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    more Tales from TOMORROW: Tales from TOMORROW, #2
    more Tales from TOMORROW: Tales from TOMORROW, #2
    more Tales from TOMORROW: Tales from TOMORROW, #2
    Ebook69 pages1 hour

    more Tales from TOMORROW: Tales from TOMORROW, #2

    By John Patin

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    About this ebook

    In this second issue of Tales from TOMORROW, enjoy three more original Science Fiction stories by John R. Patin. Over 13,000 words of SF pleasure:

    FM
    Picket duty can be a real bore, until suddenly it isn’t.
    ~11,000 words

    Daywraiths
    The trouble with first contact is in knowing when you have made it.
    1,680 words

    Vacations
    If you were immortal, what would you do for a vacation?
    560 words

    Also; The Omega File - a few words from the author.

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Patin
    Release dateJun 25, 2013
    ISBN9781497706576
    more Tales from TOMORROW: Tales from TOMORROW, #2

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      Book preview

      more Tales from TOMORROW - John Patin

      Tales from TOMORROW

      Issue No. 2

      more Tales from TOMORROW

      Three New Science Fiction Stories:

      ––––––––

      FM

      A Military SF Novelette

      ––––––––

      Daywraiths

      A short story

      ––––––––

      And

      ––––––––

      Vacations

      An even shorter story

      ––––––––

      By

      John R. Patin

      ––––––––

      D2D Edition

      ~16,900 words total

      ––––––––

      Cover art by S. P. Smith

      FM

      TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2012  JOHN R. PATIN

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      ––––––––

      Daywraiths

      TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2012  JOHN R. PATIN

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      ––––––––

      Vacations

      TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2012  JOHN R. PATIN

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      ––––––––

      The OMEGA File and all other materials contained in this E-zine are COPYRIGHT © 2013 by JOHN R. PATIN unless otherwise specified.  All Rights Reserved

      ––––––––

      Cover art

      COPYRIGHT © S. P. Smith

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      ––––––––

      FM

      Picket duty can be a real bore, until suddenly it isn’t.

      ~11,000 words

      ––––––––

      Daywraiths

      The trouble with first contact is in knowing when you have made it.

      1,680 words

      ––––––––

      Vacations

      If you were immortal, what would you do for a vacation?

      560 words

      ––––––––

      The Omega File

      A few last words from the author.

      FM

      John R. Patin

      ~ 11,000 words

      ––––––––

      Uh-oh.

      Collins winced.  The mild utterance that drifted back from the comstation might as well have been a Klaxon sounding.  Its source, comtech Briggs, was one of those reticent souls who considered understatement a high art. 

      Collins flicked off his player and launched himself out of his hammock, the S'gin holoporn he had been perusing with vast amusement suddenly forgotten.  The pilot of the Wily Coyote had the awful suspicion that alien sexual habits were not what should be holding his attention just now.  As he floated ‘up’ to the cramped bridge of the three-man scout, he passed the bulging hammock of their engineer.

      ‘Rock’ McKinsey was fully capable of sleeping through a war.  Even now, the tinny din leaking around his earphones was intermittently drowned out by snores that bore a painful resemblance to the sort of sounds one might expect from a strangling duck.  A halo of loose sound chips orbited the man's head like a sorcerer's dutiful familiars. 

      An aficionado of a mercifully defunct twentieth-century musical form, the big drivemaster had an apparently endless supply of the nerve-jangling stuff.  Collins directed a shot to McKinsey's ribs as he passed, the blow serving both to refine the pilot's course and bring the engineer to a more heightened state of awareness.  Besides, Collins thought it disgusting that anyone should sleep so well.

      From the console, Briggs threw a rapid monologue over his shoulder.  "I've got overlapping multiple pulses in tight formation.  It's hard to differentiate yet, but there's a lot of something coming this way.  The course is right for a convoy from Alpha C, but nothing's scheduled.  Ditto on it being any of our stuff on maneuvers.  Briggs voice turned petulant.  The OPS brief said we were supposed to be alone out here."

      Picket crews hated breaks in routine.  That was because anything else usually meant a suddenly reduced life expectancy.  The comtech shook his head.  ...and they're running stealthed.  Merchants wouldn't waste their time and money phasing in stealth mode this far from the frontier.  Also, they're not putting out any IFF.

      Collins was hanging over the comtech's shoulder now, studying the display.  An old tightness took hold under his ribs as he watched.  Stealthed and running through a charted Security zone without an Identification, Friend or Foe signal was a great BIG red flag.  The one large blob began separating into numerous smaller ones as the computer sifted out the drive pulses of individual ships.  Many of these smaller blips were still quite impressive... far too many of them. 

      It looked like someone had come to party.

      Collins had a pretty good idea who that ‘someone’ was.

      That's no convoy, it's a battle fleet, and no one we know has put that many heavies together in sixty years, not since the second battle of Blackrock back in 2185.  If those're ours, somebody's been keeping an awful big secret.  There was one weak hope.  Can you make their drive signature yet?  Maybe it's a load of UP crap the Earthies ‘forgot’ to mention.  He didn't really believe it.  The Terran bureaucrats who ran the neutral United Planets and their political cronies might be assholes, but they were sticklers for treaty protocol.  Besides, their financial priorities were more focused on padding their bank accounts than ‘wasting’ it on building ‘offensive’ warships.  Of course, ‘offensive’ was defined by the size of the bribe offered for a construction contract.  No, that was a lot of ‘iron’ coming in, and Collins didn’t think it was ‘defensive’ in nature, or that it had been paid for with Terran econs.

      Responding to the question, Briggs only shook his head with the barest motion.  His eyes were fixed on the Plot as though it held a swaying cobra.  The pilot clapped a hand on the comtech's shoulder, bringing him back into focus.  Leaning forward, he poked a finger into

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