The Prometheus Saga Volume 2: The Prometheus Saga, #2

By Kristin Durfee, Ken Pelham, John Hope and 5 more

Eight award-winning and accomplished authors invite you to explore the depths of human experience alongside an ever-watching presence sent to Earth by an advanced alien intelligence. The Prometheus Probe lives among us, witnessing the progress of our civilization and the development of our weaknesses, follies, wisdom, and strengths.It watches, morphing from one human form to another—a friend, a coworker, a lover, a comrade in arms. Its life spans tens of thousands of years. As history unfolds before its eyes, its alien creators analyze in real time. And sometimes advise.The groundbreaking Volume One of The Prometheus Saga garnered critical praise and numerous literary awards. In Volume Two, the authors of the Alvarium Experiment invite you on eight new journeys through history that reveal the alien observer among us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Beech Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781960974044

Book preview

The Prometheus Saga 2

THE PROMETHEUS SAGA 2

A Speculative Fiction Anthology

Blue Beech Press

The collective anthology "The Prometheus Saga 2: A Speculative Fiction Anthology," Copyright © 2018 by The Alvarium Experiment.

The Seventeenth Slave, Copyright © 2018 by Jade Kerrion.

The Tower House Prisoner, Copyright © 2018 by Ken Pelham.

Her Midnight Ride, Copyright © 2018 by Bria Burton.

Remuda, Copyright © 2018 by Elle Andrews Patt

Knowledge is Power, Copyright © 2018 by T.L. Woolsley.

Highball, Copyright © 2018 by Kristin Durfee.

The Orchid Man, Copyright © 2018 by Charles A. Cornell.

Dragon Lure, Copyright © 2018 by John Hope.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce or distribute this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, contact The Alvarium Experiment or Blue Beech Press.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the authors' imaginations. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. With the exception of public figures, any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental. Any historical personages or actual events depicted are completely fictionalized and used only for inspiration. Any opinions expressed are completely those of fictionalized characters and not a reflection of the views of public figures, writers, or publisher.

Front and back cover designs by Charles A. Cornell

Cover images licensed from Shutterstock.com

The Prometheus Saga 2/ A Speculative Fiction Anthology -- 1st ed. Ebook 2023

ISBN: 978-1-960974-04-4 (Ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-960974-05-1 (PB)

About The Alvarium Experiment

The Alvarium Experiment is a consortium of writers working independently together to create short stories based on a central premise. The name comes from the Latin alvarium, meaning beehive, a colony working towards a common goal for the benefit of all involved.

The Prometheus Saga 2 is the fourth collection published by this Hive Mind of award-winning and bestselling authors. Stories from the first, The Prometheus Saga, collectively won seven literary awards including five prestigious Royal Palm Literary Awards from the Florida Writers Association. The second anthology, Return to Earth, has multiple stories that have received recognition for awards.

To follow The Alvarium Experiment's current and future projects online, please join the conversation:

Website:

alvariumexperiment.wixsite.com/prometheussaga

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or @alvariumbooks

About The Prometheus Saga 2

The Prometheus Saga is the fourth project of the Alvarium Experiment, a consortium of accomplished and award-winning authors. Each author was given a central premise of an alien probe living on Earth from the start of humankind as a human with an analytical, computerized brain, a nearly immortal functioning human body, with the ability to experience all human pleasures except procreation, eschew food and sleep, heal itself, awaken from apparent death, sample DNA in order to pupate into different genders and ages at any time of its choosing, and an objective outlook that discourages judgement and emotional development. The probe, Prometheus, is unaware of its purpose, but discerns its differences, is aware that the directives it sometimes hears within its head are not its own, and over its thousands years of existence has developed its own mental reckoning towards human situations, emotions, and its place within the humankind.

The authors were allowed the freedom to interpret this premise within the timeframe of human history to current day. Except for time period as Prometheus cannot be two places at once, the authors were generally unaware of the contents of each others' stories before they were individually published. The stories do not need to be read in any particular order as any story can become an entry point for the reader.

The Prometheus Saga 2 stories and authors are:

The Seventeenth Slave by Jade Kerrion. Fu Hao, daughter of a chieftain, accepts the greatest of honors--to be one of King Wu Ding's sixty wives--propelling her to power in the Shang Dynasty and into the annals of history. No one speaks of the mysterious amah who attended Fu Hao from her first to last breath. More devoted than a mother and possessed of the wisdom of ages, the amah transforms a girl-child into a queen, high priestess, and warlord. This is Fu Hao's story. And this is the story of the long-forgotten seventeenth slave…

Visit Jade at www.jadekerrion.com.

The Tower House Prisoner by Ken Pelham. Captain Farnham, given the unhappy task of bringing to heel a renegade English lord in a backwater of 17th century Ireland, frees a most peculiar prisoner and finds himself embroiled in the hysteria of the witch hunt. Can he uncover the truth of the tower house prisoner without being led himself to the hangman’s noose?

Visit Ken at www.kenpelham.com.

"Her Midnight Ride" by Bria Burton. Awed by an extraordinary patriot spy, sixteen-year-old Sybil Ludington longs for a chance to prove her worth to the cause of American Independence. When the British attack the city of Danbury, she volunteers for a dangerous mission, one she may not survive.

Visit Bria at www.briaburton.com.

Remuda by Elle Andrews Patt. It’s 1886 and seventeen-year-old Ranger Jacobs finally has the chance to prove his commitment to Jacobs Cattle Company by overseeing the remuda on a high-priced cattle drive. When his favorite horse dies, Ranger’s new mount tests his mettle, launching him on a journey of discovery that threatens to destroy his lifelong dreams of taking over the company his grandfather built. Not to mention shatter his heart. Will contact with Prometheus shape Ranger’s destiny or leave his future in the hands of fate?

Visit Elle at www.elleandrewspatt.com.

"Knowledge is Power" by T.L. Woolsley. In New Orleans in the midst of the Roaring Twenties, there are plenty of places to go drinking and dancing. For one young woman, all the fun can’t distract her from the bully at work who makes her life miserable. A new co-worker encourages her to stand up for herself. Soon the bully will find out . . . Knowledge is Power.

Visit T.L. Woolsley at www.tlwoolsley.com.

"Highball" by Kristin Durfee. A veterinarian in gangster-ridden Chicago discovers a dog in need of his help. When it turns out the animal is involved in the Bugs Moran crime syndicate, the vet gets a front row seat to the inner workings of the Chicago crime family and their impending tragedy.

Visit Kristin at www.kristindurfee.com.

The Orchid Man by Charles A. Cornell. Vietnam, 1968. A student of Chinese medicine is kidnapped by Vietcong guerrillas. American helicopters arrive to face a large North Vietnamese force. All hell is about to be unleashed on the jungle and its hidden orchid garden, a place in later years that holds powerful emotions for those who survived the Vietnam War.

Visit Charles at www.charlesacornell.com.

Dragon Lure by John Hope. In the final days of seventh grade, a simple teenage video game addiction spirals into an unthinkable myriad of computer hacks and murder for two friends who soon find themselves in the middle of a complex game of espionage.

Visit John at www.johnhopewriting.com.

Introduction

What’s past is prologue . . .

—William Shakespeare, The Tempest

The individual keeps watch on other individuals. Societies keep watch on other societies. Civilizations keep watch on other civilizations. It has always been so. Keeping watch is sometimes benevolent, sometimes malevolent. It is most certainly prudent.

It is not a trait exclusive to the human species.

Out of such prudence an advanced intelligence, far across the vastness of space, delivered to Earth a probe 40,000 years ago, to observe and report the progress of the human species. This probe was born here fully formed, a human being, engineered from the DNA of Homo sapiens. It possessed our skin, our organs, our skeleton, our muscles.

And it still lives among us.

The probe keeps watch.

The probe is one of us. Almost. It possesses a nuclear quantum computer brain, emitting a low-level electromagnetic field. It manipulates DNA and stem cells, healing itself as needed. It dies but remains immortal. It enters human societies, adopting any guise, any race, any gender, any age it wishes, following a three-month metamorphosis. It witnesses the events, great and small, good and bad, that shape our destiny.

The probe keeps watch.

Everything it sees, hears, feels, experiences, and thinks, it flashes instantaneously across a thousand light-years, in real-time quantum-entangled communication with the intelligence that sent it here.

The probe keeps watch. And sometimes it acts.

—The Authors of the Prometheus Saga

Contents

THE SEVENTEENTH SLAVE

Jade Kerrion

THE TOWER HOUSE PRISONER

Ken Pelham

HER MIDNIGHT RIDE

Bria Burton

REMUDA

Elle Andrews Patt

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER

T.L. Woolsley

HIGHBALL

Kristin Durfee

THE ORCHID MAN

Charles A. Cornell

DRAGON LURE

John Hope

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

JADE KERRION

KEN PELHAM

BRIA BURTON

ELLE ANDREWS PATT

T. L. WOOLSLEY

KRISTIN DURFEE

CHARLES A. CORNELL

JOHN HOPE

MORE FROM THE ALVARIUM EXPERIMENT

THE SEVENTEENTH SLAVE

Jade Kerrion

1192 BCE

They buried me alive.

I was one of seventeen slaves selected to serve the Lady Fu Hao in the afterlife, the only one who walked down the steps into her tomb. The others had opted for a final meal of sweet buns infused with herbal concoctions. Their slumbering bodies were arranged in the chamber beneath her lacquered casket. Sleep eased into death.

As for me, the end was easier to face. It was never final.

Death, however, was far from my thoughts as I lay at the head of her casket. It was my right. The midwife who delivered her from her mother’s womb had placed her directly in my arms. I was the first to hold her.

I was the last to bid her farewell.

The rhythmic clangs of the gongs anchored the sonorous, melodic chants of the monks. The air, heavily infused with incense, made my nose run, as it always did. It would almost be a relief to exchange this life, made tedious by the Shang rituals, for another.

Yet, incense or not, I would have stayed as long as she needed me.

Fu Hao’s mother had been a thin, sickly creature, so I, her nurse, her amah, tended to the infant from the moment of her birth. I fed her and rocked her when her white baby teeth pushed through her aching gums—her red face scrunched up, tears streaming down her chubby cheeks. She kicked; she wailed; her fists pounded the air. Even then, she railed at things she could not control.

I steadied Fu Hao’s first steps. I taught her how to read. We spent long days wandering the steppes on the outskirts of the town. Far from the scrutiny of others, I showed her how to ride a horse and wield a dagger-axe. Her preferred defense was to attack; no one ever expected it of the solemn-faced young woman. She was faster than she was strong, the precision of her skill always triumphant over brute force. I told her stories of ancient battles, and together, we analyzed military strategies and tactics. When she asked me how I—a simple nurse—knew so much about the art of war, I evaded her question.

How could I reply when I did not know the answer? I had lived one life after another, in one body after another—and I never understood why.

Yet, in Fu Hao, I almost found the answer. My life revolved around raising her. I was the person she smiled at, the person she yelled at, the person who dressed her for her wedding.

She was nineteen then, well beyond marriageable age. Her mother had despaired for her. Her father might have too, if he—the tribe’s leader—were not so absorbed in walking the fine line between peace and independence. Fu Hao’s family lands bordered those of the Shang, and the Shang king, Wu Ding, was acquisitive.

Fortunately, Wu Ding did not believe war was the answer to everything. He made peace and extended his influence with sixty-four neighboring tribes by marrying women from those tribes.

Fu Hao was among the sixty-four.

On her wedding day, she scowled at her hazy reflection in the bronze mirror as I dressed her for the ceremony. When will he lose interest in me?

Why would the king lose interest in you? I secured a stray strand of hair with a pin and tucked it under her headdress.

She spread her arms, the gesture encompassing King Wu Ding’s massive wedding entourage, which included many of his other wives. I could not get from any of them more than two minutes of conversation that did not involve clothes or food. I’m going to be the king’s mad wife, stalking the corridors, mumbling to herself, and tearing her hair out for lack of intelligent conversation.

I chuckled. Fu Hao did not tend toward melodrama, but she was not incapable of exaggeration.

Her scowl deepened. This is not funny. Why didn’t my father pick someone else to give to that man?

"Probably because that man, the king— I reminded her, —would not have settled for anyone less than you."

I’m too old to marry. Too old to change my ways.

At nineteen, no less. I nodded sagely. It was always safer to let her talk her way back to rationality, than to attempt to argue her into it. I hear that the capital city is beautiful.

I don’t want to go to Yin. It’s crowded and dirty. Too many people make me nervous. I want to do what I want—not what a dirty old man wants.

The king is quite clean—his slaves were scurrying around preparing his bath just yesterday—and not too old. I pressed my hands down on Fu Hao’s shoulders. The pressure steadied her, as it always did. Her breathing slowed. She sat up straight, head high, and stared at herself in the mirror.

Fu Hao was not particularly pretty, but her direct gaze was compelling. Her keen intelligence made her beautiful.

It’s a marriage, not imprisonment, I reminded her. What you make of it is up to you.

I will not be one of seventy.

Sixty-four, I corrected gently. And I don’t recommend poisoning the others.

Her eyebrows arched, and I immediately regretted putting that thought in her mind. She seemed to contemplate it for a moment, then sighed. It would take a really long time, wouldn’t it? But what else do I have to do with all that time on my hands?

I hoped she was joking, but with Fu Hao, one could never be sure. I lingered on the outer edges of the voluminous tent erected for the wedding ceremony, which dragged on for hours with rituals, divinations, and sacrifices to the high god Di, the powers of nature, and innumerable ancestors. I would have left—my nose dribbled constantly from the pungent incense—but I stayed for her. Fu Hao remained mostly stoic; she rolled her eyes only once, when a sacrifice was made to a long-deceased concubine of a past emperor.

Wu Ding and Fu Hao scarcely looked at each other. It did not bode well for them.

In the morning, another slave sought me out. Fu Hao had sent for me.

I walked into her wedding chamber. She sat on a stool, staring at herself in the mirror as she combed out her hair. I took the brush from her to finish the task. For a long moment, neither of us said anything until I broke the silence with, Well?

We talked, she said simply.

In her voice, I heard wonder, not belligerency, and I waited.

The long strokes of the brush through her hair calmed her, as it always had. A faint flush crept into her cheeks. We did…other things too, but mostly we talked. Fu Hao expelled her breath in a soft sigh. A smile touched her lips. I think we could be friends.

My smile concealed the ache deep in my chest. I will supervise the packing of your belongings. In a week, he will return to Yin, and you with him.

Fu Hao’s gaze met mine in the reflection of her mirror. The other slaves can pack for me. You will pack your things. You are coming with me.

Her command, casually issued, rebirthed hope in me and restored joy to my days. I followed Fu Hao to the Shang capital city of Yin, but we did not stay long. The king’s aged father died, forcing Wu Ding into a three-year period of mourning. Sulking in the royal palace for three years would have driven Fu Hao insane, so she talked her husband into a tour of the country.

Naturally, I accompanied Fu Hao, preparing her tea in the morning and evening. I supervised the slaves who washed her clothes, polished her dagger-axes, groomed her warhorses, and fed her dogs. I inspected the kitchens where elaborate multi-course meals were prepared for her and her husband. I was her amah, and in China’s semi-matriarchal slave culture—the same culture that allowed Fu Hao to rise through the ranks to become Wu Ding’s most favored consort—I was honored as the manager of her household.

Those three years were among the happiest of Fu Hao’s life. She rode beside her husband to inspect crops and irrigation systems. At meetings with local officials, she sat next to the king, who seemed content to let his wife ask questions on all matters of public interests, from agriculture to trade, from crime rates to foreign treaties. In the evenings, I brought her tea to her bedroom, then withdrew. Often Fu Hao and Wu Ding, engaged in private heated debate over what to do with the hsiung nu, the barbarians clamoring on the empire’s frontiers, did not even seem to notice that I had come and gone.

The next day, though, the tea cups were always empty. That morning, as I often did, I took up the hairbrush and drew it through Fu Hao’s long hair. She wore an ornate gown, one she reserved for the most solemn rituals. She toyed with her glittering jade pendant, a wedding gift from her husband. You are thinking hard, I said quietly as I gathered her hair and pinned it away from her face.

I leave for the north. Tonight. You will come with me.

Of course, I answered immediately, then an awful thought occurred to me. Does the king know?

She glared at me from her reflection in the mirror.

The door opened and the king walked into the room. I lowered my head and my gaze, for whatever good it did. To the king, I was merely an accessory, one that was present wherever his wife was. Wu Ding looked at Fu Hao. They are waiting for you.

I glanced at Fu Hao. For an instant, her direct gaze quavered. I pressed my hands on her shoulders, steadying her. Her shoulders straight, her head held high, she followed her husband from the room.

I trailed behind Fu Hao and the king to the large room where religious ceremonies were conducted. The air was already cloudy with heavy incense. My nose started running and my eyes stung, but I squinted as the diviner inscribed questions on the tortoise shell. He raised it above his head, invoked the high god and the ancestors, then ceremoniously cracked it upon the bronze altar.

The old priest bent low, his eyes narrowed as he divined the answers from the cracks in the tortoise shell. He straightened and stared at Fu Hao.

I held my breath.

The diviner spoke, his voice resonant with authority. The ancestors will spread their blessings over you.

The king smiled. His gesture summoned two servants carrying a large bronze jue between them. The three-legged drinking vessel, used for ceremonial rituals, was presented to Fu Hao, who bowed and accepted it with gracious formality.

The formality evaporated the moment Fu Hao stepped out of the room. She waved her hand in front of her face to dismiss the fragrant fumes. Her gaze fell on me. Have you finished packing? Her sharp tone quivered with impatience.

I stammered. Uh, where we are going?

To defend our borders from the Tu Fang.

The bronze jue marked Fu Hao’s first military commission from her husband, the king. Political expediency and military emergency made it inevitable. The two leading Shang military commanders were spearheading campaigns in the southeast and the southwest when the Tu Fang threatened the northern boundaries. Fu Hao stepped in because—it was the sort of person she was.

She understood the geography of the land; she handled dagger-axes and warhorses better than many soldiers; and her aptitude for military strategy was keener even than the king’s greatest generals. The right to lead was conferred by the jue, but the respect of her troops she earned by leading them into battle.

What would you have done if the divinations did not favor you? I asked her one cool morning as we stood outside her tent. The stink of men and horses surrounded us, as did the smell of smoke from the extinguished camp fires. Her horse was already saddled, and she wore leather armor over her simple clothes. Her dagger-axe, mounted on a pole like a spear-head, gleamed in the rising sun.

She arched her eyebrow. You told me to make of this marriage what I would. Why would I let a cracked tortoise shell get in my way? She took a final sip of her tea and handed the cup back to me before mounting her black horse.

You would have ignored the divination?

She shrugged. I would have turned the tortoise shell until the priest read in the cracks what I wanted him to read.

I laughed and watched as she rode to take her place at the head of her army. My heartbeat quickened as it always did for her. I believed in no god, but I prayed for Fu Hao’s safe return.

She did not return that night, nor the next morning. It was past noon the next day when her army finally returned to the camp, all of her men filthy, many of them wounded.

Terror cramped my stomach.

The whinny of horses and the stamp of hooves drowned out the shouts of men. My gaze swept across the beasts. There were far too many steeds without riders—far more than Fu Hao had led into war—and most of them bore the crudely hewn Tu Fang leather saddles. My fear melted into the glimmer of hope. Had we won?

The vicious, victorious grins on the faces of the Shang troops confirmed it. Even so, it was hours before I found Fu Hao in the tents of her men, tending to the wounded. Hope soared into joy. I am not hurt, she insisted, fending me off when I tried to examine her.

I tried not to flutter around her like an anxious mother hen. You have to sit, you have to rest.

Just get me some tea. Fu Hao dismissed me with a flick of her wrist. I will eat later.

Later turned out to be many hours past midnight. I was waiting in her tent when she returned, her limbs dragging with exhaustion. Her smile, however, was radiant. I had never seen her so happy, nor so filthy. Her clothes would have to be burnt. I scrubbed nearly forty hours of battle grime from her body. She was already falling asleep as I dried her hair and brushed out the knots.

To my eyes, she was still just Fu Hao—a little girl turned woman, too brilliant and willful to be ordinary.

To everyone else, she had changed. Fu Hao had left Yin as the king’s favored consort. She would return to the capital city as his favorite general. She had routed the Tu Fang so decisively that they never rose again to challenge the Shang empire.

The acclaim and favor of the people made it easy for Wu Ding to exalt her as high priestess. Fu Hao conducted sacrifices to appease