[Note from Steve: A.B. tells me this is only the first book in a trilogy. I sure hope there’s more! It’s part of the “ABC Sci-Fi Mystery” series, of course but is also a thriller. The mystery resides in Kayla’s origins, but thrills abound. I hope you enjoy this preview. The book will be published only as an ebook and will be available only on Smashwords and its affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.) and library and lending services (Overdrive, Scribd, Gardners, etc.), not Amazon. Coming soon from Carrick Publishing!]

Origins

Copyright 2021, A. B. Carolan

Summary

Kayla Jones has dreams she can’t understand. Her future seems determined as the brilliant STEM student who looks forward to a research career, but her past gets in the way. As if the chaos afflicting the world and leading to her adopted father’s death wasn’t enough, killers begin to pursue her. With some friends who come to her aid, she’s on her way to discover a conspiracy that can be traced to prehistoric battles waged by hominins bent on conquest of a primitive Earth.

Prologue

New Paltz, NY: 2019

Kayla had nightmares. They’d started when she was five, soon after she was adopted…maybe even before. She didn’t remember much before that. Bombs, yes; flying debris, yes. Waking up in a hospital, a bit fuzzy-headed. But she couldn’t remember who her real parents were, or where she’d come from. She knew that Kayla Jones wasn’t her real name, but she couldn’t remember what that either. The doctors and nurses had been nice, though…and caring. They told her she was a war orphan. At first she didn’t even know what those words meant because they spoke in a strange language she didn’t understand well at the time.

Her new parents comforted her every time she woke up screaming. They were black; she was light brown. That didn’t seem to matter to them, and it certainly didn’t matter to her. There was a lot of love in their comforting, and there was also a lot in her new home, a place not far from a big city many grownups called the “capital of the world.”

Her adopted father was a pastor; her adopted mother the church’s choir director and organist. Kayla liked the church music. The softer, slow music was comforting, while the louder and more rhythmic music that got the congregation swaying made her happy. At first she didn’t know what the words that went with the music meant either, but she learned the strange, new language with time.

Sometimes the dreams weren’t bad. There were those where she was watching men and women dressed in protective clothing working at counters topped with weird instruments and machines. They didn’t talk much—the area where they worked was quiet and a bit gloomy, and the lights would often go out—but she somehow knew what they were thinking. Those dreams were recurring too, but they brought her peace instead. And somehow that gloomy place seemed like home.

She also remembered a different room where she could sit and stare at the stars—millions of points of light seen from a bubble that surrounded her. Or were those someone else’s memories? In any case, she liked those dreams best. They also seemed like dreams about another home, a more peaceful place than the one associated with the nightmares.

The peaceful dreams weren’t as frequent as the bad ones, though. She never told her new parents any details about them. She wanted the dreams, even the bad ones, to be her special secret. They were the only things left from a past that she’d mostly forgotten. She wanted to know more about it, but she had to postpone that quest.

Chapter One

New York City: 2032

Kayla spotted her pursuer just in time. The second one of the night! Others had killed two of her friends on different nights, and she’d just managed to escape the one who’d killed Pam. Now she had to confront his accomplice in a dark warehouse on the city’s upper West Side. At least there’re no rats!

She dove into a pile of old cardboard and packing material as she heard more shots. Automatic. High-capacity magazine? Harry’s lessons were always with her. She counted the five bullets that had slammed into the wooden shipping crate where she’d been standing only seconds before. Her guess might be correct, but some magazines held more than others.

There wasn’t enough refuse to cover her. Nowhere to hide! She stood and looked around. Move, Kayla! Keep moving! Don’t become a stationary target. Harry’s imagined voice spurred her on. She squeezed between two shipping crates into the next aisle, ran along it, and then smiled as she spotted her pursuer move along the aisle she’d just left, but in the opposite direction.

Maybe he’ll think I’m hiding under the pile? Fight or flee? The last might lead to a bullet in the back just like the one Pam got. It’d been wild the last few days, but, if she did it right, this time she’d get a gun. And there’d be no cops here who’d suspect she’d murdered her friends.

She took several silent, running steps like Harry had taught her, seemed to walk up the side of the crate next to her, and grabbed onto the top edge. She swung onto the crate’s top and then moved back along the crates toward the refuse pile. Peering over the edge of the crate next to the pile, she watched her adversary put his gun back into his shoulder holster. He started tossing the cardboard on top of the pile into the aisle behind him. Now or never! She jumped him.

He was strong but no match for her quickness; he was also old and slow. And his first reaction was to go for his gun. She laid him out before he even had it out of his holster.

She scampered away with the gun tucked snugly in the small of her back, held there by the waistband of her jeans.

***

Her next step towards survival was to find food. She was famished. The hours without much food or water were wearing on her. Nothing to do with her, but she noticed bodies on the streets now. The city’s chaos and violence had continued. Have people organized into packs like wild dogs? They’d seen that on TV.

She suddenly felt a cold frisson down her spine as she realized there could be such a thin veneer of civilization. Scratch a human and you get a rabid dog, she mused. But I won’t be like that! I just can’t!

She spotted golden arches up ahead. She knew the place. The drive-in restaurant was usually full, but now with the chaos? Both police and mercenaries had warned there was safety in numbers, that citizens shouldn’t be out alone. She decided the numbers didn’t matter, and she wasn’t alone: She had a gun now. Sorry, Harry. Sometimes you need one. The fast-food mecca called to its pilgrim. Is there still food there? She’d have to be careful.

Everything looked normal to her once she was inside, though, except for the lack of customers. She bought a Big Mac cheeseburger and large fries, the meal coming with a medium Coke. The latter was self-serve, so she’d repeat that, figuring she needed the caffeine as well as the liquid. Harry had always told her to stay hydrated.

When she turned to look for a place to sit, she only saw littered tables. It was after the lunch hour, so tables hadn’t been bussed. People still had to work, and they had to eat. She thought the mess was a good sign. Customers had been there. Life still went on even with the city’s violence.

What the kid at the register said caught her by surprise.

“You a cop?”

She then remembered the gun…and Harry. She’d turned her back to study the menu over the drink counter as if she were making a decision. “Corporate security guard,” she said over her shoulder. “Any problem with that?”

“No, ma’am, not as far as I’m concerned. You keep order around here better than the cops.”

Ma’am? She realized how disheveled she must look. Or how young and courageous the kid must be. Or maybe my age? Maybe my scruffiness makes me look older?

“Any clean tables?”

“Sorry. We’re a bit shorthanded. Everyone’s scared now, so people call in sick. But I need the money. I can clean off a table for you, but there’s a booth back by the side entrance that’s almost clean—opposite the bathrooms.”

“Thanks. Stay safe.”

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I have written about “cancel culture” earlier in this blog. So far no one has gone after Allan Quatermain, thank God. I suppose those folks who practice cancel culture will eventually get around to Allan, given that they go after Washington, Jefferson, and other Founding Fathers for being slave owners, for example.

H. Rider Haggard’s Quatermain novels are the precursors of thrillers, especially of the Indian Jones-like variety—you can bet Steven Spielberg read them! (Or saw the movies based on them. He might not be much of a reader.) And, from the cancel-culture folks’ perspective, Spielberg probably went to great trouble to clean them up—sort of (the African people are generally replaced by Arabs, Asians, and Native Americans in the Indy movies, so they might yet be boycotted).

In my early reading (pre-high school), Haggard’s books kept me company, along with Christie’s mysteries and Asimov, Clarke, and Heinlein’s sci-fi stories. I often read these classics under the covers with a flashlight (my definition of “classic” is a lot more general compared to snooty literary critics’, who ignore a lot of good fiction, of course). They provide a foundation for my own writing.

I’m sure many scenes similar to ones from Quatermain novels pop up in my oeuvre.

The “buried alive” scene in King Solomon’s Mines has been copied by so many authors and screenplay writers that one can hardly call it plagiarism. It’s similar to a scene in my More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. I have a good excuse: that scene takes place on Mars!

The battle scenes in my Rogue Planet might resemble ones in Haggard’s novels too—they’re certainly examples of face-to-face warfare—but I can’t pin those memories down to one Haggard book. (Topic for a future thesis in the future? Go for it, MFA students!)

No matter. There’s no doubt Haggard influenced me. I suppose he and his character Quatermain will be perceived as scurrilous in their racism as George Washington is for the cancel-culture folk. Both the author and his character are representatives of British racist colonialism. But hell, Quatermain’s adventures over his lifespan of many decades are interesting and entertaining, and they’re probably a lot more interesting than Indy’s (which are also racist).

I’m willing to wager that the cancel-culture folk will eventually attack both Allan and Indy. They haven’t attacked Quatermain yet because they don’t watch old movies or read old books (if they read at all). I don’t know why they’re taking so long with Indiana Jones! Most people have watched Spielberg’s movie and enjoyed them. (Maybe that’s why they don’t attack Indy?)

So, please, let’s keep Allan Quatermain’s secret to ourselves. The cancel-culture folks are liable to attack him on any jerk’s say-so, as they blather away on Facebook or Twitter. That’s their brand of culture, banning books or movies without even reading them. And I certainly wouldn’t want them to enjoy a good book. They don’t deserve it! (That’s why I only mentioned one Allan Quatermain book!)

***

Comments are always welcome!

Hard sci-fi, anyone? The bargain bundle The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection contains three “evergreen” sci-fi novels (i.e. as current and entertaining as the day I finished the manuscripts) that span thousands of years of future history, including the founding of ITUIP (“Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets”) featured in A.B. Carolan’s novels, Rogue Planet, and other stories. In the novel Survivors of the Chaos, readers discover a dystopian Earth where powerful international corporations rule and exploit the planet and the rest of the solar system, even hiding the greatest discovery Humans could ever make, an ET ship that crash-landed on a moon of Saturn. In spite of the chaos, three starships are launched to colonize planets orbiting Sol-type stars. In Sing a Zamba Galactica, readers can follow two colonies’ struggles to survive an ET invasion in near-Earth space; the colonists aren’t alone because new ET friends are there to help. The reader will also  meet new ETs, including Swarm, that strange collective intelligence so important in ITUIP history. In Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand!, readers will see how a mad industrialist, akin to ones Humans fled decades earlier, plots to rule all of near-Earth peace and end the peace in that corner of the galaxy so dearly won. Three novels for the price of one ebook—a veritable smorgasbord of sci-fi! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold. (The first edition of Survivors of the Chaos is also available in print from another publisher.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

While I thank all readers who have posted a review of one of my books, many do not appear on Amazon. Amazon is not the be-all and end-all of the book world, even the self-published or ebook world. They want to be the center of the book universe, of course, but it does not distribute either ebooks or print books to anyone else—Smashwords and Draft2Digital are ebook aggregators who distribute to many other online retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.) and ebook lenders (Scribd, Overdrive, Gardners, etc.). As a consequence, readers who buy only from Amazon will only see a sample of my reviews. Moreover, Amazon has the habit of losing reviews and allowing trolls to post their snarky reviews.

In this post, I will offer some reviews the reader will not find on Amazon.

The Midas Bomb. “…is a very well-written, action-packed thriller. The author quickly introduces some very interesting characters. It took a few chapters for me to sort them all out. The plot is intriguing and thought provoking with many twists and turns along the way. I found myself wondering if something like this scenario could really happen? …I really got into the story and thoroughly enjoyed it from start to finish.” – Paul Johnson, in his Readers’ Favorite review

Survivors of the Chaos. “This book is a page turner. Readers steeped in current literature will appreciate the brevity of scenes that burst in front of you with a blinding flash of startling detail and then exit as quickly as a comet streaking through the night sky…ensnares you aboard a mental roller coaster catapulting over the hills and valleys of a world gone mad…a disquieted galaxy peppered with a roster of characters that would make a casting director envious, highly detailed space scenes, and an inspiring plot that will keep you on the edge of your seat.” – David W. Menefee, Pulitzer-nominated author and reviewer for Bookpleasures.com

The Secret Lab. “I will disclose this: I picked up [this book] because of Mr. Paws, the intelligent cat. Yes, I could not resist the temptation to read the adventure of a sentient, mathematics inclined cat, told by Steven M. Moore. It exceeded my expectations. Mr. Paws is the result of a genetics experiment aboard a facility orbiting Earth in 2147. The cat and his newly found friends, a group of four smart teenagers, find themselves in an intrigue with corporate agendas, young curiosity, dangerous and ethically problematic research, relationships and their difficulties when coming of age. The complexity is enthralling, but the author also makes it easy to follow, using a light, natural style to tell us their story.”–Alfaniel Aldavan, in hia Smashwords’ review

The Last Humans. “Steven M. Moore pens an apocalyptic thriller in [this book.] Penny Castro left the US Navy and became a forensic diver for the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Penny and her fellow deputy George are called out to locate a victim offshore. Penny plunges into the ocean, finds the body and tugs on her line. The line goes limp. Letting go of the body, she swims to the surface. On the boat, she discovers her fellow deputy dead. Shocked, sickened, and saddened, she heads to shore. Upon arrival, all she finds is more dead bodies. They are everywhere! The world had turned upside down while she was under water. The stench of death surrounds her. Alone and frightened, she hides. But soon wild and feral humans begin terrorizing, looting and raping at will. Penny saves a small boy, Sammy, and then an old man named Ben. Penny, Sammy, and Ben become a family, fighting to survive in a desolate world gone mad.

Read the rest of this entry »

Cecilia Vega of ABC News asked President Biden in his first press conference, “Do you find this acceptable?” in reference to the miserable conditions of unaccompanied children at the southern border. (Sorry, Joe, this is a crisis!) Another reporter—maybe from Bloomberg?—asks id the president will draw a red line in reference to Afghanistan troop withdrawal. Many of them ask why the president hasn’t done this or that (hmm, seems to me he’s done a lot in sixty-plus days, but I guess the reporters don’t think so).

These and many other questions reporters ask amount to media looking for the gotchas. Biden in the short time he’s been in office can’t fix what Trump broke during the four years of his administration. When Mr. Biden laughs and says to put Ms. Vega in her place, “Really? Is that a question?”, he’s implying it’s a stupid question because she’s looking for the gotcha, She counters with another stupid question (naturally!) that turns everything upside-down, asking if his plan to contact the relatives of those kids, using the phone numbers they have carried from Central America, doesn’t encourage even more to make the long trek to the border. Sorry, Cecilia, you can’t have it both ways!

Ms. Vega is only one among many ambitious reporters (she just received a promotion to White House correspondent, so she has to increase the number of her gotchas), but she was particularly irritating that day. ABC News did us no favors by replacing one SOB (Jonathan Karl) with another (Cecilia Vega). Karl’s book provides her with a guide on how to be maximally annoying (and maximize her number of gotchas!).

Trump drew the May 1, 2021 line in the sand for Afghanistan, but it never could have been maintained without leaving a bloodbath behind and our allies in a bind (they have more troops there now!). Mr. Biden flubbed a bit here, saying that he could imagine all US troops out of Afghanistan by sometime in 2022—a fuzzy line to be sure. But such questions only serve the media’s and their reporters’ purpose: create the gotchas! From the gotchas, the media creates their beloved scandals, and those sell (see my previous post)—of course, where they really make their money selling is expensive advertising space, those ads made possible by the scandals.

And thus we have the media, publishers, and reporters doing exactly what democracy does not need, yellow journalism, plain and simple. They’re all out to be like the British tabloids. Of course, those adversely affected can always sue. Meghan and Harry just won a big lawsuit. But not even the threat of litigation seems to stop them from looking for the gotchas. And when they can’t find them, media creates its own by quoting people out of context.

For now, looking for the gotchas is largely apolitical in the sense that the media only wants to create something scandalous because scandal sells. The media is not the enemy of the people, but it sure is the enemy of logical and reasonable discourse in the twenty-first century. When I see that NY Times motto, “All the news that’s fit to print,” I just laugh. It should be “We find the gotchas and get you the scandals.” Honest journalism is rare these days. And there are no honest reporters because they are all looking for the gotchas.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Hard sci-fi, anyone? The bargain bundle The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection contains three “evergreen” sci-fi novels (i.e. as current and entertaining as the day I finished the manuscripts) that span thousands of years of future history, including the founding of ITUIP (“Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets”) featured in A.B. Carolan’s novels, Rogue Planet, and other stories. In the novel Survivors of the Chaos, readers discover a dystopian Earth where powerful international corporations rule and exploit the planet and the rest of the solar system, even hiding the greatest discovery Humans could ever make, an ET ship that crash-landed on a moon of Saturn. In spite of the chaos, three starships are launched to colonize planets orbiting Sol-type stars. In Sing a Zamba Galactica, readers can follow two colonies’ struggles to survive an ET invasion in near-Earth space; the colonists aren’t alone because new ET friends are there to help. The reader will also  meet new ETs, including Swarm, that strange collective intelligence so important in ITUIP history. In Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand!, readers will see how a mad industrialist, akin to ones Humans fled decades earlier, plots to rule all of near-Earth peace and end the peace in that corner of the galaxy so dearly won. Three novels for the price of one ebook—a veritable smorgasbord of sci-fi! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold. (The first edition of Survivors of the Chaos is also available in print from another publisher.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Five

Blake told Sally to drive on to his flat and he’d be there as soon as he could. He had to charge Houghton and gather all the paperwork together for the Crown. Clarke had a previous commitment. Besides, it was more his task than hers.

He was tired by the time he walked in through his flat’s front door. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing Sally sitting on the sofa with his mum.

“What are you doing here, Mother?”

“A quick visit. Leo wanted to see if I can expand here. Well, in Oxford, to put a fine point on it. Riversford might be a bit too quiet.”

Except for murders, thought Blake. He smelled the aroma of fine Italian cooking and saw the table set for four people. “Um…is Leo with you?”

“That I am, Logan,” said a tall, bear-like man striding from Blake’s bedroom. He had on one of Sally’s aprons. “Your mum thought it might be a good time for us to get to know each other since I’m going to be your new stepfather.”

Blake put a hand on the door jamb to steady himself. “Mum?”

“You look pale, Logan. Poor boy needs some food, Leo.”

Sally stood, walked up to him, and gave him a kiss. “I’ve learned so much about you, luv, from this chinwag with your mum.”

“I suppose,” Blake said, looking at the three conspirators and feeling trapped.

“Moi aussi,” Leo said. “And your Sally is a charming lady. Two charming people in one night, luv,” he said to Mrs. Blake. “My cup runneth over. Sally says you nicked another murderer. You must tell us all about it.”

***

Clarke handed one snifter to Benford, sat hers down, and picked up the stereo remote. She put on some soft jazz and took a seat next to him on the sofa. He smiled at her. She eyed him over the snifter’s brim as she enjoyed the aroma of the cognac.

“Simple elegance,” he said. “That’s what I like about you. Nothing pretentious, just elegant. Who’s playing?”

“You’ll never guess.”

Benford eyed the baby grand. “You?”

She shrugged. “I like romantic jazz improv. It’s soft and a mistake just sounds like part of the improv. That would drive other members in a trio or quartet nuts, though.”

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…is about to be realized! Readers, celebrate with me! I’ve been selected by NASA to go to ISS and test the effects of space travel on older men. They called me this morning. I celebrated at breakfast with a wee bit of Jameson in my coffee. Maybe more tonight! (Jameson, that is.)

From the Fifty Shades books to the NY Times and Wall Street Journal’s reporting about Gov. Cuomo, we have ample evidence for this truism. Scandal is the opium of the masses today, not religion. Better said, scandal as reported in the media has become the new religion for most people, and they can’t seem to get enough of it. Where there’s a demand, there’s a supplier, and publishers, writers, and media outlets have jumped on the bandwagon and are shoveling the SOS out by the truckful.

We can’t really blame sleaze-meisters like Ronan Farrell or Pierce Morgan, or even Fox News or MSNBC pundits, who are out to shock their viewers. People love their doses of scandal, and others feed that addiction for profit. Blame the media outlets’ producers and writers. The sleaze-meisters are just their toadies.

There’s absolutely no concern for the people who might be hurt unfairly by scandalous accusations for the simple reason that they are assumed to be guilty until proven innocent. Even when proof of innocence is available—i.e. the scandal doesn’t just reduce to an X-said-Y-said, as in the case of Cuomo (you don’t thing a high percentage of politicos didn’t favor their families with Covid testing or vaccinations?)—the public only remembers the initial claims of scandal and never the proof that there was no scandal, or it was often simply an attack generated by a few disgruntled people with an agenda (Cosby’s case was a classic, because the AG was running for office; in Cuomo’s case, you have a new generation  of pols aching for a chance at power—his first accuser is also running for office and the twenty-years-old story of abuse came from a de Blasio supporter—guess which Dem in NY state is Cuomo’s biggest enemy!).

Often the person accused of scandal has to face a lynch mob spurred on by the likes of Morgan and Farrell, who become judge and jury for the lynching—this group includes such “fair and honest” news media stars as Jake Tapper. The media know scandal sells, there’d demand for it, and they supply it.

This is all exacerbated by the speed of communications nowadays, mostly social media, where bandwagons for scandal abound. Some of us rush to keep up with the scandal; others (I’m one) are more logical and reasonable and say they’ll withhold judgement until all the facts are in (i.e. due process takes place, and the scandal is proven to be true or false in absolute terms, not a storm in a teacup). But most people are scandal mongers—they buy, sell, and consume scandal.

The scandal’s often not there, folks! Some social media sites even create it out of thin air, leading to all those conspiracy theories that seem impossible to debunk.

Read the rest of this entry »

If you’re a conservative evangelical or Catholic who voted for Trump in 2016, have you atoned for the sins you committed in setting the US back during the mad and divisive four years of his presidency? If not, you should!

I don’t know what to call those sins. At the very least, they were hypocrisy. At the worst, they were Machiavellian, evil, and political expediency. In any case, people like them made a Faustian deal with the Devil incarnate Trump to further their own agendas.

You may call Michael Cohen a sleazebag or something worse, but he’s atoned for his sins and shown who Trump and his family really are in his tell-all book (probably the most interesting of all the anti-Trump books I’ve read in detail). One scene in that book sticks in my mind. It takes place in Trump Tower where Narcissus le Grand meets with several famous (infamous?) evangelical leaders. They practice the “laying on hands” ceremony and depart convinced that Il Duce has the spirit within him. What a laugh I had! Trump just conned them. He hates and hated people touching him, even before Covid, but Cohen had convinced him to just close his eyes and go along with that cultish ceremony. The ultimate con man and his acolyte, Cohen, conned the evangelical leaders, con men themselves, who were stupid enough to believe the charade.

As long as these people got what they wanted—the worst probably being a Supreme Court now dominated by extreme right-wing conservatives, including Catholic cult member Judge Amy; wasn’t Creepy Clarence, the sexual pervert, enough?—conservative evangelicals and Catholics happily held their noses and looked the other way, especially their leaders who pandered to their base. Families ripped asunder at the border, attacks on our God-given planet Earth, faux displays of religious fervor (violently clearing peaceful demonstrators away to get his photo-op in front of that church, holding up a Bible) are only a few things these Christian conservatives should count as evil deeds their lord and savior Mr. Trump committed. They are complicit in that.

Read the rest of this entry »

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The tall man sitting across from Clarke’s DCI turned and smiled at her.

“He’s Agent Bishop,” said Clarke’s boss, looking about as happy as Clarke.

The tall man nodded but extended no hand to shake.

“I smell a government rat,” Clarke said. “I’m the SIO for a murder investigation. I don’t have time to waste on agents of any type—literary, arts, insurance, whatever—they’re all pariahs.”

“Um, Mr. Bishop is requesting that we release Mr. Chernoff.”

“Immediately,” Bishop said.

“Go to hell,” said Clarke. “He’s a suspect.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Bishop. “The Home Office wants him released.”

“At your recommendation, I’m guessing. And I don’t give a rat’s arse if the king himself wants him released. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation. We just interrogated him. Still are in the process of doing so, to put a fine point on it.”

“Are you charging him?” said the DCI.

“There are gaping holes in his story. We can keep him here for the allotted time while we check them out. And he’s got a lot of form.”

“We don’t care,” said Bishop. “You must release him.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can claim his cell. Or one elsewhere that’s less comfortable.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” the DCI said. “DI Clarke is one of my best investigators. I don’t think MI5 can do that without a hell of a lot more paperwork. Why don’t you let her keep him here until she follows up on the interrogation?”

“Because I don’t have to do that. You people have zero leverage when it comes to national security.”

“I get it,” said Clarke. “You clowns are using him to grass others. Always the same old story. You and your other agents wouldn’t know how to solve a crime if the criminals bit you on the arse.”

The DCI smiled as the agent turned red. “I guess I’ll have to be Solomon here. Patty, if you get evidence on this guy, we can charge him, unless MI5 hides him or takes him out of the country. If he has anything to do with this murder, he will be punished for it, I guarantee it.” The DCI eyed Bishop. “And for your information, Agent Bishop, I have friends in the home office with a lot more weight than you have.”

The agent frowned. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that threat.”

“On the contrary, broadcast it anywhere you like and to whomever. All the better, I’m thinking, so that everyone knows what meddlesome plods are in charge of national security. I know your type too, low-level paper pushers that should be emptying rubbish bins instead of hindering honest policework. I’d love to take you down a notch.”

Bishop stood, his face still red. “I’m going to collect Mr. Chernoff. Just try and stop me.”

“I’m not stopping you, but I’ll register a protest with the home office.”

Bishop nodded and left.

“Why are you smiling?” the DCI asked his DI.

“Thank you for the support, sir.”

He shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. But he was an obnoxious prat, wasn’t he?”

“So who was that well-dressed gentleman?” Blake asked when Clarke returned to her desk.

“Some arse high enough in the pecking order that he can make us release Chernoff.”

At that moment, Bishop appeared again, guiding Chernoff by the elbow. After the two left the station, all the detectives, like Blake, wanted to know what had happened.

“We can still arrest Chernoff if we find contradictions in his story. Blake—” Her mobile interrupted Clarke. After listening a bit and then ringing off, she turned to her group. “Okay, back to work, everyone. We have another murder. Basically the same MO. Blake, you’re with me.”

***

Two hours later the new victim was on her way to the morgue and SOCOs were still investigating the crime scene. The dead woman had been found at the wheel of an old lorry that was rusting away in a junkyard. The Fred Flintstone look-alike who’d been ready to crush it and end its days on Earth was still shaken when Clarke and Blake left. Blake and a few others had gone to inform and interview both women’s flatmates, something they hadn’t got around to doing with the first victim. The rest were staring at the murder board that now had two victims. The silence was oppressive.

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Cancel culture is yet another current fad that smacks of censorship—in fact, just another but less common name for it in the publishing world, in fact. Like the anti-cultural appropriation movement, it inhibits free speech and an author’s right to self-expression. I know I’ll get into trouble for saying this, but go ahead and boycott me! I don’t sell many books anyway (probably more pirated than legal sales, because I favor ebooks), so, unlike that emcee of ABC’s “The Bachelor,” my livelihood won’t be affected. And what I have to say doesn’t compare with the fantastic lies and conspiracy theories that have created on both the far-right and far-left.

From cancelling Pepe Le Pew to George Washington, this so-called cancel culture begins in absurdity-land and ends in tyrannical censorship-Hades. You can’t change facts by trying to erase them! Yes, Pepe was a hilarious cad, a pursuer of women (and more a French stereotype), but he was a far cry from Donald J. Trump (have you already forgotten that “Access Hollywood” tape and his 16+ victims?). Yes, George Washington and a few other Founding Fathers of our great nation owned slaves—Blacks weren’t even counted as humans in the original Constitution! And Chris Harrison is correct: We are viewing our current culture with a lens that differs from the ones of 1776, 1945, or even from just a few years back.

Slavery was outlawed with Lincoln, it continued in Brazil until 1888, and the Brits exploited Blacks to clean up their country after World War II, but under those earlier lenses, all these were an accepted practices. Many other persons, not just the Founding Fathers, were racists. Theresa May, when she was Home Secretary (or was it PM?), tried to send them back, saying they weren’t British citizens, yet another example of the racism today’s UK inherited from its colonial past (remember, Southern plantations in the US were originally British!).

And poor Pepe! He’s a victim of LeBron James and other questionable censors who wrap themselves in the cloak of good intentions but should know better. (I’m not knocking him for being a Yankees fan who bought shares that make him a partial owner of the Red Sox.) But going after Pepe is just wrong! Next thing you know, Speedy Gonzales (Mexican stereotype?) and Bugs Bunny (“Hey, Mr. A-rab!”) will be targets. What about Daffy and Sylvester? Or Porky? (We make fun of them because of their speech impediments, you know.) Or the Big Bad Wolf? (That’s making fun of people with asthma or COPD, right?)

Censorship is alive and well in the US and elsewhere. In the US, it has a new name: cancel culture. But giving something a new name doesn’t make it right. It’s still wrong, and it has always played footsie with fascism. Admit it: No one would know how absurd that QAnon movement is if we cancelled those absurd spiels that led to its beginning in the first place. If only to help people stupid enough to believe it, we can’t cancel that from our national discourse.

A lot of cancel-culture folks scream, “But it was wrong!” about George, Pepe, and others they’ve aimed their guns of political correctness at. That “was” is an example of cultural transference, not cultural appropriation. What’s wrong now was not wrong then. It’s possible the cancelers haven’t studied history enough to realize that? In any case, consciously or otherwise, they’re indicting everyone back than for crimes they believe were committed, crimes defined by their beliefs at this much later time. Those “transgressors” lived within their cultural context; no one living now has the right to apply their cultural mores to them other than saying, “It was wrong but acceptable back then.” And there are unfair equivalences drawn in the process, which are often absurd; Slavery was terrible; the Nazis’ Final Solution was worse. Human beings were crucified, drawn and quartered, burned alive, drowned, electrocuted, hanged, and beheaded; Pepe just got laughs. Yes, human beings’ predilection for treating other human beings horribly is always wrong, but, to mimic Animal Farm, some evils are more evil than other evils.

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