About the Author
J. Jefferson (aka Smokedawg) is a middle-aged editor and journalist manifesting his mid-life crisis with a flurry of fiction writing instead of a sports car and trophy mistress. He began work on a sci-fi novel in 2008, then fell into erotica in 2009 by starting his blog ”Better With Smoke” (http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com) before branching out to the Smoking Fetish Kingdom, the Celis T. Rono Writer’s Collective, SmokingStories, and elsewhere with smoking and non-smoking erotica, as well as non-erotic fare. You can e-mail him at: pseudojeff@msn.com.
He began his “Poisoned World” stories with the “Venomous Passions” trilogy at: http://betterwithsmoke.wordpress.com/category/venomous-passions-trilogy/
His first stand-alone “Tales of the Poisoned World” story, which precedes this one chronologically, is here on Celis T. Rono’s blog, at: http://celisrono.wordpress.com/2010/01/20/smokedawg-tales-of-the-poisoned-world-expressions-of-power/
Tales of the Poisoned World:
Balance of Power
It was an long-held axiom that the City Administrator always worked hours later than the Executive Mayor did. That axiom was taken to an extreme in Danica’s case; she was forever at the mayoral offices cleaning up some political mess that Oswald K. Drummond IV had left, or dealing with some inane duty that he had foisted on her.
Almost all of it was petty vengeance in the end—for Danica being a woman and thus inferior by the standards of Oswald’s circle of wealthy and highly religious peers; for having been indirectly involved in his failure to bring the Sprawls to heel two years earlier; and for the fact she was gearing up to unseat him in the next set of mayoral elections in another couple years.
She was patient, though. It was a trait that had gotten her on the fast track to her current position; it was one that would carry her into the Executive Mayor position either this election cycle or next—depending on how quickly voters realized what a huge mistake it was to elect someone from the upper stratas instead of the mid-level ones—especially an upper-strata religious zealot. Her skill at patience and handling challenges would likely be enough to keep her in the office for two or three terms at least once she secured it.
That was the theory, at least.
Huang dusk-Chi’s theory. And her own assessment of the city and her capabilities. Also the theory of several artificial intelligence computer models paid for at great expense to Huang’s family.
But theories are just theories until proved to be fact, even ones from cutting-edge AI computers, she reminded herself.
Tired but satisfied that tomorrow would at least begin on the right notes thanks to her efforts tonight, Danica Peters headed for the foyer of the GovSec building on her way to a dinner meeting with Huang about upcoming campaign-related machinations.
She nodded to the security team at the front desk, then paused, looked around briefly, and held out her hands in a gesture of expectation and befuddlement.
“There’s a series of bugs in the Guardian system again, Admin Peters,” the lead guard told her, an expression of apology in his eyes. “Worse than the other week. You’ll have to head out to your car without a gearhead, I’m afraid. Do you need one of us to head out with you instead?”
Leaving this late, a city officer of her stature—or even slightly below it—was pretty much expected to walk out with an automaton companion to guard her at least until she was off premises entirely, so there was no weakness in that. But taking away a human guard from his duties to do the same would look soft, so she shook her head as she extracted one of her Femmeboro Citrons and ignited it with her hotpen, enjoying the flood of citrusy smoke into her lungs. As she pulled the long cigarette from her lips and exhaled, she said, lightly, “It’ll be a nice change of pace not to hear the soft whir of servos next to me for once.”
It was true enough. Going out onto the street alone at night to leave the complex was something she hadn’t done in several years now, so it would be a novel experience.
The air was chill, but fresher than normal. A hard rain had fallen earlier in the day, followed by some firm winds, and so for one of those rare nights, a few stars were hazily visible in the night sky, and the moon was more than just an amorphous, blurry light behind muddy clouds. You could actually make out its craters and basins tonight, even if they seemed slightly out of focus.
She was 100 meters out from the foyer, and almost half again that distance away from the drop-gate for her vehicle, when the elaborate clasp-and-brooch assembly for her cloak suddenly came apart, reconfigured as a tiny hawk on her shoulder, and let out a warble-and-whistle cry.
Danica had trained with the cloak often enough and with its PI system—the pseudo-intelligence computer built into it—to understand the notes. Danger behind. Duck to right and run.
Only twice before had her defcloak warned her of impending attack from behind. Once she had ignored it, and turned to face her potential assailant, because the danger whistle was minor—and that woman had earned a nasty faceful of stunspray, while Danica strode away calmly. The second time, the danger message had only been slightly more intense, and Danica had simply fled to safety.
This time, the danger whistle was very nearly a shriek, and she didn’t hesitate. Because aside from the intensity of the warning—and thus the PI’s appraisal of the threat—she realized that an attack like this, right when the Guardian system was down and she was unescorted, seemed way too coincidental. Continue reading ‘Smokedawg “Tales of the Poisoned World: Balance of Power”’
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