Lesser Gods
Lesser Gods
LESSER GODS
Duncan Long
Copyright
Copyright © 2013 by Duncan Long. All rights reserved. No portion of this book, including illustrations, fonts, and text, may be reproduced, printed, or distributed in any way without prior written consent from Duncan Long Publications. All characters in this story are completely fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover illustration and inner illustrations painted and drawn by the author. Copyright © by Duncan Long.
Published by Duncan Long Publications, Manhattan, KS
Print version ISBN 978-0-938326-31-1
Dedication
For Jonathan and Breely.
Sometimes novels are written in months or even weeks. Sometimes they take years or decades to come to maturity.
Lesser Gods
is one of the latter. The manuscript has traveled through any number of slush piles in publishing houses great and small. It has endured several agents. It has had its ending changed three times. It has undergone massive rewrites.
At one point,
Lesser Gods
was in the running to became a children’s TV series (an idea doomed from the start given the violence, adult themes, and drugs in the storyline).
Lesser Gods
languished for years when first one and then another press promised to buy it but did not. The first publisher went out of business before the story could go to print; the second had an editor who became suddenly unresponsive after initially being enthused about purchasing the manuscript, never replying to my inquires and phone calls. (Hopefully that editor simply decided against publishing
Lesser Gods
and was too embarrassed to tell me. If not, he’s out of luck now.)
Fortunately for me and this novel (and hopefully for readers), we appear to be entering a new gold age of publishing that offers the luxury of a virtual press, imparting the freedom to finally bring
Lesser Gods
into print. So, after nearly a decade of wandering in the wilderness of publishing, the story has finally journeyed into the Promised Land.
In closing, I must thank all those who encouraged me at each step of the way. There are too many kind souls to list, but two should be singled out: Cyrus “Cy” Cohen who offered useful advice as well as input on the story, market, and title (finally pushing me into bringing
Lesser Gods
into print). And Nicholas Long who did a wonderful job in proofing, offering suggestions, and giving encouragement. Without the help of these two, this story would never have made it to my readers.
– Duncan Long, January 9, 2013
Ralph Crocker
When I was still human, I looked Death in the face, and struggled to control my bowels.
But I’m getting ahead of myself….
Some might argue that my story traces back to that initial cosmic explosion that formed the stars and dust of worlds. But I prefer to map out my tale from a point much nearer, a chain reaction started with the seemingly insignificant, like the banana peel on the sidewalk, that kills the unfortunate sod who makes one last pratfall, dying with the laughter of those around him echoing in his ears.
Jeff Huntington
I cast my smoldering Marlborough into the darkness. It’s crimson tip arched like a fallen angel, crashing into a hundred sparks on the tarmac. I exhaled acrid smoke that burnt my throat, and eyed the glowing hint of a sunrise that promised to boil the humid dawn into another scorcher.
Despite a throbbing headache and an upset stomach from a roasted night of debauchery in Bangkok, I decided to report for duty, a choice that would eventually change things forever.
Now I stood waiting, one of a sweaty band of electricians stationed at the side of the runway as the B-52s prepared to take to the air. The US military had once again lived up to its “hurry up and wait” reputation. We technicians had hurried and now we waited.
Fifteen minutes.
Half an hour.
We didn’t complain. If we lucked out, we’d continue doing nothing. If we were less fortunate, we’d be called on to repair any of the electronics that failed during the pre-flight tests within the eight aging bombers.
And if any one of us was really, really unlucky, we might fly the mission with the flight crew — bad news since only the aircrew had ejection seats; a technician received vague instructions on how to exit a falling plane, and was issued a tired-looking parachute pack left over from the Korean War, the chute crammed into faded canvas that promised failure should its canopy be unfurled.
Lieutenant Norton ambled up behind us, his approach masked by the jet engines winding up. “Huntington,” he yelled, announcing his presence and causing me to wince with hung-over pain. “Get to the second BUFF. They’re having troubles.”
I swore under my breath. “You’ve got to be kidding.” The Stratofortress had fired up its engines, which meant I’d have to go along and fix the package in the air.
“Get moving, mister,” Norton yelled. “This isn’t a matter for negotiations.”
I glared at the lieutenant for a moment, considered punching him out, and then thought better of it, yanking my muffs into place, augmenting the ear plugs I already wore in a vain attempt to dampen the jets’ roar. Grabbing my tool kit from the pavement, I headed for the designated aircraft, reflecting on the rumors that Hanoi’s SAMs had brought down two B-52s just the day before.
A minute later I scrambled through an open hatch, and four minutes after that, the bomber’s engines throttled to full power and the big steel bird shuddered down the tarmac and then soared into the air, starting its bombing run on the distant industrial complex to the north.
Lying in the claustrophobic space beneath the malfunctioning console, I felt my stomach lurch as I rose within the eagle’s belly. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath; the air, laden with dust, smelled of burnt plastic wiring. I opened my eyes, grabbed a pair of needle-nosed pliers from my tool kit, and concentrated on repairing a backup module that would never be needed.
