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Trigram Cluster Funk
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ISBN-10: 1-77115-124-2
Genre: Science Fiction/Fantasy/SF
eBook Length: 208 Pages
Published: August 2013

From inside the flap

DJ 121, a beat-mixing trans-African enroute to the San Francisco citidome with his kid, Keyonte, trips into the crosshairs of a metal virus attack masterminded by Samuel Ahdams and the Sons of Liberty, Arab extremists at war with USA, Inc.’s supercomputer, WideBlue. Yim, a beautiful shixiong martial artist from the Eight Trigram Society who is sworn to protect the USA, Inc. populace from both the extremists and their own duplicitous supercomputer, intervenes. A mortally-wounded Keyonte will die unless DJ can procure a legendary antidote from Yim, but Yim is stripped of her powers by her mysterious head Abbess. Ahdams falls in love with Yim and engages in inappropriate relations with the enemy before she’s captured by the Sons’ Gibraltar cluster. DJ stumbles upon their spawnpoint and desperately attempts to free her, but WideBlue, the Society, and the extremists await, locked and loaded, in a god-mode conspiracy. Yim draws upon the ancient wisdom of the Trigrams in a final confrontation with the Abbess, but can only heal Keyonte after Ahdams makes the ultimate sacrifice.

Reviews and Awards

"The success of authors like Ian McDonald and William Gibson and the $1.5 billion plus the Matrix trilogy movies have earned worldwide suggests there’s a new trend on the horizon. It’s good news for martial arts lovers drawn to a strong female protagonist, readers hungry for the intellectual challenge a literary stylist has to offer, and science fiction fans everywhere. Trigram Cluster Funk explores a profound cultural clash between three global forces in the near future..."

Trigram Cluster Funk (Excerpt)

Ahdams kicked his chair across the darkened room and paced back and forth in front of the hard drives like an animal. He pressed the now strap-less data goggles to his face. First, Moby 824 had disconnected the EHF broadcast. Next, a Nintel had spontaneously come alive and disabled two high security multi-pods. Now, what looked like a teenage girl was alternately appearing and disappearing from the display like a human glitch. Either the targeting software had been compromised or the girl was moving through three-dimensional space like a schizophrenic humming bird.

CAUTION: Multi-pod #9 disabled.

CAUTION: Multi-pod #14 disabled.

The multi-pod gun turrets were gone. Ahdams cursed out loud and switched to live feed.

A girl’s plastic sandal filled the screen, then it went blue.

A close-up of a foot coming from a ceiling camera. He spat on the floor. 21:18:00:00. He stood up. Upstairs, Europa security had responded, and he could hear the distinctive clinking sound of gas canisters rolling across the floor above. It was time to go. The Sons of Liberty had neutralized Burns 208, their primary target, but two individuals, D’Juan 121 and Yim, could now conceivably reconstruct his operation for MacroSoft and compromise future revolutionary activities.

CAUTION: Emergency door disarmed.

A red handle icon was now illuminated in the lower left corner of the goggles. The secure-class emergency hatch had been disarmed.

“Yellow Yak, gotta go! Gotta go!” yelled one of his lieutenants from outside the door.

Ahdams covered his ears even as he could smell the gas. Staring through the crystals, he located an auxiliary feed. The images were low res, but he could make out several multi-pods dangling from the walls and ceiling, squashed spiders in webs. The girl had dismantled hundreds of kilograms of weaponry with her bare hands, and her feet. Plastic was blowing around the cabin. There was the open hatch.

He glanced up at the flight logistics frame:

airspeed = 326 kilometers per hour

altitude = 965 meters

Her grainy image appeared from the other side, black pants and shirt buffeting in the suction. She was pulling a man’s body toward the open door. She braced herself against the frame and looked out. Ahdams found himself intrigued. She was going to throw the body out the door.

She turned back towards the surveillance, and he saw her face. Her skin appeared to be glistening, the sunlight refracting in the video interlace, a liquid surface tension. Her face was blank, a blank mask, though a single tear inched across her cheek, leaving a horizontal trail. She was looking down at the man’s body, and he knew it was Yim Yee, he knew that he had been her father. Her vivid green eyes were beyond grief, beyond anger. They seemed to him bird’s eyes, like the eyes of the pigeons his mother used to feed on the roof of their Tel Aviv apartment. But these were the eyes of a caged bird, staring impassive yet divided, between the bars of a cage. Thinking of the sky. Lifting the man with her back to the wind, the girl steadied herself. He froze when she lifted her gaze up to the ceiling-mounted lens, through the ozone and into Ahdams’ frayed goggles, to where he stood above a discolored desk in a room in the San Francisco International AirShuttle Port a kilometer across the Bay. Then she wrapped her arms around the body and fell back through the portal.

Yim was gone. Ahdams removed the goggles and stared at the smoke gathering around his feet in disbelief.

He wanted her back.