Graff’S Progression: The Fine Art of Becoming

Copyright © 2017 by H. E. Covey Jr.

ISBN:                   Softcover                               978-1-5144-6646-9

                           eBook                                       978-1-5144-6645-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/29/2018

Xlibris

0-800-443-678

www.Xlibris.co.nz

769694

Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Also By This Author

∞

Fiction

∞

Griff Goode Series

The Fire in Which We Burn

A Magical Way to Freeze

Troubled Times

Skirting Mintaka Series

Skirting Mintaka

Non-Fiction

∞

Shaking the Grits Bush

(The Memoirs of a Southern Delicacy)

Pedigree

(A Pedigree and Short History of the Covey,

Fondessy, Austin and Culbreth families)

(Co-author Diane Taube Witt)

For

Mr. Verne

Mr. Bradburry

and

Mr. Rice Burroughs

For Siobhan, my beautiful wife and

inspiration to create.

And if you’re wearing a red shirt on an away

mission, without a plate of Miss Cassie’s

chocolate chip cookies, you’re in my prayers.

INTRODUCTION

Some decades ago a literary fan, after reading a certain novel had the opportunity to ask the book’s author what became of the main character after the end of the story. The book was a nationwide phenomenon if it had not, at that time, become a worldwide success. The author, J.R.R. Tolkien had very little in mind to respond with. In his immediate opinion The Hobbit, the adventure story that has spawned movies and role playing games for the better part of a century, may have encapsulated all that needed to be said or told of Bilbo Baggins. Neither Tolkien nor the literary world were finished with each other.

Why sequels or for that matter prequels

If anyone of us has seen a sequel of a movie, read a novel involving a group of work from a favourite author or at any point become loyal enough to watch episode after episode of one of their favourite television shows the purpose of any sequel has made its point, loud and clear. Our need is simple. More of the same please. We want to know if the guy in the white hat will sneak out of the canyon, past the Indians and safely back to civilization. It’s what we do. Not satisfied with what seems to the best the hero can do, we wait for the next episode and say we want more.

Sequels feed us with the exploits of heroes, dashing robbers and explorers. They are the imaginary blueprint of the person, who for even a moment, we would like to be. For the amount of time it takes to finish a book or watch a movie we became that hero, dashing robber or explorer, developing the ability to relate to the imaginary events that they are living through. At the same time prequels anticipate the why effect. In the same effect that every reaction had to first result from an action, every hero or villain had to have a beginning.

Skirting Mintaka was written as a response to a personal challenge to expand, to surpass in size the first two of my novels. At the same time I wanted to put into writing the idea of book, inspired by a character that one of my nieces was using in a game. I followed her original design as closely as I could applying a story and personality that gave her plenty of attitude and thirst for adventure.

There is a bit of a hunger when you create something, drawing on energy tapped from resources previously untapped. Just like the readers that any author hopes to entertain you want more. Unlike the people that read your work you become an indentured servant to your own creation, attached to your keyboard. The hours that I spent at my desk, typing on my keyboard in a posture somewhat akin to the image of Ben Hur toiling at the oar of a Roman galleon. The only difference being that as a writer you are chained to the oar by choice.

Somewhere between the first and last words of this book I want the reader to have a much better understanding of its main character and his experiences on the way to becoming the antagonist that he was in Skirting Mintaka. Somewhere, at some point, events will change the mentality of the main character into the one he eventually becomes.

Like my first two books Graff’s Progression is my new creation, a new Frankenstein’s monster released onto streets inhabited by villagers, waiting to be invited to dinner or be driven away with pitchforks and torches. While you, the reader, are making up your mind whether to lavish me with boiled peanuts and grits or show me the door please remember what each of us learned as children and still adhere to.

Sticks and stones may break my bones… so please don’t through sticks and stones. If that does not stir the coals and embers of you human pity just follow one of my mother’s favourite pieces of kind advice.

Never tease a Weasel because teasing isn’t nice. (Conder Soule, Jean. (1964) Never Tease a Weasel.)

To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction.

(Excerpt from Newton’s Third Law of Motion)

Action

ˈact (ə) n/

Noun

1.

The fact or process of doing something, typically to achieve an aim.

Ending child labour will require action on many levels

2.

A thing done; an act.

She frequently questioned his actions

Verb

1.

Take action on; deal with.

Your request will be actioned

PROLOGUE

To the perspective of anyone at a sufficient distance away, either ahead of or behind the two specks, they were just that. Both pin pricks, one slightly defined and the other small enough to be unnoticeable, took up nearly the same space with only a distance of a few kilometres between the two. If an observer moving ahead of the pair should come to a controlled stop or slow in speed he or she would notice a slow change taking place at such a subtle pace that he or she would barely notice the visible changes from minute specks to defined objects, both on the same relative course and at the same speed. The smaller of the two, if being observed by a third party, could and possibly would be compared to a smaller child keeping pace with a much larger sibling or an over curious canine following close, showing complete adoration for a larger playmate. In effect an observer could and most likely would assume one of one hundred possibilities might be true.

The two ships, one much smaller than the other and keeping at a safe distance, were well aware of each other’s presence. The smaller of the two was safely outside the range of touch by the much larger of the pair. If the minute vessel was an annoyance to its playmate there were no signs of evidence. The smaller vessel had only recently joined the larger ship’s pilgrimage a few slow hours before not as much out of curiosity but out of a desire of defensive observation much as a wild animal watches another that has strayed too close to its territory for comfort. Unknown to the larger of the two, a photographic and video report was being compiled and added to any mental notes that the pilot of the smaller craft hope to remember.

The smaller vessel, satisfied with whatever its efforts had resulted in, turned away from the object of interest in a wide starboard turn and fired its engines, sending it on a course at a diagonal angle, down and away, disappearing from what it hoped to be any range of interest. If the larger of the two vessels were in fact a living thing it may have possibly considered the departure of the smaller ship as an end to some annoyance and continued its journey, pushing ahead through space that it had already decided was its own.

CHAPTER ONE

The concept of space folding back onto itself was at yet unproven, the substance of space, believed to be an open expanse, itself dotted with stationary or orbital bodies, both natural or manufactured. Engineers and technicians, however challenged, worked at the purpose of including all possibilities when designing the latest methods for moving through the unincorporated dark expanse. Suspensory fields moulded to ships like suits of armour, offering unseen protection from any intrusions or hazards, even the hypothetical.

The Maelstrom, although larger than any other ship in the fleet of Dominion battleships, was built for an extra element of intimidation. In situations where her size alone was not enough to secure clear movement her outer shielding was provided enough protection to simply push small objects away to a safe distance before compacting on her hull. Her superstructure covered only a small portion of the enclosed flight deck, seven times larger than that of any other ship in the fleet, connected to each by seven branches of smaller, extended tram works resembling straight fingers declining at even slopes from the command centre until reaching their separate points of concern. Like other ships of the Dominion fleet most of her exterior hull was a mixture of white and grey. Unlike smaller vessels whose size accommodated stealth technology the Maelstrom and her sister ships depended on sheer intimidation at her size or knowledge of her approach. At least twenty-five percent of her remained hidden, recessed into the ships outer hull until close enough to enough a firing solution with a near perfect percent of accuracy.

The open control centre was sectioned for each department of the ship’s functions separated and woven with raised catwalks allowing unhindered movement of deck and division officers. Like the passageways connection the ship’s command centre to her different flight decks, the raised catwalks radiated from the tower section of the central bridge, ending at a forward section, serving as a viewing station, metres inside the safety of the forward windows, at least forty metres in height by one hundred wide. While giving away the secrets of the means by which the ship was kept alive and functional, the bridge slash command centre was no less impressive that her extra view.

The Sub-vice Commander struggled with his tunic making sure that, even when not in the presence of superior officers, his gig line was perfect, running from the centre of his raised collar, down the centre fastener of his tunic to the hidden forward edge of his belt. Visual impressions on his subordinates were as important as the orders that he expected them to follow. Happy to avoid a family that he considered below his new status, the specialist opted for immediate placement after graduation from his training. Anyone not connected with the purpose of his military advancement became a ghost, an emotional obstacle that he no longer had room for. What he had room for at this point was setting and achieving goals.

Each click and hum emitted from the different work stations in Vice Sub Commander Graff’s Department spoke thousands of words in their own electronic dialect. He studied several military sciences in the academy but recognisance and surveillance came to him almost naturally. Reducing a target to minute particles was one thing, finding the target, knowing how and where to look was another. Even his least powerful sonar and radar systems could pinpoint vessels hours before they could be picked up on the ship’s monitors. He programmed, with a justifiable level of success, long range drones while the concept of such technology was still in its infancy.

The young officer stared ahead to the massive windows guarding the command centre from the vacuum of deep space, the hair on the back of his neck like needles against the fine fur that covered his body. Looking anywhere to the rear section of the lower bridge presented too much of a chance of glancing up at darkened windows of the commander’s personal observation lounge. The issued communication devices allowed each deck officer the ability to relay information and receive orders without the worry of entering the room where few of their peers ever returned from. The second purpose served by personal communicators was allowing contact with subordinates when conversation demanded more privacy.

Dead Reckoning. CIC officer Graff’s approaches were rarely the result of open conversation. Secrecy covered a wide area even on a battleship where hundreds of fellow officers became adversaries when promotion points were rewarded not only for performance but specifically performing before the next officer had a chance to. The subordinate crew member, only six solar months on board but long enough to know his division officer’s reputation when dissatisfied with results, stared straight ahead at his workstation monitor. The information that he knew his superior was looking for was completely under the table status and meant for him only. He switched his communications terminal over to a private line before responding.

Aye Sir.

Were you able to get a fix and time on our last contact? Anyone receiving such a question from this particular division officer knew that the calm, unintimidating tone was