Flotsam Prison Blues (The Technomancer Novels Book 2) Read online

  Flotsam Prison Blues

  by

  M. K. Gibson

  Copyright © 2016 by Michael K. Gibson

  Published by

  Amber Cove Publishing

  PO Box 9605

  Chesapeake, VA 23321

  Cover design by Raffele Marinetti

  Visit his online gallery at http://www.raffaelemarinetti.it/

  Cover lettering by T.J. Salyers

  Book design by Jim Bernheimer

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Visit the author’s website at www.mkgibson.com

  First Publication: October 2016

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Holy crap. A sequel. I mean, did anyone even read the first book? According to the sales numbers, not that many, heh heh.

  But here we are. Book 2. Because Jim Bernheimer and Amber Cove Press see something in my work. And for that I will forever be grateful. So, for my first acknowledgment:

  Jim Bernheimer: Jim, thank you for giving my work, and me, a chance. I have a wall of framed rejections from many publishers and agents. But you were the one who said “I like this”, when others passed. You are also the same asshole who keeps saying “The book is good...but it’s too long. Split it up, and write new material.” I’ve cursed your name while I worked. But in the next breath, praised your vision because the final product was always better than the original. Damn you for being right. You also once told me, you got in this business to put out good books. So, again, I thank you for having faith in my work.

  Valerie: My wife and editor. Damn, you are perfect to me. Perfect for me. I know I tell you every day I love you, but I do want to say it one more time in front of the world. I love you. Thank you for your tireless support of my writing. You take the lump of half formed, curse-laden sci-fi jibber-jabber and turn it into a cogent story. CHIRP!

  Charles Phipps: Once again, I thank you for recommending my work to Jim. And for all the 5am phone calls on my way to work as we BS and bounce writing ideas off one another. I wish you nothing but success brother.

  Once again, I thank my mother, Bonnie H: You always encouraged my writing. My childhood to my adulthood, you were always there telling me I could do it. I love you mom.

  To all my friends: Thank you. Seriously, thank you. You’ve been forced to listen my dumb-ass ideas for years. Hell, you all should get medals for having to put up with me.

  M. K. Gibson

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  One Hell of a Rough Reach-Around

  Chapter Two

  Host’s Normal Day

  Chapter Three

  Karl Urban was a Beautiful Man

  Chapter Four

  A Rabid Badger Explodes From My Ass

  Chapter Five

  Appalachian Vikings

  Chapter Six

  A Scorching Case of Urban Herpes

  Chapter Seven

  Han Solo Joke

  Chapter Eight

  You Can’t Spell “Slaughter” without “Laughter”

  Chapter Nine

  The Most Satisfying Piss I’ve Had in 200 Years

  Chapter Ten

  She Smelled of Books and Chocolate

  Chapter Eleven

  Sympathy for the Devil

  Chapter Twelve

  Demonic Hipster Douche

  Chapter Thirteen

  Drink or Bloodbath

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wish Fulfillment Through High Explosives

  Chapter Fifteen

  He Kissed Me

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chunky Elephant

  Chapter Seventeen

  Guilty Until Proven Innocent

  Chapter Eighteen

  Warden of Flotsam

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sway Upon Those Hooks

  Chapter Twenty

  I Screamed Until My Throat Bled

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Decision to Make

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  You Smell Pretty

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Win for Good Manners

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Just a Servant

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Prepared for the Beating

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  1000-Pound Murder Puppy

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Scars

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Size Ratios of Inter-Species Intercourse

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Don’t Leave Me

  Chapter Thirty

  I Love

  Chapter Thirty-One

  How Do You Plead

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Tears of God

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Bad-Ass Sucker Punch

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  We Go To Kill The Light

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  In The Darkness

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I Didn’t Even Know Her Name

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Master of Dismemberment

  About the Author

  Foreword

  When you read someone else’s novel, you want it to inspire you. A well done book will evoke thoughts and emotions. It will take the reader on a rollercoaster ride through the peaks and the valleys of the cast and make you feel something for them.

  The world MK has created does that for me.

  What a fascinating concept – demons and cyborgs; magic and nanotech; ancient myths and Biblical Armageddon. I went into the business of publishing other people’s novels just for ideas just like this.

  Given a chance, Michael’s work will reach out to you. I hope you reach the same level of immersion that I did with it. His words are diamonds in the rough, and something I am proud to be a part of.

  Since you are reading this now, they are your diamonds now as well.

  Enjoy!

  Jim Bernheimer

  Prologue

  The proprietor of the bar and brothel known as Dante’s was an entity known as Ricky. Ricky was once called Loki, Prometheus, Coyote, and Cernunnos. But he was most famously known as Lucifer Lightbringer, the Morningstar. The Devil. And the Devil watched the bar fight before him unfold with reasonable interest.

  The fight was exquisite. His former student, the victim, the man known now as Father Grimm, utilized the mastery of reality shaping, sometimes called magic. Grimm created invisible barriers to corral the intoxicated former Norse god, the assassin Vali. The other Norse god, Vali’s brother Vidar, the berserker, The Silent One, the Killer of Fenris Wolf and avenger of All-Father Odin, howled and raged, smashing furniture over his brother, heedless of the other bar patrons.

  Magnificent.

  The Smuggler, a lightrunner named Salem, utilized his technology and electrocuted the assassin with a charge from the ever-present tech bracers he wore. The fight was not over—far from it—but it was becoming more interesting. Vali would not fall from the elemental force his brother Thor once wielded.

  Salem was the linchpin. Not to the bar fight, that being merely a fun distraction. Rather, to Ricky’s long-term plans. Salem was to be his catalyst, bringing about the change he desired. Ricky had waited a long, long time for these plans to be put into motion. Father Grimm was the perfect partner for the lightrunner. Together, they
accomplished the Trial of the Soul. The other trials would come. Ricky’s careful manipulation of events and people had brought the right combination together.

  Yes, Grimm would guide the young Salem. Together they would act in the manner of the righteous, righting wrongs with all the nonsensical bravado of those who champion noble causes. All part of the plan to foster Hope.

  Ricky smiled. Subtle nudges. Small innocuous shifts. A tiny change to a stream that led, inexorably, to a giant change in a river’s course.

  Ricky had, after all, brought down “the gods” by championing mankind. Through their own self-reliance, humanity left the hungry gods starving for attention and affection, and thus, power.

  The Devil was more than just The Adversary. He was The Advocate. The first child of the primordial power of Light. First of the Fourteen.

  He was Pride, greatest of the Seven Deadly Sins, and Pride was proud of his accomplishments. When asked by the Creator to become The Advocate, to judge the unworthy, to lead a rebellion and create Hell, he agreed. The Master of Hell was the only being to ascend the Infernal Throne as a true angel. His lieutenants, six of the Fourteen, were his “conspirators,” and they were corrupted, transformed into powerful demons. The princes of Hell with him as their king.

  But when the Creator left them, left them all, Ricky was the most hurt. All he had done was for the Creator. He’d obeyed every command. After the Creator left, the princes had rebelled against him—Lucifer, their leader. Knowing they could not destroy him outright, they had stripped him of most of his power and banished him to his current state. The proprietor of this bar and brothel.

  Again, Ricky smiled. He had them right where he wanted them.

  The fight in the bar had raged to where Vidar threw his drunken brother into the bar itself. Ricky adjusted his black sunglasses and smoked his cigar, amused. The fight was winding down thanks to the combination of their skills. Among the onlookers in the bar that night was the Central Kingdom of Ars Goetia’s newest archbishop, Maz’ael, a topside-born demon of a noble Gluttony house who yearned for more power beyond his station, despite having no internal power of his own. Good. He would be needed when this all was finished playing out.

  The fight was over. Vidar carried his unconscious brother over his shoulder and out the main double doors. The bar went back to its normal state of debauchery and lust.

  Salem came to the bar and plopped down on the stool, exhausted.

  “Ricky, pour me a tall one and don’t stop until I tell you.”

  “I’m not a bartender.”

  “Well, until recently, I didn’t know you were an ancient angel responsible for bringing mankind fire. But that doesn’t change the fact you are standing behind a bar and I have a powerful thirst. So chop-chop, drink jockey.”

  The lightrunner was annoying and arrogant, but amusing. Ricky was proud.

  “So, rough times?” Ricky asked, pouring a tall tumbler of whiskey.

  “You don’t know the half of it. Almost three thousand people living on my land now. I’m responsible for all of them! Oh God, the tithes I owe to the district are killing me. And the worst part, they don’t do anything. They just . . . live there!” Salem blabbed on about his woes.

  Ricky already knew this part. Salem had transplanted the refugees from an outer town into the city and onto his land to prevent their annihilation. Following the fall of Abraxas, Salem had become a land baron and was responsible for them financially.

  Salem took a large swallow of the drink and lit a smoke before continuing. “I know saving the town was important, but damn, they need to contribute.”

  “You bitch too much.”

  “Hey, I’m on this side of the bar. It is my right to bitch and moan. Your job is to pour drinks, listen, and give advice.”

  “Fine. Stop bitching so much,” Ricky advised.

  “You’re less than helpful.”

  “Really? Less than helpful?” Ricky asked, nodding. He adjusted his sunglasses, then leaned in close to Salem. “OK. Fine. My protection is off.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The entity known as Ricky topped off Salem’s drink and walked away, smiling. Yes, this was just the subtle nudge needed to begin the next phase of his plans. A nudge as subtle as, say, a steel hook through the jaw.

  Chapter One

  One Hell of a Rough Reach-Around

  Hundreds of roaring demons and hellions calling for my blood made it hard to concentrate and block the wild haymaker that cracked my jaw and busted my eye. The punch snapped my head back while I reeled with the blow as best as I could. Getting my hands up was fruitless as the follow-up kick to my gut slammed my back into the interwoven chain and barbed wire that surrounded the domed cage.

  I was shirtless, and the barbs punctured the skin along my back. For the twentieth time or so, I found myself wishing for my plasma pistols or my tech bracers. I could finish this bastard off in no time.

  But that wasn’t the point of tonight, was it?

  The hellion I fought was a huge eight-footer. A brown and orange Wrath and something else mutt. His stunted wings flapped as he got excited while the nub that used to be his tail wiggled like an excited murderous puppy’s.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw Vidar smoke one of my cigarettes while watching the fight. He winced as I took the wild hits. Blood flowed freely from my many wounds and I was having a hard time catching my breath. The hellion backed away with his arms up, basking in the crowd chanting for my blood.

  “Any advice?” I asked the god, my breath coming in gasps.

  “Get hit less. Move more.” He shrugged.

  “Gee, big help!” I yelled as I got slugged again.

  Vidar shrugged. “Should have listened.”

  That was Vidar. The silent god was one big chatty chuckle-bucket of fucking useless advice.

  The mutt came in with another huge haymaker punch. He was trying to put this fight to bed, and me into the grave. I dove under the punch, putting my full weight into the aggressive shoot-fighting technique. My shoulder hit his left reverse-jointed knee, buckling it. I latched on tight to his leg like a crocodile and rolled, snapping the joint.

  As the mutt screamed, I moved fast, going from his leg to wrapping an arm around his throat, trying to choke him out.

  Wrath demons, even their hellion mutts’ cousins, were the shock troops of Hell. Like the Incredible Hulk, when they got mad, they got really freaking strong, ignoring most pain. It had something to do with their particular biology, having a second and third adrenal gland. Stumpy here was kicking it into high gear. Broken knee and all, he started getting to his feet and ignoring the piss-ant, me, clinging to his back trying to choke him out.

  Stumpy got to his full height and simply threw himself backwards. All 450-plus pounds came down on me, knocking the wind, and easily two or three drops of piss, out of me. It was a great street fight move that I have employed myself. But as a cybernetic human, and not a big-ass demon brawler, I wasn’t used to being on this end of that particular move.

  My Collective, the millions of microscopic nanite robots that manage my body, made contact with me. Some months back we’d made an agreement. They were allowed direct contact with me only when I chose it, or when I or an ally was in mortal danger. If they were contacting me, it meant I was up shit creek with nary a paddle to be found.

  //HOST - MORTAL DANGER IMMINENT - SPLEEN RUPTURED, POTENTIAL LUNG COLLAPSE - QUERY: WHY DO YOU COTINUE TO ENGAGE IN MARTIAL COMBAT WITHOUT UTILIZING FULL RESOURCES COLLECTIVE HAS PROVIDED//

  Because Norse gods are assholes! I mentally sent to the Collective.

  //RESPONSE REJECTED - DESPITE SPHINCTER METAPHOR OF AESIR, HOST WILL PERISH IF MARTIAL COMBAT CONTINUES - REQUEST HOST USE FULL SKILLS IF HOST AND COLLECTIVE WISH TO CONTINUE EXISTENCE//

  The point of this isn’t to use my enhanced abilities! Vidar made it very clear: I’ve been too reliant on them and my tech to get through fights. I have to learn to actual
ly fight! So unless you have a great idea, please switch off! I won’t let him kill me or us!

  //RECOMMENDATION - THE DEMON IS MALE - DISABLE ITS GROIN//

  Goddamn. My Collective was right. And vicious. As Stumpy writhed on top of me, grinding me into the arena’s rocky ground, I was halfway down his body by this point. So I did something I never thought I would ever do: I gave that demon one hell of a rough reach-around.

  I grabbed Stumpy’s cock and three balls and just squeezed. Wrath demon or not, when Hell rose and demons took on a full biologic form, sensitive nuts were part of the package deal.

  Stumpy screamed and rolled away as fast and hard as he could and I held on for the ride. As he rolled to his stomach, I maintained my death grip on his junk and started throwing heavy left-handed, hammer-fist punches at the base of his skull. By the seventh punch he had gone almost completely limp, no pun intended.

  Stumpy dropped to the ground unconscious and the bell sounded. The fight was over and I had won. It was the ninth straight fight I’d had in a row. Vidar smiled.

  After the fight I sat in my corner and the cage opened, letting Vidar in, while some Greed demon collected the bets. Breathing was hard. Very hard. The Collective was right about the nearly collapsed lung. I felt my body stitching itself back together. While I don’t know what a spleen does, I was pretty sure the Collective was fixing that as well. I felt a hard, gnawing hunger, the Collective’s way of telling me it needed raw materials to put me back in working order.

  Vidar was a big guy, easily six and a half feet tall. With his extremely elaborate knee-length leather and metal boots with matching elbow-length gloves, and his long black hair, he resembled a hard-core biker. He lumbered over and set an old wooden stool down and plopped onto it, handing me a squeeze bottle. I took a slug off it. Pureed meat, composite metals, carbon nano fibers, and orange juice. Mmm . . . yummy.

  “I get the meat and juice. Why the other shit?” Vidar asked as he began looking me over. His huge rough hands were not gentle.

  “The meat and juice for base protein and sugar. But that won’t rebuild synthetic neural pathways or wireless data comm ports.” Vidar just shrugged. As one of gods, he, like demons, were descendants of angels. And technology was beyond them. Utilize it, sure. But create it? Think it up? No. That kind of divine inspiration came from the soul. And they didn’t have one.