Crossroads of Empire Book 2 by Michael J. Cooper Book Tour! @SilverDaggerBookTours #CrossroadsOfEmpire #WagesOfEmpire @michael.cooper.568089 @mjcoopmd

 

The story of Evan Sinclair that began in Wages of Empire continues in Crossroads of Empire.

Having survived German artillery, poison gas & friendly fire, Evan barely survives his hospital ship's sinking by a German U-boat. Left with amnesia, he no longer remembers who he is.

Crossroads of Empire

Book 2

by Michael J. Cooper

Genre

YA Historical WWI Fiction

Winner of the 2024 CIBA Hemingway First Place Prize for 20th Century Wartime Historical Fiction

2024 SF Writers Conference Writing Contest Finalist-Adult Fiction

". . . both a gripping page turner and a series of carefully observed character studies. Beautifully written in a voice and in details that capture the era, Crossroads of Empire is a must-read for readers of all ages" -Chanticleer Book Reviews

The story of Evan Sinclair that began in Wages of Empire continues in Crossroads of Empire. Having survived German artillery, poison gas, and friendly fire in helping to turn the tide of the war in its first months, Evan barely survives his hospital ship's sinking by a German U-boat. Left with amnesia, he no longer remembers who he is.

 Likewise, Evan doesn't recall that, despite the European war, the true source of conflict is in Ottoman Palestine, since it's from Jerusalem's Temple Mount that Kaiser Wilhelm II dreams to rule as Holy Roman Emperor over Arabian oil reserves and the Suez Canal.

 The Middle East Front soon explodes with pitched battles at Suez and Gallipoli as Evan's story is interwoven with those of historical figures Gertrude Bell, T. E. Lawrence, Winston Churchill, Faisal bin Hussein, and Chaim Weizmann.

 During his quest to recover his memory Evan will discover far more: love for his father, grief for his late mother, and hidden secrets of his bloodline-an unbroken lineage that stretches back to the Crusades and will determine his future role in the Great War.  

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Wages of Empire

Book 1

Grand prize winner - 2022 CIBA Dante Rossetti Award for YA fiction
First place honors - 2022 CIBA Hemingway Award for wartime fiction
#1 Amazon Best Seller—Jan 2024—Historical World War I Fiction

In the summer of 1914, sixteen-year-old Evan Sinclair leaves home to join the Great War for Civilization. Little does he know that, despite the war raging in Europe, the true source of conflict will emerge in Ottoman Palestine, since it's from Jerusalem where the German Kaiser dreams to rule as Holy Roman Emperor.

Filled with such historical figures as Gertrude Bell, T.E. Lawrence, Winston Churchill, Faisal bin Hussein and Chaim Weizmann, Wages of Empire follows Evan through the killing fields of the Western Front where he will help turn the tide of a war that is just beginning, and become part of a story that never ends.

“Masterful storytelling will keep you furiously turning the pages of this compelling (historical WWI) novel. A winner!”–Andrew Kaplan, New York Times Best-Selling Author of Blue Madagascar and the Homeland Novels

 “The characters, historical and fictional, come to life on the page as the storyline drives relentlessly forward. Bravo!”–Matt Coyle, bestselling author of the Rick Cahill novels

 “A beautifully written tale...exhibits seamless research in illuminating unforgettable historical and fictional characters...a tour de force!” –Professor Ronit Meroz, Dept of Jewish Philosophy and Talmud, Tel-Aviv University, Israel

 “This superb historical novel is a must read...directly relates to issues we face today.” –Rizek Abusharr – Emeritus Director General of Jerusalem International YMCA

 “Cooper has made this period of history come alive. It is a treat to read.” –Rabbi David Zisenwine, Ph.D. Professor Emeritus of Education, Tel Aviv University

 “A Young Indiana Jones–style adventure.” –KIRKUS reviews

 “Story is gripping and the characters that he describes come alive through his skillful writing. I couldn’t put it down!” –Rabbi Gordon Freeman, Ph.D., Rabbi Emeritus, B’nai Shalom, Walnut Creek, CA

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Prologue

April 18, 1911

Jerusalem

The Temple Mount was shrouded in darkness. It was the dead of night yet sounds of digging echoed within the Dome of the Rock.

Gunter von Wertheimer knew the sounds well—the steady scrape of a shovel, the bite of a pick, and the whisper of soil poured from full panniers. 

Cloaked in a hooded robe, he stood in the shadow of the shrine and looked up at the sky. Among the bright points of stars, the constellation of the scorpion hovered over the Dome; the sharp stinger formed by a bright star the Arabs called Lasa’a, poised to strike.

As the digging continued, another sound whispered out of the darkness.

“It’s time.”

He knew the voice was that of his friend and fellow archeologist, Rahman B’Shara, a hulking shadow in the darkness.

“You know what you must do,” said Gunter.

“It’s strange, though,” Rahman murmured. “When Walker first came, I thought he was like the others—just another greedy treasure hunter, anxious to get his hands on the golden vessels hidden beneath the Foundation Stone. But once I joined the dig, I couldn’t believe how quickly it was progressing.”

“Do you still believe he’ll break through in the next few days?” 

“No. He’ll break through in the next few hours.”

“Because of the spiritualists and clairvoyants he hired?”

“More likely, it’s the unchecked access he’s had to dig for the last two weeks. Walker also has a keen sense of which Ottoman officials to bribe—starting with the Turkish governor.” Rahman turned, stepped past Gunter and whispered, “There’s no time to lose.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

“Why do I need luck?” 

“You know that better than I.  His guards are well armed.”

 Rahman smiled, his white teeth flashing in the starlight. “We have something more powerful than their guns.”

“Indeed. We have the power of the Temple.”

“In the end, yes, but I was speaking of a power of this world—the power of the mob.”

“And what a mob!” Gunter agreed. “Thousands of pilgrims in Jerusalem for the Feast of Nebi Musa! When they hear the Temple Mount has been desecrated by treasure hunters, Walker won’t need to enter the Temple to experience divine wrath.” 

“Yes! The faithful will be quick to avenge this outrage.” Rahman bolted away, disappearing into the darkness. 

Gunter knew he was heading to the Moslem Quarter beyond the northern edge of the sacred precincts. After a few seconds, he heard his voice calling out, echoing among the narrow lanes. 

“Sacrilege! The Frengi are breaking the foundation stone! Sacrilege!”

Within seconds, two armed Turkish guards with torches shot out of the shrine and sprinted in the direction of Rahman’s voice. 

Gunter flattened himself against the smooth tiles and watched as they came to a stop, apparently despairing as they heard the words Rahman was shouting.

“Arise to vengeance! The Turks have given over the Holy Mountain to the greed of infidels. Avenge the sacrilege! Arise!”

The guards ran back into the shrine and within seconds, Gunter heard the anxious voice of Montagu Walker.

“We must get out of here double quick! Hurry! Take whatever you can carry!”

As he waited in the shadows beneath the arches of the arcade, Gunter knew that Rahman had been the one best suited to infiltrate Walker’s scheme—to expose and stop him. Walker had hired him as his consulting archaeologist to give his treasure hunt the patina of a legitimate excavation—Rahman, who could trace his ancestry in Jerusalem back for a hundred generations.

Though Gunter had also been born in Jerusalem, he was the son of German Templers, and never completely trusted by the local population; suspected of working for the Germans, or the Ottomans, or both. 

But Gunter served no colonial empire. He, like Rahman, was a Guardian of the Temple Mount, an order that traced its origins to a time before the holy mountain had a name, a time cloaked in the shadowed silence before history. 

A line of flaming torches appeared along the northern border of the Temple enclosure. Shouts of execration filled the air.

Walker and his crew tumbled out of the Dome of the Rock, struggling with heavy sacks, shovels and picks that scraped and clattered on the paving stones. 

“Leave that stuff!” Walker shouted. “Run for your lives!”

They rushed headlong away from the mob, frantically clawing past one another. 

Gunter knew they were making for a gap in the southern border of the enclosure.

The mob surged forward in pursuit, the light of a thousand torches beneath the black sky.

Walker was finished.

The passages and chambers within the Temple Mount would remain sealed, as they had been for a thousand years. 

But Gunter knew that others would come—drawn by the power and mystery of Jerusalem. And he also knew that the Guardians of the Temple Mount would be watching, and they would never rest.

Michael J Cooper writes historical mysteries set in the Holy Land at major turning points of history—all the while subtly promoting the notions of coexistence and peace. 

His books have won multiple awards and include; Foxes in the Vineyard (winner of the 2011 Indie Publishing Contest Grand Prize), set in 1948 Jerusalem,

  The Rabbi’s Knight (finalist for the CIBA 2014 Chaucer Award for historical fiction) set at the twilight of the Crusades in 1290, and his current novel, Wages of Empire set at the start of WWI in 1914 and winner of the CIBA 2022 Grand Prize for young adult fiction as well as the Hemingway first prize for wartime historical fiction. 

A sequel of Wages of Empire, Crossroads of Empire, will be published in the fall of 2024, and the unpublished manuscript has already won first prize honors in the 2023 CIBA Hemingway wartime historical fiction category. 

 A native of Berkeley, California, Cooper absconded to Israel after high school and spent the next eleven years studying and working there. He lived in Jerusalem during the last year the city was divided between Israel and Jordan, studied at Hebrew University, and graduated from Tel Aviv University Medical School. He returned to the US to specialize in pediatric cardiology, and after 40 years of practice, he continues to return to the Middle East for biannual volunteer missions serving Palestinian children who lack access to care. Otherwise, he lives in Northern California with his wife and a spoiled-rotten cat. Three adult children occasionally drop by.

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Water Grave by Mitchell S. Karnes February 2-28, 2025 Virtual Book Tour!

DETECTIVE ABBEY RHODES

When a young pastor is found dead at the bottom of his baptistery, detective Abbey Rhodes must search in the one place she swore never to return…the church.

Fledgling Homicide detective Abbey Rhodes investigates the murder of a young East Nashville pastor found dead in the bottom of his own church baptistery. Paired with Sam Tidwell, an apathetic, aging detective just biding his time until retirement, Abbey must convince her partner the obvious suspect is not the real murderer. 

Then, she must overcome her own deep prejudice against churches and a dark secret that anchors her to a painful past. As Abbey and Sam discover the pastor’s plans to eliminate the church’s corruptive elements and implement a new vision, they realize their list of suspects multiplies and includes church leaders whom the young pastor considered friends. 

The case of the Water Grave triggers painful memories and pushes Abbey to her breaking point.

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Crime/Mystery
Published by: WordCrafts Press
Publication Date: January 29, 2025
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 978-1962218-69-6
Series: An Abbey Rhodes Mystery, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | WordCrafts Press

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Monday, October 23, 9:15 am – Living Water Church

Mark Ripley rushed into the baptistery changing room, slammed the door, and locked the handle. He scanned the room for his phone.

A loud thud reverberated through the tiny room as the entire doorframe shook. Mark searched under the towels. Another thud accompanied by the sound of cracking wood. He found the phone and glanced down at his lock screen, a picture of his wife and two children. He held the phone to his face to unlock it. Before he could dial 911, the frame splintered, and the door swung open. Realizing there was nowhere to run, Mark turned and tried to talk through the situation.

The wooden club struck the right side of his head with such violence that Mark spun sideways and toppled into the open clothes rack, dragging several white baptismal robes down with him. His phone flew from his limp hand and bounced off the wall, sliding into the opposite corner of the eight-by-eight changing room. It rested beneath the small bench.

His attacker nudged him with his foot. A few moments passed, and he nudged him again. Mark moaned. He touched his right cheek and temple, the source of his pain, and felt the warmth of his own blood. The man watched as Mark pushed up on all fours. The pastor’s only thoughts were his phone and 911. Before he could move, the man swung the club again, landing a solid blow to Mark’s back. The young pastor collapsed like a pile of soaking wet towels.

 

Chapter Two

Tuesday, October 24, 9:41 am – Living Water Church

Sergeant McNally’s assignment of Detective Tidwell as my mentor frustrated me to no end. A detective who, like water, took the path of least resistance.

He snapped his fingers in front of my face, “Hey Rhodes, which way?”

“Sorry, Detective. It’s just past Riverside at the bottom of the hill.”

“What did I say about formalities? Save that for the brass. Just call me Tidwell or Sam.”

“Yes, Detective.” It came out before I could catch it.

“It’s bad enough you look like a little girl; don’t act like one.”

I hate when they do that! Ironic. When I was twelve, everyone thought I was older and treated me as such. Now at twenty-four, I looked like an overdeveloped twelve-year-old.

Detective Tidwell loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He stroked the salt and pepper beard which gave him a distinguished look and glanced down the road. He had a deep sorrow that added ten years to his appearance. I suppose we were a chronological paradox. “Church murder…that’s bad luck.”

“What do you mean?” Maybe he had a bad experience too.

“Nothing good ever comes from it,” he said.

I caught sight of the steeple and rubbed a sudden chill from my arms. I hated churches and church people.

It was a traditional small church building in the shape of an L with a one-story sanctuary connected to the two-story educational wing at the base of the L, just like so many small churches I’d seen as a kid.

When we pulled into the driveway, Detective Tidwell said, “Remember, just follow my lead. You got something to say, say it; otherwise, just observe.” As soon as he got out of the car, he straightened his tie and buttoned the first button of his suit coat. “If it’s too much, Rhodes, get some air.” He walked through the front doors and let them shut behind him.

I wanted to say, “This wasn’t my first homicide, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be my last,” but nothing came out. I stood there staring at the closed wooden double doors.

As I entered the tiny four-foot-deep foyer of the small church, my partner made the introductions, saying, “Detectives Tidwell and Rhodes.” I stared through the open double doors of the tiny foyer, fixated on the wooden cross on the far wall at the opposite end of the sanctuary. A Metro officer greeted us and printed our names and titles in the crime scene logbook.

He directed us to Officer Lee, the lead officer, who extended his hand to Detective Tidwell. Tidwell shook his hand then ducked under the crime scene tape dividing the foyer from the sanctuary. He glanced around the fifty-by-one-hundred-foot box of a room and walked down the center aisle. Officer Lee brought him up to speed.

I listened from the foyer as he recited the particulars of the crime scene from his memory and notes. He pointed to the baptistery which was situated behind a wall on the sanctuary stage and could be seen through an arched open space that began about chest high and ended two feet from the twenty-foot-high ceiling. Detective Tidwell walked across the hardwood-floored stage and stopped halfway between the pulpit and the baptistery window. He turned and listened to the rest of Officer Lee’s report. “Officers Hernandez and Smith are mapping out the crime scene and taking photos. Officer Grant has the church leaders spread out in the fellowship hall. CSI is on the way.” He pointed to the baptistery. “Our vic’s at the bottom.”

I stood frozen at the entrance of the sanctuary. My eyes locked on the wooden cross hung at the back wall of the baptistery, powerless to turn away. I stood there like an idiot, holding the crime tape in my hands. The officer behind me asked, “Hey, Rhodes, How’s the new gig?”

“Still learning where I fit in,” I muttered. “For now, I’m just the shadow.” I pointed to Detective Tidwell. “He’s the lead.”

The moment I said it, Detective Tidwell turned and said, “Hey, Rhodes, can we move on, or would you rather stay there and socialize?”

I rolled my eyes as I ducked under the tape. As I forced myself down the center aisle, I counted thirteen rows of pews. The décor was a mix of old and new. New ceiling, but old fixtures. Stained glass windows on the side walls, each depicting a scene from Jesus’s life, with a can light pointed at each one. A modest stage with drums, keyboard, guitars, and a baby grand in the opposite corner. Classic baptistery in the center behind the pulpit…a clear, acrylic pulpit. Nice.

Detective Tidwell stepped up to the fourteen-inch-tall baptistery glass set in the bottom of the window. He looked down into the water. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

At five-six, I had to stand on my tiptoes to see over the glass window that allowed a view from the pews. I could hear the pump churning and noticed a slight movement in the water’s surface. A man’s body lay at the bottom, traces of a dark fluid seeping from the vic’s mouth and nose. The body was already releasing liquids as it decomposed. “Do we know who he is?” I asked.

“The pastor, Mark Ripley. Thirty-three-year-old white male, married, father of two.”

Detective Tidwell stared at the body. “Family been notified?”

“Not yet.” Officer Lee flipped through his notes. “According to Faith Jones, the church secretary, the pastor’s wife and kids are on their way back from St. Louis.”

“Any witnesses?” Detective Tidwell asked.

“No, but the church leaders all have theories as to his death. He was discovered when they arrived for their Tuesday morning leadership meeting.”

“How many leaders?” Detective Tidwell asked.

Officer Lee looked through his notes. “Twelve.”

“That explains all the vehicles,” I said. “Who called it in?”

“Owen Jenkins, the Men’s Ministry leader.” Lee led us out of the sanctuary to a small hallway at the side of the stage that led to the main hall of the educational building. From there we turned left to the doors of the changing rooms, one for men, and one for women. The door to the women’s side was cracked, and the frame shattered.

I scanned the room before entering. Something didn’t fit. “Why are the stairs and floor wet? The body’s been there at least a day.”

“According to Owen Jenkins, he saw the body and ran back to the church office to call 911. While he was doing that, the secretary and youth minister entered the church through the sanctuary doors. Noticing the baptistery light on, the secretary went up on the stage to turn it off. That’s when she saw the body and screamed. The youth minister took it upon himself to check the body, believing the pastor was still alive. Owen Jenkins heard the commotion, came back to the sanctuary. As soon as he noticed the youth minister in the water, he yelled for him to get out.” Officer Lee closed his notebook. “We taped it off the moment we arrived.”

“What an idiot!” Detective Tidwell snapped.

The officer smiled faintly and read another note. “The youth minister’s name is Jonathan Williams.”

Detective Tidwell pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me a well-intentioned staff member compromised our crime scene?” Tidwell didn’t like complications. They took more time.

I recorded detailed notes in my book. “I’m sure prints won’t help anyway. A church this size probably doesn’t clean back here often.” Turning to Officer Lee, I asked, “Did someone take pictures anyway?” Officer Lee nodded. “What about a sketched diagram with measurements?” He nodded again. Standard procedure. These were officers of East Precinct. They were trained well.

“Officers Hernandez and Smith will get those down to Homicide as soon as they’re finished.”

“Smell that? Bleach.” I looked at the remains of the door and frame where someone had broken through. “Looks like someone tried to clean up.” After donning sanitary booties and Nitrile gloves, we entered the crime scene, doing our best to preserve the integrity of the remaining evidence. I knelt by the stairs and pointed to a seam where the vinyl flooring met the rubber treads of the steps leading up to the baptistery. “There’s blood here.”

Detective Tidwell knelt beside me. “Here too. Look in the grooves of the stairs.”

“Sloppy job. Must have been in a hurry.”

Detective Tidwell turned to Officer Lee. “Could you see if there’s a janitor’s closet somewhere? If so, look for a looped-end string mop. If so, bag it. We’ll have the lab check it for blood and prints on the handle.”

“More here,” I announced, holding out a white robe with spots of blood on the sleeve. “Do we have any Luminal so we can check the whole room?”

Detective Tidwell said, “CSI will.” He called out for Officer Smith to take photos of the blood stains.

Detective Tidwell’s phone rang. He answered it and listened. He lowered the phone from his ear and said, “CSI is pulling in now. If you don’t mind, have them spray the room and light it up.”

“Will do, Detective. Anything else?”

“If you have anyone to spare, I’d like to have them canvass the immediate neighborhood to see if anyone saw cars coming or going between their last church service and this morning.”

Detective Tidwell sighed and asked, “Now, where are those witnesses?”

***

Excerpt from Water Grave by Mitchell S. Karnes. Copyright 2025 by Mitchell S. Karnes. Reproduced with permission from Mitchell S. Karnes. All rights reserved.

 

MITCHELL S. KARNES is a husband, father of seven, and grandfather of ten. Mitchell uses his experience and insights as a minister, counselor, and educator to write and speak on challenging issues and concerns with an ever-growing audience. He has published six novels, three short stories, a one-act play, and numerous Bible study lessons.

Through two separate battles against Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, God has given Mitchell a new perspective on life that challenges him to create stories to entertain audiences and call them to action. Mitchell’s mission is to reach and reconcile those disillusioned with God and His church and to inspire the church to live out the love of Christ Jesus in a broken and hurting world.

Catch Up With Mitchell S. Karnes:
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Logoharp by Arielle Emmett Blog Tour! @Bookgal @therealbookgal

 

Synopsis (from Amazon):

Named Finalist in the American Fiction Awards 2024 (category Science Fiction: Cyberpunk), The Logoharp describes the extraordinary journey of a young American journalist who chooses to work as an AI-driven propagandist—aka "Reverse Journalist" who foresees and reports the future for 22nd century China.

Naomi is surgically transplanted, giving her extraordinary powers of foresight and physical strength. She hears voices in her Logoharp, a universal translator of all world languages, allowing her to take the pulse of global crowds, predicting and broadcasting political and social events with deadly precision.

But Naomi also hears discordant voices coming from unidentified sources. She knows only that mysterious voices sing to her of other worlds, other freedoms. When she's tasked with finding a flaw in a State system that balances births and deaths —a system devised by a Chinese architect, Naomi's lover who abandoned her in youth—she experiences "unintentional contradiction."

Suppressed emotions resurface, compelling her to rebel. Her decision has unexpected consequences for the men and women she loves, for her own body, and for the global societies she's vowed to protect.

Arielle Emmett, Ph.D., is a writer, visual journalist and traveling scholar specializing in East Asia, science writing and human interest. She has been a Contributing Editor to Smithsonian Air & Space magazine and a Fulbright Scholar and Specialist in Kenya (2018-2019) and Indonesia (2015).

Her work has appeared in Mother Jones, The Scientist, Ms., Parents, Saturday Review, Boston Globe, Washington Times, Philadelphia Inquirer, Detroit Free Press, Los Angeles Times Book Review and Globe & Mail (Canada), among others.  

Arielle has taught at the International College Beijing, University of Hong Kong Media Studies Centre, Universitas Padjadjaran (West Java, Indonesia) and Strathmore University Law School (Nairobi). Her first science fiction novel, The Logoharp, about China and America a century from now, is part of a planned series on dystopian paths to utopian justice.

Website

https://leapingtigerpress.com/

Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61560368953572

Instagram

https://www.instagram.com/arielle.emmett

X: https://x.com/aemmettph

Amazon

https://tinyurl.com/thelogoharp

Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/216676221-the-logoharp

Praise:

"In Arielle Emmett's fevered imaginings one great and ancient state is able to dominate the rest using an unbeatable secret weapon. Logoharps. Creatures able to see into the future, ensuring the state is always a step ahead. That is, until one rebels. Imagine Mona Lisa Overdrive meshed with The Wind-Up Girl. That's the kind of sci-fi ride you're in for with The Logoharp."

– Kevin Sites, author of The Ocean Above Me

"The Logoharp offers a thought-provoking experience for those willing to confront unsettling truths. Some may find comfort in the familiar illusions of their own "Matrix," while others may feel a revolutionary spark ignited within them. Ultimately, this novel serves as a mirror, reflecting each reader's willingness to either accept the status quo or challenge it."

– Literary Titan

“A hugely ambitious vision of a time in which America is a Chinese colony, almost anyone over 50 is sent off to die in a cozy ice-sled, and journalists are tasked with chronicling a future which then comes to pass.  If you're fascinated by technology and by glimpses of where we'll be a hundred years from now, look to a new hero, Naomi.  She's the half-human cyborg reporter who believes in truth, foresees the future and, in desperation, rebels against it."

–Beverly Gray (Executive Board Member, ASJA)

"In the world of The Logoharp, there is no security, not even an objective reality, only the reality created by journalism in reverse. Emmett's' novel creates a troubling vision of media that borders on propaganda in an AI-filled future."

—Hamilton Bean, Ph.D., author of No More Secrets: Open Source Information and the Reshaping of US Intelligence (Praeger).

"Prepare to be swept away by an imperfect yet wildly relatable heroine. This ancient, futuristic world will make you angry, frustrated, hopeful, in love, and inspire an uprising within."

—Grace Diida, L.L.M., Venture Capital Research

"Loved The Logoharp! It's genuinely original, disturbing in a provocative way, occasionally funny and erotic, creative and well-paced — and I can't get those ice sleighs out of my head! Naomi is one strange —and beguiling—heroine."

—Laura Berman, feature writer, retired columnist, The Detroit News.

Excerpt

The Null Hypothesis of Love 

爱
的
零
假
设

I’m speaking into my nanorecorder that tokenizes dictation into 104 human languages. At any time I can decode my entries to enhance supplemental knowledge. My recorded notes give me access to a tokenized (quintillion) AI database of political events and crowd reactions, the foundation of my training as a multi-channel linguist and scribe. 

I’ve been accepted as a candidate for Reverse Journalism (RJ). An RJ researches, extracts and reports the most likely scenarios of the future that will benefit Mother Country, its “children” (the masses) and, at times, the Ameriguan subsidiaries.

Of course, I have to jump through lots of academic hoops to advance beyond the lowest RJ internship tier. Ultimately, I have to understand and speak all 104 languages fluently. In a few weeks I’m headed to Taiwan for further training.

Though I’ve heard from Marco only occasionally in these past years, his face still appears in the mirror. Summers, especially, I see a pale oval reflection of his face against mine.

In winters, I still see a cloaked amateur wearing a knitted cap as he dives down the Breckenridge ski slopes. In each season, I long for its opposite—summer changing to winter’s cold, winter into summer’s heat, spring into fall, fall into spring. Why is that? I can never be satisfied with just what is. 

The Logoharp’s life and its reception of signals and spirits takes precedence now. To increase exponentially my quotient of understanding, of empathy for all others, one of my graduate research projects is to map out and publish a Null Hypothesis of Love, a theory based partially on the writings of D.H. Lawrence and Carson McCullers, both of whom wrote about the dichotomies of feeling between lovers and beloveds. Self-modifying this theory to account for cross-cultural and gender-robotic transformations in our times, I aim to post my theory on social media if the academic journals won’t accept it. Internalizing this null hypothesis as I undergo transition to human-cyborg status, I’d like to reshape our social skin.  

Deliberately, willingly, I’ve decided to pursue this career instead of medicine. The title, Reverse Journalist, sounds glorious and backward, like a Reverse Engineer. RJs deconstruct reality and remake it in pleasurable form. We’re not like conventional journalists who haplessly report and announce random social and political events of yesterday or today. Instead, we seek the truth of probable outcomes, scripting events to glorify and sustain the health of the Party and its constituents.

RJs extrapolate the future based on algorithms enabling us to analyze millions of social scenarios from a Database of Crowds—a repository of historical events, survey data, political messages and crowd responses to them. Extracting the most likely scenario given a particular convergence of prior events, we ensure the events happen as we prescribe them—that is, if all the social conditions and political strategies of our bosses/leaders are properly aligned. 

In Ameriguo, the subsidiary Directorate has already given me permission to begin physical preparation for the Logoharp, my universal translator. This is an essential tool of Reverse Journalists, but only the ones elevated to the highest levels get the full installation. My first surgeries will entail implants of programmable logic from The Laws of Ice and Critique of the Frontier, two Chinese classics about the fate of modern civilization. The logic incorporates Mother Country’s specific instruction set to remake and spread harmony across our societies and a small group of planets outside our solar system preparing for colonization.

*

I realize I’m immature and need rigorous training. Yet my superiors understand I have a gift, sensing what might happen for better or worse to a politician or a scientist or a whole country before the experts do. As an example, at age 15, I started a Citizen Live! nanoblog, forecasting the outcome of the 2104 Taiwanese elections. I predicted Falun Gong’s doom in Taiwan; the Independence Green party would lose badly again to the Blue Party’s Kuomintang loyalists swearing allegiance to Zu Guo (祖国), our Mother Country. I foresaw the downfall of decarbonization on both sides of the Pacific in favor of those who would chop down and bury our trees, claiming the carbon release was actually less than wildfire burning. And now we have the Domers, those who argue that fossil fuel exudate can be scrubbed and recycled to the upper troposphere without raising planetary temperature. It doesn’t work. 

The Directorate never applies the terms “propaganda” or “disinformation” to describe RJ’s work, which always contains grains of future truth. Not for a minute has it occurred to me to question either the Directorate in Ameriguo or the training institutes I’ll attend in Taiwan. The whole world demands my focus far more urgently than any selfish ambitions or plays for romance. I’ve wanted, most of all, to produce contentment and insight among the multiple publics who read or listen to my Citizen Live! nanoblogs. With the Logoharp, I’ll foresee, broadcast and monitor the laughter, sufferings and unselfish sacrifices to our State of millions. (I don’t think my parents would approve. Perhaps I do need to get away from them.)

*

My father disappeared about a year ago off the coast of Japan. Most likely, he was in search of a cure for his blood disease. No letters or video messages, either, though periodically I try to locate him, tracking available surveillance videos from drones skirting Mount Yotei adjoining Sapporo. On one of these videos, I watched a man bulked up in ski gear trying to snowshoe down and up a U-shaped hanging glacier. Dad loved unspoiled nature, and I’m guessing he must be settled in Hokkaido. I keep hoping to catch a glimpse of his bear-like body, his hairy chest, a mop of black springy hair that would distinguish him from native Japanese. He has a wide-legged shuffle, wearing down the outer heels of his shoes as though he’s Charlie Chaplin. But so far, I can’t locate him.

Marco’s absence is clearer to me. In the middle of the night, on occasion, when I don’t block out my thoughts, I’ll wake up, believing my lover is rapping on my door. The thermostat inside my body goes haywire as I think of him and the days grow hotter and hotter. With multiple surgeries planned as a State-appointed RJ, of course I’ll remember less and less. Ablation will reduce the normal seven trillion nerve endings in my human body to half that number. I won’t have normal emotions. Transformation to cyborg status will satisfy the Singing Directorate and provide relief for me. With the exception of a rare stinging in my right temple from Logoharp overload, or a pounding in my chest during combat or media assaults, I’ll feel little, if any, conventional human pain.