Diverse readers give Apocalypse du Jour five stars. It has chases, psychology, soldiers, weapons, wedgies, Godzillas, blueberry blintzes, hacking, revenge, riots, rescues, and one near-
catastrophic hot flash. Then, in Chapter Two ... Actually, he spreads that stuff out. Four social
outcasts collaborate on research, file a patent, publish, and disband. Three months later, when the
story begins, every powerful country and corporation races to kidnap or kill them. As one
frustrated mercenary complains, “We are number six in line for this kidnapping.” The outcasts
run for their lives while trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Eventually they realize
they invented [redacted]. Their patent is worth [redacted]. Their tech revolution obsoletes
[redacted]. So begins global economic collapse, political power struggles, and chaotic transition
to a post-scarcity, human-capital economy. Money and power will atrophy, but rich and powerful
oligarchs would rather destroy the world than lose control. That leads to
Deus Ex Effing Machina, now in its fourth draft. The outcasts try to stop nuclear catastrophe while tracking
down a phantom kibitzing AI.
Excerpts from Apocalypse du Jour:
But, again, adrenaline helped. In full sprint Dalton lifted his suitcase in front of him,
slammed it down on the razor wire, flattening it to the wall and, still holding onto the suitcase,
vaulted over it. He stuck the landing with a half twist, facing back at the wall and, completing the
twist, pulled his suitcase free of the wire to continue his sprint.
The Swiss, French, and American judges gave him tens. The Romanian judge docked him
two tenths because his toes weren’t pointed during the vault.
God, I hope someone saw that, he thought.
Someone did.
__________________________________________________________________________
Shirley kept the bike in first gear for almost the entire diversion. Her rpm gauge hovered near
the red line. Her motor sang, it seemed to her, with pure, unrestrained joy. To everyone else the
motor shrieked basso profundo, like a bull elephant with his balls on fire.
She screamed into the square at the western end of the Academia bridge and did a couple of
three-sixties to get everyone’s attention. The three-sixties were superfluous. Everyone was
already staring at her, pointing, photographing, or running in her direction.
She headed north, then east, toward the Rialto bridge.
There’s a rhythm to Venice’s layout. A few narrow alleys. Then a piazza with a few dozen
people sitting at tables in front of cafes or trattorias or gelato shops. Then more alleys. Then
another piazza. Not quite tritely picturesque, but close. It might almost get monotonous. But not
for a screaming banshee, the fastest thing ever to traverse Venice. For Shirley it was like being
the ball in a pinball game, while trying desperately not to score any points by hitting anything.
She was constantly dodging things: some stationary, some running and screaming.
She overshot the Rialto bridge at first, a few alleys too far north. She plowed through an
open-air fish market.
Looks like Italians eat lots of squid and octopus. That’s too adventurous for
me. But the salmon looks excellent.
The only time she went to second gear was as she raced down the long, straight approach
from the fish market to the north end of the Rialto bridge. With her rpms still redlining, everyone
in Venice could hear her. The people on the walkways had plenty of time to recover from shock
and move out of her way. She had a clear shot up the bridge’s stroller ramp. It would be bumpy
but manageable for an off-road bike.
There are some things, she thought as she accelerated toward the bridge, that you simply
won’t get a second chance at. If I miss this opportunity, Daddy will never forgive me.
The Rialto bridge is a long, gently curved arch. Long and gentle, that is, if you’re walking. If you’re riding a
redlined, screaming demon, it’s short and steep on the near side.
The far side didn’t matter.
Shirley went airborne from the top of the bridge, looked level at shocked faces in fourth floor
windows as she flew past, and made it halfway to plaza Campo Bortolomio before landing. Her
tires squealed on the flagstones as she braked nearly to a stop in the plaza, and raced the motor
for two three-sixties, while looking around at the hundreds of people taking video of her.
For you Daddy.
Then she roared out of the square en route to Biennial Park.
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The pilot and co-pilot of the Strike helicopter were continuously double-checking navigation
charts for landmarks and obstacles such as radio towers and power lines. Night flight carries a
high workload ...
The co-pilot said, “Do you hear something?”
Like an eagle stalking a butterfly, the B-1B Lancer came from behind at low speed. Low
speed for a B-1, that is. Twice the speed of the Strike helicopter, which could fit in the Lancer’s
glove compartment. When he was a mere fifty feet above Strike, close enough to say “Boo”, the
B-1 pilot slammed on his afterburners, all four of them ...
The Strike team’s eyes were accustomed to darkness when the world lit up fiery,
incandescent, blistering hot blue.
“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!! IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS??!!”
“FOUR GODDAMNED AFTERBURNERS!! YEAH, THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK IT
IS!! I’M STARING INTO FOUR GODDAMNED AFTERBURNERS!!”
Even inside the helicopter, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, the roar was beyond sound.
It was a continuous shock wave, a continuous explosion, shaking every bone in their bodies like
a paint shaker, trying to turn them into jello and their helicopter into a loose collection of parts.
“YA THINK THEY KNOW WE’RE HERE??!!”