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Published by Bold Strokes
Books
This story represents a
dramatic turn in my writing. It is a futuristic story of two brothers, one
straight and one gay, who battle a corrupt government and each other. This is
not a gay romance, although several characters are gay. This is a tale of
survival, of devotion, of finding deliverance and atonement.
This is what Bob Lind, the
reviewer for Echo Magazine, had to say about it:
I've said in the past that Alan Chin is my favorite author, and
that is still the case with this new book. It is best described as a sci-fi/speculative/political
novel, so unlike any of his previous works I have seen, and he handles the
genre with mastery. The story is action-packed, well-constructed and expertly
told, with a diverse, developed cast of gay and straight characters working
together in situations that risks not only their lives, but perhaps the future
of this country. Bravo … five stars out of five.
Blurb:
Twins Aaron and Hayden Swann are fighting a corrupt government
taken over by ultra right-wing Fundamentalist Christians in 2055 America. Each
brother fights in his own way, Aaron with bullets, Hayden with words. Then one
night their world is turned upside down when they are caught in a government
sting and they must both flee north into the badlands between San Francisco and
Canada, where the only safe haven is a place called The Plain of Bitter Honey, a
refuge where heads of the Resistance operate. But the brothers don’t know that
government agents are tracking them to the hiding place of the Resistance. Can
they find the inner strength to survive?
Excerpt:
At last, Aaron opened his
eyes to find himself staring into eyes that were disturbing in their clarity.
Those eyes bored into his; they seemed to dissolve all questions and all
answers within their depth. They were the eyes of a man watching the trajectory
of a stag leaping off a cliff, with more amusement than horror, but at the same
time expressing sympathy for the stag.
“I’m sorry that I’ve put you in danger,” Aaron
said. “I’ll never do it again. Packs?”
“Because you’ll give up these
underground activities?”
“Because I’ll keep this shit
far away from you.”
“Okay, packs.” Hayden hooked
his little finger through Aaron’s and gave it a tug. He leaned forward and
kissed Aaron on the lips—a loving, sensual kiss. Aaron didn’t resist. Considering our circumstances, Aaron
thought, this might prove to be our last
chance to show affection.
Hayden pulled back. “No
matter what, I love you.”
“I know.”
“Yes, but I wanted to say it out loud, just
once.”
Hayden squeezed Aaron’s hands
with icy fingers. “What about this Julian fellow. Does he make you happy?” Aaron
asked, already knowing the answer.
“Brother, have you forgotten
the last chorus of Oedipus: Call no man happy until he is dead.”
Aaron nodded. “You writers
are so full of shit.”
They kissed again before
Aaron led his brother back into the living room. All eyes turned toward them.
“Listen up, people,” Aaron
said. “It’s time for a hasty retreat. We’ll go over the roof in pairs, three
minutes apart. Hopefully they’re not watching the alley. Stubbs, you take
Maggie. Hayden, you and Julian can leave the way you came, but you’d better
hurry.
We’ll meet up at the safe
house in the Castro in three days time.”
Stubbs and Maggie checked
their handguns; both clicked their safety off.
The Armenian hissed, “Van
coming. Looks like Marwick’s.”
Aaron rushed to the window. A
black van was too far down the hill to identify. He’s guessing, Aaron thought. He snatched the binoculars and
waited. Seconds ticked by like months until the van moved close enough for him
to check the license plate. His heart fell. He turned back to the room to see
Stubbs and Maggie still standing at the doorway.
“Go dammit; go now.”
Stubbs took Maggie by the
arm. They disappeared into the hallway.
“Hayden, Julian, change of
plans,” Aaron said. “You both go over the roof.”
Aaron dashed to Hayden,
pulled a Glock from his belt and held it out. “Things might get dicey. Take
this.”
Hayden shook his head.
They glared at each other,
and Aaron saw the emotions churning behind his brother’s eyes.
“Shit,” Aaron hissed,
returning to the window. He dropped the Glock beside the mirror and his wallet.
As he picked up the binoculars he wiped the sweat from his forehead before
training the binoculars down the hill.
The van chugged up the
street. When it reached the end of the block, the two Homeland HumVee-Xs dashed
out of hiding, again, to block the road. The van stopped as four uniformed men
jumped out of their vehicles. Two officers converged on the driver’s door, one
barking orders and the other standing off with his gun drawn. The other two
sauntered around the van, their M4s held at the ready. One officer walked to
the driver’s door and shined a flashlight on the driver, no doubt asking to see
I.D. cards. The driver’s window slid down; red flashes burst and shots rang
out. The van sped backward, spraying more shots. From the rooftops on both
sides of the street, spotlights sprang to life, casting theatrical beams on the
van. Machinegun fire cut the air, pelting the van with red tracers from above.
There was no way to help
them. Aaron waved at his team still standing in his living room. “Everybody! Go
now, over the roof! GO!”
They all rushed out the
doorway, except Hayden.
“Aren’t you coming?” Hayden
asked.
“I’m right behind you.”
“Brother, I’m simple, not
stupid.”
“Look, dammit, they’ll be
here any second. Now go. Hurry!”
A crashing sound yanked
Aaron’s head back to the window. The van spun out of control, smashed into a
parked car, and flipped on its side. Bullets peppered the van for another
half-minute. The noise sounded like a twelve-foot string of firecrackers. Then
it stopped, leaving a stunned hush. No sign of life registered within the van.
Two officers lay on the street, motionless. Smoke rose through the beams of
spotlights, a shifting pall between the borders of light.
Suddenly, another noise cut
the silence—the throaty growl of an engine starting below Aaron’s window. Aaron
glanced down to see a man straddling his brother’s motorcycle. The lean figure
and dreadlocks were unmistakable. Hayden gunned the engine to get everyone’s attention.
The spotlights turned on him. He revved it once more and flew up the street in
the opposite direction.
“What the…?” Aaron whispered
to an empty room. On a hunch, he glanced at the coffee table, and his heart
imploded. His brown wallet, which held his I.D. card, was missing. In its place
was Hayden’s calf-skin wallet.
The screech of tires whipped
Aaron’s head back to the street. Two HumVee-Xs now blocked Hayden’s exit.
Uniformed men leaped from the vehicles with rifles drawn.
Hayden slid into a tight turn
and gunned the engine, rocketing him the opposite direction. He bent low over
the handlebars. But now he was barricaded in from both sides of the block.
Hayden came to a dead stop in the middle of the block. The searchlights zeroed
in on him, yellow and brilliant, catching him like Bambi in the headlights.
Someone shouted in a throaty voice. Two officers on each side of the block
dropped to one knee and raised their M4s to a firing position.
It appeared to be a
stalemate.
Aaron knew his brother was
drawing all the attention on himself to give Aaron a clean getaway, but before
he could move the front door burst inward. Officers rushed in with weapons held
at the ready.
“Freeze, motherfucker!”
The apartment lights were
still off, but the glow of the spotlights outside, like artificial moonlight,
filled the room. Aaron could see them clearly, five rifle laser-beams aimed at
his chest. He slowly raised his hands.
Two of them held their
weapons on him while the others searched the apartment.
Aaron didn’t hear the car as
it pulled to the curb below his window, but he did hear the double thud of an
expensive car door opening and closing, and the quick footsteps coming up the
stairs. A man—designer-dressed in a black, double-breasted suit, hand-stitched
cowboy boots, and a cartoonishly large, silver cross at his throat—strolled
through the doorway and moved toward Aaron. Emblazoned on this lapel was the
insignia of the Christian States of America, the red circle encompassing white
stars and a blue cross, which never failed to turn Aaron’s stomach. The man’s
Ray-Ban sunglasses riveted on Aaron, moving up and down as if he were measuring
him for a coffin.
“Aaron Swann?” he demanded.
Aaron recognized his sleek
and undertaker-pale features: Deputy-Chief Whitehall, head of Homeland
Operations for the Western Division, and junior member of the Holy Council.
Maggie had assembled a dossier on Whitehall with his photograph on the inside
cover and details of his meteoric rise to power. So, Aaron thought, the big
dogs are here. That’s a very bad sign. Rumor had it that Whitehall always
came in on huge successes. His forty-year-old face was scrubbed, shining and as
animated as a Broadway actor. He pushed his shades up to rest in his
platinum-colored hair. His eyes glowed with excitement, and his voice resonated
a confident chill.
“No,” Aaron managed to say,
having no idea of how he would pull off the bluff.
“Very slowly, show me your
I.D. card.”
That’s when it hit him. He
swallowed. “In my wallet, there on the coffee table.”
Whitehall picked up the
wallet, removed Hayden’s I.D. card, and scrutinized the picture and the
information it held. A flashlight illuminated Aaron’s face; he couldn’t see
anything.
“You’re Hayden Swann?”
Aaron swallowed again. He had
religiously lived by the motto of ‘look out for #1,’ but his brother was the
sole exception to that rule. They were two halves of the same person, linked by
an indefinable force. The decision seemed to flicker before Aaron like a
candle-flame held close to his eyes, and in spite of the fact that he knew he
was putting a noose around his brother’s neck, he whispered, “Yessir.”
A silence followed, as if he
had caught Whitehall off balance, which was surprising that anything could do
that. Whitehall had a reputation of being the rock on which his church was
built.
“Am I led to believe that
that would be your brother, Aaron, on the motorcycle?”
Alerted by his use of the
passive voice, Aaron hesitated. He felt a cold drop of sweat slide from under
his armpit and meandered down his flank. He closed his eyes.
“Not to worry,” Whitehall
said, “Jesus protects us all.”
Aaron opened his eyes,
blinked twice. Had he heard right? The silver cross ticked at Whitehall’s
throat as he swallowed.
“Yes,” Aaron said.
“Where are the others?”
“What others?”
“Stubbs, Maggie, The
Armenian? And your boyfriend, Julian Stoller?”
Aaron supposed he should have
been surprised that Whitehall knew them all by name, even the fact that he knew
Hayden’s boyfriend’s name when Aaron had only learned minutes ago, but he
wasn’t. Whitehall and his team had obviously had them in their sights for some
time.
Whitehall used his flashlight
to illuminate the Glock sitting beside the cocaine. He seemed on the verge of
saying something else, but changed his mind. He flipped open his communicator
and barked a coded order Aaron didn’t understand.
At that moment a shot rang
out in the street. Aaron half-turned to see his brother jerk forward. The
officers were firing quite carefully. The second shot thrust Hayden backward.
But he still moved, still straddled the bike. He gunned the engine and the bike
leaped forward as officers fired more rounds. Hayden sagged over the
handlebars. The motorcycle went down, sliding before an array of sparks.
When Hayden tumbled to a
halt, the spotlights bore down on him again. His body lay motionless in the
cheap yellow light. Aaron’s insides felt like a windowpane that had shattered,
and through the shards of what had once been his life—his orthodoxy—he mumbled
a bewildering cry.
For Hayden’s sake, Aaron
prayed to God that his brother was dead.
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