Doc Sherwood
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Target Harbour
Target Harbour was a known jumping-off point for several different solar systems where Alliance extradition-orders were not yet all they might have been. A crescent-shaped hunk of a far larger moon which exploded eons ago, its curved outer ridge was encrusted with low-rent temporary residences whose neon stained space. The towers of the taller hotels were interlinked by a monorail network, while within the great hollow of this rocky arc had collected purplish fluorescent gases which lay like the waters of a bay. Reflected upside-down in these seething depths, the gaudiness of advertisments and train-tracks and a million window-lights shone a longstanding invitation to the weary traveller whose recent deeds might preclude him from more reputable places to stay.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
The Back Garden
Overgrown twisted dominions and lurking supernatural forces had conspired to lend The Back Garden its curious nomenclature, which began life as a nickname that stuck. If some of that dread space-expanse’s mystique had faded after the vanquishing of its beldame Empress Ungus by The Four Heroes, it nevertheless afforded fearsome enough vistas for Zeldich and Grey Bag as they stepped down from the two flying jeeps which had carried them there. Progress in this place was on foot, along the tops of tendrils distorted to terrifying size which stretched tangled fingers through the black void between worlds and so bridged the spheres they ensnared. Though Grey Bag and Zeldich stood in interplanetary space they did not require oxygen-masks, for there was no cosmic vacuum in The Back Garden, just a universal moist stagnancy suggestive of cellars at midnight. This fusty fug teemed with nutrients and microbes on which thrived the gargantuan plants and the denizens that crawled and slithered among them.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Carmilla's Resolution
The conference chamber’s large circular table was ringed with seats for the humanoids, and ramps leading to elevated platforms for the jeeps. These were arranged in alternating sequence so that every member of the organization could address the forum from equal ground. Psiona launched the meeting with one last item recently gleaned from her cerebral cave.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
New Beginnings
Blaster-Track Commander, tall and muscular and upright, stood with feet planted firmly on his skateboard-sized mini-jeep which followed the downward-sliding platform at a geostationary hover. From her position a yard or so below on the elevator itself, Carmilla Neetkins let her eyes range over the lean physique encased in brilliant green spandex, the pair of photon-pistols ready in trim holsters at the breast, the cloak of royal purple flowing from strong shoulders to heels, and the golden-haired head of lofty brow and determined tapering chin.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Cycles, Chapter Three
Heroes they were. If Dylan and his command had ever been called upon to prove it, they did so in the second or two when each of the six saw with absolute clarity what route lay ahead for them now. They could neither prevail nor flee, but still, not one among them entertained for an instant any notion of throwing themselves on Harbin’s non-existent mercy. They would fight, until they could fight no more. Even in the absence of hope, that much honour they might yet do the reverend quartet they had striven in vain to save.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Issues, Chapter One
It was the sort of situation that really required name-tags, or better yet, convenient captions somehow superimposed over the veritable double splash-page of a scene. Such scattered rectangles for easy reference hanging inexplicably unsupported in space would have been much appreciated by the two warlike factions facing off, neither of which boasted a member who had the identities of all the others absolutely down.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Heroes' Reunion
Dylan Cook of The Four Heroes was back. That same dark hair and same warm smile greeted the first well-wishers in an opulent observation-lounge attached to Prof’s sanatorium, Phoenix standing proud by the side of her love. One genius Grindo’s medical ministrations had restored to Dylan even the use of his legs, where Earth-technology would have been unable to do so, such that he walked strongly and without so much as a limp as he moved through the waiting-room shaking hands and embracing again and again. There was laughter, and many tears. To the ever-modest Prof Dylan did his best to express thanks for which mere speech could barely suffice, while James, Carmilla and Flashtease bestowed on their old friend the most joyous of welcomes home in return. Even Flashshadow, who had never met Dylan, murmurously faltered out something unintelligible but no doubt in keeping with the spirit of this happy time.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Cycles, Chapter Two
Harbin’s contrivance towered above the tribal trappings from whose midst it had been raised, turning Dylan’s vehicles to tiny toys as they slewed to a stop at its foot. It was not a dome, though it was easy to see how it might have been mistaken for one.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Cycles, Chapter One
They hit the road as one, churning stone-strewn flatland to a dust-storm behind them as the Grindotron freighter which had dropped them there climbed back for the stratosphere. Dylan, letting his massive rig’s six-wheel suspension take the strain of landing with barely a check in its stride, powered on to assume the head of the convoy with unspoken determination and purpose. Flanking him on either side his company skimmed above the dusty disordered planet-crust, Phoenix in her streamlined star-fighter, the two Mini-Flashes astride their rocket-bikes, and 4-H-N surfing upright on her robot companion Micro-Mallet.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Decency
Considerably more of Schiss-Zazz’s physique than anyone might have wished to see hung at rest above the maximum-security cell-deck. His lithe muscular bare arms and legs were robustly manacled and splayed. Forcefield balls began at his wrists and englobed both hands like giant glowing balloons, lending additional assurance that the deadly shears Schiss-Zazz wore would not be put to use.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
Code, Chapter Four
Outside of the Junkyard Belts the nebula’s green glow receded, such that the slab of stone that was the Neetkins sisters’ rendezvous-point with the alliance sat against blackest space. The only illumination came of harsh sodium-lamps mounted on the Toothfire prison-ship, which idled fortress-like with bulkheads suggestive of forbidding iron walls. In and out of a white groundfog brewing from its rocket-engines a handful of Mini-Flash assistants scurried busily, but most of the reception-committee were Vernderernders. These, shaped like huge scavenging birds made of motorcycle pipes and rods, hunched their numerous glinting bodies upright atop rocky perches and surveyed the scene in cold motionless satisfaction.
By Doc Sherwood5 years ago in Fiction
