Gossamer, p.1
Gossamer, page 1
Table of Contents
Gossamer
Copyright
Dedication
Preface
Acknowledgements
gos·sa·mer
Prologue
May 5, 2056
Chapter 1
April 15, 2067
Chapter 2
October 12, 2067
Chapter 3
May 16, 2068
Chapter 4
May 16, 2073
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Story of Hans Katz
September 22, 2056
Chapter 8
September 22, 2064
Chapter 9
May 16, 2073
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
About the Author
GOSSAMER
RISE OF W.A.R
RAYNA ALEXANDER
This is a work of fiction.
All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Gossamer: Rise of W.A.R © 2022 by Rayna Alexander. All rights reserved.
Published by Author Academy Elite
PO Box 43, Powell, OH 43065
www.AuthorAcademyElite.com
All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under international and federal copyright laws and treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author.
Identifiers:
LCCN: 2022904931
ISBN: 979-8-88583-041-6 (paperback)
ISBN: 979-8-88583-042-3 (hardback)
ISBN: 979-8-88583-043-0 (ebook)
Available in paperback, hardback, e-book, and audiobook
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.TM Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. Tanakh scriptural references are taken from Sefaria.org.
DEDICATION
I dedicate this novel to the person who introduced me to Star Trek at age nine. You created a monster, and the author of this book. Way to go!
PREFACE
The idea for this book came to me one day many years ago when I left my phone at home and became useless. I couldn’t remember anyone’s phone number, had no idea where I was going, and couldn’t find a decent restaurant. My reliance on that little pocket computer shocked me, and with the advent of digital voice assistants, the path to dependency became clear.
Extrapolating on this, would people one day have a chip in their head that would shortcut the need to give their phones verbal instructions? Would the human brain become so dependent on these devices they would fail to function without them? Would some people refuse this ultimate connectivity for a simpler life, and would that create a two-tiered class system? In the 2073 world of Gossamer, the answer to all of those questions is yes.
Most of the book’s characters popped into my head fully formed years ago as my mind began to work out the plot. As a childhood Star Trek addict, I have always loved the concept that people of all races and cultural backgrounds could work together toward a common good. The team concept continued to capture my imagination as a young adult because good things happen when people (like plans) come together. Shows and movies like the A-Team, Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai, Star Wars, Knight Rider, and Airwolf tossed together individuals who somehow navigated their differences, vanquished the bad guys, and saved the day.
I had always envisioned the main character, Wick, as a black female, but my daughter asked for her to also be lesbian since there are seemingly very few lesbian action heroes for girls like my daughter to emulate. It did work out better for the plot, and allowed for a beautiful scene between Wick and Pastor Caleb Ambrose.
The character of Carmine “Prof” Vassallo came from my husband’s grumbling that Hollywood has often portrayed Italians as lunkhead mobsters. You can’t get further from that than a highly intelligent, strongly ethical police detective. The character is named after my father-in-law Carmine, an amazing man who was a role model for my wonderful husband.
My portrayal of Prof was inspired by the wonderful times I spent in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn in the late 1980s and early 1990s when the streets abounded with sharp dressed men wearing gold necklaces cruising the boulevard in big American cars. Italians are warm and friendly people, and I loved being around them and going to their Salumerias and bakeries. Rimini and Europa, long gone now, were my favorites, selling all manner of delicious pastries and cookies. I wanted to resurrect that culture in future New York, along with regional accents, which are sadly disappearing all over America. I accomplished that with the Teek movement.
Later, as an Italian-by-marriage, my husband informed me that I routinely mispronounced food items like ricotta and mozzarella. I wanted to fit in with his one hundred percent Sicilian-derived family, so I began to say “mozzadel” and “rigott.” Online articles abound on the origin of this New York Italian dialect, and one very funny video about an Italian spelling bee is worth viewing.
The character of Hans Katz is named for my father Hans, who I loved very much and miss dearly. He came to the U.S. as a child and worked hard to build a successful auto repair business based on the ethical and good business principle that the customer was always right. Both of my parents had fled Nazi Germany as kids with their families. My mother’s family emigrated in 1938, but my father’s family waited until it was almost too late, coming to America in 1941. They were lucky, but six million others weren’t as fortunate. The recent rise of anti-Semitism worldwide and especially in our own country concerns me and I wanted to address it. I gave it a face through the experiences of Hans Katz.
Brandy Thoreau’s Texas origins and “Teek Texan” expressions came from my short time living in San Antonio, Texas, where I started my law enforcement career. I worked in an office full of native Texans who taught me that “fixin” has nothing to do with repairing an item and everything to do with intentions.
My choice of prominent settings for the novel came from my own life growing up in New York City, including my Alma Mater, and a certain two-toned blue Pontiac Grand Prix with a landau roof and shiny spoke wheels.
My novel is finished and it is time to let it fly. They say to write what you know, and the characters and experiences in the book reflect me and my background. Birthing this baby was almost harder than pushing out my first daughter. I have immersed myself in the world of the Gossamer for over a year. Now it’s your turn. Enjoy.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I want to thank you all the people who made this book possible, however, I’m already losing my marbles, so I can’t make any promises.
First, I’d like to thank my husband, Rich Falzone, my soul-mate and partner who has nurtured and watered my science fiction gene throughout our years together. You never doubted I could do this (although when I would finish is a totally different story). Honey, I’m thanking you first because if I’ve learned anything from watching Everybody Loves Raymond, it’s that you don’t want to forget to thank your spouse. Because my brain doesn’t truly kick in until about 7:00 p.m., my writing often took precedence over our “us” time, so thanks for supporting my odd synapsis schedule. Also, your alpha and beta critique were invaluable.
To my friend Debbie Bodkin, you have been there one hundred percent of the way, encouraging me when I felt that my book stank, sometimes telling me to put on my big girl pants and regroup. You acted as alpha and beta read reader and supported me in ways I can’t describe. Debbie, you’re the Amy to my Deborah.
To Keren Schlomy, one of my oldest and dearest friends, thank you for being thorough and honest with your comments and concerns, yet also respectful. You’ve plugged up too many plot holes to count, some large enough to drive an 18-wheeler through. You also lent me your husband, Mike, which I know sounds weird to our readers at home, but not when they find out he is a computer genius while I am not.
A special thanks to my genius squad for ensuring my book isn’t laughed out of the halls of tech-dom. Cameron Hixenbaugh, thanks for taking the time early on to point me in the right direction. Mike Maciolek, thanks for not only helping me on the front end, but also saving my butt at the finish line when I pretty much had everything wrong, and you had to fix it. You and Keren are my book-writing power coup
To my unofficial writing coaches Shara Ree and Juniper Connal, both of you had an incredible influence on my ability to even pen this novel. You taught me more about writing than I can mention here, and without that knowledge, this novel would have reeked like a bad cigar.
To my daughter Eren, thanks for acting as a sounding board and honing many of my initial concepts. And for naming my villain Praxadis. That was perfect.
To my beta readers Cathy Napoli, Anika Schueler, Angel Giacomo, and others previously named, you made this novel better. Your suggestions immeasurably improved various aspects of the book from writing and character development to flow and clarity.
To Author Academy Elite, I would not have been able to write or get this novel to print without your program, coaches, or publishing company. A special acknowledgement to Nanette O’Neal and Abigail Young for invaluable coaching.
And of course, my most special thanks go to God, who gave me both the talent and material to write this novel for His will and purpose.
gos·sa·mer
/ˈɡäsəmər/
noun
1:a film of cobwebs floating in air in calm clear weather
2:something light, delicate, or insubstantial
3:a neuro-implant device formed from nanites that connects with the human brain through fiber light tendrils and allows interface with external computer data systems
Hoard English Dictionary, © 2065
PROLOGUE
The world has fallen, and we are its last hope. After two centuries of world wars, cold wars, and global pandemics, who knew 2073 would be the year it would finally happen? Here in America, we had always thought a lunatic leader of a freedom-hating country would push a red button, or a deadly virus might end humanity’s time on Earth. It was a virus all right, but not a pathogen. Germs don’t suddenly incapacitate most of the world’s population, and they don’t instantly send billions of lives careening toward the edge of death with a time clock between them and the bottom of a bone-dry chasm.
If the enemy came at us with tanks or planes, I could handle that. I’m West Point trained, after all. But this kind of attack . . . I can’t even fathom the depravity of the perpetrator, much less fix the issue. Fortunately, I’ve surrounded myself with a team of people who can. We’re an odd group, all damaged in some way, but that’s what makes it work.
As we race to get it done before the countdown expires, before eighty percent of the world’s population dies, I think back on our road to catastrophe. The hard truth is that those who might never wake up could have prevented their own demise. That’s hard to swallow, but in the eyes of my teammates I see a worse realization. In the end, if we fail despite our hardest efforts, only my kind will remain alive.
MAY 5, 2056
NEW YORK CITY
CHAPTER 1
“Aggie, look out!” Peter dove behind the remains of an obliterated store and fired his destroyer.
I lurched to the right and ducked under the nearest car, joining Janelle in her hiding spot. She leveled her weapon to fire at the sweeper bots patrolling Level 2 of Cyborg Alley. In darkness, a canyon of burnt-out buildings surrounded us, and the acrid smell of a hundred small fires penetrated my nostrils. A chill ran up my spine. This Gossamer virtual reality is maybe too realistic . . .
I peeked out to see Peter’s mop of blond hair pop up carelessly from behind a chunk of concrete. He pointed at us and then at a half-destroyed building far across the devastated wasteland. I nodded. His fingers counted down: three, two, one. Peter’s tall lanky form in camo took off across what used to be an outdoor shopping mall before the apocalypse. Janelle and I rolled out from opposite sides of the car, and my long tree-trunk legs took off at a full-on run.
My heart pounded, and I gasped for air amid the thick smoke. Sharp sounds of sweepers assaulted my ears, and then I felt the ground rumble. Cyborgs. Searing heat of passing laser blasts almost singed my head, then sudden pain ripped through my leg. I tossed myself behind a wrecked van, badly scraping my arm, and laughed despite my agony because I had waited so long for this experience. I reached down to survey the damage to my leg and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the one van window somehow not blown to smithereens. I saw how great my dark mahogany complexion and Amazon warrior build looked in camo, which was good considering I would be starting West Point in a few months. I ran a hand over my buzz cut and smiled.
In the distance, Peter disappeared into the building, which sent him to Level 3, where, rumor said, he would be transported to an Apocalypse Alley driving gauntlet. I couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of an armor-plated muscle car with spiked wheels and laser canons, if I made it!
A laser blast ripped through Janelle’s petite form—her body and limbs destroyed from the inside out. The last thing to go was her curly long brown hair. In my head, I heard her curse. No! Janelle! Horror and anguish gutted me as the line between game and reality suddenly blurred. This is only a game! I shook it off. My dreams of sharing a Mad Max style assault vehicle with her would have to wait. I checked for bots and ran for the Level 3 gateway.
On the wind came an intruding sound, rumbling dark and slow. My eyes widened, and my breathing quickened. It knows my name.
“Aggie!”
The disembodied voice wafted through the decimated landscape. Someone grabbed my arm. Which one? Real arm?
“Aggie, get out of the game now.”
The Cyborg had Mom’s voice. A trick? I can’t fall for it. Peter needs help.
“Agatha Wickham! I’m pulling you out now!”
Blackness surrounded me and warning klaxons blared nearby. My muscles tightened as if still in battle. A firm hand grasped my arm.
“Aggie. Look at me.”
Mom? My head swiveled frantically in the darkness, my eyes trying to focus.
“I can’t see.” Panic seized me. “Mom, why can’t I see?”
Mom’s grip loosened and she spoke softly. “Gossamer recovery rooms are dark to minimize sensory overload as you adjust to your implant. Give it a moment.”
Recovery room? Right, I had gotten my Gossamer today.
The blackness morphed into shapes. My head turned toward the source of the piercing noise, a warning which emanated from the wall panel that displayed my vitals. They showed the classic signs of Gossamer newbie overload. Mom had reined me in before I blew a circuit. Her eyes reflected the anger she must be feeling for leaving me alone in the recovery room of the fancy private med-spa where I had received my implant.
My legs wobbled like a newborn giraffe, which seemed to greatly amuse my little brother Marcus. In the dark room, his chocolate brown skin melded in with the furniture, but his grin and neon green punk band T-shirt practically lit the room. I struggled to remain standing to spite him, but eventually I gave in and plopped down on the cushy velour sofa. Part of me wanted to pummel him, but as a newly minted adult, I had to take the high ground. Besides, I did love him despite his irksome ways. Marcus was the least of my worries.
Dr. Burke, my pediatrician, stood against the dark wall and pointed harshly at the monitor. “Miranda, if your daughter wants to live to see West Point, she’ll have to calm down.” `
When I was five, I called him a walrus, which hadn’t been respectful, but that’s what he looked like. Hey, what did I know about manners back then? This man had treated me roughly six times a year since I was two years old for sprains, strains, and breaks, not to mention stitches and concussions, so I knew my adrenaline-fueled recklessness hadn’t surprised him. Now that my brain had cleared, I wanted to get back into the game, and his opinion would weigh heavy with Mom.
It hadn’t shocked Mom or my younger sister, Simone, either, but they frowned at me deeply, each sitting on a brown pleather chair, arms crossed in tandem. My mother and Simone looked almost like twins, if one twin was thirty years older and had a few more wrinkles than the other. Both were petite in height and stature and wore their hair in short dreadlocks to honor their African-American heritage. Mom left hers a natural salt and pepper, while Simone colored hers reddish-blonde. Despite their similar looks, their personalities were completely different. I used to call Dad tall, dark, and teddy bear for his gentle, non-confrontational nature, which I had always thought odd given his career as an Army pilot. Simone had inherited his tender soul, while I had gotten my mother’s tough as nails and straight to the point personality, although she was a softie with her children. I hoped that worked to my advantage now, although based on her rigid posture, I wasn’t sure. Guilt was my only weapon.
