PENTIAN
La Revolución en la Edición catálogo | tienda | cómo funciona | distribución y venta | blog
Notice

Cyberwar

Por R.J. Huneke

El blog de R.J. Huneke

INTRODUCING XERA FINN CYBERWAR'S ARCHANGEL IN AN EXCLUSIVE BOOK EXCERPT

Añadido el 29/08/2014
Imagen 1

Once again the characters will not quiet themselves unless I let them have their moment to speak out, and Xera wants to be formally introduced, just as she was to William Waltz in Cyberwar.

She is one of the most willful, courageous, endearing and vengeful Valkyries I have ever had the pleasure to meet. She is also a crux in Cyberwar. And I love her.

Read the excerpt, revel in it, enjoy it, share it, and when you want to read more be sure to enter the world of Cyberwar at Pentian.com here.

~RJH

Once again, Waltz found himself checking his pockets for the A-block phone that was not there. He walked slowly to the end of the hall in the dark and felt wholly unprepared. Before his hand could touch the door there was a buzz and someone spoke to him.

“Tell me who you are and why you are here,” said a silky voice.

“My name is William Waltz. Is this Xera?”

“Is that why you’re here? What do you want with Xera?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m not comfortable discussing business with someone from the other side of a door,” he said coolly.


Shadows draped the hallway and added to his unease. He was not used to being given the third degree before even getting a look at his interviewer or his surroundings. Fear gave way to anger and annoyance. He turned to stalk away.

“Business, Mr. Waltz?” He stopped and rounded back.

“Yes. With Xera. Is there a way I can see about meeting with her?” he asked.

“She is indisposed for the foreseeable future I am afraid, Mr. Waltz,” said the voice growing playful and sultry.

“It’s important.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back another-“

“I can’t! You tell her that a powerful client is going to be dead if she doesn’t intervene right now,” said Waltz quickly. “If I seem on edge, it’s because I’m not used to being the one that’s threatened, but there it is.”

“Looks like I’ll be able to coax more than one word conversations out of you after all. Last question: where did you hear the name Xera?”

“Smokin’ Joe Ricca. He’s a bit of a slob, but not a bad guy. I occasionally barter with him in Port,” answered Waltz.

“I’m going to buzz you in. I can’t get to the door just now, but you can come in and tell me all about your . . . business,” she said. A loud buzz shook plaster dust from the ceiling. He stepped into Xera’s and was happy to see that at least one lamp was on.

* * *

Despite a single lamp on an end table, Xera Finn’s place was a house of shadows. The deep gray lines and black circles criss-crossed and draped Xera’s, keeping the place hidden in every way. Only a bathroom at the far end of the hall offered any real light, and it spilled from the door that was ajar, like sunlight following a lunar eclipse. He squinted and heard rain begin to pelt the roof outside.

In actuality, the light in the bathroom was not that bright. William Waltz entered the doorway and saw that two lampshades, made of thick frosted glass, covered a pair of fifty-watt incandescent bulbs that protruded from each side of the wall behind the sink; he would not have been able to shave in that kind of light.

He stepped fully into the room and stared down at an extraordinary pale woman. She was stretched out in a corroded iron bathtub with one stocking-ed leg over the rim, while her head rested back on a rolled up towel. Her dark, piercing eyes looked at him in a relaxed, observant manner and her hair hung in wet strands toward the floor, as though it were fingering her very brain. He caught his breath.

BENJAMIN SHEETROCK SPEAKS HIS MIND
08/07/2014
0 COMMENTS

Picture
It seems the character Sheetrock wants to speak his mind, despite the book not being out yet. Well I have too much respect for the man to deny his simple request, so here is an exclusive excerpt from Cyberwar where the humble miner nicknamed "Sheetrock" gets to loose his mind.

I hope you enjoy it.

~RJH

Some people have a song constantly playing in their head. Sheetrock was one of these, and he knew it. The young drill captain figured the smart people fed their soul with music every day, because one: Jesus loved music, and two: rolling down the river of audio helped keep the record from skipping. Whereas those that despised the music echoing in their brains, scoffed openly of it, and resisted it to the extreme, those people often got jarred into the realms of insanity. They beat on the player Jesus had given them and as a result their records did, on occasion, skip.

No matter the near-death run, the loss of his colleague and lover, or the freezing cold downpour, the David Byrne horns in his head blared on, and he welcomed the beauty of the earth, grimy as he was treading the soaked wooden dock. He whistled while his cargo unloaded, weighed, and purchased. It had taken all of an hour; it was the reason Sheetrock chose to land in Port Jeff in the first place: easy access to the scales and the buyers. Within another hour a quick sale had commenced.

With the payment transferred instantaneously upon completion of the cache transaction, Sheetrock walked swiftly with a slight limp toward the town’s bank (his knee had blown out in a ten kilometer benefit run and the rain’s moisture did it in). He had already handed each of his crew a payroll check that they knew would come into fruition once they had finished emptying the ship’s cargo hold, but he wanted to confirm with his own dark eyes that his personal account totaled twenty-eight million and change. He could finally afford to spend it all.

There was a slow methodical scraping as his muddy miner’s boots found the doormat outside the federal bank on the corner of Main Street. The heavy footwear were sealed, along with the black leathery jumpsuit that was made for rigorous activity in the oxygen deprived canals of space. He had not bothered changing. He was too eager.

At least the rain’s washed the dust off my ass, thought Sheetrock as he walked into the bright lights of the taupe room. The large man could not have looked more out of place. A mile or two up the road was the derelict sidewalks of the Station, where none of the black market shufflers would ever have looked at his unshaven face and his stained and patched up space suit and given it a second glance. In the bank, he was almost two feet taller than the shortest tellers, and they stared open mouthed as though he was the second coming of the Messiah.

There was no one in line, but Sheetrock was a slave to ritual so he entered the velvet rope lane and followed it in three snaking switchbacks before a prim, older woman with the biggest eyeglasses he had ever seen waved him over.

“Hello. I’d like to make a withdrawal-“

“Fill out the pad, sir,” she said before he could complete his sentence. He reluctantly bent and wrote sloppily on the screen with a pen that was tied to the counter and did not allow his long arms to lift it far enough to be comfortable writing in the lines.

“As for the amount . . . Rosemary,” said Sheetrock noting her nametag, “I put in for it two weeks ago, but I don’t know exactly how much is in there. I want all of it.”

“Very well, sir.”


She tilted her round head back to look him over and confirm his face with the scan she had on the screen in front of her. It was a feat that seemed a difficult one without there being any visible sign of a neck on her, and the blue eyes behind her enormous glasses bulged in the magnification as she took all of him in.

A frantic clacking of keys was heard, as she composed herself. Rosemary, the banker, seemed to be in a perpetual hurry.

“That’s the amount you have there, sir.” She pointed down toward his screen. “The supervisor’s already verified your request and approved it. Do you have a suitcase or some kind of carrier for the withdrawal?” she asked querulously.

“Jesus please be with me today,” his whisper to himself was a growl that she heard quite plainly. “I’m soaking wet and fresh off the ship. Does it look like I have a suitcase with me, Rosemary?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you have some kind of transportation case?” he asked impatiently. The round face tilted a little, like a bird’s.

“Deposit cases are available for two hundred dollars each. Are you sure you don’t want to go-”

“Listen, little lady, lord knows that twenty-eight million’s not going to fit into the envelopes you normally give me my cash in, now is it?”


* * *


Two large gray storage containers were brought in front of the counter, where Sheetrock paced. He signed for them hurriedly, and a resonant tone crackled and cut off the elevator music that had been playing. Everyone looked up, startled. A booming electronic voice took over the loudspeakers:

“THIS IS A CYBER ALERT: A 7 P.M. CURFEW IS NOW IN EFFECT UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR HOMES NOW.”

BENJAMIN SHEETROCK SPEAKS HIS MIND

Añadido el 29/08/2014
Imagen 1

It seems the character Sheetrock wants to speak his mind, despite the book not being out yet. Well I have too much respect for the man to deny his simple request, so here is an exclusive excerpt from Cyberwar where the humble miner nicknamed "Sheetrock" gets to loose his mind.


I hope you enjoy it.


~RJH


Some people have a song constantly playing in their head. Sheetrock was one of these, and he knew it. The young drill captain figured the smart people fed their soul with music every day, because one: Jesus loved music, and two: rolling down the river of audio helped keep the record from skipping. Whereas those that despised the music echoing in their brains, scoffed openly of it, and resisted it to the extreme, those people often got jarred into the realms of insanity. They beat on the player Jesus had given them and as a result their records did, on occasion, skip.

No matter the near-death run, the loss of his colleague and lover, or the freezing cold downpour, the David Byrne horns in his head blared on, and he welcomed the beauty of the earth, grimy as he was treading the soaked wooden dock. He whistled while his cargo unloaded, weighed, and purchased. It had taken all of an hour; it was the reason Sheetrock chose to land in Port Jeff in the first place: easy access to the scales and the buyers. Within another hour a quick sale had commenced.

With the payment transferred instantaneously upon completion of the cache transaction, Sheetrock walked swiftly with a slight limp toward the town’s bank (his knee had blown out in a ten kilometer benefit run and the rain’s moisture did it in). He had already handed each of his crew a payroll check that they knew would come into fruition once they had finished emptying the ship’s cargo hold, but he wanted to confirm with his own dark eyes that his personal account totaled twenty-eight million and change. He could finally afford to spend it all.

There was a slow methodical scraping as his muddy miner’s boots found the doormat outside the federal bank on the corner of Main Street. The heavy footwear were sealed, along with the black leathery jumpsuit that was made for rigorous activity in the oxygen deprived canals of space. He had not bothered changing. He was too eager.

At least the rain’s washed the dust off my ass, thought Sheetrock as he walked into the bright lights of the taupe room. The large man could not have looked more out of place. A mile or two up the road was the derelict sidewalks of the Station, where none of the black market shufflers would ever have looked at his unshaven face and his stained and patched up space suit and given it a second glance. In the bank, he was almost two feet taller than the shortest tellers, and they stared open mouthed as though he was the second coming of the Messiah.

There was no one in line, but Sheetrock was a slave to ritual so he entered the velvet rope lane and followed it in three snaking switchbacks before a prim, older woman with the biggest eyeglasses he had ever seen waved him over.

“Hello. I’d like to make a withdrawal-“

“Fill out the pad, sir,” she said before he could complete his sentence. He reluctantly bent and wrote sloppily on the screen with a pen that was tied to the counter and did not allow his long arms to lift it far enough to be comfortable writing in the lines.

“As for the amount . . . Rosemary,” said Sheetrock noting her nametag, “I put in for it two weeks ago, but I don’t know exactly how much is in there. I want all of it.”

“Very well, sir.”


She tilted her round head back to look him over and confirm his face with the scan she had on the screen in front of her. It was a feat that seemed a difficult one without there being any visible sign of a neck on her, and the blue eyes behind her enormous glasses bulged in the magnification as she took all of him in.

A frantic clacking of keys was heard, as she composed herself. Rosemary, the banker, seemed to be in a perpetual hurry.

“That’s the amount you have there, sir.” She pointed down toward his screen. “The supervisor’s already verified your request and approved it. Do you have a suitcase or some kind of carrier for the withdrawal?” she asked querulously.

“Jesus please be with me today,” his whisper to himself was a growl that she heard quite plainly. “I’m soaking wet and fresh off the ship. Does it look like I have a suitcase with me, Rosemary?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do you have some kind of transportation case?” he asked impatiently. The round face tilted a little, like a bird’s.

“Deposit cases are available for two hundred dollars each. Are you sure you don’t want to go-”

“Listen, little lady, lord knows that twenty-eight million’s not going to fit into the envelopes you normally give me my cash in, now is it?”


* * *


Two large gray storage containers were brought in front of the counter, where Sheetrock paced. He signed for them hurriedly, and a resonant tone crackled and cut off the elevator music that had been playing. Everyone looked up, startled. A booming electronic voice took over the loudspeakers:

“THIS IS A CYBER ALERT: A 7 P.M. CURFEW IS NOW IN EFFECT UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR HOMES NOW.”

A LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR OF CYBERWAR

Añadido el 29/08/2014
Imagen 1

Cyberwar, the first book in the Cyberwar Series, was created using years of research in various fields, including global demonstration, cyber warfare, cyber terrorism, advances in robotics, the global push for AI (artificial intelligence), Internet security, hackers (both black hat and white hat alike), and new emerging technology, especially from DARPA (The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency of the US Department of Defense).

The fictionalized accounts from Cyberwar take place in a time that could be considered contemporary in fifty years from now, in a decade from now, in a year from now, or these events could already be underway, and the Occupancy War could have already started with these events as a fictitious version of the war’s precursors.

R.J.H.

If you would like to become a character and/or invest in Cyberwar please view the publisher's site at Pentian here: http://pentian.com/book/fund/601

PUBLISHING PERSPECTIVES INTERVIEW: R.J. HUNEKE: DESCRIBING THE PENTIAN EXPERIENCE

Añadido el 04/09/2014
Imagen 1

At this year’s BEA, the Spanish crowdsourcing platform Pentian — a company that offers a most interesting business model: paying 50% of profits from book sales to backers of the book and 40% to the author — launched in the USA.

Now, the very first American author to use Pentian, R.J. Huneke, a writer with numerous nonfiction articles and short stories to his credit, has posted his novel, Cyberwar, to Pentian and is ready for investors.

Read the rest on Publishing Perspectives here: http://publishingperspectives.com/2014/08/r-j-huenke-describing-the-pentian-experience/

EBOLA ATTACK A PART OF CYBERWAR? AN EXCERPT

Añadido el 19/09/2014
Imagen 1

Read the excerpt here: http://www.cyberwarseries.com/news-blog/ebola-attack-a-part-of-cyberwar-an-excerpt