Aquasynthesis
Splashdown Vol. 1
With stories by
Fred Warren, Caprice Hokstad, P. A. Baines,
Adam Graham, R. L. Copple, Travis Perry, Mike Lynch,
Keven Newsome, Kat Heckenbach, Ryan Grabow,
Grace Bridges and Walt Staples
Copyright Splashdown Books 2011
Cover Art by DeAnna Newsome, https://newsomecreative.net
All rights reserved
Edited by Grace Bridges
Narrated by Walt Staples
Editor’s Assistants:
Diane M. Graham, Kat Heckenbach, Robynn Tolbert, Travis Perry
Narrator’s Assistant:
Keven Newsome
Published by Splashdown Books, New Zealand
https://www.splashdownbooks.com
aqua (n)—water, used in compound names, or substances in water.
synthesis (n)—a joining of elements into a unified entity.
aquasynthesis (n)—a combining of worlds within a pool of water; an anthology of stories from Splashdown authors.
Contents
Introduction—Grace Bridges
Narrator—Walt Staples—between each story
Facing the Cave—R. L. Copple
Dude—Kat Heckenbach
Old Saint Nick—Travis Perry
Bob—P. A. Baines
When The Game Became Too Real—Ryan Grabow
Second Site—Grace Bridges
Between the Pages—Kat Heckenbach
Fettered Soul—Caprice Hokstad
The Kissing Part—Fred Warren
The Artist—Kat Heckenbach
A Stretch of Time—Grace Bridges
One Smile at a Time—Fred Warren
Summer Snaps—Keven Newsome
Faith’s Fire—R. L. Copple
The Unjust Judge—Adam Graham
Dry Places—Travis Perry
The Assistant—Keven Newsome
Ears—P. A. Baines
Lily’s Tale—Grace Bridges
Gravity—Travis Perry
The Field Trip—P. A. Baines
Your Average Ordinary Alien—Adam Graham
Weapons of War—R. L. Copple
A Small Sacrifice—Mike Lynch
Closer to Home—Keven Newsome
Author Information
Introduction—Grace Bridges
Do you remember diving into the water as a child?
You leap from your perch, a bit scared of the wet world waiting below. The exhilaration of flight. The rush of air. The tingly anticipation of a good soaking.
Then, the splashdown.
You hit the surface. It surprises you, even though you knew it was coming, even though you’ve done this a hundred times before.
In a second the cool wetness submerges you. You are immersed in the embrace of an alien world. Strange noises fill your ears. You cannot breathe. Peering through the murk, you glimpse a fish, a waterweed, a sandy seafloor, riverbed, or pool tiling. Slanting sunbeams play through the ripples.
You are refreshed and revitalised. Your body propels you back to the world of air and light. You burst out of the water and yell just for the fun of it.
Change of scene, from the familiar to the fantastic. You are an astronaut inside a tiny lifepod. The journey has been long, but finally you are arriving on a new planet. Consider what lies ahead as you approach splashdown time. It’s been lonely out there, and you eagerly anticipate meeting other beings again. Feeling your toes sink into dirt, seeing buildings kiss the sky, tasting food that isn’t just mush. Even if those beings, that dirt, those buildings and those foods are like nothing you’ve ever known before.
You have come to a new world. This runs through your head as your capsule hits the alien ocean. Water bubbles up around the window. Gravity sucks you down and down and down. It reminds you of that other picture, jumping from the wharf in childhood—this plunge into the wet, this foreign underwater world. For a moment you wonder if this sea has the same flotation properties as the salty brine of your home.
Then the downwards movement eases and you sense you are ascending. How far down did you go? The gases inside your lifepod now rush you up towards the new atmosphere. What will you find in this new world?
It is with these thoughts of water and discovery that we present Aquasynthesis for your enjoyment. Why Aquasynthesis, and why the H2O on the cover with its composite parts? Because Splashdown is all about water and all about teamwork. My heartfelt thanks to all the contributors, whether authors, editors, assistants or designers. It is your synthesis that has made this project possible.
Splashdown Books promotes an international team of Christian writers of speculative fiction, their short works synthesised here in a unified story structure. I decided to let each author keep their native spelling, so don’t be surprised if you read both American and British variants. These are the things that give our synthesis its flavour, along with the mix of humour and impact, and about every speculative genre you can think of.
And now, dear reader, it is your turn to synthesise with us…and let Walt introduce you to Gizile and Tok, who will guide you from the first page to the last. Dive in with us!
Grace Bridges
Auckland, New Zealand
August 1, 2011
~}~~~{~
***
Gizile shivered as she followed the tall, sour-faced man. Raw winter wind blew across the beach and cut through the cloak she clutched about her.
“It’s cold,” she said. A grunt was her only answer.
She looked at the rolling waves and watched them crawl toward her feet. When they retreated, icy crystals sparkled on the sand.
“Master Tok, for the past six months I’ve been a quiet student and have learned all you’ve had to teach. I think I’ve earned at least one answer. This cold will be the death of us. Why are we here?”
Master Tok paused and gave her a sidelong look. It was a look she knew well, and Gizile lowered her gaze to the sand.
“I’m sorry, Master Tok. I spoke out of turn.”
He grunted again, this time in agreement. “You have learned much,” he said. “But you have not learned enough.” He continued forward.
Gizile sprinted to catch up. “Yes, Master Tok.”
They came to a halt at some rocks at the water’s edge. Tok pointed at a small tidal pool. “Watch, observe, see and decide. Learn.”
She looked up at him. The grayness of her master—gray of hair and eye, gray of complexion, gray of dress, gray of mood—blended almost seamlessly with the gray winter sky.
“What am I supposed to see?” she asked.
He said nothing but continued to point. Gizile tamped down the little flare of indignation his dourness sparked. She moved to a low rock above the pool. The waves lapped over the seaward rim at the end of their run, before they fled back to their home. She bent over the pool, hands on knees, and looked into its depths. A wave flowed in. Crystalline ice erupted over the water like an intricate web. It hardened and turned white. Confused, Gizile stared at the frozen pool.
A picture took shape over its surface. A picture that moved, as if it were a window to another world. Gizile held her breath. And watched.
~}~~~{~
Facing the Cave—R. L. Copple
“And though countless have tried,” the bard said to the tavern audience, “the dragon that never dies continues to devour all who come to its cave.”
Galak clapped with those in the tavern but noticed Sir Humblart, his teacher and friend, staring as if into another world. When Galak saw Sir Humblart’s jaw set, he knew the story had stirred a desire in his master. Galak took another gulp from his stein in hopes of numbing the rising fear.
Sir Humblart rose from his sea
t. “Come, Squire. We have a dragon to slay.”
The bard laughed. “Didn’t you hear me? This dragon is death itself. No man can defeat death.”
Sir Humblart smiled and his eyes lit as they always did when he said something of importance. “Correct. No man can, if none attempts it.”
“Attempt away! The dragon is always hungry.” Laughter erupted from the patrons.
Sir Humblart nodded. “And if I return from death, then what?”
The bard stumbled over words then blurted out, “I’ll believe that when I see it!” More guffaws arose.
Sir Humblart downed the last of his ale and motioned for Galak to follow.
After grabbing supplies, Sir Humblart led Galak through the forest toward the undefeated foe.
“Sir, I have your sword,” Galak said.
Sir Humblart didn’t turn his head. “I’ll have no cause for such weapons. Keep hold of it. You will need it.”
Their feet crunched the dirt and dried leaves on the forest floor as they pushed toward—what? His death? Galak watched the armor-clad knight marching resolutely to face the monster that had sent so many to Hell’s gates. No hint of fear twitched across his face. No evidence of second thoughts surfaced in those coal-black, unblinking eyes.
In due time, they entered the clearing where the dragon’s cave bore into the mountain. Strewn across the knoll lay scorched armor and rusted swords. Bones rested thick across the grass, piled by the cave opening. Many lives had been spent attempting to destroy the dragon. Legend had it that the souls of all those killed here wandered without rest, trapped by the dragon.
A roar erupted from beneath the earth, and the ground shook. Smoke belched from the entrance as if dust long undisturbed exploded from its cloisters. Mournful cries underlaid the horrific noise; Galak wanted to cry with them.
Galak fled behind a tree as he watched the beast burst from the cave and land a few feet from Sir Humblart. A mélange of greens and browns shimmered in the sunlight on its hide. The slender body tapered to a tail, which whipped to and fro. The other end held aloft a neck three times as long as any man’s body. At the end of the neck, a broad head examined Sir Humblart with fiery eyes, and a forked tongue lashed the air.
“Sir, flee before it’s too late!” Galak yelled out.
Sir Humblart turned to Galak. “To free them, I must die.” He faced the dragon, his feet together, lifted his arms as if to fly, and cast his head forward.
Now Galak knew his master had lost his mind. Perhaps the villagers brewed a stouter ale than they had realized. He cowered behind the tree as a deafening roar caused him to cover his ears in pain. But he couldn’t remove his gaze from Sir Humblart.
The beast’s head dove, and its open mouth scooped in Sir Humblart. Its head flung back. Galak watched as a bulge slid down the dragon’s neck. Apparently satisfied with its meal, the dragon lumbered to the cave.
Galak’s stomach twisted, and bile rose up his throat. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he remembered: he still had the sword. He could yet save his master and friend. An attempt would likely end in death, but love demanded no less. He steeled himself, unsheathed the weapon, drew himself to his feet, and prepared to charge.
The dragon halted before reaching the cave. A mournful cry shattered the air, and the dragon thrashed about, as if attempting to throw an invisible rider. It spun and writhed until another shriek filled Galak’s ears. He fell to his knees; the sword dropped to the ground.
The dragon teetered and fell over onto its side with a ground-shaking crash. Galak peered at it, but the dragon no longer moved.
The ground rumbled until a blast of air exploded from the cave and twirled into a vortex. Galak swore he heard joyous singing within the gale. The bones around him rattled before the swirling wind sucked them into its grip, and they flew beyond the mountain and into the sky.
The pull of the music and push of the wind encouraged Galak. He crept toward the beast, eyeing it through wind-whipped hair, ready to flee, but it did not move. Not until Galak came close enough did he see a bulge pushing against the skin.
He gasped and stumbled in haste to retrieve the sword. He raced back to the carcass and swung the sword two-handed upon the base of the neck. Green blood spewed forth, and with it the dragon’s body vomited out Sir Humblart, covered in chunky, pea-green slime.
In his acid-seared hand, Sir Humblart held a heart the size of a grown man’s head. He arose and cast a bright gaze upon Galak.
“No man can escape death. It can only be defeated from within. And now, I have destroyed it.” Sir Humblart cast the heart into the cave.
Galak’s pulse quickened as Sir Humblart’s eyes pierced through him. The master turned and proceeded down the path to the village.
Galak followed, as he had always done—but now, through death to life.
~}~~~{~
“What is this? I don’t understand. Dragons? Is this a portal to another world? Are we safe? How did you…”
Tok laughed, a low rumble Gizile had never heard from him before.
Gizile’s mouth opened in shock. “You laugh at my questions, Master?”
“You have much to learn, young one. One thing you must learn is to laugh. And to trust. Would I show you something that could be of harm to you?”
Shame filled her. He had always protected her and taught her with wisdom. But she needed to know. “Was what I saw true? Was it just a story? How did you show me this? What do I learn from—”
“Enough!”
Gizile felt her face redden despite the frigid air. She hung her head.
“Too many questions!” he growled. “Watch and learn.”
Gizile shivered and turned back to the pool. A wave. An explosion of ice over the surface. And a new picture formed. A young man…with pointed ears.
~}~~~{~
Dude—Kat Heckenbach
“It looks like snot.”
“What’s your point, Frankie?”
If Frankie had been anything less than a computer language genius I wouldn’t allow him in my classroom, much less hire him as a lab assistant.
“Well, dude…”
I lifted my gaze from the microscope in front of me and glared at him.
“Uh, sorry, Dr. Simeon, ma’am. I was gonna say, I knew it wouldn’t look like that twisted ladder thingy…”
“The double helix, Frankie.”
Nowhere in any of Tolkien’s works had I read anything about Elves like Frankie. He was just over six feet tall and no more than a hundred and sixty pounds, with white-tipped, spiked hair that mimicked the points of his ears. His usual outfit included a striped t-shirt and parachute pants right out of the eighties. His parents had moved to America in 1987, and clung to all the wrong elements of the culture. The result—an Elven brain wasted on video games and skateboarding. Still, he could write programs that were capable of, well, pretty much anything.
“Yeah, double helix. Sounds like a cool name for a rock band.” He snorted at his own joke and wiped his nose on his shirt. The extracted DNA hanging from the wire loop in his hand jiggled. He was right. It did look like snot.
I looked at the clock, the sole decoration on the walls of my second-floor lab. I didn’t bother with anything other than essentials. Like I could afford more on this budget. Sigh. Nearly eleven. How had it gotten so late?
Frankie stood there staring blankly at the slimy string of unraveled chromosomal material. I was beginning to wonder why I bothered teaching him to help me with this part.
“So, du—I mean, Dr. S, you’re really gonna chop this up and send it to someplace that can tell you all those little letters?”
“Nucleotides, Frankie. And as you so crudely put it, we will ‘chop up’ DNA, yes, but not that particular piece.”—I’d kill to have the equipment to sequence DNA myself, but that takes money this little university doesn’t have—“I just want you to have an idea of what I’m doing here. So you understand your part in this.”
“Frankie Davis, ?
?ber-geek extraordinaire. At your service, ma’am.” He bowed with a flourish, the motion offering the tiniest glimpse into the kind of Elf he might have been if he’d been raised in his homeland. The DNA strand slipped off the loop onto the floor. “Uh, sorry, Dr.S.”
I rubbed my temple, and that spot in my back tightened. Everything in my core believed this Earth had been created by a higher power, an Intelligent Designer. God. But looking at Frankie, with his crooked, spaced-out expression, I could kind of see the whole human-ape connection. Or, at least, the elf-ape connection. Either way, it was disheartening.
Frankie grinned, and suddenly that light in his eyes clicked on, the one that had made me hire him. It seemed to only appear when he sat in front of his computer or thought about the program he was writing for me.
“I’ve been workin’ like a fiend, Dr. S. The code’s flowin’ like a river.” He waved his hands in front of his waist like a hula dancer, and then straightened back up with a look of pride. “My best work yet. Totally righteous.”
“I appreciate it, Frankie. I know it’s a lot of work, and this semester is really tough for you.”
Frankie was actually a biology major. A computer-programming savant, and he wanted to “swim with the dolphins.” Go figure.
“No prob. It’s fun.” His smile dropped a notch and his forehead furrowed. His words came out with a depth I’d never heard in his speech before. “I’m really close to finishing, Dr. S, but…I wish you’d tell me exactly what the program is looking for.”
I couldn’t do that before, for fear it would influence him. I had merely given him certain parameters on which to base his program. The experiment couldn’t be impacted by my beliefs. It had to be impartial.
My beliefs didn’t affect the research I did for the university, of course. Beyond the origin of life, science is science. Breeding fruit flies and splicing genes into salmonella doesn’t rock any boats. But my personal research, that’s a different story.