Bionic Woman, Next

I’ve been excited about the new Bionic Woman ever since I first saw the trailers for it back a few months ago. And, happily enough, this past Wednesday the wait was over…as the first episode (the pilot) aired. Going into the show I had had high expectations. I mean, the original Bionic Woman–let’s face it–was, well, corny. Albeit the technology, of course, was no where near today’s. But, the storyline left much to be desired. Heh. Then again, that was TV at the time–particularly sci-fi shows in general. So…I knew whatever would be on the screen would be an improvement. Or, was it?

Well…forget about what you knew. This Bionic Woman is nothing like its predecessor. In fact, the first few scenes make this quite clear. With a trail of dead bodies and blood splattered everywhere and the murdering fiend a half-naked woman kneeling on an examination table, I think the point is made: the Bionic Woman is a weapon, an extremely lethal and effective killing machine. This is the biggest difference. The show is, for a lack of a better word, gritty.

We first meet Jamie Sommers in a rundown tenament building where we learn she lives with her younger sister, Becca. There is love between the two sisters but it’s strained–hmm…like in most sibling relationships. Jamie is a barkeep at a local establishment. Her boyfriend, Anthony Anthros, is a scientific type.

On the way home one evening, the car Anthony is driving with Jamie as the passenger is struck by a big rig (only the cab). We plainly see the driver is dead, and a blond-haired woman is driving instead; the woman is the same one we saw at the beginning of the show. She had rammed the car. Later on, we learn she is the first “bionic woman”. And she has a bone to pick with Jamie and Anthony. Anyway.

All right, so we have a catalyst as to why Jamie was implanted with cybernetics and turned into the next Bionic Woman–her boyfriend wanted to save her. However…

The show doesn’t really catch my interest like I thought it might. It reminds me of Dark Angel. In fact, put Dark Angel and Alias together and that’s what it feels like. Don’t get me wrong, I liked those shows, but…There’s just nothing really here worth spending an hour to watch. It could have been a lot better. Next.

Next. I’ll try to be gentle.

Julianne Moore, Jessica Biel…oh yeah. Starring Nicolas Cage, and the aforementioned ladies, Next is a sci-fi/action adventure film. The basic premise is that washed-out Las Vegas stage magician Cris “Frank Cadillac” Johnson (Cage) can see two minutes into the future–his future. He makes his money in the casinos on the Strip, using his precognitive talent.

*spoilers*

Cris finishes his stage act one night and decides to visit a casino to get some funds. While he’s playing security is watching him (as they usually do) and are amazed at how infallible his luck is. They decide to send some guards down to escort him out. However, he already knows they’re coming for him, thanks to his two-minute-ahead knowledge. He gets up from the table to go cash in his winnings.

At the window, the woman gives him the money and then a man approaches with a gun, telling the woman to hand over all the money in the vault. She hesitates. Two guards show up, both of which the man aptly shoots dead. That’s when the scene jumps back to the man just now approaching. We, as viewers, had had our first glimpse into Cris’s talent.

Cris sees the man approach and reach for the handgun he has tucked in his waistband. He tackles the man and, in true Hollywood obliviousness, picks up the gun. The guards show up and believe Cris, since he’s holding the gun, to be the armed robber. Seeing that he’ll be arrested, Cris takes off toward the exit. This sequence of Next is actually well done and amusing. Cris thwarts the casino’s security at every turn, through some rather inventive ways. When he makes it outside he steals a car for his getaway.

The police give chase. Cris tries to avoid them, and only when he reaches a railroad crossing does he get away. However, the first time he’s hit by the train because he wasn’t going fast enough. Only on his second attempt does he make it.

Arriving at his home, a rundown warehouse on the outskirts of Las Vegas, he parks the car and meets up with an older man, who is either is father or a friend (this is never explained). They have a discussion about the car (Cris tells the old man its stolen), and the two of them speak of some girl who we’ve yet to meet. Cris says he has never been able “to see as far as with this one”.

Meanwhile, the FBI is trying to locate a stolen nuclear warhead that some unknown terrorist organization is planning on using to blow up Los Angeles. Agent Callie Ferris (Moore) has been watching Cris Johnson for sometime now. She believes that he might be able, through the use of his skills, to help the FBI locate the bomb. However, we learn from Cris that he can only see his future…

Agent Ferris locates Cris; she confronts him sometime after he arrives at the warehouse. She asks for his help; she tells him that his talent might help save eight million lives. The garage door opens and outside are several armed FBI agents. Cris tells Agent Ferris he has to “leave”.

Cris had just seen what could be if he didn’t skip town.

The next day, Cris heads to his favorite diner where he awaits the girl he’s been seeing in his visions. She comes in and sits down and he tries multiple passes on her–usually being told to go away. But, finally, when her ex-boyfriend comes in causing a scene, he gets up and confronts him, receiving a punch in the face for his efforts…and the girl.

Cris learns the girl’s name is Liz Cooper. She apologizes for her boyfriend’s behavior and offers him a ride–after he says he’s on his way to Flagstaff to pick up his car that was stolen.

The two of them head for Flagstaff, making a stop at a Native American reservation where Liz teaches sometimes (it’s one of the kids birthdays). They’re delayed as a thunderstorm has washed out part of the road–a DOT official tells them about a motel but Cris already knows it: the Cliffhanger.

Agent Ferris finds Cris and Liz after interviewing people at the diner, and hearing of the DOT official’s story that he had directed a couple away from the roadblock (he was surprised the man knew what he was going to suggest before he had said it). This leads her and the FBI to the Cliffhanger.

At first, Liz is a little unsure of Cris, but soon (in typical Hollywood fashion) she comes to like him. The two of them end up making love. The next morning Cris awakes to find the FBI outside waiting for him–not to mention some terrorists. Anyway.

Through several flash forwards we learn that Cris saves Liz from the terrorists (who kidnapped her as he ran from the FBI) and that the nuclear warhead did indeed go off. However, after the bomb explodes, we’re taken back to him just waking up. The credits roll, and that’s the movie.

I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed with the way they decided to end the film. After all, we have no idea if Cris Johnson did, in fact, save the day or not. However, with that said, Next has some cool special effects and the actors do their best to shore up a troubled storyline. Overall, I’d recommend either renting this movie or watching it on On Demand.

Fantasy Literature Loses One of Its Finest

I’m not even sure I know what to write in this post–I’m think still somewhat in shock. And this is how I get when I’m such a condition. But, just now, I decided to check in at Dragonmount.com, a site dedicated Robert Jordan, the author of the hugely successful The Wheel of Time fantasy book series (which I have so thoroughly enjoyed, and which, as a writer, as so thoroughly influenced me), to see if their was any news on his condition. He’s been ill for the past year or so with a rare blood disease known as amyloidosis. Dragonmount hosts his blog, which is why I was going there…

I learned that, well, James Oliver Rigney, Jr. (Robert Jordan) had, sadly, passed away last Sunday. It’s still hard to comprehend, but, alas, it’s the truth. His writing was some of the best–it did things to me, made me feel things, things that, in the end, caused me to want to become a writer (or, rather, solidified the want). He showed me, through his stories, that writing is much more than just mere words on paper. His words made me laugh at times, and made me desperate to turn the page at others.

The Light shine on you Robert Jordan, and on Harriet.

I guess that’s really all I can say.

Willie Nelson’s Country Peach Cobbler

Thus far, in the past few months, I’ve consumed many containers of Ben and Jerry’s icecream. I’ve tried various flavors and have come to the conclusion that, out of the ones I sampled, Willie Nelson’s Country Peach Cobbler is the best. I say this because the flavor and texture caused me to think I was, indeed, eating peach cobbler. Sure, there were some close runners up, such as Vermonty Python (which has a nice creamy, chocolate, coffee liquor taste), but I could eat gallons of Willie Nelson’s flavor and not get tired of it.

Just to show how many flavors I did try, I kept all the containers and, geekly (my new trademarked word), took a picture of the collection. Of course, afterwards, I threw all the containers away. So, here you are:

Willie Nelson’s Country Peach Cobbler, try saying that 10 times fast. It’s a tongue twister, that’s for sure. And, yes, I tried Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream, too. No offense Stephen, it was all right but could have been better

Fridge

This weekend was interesting…My parents bought me a new refrigerator for the house; the old one was quite small and didn’t even have an ice-maker. Needless to say, I was happy and didn’t really mind what they were planning on getting me. However, I was told, at the store, to pick the one I wanted (as long as it was $900 or less). So…

I’d already done my homework using Consumer Reports and had already decided upon either a GE or Whirlpool. According to CR they have the least amount of problems and, in fact, they rated one of the Whirlpool models to be a “Best Buy”; plus, my parents have a Whirlpool and are very happy with it. Therefore, I was fairly confident in my decision when I found one of the recommended Whirlpool models.

The store (hhgregg) was having a 20% off sale on all appliances, too. Plus, they even threw in free delivery–Sunday delivery at that! So, my parents bought the refrigerator. The next day, it showed up at about noon and the guys took it off the truck and unpacked it in the driveway so I could see that it was new. Now, here’s where things get…interesting. You’d think the two guys would have used a hand truck, right? Nope. While one guy was pulling the old fridge out and disconnecting it, he told me, “Please, empty everything inside.” I’d already emptied anything spillable or breakable, so I thought everything would be fine. Then, the guy tells me they don’t use a hand truck! What the hell?

I had my brother help me empty the old one completely, even taking out the glass shelves inside. We were doing this while the guy went to help his partner carry in the new unit. Next thing I know, I hear the guys come into the house. I look and, strange enough, they’re carrying the refrigerator in using straps. Each had a harness on with a strap attached to it that went beneath the heavy chunk of steel and plastic. Hmm…dangerous? They were steadying it with their hands. It looked pretty damn insane to me. However, with that said, they set the unit down safely and plugged it in and connected the water line.

The guy, the one that spoke English, asked me where I wanted the old unit. I told them out in the garage. Again, they strapped themselves in and carried the old unit into the garage like I had asked. And also, again, it was safely set down. I’m sorry, but I think the whole using straps thing is bizarre. I mean, I’ve seen movers use straps before, but, honestly, I think the store needs to rethink their policy. Anyway.

The new fridge has been running for about 24hrs, now. Of course, the manufacturer tells you to dump the first three batches of ice made by the unit in order to flush the lines. I hope by “the first three batches”, though, they mean the first three times it dumps cubes into the main bin, not until it fills up the main bin three times. That would be crazy. It has, as CR put it, a mediocre ice-maker, which means it’s…slow. So, I’m still waiting to use the ice. I’m sure it’ll be fine once the thing’s flushed. Now…

Let me show a comparison of both units:

I think you can tell which one is which. The old LG on the left is obviously much smaller than the new Whirlpool on the right. The LG, though, does make for a nice bit of extra storage.

Machinima For Dummies

A few days ago I received a rather interesting item in the mail: a free review copy of Machinima For Dummies. The book had just been published, so I was one of the first to ever read it other than the authors or the publisher. What’s strange about it is that the package it was in was addressed to me, but it was to Rise of Nations Oracle! The site hasn’t been in operation for over six months, plus the book has nothing to do with Rise of Nations whatsoever, that I know of. Neither of the authors I think ever worked for Big Huge Games–the developers of Rise of Nations. So. I can’t figure out how, or why, a copy was even sent to me, the humble Ogre. Anyway.

What is Machinima? Well, it’s basically the art of taking material from a game and making a movie out of it. The Movies, a game geared to making your own movie, is probably the most popular way to go about this. Although, people have done it with Halo and many other games that are, well, just games. The For Dummies book covers this from what I’ve read.

Of course, I haven’t done more than peruse through the book. I mean, do I really owe these guys a review? I didn’t ask for the book, after all Still, it’s cool because it’s free. I might just read it for the heck of it, but no guarentees on how long that’ll take. Though, it might not take that long if I decide to go out and buy the expansion pack for The Movies: Stunts and Effects. It looks pretty cool, and I can imagine what type of Machinima movies I could create with that. Hmm…

A Woman’s Scorn

This scene explains what happens after Pierre and Catherine’s first romantic foray. It’s from Catherine’s POV.

Catherine sat in front of her dressing table, distressed by the happenings of earlier and the red mark that was now emblazoned on her cheek where Robert had struck her. That she still could not quite believe. He’d been rough with her before; he’d thrown her about. It was something she had gotten used to, she supposed, ever since coming to New Orleans five years before. Robert had changed drastically as his fortunes had increased once purchasing the de la Mille’s plantation.

Well, she thought, he had—with her help, she reminded herself—turned a dozen profit-losing fields into proverbial goldmines. Order was the key to it all, she knew. Well, that and an overseer with a good, strong whip (a man who wasn’t afraid to teach a slave who was in command). Catherine couldn’t say she precisely admired such, but it did create wealth, something she was very fond of.

However, she was growing weary and wary of her husband’s moods of late. He’d been more abusive than usual—as if the mark on Catherine’s face weren’t proof enough. Yet, there was something there. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she knew Robert wasn’t well. Sure, he had gambled and drank many nights away. But, he had never looked so…so tired.

Angrily, Catherine traced the reddened handprint on her cheek. She glared into the mirror which sat atop the dressing table’s lacquered surface. She traced the angry red spot she saw there with a delicate finger. It would surely disappear in a few hours at most, she thought. Robert hadn’t meant to…hit her. He had just been upset…

Catherine grimaced. She couldn’t believe she was feeling this way for a man whom had just hit her, hit her like a whore! Well, she told herself, you were a whore once. “But,” she whispered to herself sternly, “I’m not, now.”

No. She wasn’t a whore; she was the Lady Catherine McCabe. Royalty (nobility at the very least) was what she was, round here—round New Orleans. For the last five years she’d proven to herself, and to society as a whole, that she was, indeed, a respectable, agreeable lady. Her past as a whore…in St. Giles…was beyond her, now.

Again, she grimaced. “If you’re no longer a whore,” a voice in her head said (one which sounded a lot like Robert’s), “then why do you still indulge yourself? Why have you involved yourself with the de la Mille boy outside of your marriage?”

Catherine knew why. The wonderful ache below told her so; the ache in her cheek above merely confirmed it. She had needed some…attention, some affection. Robert, as if he’d grown tired of her wiles, had left Catherine very alone these days. He’d rather be off in a game of cards with a glass of brandy on the table in front of him, and a wench on his knee.

A storm of clouds suddenly thundered across Catherine’s brow at this thought. He’d rather have that than her. Well, Pierre had seemed happy enough to…have her. There was no doubt there. He’d loved her; he’d said her name reverently like men oft do in the heat of passion, when they truly do admire the woman their with. Besides, Pierre’s touch had been genuine enough; it had sent fire coursing through her very being. In fact, Catherine was scarce to recall such a feeling previous.

Amiable was Pierre. He loved her; and she loved him. Catherine smiled at her apparent ignorance. She hadn’t seen it before tonight? She hadn’t seen the want in his eyes? Oh, she’d seen it there all right; the look his dark eyes had given her at each glimpse. Yes. It was so: the boy loved her. Catherine—perhaps, due to her initial profession in life—had known from the start, from the first moment, the first introduction. It had been in the back of her mind all along: Pierre de la Mille (the boy she had met at five and ten) had fancied her from the beginning. Though, only now had Catherine indulged him.

She hadn’t been his first; Catherine could tell. He’d been too…skilled for that to be the case. Five years she had known him; five years she had seen him grow from a boy to a man. It was the way of nature, she knew. Yet, only within the last year, Catherine thought, had Pierre truly expressed an attachment.

She felt guilty, guilty for taking him to bed. No, she might not have been Pierre’s first, but Catherine understood she had just brought the boy down a road he’d never be able to turn away from. She had given him a taste…a taste for danger. Now, she was sure, he’d be off trying to bed any woman that was a challenge.

Catherine shook her head. The dogs. She still could scarcely believe Robert, even in all his rage, had set the hounds loose on Pierre. This puzzled her, though. Why had he done it? It just didn’t make any sense. Sure, she thought, a husband who was upset because another man had bedded his wife, a wife he was fond of, would have reason? Yes, a man in such an instance would have the right. But…Robert didn’t seem to care for her. Why should he care if she loved another man?

Again, Catherine glared heatedly into the dressing table mirror. The handprint was still there! Disgusted, she flipped the oval-shaped piece of glass so that its dark backing faced her. There was nothing, she realized after a moment, she could do about it. Perhaps, it was a lesson. Perhaps, it (the mark) taught her to be more careful.

With a sigh, Catherine got to her feet, taking the candle and its holder from the bedside table, and strode from her bedroom. She opened the door to the darkened hall and heard Robert’s heavy snores. She headed to the study where she found him passed out on the red-velvet settee. A glass lay broken on the floor; Robert’s hand loosely fallen beside him where its grasp had gone slack. And, Catherine noted, the volume of the crystal decanter’s contents was comparably low.

“Ye look pathetic ye do,” said Catherine in a low voice, hands on hips. “Ye truly do ye lout!” The cockney she’d striven to erase from her being came out. But, she didn’t really care at the moment. Seeing Robert lying as he was, snoring like a bellows, seemingly wasted beyond anything she’d ever seen before, gave Catherine other things to think about.

Robert did look pitiful, she thought. She moved toward the chair in the corner that had a knit throw draped over its back. She caught it up and, before she even realized exactly what she was doing, gathered it atop Robert, her husband, the man she knew she should be loathing at the moment. But…

Many emotions raced through Catherine’s mind. She felt anger, yes; she felt pity. Yet, she could not help but, with the peaceful look now on Robert’s face, feel some sort of love for him. Because, he had loved her once; and part of her still wanted to believe that part of him still did, still loved her. It seemed irrational, yes. However, Catherine couldn’t help herself—that’s what she felt. Anger changed to pity; pity changed to love. And that was that. Then…

Anger flashed through Catherine. The slack hand she had just placed to rest quietly atop the one pressed against Robert’s belly was the same one that had hit her. This she knew. This caused a brooding to stir. Thunderclouds hit Catherine’s pale brow as she knelt to pick up the pieces of broken glass on the floor, which she promptly placed in the bin beside the writing table.

Standing, something metallic caught her eye. Lying precisely near a pile of yet-to-be-opened invitations was a small knife, a letter opener. It gleamed in the candlelight, calling out to Catherine. It would be a simple way to end all the trouble in her life. It promised this; or, at least, in her mind it did.

Reaching for the letter opener, knocking over the stack of envelopes (invitations from the who’s-who of New Orleans society, bidding welcome to any number of various balls and dinner parties of the season) as she did so, Catherine examined the blade. It was short but sharp, sharp enough to easily cause injury to flesh. Again, the silver gleamed as if talking to her. Indeed, it was a beautiful piece of metalwork.

Catherine’s hand began to tremble. A thought…a most wicked thought had entered her mind. She’d seen, and had used, the letter opener many times within the past couple of days. For she had been readying herself for societal events. But, never had she understood what other purposes that tiny blade might be used for.

Licking her lips, she considered. It wouldn’t be too messy, she told herself; she could blame it on bandits, or the like. A single slit across the throat would be quick, she told herself; he wouldn’t suffer long. Just one clean cut, she nodded to herself; he would expire without a sound. It would be over within seconds; there would be no cries for help.

Catherine glanced between her sleeping Robert on the settee and the knife in her hand. The innocent-looking Robert’s chest rose and fell; the innocent-looking letter opener gleamed brightly. Both were so innocent, Catherine thought; but both could be so…dangerous, too.

Dangerous. The word echoed through her skull. The thoughts that were coming to Catherine—the ones invoked by the very word (dangerous)—caused her heart to bump wildly against her bosom. She moved slowly, like a tigress on the prowl, moving toward her prey. With quick breaths she hovered over her sleeping husband, knife in hand.

There she stood for what seemed an eternity.

“Just one cut,” she whispered to herself. “Just one cut.” She nodded. “Won’t take long…over with quickly…”

Deciding to proceed, Catherine reached for Robert’s throat, to hold him still so the cut would, indeed, be clean and precise. She had no desire to…dirty the settee’s velvet with any inconvenient evidence—the less blood the better.

Suddenly, Robert snorted and he sneezed, ending his snoring. His eyes opened for a moment and then closed. “Catherine,” he whispered in his sleep; a smile touched his lips. His breathing grew heavier and soon Robert was back to his snoring.

Surprised, Catherine drew away. Obviously, Robert was still asleep. Though…had he glimpsed her? Had he seen her standing there? His eyes had opened scarcely for a moment, but…why had he whispered her name? She did not know; she had no other explanation other than he had seen her—his subconscious had given her vision name…

Had it also caused him to…to smile?

Catherine’s grip faltered on the letter opener’s handle; it threatened to clank to the floor. She tightened her fingers upon realizing this. Her senses now seeming to come back to her, she wondered what she was doing. Was Robert really that much of a threat to her? Did he truly deserve to…to die? And, was it really her place to decide such? God, she had lost her mind. That’s what she now thought. Besides, this was simply too easy a way to leave her troubles behind. She had always prided herself in her schemes. She could do better than this, she thought; yes, she could.

Slinking away from Robert’s side, Catherine replaced the letter opener in its spot atop the writing desk. She felt sick to her stomach as the silver blade left her hand. Murder, she realized; she had come close to murder. “God,” she whispered, looking up, “please, forgive me.”

She might once have been, and was, a lot of things—whore, thief, lady-in-disguise—but surely she was—she swallowed—no murderer. A whore was one thing, a thief another, but…a murderer was something completely separate, something horrible and terrible and altogether alien to Catherine’s mind. Murder. Was she capable of it? Catherine shook her head—she didn’t want to know, she didn’t want to think more on it.

So, afraid of “what she was capable of”, Catherine whisked solemnly from the study, leaving Robert to his drunken sleep. She was, she told herself firmly, no murderer.

When Catherine had placed the candleholder on the nightstand, blown out its candle, and laid her head to rest atop one of her bed’s cushy pillows, she finally let everything hit her all at once, like a boulder cascading down a hill. Tears streamed from gray eyes, and she sobbed herself to sleep, a sleep that was none too restful. Robert, Pierre—both floated in her dreams like phantoms.

Excerpt of First Scene

I just realized the best way to handle Cannons, Candles, and Courage. I think, since there are so many scenes, that I’m going to break it up into three separate parts. It’s funny that I started this story from the back forward, and now I’m writing from the front forward, which would seem to be the usual way. Well, I have written the opener–it involves Pierre’s relationship with the Lady Catherine McCabe. I’ve decided to post an excerpt of the scene below, along with the aftermath from Catherine’s point of view (I’m still working on Pierre’s next scene.

It was true. Pierre de la Mille, as his reputation suggested (smuggler of exotic goods by night), was fond of lovemaking, fond of the ladies. In fact, he enjoyed every bit of the pursuit. From the first stolen kiss to the first gift to the first bedding, all of it, as he was concerned, was worth it. He knew naught why some tried to fool themselves into thinking love as something dastardly, something that was likely to damn your soul. He had just never quite been able to figure their point. It made no sense to him.

“Mmm,” Catherine hummed with approval, taking the wineglass from her lips. “This is simply a delicious…vintage, monsieur.” She licked her lips. “Where ever did you find it? Pray tell. I must know.”

“Why,” he said, “it is from France, mon cher. Bordeaux to be precise.”

“Half a world away,” Catherine breathed. “I should have guessed so.”

Catherine, Pierre’s latest challenge, the wife of a wealthy Scottish planter, was charming and witty enough to be sure, and she was pretty—well, more like, yes it was so, beautiful. Her skin was fair as milk, and nearly transparent in its perfection. Her hair was fine-spun gold, silky and lustrous to the waist. And she had eyes of silver.

She’d been easier to catch and yet harder still to keep. He had bestowed gift upon gift upon her, spent more time than usual with her—all while avoiding detection from her husband, Robert. Though, truth be told, that hadn’t been that difficult, as Robert never seemed to be home. He was, Pierre knew, off drinking and gambling and, perhaps, taking in the company of a prostitute. Why this was the case, Pierre couldn’t say.

Catherine was, indeed, a most splendid example of womanhood, of what a lady should be, and was, in most minds. Pierre watched her take another sip of the wine he was so careful to have taken from Robert’s stash, one of the very things he denied her. Pierre saw the irony in this, too. But, he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was watch those delicate lips partake and indulge.

“Monsieur,” Catherine said, lowering the glass and licking her lips, satisfied. “I do believe you understand how to warm a lady’s heart.”

Pierre smiled. He sent a hand stroking through her golden locks. His eyes lowered to a certain area of Catherine’s exposed anatomy, which he examined ever so carefully. Pink and ivory mixed together in a most…alluring manner.

A sudden pang of guilt coursed through Pierre. He had had several tonight, actually. One, however, would be wrong in assuming it was because he was in bed with a married woman. No. It was because, while he was enjoying himself, his mother lay ill, taken with fever. She had, true enough, seemed to be bettering when he had last seen her, but one could never be certain with such things.

“Is something wrong?” Catherine asked. “You seem…worried.” She laughed. “I assure you, Robert won’t be home for a while, now. He…”

Pierre shook his head, trying to return a smile to his cast. He was able to, but it did feel a bit awkward on his face. “That does not concern me, madame,” he said. He kissed her hand.

“Something does trouble you, though. Yes?”

Pierre sighed. “Oui,” he admitted. “It is my mother, Josephine. She is ill—has a fever.”

“Well,” Catherine said, “I think you need not worry, monsieur.”

“Oui?”

“Oui,” Catherine confirmed, mocking his broken French. “She—your mother—would want you to enjoy yourself. Besides, I believe…Well, I believe God shall see her safe. I have a knack, you see, for…feeling such things.”

Pierre searched Catherine’s eyes. The gray sparkled, there. Her lips were pursed. She seemed sincere enough—not that she had a personal connection with any divine powers that be. He trusted her, though; he found comfort in her judgment. Perhaps, God would see his mother safe. Perhaps, she did want him to…to “enjoy” himself. This he was not sure of—What would she think of him and his conquests? What would she think if she knew he was with a married woman? Well, he didn’t want the answers to those two questions.

Abruptly, Catherine stretched her arm towards the bedside table. She reached over Pierre. She lay atop him as she placed the now-empty wineglass on the table. She lingered after her task, too, pressing her breasts against his chest.

A wicked glint shone in her eyes, so Pierre noticed. She giggled in her throat and then, as only she could, she lowered her mouth upon his and coaxed him into a kiss. The warmth of it, the very touch of her bared flesh against his, was enough to chase all worry from his mind. Soon, there was just Catherine and himself; just the stars out in the nighttime sky winking down upon New Orleans and the slight, welcomed breeze coming in off the river through the open windows.

Pierre let Catherine straddle him only until after that first kiss, though. As their lips parted, he put a hand to the small of her spine and, with little effort, rolled her onto her back. Her breath came fast as he explored the ivory flesh of her jaw and neckline with his tongue. God, every bit of her tasted so…tasted so sweet. She was a wonder of rose and lavender; she was a delicate flower.

Pierre lost himself in her. He could scarcely see beyond the ivory beauty that was the Lady Catherine McCabe. She had him in her clutches, and he sure didn’t mind at all.

Suddenly, as Pierre and Catherine were lost in passion’s grip, horseshoes crunched on gravel outside in the drive and a pair of boots blundered up heavily onto the porch below, which was in turn followed by an unhealthy dose of slurred curses.

“Robert,” Catherine gasped. “He’s home.”

“Out of my way, boy!” Pierre heard Robert shout, presumably at Xavier, the McCabe’s colored manservant. “I said move! Don’t you have something to do? Then, get to doing it you ape!”

Pierre, for all his casualness about it, all but leapt from the bed and raced for his clothes. He hurriedly donned his shirt and pulled on his breeches. He grabbed his boots and met Catherine by one of the windows. She handed him the bottle of wine he’d brought. He accepted it with a kiss and then dashed over the sill, out onto the porch. Catherine disappeared behind the drapes and he tiptoed down a ways to be out of sight.

That’s when he heard Robert shout, “Where is he?”

“Where is whom?” Catherine returned in stride.

“The man you were with! That’s who!”

“Why, whatever are you talking about?”—Pierre could almost hear Catherine shaking her head. “There be just me, Robert-dear.”

“Katie-dear,” Robert said. There was a muffled attempt where Robert McCabe tried to say something. Pierre knew Catherine must have silenced him with a kiss. Then, much to his disgust, there was the sound of a slap, which was quickly followed by a thud.

“I know you had a man here!” Robert declared. “And I’m going to find him!”

“Well,” Catherine shouted back, “I know you’ve been with a…with a whore!”

“’Tis not true, Katie-dear,” Robert said. There was a silence. “I was with two. One at the Madam’s and…the one right in front of me, now.”

There were a few more sounds that Pierre found equally as disgusting as when he knew Robert had hit Catherine. Hit her! “By God…” he said. He started to turn, to head back to the scene of the offense, but lost his will to do so. What would he do, anyway? He had no pistol, no weapon to speak of besides his fists. And, besides, it would be Robert McCabe’s word against his. Pierre was the intruder, here. In fact, he had no right to be here, so people would say—and, perhaps, he thought, they would be right. Plus, there would be complications with other matters.

That’s when Pierre had to remind himself why he was truly here. He had another task to perform tonight, one he had yet to complete. Catherine had been merely half the reason he had come to the McCabe’s residence this night. She was simply a way of getting what he needed done. It was ironic, he thought, that this house (the one he had done most of his growing up in; the one that had once belonged to his father) should play host to the spectacles of this night.

Pierre set down the half-empty wine bottle to search his pockets. He searched until he found a folded piece of parchment. He opened it and, by what little light there was, glanced over it. He saw the neat columns which he had penned, the precisely formed numbers and letters he had mustered. A surge of pride caught him, then. It was perfect; it looked genuine. He doubted Robert would note any differences; in fact, he doubted Smith would, either. Which meant Pierre would have one less hole to patch.

He considered this as he grabbed up the bottle along with his boots and made his way down the porch toward the study’s window.

Robert had taken to keeping a manifest. He had become most suspicious of late, too. He suspected everybody that worked for him save for Smith whom he seemed to trust, and with good reason. Pierre had never known Adam Smith to go against his word. The man had promised Robert McCabe that all would be taken care of (that his property would be protected and his goods sold within days of their arrival). And, thus far from what Pierre could tell, the man’s word had held true.

The problem for Pierre was that he had grown tired of transporting Robert’s wealth under the moon, through bayous infested with mosquito and reptile, receiving little in return. It was something he could bare no longer. His father had been a planter. He had done well enough (if the now-McCabe’s house and fields were any measure), but…Pierre hadn’t truly been fond of the business. He wasn’t fond of the main tool it used: slavery. So, he had turned to smuggling instead.

He had joined Robert McCabe. At first, things were just fine and Robert had seemed amiable enough. Then, he learned Robert’s vices (drinking and gambling) changed him into a most disagreeable sort. It was a shame, but that’s the way it was. Pierre knew this and he was tired of dealing with it. Only recently did he realize the potential way to remedy his situation, though.

The stash was on a small island in the bayou. There were no eyes set to watch it, either. Pierre had been able to take some from it. Smith came early in the morning to catalogue the items, well after they’d been placed there. The manifest idea had hit Robert McCabe one day while visiting the site. He knew it would be a way to be sure all was proper, as Mr. Smith had promised. In fact, Pierre had to admit, the plan was fairly faultless.

Two manifests. One kept at the stash, the other kept at the McCabe’s residence. Both should match up, hence the reason Pierre had seduced Catherine to begin with.

Parting the curtains, Pierre climbed over the sill and entered the McCabe study. He kept his boots off and left them on the porch along with the bottle of wine. Deftly, he stole towards the writing desk on the far side of the room near the door. Out in the hall he could hear Catherine and Robert still arguing. He ignored this as reached the desk.

He searched the desk’s various pigeonholes. Most were stuffed with items pertaining to the plantation’s operation. Then, he spotted a piece of parchment which resembled the one in his hand. He pulled it out and saw Smith’s neat columns and handwriting. He smiled. He took it and shoved it into his pocket.

Abruptly, a door slammed in the hall and footsteps thudded toward the study.

“Damn woman!” Robert McCabe shouted. “You be nothing but trouble!”

Pierre’s heart lurched in his chest. He hurriedly replaced the real manifest with his copy, placing it in the precise hole in which he had found. The footsteps grew closer and Pierre realized he might yet be discovered. He sped swiftly towards the window, dashing over the sill. He turned just in time to see the study’s door swing open. Through the gauzy curtains he could just make out Robert McCabe.

The man stood there, looking puzzled. His cheeks were red with alcohol and anger. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Somehow he apparently could not discern the intruder out on his darkened porch, as he went for the crystal decanter beside a red velvet-upholstered settee. He poured the amber substance from it into a glass. Shakily, he put the glass to his lips and threw back its contents.

Pierre moved out of the window’s view. He retrieved his boots and pulled them on; he grabbed the wine bottle next. Then, he stole quietly down the remainder of the porch. He found an ivy-covered trellis along the side of the house which he boldly decided to risk. Ever so carefully, he climbed over the railing and reached for the flimsy-looking structure. He tested it and then, as satisfied with its sturdiness as ever he would be, he put a foot in one of the square-shaped holes. Slipping a hand into a similar hole, he applied weight to the trellis.

There was a creaking groan and Pierre thought he might make it down quicker than he would like. Yet, thankfully, the trellis did hold. He soon was able to release his grip entirely from the porch’s floorboards. His left hand held the trellis, his right the bottle; his right foot joined his left. He utilized the trellis like a ladder and, the folly that he should have realized it to be, dropped the bottle in the process. It fell heavily from his fingers; he nearly lost his hold on the trellis.

Pierre’s heart hammered in his throat; fear froze him as he heard the bottle land with a rustling thud in the manicured bushes below. He clutched the trellis with both hands, wishing he hadn’t been stupid enough to try descending with the bottle.

“Aha! I knew it,” blustered Robert McCabe from inside the house. “Xavier,” he called, “get the hounds, boy. I say get ‘em! Get the ruddy things, dammit!”

There was an instant when Pierre thought his muscles were truly locked. He simply couldn’t move them; his limbs wouldn’t respond. Fear had him; it held him there on the trellis in a motionless state. His brain screamed at him to move. Then, hearing the barks and growls of several eager dogs (big dogs), he found himself clambering, if a bit shakily, down to where he touched the ground without further incident—well, which would only be true if he could make it away without being mauled.

Doing a quick search of the bushes, Pierre retrieved the—amazingly enough—unbroken bottle from where it had fallen. He caught it up and, taking a deep breath, darted from the house, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Xavier, now!” Robert cried from the house. “Dammit! I said do it boy!”

Pierre heard the ominous barks as he dashed across the McCabe’s lawn. He glanced back and saw a pair of hounds running his way. White fangs gleaming, he realized they were, indeed, in full attack mode. Xavier had had no choice but to do as his master had bade. He had been forced to sic the dogs on him.

The dogs gained on Pierre. He glanced over his shoulder and saw them closing. Ahead, the safety of the woods beckoned. The darkened shapes of the ancient oaks spread into view like a wall of sleepy giants. Overhead their wooden fingers swayed against the paleness of the moon. Just a few more yards…

Pierre hurried into the woods and found his horse tethered where he had left it. He bounded into the saddle, hearing the dogs’ barks. He snatched the reins and sawed them, setting his roan into a hasty gallop. Lungs laboring and legs still burning, Pierre finally let his body relax when he had made the road.

However, he never let the roan rest until he was in the drive of his mother’s house. He jumped from the saddle and hurried inside, delaying only for a moment to hitch his roan to the newel post out front. He was halfway into the foyer when he saw the doctor coming down the stairs.

“How is she?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head. “It is hard to say, monsieur.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “The fever has yet to break, and this”—he gestured with a hand—“heat is not aiding her any. Albeit, at least, there’s a breeze.”

Pierre frowned, studying Monsieur Rousseau. The man was a noted physician here in New Orleans. He had come with the highest of recommendations. Pierre had gone to him immediately upon the realization of his mother’s illness. He knew that if a body were in such a state, this man would be its best chance. Pierre trusted him, though he wondered if Rousseau was telling him his true feelings on the matter. He might not desire to upset him.

Monsieur Rousseau shook his head. “If there’s any change,” he said. “A worsening in her condition…Call upon me and I shall be here. Pray Madame de la Mille shall require my ministrations no longer.” He stepped towards the door. “Monsieur,” he promised, squeezing Pierre’s shoulder, “she—your mother—I believe shall make it. With God’s grace the drought I have given her will vanquish the fever. I’ll call in the morning to check her condition.” He let go of Pierre’s shoulder. “I do not wish to worry you, monsieur. Keep a vigil on her, though. If there is a change, do not hesitate.”

Pierre nodded. He watched the doctor disappear into the night and closed the door behind him, latching it. Then, he took a breath and began up the stairs. He made it to the landing when he saw a fretful Molly looking down at him. She scampered away with a handful of towels and Pierre hurried up the next flight. He was in the hall as Molly disappeared into the sickroom at its end.

Molly, once a de la Mille slave, now a paid servant (something Pierre had insisted upon when leaving his father’s plantation behind, something she hadn’t been all too eager to accept), was worth her weight in gold. She knew how to keep things running, even in the heat of uncertainty. However, this night, Pierre noted a falter in her step, something that smacked of…worry.

Continuing a steady tread, Pierre reached the sickroom where he found his mother laying on her back, eyes seeing yet not really seeing. Her brow was soaked with perspiration. Molly mopped at it with a damp cloth. Her dark eyes caught Pierre’s and he saw in them a heavy concern.

“Leave us,” he told her.

Molly dipped a curtsy and then disappeared through the door, closing it behind.

“Child,” Josephine whispered weakly. She gestured for Pierre to come to her. He shuffled over to the bed, grasping her hand. His mother looked up at him with such a colorless bloom that his heart—his hopes—nearly sank. “Child,” she began again, “I want you to know I…I love you.”

Tears threatened her eyes; a lump formed in Pierre’s throat. “Mère,” he said, “I…I, of course, you know I…I love you also.”

“You must,” she continued, “do something for me.”

“Of course,” Pierre said. “Say it,” he told her, “and it shall be done.”

“Henry,” she whispered. “Your Uncle Henry—I wish you to write him for me. I wish you to invite him…I n-need to…”

“Uncle Henry?” Pierre said, confused.

“Oui.” Josephine’s eyes glistened with tears. “Please,” she said, “do this for me, child.”

Pierre nodded. “You want me to mention your current…condition?”

A weak smile parted her lips, then. “Yes, child. I—I need him.”

“Need him?”

Suddenly, Pierre realized something he had simply tried to ignore in the past. He knew his mother had had a relationship with somebody since the death of his father ten years before, but he had never considered…

It made plenty of sense, though. It seemed plausible. His uncle had been the man. He should have seen it earlier—Well, he had thought there might be something between them, but he had never been witness to it. Every six months or so Henry would arrive in New Orleans to “inspect” his warehouses (the two he had had built by the river to increase the range of his line’s trade). And, surely, he had called upon the de la Mille’s residence every single trip. Then again, that was to be expected. After all, he was ever in want to see his nephew, see the progress of his growth.

In fact, last his uncle was in town he had offered Pierre a job. Pierre had told him he appreciated the offer but had already had employment. Henry had insisted, though. This was truly the reason Pierre had felt comfortable with taking from Robert McCabe. He knew he had a backup. His uncle had offered him an overseer position at the warehouses here in New Orleans. The pay was decent, and thus far Pierre had had little to complain about—well, nothing really. In fact, he had kept to the business of smuggling mainly because it was a matter of excitement (and there was the matter of receiving particular rarities, such as wine from Bordeaux).

“I shall write him,” Pierre finally told his mother. “And I shall sit up with you tonight.”

“There’s no need in that,” Josephine said. She stroked a hand through Pierre’s hair. “I wish you not to worry for me, child. I shall…live.” She coughed roughly; Pierre was quick to hand her the glass of water that was on the nightstand. “Please, just do this for me.”

Pierre nodded. He placed a kiss on his mother’s forehead, squeezing her hand. He turned and left the room. Molly was conversing with Girard (the de la Mille’s colored manservant, who, of course, also made a wage) in the hall. The two of them gave Pierre concerned looks. He frowned at them…and they each hurried back to whatever task it was they had been doing before their discourse. It was just something they were accustomed to, Pierre supposed, having once been slaves.

Molly and Girard’s wages weren’t anything to put a hindrance on the de la Mille’s financials, but it was definitely something the neighbors looked down upon and even verbally disagreed with. However, Pierre did not agree with the practice of keeping somebody against their will, forcing them to do the work you didn’t want to do. He didn’t care if they were supposedly of an inferior race, either.

Entering his room, Pierre strode to the writing desk by the window. He pulled out a leaf of paper and sat down. He found his quill and inkpot. Pursing his lips, he thought for a moment what to write. He wanted to inform Henry of his mother’s condition, yes. But, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to mention his knowledge of their affair.

After a moment, he decided against the latter. There was no point in mentioning that. It would simply embarrass both parties. So, dipping the quill’s tip into the inkpot he began. He wrote down a few words, then read them and decided they were useless. He snatched another leaf of paper and began anew. And, once more, he was frustrated by what he had penned. This happened several times over before he was finally satisfied. He glanced at the waist bin beside the desk and noted, at least, a dozen wads of paper. It nearly made him grimace; it was an expensive thing to waste.

Pierre found an envelope in the desk. He stuffed the finished letter into it and addressed to his uncle. Getting to his feet, he immediately went to look for Girard. He found him in the carriage house behind the courtyard where he was currying his horse.

Girard paused with the brush as he saw Pierre enter. The man lowered his eyes meekly and went back to his work. Pierre shook his head. It’d been ten years and yet Girard, the dark giant that he was, had still not forgotten his place. Pierre was a forgiving master; his father hadn’t been.

“I need you,” he told Girard, “to deliver this”—he indicated the envelope—“to Captain Norris of the Bramble. He is not to open it; it is for Henry Hensford’s eyes only.”

Girard nodded. He set aside the currycomb and received the letter. He grabbed a lantern from the workbench and headed off into the night. Pierre watched him leave and then decided, as his lids were heavy, to head into the house and find his bed.

The Bramble, Pierre knew, one of a dozen ships in his uncle’s merchant fleet, would be the most reliable means to deliver the letter. Captain Norris was a good friend of Henry’s and would be likely to transport a letter from Henry’s nephew to his hand without hesitation. So, Pierre wasn’t concerned the letter might not reach his uncle.

Climbing the stairs, Pierre tried to replace worries of his mother with thoughts of the pale and fragrant flesh he had enjoyed tonight. Catherine. She was a beauty, and knew how to love a man. He just hoped she haunted his dreams, and not the dogs her husband had sicced upon him.