Trafford Publishing: Holo-Tech Rogue

Here is the full reference card for this book...

If you'd rather place an order by talking to one of our cheerful order desk clerks, please call 1-888-232-4444 (USA and Canada only) or 250-383-6864. From Europe, ring our UK order desk clerk at local rate number 0845 230 9601 (UK only) or 44 (0)1865 722 113.

Holo-Tech Rogue

by Erik Bliesze

205 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0936; ISBN 1-55395-222-7; US$20.00, C$22.95, EUR16.50, £11.50

Holo-Tech is a post-modern, Samurai-esque novel set in the mid twenty first century dealing with the transmission of information, particularly through holograms.

Read more!

about the book about the author sample excerpt catalogue info

About the Book

Holo-Tech Rogue is a post modern, sci-fi action / adventure that echoes the environmental and sentiment of the present moment. Set in the mid 21st century, Mickey Priest needs a mission in life. The universe responds by sending Mo Kirakawa Crown his way.
He needs to deliver a hologram in the form of an origami crane. The information contained within this crane has the power to alter the world and allow greater freedom to a group of individual conscious beings who reside within the web and systems of information flow. The spirits within the realm of data, bits, zeros and ones seek to better mankind and to be heard.
Mickey Priest awakens.

About the Author

Erik Bliesze was born in Chicago where he continues to reside today.

Sample Excerpt
excert from Chapter One
An older gentleman stands, firmly grasping the greasy steel pole right in front of him. Regardless of the solid grip he has, his hand slides a fraction of an inch up and then back down. Belly of the beast twists. Clatter of steel wheels on old rusty worn tracks holds minute conversations inside and the absence of them in a symphonic ballad of constantly connected low, high, young, and old voice. There are too many people packed onto this train, but there are also too many people on this whole freaking island. Since it was sold to the Union of Residential Land Owners it has become one of the top three most people dense nation states in the world and one of the top five most powerful in economic influence. Sixty plus million people on and off this island every single day. Another 40 million as permanent or semi-permanent residents. The U.R.L.O. has its own type of security and surveillance. You either have a permit of residency, a permit for work, or a very limited permit for travel and pleasure. You are allowed on and allowed off.
It's so nice here though, the man thinks as he glances across the bridge at the swelling towers penetrating deeply and disappearing into the early morning sky. Every thing moves. Everything has a pulse. So many people that once inside, one can remain pretty much anonymous for as long as one wants. Can do basically whatever one wants. But the penalties on the island if you get caught with out a proper permit are also some of the harshest ever adopted into the legal system. Well, at least the island of Manhattan's legal system. So that's why it's all business here. No vagrants, no homeless, no artists on the street. Not on the island of Manhattan.
He can smell the scent of her flesh through the deodorant on the man next to him. Kind of musky he thinks. He looks like a serious worker bee, referring to the suit beside him at waist level, his eyes straight ahead looking at nothing he can pin point. Probably paying attention to everything within his personal space only appearing to be lost in thought. The same smell blending into the smell of some man in a flannel, hint of oil maybe.
He has already scanned the rest of the suited sardines in the tin, along with the prepubescent group of Catholic school girls, the gangster wrap want to be types, and the twenty-somethings dressed in Prada silicon suits, Armani eye goggles, and Gucci double track calve skin kickers. Sony cargo pants with hidden pockets for handhelds and a vast array of mobile web gear.
The gentleman holding the pole jerks with a sudden jumping of the train and he catches a glimpse of a seriously pretty Asian girl, the one who he has caught the faintest whiff of her scent, her flesh, and this imbeds itself deep into his bio-sensory accumulation drive.
Her breasts sit high and he guesses full with close to the same gloss coated silicon that straps them back tight against her frame. Near perfect, two sleek blackened metal D&G emblems sit inlaid on twin O2 canisters, the only item on her riding low and on her hips, matching her belt buckle.
The gentleman stealing glances is tall, refined looking, and thin. Nothing about him suggests a handsome-ness that is above the standard, especially here, but it is the solidarity of his features which yields him a certain attractiveness. Nothing too eye catching about him except his air of calm. His name is Vespa Williams.
The girl has her hair pulled back. Tight black dreads locked into a circular band. This streamlines her features even more, accentuating her high cheek bones and angular facial structure. Gives her a look of speed even in stillness. Vespa has caught many glimpses of beautiful women riding into the island, but she is serious and calm and beautiful, all at the same time. Like she has something to do, but sits there patiently awaiting her moment to strike. And her eyes, like dark mercury beads, sort of dead like, pulled back just enough to hint at her Asian, probably Japanese ancestry. Her knee length neoprene and leather boots are shined and spotless. Her dark red lipstick faintly reflects the rising sun as the R train begins to mount the Brooklyn Bridge.
Everything moves fast. Many glimpses. Many thoughts. One massive rusty bridge support after another. It is bright outside, cool. Surprising how much un-organized light comes through the cloud cover. And this is exactly why Vespa is here. The eye in the sky can't pull high enough resolution back in the office that Vespa left just one hour ago.
He looks out over the bay, at the city, and then steals over at her again. He catches another fraction of the scene. Something shiny in her hand. It looks like a stick of chrome with two holes on either end. Interesting, he thinks momentarily, maybe some sort of personal defense mechanism?
Style everywhere. The train jerks hard. As he stares out of the thick plastic window, Vespa watches through his peripheral vision, the man sitting next to the worker bee. He is wearing a jet-black leather jacket over his flannel, well worn around the elbows and his face is heavy with thick bellied droplets of perspiration. He is the man that smells like oil. The man's eyes dart around. He seems to know that something is off, his nervousness obvious to those who care to pay attention long enough. As soon as the rhetorical question, but what? is brought forth in Vespa's mind, and with the slightest hint of motion in her dreads, the girl is right on the man that smells like oil. Has him standing upright. His back is pressing hard against her chest. His face against the only visible doorway out of this car. His hands are now bound by his index fingers with the stick of slick chrome.
Listen bitch, "I ain't the one! You seem to be mistaken," he mutters sideways back at her through spit dribbled lips. A little old black lady in the direction of his words says angrily, "Who you calling bitch, you stinking hill billy?" The Asian girl doesn't say a word. Her eyes stay focused in on him. Her movement is minimal and seemingly disconnected to the situation as Vespa tries to get closer to the two. She is pushing the man against the doors. She sticks what looks like a translucent orange jellybean where the doors come together, right on the rubber trimming. It lingers for a half-second making minute calculations and then reacts with the rubber and a little explosion goes off burning the metal doors and an area of leather on the zipped jacket that the grizzly man wears. He is desperately looking for an escape. His head turns toward the inside of the train and then in the direction of the quickly disappearing barrier in between them and thin air laced with massive bridge supports. The rubber trim has disintegrated. Doors no longer sealed. Cool, damp air fills the car. Her speed is impressive. Her actions blending in with the jerks of the train. One hand, pulling sideways at the hole. Doors open and the train is almost at the middle of the bridge. People look, some don't, and no one interferes.
The man who is being detained grins, his dirty blond hair flying everywhere. She looks out at the bay. The man's right hand holds a razor sharp Spyder knife he manages to pull out of his rear pocket. In one clean swipe with right thumb and middle finger, his left index finger falls to the ground. The controlled pain marks his face. His hand a mess, he swings the girl back by the neck with three fingers and a thumb and says, "You, bitch! This is what you look like?" "I could feel you around. They say you're hard to see, but you're presence is obvious." Her body is tense. He has control. She drifted for a split second and he knew. She felt a presence too, but not this man's and she is fully aware of her own.
He brings her close to throw her with all his strength off the train. Crazed lunatic, he thinks. A bridge support rushes by. Wind. A sudden blast of cold air.
She grabs him and along with their combined momentum they launch, the man's back to the fall, off the train. Another support passes by.
Vespa watches in genuine amazement. He tries not to let it show in his face, but he is in awe. The girl is holding strong to her prey, mid air. Her dread locked braids entangle both of their faces. Vespa hopes for a clean view of what their faces register at this point. But they are falling real fast, like waking up too fast from a dream that feels so real and the images just fade away, in a pulling motion.
The man screams, "You fucking crazy bitch! You fucking psycho..." and ground rush. Raw speed. Wind burns tears in her eyes. No expression. She manages to pull in real close to him, wraps the cloth coated nylon wire that held her hair back around his neck and braces herself for the impact on the water. The man's hair obscures his face and his eyes dart in every direction looking for some kind of hope. She manages to stay on top and they break right through the water like a stone through a sheet of glass.
Nano-moments transform themselves into lengthy seconds and nothing happens. The surface stills. Just the sound of a few sea gulls searching for food above. Some blood comes up along with an empty O2 canister that bobs on the surface.
Then her head blasts upward gasping for air. The other man's head doesn't. She loosens her jacket and shaking, treads water to a place where she can pull herself out.
Vespa calculates the situation, sizing her strength, her willingness to die. Goes over the situation in his mind. He picks up the knife and flicks the finger. Filthy street trash, makes a little money selling illegals straight off shipping containers and thinks he's somebody. He knew and couldn't do a thing about it. Had it coming I suppose, Vespa ponders.
He strains to try and catch another glimpse of her through panicked and confused passengers as the train enters the Manhattan side passing through an infrared field scanner that identifies each passenger on the train.
An electronic sign with letters flowing from left to right in English with Japanese, Chinese, German, French, and Spanish underneath marks the entrance and reads: Welcome to the island of Manhattan... 62 million expected to be served today...Have a nice day...I.M.L.S...

Catalogue Information