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Message-ID: <40589asstr$1043442607@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [005/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 16:10:07 -0500
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There is story below the rather long preface. Page down if you must,
but don't blame me if you end up offended. The preface was written
for a reason. Ignore it at your own risk.

====================================================================
Author's Preface:
====================================================================

Four years ago, I wrote a novel that some of you may have read,
entitled "Time Out Of Time". In the following four years, some have
been disturbed by the work, and some have been enthusiastic. Some
have even requested a sequel.

"Dawn of Time" is not a sequel, in a strict sense, nor was it
intended to be. In some ways, I think "Dawn of Time" is a more
mature piece that investigates different themes, and provides a new
perspective on fantasy and reality, and things that might or might
not be. I hope that I have learned a little by some of my failures
in "Time Out of Time". But you'll have to judge the effectiveness
of that yourselves.

Please be warned: "Dawn of Time" is unlike my other works. It is
harsher and grittier, necessarily differing from my short stories.
As writers, sometimes it is necessary to explore ourselves in unique
ways. If this kind of writing is not your cup of tea, please pass
this story by. Despite its novel length, and the sweat that went
into its creation, I will not be disappointed if you decline to read
it. It is not my wish to offend anyone. To make one think, perhaps,
and to make one consider the implications of strange situations,
yes, but offend -- no.

This story does contain scenes with sexually charged content. It
contains situations that are questionable in terms of consensual
behaviour and eroticism that are probably only suitable for adults,
and then only to a subset of those that happen to understand
responsibility. Please don't assume that a scene described in a work
of fiction is safe in reality. Play safe. Please. (Do I really need
to hold your hand and tell you this?)

Like my short stories, "Dawn of Time" is not overly explicit. There
is more to Eros than pumping hydraulics and instant gratification,
and this novel encompasses this. For a piece of writing of 157
chapters, there is remarkably little explicit sex. If you are
looking for a quick stroke piece, you should probably wander
elsewhere.

Unlike many serial stories posted here, "Dawn of Time" is complete.
It took me the better part of a year to write and self-edit it -- an
exhausting but fulfilling endeavour. While I choose for sanity
reasons to release it slowly, be assured that all 157 chapters are
complete and will be posted. Please also note that this was not
proofed by outside counsel due to its length. I wouldn't push such a
task on anyone voluntarily. However, as readers: caveat emptor. I've
probably missed many silly language mistakes.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or
dead, is purely a coincidence. Well, for the most part anyway.
Those that lived through the story are very unlikely to admit it.
The universe does not accept paradox.

This is an original work, copyrighted by the author, Crimson Dragon.
Please do not use it as if it were your own. Enjoy the writing, but
do not archive or sell it in any manner without my written
permission. I'm easy to contact if you wish to redistribute my
words.

Lastly, I thoroughly enjoy hearing from people reading any of my
stories. Feel free to contact me with raves, rants, encouragement or
dissertation (note the lack of invitation for spam). I do try to
reply to all who are kind enough to drop me a note.

Now, if you are still with me, onto the story,
 - Crimson
   (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

====================================================================

Dawn of Time - Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

Chapter 5

====================================================================

(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

====================================================================

The green highlighter danced across the text book, underlining the
teachings of Freud and Nietzsche. The page looked striped, some
yellow, for caution, some green for important. The red marker lay to
the side of the text, unused, reserved for what the owner considered
bullshit.

The owner sat wearily at the reception desk, trying to ignore the
noisy passage of office workers arguing about lunch reservations,
office politics, and promotions. A blue baseball cap, emblazoned
with the word, "Security", held back her blonde hair, a neat
ponytail emerging from above the hat's plastic adjustment. Her
nails, impeccably red, held the green marker easily, guiding it
effortlessly over the words, her eyes scanning, and intelligent.

Every so often, she raised her attention to one of the six low
quality black and white monitors that surrounded her. Some showed
empty stairwells, some empty parking garages, some busy concourses.
After satisfying herself that all was normal, she continued to
underline paragraphs for a moment.

"Excuse me." The voice startled her out of her text. The marker
clattered to the ground, rolling across the marble to rest against
her left heel.

The girl looked up to find a rotund woman in a business suit leaning
over the counter, trying to read what she had been underlining. The
girl closed the book, forcing the woman to tear her eyes away to
regard her. The woman looked upset about something, perhaps,
irrationally, the fact that the girl hadn't been paying attention.

"Can I help you?"

It always took her aback when a stranger used her name; it always
took her a second to remember that she wore it pinned to her jacket
just above her left breast. This woman used her name almost
threateningly, taking note of it for possible future complaint.

"Andrea, is it?"

The blonde behind the desk nodded, the bill of the cap obscuring her
vision for a moment with each duck of her head.

"Can I help you?" Andrea repeated.

"I used to take philosophy myself," the woman pointed to the book,
but seemed less interested in the content as the fact that Andrea
had been doing something other than waiting on her. Andrea slid the
book to the side.

"Actually, it is a bit of philosophy and sociology."

She worked this job part-time. It helped with the bills -- allowed
her to take her college course part-time, and she could observe
people. Like this woman.

The woman nodded, but didn't seem overly interested. She finally
shepherded her question.

"Can you direct me to Blake and Sons?"

Andrea smiled, her practice smile. She made a show of looking up the
firm, but knew it by heart. From experience, she knew that if she
didn't clack a few keys on the terminal, people tended to doubt her
directions. Maybe it was because she was blonde, maybe because she
was a woman as a security guard, maybe it was merely because she
spoke quietly.

"The law firm?"

The woman nodded.

"42nd floor. Take the left elevator bank and ..." Andrea let her
voice trail off as the woman dismissed her and turned towards the
wrong elevator bank. Andrea shook her head, and pulled the book back
towards herself, opening it to approximately the right page. The
woman would be back, berating her because she'd failed to mention
the express elevators. She scanned across the monitors. Still
nothing amiss. At least nothing tangible.

The transition was smooth and sharp.

The phosphor of the monitors remained, but the images were
unchanging. The elevators silenced, the steady drone of footsteps
and conversation in the concourse ground to a silent halt. Andrea
paused as her fingers picked up the green marker, the cap half on
and half off the tip.

Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.

                         <---===***===--->

"I don't give a flying ..." her voice cut off as Tyler began to
speak.

"Your client, Monique, is guilty as hell."

"Guilty?" Monique exploded. "The guy wasn't even in the right part
of town. He hasn't even been picked up for a lousy speeding ticket.
Even a cop swears he was at a strip club out by the airport. So tell
me, how can he possibly have stuck a knife into a mob enforcer at
the zoo? Christ, don't you guys do your job?"

"Monique, calm down."

"Withdraw the charges."

"I can't do that, Monique."

She slammed down the phone and took a second to calm her breathing.
The crown could be stubborn, always had been. She simply didn't
like to see time wasted for the sake of being wasted. She sighed,
picked up the receiver almost ready to call him back up, apologise
for losing her temper. She knew that they couldn't drop a murder
charge, not legally anyway, even if it were a stupid one. Once the
charge was laid, it was going to court.

Instead of dialling, she placed the receiver back into its cradle
gently. Let him stew for a few minutes. It was lunchtime, she was
sure. Her stomach growled.

As she was preparing to rise, the phone rang. She picked it up with
a sigh.

"Tyler?"

It wasn't Tyler calling her back to beg her to be reasonable.

"Miss Pelletier?"

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. She glanced at the display on
the phone. It was the old man, Blake, himself.

Flustered, she nearly dropped the phone, but managed to catch it
before it fell from her ear.

"Mr. Blake?"

"Call me Phil."

"Er, Phil?" she tried not to sound nervous. It wasn't everyday that
the senior partner called up an associate, unless there was trouble
afoot.

"Can you come down to my office?"

She hesitated a moment. She'd been putting in long hours, had a good
client base, and beyond the occasional outbursts with Tyler, had
performed well in her time with the firm, had won far more cases for
them than lost in court. Was he going to fire her? Reprimand her?
She couldn't believe that.

Only one way to find out.

"I'll be right there."

She paused, long enough to run her fingers through her hair. She
wasn't a fussy woman, knew she looked fine without a lot of work.
But this was Blake.

When she opened the door, the view took her breath. His office,
spacious as one might expect from the head of one of the most
successful practises in the city, looked out over the harbour and
the cityscape. Another senior partner, James she thought his name
was, stood easily by a wet bar.

"Miss Pelletier, please sit down."

"Please, Monique," she said automatically as she sat.

The old man was approaching eighty, though it was difficult to tell.
He leaned back in the chair.

"I'm afraid I don't have much time," he said as he regarded her.
She though she might have seen a flicker of interest in his eyes,
but was probably mistaken. She gathered her jacket a little closer
to herself.

He continued. "I'm getting on in years." He held up a hand to
silence her automatic protests. "In this firm, we have a policy of
making sure that the brightest among us stay among us. There have
been some rumours of your leaving."

Monique slowly shook her head. Truthfully, she hadn't been thinking
of leaving the firm. Had intended to seek partnership. She was too
young yet, bordering on late twenties, but she'd excelled in the
courtroom, and in university, far outdistancing the remainder of her
class.

The old man smiled.

"Well, in that case, I hope that you'll stay with us for a few more
years to come. We have a big client, one that asked for you
personally -- do you remember Jeremy Fox?"

Monique nodded. Bright kid, but he had shoplifted some minor stuff,
been caught with a BMW that he didn't own, mostly from boredom.
She'd defended him, managed with a bit of luck and a softer judge,
to commute his sentence to a thousand hours of community service. At
first, she'd thought that the kid should spend some time in jail,
but he turned out to be all right, and had agreed to keep out of
trouble. She wondered if he was still boosting cars, and if it had
anything to do with this meeting.

"He's turned into a fine boy, parents think that you did a really
good thing with him. Credit you with turning him around."

"That's good to hear," she said, somewhat at a loss for words.

The old man paused for a moment. The tall man at the bar wandered
slowly over to stand beside the desk. He sipped at something that
looked suspiciously like a scotch neat.

Blake continued. "His parents own Fox Enterprises, I'm sure you've
heard of them. Been good friends of mine for years."

She nodded. She'd known that since defending their kid.

"They want you to represent them with a contract dispute. Minor
stuff, but worth a great deal of money to them. They're in the
right, as far as I can tell."

Monique shrugged slightly, wondering what this was all about. She
didn't need to be up here, rapping with old man Blake about a minor
contract dispute. Blake's time was worth ten times hers, and hers
wasn't cheap.

Blake smiled kindly. "And they understandably want to be dealing
with someone at the firm that is ... shall we say ... respected."
He paused for a moment. Monique, at a loss for words, said nothing.

"And so, while I can't promote you now, I wanted you to know that
within the next few months, I want to promote you to senior
associate."

"But ..." she began. Blake held up his hand. It shook slightly.

"You're young, yes. But competent, and I liked the way you handled
that Fox boy, too."

Monique swallowed heavily, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Senior?"

Blake nodded firmly.

"Senior associate. Partner in five years, if all goes well. You'll
be the youngest senior associate in the history of the firm, but I
think you'll mesh fine with it. Congratulations, Miss Pelletier."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered.

The tall man beside the desk spoke. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Monique slowly shook her head.

Blake smiled.

"If there's nothing else, Miss Pelletier, then ..."

Monique stood, her mind whirling.

"Congratulations, again."

Monique paused at the doorway, her hand on the knob. She nearly
turned and thanked the old man again, but in the end merely turned
and smiled. The old man smiled back.

In the corridor, she shook her head and could barely contain a quick
laugh. Her hand turned the knob leading back into her own smaller
office when the world fell apart.

The transition was smooth and sharp.

The office clatter, photocopiers, air conditioning fans, the low
buzz of conversations fell silent. Monique, like a statue, stilled,
her fingers halted in the motion of twisting the brass knob of the
door.

Preternatural silence engulfed the universe.


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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