Title:  Remnant:  An Anthology

Author:  Roland Allnach

Publisher: All Things That Matter Press (November 11, 2010)

Length: 218 pges

Subgenres:  Sci-Fi /Fantasy

BLURB:

A stirring, thought provoking anthology of three novellas within the speculative/science fiction genres. The stories are linked in theme by characters seeking self- truth, redemption, and their moral center.   The novellas, in order ofappearance, are: “All the Fallen Angels”, in which a convicted war criminal attempts to make peace with his past; “Enemy, I Know You Not”, in which a military officer that was captured and tortured tries to find his loyalty in an abyss of suspected betrayals; and “Remnant”, in which the survivor of a global pandemic is confronted with the prospect of making peace with hismemories when other survivors attempt to bring him back from self-imposed isolation.

EXCERPT:

…there she stands, among the whispers of ruin, caught between so much anger and hurt and betrayal. So dark, that night: the whisper of the wind, the patter of the rain, the steam of humid air; it had the feel of dissolution, of tears and loss and futility. And there she stands among it all, among the whispers, dehumanized, for what is her life—any life—but the lost murmur of whispers in the dark? She was only nine. I shot her anyway.

The nightmare snapped away as it always did, stunning the mind of the man that had been held in its sway. He rose up in bed—not bolting, but more a slow, steady bend at the waist to sit upright, like some undead creature of old. The comparison, he thought distantly, was not all that off the mark.

He turned in the darkness to let his feet slide out from under the sheets of his bed. There was no curious glance over his shoulder to look upon his wife; he knew by now that she was a heavy enough sleeper, and that she had grown accustomed to his often troubled sleep. Yet it bothered him nonetheless, waking a petty notion in the lonely recesses of his heart, a petty notion of jealousy to sleep in apparent peace.

With a sigh, he departed the bed and staggered with the stiffness of his bad leg towards the little kitchen of their captain’s cabin. He moved with familiarity, not turning on any lights, yet still able to silently gather his customary mug and the hot water to make his tea. Then he settled himself at the small table beside the portal of their cabin, one hand on his mug, the other on his com. He looked out to the cold points of starlight in the black void. He blinked. The sound of water, the soft tinkle of running water, came to him. He looked to the sink, but he had turned off the faucet.

He closed his eyes. The com vibrated under his hand, startling him. His arm folded like an old mechanism to bring the little black communicator to his ear. He could hear the breathing on the other end of the call. He knew who it was, but not how she knew to call, and she always knew; she always called when he woke, but she never spoke. Too many bad things dwelled between them, he knew. Where does one start? When all that’s left is broken, which piece do you pick up first, and more important, why that particular piece?

But then something changed: she spoke his name, her voice a thin rasp in his ear.  “Stohko?”

He blinked. His lips parted. He put the com down and keyed it off, but stared at it for several seconds, his face settling to stone. His eyelids slid shut, and when he opened them, he was looking to his side to see his wife standing by the teapot, arms crossed on her chest, her long blue nightshirt hanging to her knees. “Nightmare?” she said through a long yawn.

He stared at her.

She rubbed her face before walking around the table to hug him from behind, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Her dark hair slid forward to brush against his cheek. He barely breathed. His eyes had not moved, holding where he had seen her, as if she still stood there. He laid his hand over the com.

“Stohko—”

“It’s my burden, Pallia, not yours.”

“But it’s here, with both of us.” She let her breath go. “You took your pill?”

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at once, but nevertheless confessed to her. “Last two days. Something’s changed. I don’t know. I’ve been sleeping well for the last few weeks. No headaches, no nightmares, no calls—”

She straightened, her dark hair trailing across his neck as she receded from him, but her hands remained on his shoulders. “Those pills are old, you know. Expired, I would think. Maybe you should see Piccolo tomorrow. At least you could sleep then.”

He frowned.

She said nothing. After several moments she went back to bed, the only remaining imprint of her presence the sudden chill of his skin where she had touched him. He crossed his arms over his chest to lay his fingers on his shoulders, sensing the dissipating warmth of her hands. He looked over his shoulder, but as he expected, she was gone. With a frown, he let his hands slide down to lay on his thighs as he looked back to the mug of tea.

He sat for some time, alone, in the dark, his eyes burning. He pushed the com away, his arm holding a moment before he settled his hand in his lap. He rested back in his chair, gazed out the portal to the emptiness of space, and took a sip of tea.

A shrug, slight and almost involuntary, pulled at his shoulders.

***

He blinked, coming to his senses at the sound of snapping fingers. His eyes darted about to place him in his usual pub within the engineering section of the inter-system shipping nexus where his freighter was docked. He looked across the regular customers until his eyes fell on the man sitting across from him.

“Hey, Jansing, you still with me?”

Stohko looked at the man for a moment. He glanced down at the beer mug he realized he held in his hand. He looked back at the man across from him. “My credit’s good, Piccolo.”

Piccolo rubbed his beard, a grin seizing him as he lounged back in his seat. He was a dock foreman, but he was also a marketeer, and despite Stohko’s reliance on him, Stohko held no illusion about Piccolo’s nature. “You know, I like you Stohko,” Piccolo said, but sighed as he opened his hands on the table. “It’s just this stuff you need, you know, it’s not in my regular catalog of goods. That means I have to have it brought in special, and special considerations, well, that means special costs. If it wasn’t some exotic designer thing, it would be different, but being that I have to have it made, well, you understand. There’s only so much consideration I can give a former Navy man.”

Stohko stared at him. “My credit is good,” he said again.

Piccolo’s grin faded to a crooked frown. “Is it? I hear your business is real soft lately.”

Stohko’s eyes narrowed on Piccolo. “I know you have the pills.” Piccolo’s face settled. “I like you.” His eyes wandered over the black

ceiling before settling back on Stohko. “Tell you what: I have a little job for you—do it, and I’ll extend your credit.”

E n em y, I Kn ow Yo u N ot

I

The dying fires of Tropico smoldered in the night, peering like little red eyes from the darkened face of the planet.

Sergeant Ellister frowned as he stood in the viewing lounge of his troopship. His gaze lingered on the planet, his mood sinking as the planet’s sun began to illuminate an arc of daylight across its rim. He blew out his breath and shook his head before thumping a fist on the bulkhead next to him. “So after everything, you’re telling me it’s a matter of trust?” He tipped his head. “All right, I trust him,” he said, his frown resuming its hold on his face. He looked to his side. “You know, this whole thing with Hovland, I thought it was Security’s business. It’s not up to me to clear him, so why bring me down here?”

Training Officer Sheffield, slouched against a bulkhead across the lounge from Ellister, shrugged. “This is the only quiet place to talk. Don’t forget, it’s celebration time.” He glanced at the planet beneath them. “The campaign’s over. This insurgency—this part of the rebellion—it’s over. We won. Time to cut loose.”

Ellister’s frown did not relent. “Then leave my platoon alone.”

Sheffield smiled. “As it happens, I’ve got replacements for your

platoon.” He looked to Ellister. “Security says everybody’s a green light.

You too, by the way—you’re officially cleared, even though the papers haven’t gone through all their channels just yet. I wanted to let you know. That was some little show you pulled down there,” he reminded the sergeant as he nodded his head to the planet.

Ellister looked away. “I was justified.”

Sheffield waved a hand. “We can justify anything if we try hard enough, but that’s a threat to our standards, and in those messy gray areas, that’s where questions and doubt live. Order—to maintain order— things have to be black or white. Clear lines, distinctive boundaries; it’s the only way to keep things sane. Remember that.” He leaned off the bulkhead. “I’ll go talk to Hovland. Now do yourself a favor and get drunk like everybody else.”

***

Lieutenant Hovland stared at the tasteless food on the resin meal tray. About him, the troopship’s cafeteria was crowded and loud with shouts of drunken triumph. Food took flight over his head; an occasional body would jar his table. His ribs still ached where he had been clubbed with a crowbar, but he was more upset that his medications barred him from joining the drunken rowdiness. Yet the thought of that sent a sense of relief through him, and it wasn’t a bad feeling, for it reminded him that he was still among the living. It was no small claim, considering the campaign had ended with eight men lost from his platoon.

A pale hand came out of the confusion and swept away his tray. He looked up, only to sigh at the disheveled creature before him. “Sheffield,” he called out across the noise.

The TO put his hand on the table and dumped himself on a seat across from Hovland, his typical smile of mischievous glee pulling at his lips. “I got you new meat,” Sheffield said with a tip of his head.

Hovland put a hand to his ear, Sheffield’s words lost in the noise.

“What?”

Sheffield leaned forward. “I said, new meat. They’re a bunch of losers off Tropico’s spaceport—sentries with nothing to watch over now. They’ll fill out your complement; get your squads filled again.” He slapped Hovland on the shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“I could use a few days to heal up,” Hovland said over a ragged chorus of shouts rising up from the far corner of the cafeteria. “I’m in no condition to start training recruits.”

Sheffield waved him off. “You got the new meat, old boy. I already talked to Ellister. It’s all set.”

Hovland blinked. “Ellister? It’s my platoon.”

Sheffield put a hand to his ear. “What?” He waited, but when Hovland opened his mouth Sheffield stood and patted Hovland’s shoulder. “Catch you tomorrow,” he said and pushed off into the jostling mob of the cafeteria.

Somebody bumped into Hovland’s back, driving his ribs against the table. Pain….

BUY LINKS:

Autographed print copies:

http://www.rolandallnach.com/Bookstore.htm

Direct from publisher (All Things That Matter Press):

https://www.createspace.com/3496763

Amazon print:

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Amazon Kindle:

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About the Author:

Roland Allnach has been writing since his early teens, first as a hobby, but as the years passed, more as a serious creative pursuit.  He’s an avid reader, with his main interests residing in history, mythology, and literary classics, along with some fantasy and science fiction in his earlier years.

By nature he has a do-it-yourself type of personality, and his creative inclinations started with art and evolved to the written word.

Since making the decision to pursue a career as an author, he’s secured publication for a number of short stories, received a nomination for inclusion in the Pushcart Anthology, built his own website, and in November 2010 realized publication for an anthology of three novellas, titled Remnant, from All Things That Matter Press, followed in 2012 by his second anthology, Oddities & Entities, also from All Things That Matter Press. Both books have gone on to receive a number of national awards, including National Indie Excellence Awards, Readers Favorite Book of the Year Awards, and USA Book News Best Book Awards.

His writing can best be described as depicting strange people involved in perhaps stranger situations. He prefers to let his stories follow their own path. His writing is sometimes speculative, other times supernatural, at times horror, with journeys into mainstream fiction, and even some humor- or perhaps the bizarre. Despite the category, he aims to depict characters as real on the page as they are in his head, with prose of literary quality. His literary inspirations are as eclectic as his written works – from Poe to Kate Chopin, from Homer to Tolkien, from Flaubert to William Gibson, from Shakespeare to Tolstoy, as long as a piece is true to itself, he’s willing to go along for the ride. He hopes to bring the same to his own fiction.

– Social Media Links:

website:  www.rolandallnach.com

Facebook:   http://www.facebook.com/roland.allnach

Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5181360.Roland_Allnach

 
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