Dark Slide: A Dillon Bradford novel

By Paul Black

DILLON BRADFORD HAS FINALLY MADE IT. BROKEN FREE FROM THE TELEPATHIC HELL THAT ALMOST COST HIM HIS LIFE AND THE LIFE OF THE WOMAN HE LOVED.

OR HAS HE?

JUST WHEN HE THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO LIVE HIS LIFE. Dillon Bradford was a cool hunter, he had it all. Money. Women. And a gift for knowing exactly what his clients were thinking. He lev

• Language: English
• Publisher: Novel Instincts Publishing
• Release date: Aug 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781792313967

Paul Black

Paul Black always wanted to make movies, but a career in advertising sidetracked him. Born and raised outside of Chicago, he is the national award-winning author of The Tels, Soulware, Nexus Point and The Presence. Today he lives and works in Dallas, where he manages his graphic design firm, feeds his passion for tennis and dreams of six figure movie deals. He is currently working on a new book of fiction tentatively called The Samsara Effect.

Book preview

PRAISE FOR PAUL BLACK’S NOVELS

2-Time WINNER for science fiction

Independent Publisher’s Book Award.

Multiple GOLD and SILVER medalist for science fiction,

ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year.

WINNER for science and general fiction

London, New York, Midwest and Hollywood Book Festivals.

WINNER for genre fiction

Writer’s Digest Magazine’s International Book Award

"Science can be a boon to humanity. The Presence is a science fiction thriller set in a future where reality is something manufactured by corporations. Sonny Chaco is charged with finding something that resembles law in this world. As he tails one billionaire CEO who may have made those billions with a bit of foul tactics, he finds that the reality-manufacture industry is more tumultuous than he could ever hope, and that throwing in some romance only complicates the complicated. An EXCITING READ that should prove HARD TO PUT DOWN."

~ Midwest Book Review

"The Presence is fast-paced thriller, full of smart, interesting characters and suspense. You’ll think it’s one thing, but it’s something else entirely!"

~ Writer’s Digest Magazine

It was a FAST READ and I enjoyed the trip that it took me on. It’s one of the better hard Sci-Fi books I’ve read in a long time, and Paul Black is an author I’m looking forward to seeing more from!

~ Jordan Mason, themoviepool.com.

An exciting read that should prove hard to put down.

Author Paul Black brings a fresh look to the near-future fiction-writing genre.

~ PearlSnapDiscount.com

"The Presence is fast-paced and WELL WRITTEN. Paul Black pulls futuristic tech into a believable and seamless world."

~ Darcia Helle, author Quiet Furry Books

"Dallas writer Paul Black makes his first foray into the world of science fiction with The Tels. It’s a HIGHLY ORIGINAL novel set in the near future and IT MOVES AT LIGHTNING SPEED. Mr. Black has quite an imagination and puts it to good use. The MIND-BENDING PLOT centers on Jonathan Kortel, who is approached by a shadowy group called the Tels, who covet his telekinetic gifts. The ENSUING ACTION IS BIZARRE enough to read like something straight out of The X-Files."

~ Steve Powers, Dallas Morning News

"(The Tels) is WRITTEN SO SPLENDIDLY, at times I forgot I was reading science fiction – with the emphasis on fiction. The characters are realistic, and the hero is someone you relate to, worry about and wonder if he’s going to be able to cope with the reality that is set before him. This is definitely ONE OF THE BEST SCIENCE FICTION NOVELS I’ve ever read... the BOOK IS REMARKABLE."

~ Marilyn Meredith, Writer’s Digest’s 11th Annual Book Awards

"...Soulware was a BRILLIANTLY EMBROIDERED STORY, mixing science and fiction in a plausible and entertaining way...I absolutely LOVED THIS BOOK!"

~ Ismael Manzano, G-POP.net

A riveting science fiction novel by a gifted author.

"This story by Paul Black is as STRONG AND WELL WRITTEN as any of the stories of my heroes: Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Andre Norton, or Anne McCaffrey. He is one of those writers that we who worship this genre look for every time we pick up the novel of an author who is new to us...The CHARACTERS COME ALIVE for you. You feel right along with them. You can believe the decisions they make. And best of all, nothing is clearcut and simple. The story brings us to a strong ending while leaving us with the desire for more...I recommend The Tels to every lover of sci-fi. Good work, Paul! Welcome to my bookshelves!"

~ John Strange, thecityweb.com

Paul Black’s ENGAGING PROSE promises big things for the future....

~ Writer’s Notes Magazine

...a GREAT READ, full of suspense and action....

~ Dallas Entertainment Guide

"A RIVETING science fiction novel by a gifted author...The Tels would prove a popular addition to any community library Science Fiction collection and documents Paul Black as an IMAGINATIVELY SKILLED STORYTELLER of the first order. Also very highly recommended is the newly published second volume in the Tels series, Soulware, which continues the adventures of Jonathan Kortel in the world of tomorrow."

~ Midwest Book Review

…there’s a grittiness and sensuality that pours out of every word...

"Black rises above the Trekkie laser tag spastics found in your typical sci-fi novels resting on the grocery store racks. His sensibilities broaden from machine gun testosterone to discreet fatherhood, from errant sexuality to wry humor. HE DELIVERS A CHARGE OF VENTURE RARELY FOUND IN FIRST-TIME WRITERS. And THE TELS HITS THE MARK as a solid adventure serial, leaving you hanging for the next publication."

~ Brian Adams, Collegian

"The Tels is an ADDICTIVE READ from first-time novelist Paul Black, a promising new storyteller on the sci-fi scene. He manages to capture the reader in the first ten pages. He introduces us to a set of intriguing characters in a totally believable possible future. There is a grittiness and sensuality to his writing that pours out of every word in the book. Whether it’s his description of the preparation of a good meal, the seduction of a beautiful woman, or a fight to the death, THE TELS HAS IT ALL. Even people who don’t read sci-fi will want to read this book. The action is great and would make one hell of a movie. Is Hollywood listening? Paul Black has a winner on his hands. I can hardly wait for the next installment."

~ Cynthia A., About Towne, ITCN

"Soulware doesn’t miss a beat as it continues Jonathan’s story, the story of his quest to find out exactly who he really is and why the Tels are so interested in him. The ending makes it clear that there’s more to come, and readers who crave their science-fiction with a hint of weirdness can look forward to the next book in the series."

~ Steve Powers, Dallas Morning News

Other books by Paul Black

The Tels

Soulware

Nexus Point

The Presence

The Samsara Effect

Cool Brain

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

NOVEL INSTINCTS PUBLISHING

Dallas | Santa Fe

www.novelinstincts.com

Copyright ©2019 by Paul Black

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

ISBN: 978-1-7923-1395-0

ISBN: 978-1-7923-1396-7 (e-book)

1. Fiction / Science Fiction / High Tech 2. Fiction / Near-Future 3. Thriller / Suspense

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019908488

Printed in the United States of America.

1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

First trade paperback edition.

This book’s text is typeset in Adobe Garamond 3, 11 point / 18 point.

Its page numbers and chapter heads are in Bureau Agency, and some titles are in Trade Gothic Bold Eighteen Condensed.

Contents

Part 1: You never know how you’ll turn out

Prologue

1. Take your poison

2. You never answered my question

3. Now you listen to me

4. You’re scaring me

5. Like a walk in the field

6. I hate cooking

7. Maybe it’s not love

8. God is ones and zeros

Part 2: Windows to the soul

9. Think of me

10. Go. Have fun

11. I love my mother

12. Damn children

13. You little boys

14. Windows to the soul

15. Bloody hell

16. Kind of like drowning

17. Drink some wine

Part 3: Enough

18. Asinine

19. Dude, you okay?

20. Where it all began

21. Thinking about the future

22. I’m talking crazy

23. Are you serious?

24. That bitch

25. She’s still a bitch

25. Family

27. Two of me

28. Be careful

29. Go kick some ass

Part 4: A string of code

30. Seriously?

31. One at a time

32. A string of code

33. Synthesized smugness

34. No arguments

35. Let the games begin

36. Ride it, lover

37. Oldest trick in the book

Epilogue: Just thinking

About the Author

Part 1: You never know how you’ll turn out.

Prologue

Not funny.

I didn’t like being a woman. I had only been one once before, and that had been a simple get in, download the files and get out sort of job. It was my third assignment and the ops team had decanted me into a middle-aged lab tech’s overweight body. I’d trained in a fat suit so that part wasn’t tough to manage, but her rheumatoid arthritis was the bitch. I could hardly make her body walk let alone run, and her hands had barely managed the USB’s flip case. This aspect had been conveniently over looked in the intel brief.

The woman I was in now was more agile. The heel of my Jimmy Choo clipped an edge of one of the entrance hall’s terrazzo tiles. Irina caught me as I stumbled out of the three-inch pump. Her look spoke volumes.

Why did I have to be the girl this time? I asked, straightening.

Because you’re so metrosexual?

No, seriously.

Your brain patterns are a good match. Plus, not every techlepath can do what you do.

What about Blankenship?

Not a match.

Evans?

Irina shot me a full-on Are you kidding me?

So what are you saying? I wriggled the pump’s delicate strap over my heel, all the while holding onto Irina’s shoulder. That I embrace my inner woman better than most guys?

Why can’t you get to the program?

It’s ‘with’.

What?

"It’s go with the program, and I do. But commandeering our own people seems extreme. Why can’t we just pay them to do what we want?" I knew the answer, but the concept was still frustrating. Hijacking the body of one of our ally’s top officials and posing as her felt almost treasonous.

Some people’s moral compass only points one way, Irina said, matter-of-factly.

And you don’t have a problem with this?

Dillon, I’m from Russia. It’s a way of life I understand.

It was my turn to flash an Are you kidding me look.

Irina stopped and faced me. Look, she said, "I don’t like it as much as you, you know that. But we rarely make these substitutions, and this one should be a piece of cake."

I stifled a laugh.

What?

You got that one right.

Hooray for me. Now come on, Madame Ambassador. Let’s do this and get home.

We continued down the long brightly lit entryway in silence, but Irina kept throwing me these stern sideways looks. After a few more steps, the heat from her stare was practically melting my makeup.

Pull your shoulders back, she ordered as we rounded a corner to another hallway.

Her tits are too heavy, I said, trying to navigate the terrazzo’s network of white grout.

The straps of my bra were digging into my shoulder blades, my panties were wedged way up my ass and there was a blister the size of a dime forming on my left heel. Being a woman sucked.

Irina shook her head.

What?

"First off, they’re yours, not hers. Stay in character."

Yes, ma’am.

And they’re not tits, Dillon. Women don’t call them tits.

"Then what do we call them?"

Irina shrugged. I don’t know. Boobs, breasts … the girls.

"So, what are yours called, the little girls?" I asked, instantly regretting it.

Her glare cut through me like an acetylene torch. Not funny.

Irina’s English had gotten better since she had been in the States. But her Russian accent still made an appearance every now and then, and always when she was pissed.

I like your girls, I said, trying to smooth out the moment.

The knot of anger in Irina’s brow relaxed some. You have to focus. You’re the British Ambassador to Russia, and you’re about to tell their ambassador that you’ve changed your mind about trade embargo.

I know the deck, Irina. I studied it for a month.

Name the ambassador’s attaché?

You’re my interpreter. You tell me.

When Irina got mad, she narrowed her eyes into tight slits of scrutiny. The lenses of her thick black framed glasses softened the look and when I mentioned this to her once, it really set her off. I loved jacking with her.

Her eyes narrowed. The attaché’s name, she demanded.

Which one?

An exaggerated sigh escaped her lips. "The woman."

Tatiana.

And the other one?

Vladimir.

"Da. Now, who’s his first secretary?"

I suddenly felt a deep ache in my crotch. I winced and grabbed my abdomen. It hit again, and I stopped and steadied myself against the hallway’s textured stucco wall. The ache continued, and in a strange way felt almost like I had been hit in the balls. This, of course, was impossible.

Once, during my three hours as the lab tech, I commented to Irina that even though I was in a woman’s body it still felt like I had a man’s genitalia. I had even caught myself scratching when there was nothing to scratch.

Irina theorized that what I was experiencing was similar to what amputees felt, that the brain was hard-wired to have a template of the complete body and that my consciousness would keep referencing the template. When the ops team heard this, they code named me Phantom Dick.

Digitizing my consciousness and embedding it into a semi-tranq’d body was a technology that was so off the books, even the president didn’t know about it. To the population it was something they only read about in science fiction. For me and a handful of other techlepaths, it was reality.

Irina came up to my side. What’s the matter? she asked.

If I had to guess? Cramps.

The concern on her face morphed into wry grin.

Not funny.

Aw, she said, not hiding her sarcasm. Dillon got his first period. You need tampon? I got one.

Jesus. I have no idea if I need one! Can’t ops plan this better?

Calm down. It’s not end of world. Do you feel anything? She gestured to my groin. You know.

Well … um … maybe.

Irina took my arm. Come on, tough girl. Let’s go find the ladies room and fix you up.

We found what looked like a woman’s lavatory at the end of the hallway, behind a bank of elevators. The Embassy was located in Washington, but with its stark utilitarian furnishings and cold-war architecture you might think you were in Russia. And this bathroom carried the theme, except it looked like it doubled for a maintenance closet. A cheap fluorescent light box, its diffusion panel speckled with fly carcasses, flooded every corner of the room with harsh blue-green light. Two industrial yellow mop buckets were parked against one wall, their mops sitting idle next to them. A row of three brushed metal stalls stood sentry. Irina quickly checked each one, then went to the door.

Crap, she said, jiggling the latch. It won’t lock.

I doubt anyone will come in. It’s too early in the morning.

Irina hefted her computer bag onto the counter. I hope you’re right.

Do we have time to do this?

Believe me, you’ll be glad we did. She unzipped an outer compartment and began digging through it.

I rubbed under my left breast. The girls are tender.

That’s normal.

I leaned against the counter and stared into the mirror. The face looking back was long and narrow, and the onset of middle age was beginning to show in the faint crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. The Ambassador was an attractive 43-year-old of Russian descent. Back at the end of the 20th century both her grandparents had defected to Britain from the old Soviet regime. Her parents had met at a friend’s wedding. The brief said that her father’s side had lineage to Czar Nicholas. Her auburn hair framed sunken eyes that rested atop high set cheekbones in a gorgeous ballet of Slavic royalty and peasant strength. Irina kept searching.

I smoothed away a smear of lipstick from my top lip with a red nailed fingertip. Am I hot?

This brought Irina out of her desperate hunt. She regarded me with a slight tilt of the head. I’d do you.

You would? I asked.

That was joke. Irina went back to searching, then pulled the tampon from its lair and pointed it at me like a teacher. Now take this and go into one of the stalls.

And do what with it?

She rolled her eyes. Dillon, the drug we use only shuts down the Ambassador’s consciousness. Many of her procedural memories will be functioning. You’ll know what to do.

I shuffled into the nearest stall and turned back. Irina was standing like a drill sergeant, hands on hips.

What if I don’t remember? I asked.

It’s like riding bicycle.

"But I’ve never ridden this kind of bike before."

Irina walked over and pulled the door shut. Hurry, please. We only have about fifteen minutes before the meeting starts.

I slid the lock bolt over and surveyed the stall. Unlike most men’s, this stall was spotless. Bathroom etiquette for guys seemed to plateau somewhere around the age of 12, but women’s etiquette continued to evolve well into adulthood.

How’s it going? Irina asked.

Ah … fine.

You sure?

Positive.

The applicator was a study in consumer elegance. Its color the perfect shade of feminine blue, its shape a true embodiment of the old design adage form follows function.

The bathroom’s door opened, and sharp clicks of high heeled shoes echoed into the stall. A professional. Probably one of the embassy’s admins. I bit back the urge to announce my presence.

Irina said hello in Russian, and the woman answered back. There was a governmental clip in her husky voice. The clunk of a large heavy purse being placed on the counter was the next sound, then water running into one of the three sinks came quickly after it.

I questioned whether I should hike up or take off my skirt, but then realized that my trepidation about performing the procedure had ebbed and I was indeed going through the motions as if I had done it many times before. I began to unzip the skirt, when Irina blurted something out in Russian. The fear in her voice made my heart jump, then the sounds of a struggle sent shards of adrenaline knifing down my spine.

The Ambassador’s nerves were not as sharp as mine and her coordination, especially in this heightened state of panic, felt clumsy. I fumbled the latch open and slammed the stall door against the wall.

Irina had the woman pressed against the counter. Their arms were outstretched, hand in hand, but it appeared Irina might be losing the fight. My eyes instantly went to the Glock 9mm in the woman’s right hand. Its silencer mount was unusually thick and pointed at the ceiling.

Hey! I yelled. The voice that emerged seemed more like Dillon Bradford’s, and I fought an instinctual urge to jump for the Glock.

Irina snapped her head around, glasses askew across her nose.

Get back in the stall! she said.

The woman’s athletic stature was almost a mirror of Irina’s. She also had blonde hair, but longer and streaked with bad highlights. It was like Irina was fighting her older sister. The woman’s eyes locked onto me through a curtain of bangs. She snarled something in Russian. The Glock edged down in my direction.

Irina let out a strained moan as she fought against the press of the woman’s strength. The Glock was now pointing directly at me.

Dillon!

I lunged.

A loud crack ricocheted around the room and I flew back against the wall.

Irina eyes went wild and she mouthed the word No, but I couldn’t hear it.

As I sank to the cold tile, I noticed one of my Jimmy Choos was sitting upright in the spot where I had been standing. It felt like I had been kicked by a horse, and a deep pain crippled me as if a hot poker had been rammed through my chest cavity. Something warm and thick seeped over my bottom lip, and I could hear my struggle to breathe in the gurgling at the back of my throat.

Both Irina and the woman froze in place and watched me slide. Irina’s eyes darted from my chest to my eyes. But the woman regarded me with dismay, as if she didn’t quite believe she had pulled off such an accurate shot.

This fleeting instant of distraction was all Irina needed. She spun around and connected her right elbow into the woman’s temple with a rage I didn’t know she had. The woman crumpled, and the Glock clattered across the floor and stopped under the towel dispenser. It noisily burped out a foot-long tongue of paper.

Irina rushed to my side and placed her hand on the wound. Blood oozed between her fingers. Her other hand went to my carotid artery.

I don’t know if it was the Ambassador’s brain shutting down or my own consciousness dealing with the trauma, but I couldn’t hear well. Everything had become muffled, like an invisible wool blanket had been thrown over me.

Irina was a trained physician, and her medical instinct was in overdrive. She tore the blouse away from the wound and began inspecting the entry hole. All the while her lips kept moving. I think she was saying, Please don’t die.

Then the blanket lifted.

Call … them. It was almost impossible to build the words and they barely bubbled out of my throat.

Irina, deep in professional mode, looked up almost incredulously.

The phone, I said.

Irina’s eyes went big with realization. She yanked her purse from the counter and dug out the special phone we had been issued. It could penetrate almost any structure and work from anywhere in the world. She thumbed in the number. It took an excruciating long time to click through.

She yelled, Extract, extract! On the second extract she screamed the word hysterically.

I could barely make out the muted voice of the ops tech.

What happened? his voice barked from the phone. The Ambassador’s vitals are dropping.

"Get Dillon out, now!"

Affirmative!

Irina went to the dispenser and ripped off the towel. Running back, she knelt and pressed the wad of paper to the wound in my chest.

Did it go through? I asked.

Irina’s hands shook as she gingerly tilted me forward and inspected my back. Her gasp said it all.

I really f’ed this up, didn’t I? I said leaning back against the wall.

Irina gave a tight nod and the tears let loose. The hiss of the water running in the sink couldn’t drown her out. Something was wrong, because I had never seen her cry. Ever.

I raised a bloody hand and grabbed her arm. Our eyes met.

What… I coughed, and blood splattered across Irina’s blouse. What aren’t you saying?

She took my hand with both of hers and pressed it to her cheek. It takes about five minutes to extract you. As she clutched my hand, her thumb was at my wrist checking my pulse. Always the doctor.

So?

The Ambassador … she said, sucking back a sob.

I gently brushed her cheek and left four parallel streaks of blood. Babe, what?

She only has two, maybe three minutes. The tears started flowing again.

Shit.

We sat there for a long second. Irina with her eyes closed, her hand futilely holding the paper towel to my chest. I had my hand over hers and I could feel the Ambassador’s life leaking out. We had never been briefed on this kind of scenario, and I wondered if the ops team even knew what would happen if my