Spelling and Grammar: How Critical Are They?

Grammar Nazis, Comma Crusaders, Noun Ninjas; we all know one.  But, are they there to help us, or are they there to humiliate us?

Nearly any topic of discussion on social media these days will draw a plethora of comments supporting each side of the argument. In most cases, the argument will devolve from a simple discussion to each side hurling insults. When the usual insults fail to have the intended result, the involved parties will resort to scrutinizing each other's grammar for intellectual superiority.

In other instances, one may see an obvious grammatical error and offer a correction preceded by an asterisk. This, too, is generally poorly received. Whoever made the error in the first place either didn't know it was wrong, knew and didn't care enough to correct it, or did it intentionally to troll for Grammar Nazis.

The question is: does it even matter in the first place? English is one of the most difficult languages to master, and its complex rules and synonyms are the biggest source of angst for most people. Many native English-speakers are functionally illiterate: they can speak, read, and write, but they would have trouble passing a written test on the language.

The purpose of language is to share ideas. If one person speaks or writes something, and another person understands the idea, the language has done its job. Spelling and grammar provide clarity and disambiguation, but the consequences of their misuse are not exactly life and death.

On the other hand, most of what a Grammar Nazi will correct are the most basic Spelling and Grammar rules. They can't stand to see a misplaced apostrophe or a run-on sentence, but it's not often that someone takes the time to correct a dangling participle or a misplaced modifier. We are taught at a young age how to tell the difference between "your" and "you're", but it is one of the most common grammatical errors on the internet.

So, why the crisis? Why can't we just ignore poor grammar? I can't speak for every Grammar Nazi, but I can explain my viewpoint on the subject. I went to high school in the late-nineties (Class of 1999). I have not sat in an English classroom since the end of the first semester of my senior year, a little over eighteen years ago now. I was far from an ideal student then, too. I left a bad enough taste in my English teacher's mouth that she was still holding a grudge six years later when my little brother got to her class.

As I stated above, most of the mistakes commonly corrected by Grammar Nazis are basic spelling and punctuation rules. We learned the difference between "there", "their", and "they're" in elementary school. We knew plurals and possessives long before middle school. We learned that a period ends a sentence, and a comma indicates a pause. These are the things that turn everyone into an English teacher on the internet.

It's because these errors are so basic that they are singled out for correction. They represent the lowest tier of competence in English. And if you got through school without learning the basics of English, what other subjects did you ignore? Do you know what date men first landed on the moon (July 20, 1969)? Who cares, right? These days, it's easier just to buy into a half-assed conspiracy theory that we never went to the moon. Do you remember the chemical composition of salt (NaCl)? Could you figure the area of a seven-inch circle if you had to (38.465 square inches)?

In my text messages and personal Facebook posts and comments, I take certain liberties with correct grammar and punctuation. Sometimes, the character limit on Twitter requires me to get creative to get a point across. But, whenever possible, I try to use the language in the way it was intended to be used.

First Chapters: "The Deseret Diversion"

The Deseret Diversion




A POG Novel

by Tim Williams

Chapter 1

Rain was the last thing I had expected to have to deal with in Lake Havasu City the week before Spring Break. It was the last thing anyone had expected to deal with, from the look of things. A torrential downpour was a rare occurrence there, where rich kids came from hundreds of miles away to spend their parents’ money on booze and weed, and poor kids came to pretend they were rich kids. 

Spring Break didn't officially begin until the following week, but that only stopped college students from crowding the bars and restaurants on that Thursday afternoon. The rest of the party crowd was still present. There were more polo shirts and golf visors than I could count, with sunglasses that cost more than a night in a four star hotel. 

I sat in the cab of my truck, watching the raindrops hit the windshield and combine with the dust, running down the glass in orange streaks. My old, square body Chevy looked ridiculously out of place among the luxury vehicles to the left and right, but it was the only viable option I had at the moment.

Back in January, I had sold my Nissan Frontier and bought the cheapest old Jeep Wrangler I could find. It was a YJ model, built in 1991, which was good, because the roll bar had straight, diagonal support kickers, rather than the ninety-degree bends that later models got to provide mounting points for rear seat shoulder harness seat belts. My first modification had been eliminating the back seat, negating the need for seat belts. 

The Jeep was currently in my driveway, undergoing a rebuild to prepare for the fiftieth annual Easter Jeep Safari in Moab, Utah. My friend Jason and his girlfriend Stephanie were coming out from the Eastern edge of North Carolina for it, so I decided to go all out. Stephanie had bought a WJ Grand Cherokee, and Jason had built it into an overland expedition machine, so I would need something that could keep up. 

Work on the Wrangler had progressed slowly, limited by the time it took me to heal from getting hit by a van in Alabama on Thanksgiving. The last of the bracing had come off of my left shoulder at the end of January, and I had spent the past few weeks regaining my full range of motion. It still hurt to stretch it very far or to put any excessive weight on it, but it was a world of improvement over what my December had been like.

I was on the lookout for a guy by the name of Jimmy Gilligan. According to the photo on file, he looked as dumb as his name sounded. He had a black teardrop tattoo on his cheek, although his record didn't show any jail time served, beyond a night in the drunk tank for a DUI charge in 2003. 

Jimmy was wanted for failure to appear at a paternity lawsuit, but I was there to serve him with the subpoena for another case. I was disappointed to be reduced to tracking down a deadbeat dad, compared to some of my previous assignments, but getting back into the mission rotation required me to take what was offered. My last mission had ended in a clusterfuck that resulted in a lot of unwanted attention for me, not to mention a near-death experience and ten weeks of healing and rehabilitation. I was determined to get this mission done with and get back to doing actual investigative work.

I glanced over at the subpoena papers on the bench seat next to me, on top of the bro magazine I had bought to conceal the envelope. So far in my almost thirty-five years, I had never been served with papers for a court hearing. All I really knew about the process was what I had seen on TV. I took a gummy worm out of the bag on the dashboard and ate it, washing it down with a drink from the water bottle beside me. The absence of cupholders in my truck made resealable bottles a necessity.

I had already been to his stomping grounds in Scottsdale, where a co-worker of his had pointed me toward Lake Havasu City. Jimmy was what happened when parents didn't hold their kids responsible for their own actions. He was “employed” in his dad's tech support business, but they paid him whether he showed up or not. 

In the eyes of his parents, Jimmy Gilligan could do no wrong. They didn't seem to care that their son was the alleged father of two children, or that neither mother was over the age of twenty. At thirty-two, he was only a few years behind me, and I used to feel dirty in my late twenties if I found out that the girl I was talking to was under twenty-one. 

Some might have called it jealousy, my dislike for coddled adults like Jimmy Gilligan. After all, following the Thanksgiving FUBAR, my own family had done an interview on the local news, in which they had called me a monster and essentially disowned me. As far as I was concerned, the feeling was mutual. I hadn't spoken to any of them since then.

My ass was starting to hurt from sitting in the truck so long. The foam in the bench seat was deteriorating, and I could feel the wire structure inside. From the day I bought it in Ohio the previous summer, I had planned to replace the bench with two buckets and a center console, but the Jeep had taken priority.

As the storm began to subside, I got out of the truck and walked across the street to a row of bars and restaurants. His co-workers had told me that Jimmy liked to hang out at one bar in particular, where he considered himself to be some kind of royalty. They hadn't seemed very interested in helping me, under my assumed cover as a college classmate of his from UCLA. When I got pissed and dropped the act, however, they couldn't seem to throw him under the bus fast enough.

The bar lived up to my expectations, in that it was a complete hole. The soles of my boots stuck to an unidentified substance the floor as I walked in. After examining the layout of the place, I took a seat on a stool at the far end of the bar. It afforded me a clear view of the front entrance and the pool tables to my right. 

Above the bar, a dozen flat screen TVs showed various sporting events. February and March were the worst time of year for me sports-wise, as basketball was about the only thing going on. I had a lifelong hatred for basketball. Basketball players were pansies, compared to football players. They would fall on the floor, acting mortally wounded, if they were so much as touched. While I understood the strategic importance of drawing a foul, it just seemed like an underhanded tactic to me. 

Not seeing Jimmy anywhere in the bar, I needed to set myself up to linger for a while. I ordered a plate of nachos and a Rum and Coke from the bartender. She was one of two who were working the bar area, both dressed in men's dress shirts and bowler hats. The shirts were made of a light enough fabric that their bras were clearly visible underneath, as if I needed more proof that this bar specialized in attracting sleazy assholes.

“Anything interesting in your magazine?” the bartender asked me.

She had me dead to rights. I hadn't so much as opened it since I bought it. I hadn't actually read a bro magazine since I left Afghanistan, so I had no answer to her question.

“Probably just the same old shit they always print,” I said. “I'm not exactly in their demographic anymore.”

“So, why do you have it?” she said.

“It's for a friend,” I said. “I'm supposed to meet him here this afternoon, but he's always late as hell.”

“You must be a hell of a good friend,” she said, handing me my drink. “Sitting around here waiting on him all day.”

“And I get to try your nachos,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” she said, suspiciously. “You're not one of those mystery shopper guys, are you?”

“Me?” I said. “No. Look, you would have busted me already. The process doesn't work if you know who the mystery shopper is.”

“Tell that to the last asswipe they sent in here,” she said. “Got a girl fired because she wouldn't give him her number.”

As I was thinking of a witty reply, I glanced toward the front door. It opened to reveal three guys around my age, joking and shoving each other. It was obviously not their first visit to a bar that day. 

They took seats on the stools nearest to the door, waving to get the bartenders’ attention. The one in front of me rolled her eyes and pulled out her order pad. The other one went over to help the new customers.

“Is that your friends?” she asked.

“No, but they look like they might enjoy this magazine,” I said, taking a sip of my drink.

“Well, just pretend you're ordering something complicated,” she said, sliding a menu across the bar to me. “I can't stand those assholes.”

“Maybe they're mystery shoppers,” I said. 

The door opened again, and in walked Jimmy Gilligan. The file had him at five-foot nine, but he barely looked five-foot six. His jeans were ripped, his sandals were just about worn through, and he wore a Guy Harvey tank top over a white wife-beater. I never understood why guys who did well for themselves worked so hard at looking homeless. 

“Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse,” the bartender said.

Rather than sit at the bar, he spun a chair around backwards and straddled it, leaning forward toward the table. From the look of things, he was expecting company. I figured I better do what I needed to do while he was alone. 

“Hold that thought,” I said, taking another sip and sliding the envelope into the menu.

I took her order pad and the menu and went to Jimmy's table. He was playing some sort of Roulette game on his phone and ignored me at first. I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Waiting for friends, or is it just you this afternoon?” I asked, holding the pad as if I were taking his order. 

“They said they were on their way, but fuck 'em,” he said. “They can order when they get here.”

“Would you like to see a menu, sir?” I asked.

“Shit, I don't need to see the menu,” he said. “Much business as I've given this place, there's a burger named after me on the menu.”

I flipped the menu open to the burger selection. There were a few options named for celebrities. Johnny Carson, Larry Fitzgerald, Bill Clinton, and even Drew Carey had burgers named for them. Sure enough, hidden among all of those famous names, there was a Jimmy Gilligan burger. It was a classic double burger with grilled green onions and ranch dressing on it. Had I been there for any other reason, it might have sounded good.

“Well you're obviously not Larry Fitzgerald,” I said. 

“Nope,” he said. “Bring me a Jimmy Gilligan, medium, with fries and a Boston Lager.”

“That's you?” I said, trying to sound awestruck. “Jimmy Gilligan? I love that burger.”

“Accept no substitutes,” he said. 

“Outstanding,” I said. “Then you'll probably recognize this.”

I handed him the envelope and pulled up the camera app on my phone. He opened the envelope and pulled the subpoena out. The puzzled look on his face turned to anger as he realized what he was holding.

“The fuck is this?” he asked.

“You've been served,” I said, snapping a picture of him holding the paperwork. “Congratulations, it's a girl.”

“You son of a bitch,” he said, dropping the papers. “Cara put you up to this?”

“Don't know who that is,” I said, tossing the menu down on the table.

It had been my first experience as a waiter, completely unrehearsed, and I was glad I had never had to do it for a real job. I turned away and took the bartender's order pad back to her. As I was handing her a twenty-dollar bill to cover the drink I had barely touched and the nachos that most likely hadn't even been made yet, I was hit from behind and thrown against the bar. 

Jimmy Gilligan had shoved me and snatched my phone out of my hand. He was running for the door, holding his hat down on his head with one hand while he hauled his embroidered jeans up with the other. I sighed and looked at the bartender.

“Now I gotta chase this motherfucker,” I muttered, pushing off from the bar. 

As I burst out the door, I looked both ways for Gilligan. Naturally, he was running in the opposite direction of where I had parked my truck. My combat boots weren't exactly ideal for running, but they were a hell of a lot better than his flip flops were. Rounding the corner of the sidewalk, he lost the left one when he looked back to see if I was chasing him.

Using the light pole as a slingshot point, I reached down and picked up the flip flop. His run had devolved into a hobbling gait, and I was able to catch up with him easily. As soon as I was close enough, I tackled him into the side of the building. Using his body as a cushion, I rolled out of the tackle and smacked him as hard as I could upside his face with the flip flop. I saw my phone on the ground where he had dropped it, and went to pick it up. 

“Stay the fuck away from me!” he shouted.

After verifying that my phone still worked, I stuck it in my pocket and turned back to him. It took everything I had not to crack up laughing when I saw the imprint the flip flop had left on his face. It was a perfect outline, with squiggles from the tread, and even a circle on his cheekbone where the piece between the toes penetrated the sole. 

“I gotta know,” I said, catching my breath. “What did you plan to do with my phone?”

“Throw it in the fucking lake,” he said, rubbing his cheek and refusing to look me in the eye.

“Did you want an ass-beating that bad?” I said. “What was the point?”

“No phone, no picture, no payment,” he said. “Screw you like you screwed me.”

“It's 2016, tool,” I said. “Apparently, your grasp of technology is as weak as your pull-out game. The picture automatically uploaded to the cloud as soon as I took it. Even if you had succeeded in destroying my phone, all you would've accomplished would be pissing me off.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” he whined.

“Try showing up for your fucking court date, for once,” I said, turning to walk back to my truck.

Deep down, a part of me felt uneasy about turning my back to him, almost certain that he would get up and try something. But there was another part of me that wished he would try something. I kept walking, checking my reflection in every window and car mirror I could see for any sign of trouble.

When I got back to the truck, I sent the picture of Gilligan holding the subpoena to my administrator, Alicia. While I waited for a response, I checked on the shipping status of the rest of the parts I had ordered for the Jeep. One crate had been dropped off that afternoon, and the rest was scheduled for delivery the next day. As soon as I closed the tracking window, my phone rang with Alicia's caller ID.

“How'd you get him to pose with it?” she asked.

“Theatricality and deception are powerful agents,” I said vaguely, grabbing a gummy worm out of the bag and eating it.

“Whatever,” she said. “Good to see you haven't lost a step. I'll try to find you something better next time.”

“Look,” I said. “I know you have to ease me back into the rotation, but serving court documents is bitch boy work.”

“I agree,” she said. “And, unfortunately, it doesn't pay worth a shit. A grand for finding him, and fifty bucks for serving the papers.”

“Bummer,” I said. “I'll tell Nicola to pick up some Ramen noodles on her way home.”

“Very funny,” she said. “We'll be in touch next month.”

“Alright, later,” I said, hanging up.

I ate the last two gummy worms in the bag and tossed it into the passenger side floor as I started the engine and put the transmission in gear. My left hip was aching from the sudden sprint to catch Gilligan earlier. It was going to be a long drive back to Flagstaff.

My Lengthy Absence

Funny how quickly time can slip by when you don't commit to a blog schedule...
I didn't make any posts after having my cat put down, because I knew I would miss him lying on the arm of the recliner as I typed. It's been nearly six months now, and we've actually had to say goodbye to another kitty, MacGyver, in that time. Now we're down to the four little ladies, and they're definitely more manageable than six cats were.

Rest in peace, Little Guy

Losing MacGyver was a shock. Jack had cancer, and we knew we would eventually have to say goodbye. But MacGyver was literally here one day and gone the next. He bugged me for a taste of my lunch on a Saturday, and Sunday he wouldn't eat anything. I called in sick to take him to the vet that Monday, and there was nothing they could do for him. It still bothers me that I didn't notice anything wrong with him in time to help him, but the four we have left are all healthy.

Additionally, in the time since my last post, I completed the rough draft for Holiday at Home, the third book in The POG Series, following the adventures of Marine veteran John Smith. While I do the editing on that one, I have started writing the fourth book in the series, The Deseret Diversion. In the fourth installment, John Smith is about to travel from his home in Flagstaff, Arizona, to Moab, Utah for the Easter Jeep Safari, when his administrator Alicia Englestone asks for his help. A friend of hers from her time in the Air Force has been lured into a polygamist sect, and the sect has relocated to a compound built into a bend in the river in the middle of nowhere. Alicia needs John's help to get her out. The task is further complicated by John's friends, Jason and Stephanie, coming out from North Carolina for the Safari, so a plan is worked out to include them.

In between writing, editing, and busting my knuckles at my day job, I have taken a renewed interest in metal fabrication. I posted an ad on Craigslist offering my services, and a customer contacted me about building a winch bumper for his truck, which is the same make and model as my own. It has taken some long nights in the garage, but I have a bumper ready for his truck. He also wants a rear bumper, which is still in the design phase right now.

Now I Kinda Want One For Myself

On a whim, I uploaded my Sci-Fi manuscript The Ondellus Determination to Kindle Direct Publishing. There was a time when I wanted to be a Sci-Fi author, but I lost the zeal for the project about two-thirds of the way through. I still think the finished story is worth the effort, but I will be sticking to regular fiction in the future unless the book's performance really exceeds my expectations. It was conceived as the first in a three-part series, but it will have to sell a lot of copies for me to write the rest of the series. I will try to market the book however I can, and I plan to sell hand-made tie-in merchandise. There is a tavern game in the book called Sinna Ki, played with throwing knives and numbered tiles, that I would like to see people actually play. I think it would suit a grown man more than Quidditch does.

A Sinna Ki match between Lokewa, the protagonist, and his brother, Treselo:

“Tell me, brother, do you share in the genetic trait of Sinna Ki domination?” Treselo asked as he strapped Tabrod onto a reading cushion in the middle of the lounge.

“In the presence of full gravity, I can hold my own,” I said. “Not so much in its absence.”

“Gravity or not, if we were to play, I believe the odds would favor you,” he said, mixing the numbered tiles with his left hand. They were kept in a black canister on the patrol base, as the lack of actual gravity would allow them to drift away if they were kept in a pile as with the terrestrial rules. “I have not played since we embarked on our journey.”

That nagging feeling that something was amiss returned to me, but I dismissed it, reasoning that he was just thrilled to have someone new to talk to. 

“Are you certain your muscles have rejuvenated sufficiently for the demands of this game?” I asked him.

“I am certain that I am more rejuvenated than my comrade Tabrod is at this point,” he said. “As for the demands of the game, how better to find out than by playing the game? Best two out of three?”

There was no talking him out of it, I could see. I reluctantly accepted his challenge, and we took our places on either side of the pedestal and drew our tiles. I looked at mine, careful not to let him see. 

I had drawn two fours and a one. I had no choice but to give him one of the fours. I held it out in my hand, value-side down. Treselo placed one of his tiles in my hand and removed the one I was holding.

We each looked at the tiles we had received. I could not believe my luck. He had given me a five. All I had to do was hit zeros with the knife throws. 

Treselo frowned and held up his tiles. He had a three and a one, in addition to the four I had given him. He needed to hit two ones or a two and a zero. I showed mine, holding back a grin.

“It appears that you do not need the favor of the odds, young Lokewa,” he said magnanimously. 

“By the rules, you have the first throw,” I said, retrieving the two twin scabbards from beneath the pedestal and handing him one.

He pulled a knife from the scabbard, examined its edge, then took careful aim and threw it. It flew straight, sticking firmly in one of the zero spots. I drew my first knife, reminding myself to be aware of the flatter trajectory in the lack of gravity. I aimed and threw, hitting the same zero spot. Treselo aimed and threw his second knife, just missing the two spot and sticking in a one. 

“Nine,” he said, looking disappointed. “Of course, there is still the possibility of you missing your throw and going over.”

“According to General Tarsk of Soxus, when your only chance of winning depends upon your opponent committing an error, you have already lost,” I said, throwing my knife. 

It stuck in the other zero spot. I had won the first round.

“Mind your pride, brother,” Treselo said. “We still have two rounds to play. I will retrieve the knives.” 

He set off for the wall, noticeably struggling to stand in the simulated gravity of the outer circumference as he plucked the knife blades from the target surface. I placed the tiles back inside the canister and spun it around my hand to randomize the contents. From the corner of my eye, I saw Chief Tombusk enter the lounge. She smiled at me as she strapped onto the cushion beside Tabrod, who was still barely coherent. Treselo returned with the knives and handed two of them to me.

I allowed him to draw his tiles first, then pulled out three for myself. I looked at mine and saw that I had two twos and a three. I selected the three tile to exchange. Treselo held out his hand with a tile in it, which I took as I placed mine in his palm. This time, he had given me a one. I needed five points to win. Aside from the three I had given him, Treselo had also drawn a four and a two, for a total of nine. 

“You throw first, Lokewa,” he said.

I made no effort to disguise my intentions. I aimed and threw for the five spot, just missing it and hitting the three adjacent to it. Treselo chuckled to himself and threw his first knife, hitting the zero on the left side of the board. I took a breath to steady myself, then took very careful aim and threw, sticking the point of my knife blade in a two spot. Treselo threw his remaining knife, hitting the same two spot, for a score of eleven.

“It would appear that you understated your proficiency to give me an overabundance of confidence, young brother,” he said, as he began to make his way back to the board to remove the knives.

--end excerpt--

I'm not usually one to make New Year's Resolutions, but I will resolve to be more consistent with my blog posts; at least once every two weeks. If anyone catches me slipping, please feel free to call me on it. 

Wishing everyone the best in the coming year.

Saying Goodbye to My Little Buddy

My cat Jack crossed the Rainbow Bridge today. He was diagnosed last year with Fibrosarcoma, and he fought it longer than I expected him to. I knew i would eventually have to have him put down, but I didn't know where to draw the line. I figured that when he stopped showing interest in food or ear scratches, that was how I wold know. Unfortunately, he never did either one. The past few weeks were the hardest, seeing what the cancer had taken from him. When he finally got too weak to jump onto the bed, I knew it was time.

I got Jack ten years ago, when he was three and a half months old. I had just returned from Iraq and gotten married to my ex-wife, and we both loved animals. With both of us working full-time, it wouldn't have been fair to get a dog, but a kitten fit right into our lifestyle. When we separated, I kept Jack and she kept our other cat, a calico named Roxy. I soon adopted another friend for Jack, a tortoiseshell named Diane. 

 

Jack got passed around quite a bit, due to my military career, but he was always my buddy again as soon as I got home from wherever I had been. He spent time with my dad, with friends of mine, and with my wife before we got married, but he was always right there when I got back. Diane took her time coming around, but Jack was loyally and faithfully my kitty.

Regardless of how many cat beds there were in the house, Jack's favorite nap spot was always my clothes. No matter whether they were clean or dirty, he loved curling up on my laundry. If I didn't have any laundry out, he would settle for electronic devices.

Jack always gave way more love and affection than he took. Any time I was upset, he would just sit in my lap and purr, and everything would be better. I'm gonna miss his devotion and company. Even though there are five other cats in the house, there will be a Jack-shaped void for some time to come.

Jack was a gentle cat. Although he always had a hiss or a growl ready for the vet, he loved kittens. The real tragedy of having to say goodbye to him is that there are three cats in the house who have known him their whole lives. My heart breaks for them, because I know they'll be looking for him over the next few days.

Godspeed, little buddy. 

First Chapters: "The Ondellus Determination" (Sci-Fi)

The Ondellus Determination

By Tim Williams

Chapter 1

   Calling it “home” would have been a misappropriation of the term. It was simply where I slept when I was out of orbit. As I stepped inside, the message display panel illuminated to alert me to a video message from my mother. I was in no particular mood to deal with her at that moment, so I touched the blinking 'IGNORE' icon and the panel reverted to showing a mirror image of the front room.

    I examined my face in the mirror image. My age was beginning to show in the lines on my forehead and around my eyes. I pulled off my identification amulet and ran my thumb over the inscription: Lokewa, Son of Krexel The Pathfinder. My father's contribution to our people had earned his name a place in our history. I could only hope to do the same someday.

    Hitting the release buttons on my boot retention straps, I stepped out of them and crossed the room, setting into my reading chair. I picked up the tablet from the end table and found where I had left off previously.

    My right arm was throbbing, and I pulled back the sleeve of my uniform to examine the swollen, irritated spot where the proton bolt had hit me during the training exercise. The medics had told me that the irritation would fade throughout the evening, and my arm would be good as new by the following morning. I counted myself lucky to have been conscious to learn from the experience. Had it been a headshot, I likely wouldn't even have woken up yet.

    Realism was the most important aspect of our training. The proton bolts we fired in training exercises were calibrated to inflict massive temporary discomfort, without actually causing any damage. In my youth, I had spent several unconscious nights in the training center infirmary due to training injuries.

    The training center was located just offworld, between the upper atmosphere and Kiola, the nearest of our six natural satellites. Every training exercise was a nine-day ordeal. I had the following day to catch up with any issues that may have arisen in my absence, then I was due back at my unit the day after.

    I was a Commander in the Orbital Defense Force, which kept our territory clear of any unwelcome visitors. Our planet, Meron Prime, had become a hotbed of illegal activity since our ancestors developed faster-than-light travel countless generations ago. Other galactic travellers had picked up the trail our magnetic plasma engines left and traced them back to us. We had colonized all of our satellites long ago, and the outlying colonies began to come under attack from pirates; merchants trying to expand their profit margins by stealing from us along their trade routes.

    Not all galactic travellers were hostile, and it was my job to be able to recognize the ones we welcomed. Our entire culture had benefitted greatly from the commerce our allies have brought, so closing our space territory was not an option.

    We patrolled the spaces between the orbits of the satellites. Seniority on the force determined the orbit to which we were assigned, with the rookies getting the first orbit, between Kiola and Biso. The next orbit beyond that was considered to be shared by Janen and Tohem, which circled Meron Prime perpendicular to each other, although Tohem was slightly further out. I was assigned to the Third Orbit, between Janen-Tohem and Envola. Past Envola orbited our smallest satellite, Yuchek.

    I was training for the possibility of an assignment upgrade and promotion to the Envola-Yuchek Fourth Orbit, which would only leave me one step from the deep-space assignment. Every Orbital Defense Force member wanted the deep-space orbit, because it was the first line of defense against the pirates.

    Because Yuchek orbited the furthest from Meron Prime, it was the colony of choice for the citizens who valued their privacy, mostly because they were the wealthiest. Due to its mass, the force of gravity on Yuchek was less than one-tenth of the gravity on Meron Prime, making it an attractive option also for older Meronians who had trouble getting around. The other satellites averaged somewhere around half of the gravity of the planet itself.

    I had chosen not to permanently relocate to a colony. I maintained my residence on Meron Prime, in the hub city of Khur. A hub city was any city that had an Orbital Velocity Spire, which was a tower that used linear accelerators to propel a craft out of the atmosphere. There were eighteen hub cities on the planet. Each hub city appointed a representative to the Ruling Council. The six largest cities without a Spire each appointed a representative to serve as an alternate on the Ruling Council, should a member become incapacitated. The Chancellor served as the tiebreaker when necessary.

    I had team members who lived in one of the Biso colonies, and they claimed to enjoy it. I always felt more at ease in the full-scale gravity of the main planet. Those who were assigned to the Deep Space patrol were required to live on Meron Prime, as the Orbital Velocity Spire could be set to reach the outer orbit faster than conventional travel from any of the other satellites.

    I turned my attention to the tablet and resumed reading. It was a combat manual written by Tarsk of Soxus, founder of The Meron Prime Orbital Defense Force. Tarsk of Soxus was a famous General in the Terrestrial Army and hero of the Battle for Janen, which was fought when I was very young to liberate the colonies from the self-imposed rule of Parsag the Mercenary King from the Banu System. Parsag's mercenaries had dug in for a long fight, but General Tarsk commandeered a mining tunnel digger and excavated the ground beneath their main position. He sent a single fusion bomb down the tunnel and detonated it, blowing pieces of the mercenary emplacement into space. There were unconfirmed reports of mercenary bodies landing on Envola, which was aligned with Janen at the moment of detonation. After the battle, General Tarsk proposed the establishment of the Orbital Defense Force to prevent any future aggressors from gaining a foothold in our system. Throughout the manual, General Tarsk advocated for using brute force to deal with hired thugs, to provide them with the chance to die by the same sword by which they claimed to live.

First Chapters: "Holiday at Home"

Holiday at Home

A POG Novel

by Tim Williams

Chapter 1

The Arizona sun was high in the afternoon sky, glinting off of every smooth surface in sight. From my seat on the balcony of the second floor sports bar, I had a good view of the courtyard below. By all appearances, it was supposed to look like I was watching a football game. Unfortunately, my Cardinals weren't playing until the Sunday Night game, for the second week in a row. I watched the other games that were on, but they were all looking pretty one-sided. The final NASCAR race of the season was on, but I never had the attention span for watching a whole race.

As my waitress left after bringing me another soda, I scanned the courtyard again. There was nothing out of the ordinary to see. Not yet, anyway. I pulled out my phone and took another look at the image sent to me by my employer, Reflex Engineering, Incorporated.

The contact I was looking for was a man named Edgar Winters. Sixty-three years old, he was tall, but on the portly side. What hair remained on his scalp was gray and unkempt, usually gathered into a half-assed ponytail. For my purposes, though, his hair was irrelevant. My instructions specified that he would be wearing a beige suit with a red Hawaiian shirt and a tan fedora.

As the Chargers celebrated a touchdown, I caught my first glimpse of Winters entering the courtyard. He was carrying a briefcase in his right hand, which was the signal that he believed he was being followed. Either that, or he hadn't paid attention to the instructions he had been given, and carried the briefcase in whichever hand he damn well pleased.

I hit ‘SEND’ on the phone number I had pulled up on speed dial when I arrived at the bar. Alicia Englestone, my administrator, answered on the first ring. I barely had time to get my Bluetooth headset in my ear.

“What's your status?” she asked.

“Visual contact only,” I said. “He's signaling a tail.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“The briefcase is in his right hand,” I said. “You went over the signals with him, right?”

“Not my first mission, John,” she said.

“Not mine, either,” I reminded her.

It was actually more like my fourth or fifth, depending on whether my “audition” in North Carolina counted. Following that, I had eliminated a drug lab in Northern Ohio, under the alias of Jerrod Maloney, which was my first actual undercover mission for Reflex Engineering, Incorporated. In the weeks since then, I had been chosen to escort a senator's wife from D.C. to Houston, as she insisted on driving. I also carried a computer hard drive from Santa Fe to Portland, Oregon, under the assumed identity of a used car salesman.

There were no fake names this time, just an old man who tried to blackmail his way into a more comfortable retirement, and me. I was only chosen because I lived in Flagstaff, reasonably close to Phoenix. I was there to collect the leverage he was using to try to extort his old employer, and return it as a disinterested third party. His supposed “tail” threw a wildcard into the process.

Proximal Technology, the company Winters was trying to cheat, had given Reflex Engineering the weekend to try to resolve the situation peacefully. If we were unable to deliver, however, they assured us that they had an effective solution to insider espionage and extortion.

As per the plan, Winters crossed the courtyard and sat down on a bench, directly beneath the balcony where I sat. Either he had drank too much coffee that morning, or he really was convinced that there was someone after him. I watched him sit there, fidgeting with the combination locks on the briefcase and checking his watch.

“Call Proximal,” I said to Alicia. “Make sure they haven't changed their minds.”

“Already on it,” she said. “Wait one.”

I kept an eye on Winters, trying to find the tail he was concerned about. Nobody had followed him into the courtyard, but doing so would have been a good indication of an amateur. As confined of an area as the courtyard was, a simple circle path around it would expose a tail.

“Proximal says they're clear,” Alicia said. “They're honoring the deal until midnight.”

“I don't see anyone following him,” I said, scanning the area again. “But, it might not necessarily be Proximal. Do they have any competitors who would be interested in what he's carrying?”

“I'll have to work on that,” she said. “Let me call you back.”

The call clicked out, and I looked down at Winters again. He seemed to be growing agitated, judging by his body language. He probably thought this would be a simple hand-off process. As long as I couldn't see anyone following him, I didn't see the harm in bringing him upstairs to where I was. I just had to figure out how to do it.

The floor beneath the sports bar was a menswear store, which I figured would be good enough for what I had in mind. I looked up the phone number for the store and dialed it. A cheerful-sounding man answered it on the second ring.

“DeGrazio’s Fine Clothing, this is Matthew, how can I help you?” the man said.

“Yeah, hey, I'm looking for a guy named Edgar Winters,” I said, trying to sound distracted.

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't recognize that name,” Matthew said. “I think you have the wrong number.”

“No, no, hear me out,” I said. “He told me he was gonna be over that way, in case I needed anything from him, and now I do. Can you just look around the store for me, and maybe right outside?”

“I'm not sure if I'm allowed to do that, sir,” he said. “This phone isn't for public use.”

“Matthew, you'll be doing me such a big favor, I can't even describe it,” I said.

“OK, look,” he said. “Tell me what he looks like, and I'll take a quick look around for him.”

“Alright, thank you, Matthew,” I said, looking at Winters. “Just picture Santa Claus without the beard.”

“In a beige suit that's older than I am?” he said. “I think it's your lucky day.”

“That's gotta be him,” I said, watching a very frail-looking younger guy walk out to the bench and hand the phone to Winters, gesturing complete confusion.

Matthew looked like he went out of his way to look sickly. He was wearing a cardigan over a button-down shirt, when I was doing my best not to sweat through my T-shirt. He had his dark hair shellacked against his skull, except for the upswept bangs at the front. My truck's exhaust pipe was larger than his legs looked in the skinny jeans he was wearing.

“H-Hello?” Winters said, cautiously.

“Where's the tail?” I asked, scanning the windows of the buildings ringing the courtyard.

“The, the tail?” he stammered.

“You walked into the courtyard, holding the briefcase in your right hand,” I said. “That's the signal for someone following you.”

“Oh, right, right,” he said. “I couldn't be certain, but a guy got into a minivan behind my taxi at the hotel, and I think he got out behind me here.”

“Description,” I said. “I need to know what he looks like.”

“Well, this guy, he had a shaved head,” he said. “Not bald, you know, but just buzz-cut all over.”

“What about his clothes?” I asked. “What was he wearing?”

“Um, just regular clothes, I think,” he said. “Nothing fancy; slacks and a polo shirt, real plain jacket.”

“Light colors, or dark?” I asked.

“Dark, I think,” he said.

“Was he carrying anything? Briefcase, backpack, duffel bag?” I asked, taking another look around.

A guy across the courtyard was a possible match. Buzz-cut hair, sunglasses, dark clothes, standing completely alone in a coffee shop. He clutched a messenger bag in his left hand, and he was wearing leather driving gloves. He looked exactly like my employer had taught me not to look. He looked like a hitman in the movies.

“I think he had one of those, my son calls it a, a man purse?” he said, almost as if he was ashamed for not knowing the specific name for it.

“Never mind,” I said. “I see him. I need to confirm that it's you that he's after. Most likely is, but I need to be certain.”

“How are you gonna do that?” Winters asked.

“You are,” I said. “You're gonna get up, and walk toward the gift shop straight in front of you, then stop short and turn left and go until you get close to the bathrooms, then turn left again and go into the clothing store where you got this phone from. Understand?”

“What good is that gonna do?” he asked, skeptically.

“Two-fold,” I said. “It'll tell me if he's really watching you, and it'll tell him that he's been made.”

“You're not supposed to do anything to endanger me,” he said. “This sounds pretty dangerous, to me.”

“You endangered yourself when you tried to blackmail Proximal,” I said. “I'm just telling you to go for a walk. And for your own good, don't act like you know you're being watched.”

“OK,” he said. “What do I do with this phone?”

“Give it back to that stick figure that handed it to you,” I said, hanging up.

Keeping my phone up to my ear in case Buzz-cut was watching me, I walked over to the other side of the bar and pretended to bullshit with another guy. In reality, I was asking to borrow the ketchup from his table.

Through the mirror above the bar, I could see Winters stand up and hand the phone back to Matthew. He stretched his arms, then picked up the briefcase in his left hand and started walking. Buzz-cut subtly shifted his position to keep Winters in his line of sight. It wasn't until Winters made his first abrupt left turn that he could tell something was up. After Winters turned left at the bathrooms and headed into the clothing store, Buzz-cut dropped his coffee in the trash can and started walking briskly toward the clothing store. Then I saw him reach inside his jacket, toward his armpit.

Shit.

I threw a ten-dollar bill onto the bar, next to the cash register and headed for the stairs. Coming out of the staircase, I rounded the corner into DeGrazio’s just in time to see Matthew duck behind the counter as Buzz-cut pulled his pistol out of its holster. He held it close to his chest, muzzle pointed up, looking for Edgar Winters among the rows of shelves. I saw Winters first, cowering in the back corner. Taking off at a full sprint, I tackled Buzz-cut into a necktie rack. The dowels splintered as his upper body– and mine, with it– crashed through the rack.

I was the first one to try to get up, pushing off of his torso and driving my knee into his kidney. After grabbing the pistol out of his hand and smashing him in the back of the head with it, I picked up the closest necktie and bound his hands behind his back with it. Checking the safety on the pistol, I stuck it in the back of my waistband and rolled him over. The broken wood had done a number on his face, and his nose appeared to be beside its assigned location.

“Alright, asshole, you know where this is going,” I said, grabbing both sides of his collar. “Just go ahead and tell me who sent you.”

“Kiss my ass,” he said, trying to spit blood at me, but neglecting to account for gravity. He winced as it landed back in his eye.

I picked up a length of broken dowel and shifted my position to where I could hold it against his crotch.

“Done being a tough guy yet?” I asked, applying a little bit of pressure.

The cops were most likely on their way. I was running out of time.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you're serious!” he said, panicking.

“Do you really deal with that many guys in this life who are just fucking around?” I asked, doubling the pressure on the dowel.

“Ascendant!” he said. “Ascendant Scientific Research. In Rialto. Winters had contacted them to sell the project he stole from Proximal Technology, in the event that they wouldn't pay up. They contracted me to obtain it for a quarter of what he wanted to sell it for.”

“I hope you got paid up front,” I said, dropping the dowel as I heard the police approaching. “And for your sake, I hope you're the best muscle they could hire. I'm sure they don't appreciate incompetence.”

I stood up and stepped back as the cops entered the store. They weren't exactly gentle as they searched me, but I didn't expect them to be. The back of my right hand had been cut by the broken wood in the scuffle, but that was the worst I had suffered.

“Is this your gun?” the officer performing the search asked.

“It's his,” I said, nodding toward Buzz-cut. “I disarmed him while he was trying to kill the fat guy.”

Winters stood by the cash register, next to Matthew, who was clutching Winters’ beige blazer around his shoulders. The police asked each of them a few questions, then released them. Winters left the store and returned to the bench outside. After relaying information back and forth over their radios, the police finally let me go.

“Thank you,” Winters said, standing up as I left the store.

“Don't thank me,” I said. “Just give me what that asshole was ready to kill you over.”

“Of course,” he said, reaching inside his floral-print shirt and pulling out what appeared to be a shoelace tied around his neck with a small toy car tied onto it.

He handed me the whole thing. The toy car was a thumb drive, which I pulled off of the shoelace and put in my pocket.

“Ordinarily, I would try to think of some words of wisdom to tell you,” I said. “Shit, even a good pun would work right now, but I'm trying to wrap this shit up and get home in time for the Cardinals to whoop Cincinnati’s ass. So, how about, you just quit trying to break the damn law, OK?”

Without waiting for a response, I headed for the parking lot to get into my truck. As soon as I was in the parking lot, my phone rang, showing Alicia's number.

“Yeah,” I said.

“So, we came up empty,” she said. “No paper trail points to anyone who might have a use for the information he stole.”

“Ascendant,” I said. “Ascendant Scientific Research. They sent the hitman. He's in custody; I have the thumb drive. Just tell me where to take it. Kickoff’s in two hours.”

“Did Winters tell you that?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “The hitman did. You'd be surprised what a man will tell you when you have a wooden stake an inch from his genetic future.”

“I'll keep that in mind, in case I ever need any information out of you,” she said. “You're meeting the guy from Proximal at the In N’ Out in Deer Valley. Order three Double Doubles, Protein-Style, to-go, under the name ‘Galahad.’ Their guy will be waiting.”

“You just love to fuck with me, don't you?” I said. “Do you know how much three Double Doubles cost?”

“You'll get reimbursed,” she said, sighing.

“Protein-Style,” I scoffed, getting in my truck and starting the engine. “What kind of hippie bullshit is that, anyway?”