, she headed back to the bedroom. I savored the musky scent she'd left near me for a moment, then followed her.
Some fifteen minutes later we stepped outside, called up our boards, and lifted away from the house. Angela now wore jeans and a blouse over a pair of sneakers. Remembering how she'd looked in my old shirt, I felt somewhat deprived. As we flew above Barclay Avenue, I sent a few quick blasts of field energy to zap bits of fast-food trash someone had tossed along the road. The bag and scattered wrappers flashed and disappeared.
Angie swerved close and asked sharply, “What the hell are you doing?!"
"Practicing."
She swooped back to where the trash had been, then caught up with me and flew alongside me in silence. She didn't look happy.
"What's the problem?” I asked, “I don't like seeing that crap everywhere."
Stopping her board, Angela said tightly, “Ed, you just blasted that stuff right out of existence. Don't you see anything wrong with that?"
I stopped beside her. “Nope. Why do you?"
"If anyone saw you do that...” She glanced back at the area.
I shrugged. “So what?"
Her gaze narrowed and her voice rose an octave. “You can't just go around blasting things, dammit!"
A beer carton lay in the drainage ditch near the intersection of US19. I checked for nearby traffic, then pointed at the carton, sent a field blast that made it flare brightly and vanish, and said, “Well, beggin’ yer ladyship's pardon, but apparently I can. In fact, I'm getting pretty good at it. Check it out; the grass isn't even smoking."
She looked, then seemed puzzled. “No, it isn't. Why isn't it?"
"I lifted the target before I blasted it. Ready to go?"
"Not yet. Can Lori do this, too?"
Concealing my surprise, I thought, ‘She didn't know Lori could melt icebergs?'
Looking for a way to avoid saying ‘yes’ without lying, I came up with, “I've never seen her zap trash, ma'am, but you could certainly suggest it sometime."
I sent a ping to Lori. When she answered, I asked if Angie or anyone else at 3rd World knew she could blast icebergs. Yes or no quickly, please.
Lori replied, “She shouldn't. We clammed up and let Xenia take all the credit. What's going on, Ed?"
"I blasted some roadside trash and Angie just about dropped her teeth. Now she's all fuzzed up about it. Lemme call you later, okay?"
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye. Thanks."
The exchange took perhaps two seconds. Angie's droll expression let me know what she'd thought of suggesting it to Lori. After another moment of studying me as if to verify my words, Angie spurred her board into motion. I caught up and watched for more trash to zap. By the time we reached Denny's, my score was half a dozen plastic bottles, two more fast-food bags, and an assortment of other crap. Angie glared every time I blasted something, but she said nothing.
Her silence continued as we looked at menus and ordered, but once the waitress had left, she said, “Ed, your trash-blasting is going to get you in trouble."
"With whom?"
Giving me one of her ‘you're just being difficult’ looks, she said, “Possibly the police and fire department, to start with."
"Nah. Greer just told me to be careful."
Her eyes widened. “You mean he's already seen you do it?"
I chuckled, “Oh, hell, yes. So has Andrews. He's the fire chief."
Her gaze met mine and her index finger drummed the table. “And they just
told you to be careful? Nothing else?"
"Essentially. Make sure it's garbage, and like that.” I grinned and waited in a blatantly expectant manner for her to say something else.
Angie drummed her finger again, then picked up her coffee and sipped. She liked having the last word, and she didn't have it yet. A minute passed, then another. Through the big window, I saw a bit of paper trash caught in a hedge and blasted it. The paper flared and disappeared with no damage to either the bush or the window. Angie muttered something that sounded ungracious, then seemed thoughtful and reached to touch the window.
"I didn't see the light streak this time. How'd you do that through the window?"
I grinned. “Very carefully, of course."
Her gaze narrowed and she growled, “Are you sure you want to piss me off? I could leave for Carrington early, you know."
Trying to look properly chastised, I replied, “That's a very good point, Major, ma'am. I formed the blast at the target's location instead of shooting at it."
Sitting back, she said, “Thank you. I still think blasting trash is a bad idea."
"Yes'm, I can tell. Why, exactly, do you think that?"
She snapped softly, “Because somebody might get the wrong idea, dammit. Maybe lots of wrong ideas. Think about it. They might get the idea you'd do that to something other than roadside trash. Or even to a person."
I nodded. “Yup. Guess they might. Can't say I care, though.” Suddenly tired of the topic, I said, “Let's change the subject, Angie. I'd rather have a fun last day with you."
Angie gave me a flat stare briefly, then nodded. “Okay. We can talk about it another time. But soon, right?"
I shrugged. “Only if there's nothing better to talk about. Food's coming."
The waitress delivered our meals, refilled our coffees, and left. I dug into my hamburger steak as Angie carefully sipped her freshened coffee. Tabletalk was sparse during the rest of our meal. We were standing outside, about to leave, when Angie put a hand on my arm.
"Wait a minute. I want you to show me how to blast things."
Looking around the parking lot, I chuckled, “Here?"
She slapped my arm. “No, not here. Just somewhere people can't see us."
"Ah. Okay. Follow me, milady major."
I launched into the sky with Angie not far behind. She caught up quickly and asked, “Where are we going?"
"Home. There's a metal bucket on the back porch. If you can do it there, you can do it anywhere."
"If I can do it? Do you have any reason to believe I can't?"
"Nope.” Glancing at her, I added, “But I don't have any reason to think you can, either. Has anyone else been doing things like this with PFMs?"
Seeming to give that some thought, Angie said, “No.” Almost mumbling, she added, “Thank God.” A few seconds later, she asked, “Where did you get the idea to try ... blasting ... things?"
"It just happened. A kid was going to slam a smaller kid in the face with a basketball. I sent a field to knock the ball away and it sailed half a block. No pain in my head, no apparent strain. That meant I'd hit the ball without being attached to the field, which meant the field had been a kind of guided energy projectile. Once I got the hang of sending them, I just lit ‘em up. Now I use ‘em to zap trash."
Something in what I'd said seemed to disturb Angie. She stopped her board, looked around for a moment, and then pointed at a stop sign.
"Show me. Hit that sign. Don't burn it, just hit it."
I sent a bolt of field energy at the sign and it rattled as it waved. Angie watched it settle down, then looked at me.
"You really don't understand why I'm concerned, do you?"
I shrugged. “Guess not."
With a level of exasperation, she snapped, “You've weaponized your PFM, dammit!"
"Have not."
"What the hell do you call being able to blast things at a distance?!"
Mulling her question, I answered, “Convenient. Handy. I don't want to pick up trash, I just want it gone. And you could be all fuzzed up about nothing. You're pretty competent. If you can't blast things, there's no reason to think anyone else can."
"And if I can, what then?"
I chuckled, “Well, then, I'd say that would be your problem, ma'am. You're the one who's all fuzzed up about it. Just get with the AIs and program it out of issue PFMs."
Eyeing me tightly, she asked, “What if I have it programmed out of ALL PFMs? Including yours?"
Shaking my head, I replied, “Don't go there. Mine are out of your loop."
Rather acidly, she asked, “Yeah? Why? Because you'd like to think so?"
"Nope. Mine weren't issued by 3rd World. One of the AIs could probably disable them, but not at your command and not without an excellent reason."
A couple of joggers below had stopped and were staring up at us. Angie got us moving toward the house again as she said, “I'll set you up for some tests this week."
"I retired, remember?"
"Don't you want to know the full extent of your capabilities?"
"Manipulatory bullshit, ma'am. You're the one who wants to know."
"Of course I want to know, Ed! You've added a new talent to your ... your repertoire. If we have to call on you..."
I interrupted with, “You haven't called on me since the day I retired, Angie. Haver and the others won't let you.” Glancing at her, I added, “And there's something else; I used to feel welcome at Carrington. The last few times I've been there, I could feel people watching me. All the time. Everywhere. Like a suspect instead of a friend."
Angie laughed, “That's ridiculous, Ed. Maybe you're getting paranoid."
Landing on my front porch, I turned to face her and said, “Wrong answer altogether, ma'am. Jim Culver. Joan Lansing. Lewis Fuller. Michelle Barnes. My probes spotted them tailing me all over the damned base. You're head of security. If you didn't know about them, you'd better have a damned good reason."
She regarded me tightly for a moment, then asked, “And if I did?"
"Then you'd better have a reason I can accept."
"We've been partying for a week, Ed. Why haven't you brought this up before?"
I laughed, “Well, duh, ma'am. We were partying. It could wait.” Leaning close, I said in a confidential tone, “You're still some kinda goddess, y'know. No way in hell was I gonna screw up your Florida leave and blow a chance to play with you."
Her tight gaze continued. I turned to open the front door and she said, “I don't buy that, Ed. If you think you were being tailed, why didn't you say something?"
I held the screen door for her. As she entered, I said, “Because it really doesn't matter, Angie. Not at all. Let them watch all they want. I don't know what the hell they think they might see, but it really doesn't matter even one fat damn. What matters is that you just tried to mislead me about it."
She rounded on me in the kitchen and said tersely, “Actually, no, I didn't. I knew they were conducting training exercises under Barb Roberts, but I thought they were just routine observation exercises."
"Barb Roberts?” I linked to my orbital core and ran the name through it in correlation to the names of my tailers. The core popped up an answer in a split second. Barbara Millicent Roberts, 29, a transplant from the NSA. Brought aboard 3rd World security as an instructor. Five-ten. Six feet tall in low heels. Blonde and built like a Playboy bunny, going by her picture. Two degrees, one in History and one in English. Seven years with the NSA, two years of which had been field duty. There was something about her ... No, about her name. It came to me without any help from my orbital core and made me bark a laugh.
Angie responded with angered puzzlement. “What's so damned funny?"
I manifested a screen, split it with Barb Roberts on one side and some Wikipedia data on the other, and turned it to face Angie.
She read it and gigglingly muttered, “Oh, dear God! That poor girl..."
"Yup. Well, maybe. If that's her real name, school must've been hell, huh?"
Not looking away from the screen, Angie said, “Of course it's her real name."
"According to the NSA, you mean?"
Shaking her head, Angie said, “No, we checked her out independently, too. I wonder why nobody made note of this ... this odd little item ... in any of the reports?"
"Damned good point. Maybe they were just being kind, ma'am. You can wonder about that while I make a fresh coffee. Oh, and also wonder why I haven't met her at some point in my last half-dozen visits to Carrington. Why she's supposedly been using me to train newbies to tail people. She'd have access to my logs, so she knows I'd spot them. She's probably wondering something, too."
