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| PATHFINDER I is now available
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(cover art by Christopher Hershberger)
PATHFINDER PREFACE to the 1st Volume What does one call the author’s notes on a work like Pathfinder? A “Preface?” An “Introduction?” A “Foreword?” Given the nature of the format and the project, let’s opt for “Warning Label.” This slender volume is not a not a complete novelette or novella in itself but the first part of a longer, work-in-progress. Pathfinder had its genesis at the beginning of the ‘90s and enjoyed disproportionate success on the convention circuit at a number of my public readings. It was set aside when commitments for other books and series for other publishers took priority. Then Yard Dog Press approached me about a separate, music-related project. I counter-offered (counter-punched?) with a proposal for the Pathfinder Project. They were intrigued. The nice thing about some of the smaller presses is that they’re not afraid to roll the dice upon occasion. That and they’re more frequently prone to be certifiable. I am not a fast writer. Career, family, and primary commitments have regulated my output to approximately one novel every two years for the past decade. The only way to bring closure to this seventeen-year literary pregnancy was to commit to Pathfinder as an Official Work-in-Progress. So, thanks to Yard Dog and the chapbook format, I have the opportunity to not only continue the story but present it in a manner more in keeping with its humble beginnings: a succession of small rooms with audience feedback before the next presentation. Granted, serialized storytelling may not sit well with those who have come to expect instant gratification in today’s media age, but it does give the reader a chance to kibitz while the story is still unfolding. And it beats waiting around another seventeen years. So, here’s how it works. This is part one of a multi-part saga. Part 2 will follow within the year—sooner depending on the response and on my other contractual commitments. It is a work-in-progress and while I do know where it is going and the major plot points and how it will end, I write organically and elements of the story tend to develop as they will. There are no plans to publish the finished work as a single volume. I’m not saying that it would never happen but this is a unique project and we are not approaching it as a novel in multi-part form. Make of that what you will. If this is not enough under the “Reader Beware” column, a couple of additional caveats. If you like your science fiction and fantasy formulaic and comfortable, this is not for you. If you are a hardcore fan of my other books, this may not be for you. Rather than enumerate any other reasons why this may not be for you, let me just say that all writing is experimental: we go into the lab and attempt to create life on the page. But sometimes we put away the manuals and the approved chemicals and compounds and begin meddling where we’re told not to. Interesting discoveries come out of experimentation. But all too often things can go terribly, horribly wrong, as well. You’ve been warned. There’s the exit. If you feel like taking a chance, join me in the lab. Don’t forget to put on your safety goggles and lab coat. And please remain behind the leaded glass and blast shield at all times…
A Preview of the Opening Pages of PATHFINDER I
ONE
The Angel abides. Hunkered down among the rocks to evade the wind and the eyes of evil men, he waits patiently while darkness gathers. His mind is not on the ache of cramping muscles or the chill of waterlogged boots. Rather, he considers the snow that rims the longbow across his knees and worries that the bowstring has become too wet. Carefully, he checks the draw and is satisfied that it will still put a steel‑barbed shaft through a man at sixty yards. There is nothing to do but wait. And pray that God will grant him quick, easy kills. Fifty feet below, the cabin squats near the tumbledown outcropping of rock like a demonic toad. Twin, lamp lit windows glow in the gathering gloom like unholy eyes and the Angel follows their gaze with his own, measuring the path the quarry will take. Soon. It will be soon, now. Before he died, Phillips had given him the hour. At the question, the answer had risen from the muddy depths of the Quartermaster's coiled mind. Then, even as the man was still contemplating how he might lie his way out of this unexpected encounter, the Angel had moved the combat knife, cutting off the deceit before it could escape his stuttering lips. Phillips lived another forty seconds—long enough to feel a finger dip into the red inkwell of his throat, long enough to see the one-word sermon the Angel was writing on the dirty cabin wall... He can only imagine what Phillips sees now. He faces God’s judgment upon his immortal soul and God is very far away from here. The Angel can only render judgment upon the flesh. ۞ Twelve hundred miles to the northwest a woman rises from the water with an expression of astonishment and the courier feels a flash of guilt for not calling out sooner. For not being able to avert his eyes even now. The sight of a woman—albeit an unclothed one—should not affect him so, he thinks. He wonders if it is the setting that moves him and not the woman, herself. After days of riding through landscapes of blast and blight, this newfound vision of green pines, a snow dappled meadow and a clearwater lake seems unworldly. Otherworldly. As if it belongs to the world that existed before the Sowers came amongst them—Sowers turned Reapers as the mushrooms they planted turned the skies inside-out. No… It is the woman after all, he decides. Standing knee-deep in the icy water, with one arm barely shielding generous breasts and the other hand forming a protective gesture over the shadowy delta where thighs and belly merge, she is a juxtaposition of maidenly virtue and rampant sexuality. Too many years under the Rockies with the pale-skinned survivors of NORAD have cheated him of familiarity with sun-darkened flesh. The deep bronze of her skin arouses him more than the perfect symmetry of her body. She trembles slightly and his momentary thrall is broken. “I'm from New Washington,” he explains. “My name is Miller. Burke sent me.” Reassured, she smiles. Lowers her arms to her sides. Wades toward him as the sun sets behind her: a burnished Venus, emergent from the winedark placenta of a dying world. ۞ They come now. Alternately laughing and shushing each other, they stagger into the clearing. Five men walk unsteadily from the whiskey in their bellies, two others from the bodies slung over their shoulders. One of them looks about as they approach the cabin door. Looks up at the outcropping of rock where the Angel sits in judgment, the brown of his bow and the white of his snow parka blending him against the backdrop of snow spattered rocks. Looking up, the man does not see where snowshoe tracks have been blurred by the methodical brushstrokes of a tree branch. Looking down again, he does not see the Angel rise and lift the great, dark hunting bow. The door opens on reluctant hinges and the first two men are inside the cabin before there is a shout. The Angel needs not touch their minds to know their consternation. The scene has not changed since he closed the door a scarce hour before—Phillips sprawled in the baptism of his own blood and the single word above him, scrawled across the far wall in red, visceral letters: REPENT “Thou fool,” murmurs the Angel, drawing the arrow's fletching back to his pale cheek. “This night thy soul shall be required of thee.” ۞ All modesty seems to have fled with the mention of Burke's name. Miller wonders if her maidenly pose was just that: a role to be played and discarded at whim. Now she is businesslike in tone and demeanor, her nudity the only casual gesture in their exchange. She requests the briefing while finishing her evening bath. A strange time to bathe, he thinks. But the thought slides quickly from his mind as if reshuffled by some mental slight-of-hand. Miller has spent months training with the surviving couriers for this assignment: learning how to ride, how to camp—more specifically, how to return to the Outside. Over the past seven years all of the NORAD survivors have become hothouse flowers, living in sunless bunkers of concrete, steel, and stone, eating canned, powdered, and freeze-dried food, drinking water endlessly recycled, filtered, distilled, and reverse-osmosified, and breathing air that was scrubbed, scoured, strained, and filtered down to the viral level. These past two weeks in the badlands have had a profound impact on Miller’s immune system and, more than warmth, more than safety, more than relief from the chafing and the saddle-sores, he longs for toilet paper and flushable plumbing. But Burke is counting on him. And, by extension, all of mankind is counting on him—if Burke is to be the architect of the new world order. A new world order with opportunities for those willing to buffer his return to the surface, to the outside. An outpost of his own. Soon to be a town. And then a city. Play his cards right and he could be a governor. A senator. Whichever would be more important in the re-expansion of the American hegemony. He draws a folder from a waterproof pouch. “It's all in here,” he says, still imagining the privileges of a territorial rep for New Washington. The nine-by-twelve inch envelope is sealed and marked “For Eyes Only.” As if electronic reproduction was an option any more. “How much of it do you know?” she asks. And touches him subtly. Twenty feet away, he does not notice the inquiring caress. “Not much,” he answers truthfully. “It sounds like another Path Hunt. Burke says that you're his best.” “I am.” There is no overt pride in her voice, only the acknowledgement of a fact. “How many this time?” “One. I know that much.” He tries not to stare as she stands again to wring out her raven black hair. He fails. “Only one?” She combs her fingers through her hair and wades toward the lake shore. “Must be dangerous.” Miller nods in agreement. Though he knows nothing of the file's contents, there is a feeling of danger that accompanies her words. A feeling that progresses toward hunger. ۞ The men crowd the doorsill and the two bearing additional burdens drop them unceremoniously in the snow. One lands with a soft cry. Reaching up to massage his aching neck, a man is surprised to find an opening in his flesh. The arrow from the Angel’s bow has passed clean through and now his racing heart pumps hot blood past his frost-numbed fingers. A second surprise follows: the white ground is rearing up to throw itself in his face. He lies there, contemplating whiteness, the red periphery of his vision turning to black. A second man turns to look where the first had stood only a moment before. He is trying to understand his companion's sudden departure but there is another distraction: the trees have leapt into a mad, whirligig dance, circling like dark children in a frenzied game. Ashes, he thinks as his vision turns grey, ashes... All fall down...
For the rest, order your copy from Yard Dog Press...
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Simmons