Honoris Causa

By Robert D. Makepeace

In this dark, futuristic, sci-fi world, Belgrade struggles
for its existence in the fi nal years of the third great war.
Without known allies, it seems that utter defeat is imminent
by the Anechoic army, that is, until the death of the dictating
general, supreme ruler of the city.

With the assassination of the citys power-crazed
leader, it is up to Loony to take the reins of high government.
Loony has no military training, but he has a deep love for his
people and toils endlessly to save the once great city from
total annihilation.

Loony is not the only person in the battle. Unbeknownst to him, he is aided in his goal of salvation by an unlikely assortment of merchants, mutants, an assassin, a vampire, and a wanted terrorist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465344861

Robert D. Makepeace

I was born in Dewsbury, England, on March 10, 1980. My parents were both hardworking traders who raised me to be determined and never give up on my dreams. I was the middle of fi ve children: two sisters and two brothers. I started writing passionately in high school. I studied earth sciences in Scotland before moving to Cedarville, Arkansas, where I currently reside as a local baker with my loving wife and two children.

Book preview

Pups and Hounds

Darkness retreated quickly into the distance over the cobbled streets, not that light was approaching; it was, but it would take time to get there. This was the pivotal moment on an evening, when the shadows no longer deepened but turned the other way. What light did fall on the streets was pale, like moonlight, cast down from the streetlamps, which were shaded as much as possible from the sky. The dusty streets were deserted. The last raiding party had shaken the population, and many were hiding in secured sectors.

Sam padded softly along a worn-down lane. One of the world’s natural anomalies, it was unclear as to how vampirism was spread, and many people still believed lore of old. Little empirical research could be done, for it could hardly be justified to kill a hundred test patients and watch who turned. However, Sam had not been bitten. He had just gone to sleep and woken up again. He dressed in a long trench coat, the kind of clothing that conceals the body. It allowed some give in the chest mainly because the lack of his breathing was a disconcertion for other people while talking. He sported a short crew cut that had not grown since his departure from the living some years ago. His hair was a soft metallic gray; silver flecks would have been on the menu if he had ever allowed it to see the sun.

Sam had been in the army, given up everything. Now, he was looking in from the outside, honorably discharged on grounds of death, which, even in modern times, made one stand up or, rather, lie down and pay attention. It did hurt that no one seemed to remember him now—no great tales of deeds and no songs. Still, they had to concentrate on the war; he knew that. Stop to reminisce, and you stop indefinitely, perhaps.

Darkness crept over the streets, engulfing what small fires remained. Belgrade, now a skeleton of itself, took the appearance from above of an old dishcloth. Large metallic platforms formed the city’s main defense pivots, each holding rows of cannons along their decks. However, many of these sat in the city center where the richer citizens still lived. This, of course, left Belgrade’s outskirts, where the less fortunate dwelt, vulnerable. The firepower contained in these cannons would be daunting to any invading fleet yet lacked long-range efficiency. The Anechoic fleets paid only passing interest in the disheveled streets on Belgrade.

There, the Anecs had a definite edge on the matter. With all the outer defenses down, it seemed just a matter of time until the city-state ceased to remain in Romanian command. Escort runs had begun to fail without ground support, and a great deal of last year’s harvests had been ruined.

A low, distant hum pricked at Sam’s ears. A deeply entrenched survival instinct kicked in, and he shifted. What occurred in that few seconds was quite complex. Sam’s facial skin pulled back along his head, displaying the graphic detail of his underlying bone structure. Next, his chest lurched so violently that it was best his clothing hid the metamorphosis taking place. Sam’s arms curled in what looked like desperate attempts to clutch the adjoining arm’s elbow before he balled up on the ground. From there, the sounds of violent ripping could be heard as Sam’s newly developed wings tore through his shirt to link neatly between his wrists and lower thorax. The incoming sound enveloped him while his eyesight failed him. Sam, now fully morphed into a bat, emitted sonar waves to find a survival path. Sam dropped through a small dry drainage shaft on the side of the road. Above, the sonic boom of a SASH missile slammed into ground, sending shock waves through the foundations of the streets. Sam the bat moved to take a safe perch on a small forgotten ledge and waited for the tremors to subside. Above, a cockroach crawled across the freshly made debris. Sam unfurled his bat-like wings and reascended the chute to the surface.

Shifting back into human form, Sam heard the shrill cry from a small girl somewhere beneath a large twisted heap of fallen masonry. Sam lifted it with little effort. The girl stumbled as she climbed over the rubble, her body visibly bruised to various shades of blue and purple. The twisted mass of several buildings slowly started to take its toll on Sam. Only a little farther for her to go. Beads of sweat trickled along his brow. A blood vessel along his temple burst under the incredible strain, spraying his face with crimson. It was cold, it was sweet, and it was…

The structure fell. The wide-eyed small girl blinked innocently at Sam. Well, at least she had made it. Several images flashed past his mind, violent and prehistoric yet very, very satisfying. Sam envisioned the night hunts of his ancestors. He pictured times when vampires were free to pursue their quarry with unfettered freedom; they passed. The ruptured vessel had healed as quickly as it had erupted, and the blood smeared across his face evaporated slowly. Sam turned and walked away.

*     *     *

Inside Belgrade’s palace, two men debated the course of the battle. The room, for reasons of narrative, will be described in more detail later; but it contained a table with a map upon it, a desk, and a window view of the city. In the corner stood a small drinks cabinet. The man speaking, known only as the general, was the self-appointed ruler of Belgrade and quite sane as despots go. That is to say, he had never in his life up to that point ordered inanimate objects to do his bidding, attempted to turn objects to gold with sheer willpower, or claimed to be a worshipful deity. Of course, war can strain even the sternest of characters.

The general was a huge man who sagged like a heavy water balloon along the ground. His crew cut was high and tight, which he considered distinguished. To others, it drew attention toward his ears, which seemed to flutter at times in an attempt to cool his face. Without a trunk to bridge the intervening space, it had to be assumed that he threw his meals toward his mouth because his short pudgy arms would be barely adequate to reach his jowls. He wore a navy blue uniform on which countless pins and medals had been placed.

What are we going to do, people? The general’s jaw ruminated around the cigar he had in his mouth.

Loony also occupied the room. He had survived the army by knowing the right people. However, this appeared to be his only qualification. Loony was not particularly impressive by any physical proportion. His blond hair fluffed outward like baby’s breath in a way that the general clearly disapproved of. He wore the forest green uniform of the captains and was sadly lacking in the merit department.

I say we launch the secret arsenal!

For the last time, we don’t have a blasted secret arsenal. The supreme ruler of the free world brought a lesser ruler down hard across his desk. The lesser ruler snapped because it lacked a backbone.

I… I… meant the one that isn’t blasted. Loony shrank away from the general. If Loony had been born in different settings, he would have been excellent fodder for the church choir. Some of the rosiness faded from his cherublike complexion.

We don’t have one of those either, Captain.

What about the satellite system, sir?

That hasn’t been used since the early twenties.

Perhaps it’s salvageable, General, Loony asked hopefully.

No, the general barked irately, causing his cigar to drop from his mouth onto the floor. He stamped it out. Damn, what he would have given for some competence in his troops. Almost anything, that’s what.

Are you sure, sir?

Quite sure, man!

A third gentleman moved a few objects across the small table. Curtis, unlike the other two, chose not to wear any uniform. He dressed in black formal attire. No one had ever seen Curtis carry a sidearm, but the general knew Curtis had hidden means within his outfit. Curtis’s face seldom showed any suggestion of what he thought. He was here because he was one of the most respected people in the service. The general suspected that Curtis managed many projects within the palace that he was unaware of. His dark hair and sideburns covered his deep-set eyes in shadow. No one had eyes that dark without a significant lack of sleep. Curtis picked up a small glass containing a stiff drink. The amber fluid threatened the consumer with migraines and minor brain loss. Curtis examined the contents scrupulously. The general felt sorry for whatever liquid was in question. It ran down Curtis’s gullet, quite thankful at the opportunity to get away from his gaze. The general cleared his throat.

Curtis, have you got anything to say?

It seems to me…

Yes?

It seems to me…

Yes?

That my glass is now empty, my dear General, Curtis concluded with brief finality, placing the glass carefully on the table. He still watched its rim, skillfully avoiding eye contact with the general.

It would appear so. I’ll have Damien get another bottle.

No.

No? The general thought it sloppy when people questioned his orders, yet due to Curtis’s social standing, the general allowed him this freedom. Often he would remember to send Curtis extra tasks as a result on a later date, not relating them to his insubordination. What galled him was that Curtis always seemed cheerful when the messengers arrived.

I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your Damien, Curtis stated in the jovial manner of a family member at a wedding reception. The insertion of the incidental your instead of the possessive our only further showed Curtis’s contempt toward the young recruit.

Why? Since Curtis had begun with an easygoing tone, the general followed suit. Curtis had not crossed the line yet, but it was coming up on him fast.

What does he do exactly?

He performs general tasks for me… and the staff.

What kinds of general tasks?

Paper runs—a simple errand boy, Curtis, that’s all, the general answered as he waved a hand nonchalantly, and his whole belly accompanied the motion in a jellylike tide of cellulite backwash.

So… he has access to important documents?

Of course.

I have reason to believe he is an Anechian agent.

Damien? Damien was a keen lad. The general had known his mother. Unbeknownst to the other men, that was the reason Damien had been accepted into the army. Her husband had died in one of the early strikes. Damien’s mother was still a stunning young woman, and the general had comforted her in her time of need. Damien’s mother gave birth shortly afterward and agreed not the reveal who the child’s father was. It was a fond memory to the general now.

Yes, General. Curtis always managed to bring you back to earth. There was still a discussion at hand.

Do you have evidence to support the accusations?

I don’t trust him. Curtis never distrusted anyone without good reason. Unfortunately for the general, Curtis kept most of his correspondences to himself and expected people to follow his hunches on pure faith.

Oh, well now, why didn’t you just say so? Who else don’t you trust? We’ll line them all up against the bloody wall, shall we? Okay. Number one, Damien. Number two?

Please, you need to calm down, General.

Loony had begun clearing away anything made of glass or pointed from the countertops. Gentlemen, if we could please… Loony’s plaintive pleas went unheard.

Calm down? Calm down? the general bellowed.

Yes, General. Calm down. Curtis’s voice sailed steadily across the room like a stray cloud on a blue summer’s day.

Tell me, do you trust me? Or what about Loony?

I’m sure Mr. Curtis didn’t mean any— Loony tried again.

I doubt Loony has the ability to be a double agent, Curtis interrupted.

Are you sure? It could just be a cunning guise! At this remark, the general wagged a warning finger in the direction where Loony was edging for the door.

I think you need a drink more than I do, General.

I’m perfectly fine! The general began turning purple while Curtis was still more centered than a Buddhist monk.

If we could all just c— Loony’s voice piped up like a piccolo lost within the brass section at an auditorium.

Don’t patronize me! the general bawled; his expansive chest drove great rushes of breath out of his mouth between each word. I own you, Curtis!

Is that so? Curtis only now permitted his eyebrows to rise. It was a remarkable emotional display for those who knew him.

I own everybody! I am a god!

I fear that you are a dead god.

Don’t you threaten me!

It was a statement of fact. Curtis had said all he needed to say and, due to the general’s stubborn will, more than he would have liked. Moments ago, Curtis would have been content to attend to the matter of Damien himself. Now, because of the general’s Napoleonic approach to discipline within his ranks, he had raised the ante to the point where one of them had to die.

Guards!

You are now on borrowed time, General.

The only exit from the room was the door blocked by the very round, very flustered general/god. Curtis smiled at the general and bowed to Loony. He didn’t run; he didn’t even move. He just seemed to blend in with the background and was gone.

*     *     *

In the city walls, a whining sound suggested small success from the repair crews. It would still be some time before they were fully combat ready, but it didn’t matter. The city’s morale was at an all-time low. Considering all the other things they had been through, it said a lot for the earlier groups. But time had whittled away their spirits to the point where one hit an enemy target would be considered a major victory.

The war, or more accurately the wars, had been going on for at least twenty years with little sign of relenting. Diplomacy had been tried, as well as terrorism and bribery. None had any effect. It started as many had anticipated, with unrest within the Third World. Next were rivalries in Europe and the Pacific, then everyone just joined in. At times groups withdrew in order to recoup then reentered later. Now it came down to just five major groups. Given that at one time it was as many as a hundred separate cells or armies, this was exceptional.

*     *     *

A narrow row of blue streaks in the sky show an AAM (antiaircraft turret) running with at least some degree of accuracy. A bedraggled young soldier ran by Sam, engulfed completely in what he did. Darkness skulked away much faster now; soon it would abate totally, allowing sunlight to flood in. Steam poured out of a gas tank buried below nondescript debris. It isn’t meant to be this way, Sam thought. They were to be the victors. It was what he had given his life for. Finally, night cracked. A golden stream burst violently over the land, sweeping the darkness downstream. The sunlight was so much more aggressive, hasty, uncaring. Sam shielded his eyes from the burning of the morning sun as it crested the horizon.

The world took on a newer and more sinister appearance: pain, torment, hatred, and death. A thick, heavy fog descended with the sunlight, blurring Sam’s vision.

The Kalemegda was just around the corner. It was his doorway back to his world, an older, more familiar world. Sam was the night watch. He turned the corner. The day’s functions no longer concerned him; they were not his business. Sam was no longer required.

The Kalemegda was at one time the lower-class area of the city. All cities had their equivalent back alleys where drug deals took place and carnal favors were sold. The streets were so riddled with crime that good citizens would not dare tread them after nightfall. After the devastation of Belgrade, it had become the homestead of the more undesirable residents for reasons other than misdeed. There was otherwise very little left to distinguish between it and the rest of the wreckage.

The Kalemegda was now populated by mutants, werewolves, and vampires. Other inhabitants included gnomes, pixies, and the lesser mythic genies—nasty creatures who were safer to avoid than to meet. No one had ever crossed a pixie and lived to tell the tale. None had ever crawled bleeding into a hospital emergency ward claiming a tiny tooth fairy had cut them up into ribbons.

Although the Kalemegda sector wasn’t particularly dangerous, it was generally avoided even so. In light of rumors, people were very wary of it. Most of these rumors were of great fabrication and nearly all the rest, merely fanciful. When one heard of all the horrors that took place, it was amazing how so many people kept coming to explore for themselves and how they managed to make it out in any less than four pieces. A few brave souls bounded in looking for adventure, only to be disappointed when they uncovered a quiet, working community. By now it was practically tradition to put on a good act for the tourists; Sam liked to think they were wonderfully convincing. If people started to think it was a nice place, the area would be upgraded. He would have to move to another sector.

An abandoned storehouse freed a musty aroma out into the air, the company name barely recognizable as plaster further peeled away from the sign. Rough stone walls demonstrated great faith of whoever had designed the place. The stones believed they wouldn’t fall, a matter encouraged by eight hundred years of experience.

Sam gently opened a small side door and went across the threshold. Straw littered the floor. In the corner, a tall box leaned against the cobbles. The box was shoddily constructed of cardboard. A gamut of glistening animal pelts that padded the inside gave testament to its surprising comfort. The box stayed up on the same basis as the wall. Sam settled and found slumber soon enough. It had been a long night.

*     *     *

I want him found, and I want his head delivered on a silver platter. I want it brought to my desk by morning’s end. No excuses. No complaints. I want the job done. The general sat at his desk, forcing calmness out of every pore. Curtis had threatened to kill him. He didn’t know a lot about issues like this, he had to admit, but this sounded more or less like mutiny in his book.

There aren’t any silver platters, sir.

Then send out for one. The general refused to withstand further disobedience.

It might be getting contagious.

Sir?

Yes?

Very good, sir. The guard was forming an image of his future; he didn’t like it.

Anything else?

No, sir.

Then leave me.

Yes, sir.

The general had given his whole life to the army; he had crawled up slowly through the ranks. Normally over someone else’s body, the thrusts and cuts of politics. Now some buccaneer had decided to question him! Who was this Curtis to do that anyway? He had no right. No troops had followed him, at least. The last thing the general wanted would be a small rebel task force tearing through his army from the inside. Not with victory so close. True, he had casualties, but all in the name of war.

Casualties were to be expected. Can’t have a war without casualties. That would be a minor disagreement. Outside his office window, people walked about their daily lives. The general could hardly tell a war was happening. The soldiers marched proudly by in uniform, businesses thriving. In fact, he was worse off than they were. He would raise the taxes. That would teach them for having a good time while he was out winning their victories.

The general rose from his desk and waddled purposely out through the doorway. At the end of a long corridor, he descended a small flight of steps. Soldiers dashed by in a manner of those who knew that if they didn’t find the head they were looking for, a substitute could easily be produced. A small dog rose from out of a doorway and trotted across to the general. A small Border collie with slightly yellowed teeth and great poise as much as can be achieved by a dog. The general brought a small piece of cloth down to the dog’s nose in his hand; it sniffed obediently and then paced off along the passageway.

*     *     *

Hello, are you in? A rather dark and off-putting figure entered the vampire’s personal habitat.

Sam stirred as the tall figure glided through the open doorway. The newcomer seemed not particularly menacing. Smooth and well postured, it had a strangely soothing tone to its voice, the type most people have to work at but which came to the speaker naturally. Soft and comforting, provided you didn’t look at the speaker’s teeth or eyes. The eyes were the worst; there was no life in those eyes, only pain. This whole effect left one trying to wrest oneself away and, at the same time, being hampered by the desire to look closer. There’s a word for this type of creature: werewolf. He was male, his fur too matted by territorial infighting to be of the gentler female variety. Only the male wolf fought for leadership of a district.

I’m sorry to wake you so early, it really is important, the werewolf spoke again.

Sam got up, shook out the cobwebs, steadied himself, and followed the figure. Outside, people up and about tended to their business. Passing the rows upon rows of narrow alleyways, he felt a certain twinge of pride. It worked. The system really did work. The hospital was one