Character Profile: Damion Williams

He's a fast talker. (fast enough to sell you the Brooklyn Bridge and all the cars that cross over it.)

He is also fast with money. (especially yours) Damion Williams is also a fast thinker, quicker on the uptake than most people give him credit for (and if they're on his bad side, that usually spells their downfall)  He is also a multifacted man who enjoys certain "comforts" He is as comfortable in the hood as he is in the business world; as comfortable in a pair of jeans and hooded sweatshirt as he is in a three piece suit and tie.  He is just as adept at using a sophiscated computer network as he is with a pair of silver plated .45s.

Damion Williams was always interested in learning.  The thing with him was, he wasnt always interested in using what he learned for legitmate purposes.  He was in and out of a number of schools; never truly interested in standard book learning, Damion got his education on the streets of Bed-Stuy Brooklyn.  Understanding that the true action and money was not to be found in the classroom, the younger of the two Williams brothers kept an ear to the streets.  He knew every dealer, hustler, con man and gang member and every person of importance in the five boroughs.  Within two years, the soon to be vigilante had amassed an impressive network of informants and street people.  It soon made him a valuable asset, and very shortly thereafter, he was regarded as a go to source for any activity whether legal or illegal in the city of New York.

With his older brother Eric serving in Iraq, Damion pretty much ran around unsupervised: his status as a street level facilitator and street source put him in high demand and he was well compensated for his services.  The money he earned showed him a very good time, and Damion discovered he had a taste for fast living:cars, clothes, jewelry (especially expensive time pieces) and several bachelor pads scattered around New Jersey and New York made the young street hustler and networker the envy of his childhood neighborhood.  But it also garnered the attraction of the New York Police Department.

For years the police watched, and harrassed and ocassionally picked up and questioned the defiant street youth, but were always forced to release him on the fact that they had nothing to truly charge him with.  The allegations and constant police visits put a strain on the relationship between DAmion and his mother Jean Williams who was at the time a member of the block association and was also publicly partnered up with the nearby 79th precint's anti drug/anti gang initiative.

The easy times ended abruptly with the accidential death of his mother several years later at the hands of a young gang member who was trying to intimidate his mother into giving up her anti gang  work.  Eric Williams returned from his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan to bury their mother and discovered that while he was overseas fighting a war, a different type of conflict had claimed his neighborhood.

After their period of grief and a long and heartfelt confrontation with his brother Eric, Damion committed himself to his brother's cause:  the elimination of the street gang responsible for his mother's death.  Along with two close childhood friends: Roderick Banks and Luis Lopez, the four men began a systematic campain against the drug dealers, gang members and associates responsible for the accidental death of Jean Williams.

During those initial street wars, Damion was given the opportunity to utilize all of his skills to the fullest and without the need to show restraint; his street smarts; computer hacking proficiencies as well as his ability with  twin handguns and machine pistols.  With the defeat of the one gang, came the news coverage and the nortiriety.  Dubbed the "Cleaning Crew" by the New York media, the exploits of the four men and their associates soon garnered them nationwide attention.  It also put them on the radar of larger more dangerous criminal organizations.  Damion however took it all in stride.  As the wanted vigilantes burned, blasted and shot their way around the five boroughs and eventually the country as a whole, the materialistic Damion discovered that he didnt have to renounce his ways just because he was committed to his brother's crusade.  Merchants, individuals and organizations, any and all who could pay the price, came calling, and when money came to talk, Damion happily showed up to listen.

Beneath the seemingly uncaring attitude and materialistic nature, Damion has proven that he has a more compassionate, responsible interior.  He has proven his loyalty, intelligence and courage many times over and has proven his worth as a member of a vigilante group and now as a member of a band of Earth survivors fighting for themselves and their world.

A sneak peak! A Distant Battlefield: Chesspieces

A DISTANT BATTLEFIELD:

CHESSPIECES

GEORGE LUIS LOPEZ

PROLOGUE 1

“Here. Let me explain to you why you gonna lose to me again.”

The voice was calm but laced with the usual arrogance.  He had beaten his opponent on a number of occasions in the past and with the way this game was going, he believed that he was on course for another victory.  A chess board was situated between himself and his flustered opponent who had chosen not to respond to the verbal prodding.  The speaker studied his foe: a young white man with a medium build and a great head of fluffy red hair.  The two young men had become fast friends within a matter of months at their current place of employment.  Both of them had high pressure positions and a lot was expected of them, but they both had been trained well, and on every occasion the two chess players had demonstrated their professionalism and maturity.  On their breaks however, they usually made it their business to continue their chess rivalry.

“Aint you gonna ask me how?” The arrogant chess player continued his inciting.  It was just one of the usual aspects of their games; He would continue to badger and annoy his red headed adversary until the man made a mistake or committed to a move without thinking it through.  But this time his pale foe had been doing his best to not fall into the verbal baiting.

“Give your gums a rest for a change, Cory.” The redhead finally spoke up.  He took a second to look up from the plastic battlefield situated between the two chess players to look his foe in the eye.  Cory smiled at the younger man’s attempt to defend himself. 

Cory Nettles had lived his whole life in Murfreesboro Tennessee.  His father designed custom cabinets for a living, and his mother was a junior high school music teacher.  As an only child, the two parents did their best to provide every comfort and to indulge his every desire.  Although Cory ran the risk of growing up spoiled, he turned out to be more rebellious than expected.  His parents figured he needed an outlet, something he could focus his energies and attentions on and they did whatever they could to help him find something that would appeal to him. At five feet seven, the squat, broad shouldered youth had tried his hand at football, but the high school coach had more attractive picks to select from. Not giving in to dejection, the always jovial Tennessee native elected to play chess instead.  His parents didn’t mind and if it kept the impatient, quick tempered youth relaxed and out of trouble then, so be it.  As he got older, his penchant for troublemaking began to match his physical growth.  His deep baritone voice and dark green eyes garnered him attention from a number of the ladies and that in turn drew animosity from some of his rivals.  Cory didn’t seem to mind.  He didn’t know any hostile encounter or situation that he could not resolve with his fists. 

He always told his friends that he never made it his business to start trouble, but once it presented himself, “Big Cory” would be more than willing to finish it.

In his regular chess opponent, the Tennessee native encountered a kindred soul.  Cory understood that there were profound similarities between himself and his coworker/chess mate.  It was almost like looking into a mirror despite the skin color.  There was however one characteristic that his chess foe possessed and it was one that the smooth talking Cory enjoyed to his advantage; the man was easy to rattle.

“It’s not so much your play style, it’s your mentality, dude.”

“So shutting up is just not an option for you, huh?” Redhead asked, his eyes still locked on the array of white and black chess pieces spread out before him. 

“Nah, not today, Richie.”

“Not any damn day, obviously.” Richie shot back.

Richard Ronald Kaske was born and raised in Madisonville, Kentucky and like his chess partner Cory, small town life was the only one he had ever known.  His upbringing was quiet and dull and outside of the dangerous tornado season, it was relatively safe. He wasn’t the greatest looking guy in the world, but he by far wasn’t the ugliest.  His rusty red hair sat atop a young round face which featured a strong, square jaw.  His “aw shucks” demeanor and freckle faced cheeks worked in his favor with most people.  He had his detractors though, and anyone who was foolish enough to make fun of his appearance quickly learned that beneath that friendly, unassuming exterior was a great strength and resolve within that two hundred and fifteen pound frame.  By the time he had finished high school, Kaske realized he wanted more than what Madisonville could give him. Although he adored his parents and sisters, he knew that he wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life there.

Like his chess partner Cory, Richard attempted the football route.  Unfortunately, the promise of a football career was derailed by a knee injury before it could even get started.  He was initially despondent, but his father was an eternal optimist, and it was that mentality which kept the young freckle faced Richard going.  His mother got him a job at the nearby Parkway Plaza Mall as the manager of the cinema there, but she figured it wasn’t going to be enough to keep him from wanting to explore the world outside of Madisonville.

It was that desire which got him to the position he had now.  He and Cory worked and trained together and had known each other for about a year or so.  They were both dedicated to their work and responsibilities.  When free time was made available, these two young men could always be found hanging out together.

Free time however was not easy to come by considering the nature of their work.  There just wasn’t much of it on an American fast attack submarine.

Cory Nettles was a naval supply officer and Richard Kaske was a sonar technician and the two shipmates served with pride aboard the fast attack sub USS Shaker Heights.  At three hundred and sixty feet long, the Los Angeles Class sub displaced seven thousand and two hundred tons of water when submerged. The two of them joined the Navy at around the same time, and like the remainder of their shipmates, Cory and Richard volunteered for submarine duty.  The two met during training and quickly became fast friends. Their sub had just departed from its base in King’s Bay, Georgia for a standard deployment when the fantastic news reached them.

In those first few days of the abrupt otherworldly incursions, accurate reports were hard to come by. There was so much information coming in and little to no time at all to determine what was authentic.  News and wild rumors swept through the Shaker Heights by young enlisted men who had been reared on countless video games, fantasy films and comic books, but the core of the information was apparently correct: a massive alien incursion had just occurred in the skies over the Eastern seaboard of the United States.  The massive alien armada comprised of wildly shaped craft occupied the skies from as far north as Connecticut to as far down the Atlantic coast as Delaware.  From there the situational reports became muddied very quickly.  At first it was reported that ships from the massive alien armada where firing on each other.  As the confusion of those first reports set in, a second set of observations finally determined that planet Earth was now playing host to a war featuring two fleets of other worldly craft.

The sudden loss of communication with the states of New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania added to the chaos as all manner of communication and power networks had been rendered inoperable or subverted by the alien forces themselves.  Reaction from around the world came swiftly despite the loss of a number of communication systems. It also didn’t take long for the governments of the world to come to a consensus; until some sort of contact could be established both armadas would be regarded as hostile.  Establishing communication with either side would have to come at a later date.  The current priority was to safeguard Earth lives. 

Information was needed with which to combat or communicate these sudden extraterrestrial visitors and before any course of action could be taken. Who were these beings?  Where did they come from? How did they get here and what was the nature of their conflict?

The USS Shaker Heights would be among the first of the U.S. combined forces to engage the alien threat. It was one of twenty eight fast attack submarines assigned to the Atlantic Submarine Force and it also happened to be the closest to the conflict of any of the others. Three weeks after their abrupt, violent arrival, the sub was given its first orders. It was to rendezvous with a multinational sub group off of the Connecticut coast to provide surveillance functions. 

The mixed group consisted of American, French and British attack submarines and was to be the first of a number of multinational responses designed to acquire as much intelligence on the nature of the alien conflict as possible.  But given the fluid nature of the conflict, no sooner were the orders were given, they were altered.  Now the Fast Attack submarine was ordered to a point two hundred miles off the extreme tip of Rhode Island Sound to investigate what appeared to be a submerged energy signature. 

David F. Lester was the Captain of the Shaker Heights, and he never questioned orders.  His crew were all young boys in their late teens and early twenties, and the prospect of being the first of the combined Earth forces to establish contact with alien life forms and technology had them behaving like hyperactive children on Christmas Eve. Lester quickly got his young men under control and focused on the task at hand.

Their exact destination was Block Island. It was thirteen miles south of the Rhode Island Coast and about fourteen miles east of Montauk Point Long Island.   The trip from Georgia to Rhode Island was long, and uneventful.  But it served a purpose: it calmed the crew down and kept them focused. A typical submarine day ran about eighteen hours.  Both Cory and Richard worked a usual six hour watch and were given twelve hours off watch and the two of them always found time to play between their work shifts.

Space on a fast attack sub was limited. It was a world of tight, narrow corridors filled with networks of pipes and turbines and converters and essential electrical equipment. The submarine did provide a number of creature comforts however. The recreation room, although small, was well stocked with card and board games as well as a flat screen and a healthy DVD collection.  At the moment, the two men had the small room to themselves. It was the way they preferred it. It allowed the two of them to contest each other without the distraction of their shipmates.  Although to hear Richard tell it, Cory’s mouth was a monumental distraction on its own.

“You really want to know why dudes like you lose at this game?” Cory pressed on with his psychological attack; a great big grin displayed two rows of shiny, white teeth.

“Because dudes like you run off at the mouth all night?” Richard suddenly spoke up, his irritation was getting the better of him, and Cory could sense that his ploy was working.

“Certain chess players suffer from the same mentality.” Cory began.  The young Kentucky native rolled his eyes. It was obvious the arrogant naval supply officer was not going to stop his verbal attacks, so he may as well fight his way through it.

“They have all these pieces on the board. They got knights and rooks and bishops to work with and they all move different and they have different functions, right?”

Undaunted, Richard chose a course of action.  He selected a rook from his side of the playing field and without any ceremony, captured one of Cory’s pawns several squares away.

“Problem with most dudes is that they attach too much value to their pieces.” Cory continued. He glanced toward Richard’s side of the table where both of his pawns now lay captured.  The redheaded sonar technician suddenly offered Cory an arrogant smile of his own.

“But in reality, see, ain’t none of these pieces anymore important than any other.”  Cory continued his thesis without any further acknowledgement of his partner’s moves.

“Bishops and knights are regarded as minor pieces and rooks and queens are looked at as major pieces. They all do the same exact damn thing though.”

“Waitin’ on you.” Richard challenged in his slow Kentucky drawl.

It was Cory’s turn now to scan the board.  For only the briefest of seconds, the bald headed black man ran his deep green eyes over his side of the plastic playing field.  His thumb finally rested atop a bishop.

“And what is that thing they all do?” Cory started up again.  This time his eyes locked with Richard.  He slid his bishop diagonally across the board to capture one of Richard’s unprotected rooks. 

“What they are all supposed to do is manipulate and move your pieces for me, so I can get your pieces off the board.  See?  You and your pieces help me get what I gotta get off the board.”

“In effect, you’re helpin’ me beat you.”

Richard did not answer his opponent, but his frown was reward enough.  He glanced away from Cory’s gloating face toward the chessboard.  He now had no rooks or pawns to use.

“Every piece is expendable.” The naval supply officer went on. 

“As far as I’m concerned, they’re all just means to an end and no other piece is as crucial as any other.”

“Whatever, man.” Was all Richard could muster up in reply.

“There’s only one piece that really matters, sonar tech Richard Kaske.  Only one damn piece and that’s the king.  Everybody else working for the king or protecting the king, no matter their title or how important you think they are, at the end of the day, they’re all just pawns.”

Richard crossed his arms across his chest, his eyes on the chessboard. He busied himself by straightening out his rolled up sleeve.  Both men wore identical Navy blue one piece coveralls nicknamed “poopy suits.”  The redhead scanned the board, weighing his options and doing his best to not spot the wide Cheshire Cat smile that Cory was still sporting. A reply was right on the tip of Richard’s tongue, but he never got to voice it.

The submarine’s warning claxon abruptly blared through the confines of the three hundred and sixty foot long craft.

The game was suddenly forgotten.  The sonar technician and the naval supply officer dashed to their battle stations. Over a hundred or so young submariners, some of them enjoying their off watch time by either catching a few quick winks in the sub’s birthing areas or indulging in any of the other comforts a fast attack submarine could manage to provide its sailors, suddenly dropped whatever they were doing and headed toward their assigned stations. Although there were only three watch shifts aboard any standard fast attack submarine, any sailors who were off watch had a battle station and an assignment. 

At the forward command center stood Captain David Lester.  The no nonsense officer was on his third tour of duty.  He was a native of Columbus, Nebraska and learned about the virtues of maturity and responsibility at an early age from a strict father and doting mother who both worked at a major corn plant all their lives.  The lessons he learned from his parents he transferred to the young men under his command.  At six feet four inches with an athletic build, the veteran Captain cut an imposing figure in his crisp, tan, uniform.  If any individual were qualified to strike the first blow on behalf of Earth against the alien invaders, it would be a man like David Lester.

He was standing behind a young sonar technician, their faces riveted on one of the many sensor banks and color monitors that relayed information to the sub’s command center. 

“Possible hostile, bearing one-four-six. Range twenty five miles.” The Asian sonar tech announced.

Captain Lester’s face remained passive. His was the ultimate poker face.  You were not going to get fear, or worry out of those strong blue eyes, nor was Lester the type of man who ever raised his voice.  One of the first things his father taught him was how to keep a calm head in any situation.  A steaming mug of coffee filled his right fist and he sipped from it as if though he were home in his favorite living room chair glancing over the Sunday paper.

“Very well.”  Captain Lester finally replied.  “Man battle stations. Ahead two thirds.”

“Ahead two thirds, aye.” A navigator repeated Lester’s orders exactly.

Whatever was lurking ahead in the deep could not be readily identified by the Shaker Heights ship recognition profile database. Captain Lester was pretty sure that they had located the alien energy signature that they had been sent to identify. Perhaps communication with either alien armada could still have been attempted, and maybe it already had been, but from what little news had already been gathered, these alien visitors were not exactly friendly. 

There was also no way of knowing who was who. Or what this conflict was even about.  Even if one of these fleets of ships happened to be friendly, there was no way of ascertaining that now.  As far as Captain Lester was concerned, this dance party had no score card, and the combined Earth forces had decided to employ the time honored approach of “kick all their asses first and ask for IDs second.”  His assignment was simple: Locate the source of the alien energy signature and determine whether it was a craft, instrument or installation and neutralize it.

Captain Lester did not have a problem with that.

“Make the tube ready in all aspects.” He ordered without hesitation.

“Making tube ready in all aspects, aye.” A fire control officer responded.

“Bearing. Mark.”

“Bearing fifteen point two miles and closing.”

“Range?” Lester asked, going for another sip from his mug. 

“Range is now fourteen miles.” The young sonar officer answered immediately.

Lester took a brief second to scan the face of his young sonar technician; the round faced Chinese officer maintained his professionalism as was expected of him.  His skin glowed a soft green from the numerous monitors which waterfalled information into the command and control center by the second.

If any of the young submariners showed any apprehension or uncertainty, it didn’t show and that was the key, Lester thought. “Show no fear; keep your wits about you.  Let the training take care of you.”

“Torpedo in port tube one, sir.” came the announcement from the fire officer.

“Very well. Angle on the bow port three point four.”

Within port tube one, a six hundred and fifty pound Mark 50 torpedo sat ready to initiate greetings between planet Earth and whatever other worldly ship or object was prowling under the seas off of Rhode Island.

“Range?” Captain Lester asked yet again. 

“Thirteen miles.” The sonar technician answered.

Captain Lester never believed in wasting time.

“Firing point procedures, Mr.Franklin”. Captain Lester instructed his young fire officer.  “Master four five, tube one.”

The young firing officer repeated Captain Lester’s instructions to the letter.

“Solution ready. Weapon ready. Ship ready.”

The Nebraska native took another slow sip of his coffee.  He was already thinking of his next cup.

“Match bearings and shoot.” The captain ordered.

The great ship shuddered as the Mark 50 ram jet shot the torpedo into the sea.  Deathly silence now as the Captain, his executive officer and the firing officer watched the progress of the torpedo on their flat screen monitors.

The Asian sonar technician counted down the last few seconds and range remaining until Earth’s first hostile encounter with the alien invaders.

“Torpedo in the water.”

“Ten miles to target.”

Captain Lester along with his executive officer remained riveted to the screens before them. The glow from the numerous monitors tinted their faces an eerie green.  The entire bridge maintained their silence.

“Two miles to target.”

The sound was easy to detect.  It was the muffled whump of the Mark 50 detonating, the shockwave of its impact reverberated easily through the waters.

The captain exchanged glances with his executive officer and back over to the young radar jockey who had suddenly leaned toward his instrument panel.  The training had indeed taken over, and although the young enlisted man’s face conveyed worry, his voice remained even and steady.

“Torpedo detonated about a thousand yards before reaching target.”

Captain Lester’s mouth had opened as if to speak when the unmistakable sound of something large and fast moving through the water filled their ears.

It was deep, steady and quickly built to a great roaring crescendo of noise as it reached the sub.  The ship trembled suddenly as if it were in a bathtub being manhandled by a playful child.  Captain Lester and his men suddenly found themselves reaching for handholds as the unseen, roaring force filled their ears and rocked the massive attack sub.  Groans of protest raced across the great hull, dimming lights and shorting out power systems.

The great burst of light came first;  It was as if though a massive flashbulb had gone off inside the ship, but it was more like a search light beam; a great column of blue white light that passed noiselessly through the great ship and lanced from bow to stern in less than two seconds.  The sudden beam of energy flashed noiselessly through metal, men and parts of men.

Captain Lester died first. It was instantaneous, without noise or explosive force.  For a brief second the Captain stood beside his executive officer, coffee mug in hand, his face finally registering surprise, an unspoken order forming on his mouth and the next, his entire body seemed to glow, waver and dissolve mirage like before the eyes of his horrified crew members; the molecules and atoms of his body suddenly spread and blew apart like billiards on a pool table.   The remaining crew members had no knowledge of molecular discorporation, but they would learn quickly. Simultaneously, dozens of enlisted men, either racing to their battle stations, in berthing areas, manning consoles or terminals or within the tight, narrow confines of passageways, abruptly flashed out of existence. 

The horrible, grinding and groaning emanating from the hull of the sub came next.  The structure of the ship itself began to tremble and warp. It was felt from end to end of the stricken craft: across the floor plates, through the hull, down the walkways.  By then the horrible realization had set in on those men who still found themselves alive; the sub was splitting in half. It parted slowly, as if though on design across an invisible seam. 

And then the ocean rushed in to reclaim its territory.  A massive roar of sound followed a heartbeat later by a wall of water that roared and crashed into the seared opening created by the great beam of energy. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of roaring, crashing water slammed into and over and under everything in its path in the space of several seconds. It inundated screaming, dying disoriented men and swept everything and everyone within into the eternal cold and darkness of the deep.

The crew of the USS Shaker Heights was over three hundred feet beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean when it encountered and attempted to engage the bizarre other worldly object that had been detected off the Rhode Island Coast.  There was no time to send a warning message to the United States Fleet Forces Command.  No time to contact any of the other ships that comprised the United States Second Fleet.

There was no time to evade, no time to plan and no time to effect an orderly evacuation.

Richard Kaske, a white sonar technician from Madisonville, Kentucky and Cory Nettles, a black naval supply officer from Murfreesboro, Tennessee, both young, intelligent, professional, patriotic men who were good friends and shipmates. The two of them, along with fourteen officers, eighteen chief petty officers and one hundred and seven enlisted men died in less than three minutes.

Character Profile: Eric Williams

From the streets of Bedford-Stuyvesant Brooklyn, to the war torn landscapes of Iraq and Afghanistan to the overwhelming splendor of planet Garian to the brutal wind-blown plains of the prison moon Tyrin, Eric LamontWilliams has known war, suffering and violence.  He could have been content just being an average citizen with a career and a family, He could even have sought out his fortune as a pro basketball player, but the universe had other plans for him.

His teen years in Brooklyn were not necessarily idyllic, but they were good ones.  Eric lived modestly with his brother DamionWilliams, sister Christina Ford-Williams and his mother Jean.  The Williams boys (as they were referred to) were known throughout the neighborhood and were well respected.  That respect increased when their mother decided to take the helm of block president and advocate for a clean streets program that landed her in a partnership with the nearby 79th precinct. 

Jean's activities in the neighborhood won her a great deal of awards. It allowed her to meet with city dignitaries and also allowed her to create numerous events such as Christmas shopping bus trips for the area, block parties and also literary events for children.  Eric gladly pitched in to assist her in any way he could.  He enlisted his sometimes rebellious brother Damion as well as long time childhood friends, Luis Lopez and Roderick and Derrick Banks.

It was a good time for Eric, between his college prospects and his mother's events, he would divide his free time between the basketball court and the barbershop owned by ex-cop and family friend Ivan Hernandez.

Those late teen years were filled with good memories and good people, but as he entered his early 20s, Eric Williams grew restless and wanted something more, something more than the streets of his youth.  With his mother's blessing, he joined the army.    Saying goodbye to family and childhood friends, he took his first steps out into the world.... and met it's hostility indirectly and head on.

Events were swirling around him, they were distant at first, but soon the swirling winds of the world would sweep him up into a global and eventually intergalactic conflagration.

No sooner had he enlisted, than the drug gangs swept into the section of Brooklyn Eric had just left.  the streets quickly became dark and bloody and were there were once block parties and barbecues, there were now shootouts and fiends and empty crack vials.  The ugliness that was the crack scourge had infested Bed-Stuy.

Eric's mother met the fiends head on and redoubled her efforts to make their neighborhood a safe haven from fiends, dealers and thugs.  At the same time, the horrific events of 9/11 took place, compelling the world to take a stand against a hideous ideology.  While Eric's mother did her best to confront the drug evil back home, Eric was serving in Iraq.  His unit scored the biggest trophy of the war: the capture of Saddam Hussein.

Even overseas, the future Cleaning Crew leader kept in touch with his mother as well as with Luis Lopez who kept him informed of the situation back home.  Luis had unsettling news for Eric: the drug dealing punks had gotten bold enough to confront his mother Jean and had warned her about speaking out against their activities. 

A year later, Eric Williams returned home for a visit.  A block party was thrown in his honor complete with a color guard, music and all the usual festivities.  Surrounded by family and friends, the war veteran was having the time of his life--until the punks showed up.

A handful of gang members representing a large drug crew, demonstrated their arrogance and audacity by crashing the block party.  Although Luis Lopez and other party goers managed to defuse the situation without violence, the gauntlet had clearly been thrown.  The young dealers considered that street their turf and let the war hero know that sooner or later, they would be taking it.

Within weeks Eric Williams was back overseas, stationed in Afghanistan this time and on the trail of the world's most wanted terror leader.  It was there that he received the horrific news. 

One of the street punks had decided to put a scare into Jean Williams by torching her home on Kosciusko Street.  The punk was told that the home was empty at the time, but didn't bother to check. That horrible miscalculation cost a brave woman her life.

The war veteran was home within days.

At the barbershop owned by Ivan Hernandez, the childhood friends had united to decide what to do.  Eric of course, already had a plan of action.  That is when Ivan Hernandez decided to assist in anyway he could.  As an ex-cop, Ivan still maintained close ties to the men he worked with.  His knowledge of streets, his connections with the NYPD as well as his ability to get "material resources"  would prove a valuable asset. 

Eric Williams allowed himself a few days to grieve and then he put his plan into motion.  As far as he was concerned, there was no need to fight a war overseas when there was one taking place on the streets of every inner city in the United States.  As far as Eric was concerned, the streets of his childhood neighborhood were dirty, and they needed cleaning.

Over a span of two months, Eric Williams, his brother and his childhood companions systematically took apart two drug crews which were currently fighting for control of the Bed-Stuy territory.  The "Cleaning Crew" as the newspapers had decided to call them, harassed gang members, burned down stash houses and put a physical hurting on the young jackals who had decided to claim the streets as theirs using the same violence and intimidation they dished out.

From the back of Ivan's barber shop, the ethnic vigilantes researched, planned and executed their war against the drug scourge and their bosses.  As word of their activities spread, the young men would be contacted by neighborhood merchants, citizens and groups whose neighborhoods needed "cleaning"

In a three year span, the Cleaning Crew battled Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings, Jamaican Drug posses, the Italian Mob, Chinese Tongs and any number of criminals, crooked politicians and even a gang of corrupt NYPD robbery crews.

Eric was focused, unrelenting and to a fault unwavering.  On many occasions, the black street warrior questioned himself and the continued need of a war that would probably never end.  But whenever he doubted himself, he needed only to close his eyes and see the faces of all those victims he was not able to help, and the doubts would go away.

He was without doubt the day he first heard of the name Franklin "Cash"Cook, a middle man from Texas whose job it was to create a foundation for a ruthless Mexican drug cartel in New York. He was well on the way to defeating that group and putting Cook in the ground...but the universe had other plans.

Now Eric Williams and his companions are participants in another sort of struggle, one with intergalactic implications. But although the faces are alien and the battlefields are distant, there are still innocents and victims, and the warrior from Earth will do whatever is needed to put an end to the violence and scourges that would claim them as well. 

After all, even on another planet, there are bound to be cities, and those cities have streets filled with the dregs of the universe..and those streets may need cleaning.

Character Profile: Pointmaster Legath Lyons

Patient.  Playful. Insightful and always prepared to give in to his desires to run around completely naked, the youthful Legath Lyons has served with distinction as Lt. Alandra Hasker's Pointmaster and one of the most honored members of the hybrid lizard/humanoid race he comes from.

The main offshoot of Lyons' hybrid race originated on the planet Kantis, however any exact accounts regarding the beginnings of the hybrid beings have not been available for many generations.  Countless theories and speculations have existed and been passed down through the eons however.  Kantis itself was principally populated by five distinct classes of lizard races.  Two smaller continents contained humanoid inhabitants, and the hybrid clan was welcomed by neither.

Decades of war between the lizard races forced Lyons' ancestors to abandon their native world.  As smaller groups of the hybrids sought other worlds to inhabit, they were tracked down repeatedly by vengeful members of both races who had their own reasons for the decades of ethnic cleansing they inflicted upon the hybrids.

Lyons' ancestors settled on the planet Keltos, in the Sidiri System, just several million miles from the massive blue/green orb that would one day be called Garian.  Lyons' ancestors were primarily forest dwellers and hunters, and they created simple settlements high in the trees.  These hybrid inhabitants became simple craftspeople and traders.  although reluctant at first, they slowly and cautiously reached out to the neighboring tribes around them (the neighboring tribes were mostly the grey skinned race of Lhor-hok, which would one day through dark and twisted magic become the feared warriors known as the Charra)

Decades passed without incident, and the lizard/humanoid settlers had managed an uneasy peace between themselves and their neighbors when the night of the terrible lights occurred in the mountain range bordering their community.  From that night the Charra were born, and these fierce warriors began their assaults on Lyons' tribe almost immediately.

The young Lyons grew up in time of almost constant conflict.  The elders of the hybrid clan had decided long ago that they were through with running, and would fight to defend what little they had.  In Lyons' 15th life cycle, the youngling was indoctrinated in the ways of stealth warfare. Lyons, like most of the members of his tribe developed the usual attributes of their lizard ancestors: extreme athleticism, speed, reflexes, the ability to scale nearly vertical surfaces as well as the ability to see easily in low light conditions.  He however did not develop the natural color cloaking abilities of his pure lizard counter parts and the theory was that the humanoid aspect had somehow cancelled this ability.

After his 18th lifecycle, Legath left the home of his birth and became a member of planet Garian's Universal Relations Corps.  It was his intention to devote his life to multi-universal ethnic understanding and to inspire a culture of peace and communications between diverse life forms from all over.

All thoughts and intentions of devoting himself to a lifetime of peaceful pursuits were shattered by Admiral Jerrah and his campaigns of violence and ambition.  Lyons quickly transferred to the United Planetary Alliance's Peace Keepers force, where he met and was befriended by Lt. Hasker's future heavy weapons officer Garig. 

After a year of training, the gentle Legath returned to the planet of his birth to announce to his parents that he had decided to serve with the UPA Peace keeping Fleet.  He found the village of his birth in ruins.  Although his parents had survived, many of the villagers did not.  Lyons would later learn that the Charra under the direction of Admiral Jerrah had descended from the mountain ranges that they inhabited to level the treetop community it neighbored.

Lyons had dedicated himself to the cause of Jerrah's downfall ever since.  He excelled at his studies and chose to become a Pointmaster, a stealth forward scout warrior.  With a recommendation from Garig, Lt. Hasker chose the young hybrid warrior to be part of her Special Operations Group. 

Legath has been with the team ever since, dedicated, loyal and passionate, but with a fire for vengeance that will only be put out once Jerrah and his demon warriors the Charra are defeated once and for all.

Character Profile: Heavy Weapons Officer Le'thann Garig

He is not known for his patience.  He is hardly the type of person that one would refer to as diplomatic. His scowl alone can defeat scores of weaker opponents.  He stands at six feet-four and weighs 290lbs.

But beneath the gruff exterior, the rage and the intimidation, there lies an intelligent military man, a passionate man whose loyalty, morals and convictions can never be questioned. 

Le'thann Garig is a native of the planet Garian and was born on the third of the planet's four massive super continents.  The region of Kin-Nassas is farming country, and indeed, most of Garig's youth was spent on a farming collective.  Out of the twelve rancher families that shared the roughly 1000 acres of lush, green flatland, the Le'thann family was one of the most respected and well known.  Theirs was a large family, The patriarch and his wife raised eight sons and four daughters.  Along with three uncles and their family, Garig, the oldest of the boys had a wealth of family history to learn from and learn he did.

He spent his early years cultivating the land and learning how to handle the Bryanth herds, which was the Le'thann's main source of income.  The years as a rancher were good ones for him and filled with the joys of a simple life.  

But even then the big man was restless.  There was a world, indeed an entire universe out beyond the farmlands he had been raised in, and his restless nature wanted to see and experience all of it.  Upon graduating from the Central Ki-Nassas Youth Academy, Garig enrolled in Garian's Central Discipline University where he excelled in his studies and also found fame on the University's Surgeball team.

His loyalty to everything he ever cherished was tested by the renegade military officer Jerrah and the uprising he insitigated on the planet Yeel.   Garig had been invested with the lessons of morality, respect and duty by first his father and uncles and then by the Central University.  Feeling duty bound to serve, Garig enrolled in the United Planetary Alliance's Peacekeeping Forces. 

As a peacekeeping soldier, Garig was quickly valued for his size as well as his intelligence.  He flew through a number of promotions as the Yeel uprising continued to develop and within three years of joining he had already seen action upon Yeel itself and even earned a number of commendations.

His first meeting with Lt. Alandra Hasker was under tragic circumstances.  An altercation at a bar involving a brawl between UPA Peacekeepers and cadets from Garian's Flight Forces School almost derailed the large man's military career.  But it wasnt until Hasker interviewed the remorseful Garig personally after the event that she realized what an asset he could be to her and to her newly formed Speacial Operations Group. Only the Lt is aware of what truly transpired that night, and she is not telling.

In return, she recevied the loyalty of one of the most fierce officers under her command, a man whose large size and battle ability is offset only by his compassion, and loyalty.