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Honor Bound: Science Fiction Thriller
Invaders are coming. Scourges from the heavens. Can one mech warrior make a difference? The samurai were entrusted as the ruling military class of feudal Japan. Centuries later, their legacy endures, passed on to a division of mech warriors sworn to protect the people of Earth from alien invasion. One mech remembers. In the quiet woods that stand before the great Mount Fuji, the ancestors speak to him of honor, discipline and the way of the warrior. The time has come to rise up. Just as the samurai repelled the hordes of Mongol attackers a thousand years before, so must he join his brethren to repel this new threat from beyond. Will he survive the onslaught? Or will he face certain death? You’ll love this sci-fi story, because everyone wants the good guy to win. Get it now.
14 pages, Kindle Edition
Published December 15, 2020
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December 11, 2021
The Sign of a True Warrior
Today I face certain death. Murmuring in the surrounding forest, among this Sea of Trees, are the voices of the yūrei, the ghosts of my ancestors. They speak to me like falling cherry blossoms, sweet petals fluttering secrets of proud generations to the forest floor in the early morning, gathering in whorls at my feet, reminding me that I come from an honorable line of samurai. I direct myself to heed their wisdom.
Many centuries ago, a shogun united the warring clans of Japan and established the samurai as the ruling military class. They created Bushido, the “way of the warrior,” the strict code by which all samurai abide. Service. Honor. Discipline. The samurai faded, but not their spirit. They knew there would come a time when they would be called upon again.
I examine the data, each record an image or soundbite of battle. Not one shows a comrade retreating, giving up, pulling away, surrendering, or dodging death. Not one reveals anything less than utter dedication and obligation to duty. The verses of their death poems reflect the minds of the warriors, a balance between their acceptance of life and the inevitability of death.
I have developed a restatement of verses, but one always comes to mind, and I believe when my final moment arrives, it will be the one burned into the record of this mech unit I inhabit: Frost upon my armor I fall among cherry blossoms Sweet is the dawn.
Now again invaders threaten my homeland, heralding from the heavens, a heathen swarm of foreign devils, spawned from the ugly reaches of space with no meiyo, no honor; soulless, black wraiths of the Underworld:. Demons.
A human warrior appears, grasping an extended ridge of body armor, he climbs into my cockpit. As the door retracts, he is consumed within me. I gird him in armor and give function to his missing limb, and in return, he fills me with life. With him, I am made whole. We are one, A oneness that is the peaceful unity that binds us all.
A true warrior fears only the failure of not trying. The yūrei, the ghosts of my ancestors, fill this Sea of Trees with battle cries. Tomorrow, I might be among them, haunting this very forest, committing to eternity my death poem. Until that time, I will fight for my people, serving as samurai. Driven by service. Bound by honor.
Today I face certain death. Murmuring in the surrounding forest, among this Sea of Trees, are the voices of the yūrei, the ghosts of my ancestors. They speak to me like falling cherry blossoms, sweet petals fluttering secrets of proud generations to the forest floor in the early morning, gathering in whorls at my feet, reminding me that I come from an honorable line of samurai. I direct myself to heed their wisdom.
Many centuries ago, a shogun united the warring clans of Japan and established the samurai as the ruling military class. They created Bushido, the “way of the warrior,” the strict code by which all samurai abide. Service. Honor. Discipline. The samurai faded, but not their spirit. They knew there would come a time when they would be called upon again.
I examine the data, each record an image or soundbite of battle. Not one shows a comrade retreating, giving up, pulling away, surrendering, or dodging death. Not one reveals anything less than utter dedication and obligation to duty. The verses of their death poems reflect the minds of the warriors, a balance between their acceptance of life and the inevitability of death.
I have developed a restatement of verses, but one always comes to mind, and I believe when my final moment arrives, it will be the one burned into the record of this mech unit I inhabit: Frost upon my armor I fall among cherry blossoms Sweet is the dawn.
Now again invaders threaten my homeland, heralding from the heavens, a heathen swarm of foreign devils, spawned from the ugly reaches of space with no meiyo, no honor; soulless, black wraiths of the Underworld:. Demons.
A human warrior appears, grasping an extended ridge of body armor, he climbs into my cockpit. As the door retracts, he is consumed within me. I gird him in armor and give function to his missing limb, and in return, he fills me with life. With him, I am made whole. We are one, A oneness that is the peaceful unity that binds us all.
A true warrior fears only the failure of not trying. The yūrei, the ghosts of my ancestors, fill this Sea of Trees with battle cries. Tomorrow, I might be among them, haunting this very forest, committing to eternity my death poem. Until that time, I will fight for my people, serving as samurai. Driven by service. Bound by honor.
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