Christopher G. Nuttall's Blog, page 10

Preorder Now – Queenmaker (Stuck in Magic III)

There can be no peace, as long as a single warlord remains alive …

Elliot, Her Majesty’s Warlord, has been riding high. The coup against Queen Helen has been foiled, the New Model Army is readying itself for the coming war, and his lover is pregnant. But the warlords have been preparing too and now they’re on the march, ready to crush the kingdom and put the uppity commoners to the sword. Facing a war on three fronts, Elliot embarks on a desperate gamble to win the war in a single campaign …

… Unaware the warlords have plans of their own.

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Also, check out Guardians of the Twilight Lands: The Sixth Book of Unexpected Enlightenment – Out Now!

OUT NOW – Fantastic Schools Staff

Featuring a whole new Schooled in Magic novella …

You’ve met the students of magic schools, but what about the staff? What is it like to work in a magic school, to teach students and serve as their mentors and disciplinarians and everything else young minds need? We know their types … the headmasters – kindly or unpleasant; the teachers – friendly or cruel; the matrons and assistants and inspectors and janitors, all of whom have their own role to play beyond being characters in a student-themed story. But what is it like to be them?

Come meet a teacher trying to set up a whole new school, in the face of heavy opposition, and another who has to deal with a fairy infestation; meet a teacher who has a mission of his own and another who must take a stand against his own headmaster, for fear of letting the school be plunged into darkness …

Purchase HERE!

by Christopher G. Nuttall, J.F. Posthumus, Misha Burnett, Erin N.H. Furby, AC Young , Suzanne Gallagher, Frank B. Luke , Becky R. Jones, Declan Finn, Rhys Hughes

Book Review – The Armchair General World War One: Can You Win The Great War?

The Armchair General World War One: Can You Win The Great War? 

by John Buckley, Spencer Jones

It is very easy, as I noted in my review of the first Armchair General book (covering the Second World War), to fall into trap of believing that the people on the spot, at the time, enjoyed the same luxury of hindsight as yourself. This is obviously untrue. We have a far more rounded picture of what was happening than anyone who was actually there; the fog of war, at the time, made it impossible for them to know what was actually going on. Many seemingly bizarre decisions make sense in this context, because they were made based on what the decision-maker knew at the time.

The Great War has not been a particularly big stomping ground for alternate history. The war does not seem to have so many possible points of divergence as its successor, not least because the initial war of movement gave way to stalemate until tanks were invented and put into mass production. The battles outside Europe did not have any great influence on the war as a whole. Germany lost colonies, of course, but assuming a German victory those colonies could be easily reclaimed. The forces involved were often very small, and their absence did not affect the overall balance of power. This could not be said of the Second World War, where the relatively small engagements in North Africa played a major role in defining the military balance in Europe.

In this book, the writers have attempted to put the reader in the shoes of people who made the decisions and present the facts to them as the POV character would have seen it. (Like I said before, this comes across as a choose your own adventure book.) You are invited to decide what you would have done, under the circumstances, and explore possible alternate outcomes for the war. These outcomes are kept within the bounds of possibility, without any striking alterations such as a German invasion of Britain or a complete collapse of Germany much earlier than in the original timeline. As such, it is a very interesting read.

The book starts by asking just how the original July Crisis of 1914 blew up and what might happen if the assassination did not take place, or if the United Kingdom stayed out of the war. It offers several possibilities for the assassination never taking place, and suggests it might lead to better world, but it also discusses the British decision not to take part in the war and speculates that the Germans might have won fairly quickly if the British stayed out. This might be true, but it would be seriously against British interests to allow one power to dominate Europe. It is also true that personal feelings played a role in the outcome and those should not be underestimated.

We then move on to look at the dispatch of the British Expeditionary Force to France and the alternate prospects of the campaign. Deploying to Belgium instead of France looked good on paper and was actually quite a popular decision with British officers didn’t like the French. There was also an urgent need to provide support to the Belgians before the Germans crushed them. The book suggests that such a deployment would have been disastrous, at least at first; there were no plans for joint operations with the Belgians and they were simply not prepared for modern war, forcing both British and Belgian forces to withdraw into France. The only positive outcome Britain would be a distraction for the Germans, ensuring they could not take Paris in 1914.

Even following the historical path leaves you open to other possibilities. Should you stand and fight when the Germans give chase to British, or should you keep going? There are good arguments for both, but choosing to continue the retreat would have been disastrous; the Germans would have overwhelmed the rearguard and crush the British Army before laying siege to Paris, almost certainly winning the war in 1914.

This campaign also led to personal clashes between British officers – the authors speculate that if Sir John French had been dismissed by Kitchener in 1914, he would have been able to challenge Kitchener later and get promoted into a position he was temperamentally unable to handle, leading to later disaster. His historical character assassination of his rival would in this case was a military disaster instead.

The book then moves on to Gallipoli, and asks what might happen if the campaign had taken place elsewhere. On paper, the Dardanelles appear to be a reasonable target, but there were others – most notably Alexandretta in Syria. There were political issues, as the French believed the region had been promised to them after the end of the war, but these problems could have been solved. The authors argue that a successful landing in Syria would have crippled the Ottoman Empire and driven it out of the war in 1915 – ironically, this would have ensured the survival of the Ottomans in some form, although quite how long for is impossible to say.

The book then assesses the different choices of the Dardanelles campaign itself, pointing out the dangers of forcing the straits and then landing troops in very difficult and exposed locations along the shore. Deciding to embark on a naval-only campaign would end poorly, if the Navy could not silence the Turkish guns (and it could not); the only chance of a quick victory in the campaign came with an immediate trust into enemy positions and if that attack failed it is unlikely the campaign would have been victorious (although it is possible British and Allied troops would have remained in the Dardanelles trenches until 1918).

We then move onto the Battle of Jutland, which the authors believe to have been largely insignificant. It was possible, they argue, for the British to score more hits (particularly in the opening moments of the battle, if the fifth battle squadron had remained with the battlecruisers) and if the British commander had acted without orders he might have played a decisive role in a clear British victory. It was also possible that the battleships could have risked charging into the German torpedoes, closing the range between both fleets; in that case, the authors argue, greater British numbers would have led to a more significant victory. However, as I mentioned above, the impact of the battle was unlikely to be decisive even if the British wiped out the German fleet completely; the authors appear to believe the Germans could not have scored a decisive victory of their own.

The book then assesses the potential alternate outcomes for the Battle of the Somme. There were possibilities that the battle might be a slow and grinding victory for the British, following a ‘bite and hold’ set of tactics that would drive the Germans out of their trenches, and then force them to make counter-attacks against dug-in British troops. The authors speculate that this would have been decisive in a tactical sense, but the weather would prevent any major collapse of the German lines and the war would continue at least into 1917. An alternate possibility involves tanks – should they have been deployed as soon as they were available, or should they have been held in reserve? The author speculates that the tanks would have been decisive, and even though there would still have been a muddy stalemate by the end of the year their deployment would have boosted French morale and led to greater victories the following year. The authors conclude that a truly decisive victory was unlikely, but a firm commitment to one plan for the battle might have led to a vastly different outcome.

The book then considers the possibilities surrounding Lawrence of Arabia and the Arab Revolt, starting with which Arab faction the British should back. Should they side with Hussein bin Ali or Ibn Saud? Both warlords have their strengths and weaknesses; Hussein has greater political skill and legitimacy, while Saud has an army of zealots who may be more militarily effective in the coming conflict. The book believes that a decision to support Saud instead of Hussein would have been a dangerous mistake, sparking off a Civil War within Arabic ranks and effectively ensuring they posed no threat to the Ottoman Empire. The book then considers possible disasters that could have overwhelmed the revolt, many of which would have ended the Arabs as a military useful force.

The writers then explore the dilemma facing the British code-breakers when they deciphered the Zimmermann Telegram. On paper, the decision to inform the Americans that the Germans were planning to ally with Mexico and Japan against the United States seems a no-brainer. In practice, there were a number of other considerations. The United States would not be pleased to know that diplomatic telegrams were being deciphered – and the Germans, of course, would be delighted to know that their codes being broken. Simply releasing the intelligence would unleash an international incident, not least because the Germans could simply insist the message was faked.

An alternate possibility, of course, is the telegram never being publicly disclosed. If that happened, there was a very real possibility of Mexico taking hostile steps against the United States. The preponderance of American power was bitterly resented in Mexico, and the prospect of nationalising foreign-owned businesses was very tempting. It is unlikely, the authors argue, that Mexico would actually declare war on United States, but there might be some hostility along the border might distract the United States from sending troops to Europe.

Finally, the book looks at the last great what-if of the period, the Russian Revolution, and identifies a number of possible points in which a different decision could have changed history. Could the Tsar be convinced to reach out to dissidents before it was too late? Or should he use force to crush the rebels before they gained momentum that will be impossible to stop? Should he sue for peace, when the war becomes too costly, or risk continuing the fighting until it takes him down? Even when the provisional government takes power, should it continue the war? The book argues that a German-Russian peace treaty in 1917 would have saved the provisional government from the Bolsheviks, not least by giving them the prestige they needed to crush the uprising, although this would cause long-term problems for Russia (not least because the peace treaty would be seen as a betrayal by Britain and France). On the other hand, it could hardly be worse than the original timeline. They would certainly avoid the disaster of Brest-Litovsk!

It also suggests that the Bolsheviks were right to make peace in 1917, even on deeply unfavourable terms. Continuing the war, after overthrowing provisional government because it wanted to continue the war, might well have led to a White Russian victory in the Civil War. This would not be an unmixed blessing. On one hand, the world would be spared the horrors of communism; on the other, the reactionaries would certainly try to crush the rebels and lay the seeds for future rebellions in later years. It is unlikely that Germany (with or without Hitler) would have become so powerful in this timeline, but a reactionary Russia would not be as capable of defending itself and eventually crushing the Nazi beast in Berlin.

Overall, as the authors try to remind us, history is driven by more than just impersonal forces and geopolitical realities. Some decisions were driven by what the decision-makers knew at the time, and what they thought they knew, and others were driven by personal feelings that rarely enter into the calculations of dispassionate alternate historians. On paper, some decisions looked very good indeed and yet, as the Dardanelles Campaign taught us, turning a concept into reality can be incredibly difficult. Other choices were driven by factors that are difficult, if not impossible, to account for: personality conflicts and faction in-fighting can change history, yet they can be frightening difficult to predict.

Relatively few decisions offer the prospect of a radically changed world, although that seems incredible. If the July Crisis never takes place, what will spark a major war? If Britain does not join the war, or is driven out of France in 1914, Europe will be dominated by Germany, changing history beyond repair. The Ottomans leaving the war early might convince other German allies that they can leave too; by contrast, if the Dardanelles were abandoned without a major commitment, the Ottoman victory would not appear so crushing and the peace factions might be able to put together a workable compromise. A major failure in Arabia might not be that significant, at least immediately, but it would have an effect on the post-war world. So too would be America staying out of the war, or Russia trying to stay in it longer than OTL.

These points are disputable, of course. There’s plenty of room for speculation about what might happen if something had been different. But overall, this is a fresh look at the realities facing the decision-makers of the First World War and the limitations they had to overcome to win. It demands a great deal of commitment from its readers, but I do not feel that you will consider the time wasted if you’re interested in the war.

Snippet – The Forsaken (The Empire’s Corps)

Prologue I – Earth, 101 Years Prior to Earthfall

I am not a supplicant, President Martin Lopez told himself.

Sure, his own thoughts answered. And if you tell yourself that often enough, perhaps you’ll even come to believe it.

He stood in the antechamber and waited, trying to keep his angry and despair from showing on his face. The chamber was vast, large and ornate and completely inpersonal, designed to make any mere human feel small and weak before the majesty of the Imperial Supreme Court. There were no table or chairs, nothing to make him feel welcome; his staff – his assistants and lawyers and even his mistress – had been denied permission to accompany him, leaving him completely alone as he faced his judges. No, his planet’s judges. Martin wanted to believe they still had a chance, but it was growing increasingly clear the fix was in. It had been in well before he’d left his homeworld to plead its case on Earth …

It was hard, so hard, to remain calm. If only … he kicked himself, not for the first time, for allowing the planetary survey. There had been no reason to think Montezuma had extensive mineral reserves, certainly nothing that might be of interest to offworld minding corporations. Oil and gas were great for planetary development, but it was hardly economically beneficial to ship them across the stars. It had seemed so safe, so simple … in hindsight, he’d been a fool. He should have wondered more about the corporation’s willingness to carry out the survey for practically nothing, almost at cost for themselves. It was all too clear they’d had a good idea of what they’d find, when the survey was completed. They had to have known.

He was too tired, after years of legal struggles, to feel anything but numb as he contemplated the past. Montezuma was a treasure trove of raw materials, some so rare that selling them on the open market would bring in enough money to turn the planet into an economic powerhouse. Martin had wondered, despite himself, if it was worth the damage the mining operations would inevitably do to the ecosystem, or the disruption such a vast influx of money would do to the planetary culture. Perhaps there was a way to compromise, to make use of the windfall without destroying themselves … but the corporation hadn’t been willing to negotiate. They’d laid claim to the entire planet, through a spurious legal argument, and appeared to the Supreme Court to back their claim. By the time Martin had realised what was happening, it had been too late. The corporation had shovelled enough money around to ensure the judgement went in its favour.

His legs buckled. He sat on the cold marble floor, his lips twisting at the calculated disrespect. The portraits of Supreme Justices gazed upon him disapprovingly … he fancied they would have been horrified, if they’d encountered such corruption while they’d lived, although he suspected otherwise. He was no expect in Imperial Law – few were, even the ones who devoted their lives to legal practices – but he’d read enough briefs, over the past three years, to know there were enough precedents to justify almost anything, from slavery to stealing an entire planet from its inhabitants, if one had a particularly good lawyer. Martin wasn’t naive enough to think Montezuma’s political system was perfect, but even at its worst it was squeaky clean compared to the empire. The corporation was so wealthy it could buy and sell justices out of pocket change. And none of the men who’d be deciding his planet’s fate – who had already decided – had ever visited his world.

A man appeared and walked towards him, his lips thinning in disapproval as he saw a planetary president sitting on the ground like a wayward child. He wore the formal livery of a court-mandated escort, an unsubtle insult; Martin was all too aware the corprats had argued his people were unfit for independence, that they needed to be taken in hand like unruly children and taught civilisation. His face was bland to the point of being completely unremarkable, without the signs of a life truly lived. Martin couldn’t help thinking, as the young man stopped in front of him, that the poor boy was just a cog caught up in a much greater machine. If he’d wanted to make something of himself, he’d have gone elsewhere.

“The court requires your presence,” the escort said. His accent was pure upper-class, so deeply rooted in the homeworld that it was rarely heard outside Sol. The lack of honorifics was another calculated insult, perhaps a subtle way to tell him his title had been officially revoked. It wouldn’t be legal, as far as Montezuma was concerned, but the planet was no longer in control of its own destiny. “I am to escort you to the judgement chamber.”

Martin put out a hand. “Help an old man up, son?”

The escort looked, just for a second, as if he’d been asked to put his hand into an unflushed toilet. Martin didn’t try to hide his amusement as the escort helped him to his feet, letting go the moment the older man could stand on his own two feet. It wasn’t as if he needed the help, but … he felt a pang of remorse as the escort led him away, swiftly quenched by a growing apprehension. Montezuma had spent vast sums of money preparing a legal case, all of which might have well have been spent on fool’s gold and impossible lawsuits. They’d prolonged the agony, and prevented the court from ruling immediately, but he no longer had any illusions. The justices had known what conclusion the court would reach right from the start.

He followed the escort as the young man led him into the chamber. It was, surprisingly, smaller than the antechamber, but clearly designed to make very clear to the defender that he was in deep trouble. The justices sat in front of him, flanked by the corporation’s lawyers – a tiny percentage of the vast legal army the corprats had at their beck and call – and a handful of reporters, none remotely independent. A pair of men in fancy uniforms flanked the dock – he couldn’t help thinking of the podium as a dock – clearly ready for trouble. Martin wasn’t a military expert, but it was clear the two men were trained and experienced. There would be other security precautions too, kept in the shadows until they were needed. There was no shortage of people who wanted the justices dead.

The Speaker stepped forward, the moment Martin took his place. “We are gathered here today …”

To witness the unholy marriage of raw greed and corruption, Martin thought, as the Speaker droned on, outlining the details of the case and the principle arguments both sides had put forward as the legal battle took shape. The formal conventions had been outdated long ago, and he wasn’t sure why the Court was bothering to uphold them, not when they could justify anything they wanted with a careful read of the countless legal precedents set over the last few centuries. When is he going to get to the point?

It was almost a surprise when it actually came. “On the question of planetary sovereignty, we find that the settlement rights were improperly transferred to the Aztec Revival Movement and as such the entire settlement program was highly illegal, and the planetary population illicit settlers and the descendents of same …”

Martin had known it was coming, but it was still a shock.

“Planetary sovereignty therefore belongs to the Isabella Interstellar Corporation, who laid claim to them legally,” the Speaker continued. Martin wondered, with a sudden burst of fury, just how much he’d been paid – personally – to ensure the vote went the right way. “The planet’s current population, who are there illegally, are ordered to vacate the planet or face indenture for a period of no less than …”

Martin couldn’t help himself. “You’re selling my people into slavery!”

“Silence,” the Speaker snapped.

It was slavery, Martin knew. Indents rarely worked their way out of debt, certainly not if their debtors wanted to keep them. There was no way an entire planet of five million people could be evacuated, even if the planetary assets that might have funded the move hadn’t been seized by the same legal judgement. He’d travelled to Earth a President and now …

“The corporation may take possession of the planet as soon as it wishes,” the Speaker continued. Martin barely heard him. “The illicit settlers are to be given one chance to leave and …”

Martin gritted his teeth, barely noticing the justices filing out the moment the speech came to an end. The kabuki play had one purpose – to put a legal gloss on the corporation’s snatch and grab – and it was over now, all done and dusted. There was no appeal. He wasn’t sure why they’d even bothered. It wasn’t as if anyone on Earth, outside the Grand Senate and the upper classes, cared one jot about the outcome. Montezuma was nothing to the underclass. He doubted one in a billion of Earth’s teeming population could even point to the planet on a starchart. Why would they care?

His escort led him through another set of corridors, the guards following at a safe distance, and into a smaller room. It was an office; a table, three chairs, and even a water jug and glasses, waiting to be used. Two corprats sat behind the table, wearing the expensive suits that were practically a uniform. There was little real difference in appearance between the expensive and slightly less expensive suits, or so he’d been told, but anyone who wore the former had to be taken seriously. The men in front of him clearly did.

“Mr President,” one said. His accent was the same upper-class drawl as his escort, only stronger. “I would like to tell you that I am sorry about the court’s decision …”

“I’m sure you would,” Martin growled. He was sick of Earth, sick of the planet’s corruption, sick and tired of fighting a battle that had been lost before he’d realised it was underway … he just wanted to get home and … and what? Perhaps there had been a point to the judgement after all. If the corprats were the legal owners, they’d be entirely within their rights to call in the military to enforce their claims. “Get to the point.”

The suit looked surprised, just for a second. “It is very unfortunate …”

Martin leaned forward, raising his voice. “Get to the point!”

“We’d like to offer you a job,” the suit said. His tone didn’t change, even though it was clear he’d been planning to butter up Martin before finally making the proposal. “The planet requires a careful hand to integrate it into the corporate system and …”

Martin met his eyes, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man flinch. “You expect me to collaborate with you, to sell out my people?”

“It would make it easier on everyone,” the suit said. He produced a datapad and passed it to Martin. “You would be very well paid, with plenty if vacation time and a guaranteed retirement on a vacation world, with pensions and health benefits for all …”

“And in exchange for this,” Martin said, “you expect me to be the Judas Goat leading my people into slavery?”

“It would make it easier …”

Martin threw the datapad over his shoulder, to distract the guards just for a second, and hurled himself over the table and at the suit. The man was so unused to physical violence he didn’t even try to move, not until it was far too late. Martin crashed into him, knocking him backwards and jamming his fingers into the man’s eyes, trying to kill him before the guards recovered and attacked. The other suit screamed – Martin could smell the piss – an instant before the guard jumped him. Martin lashed out with his foot, hitting someone – he had no idea who – before someone else jammed a shockrod into his back. His entire body convulsed with pain, his muscles twitching helplessly.

“Barbarian,” someone said. “He …”

Martin’s awareness ebbed and flowed as strong hands dragged him up and carried him out the door. He doubted he would ever see his homeworld again, not ever. The corprats would hardly have let him go home if he’d refused their offer, expecting – correctly – that his first move would be to organise resistance. But his planet didn’t need him to resist the invasion. His people would keep fighting, and one day they would be free.

One day …

Prologue II: Montezuma, 98 Years Prior to Earthfall

“No one wants to work anymore,” Director Heimlich Von Raubritter said.

Assistant Director Sharon McManus kept her face under tight control as her boss ranted about how the corporation’s efforts were failing, head office was starting to ask pointed questions and how everyone was plotting against him. Again. Raubritter was unbelievably handsome, thanks to the finest cosmetic surgery money could buy, but there was something oafish about his character that shone through his perfectly-sculpted chin, perfectly clear skin, perfect blond hair, and perfect muscles that wouldn’t have been out of place on a flick action hero. She might have thought him attractive, if she’d seen him at a distance, but five minutes conversation had been enough to convince her Raubritter was just an empty suit. He was nothing more than a well-connected young man who had been parachuted into a post that called for a man with tact, diplomacy, and a certain willingness to compromise with the local population. If he hadn’t had close family ties to the Grand Senate, Sharon was entirely sure he would never have been allowed anywhere near the post.

Her lips quirked as the ranting continued. On paper, the post was an excellent one for a young corprat looking to get his ticket punched before returning to Earth to continue his climb into the corporate stratosphere. Montezuma was a world with incredible potential – vast mineral resources, an ecosystem that was already unpleasant, a population indentured to the corporation – and a smart man could probably use the post to make enough money to satisfy the dreams of his upper-class wife. In practice, the population was revolting – the nasty part of her mind insisted they were revolting in both senses of the word – and keeping them from sabotaging the mining infrastructure was a difficult, almost impossible, job. The corporation had summoned troops to teach the locals a lesson, but there was little they could do to keep the workers from causing trouble. They should have a secure outflow of raw materials by now, yet … they didn’t, and head office was getting antsy. They’d already invested far too much money into the mining operation to back off easily.

Perhaps we should try to come to terms with the locals …

She cut off that line of thought before it could go any further. The corporation had splashed money around like water to make sure the Supreme Court ruled in their favour, and then splashed more money around to ensure the former president was executed rather than being sold into indenture himself. In hindsight, that had been a mistake too; the gruesome details everyone on the planet took for granted might be untrue – the president had not been brutally tortured to death – but there was no denying the man was dead, which had turned him into a martyr. Ironically, the fact he’d died in a bid to save his world had absolved him of the mistake that had led to the corporate takeover in the first place.

“We need to do something,” Raubritter said. He waved a datapad at her, as if she hadn’t written the report herself. There were some details that simply couldn’t be entrusted to a secretary. “How can we raise production?”

Sharon assumed it was a rhetorical question. There were quite a few ways to raise production, starting with treating the locals with a shred of decency, but Raubritter wouldn’t accept any of them. He’d staked his career on exploiting the planet as much as possible, to the point he’d actually signed off on a project to develop the high orbitals, without realising the planet’s cash reserves were falling rapidly. Perversely, Montezuma had never been a very wealthy world. The corporation could fund development, at least until the mining operation started to bring in the cash, but the beancounters would start asking questions. Raubritter would find his career spluttering to a halt if he didn’t find a way to increase production, and fast.

She watched him for a moment, wondering what he’d decide. She’d learnt the art of covering her ass a long time ago, and she would have no trouble demonstrating that Raubritter had made every decision from the moment he took office, if – when – head office started demanding answers. She was tempted to suggest a handful of options that would make even worse trouble for her boss, perhaps taking a loan from another corporation in exchange for future favours, but kept her mouth firmly closed. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have to put up with him forever. Even if she wasn’t, she’d salted away enough cash to live well for the rest of her life.

“The problem is that the locals cannot be trusted to work for us,” Raubritter said, with the air of a child discovering two plus two made four. “We need more and better workers.”

“Quite,” Sharon agreed. There weren’t many locals willing to cooperate – collaborate – with the corporation. The ones who did were almost worse. Some were outcasts, hated by their peers; others pretended to cooperate long enough to get into position to do some real damage. “Do you intend to educate the locals?”

“No,” Raubritter said, an unusual burst of realism. “The educational program will not produce anything worthwhile for at least a decade, if that.”

Sharon nodded, slowly. She’d grown up in a corporate crèche, and she had little emotional attachments to her parents, but the locals took a different view, She didn’t pretend to understand it, yet she didn’t have to. All that mattered was that trying to raise the planet’s children to be good little corporate drones would make the situation even worse. If nothing else, they simply didn’t have the time.

“We’ll shut down the Delta and Gamma programs, for the moment,” Raubritter said. “Both of them can be placed on hold, without major disruption, and the funds rerouted to an incentive program. We’ll offer high wages and excellent benefits for people with the skills we need, people willing to immigrate and work in our facilities. If we can get enough offworlders, we won’t need the locals at all.”

Sharon blinked. “Do you believe you can recruit enough?”

Raubritter smiled. “If you throw enough money at a problem, it goes away.”

Sharon said nothing for a long cold moment. Raubritter was certainly wealthy enough to take that attitude, and the hell of it was that he had a point. The wealthy corporate families had covered up all kinds of bad behaviour, from the merely obnoxious to the illegal even to scions of the aristocracy, through paying out vast sums to their victims. She considered the figures thoughtfully. They really could offer all kinds of incentives, at least at first. The newcomers might discover the rewards dried up, after a while, but by then it would be someone else’s problem. She had no intention of staying on the desert world any longer than strictly necessary.

“It might work,” she said, finally. It would be very bad for the locals, and perhaps for the descendents of the newcomers, but that would be their problem. She could understand why the locals were so angry, yet she wouldn’t sacrifice her career in a bid to save them. It would be futile to try. “If we can convince enough to join us …”

“Make the preparations,” Raubritter ordered. “I want the project underway by the time head office tries to audit us.”

Sharon nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Chapter One: Mictlan, Montezuma

The air stank. As usual.

Felecia Kahn checked her mask as she scrambled onto the bus, pressed her fingers against the reader to confirm she was an authorised passenger, and found a seat, alone in the midst of a crowd. The other riders were a faceless mass, most wearing masks that covered their entire faces or hoods that made them look utterly inhuman. Even the handful of youngsters who only covered their mouths and noses looked strange, as if they didn’t quite belong. The air was always unpleasant near the mining complex, but today it was particularly bad. The corporation was working desperately to extract every last bit of value it could, before time ran out. She couldn’t help wondering, as the doors slammed closed, if time had already run out. The entire planet was on edge …

The bus rattled into motion, the driver steering his vehicle through the hazy streets towards the checkpoint at the edge of town. Felecia breathed deeply, tasting the scent even through the mask, her eyes scanning the haze for potential threats. The town had been a nice place to grow up, assuming one never went outside the walls, but it had started to decay recently as the pollution got worse. Outdoor gardens and water parks, a sign of proper development on a world known for being dangerously dry, were being steadily ground down; the greenhouses, the only safe way to grow food so close to the complex, were half-buried in the dust. She had been assured the greenhouses were safe, but she feared otherwise. The planet hadn’t been a safe place to live permanently, even before the mining operations had turned vast tracts of land into a polluted nightmare. It was easy, all too easy, to understand why the insurgency had grown and grown until it seemed the entire planet was waging war against the corporations. And the Huéspeds.

She felt her scalp itch and ran her hand through her dark hair. She was going to be dirty and grimy when she got to work, again. She might have time for a shower, if she was lucky, but it was impossible to be sure if they’d get to the complex on time. The road network was very busy at the best of times, even when the insurgents weren’t making life difficult for anyone who wanted to live outside the complex. She’d been so late, only a few short months ago, that she’d reached her workplace thirty minutes before it was time to go home. If her boss hadn’t been surprisingly understanding …

The bus drove through the first set of gates, paused long enough for the second to be opened, and then headed onwards into the desert. The contrast was startling, startling enough to jolt her awake even though she’d seen it a hundred times before. The sand dunes, endlessly shifty and treacherous, stretched as far as the eye could see. A distant shimmer on the horizon promised a sandstorm … she hoped, as she forced herself to sit back on her seat and wait, that it wasn’t heading towards them. Sandstorms meant trouble, particularly here. The insurgents excelled at using them to get close to the settlements and mining complexes, sniping or mortaring or even laying bombs along the roads and withdrawing before they were spotted, leaving deadly surprises for the next set of innocents to drive along the roads. The corporate pullback, abandoning large complexes as the galactic economy collapsed, didn’t seem to be helping. The insurgents, scenting victory, had redoubled their attacks until agreeing – reluctantly – to a truce. Felecia – and the rest of the Huéspeds – doubted it would last for long.

She glanced at her watch as the giant corporate complex – a spaceport, a administrative centre, a warehouse on a planetary scale – came into view. The shacks and shanties around the outer wall chilled her to the bone, as they always did. There were older women trying to sell their wares, eking out a living on a planet that cared nothing for its human occupants, and older men staring menacingly at the bus as it passed; young children ran around, their unprotected faces bearing scars from living too close to the complex, carefully avoiding the open channels that carried effluents and wastes down to the Dead Sea. There were no young women her age, or men either. She knew why.

The bus didn’t slow down as it passed the shantytown and made its way into the guardpost, where it came to a stop as soon as the gates closed behind it. The doors banged open a second later, allowing the passengers to stand and make their way towards the security checkpoints up ahead. The guards looked relaxed, Felecia noted, as they watched the new arrivals pass through the automated sensors. She hoped that wasn’t a bad sign too. She didn’t like being patted down, or being singled out for a random strip search, but it was better than the alternative. The insurgents had smuggled bombs through the gates before and, if the truce failed ahead of time, they’d do it again.

“Clear,” the guard said. He sounded bored as he checked her ID. “You may proceed.”

Felecia thanked him, and headed onwards. The corporation’s giant complex was practically a large town in its own right, the air a little cleaner inside through giant purifiers that swept the pollution out before it could reach offworld noses and lungs. The corporation could have kept its mining operations relatively clean, she knew, but it didn’t care enough to try. She was mildly surprised it had agreed to evacuate the workers, when it had become clear the mining operation would have to be shut down completely. But then, it had a legal obligation to uplift anyone who wanted to go. The corprats might bend the law into a pretzel, or a plate of spaghetti, but they didn’t break it outright. It wasn’t how they rolled.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she removed her mask, then headed towards her workplace. The crowds seemed more relaxed, as if they’d already forgotten the insurgency had been far from defeated. She spotted young children heading to playgroup and older teenagers making their way to the arcade, rather than school. She couldn’t help a twinge of envy. She’d barely had a chance to be a child, growing up in the settlement. She’d had to go to work as soon as possible, just to ensure the family had enough money to live. She was very far from alone.

The office complex was warm and welcoming, the lobby dominated by a statue of Director Sharon McManus, the woman who had directed the Huésped program nearly a century ago and been assassinated for it. Felecia wondered, not for the first time, if the long-dead woman had known what she was doing, or even if she cared. It was unusual to meet a corprat who thought about anything other than the bottom line, who put anything ahead of profits and promotions. Felecia had even heard their marriages and affairs were arranged for them, something that always made her roll her eyes. What sort of marriage had adulterous relationships organised by the wife and mistress? It was just absurd.

She checked her watch again as she reached the office and had a quick shower, then changed into her work clothes and checked her appearance in the mirror before heading back outside to relieve her colleague. Anna Cameron winked at her as she entered, then stood and held out a datapad. Their work was never done.

“He’s got meetings all afternoon, some with people whose real names have clearly been blanked,” Anna told her. “Don’t breathe a word about them.”

“As if I would,” Felecia told her. She was one of the most highly-paid Huéspeds on the planet. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise it, certainly not now. “Did you have a good morning?”

Anna laughed. “I was working, so no,” she said. “You want to cover for me tomorrow so I can see Jim?”

Felecia shook her head. If she covered for Anna, she’d either have to stay with her overnight – which would be awkward for both young women and Jim – or find a hotel. The latter would be expensive, even if she chose the one that that expected its guests to sleep in tubes uncomfortably reminiscent of coffins. She didn’t have many other friends in the complex and none of them would put her up, certainly not without a few days warning. Anna didn’t seem particularly put out as she stood, passed Felecia the datachips that opened the complex’s datacore, and headed for the door. Felecia felt a twinge of envy, despite herself. Anna had far more freedom than Felecia, even though they were the same age.

But her family is hundreds of light years away, she reminded herself, as she tapped the console to bring up the director’s schedule. Mine is back in the settlement.

She sighed inwardly, then put the thought aside as she checked the appointment book. Anna had been right. There were seven appointments with clearly fake names, one probably the Caudillo himself and the rest his allies and semi-rivals. Her stomach twisted in disgust. The corporation’s official policy was never to negotiate with insurgents, particularly insurgents who could be easily classed as terrorists, but someone very high up had probably forced a change in policy. The corporation was pulling out, withdrawing from the planet and taking the Huéspeds with it. She supposed she could put up with the decision to discuss a truce with the insurgents, one that would last long enough to let the corporation evacuate the planet in peace. It was better than the alternative. If the war was fought to the last, hundreds of thousands on both sides would die.

The inner door opened, revealing President Dominica Lopez. Felecia stood and hastily genuflected, even through everyone knew the planetary president was little more than the director’s puppet. The older woman barely spared Felecia a glance as she stalked out of the room, not even bothering to be polite as she slammed the door behind her. Felecia resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at the closed door. It was hard not to feel sorry for the so-called president. If there was anyone on the planet who took her title seriously, he was alone.

Her boss stuck his head out of the office. “Have my next guest sent up via the private elevator, and hold all my calls unless they’re from the priority list.”

“Yes, sir,” Felecia said. Director Von Donitz wasn’t a bad boss, all things considered, even though he had a habit of talking to her as thought she were a child. A great many people from Earth seemed to believe their planet was the home of all elegance, and anyone who grew up without attending a finishing school could barely be trusted to tie their shoelaces without getting into a terrible muddle, but she knew it could be worse. One low-ranking corprat had a small harem of pretty secretaries and another was notoriously abusive. “Do you require tea or coffee?”

“I’ll see to it myself,” Von Donitz said. “If anyone who isn’t on the priority list calls, take their names and I’ll call them back.”

Felecia frowned as her boss withdraw, closing the door behind him. It was her job to bring him and his visitors tea and coffee – and everything else, from little biscuits to full meals – and effectively wait on them … and yet, he was going to make his own coffee? It was out of character for the most powerful man on the planet, a man who couldn’t operate a drinks dispenser to save his life. Sure, anyone could put coffee grains and milk and hot water together, but …

He doesn’t want me to see who’s visiting, she thought. It was wrong, and having the thought made her feel uneasy, and yet it refused to go away. Didn’t he trust her? Who is he meeting … and why?

The unease nagged at her mind as she sat back down. She had never been quite sure why Von Donitz had hired her in the first place. She knew she was capable and competent and cheap, by corprat standards, but … he could get a second offworld assistant if he wished. Anna wasn’t paid anything more than Felecia, as far as she knew, and the director could pay a hundred offworlders like her out of pocket change. She had wondered, at first, if he’d had other reasons, but he’d never made a pass at her. Hell, he’d never even hired a high-class escort. She’d seen his personal accounts. If the man had any interests beyond doing his job, he kept them well hidden.

Her terminal bleeped. The guest had arrived. His escort had brought him through the secure corridors and they were now waiting for the elevator, the one that would take them into the office without walking past her guest. She tapped her console, informing Von Donitz that the mystery guest had arrived, then leaned back in her chair. Who was it? And what were they discussing? Her eyes lingered on the door for a long moment, then returned to her console. She could press her ears against the metal, if she wished, but she’d hear nothing. The room was completely soundproofed.

The unease grew as she surveyed his inbox. It was astonishing how much crap was forwarded to the director, and how much the director relied on his staff to separate the genuinely important messages from the spam. There were just too many people who had permission to send emails directly into the poor man’s box, not all of whom could be trusted not to take advantage of it. She put a number of emails into the low-priority box – they weren’t aimed at the director, merely copied to him – and rolled her eyes at the sheer pettiness displayed by officials who had to know their time on the planet was coming to an end. The infighting had never stopped, even as mortar shells rained on settlements and antiaircraft missiles were fired at shuttlecraft or helicopters. Perhaps it had just been a way of coping with the constant threat of death, she thought wryly. The officials couldn’t do anything about the insurgency, but they could fight bitter office wars over pointless issues …

Her lips twisted as she scanned an update from Sol, confirming – as if everyone hadn’t already known – that Earth was effectively gone. It was hard to wrap her head around the sheer scale of the disaster. There had been eighty billion people on the planet, including the Grand Senate and much of the Civil Service, and they were just gone. The orbital halo, the cluster of settled asteroids and industrial nodes that had turned the system into an economic powerhouse, lay in ruins. The destruction of entire colonies on Mars, or asteroid settlements being shattered, would have dominated news cycles a few years ago, but now they were barely drops in an ocean of blood. Felecia had been born on Montezuma, and she had never been offworld, and yet … losing Earth felt like the end of the universe. The old certainties were falling everywhere. No wonder, she reflected, that the corporation was preparing to abandon the mining world. Right now, they’d be lucky if they could still in business long enough for the dust to settle and a new order to arise.

She frowned as she read a message from General Hampshire. The man had never liked her, or Huéspeds in general, but he had done a fairly good job of coordinating the defences well enough to keep the mines open. Her brother had had some choice things to say about the general, yet … she shook her head, eyes narrowing as she scanned the words. There was something oddly weaselly about it, a strange tone from a man who was often blunt to the point of rudeness. It was even stranger, she noted, that he’d done a spot of clerical work himself. Generals didn’t plan operations, certainly not in anything more than broad strokes. That was what his staff were for …

The plan was simple, the uplift schedule for departure … a month, more or less, from the present date. Felecia felt an odd little moment of regret, then frowned as something struck her. The evacuation plan was surprisingly vague in places, but it was clear that it was only intended to last a few days. Her frown deepened, her heart thudding as she kept reading. She was no military expert, and she’d never flown in a shuttle in her entire life, but even she knew there were hard limits on how many passengers could be transported to orbit in a single flight. Assuming a flight schedule that was probably unrealistic, without a single delay or technical failure, they couldn’t hope to get more than a few tens of thousands of people off world in the period. Unless they were bringing in extra shuttles or transports … she’d been told colonist-carriers were being arranged, but that had been a month ago. No one knew if the schedule was still in operation, or it had been changed somewhere dozens of light years away. The planet had never been so isolated before.

Odd, she thought. The truce was intended to give the corporation time to evacuate peacefully, leaving the world to the original population. How do they intend to get us all off?

It hit her in a flash, horror numbing her so completely she could barely move. She didn’t want to consider the possibility, even hypothetically, but the figures didn’t lie. The truth was right in front of her, barely concealed. There was no way to turn away and pretend she hadn’t seen it …

They don’t intend to evacuate us at all, she thought, stunned. They’re leaving us behind.

Snippet – Boys Own Starship

Hi, everyone

This is a novella (planned 30K) aimed at young teenagers (think Starman Jones or The Rolling Stones). It’s also something of an experiment, so comments (etc, etc) are warmly welcomed.

Chris

Chapter One

“I’m telling you,” Eric said, “we can do this!”

“And I’m telling you we don’t have the money,” John said. His brother had always been the careful one of the duo. He’d gone into engineering, while Eric had studied interstellar piloting and navigating. “Even if we combine both of our trust fund payments for the next decade, we won’t have enough money to purchase an interstellar freighter.”

Eric smirked. “I’ve got a plan,” he said. “We purchase two scrap freighters.”

John gave him a sharp look. “Scrap freighters?”

“Yes,” Eric said. He held out a datapad. “There are two Century Hawk­­-class light freighters at the scrapyard, on sale for a song. Neither one can fly on her own, but we can cannibalise the first ship to make the second fly and add a few other components to improve her. A stardrive, for example …”

“I see.” John scanned the datapad thoughtfully. “They do seem to match up. We could use one to make the other fly. But why didn’t the scrapyard operator do it himself?”

Eric shrugged. “The design is very old,” he said. “Anyone who has the money would prefer a modern ship, complete with modern systems. These ships are over fifty years old.”

John nodded, thoughtfully. “And they’d need a proper stardrive to be competitive,” he said. “If we could install one.”

“We could do it,” Eric said. “This is our chance!”

They exchanged long looks. They’d been trust-fund children for a long time, ever since their parents had vanished in interstellar space and left them – and their older sister – alone. They were hardly poor or starving, but they couldn’t take control of the family corporation until all three had turned twenty-five and that was over thirteen years in the future. They’d spent the last five years living in the mansion, studying desperately, and hoping – against all odds – that their parents would miraculously return. But they’d grown tired of waiting, and they didn’t want to grow up like so many others they’d met over the last few years. They wanted to emulate their parents and do something with their lives.

“Maryam will have to sign off on the expense,” John pointed out, finally. “How do you intend to convince her?”

“She signed a permission slip,” Eric reminded him. “Is it my fault she doesn’t have time to authorise every expense separately?”

John stood. “Let’s go then, shall we?”

Eric nodded and led the way to the aircar pad on the roof of the mansion. They both had flying permits, but they weren’t allowed to fly personally without a qualified adult beside them … one of the many rules and regulations on Old Earth their parents had chafed against, when they’d been young and intent on building up an interstellar shipping corporation of their own. Eric wondered, sometimes, quite why their parents had never moved to the colonies, where men could breathe free and laws were dictated by common sense rather than bureaucratic inertia. Earth had better schools and industries, but anyone could take the schooling modules and learn at home rather than attending class with hundreds of other students. Eric had gone to school with the super-rich – or, more accurately, the children of the super-rich – for a year and he had no intention of going back. He’d never met quite so many spoilt brats in his entire life. Even the ones who were eighteen were going on eight.

The aircar hummed into the air and flew north, the autopilot taking them away from the mansion and straight towards the giant scrapyard hundreds of miles away. It was meant to be a repair and renovation centre, he’d been told, but most starships landed in the scrapyard were left to die. He’d checked, out of curiosity, and discovered that anything capable of being useful – still – was never scrapped, merely passed down to a new set of owners. He frowned inwardly, wondering – despite himself – if there was something wrong with the scrapped freighters. They might have fallen through the cracks – too small to be useful – but it was still odd. The asteroid miners tended to be unconcerned about the exact state of the starship as long as it could hold an atmosphere and power a drive.

John leaned forward as the scrapyard came into view, miles upon miles of grounded starships from the last hundred years of interstellar exploration and settlement. There were ships so old they predated faster-than-light travel and ships so new they were younger than John, although they were visibly banged up so badly it was clear they would never fly again. The distant refineries were working hard, breaking down the scrapped ships and recycling as much as possible for transfer to the orbital industrial nodes. What little was left would, eventually, be thrown into the sun. He sucked in his breath as the aircar landed neatly, the two boys scrambling out to be met by the manager. The man looked unsure of himself …

Eric smiled. So much the better.

“We spoke earlier,” he said, before the man could say a word. Adults tended to get rather pedantic, when dealing with children … never mind that Eric was a teenager and John on the cusp of joining him. “Please show us to the Century Hawks.”

The manager nodded and led them through the gate and into the yard itself, passing dozens of scrapped vessels. There was little security, nothing to keep the locals from sneaking in and night and taking whatever they wanted. Eric suspected the scrapyard’s owners simply didn’t care. If the locals could make use of something from the yard, they might as well have it. Anything truly valuable would have been removed long ago. They walked past a giant freighter that had been modified so many times, before being finally scrapped, that it was impossible to tell which class she’d originally been, then paused as the Century Hawks came into view. They were ugly as sin …

… And yet, they were also the most beautiful ships in the known universe.

He stared. The ships looked like crude arrowheads, antigravity nodes clearly visible on their hulls and a mighty sublight thruster to their rear. Their hulls looked scarred and pitted, but his visual inspection suggested there were no cracks or obvious weak points in the hull. He’d looked it up, when he’d realised the opportunity in front of him, and noted that the design was surprisingly tough. There were records of a Century Hawk coming down hard, practically crash-landing, and being put back into service within a week. Eric was fairly sure the crew had gotten very lucky – his instructors had drilled him mercilessly, before giving him his licence, and pointed out that a single mistake could easily get the entire crew killed – but they had survived. Any landing was a good one, as long as you could walk away from it.

“Your ships,” the manager said. “Let us know if you want to purchase them.”

He turned and walked away. Eric grinned to himself as he led the way towards the hatch. He’d been to a dozen used starship dealers, over the last couple of years, and all of them had tried to talk up the ship as much as possible, glossing over precise details that might have cost them the sale. Eric had tried to purchase a crippled starship once and had only been stopped, thankfully, by the rules governing his trust fund. It had been irritating, but he had learnt a useful lesson. Perversely, the manager’s lack of concern was surprisingly reassuring. The man had nothing to gain – or lose – if they purchased the ships or not.

“The interior is a little rank,” John commented. He dug his engineering toolkit out of his belt and deployed the scanning microbugs. The tiny machines would survey the ship from bow to stern, then relay their findings to John’s wristcom. “Other than that …”

Eric barely heard him as they made their way through the ship. The internal lighting was online, revealing small cargo holds and cabins and a bridge that was barely large enough to be called a bridge. He was mildly disappointed to note there was no command chair, merely three control stations … but then, the freighter was hardly a giant interstellar warship. The systems were powered down, the consoles dark and silent … he reached for a switch, thoughtfully, then stopped himself. They might have been told the ship was effectively powerless, save for the lighting, but his instructors had cautioned him to take nothing for granted. It was unlikely the scrapyard’s engineers had been particularly careful when the ships had been moved to their final resting place.

John knelt on the deck and studied the live feed from his microbugs. Eric left him to it and walked through the remainder of the ship, feeling as if he were standing in the midst of a ghost vessel … although one with massive potential. The cabins had been stripped bare – he opened a pair of drawers, just to be sure, and found nothing – and the holds were completely empty. He hadn’t expected to find anything, not after the ship had been searched multiple times, but it was still a little disappointing. There were all sorts of stories about people discovering hidden treasures in their new homes, or starships; indeed, some of the stories were actually real.

“I’ll have to inspect the other ship, then draw up a work plan,” John said, as Eric returned to the bridge. “It should be doable.”

Eric grinned. “I told you so.”

“We haven’t made it happen yet,” John cautioned him. “And we’ll need to find a stardrive.”

“There’s bound to be one around here somewhere,” Eric said. A new-model stardrive would be expensive, but an older design would come cheaply … if they could find one. “Or we can find one in another yard.”

“If,” John said. He glanced at the holograms projected by his wristcom. “The internal datanet needs replaced, or modernised. The life support system is in good condition, but I’d be happier with a couple of back-ups. The navicomputer really does need replaced, if we want to take the ship out of the system. It was never designed to work with a stardrive.”

He paused. “We’ll have to buy that one new.”

“Joy,” Eric muttered. They might be wealthy, even by Earthly standards, but there were limits. “What else?”

“They tore out the onboard fabbers and food recyclers,” John said. “We’ll need to replace those too.”

“We could just stockpile regular food,” Eric reminded him. “And …

His brother interrupted him. “And what happens if we get stranded in interstellar space?”

Eric nodded, curtly. “Add it to the list.”

John stuck out his tongue. “Add it to the list? I thought you were keeping the list.”

“I am,” Eric said. “But you need to keep a list too.”

He sighed, inwardly, as they headed to the second starship. The interior looked a great deal more cracked and broken, to the point he honestly wondered if the starship had been boarded by pirates, but enough systems remained intact to allow the ship to be cannibalised.  He followed his brother through the hull, trying to breathe through his mouth, as they checked each and every component before retreating back to the fresh air. Something was clearly rotting away, inside the second starship. Rats, perhaps. They had a nasty habit of sneaking onto starships and riding into interstellar space. The hull should have been fumigated, he reflected as they made their way back to the office, but if the vessel was being scrapped it was possible no one had bothered.

The manager nodded politely. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“We’d like to buy both hulls,” Eric said, flatly. “And hire a crew to transfer them to the local spaceport, once we have made arrangements for the refit.”

“Of course,” the manager said. If he had any doubts about selling two hulls to a pair of teenagers, he kept them to himself. He’d have checked Eric’s piloting licence and John’s engineering licence when they made contact the first time. “I’ll see to it personally.”

Eric nodded as he withdraw a credit chip from his pocket and placed it against the reader, bracing himself. The expense should have been pre-authorised, if he’d done everything properly, but it was just possible the bank might balk. The trust fund wasn’t unlimited … he gritted his teeth in annoyance, remembering the spoilt brats who had unlimited access to the family’s bank account despite being underage. If he had that sort of money, he could buy a modern freighter and outfit it out of pocket change. He breathed a sigh of relief when the money was transferred, without a hitch.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said. “Thank you.”

His wristcom vibrated the moment he stepped outside. He glanced at the message and swallowed. GET BACK HERE NOW!!!

“Three exclamation marks,” John said. “Who was it who said that three exclamation marks was the sign of a deranged mind?”

“I can’t recall,” Eric said, as they hurried to the aircar. Maryam normally minded her own business, and kept her head firmly buried in her studies. If she was calling them home so urgently … he felt his heart sink. Maryam was their legal guardian, to all intents and purposes, and if she wanted to say they couldn’t go … he closed his eyes as the aircar took off, mentally rehearsing his arguments as they flew back home. “We have to convince her.”

John giggled. “You could always tell her we’ll be out of her hair for good,” he said. “She hasn’t forgiven us for chasing Hank away, remember?”

The aircar landed nearly on the rooftop landing pad, and the two boys made their way down to their sister’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, reviewing expense records … Eric wondered, suddenly, if she’d left a flag in the family banking accounts, a computer program designed to alert her if a large sum was withdrawn in a single transaction. It wasn’t impossible. She might not have absolute power over the family business, not yet, but she did have a great deal of influence.

He composed himself as his sister scowled at him. “You called?”

Maryam didn’t smile. “And what, exactly, are you thinking? Spending most of your trust fund on a pair of clapped-out starships?”

“Which can be combined into a single working starship, with a little sweat and blood,” Eric said, easily. It was hard to keep his voice steady. He wanted to yell at her, to demand to know why she thought it was any of her business. “We can install a stardrive and take her out on an interstellar cruise …”

“And then what?” Maryam met his eyes. “How do you intend to make enough money to keep the ship running?”

“Most interstellar freighters are huge, and their prices are correspondingly huge,” Eric pointed out. He’d spent years digging into the economics of interstellar travel. “It can be very expensive to ship goods from star to star, even if you only hire a tiny hold on a giant starship. Our ship is smaller, with smaller running costs, and we won’t need to charge through the nose to keep the ship running.”

“And we also have the remainder of our trust fund for the year,” John put in.

“And we can ship goods quite some distance,” Eric added. “Foodstuffs, colony gear, modern computer systems … all worth very little here, but worth their weight in gold on the other side of explored space.”

Their sister looked unconvinced. “And how exactly did you get me to agree to pay for all this?”

Eric kept himself from smiling. Somehow. “You pre-authorised trust fund expenditures,” he said. “There was no need to consult with you, as long as we didn’t overdraw the account.”

Maryam gave him an icy look. “You are aware, of course, that your licences are dependent on you having a qualified adult accompanying you,” she said. “How do you intend to address that problem?”

“No one is going to inspect a single light freighter,” Eric said. “And once we’re away from Sol, no one is going to care …”

“I wouldn’t put money on that,” Maryam said, coldly. “And if you do get inspected, what then?”

Eric hesitated, unsure what to say. If they did get inspected …

“You come with us,” John said. “You are an adult, are you not?”

“That doesn’t mean I want to come with you,” Maryam pointed out. “Who else can you ask?”

Eric thought fast. There wasn’t anyone else. The handful of household servants hadn’t signed up for interstellar voyagers, and he didn’t want to ask them in any case. They didn’t have any close adult relatives, or they’d have been living with them, and asking a stranger was asking for trouble. Maryam was the best choice, if they had to have an adult, and yet … she was their older sister. And she could be a real stick-in-the-mud at times.

“You’re studying to become a doctor, right?” Eric spoke fast, before either of the other two could come up with a response. They weren’t the only ones who wanted to be more than just trust fund babies, waiting for full control of the family fortune. Maryam had decided she was going to be a doctor long ago, perhaps even before their parents had vanished. “You need interstellar experience, if you want to get ahead in the field. Right?”

Maryam nodded, shortly.

“So come with us,” Eric said. “I do the flying, John does the engineering, you do the medical stuff. You’ll be listed as ship’s doctor. You can carry on with your studies while we do our thing, and when we get home you can say you’ve been an interstellar doctor.”

“It might work,” Maryam said, slowly.

“And you wouldn’t have to deal with all those boys who come crawling round,” John put in. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

Maryam had to laugh. “Let me check the paperwork first,” she said, firmly. “And read through the requirements for interstellar medical experience. And if that works …”

Eric grinned. They were going to space!

Chapter Two

“Everything appears to be in order,” the inspector said. “When do you intend to fly?”

“As soon as the cargo is loaded,” Eric said. The inspector had gone over the ship with a fine-toothed comb, checking and rechecking everything so carefully Eric had feared he was looking for a reason to decline their licence. It had taken three weeks to strip down one of the ships, transfer everything to the other ship, then purchase and install everything they couldn’t cannibalise or find in the scrapyard. “We should be ready to leave in a couple of days.”

The inspector nodded, slowly. “I ran through all the basic tests,” he informed them. “I advise you to carry out your first jump within the system, just in case you have a drive failure, but otherwise you are good to go. Make sure you have all your certifications filed, before you depart.”

He pressed his thumb against a datapad, transferring the licence file to the starship’s datacore, then turned and made his way back to the airlock. Eric let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The refit had been more complex than he’d anticipated, and a number of components that had seemed to be in working order had needed to be replaced, and it had been quite possible that the inspection would turn up errors the shipyard staff had missed or simply decided could be safely overlooked. The man had certainly asked a great many questions, most of which hadn’t had anything to do with him. It had been incredibly frustrating, not least because they hadn’t been sure what he was trying to do.

“I’ve filed the licence,” John said. “And the updated flight roster.”

Eric smiled, although he couldn’t help feeling a pit in his stomach. The ship – they’d promised themselves they wouldn’t name her until after she was ready to fly – didn’t need a big crew, but they were pushing their luck by only having three people onboard. It didn’t help that Maryam had almost no spacer training at all, beyond the basics, and wouldn’t be able to do much if they ran into trouble. Eric and John had crawled over the ship, going through every emergency procedure in the manual, but they’d been cautioned that the manual was no substitute for real experience. Emergency drills tended to leave out the actual emergency. A disaster plan might work perfectly, on paper, but fail drastically in the real world.

“We’d better get the cargo loaded onboard,” he said. “And then we can get going.”

He sucked in his breath as he made his way through the ship. Maryam had claimed the largest compartment for herself, and refitted a second to serve as a makeshift sickbay, complete with autodoc and stasis chamber. She’d teased them both with suggestions she might invite one of her suitors along to see if he could tolerate her bothers in close quarters for weeks, but – thankfully – she’d refrained from actually doing it. Eric and John had claimed the next set of cabins, both so small there was barely any room to swing a cat, and turned the remaining cabins into passenger spaces. He didn’t intend to take passengers, at least on the first cruise, but having the space might be helpful. There were plenty of people who wanted to travel and didn’t have the time, or the money, to buy space on a big colonist-carrier …

Maryam stuck her head out of her sickbay. “Did you pick a good cargo?”

Eric nodded, curtly. It wasn’t easy to get advanced computer systems on colonial worlds. The big interstellar shipping and colonisation firms preferred to transport colonists, farming gear and equipment that was easy to repair, if it broke down. They’d purchased a hundred modern datacores, their operating systems sold separately, that could – at least in theory – be sold for a reasonable mark-up. If they were wrong … he reminded himself, sharply, that they had enough food and fuel to keep going for quite some time, even if it was better not to think about quite where their ration bars were coming from. At worst, they could go back to Earth …

He shook his head. Their parents had started from nothing – well, practically nothing – and built an interstellar shipping empire. They had never given up, despite setbacks that would have destroyed lesser men, and they’d been rewarded for it. Eric had no intention of giving up either. He was going to prove himself worthy of the family inheritance or die trying. John – and Maryam too, he suspected – felt the same way.

“Good luck,” Maryam said. “You got all your educational modules too?”

“Yes,” Eric said, as if she hadn’t watched closely while they’d purchased and downloaded enough modules to keep them busy for the next decade. They were lucky they’d done most of their studies at home, although they’d still had to attend online examinations to actually get their qualifications. They’d need to do that again, after they finished their next set of modules … if they had time. “Our education won’t suffer.”

“Hah.” Maryam looked unconvinced. “If this demented scheme doesn’t work …”

“It must,” Eric said. “Or do you want us to grow up into spoilt little brats.”

Maryam made a rude gesture, then returned to her work. Eric smiled and hurried on to the airlock. The trade goods were already waiting in the nearby warehouse, ready to be transferred to the ship. He keyed the hatch, gave the orders, then returned to the bridge. John was still there, making sure all the computer nodes were working in harmony. He looked up as Eric entered.

“We should be clear to fly at any moment,” he said. “You want to book a slot? Or should we hold a party?”

Eric shook his head. One downside of living in the mansion and studying at home, after their parents died, was that they had few friends worthy of the name. Too many of their acquaintances were more interested in making friends with the family fortune, rather than the family itself, and he had little interest in inviting them to a party. The remainder … none of their acquaintances really had much in common with them. Most were from very old money indeed and could trace their ancestors back to the primordial ooze, or very new and insecure in their wealth. Eric and John had never quite fitted in. Their family was wealthy, but most of that wealth was locked away until John turned twenty-five.

“Which leads to the all-important question,” John said. “What do we name our ship?”

“Can’t stick with Century Hawk,” Eric said. The class might have been out of production for years, but there were still hundreds of working models plying the spacelanes. “Max Jones?”

They shared a look. They’d both enjoyed the novel – and the updated reissues, and the three different movie versions – and, truth be told, they’d found it inspiring. Max Jones had wanted to make something of himself, and he’d succeeded. If they went with Max Jones  …

“Good idea,” John said. “Max Jones she is.”

Eric smiled, silently relieved. They had purchased the ship together and spilt the ownership rights fifty-fifty, something that would cause problems if they disagreed. Maryam had flatly refused to purchase a five percent share from each of them, ensuring she’d cast the deciding vote if Eric and John couldn’t agree on something … Eric hoped, as he keyed the terminal to register the name, that it didn’t come back to bite them one day. They were close, true, but they didn’t always agree on everything.

“I’ll finish up here,” John said. “Book a departure slot for tonight?”

“Check with Maryam, then do it,” Eric said. He’d told the inspector they should be ready to leave in a couple of days, but once the cargo was loaded they could go at any moment. “If she’s happy to leave now …”

He smiled, then made his way down to the holds. The hatches were open, the loading crews carefully transferring the sealed pallets to the hold and making certain they were secured against sudden violent motions. The compensators were top-of-the-range – only a fool would risk compensator failure when the ship was in flight – but it was better to be careful. Eric walked through the gaps, checking to make sure the seals were still in place. There was no shortage of horror stories about crewmen skimping on the survey and discovering, too late, that the crates had been opened, the goods stolen or replaced by stowaways or hijackers. He’d checked the crates before, but it was well to be careful. Anything could have happened in the warehouses.

“All good,” he said, to the foreman. He slipped the man a hefty tip. Cash was preferable to electronic money, not least because the managers insisted on getting a share of the latter. “See you next time.”

He did one last sweep of the cargo bay, once the hatches were closed and sealed, then made his way back up to the bridge. John would have to check too, a safety regulation that – for once – was rooted in harsh common sense rather than bureaucratic incompetence. It was very easy to miss something, something that might be noticed by a pair of fresh eyes. He made a mental note to ensure Maryam knew how to cross-check too, then stepped out of the hold and sealed it behind him. The internal airlock was tougher than it needed to be, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If they had to ditch the cargo in a hurry, they’d be glad of the extra protection.

“So … Max Jones,” Maryam said. “Nice name.”

“Thanks,” Eric said. He felt a thrill as he sat on his chair and keyed his console, then looked at his elder sister. “This is your last chance to jump ship and swear blind we left you behind, if you like.”

“I don’t think the household staff will be very pleased if I did,” Maryam said, dryly. “And besides, leaving you two alone is asking for trouble.”

Eric smiled. “John? Do we have a departure slot?”

“The first slot opens in twenty minutes,” John said. “The next one hour afterwards, unless someone else pulls out.”

“Book us for twenty minutes,” Eric ordered. He returned his attention to his console and ran through the pre-flight sequence, a low hum echoing through the ship as the antigravity generators came online. A brief sensation of lightness swept over him – a shiver ran down his spine – as the gravity fields balanced and rebalanced, priming the ship for flight. “Check the spaceport pad is clear.”

John worked his console. “Everyone is clear.”

Eric allowed himself a moment of relief. The spaceport staff were supposed to vacate the landing pad the moment they finished loading the ship, but if someone had chosen not to leave – for whatever reason – it would end very badly. They’d have to be insane to get too close to a lifting ship, but people had been known to get close to older starships and sometimes it had ended in disaster. He kept a wary eye on the near-space display as he kept running through the checks, ensuring they had a clear run from ground to high orbit. They’d have more freedom to manoeuvre once they passed Earth’s territorial limits.

The console bleeped. “Our slot is opening,” John said. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” Eric braced himself. “Take off in five … four … three … two … one …”

He keyed his console. The ship vibrated unsteadily, the gravity fields shimmering again, and rose into the air. His display lit up with dozens of contacts – aircraft and aircars keeping their distance from the spaceport, starships making their way in and out of the atmosphere – and produced a series of trajectories, making sure to give other starships a wide berth. Eric kept his hands on the controls, trying to get a feel for flying the ship in real life – no simulator came close – as they climbed higher. The ship didn’t feel like an aircar, or even the family’s private aircraft; it felt like a flying brick, an object that moved in a manner that didn’t quite make sense. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the drives failed now, while they were still in the planet’s gravity field. They’d plunge to their deaths, if the orbital defences didn’t vaporise them first. It had happened before …

“All drives functioning within acceptable parameters,” John reported. “Green across the board.”

Eric barely heard him. Max Jones was climbing faster now, heading right out of the planet’s atmosphere. Earth lay below them, a blue-green orb seemingly untouched by human hands; the planet’s orbitals were crammed with space stations, orbital habitats, industrial nodes, and hundreds upon hundreds of starships and spacecraft making their way into interplanetary space. The display tightened as they moved past a giant orbital structure, so close it felt as if they could reach out and touch the station even though he knew it was an illusion and there were hundreds of miles between the station and the starship. They kept moving, heading into interplanetary space. The first jump point wasn’t that far away.

He relaxed, slightly, as they cleared the high orbitals. “I’m bringing the navicomputer online now,” he said. The navicomputer was largely isolated from the remainder of the datanet, a precaution that seemed designed to slow them down, but might save their lives if the main datanet was compromised. “John, check my coordinates.”

“Got it.”

Eric leaned forward, running through the equations one by one. In theory, a starship could jump right across the galaxy in a single bound. In practice, any starship that tried would wind up somewhere completely random, if she didn’t run straight into a gravity well and vanish without trace. It had taken decades to work out how to make interstellar travel relatively safe and even then, it wasn’t easy to calculate a jump that would take a starship more than a light year or two without travelling far – far – off course. He’d gone through the maths time and time again, when he’d been studying for his licence. It was never the jump that took so much time, when it came to moving between the stars, but getting into position to jump. The closer the ship was to a gravity well, the higher the chance of arriving a long way from your destination.

“Checked and confirmed,” John said. “No mistakes, to five decimal points.”

“That could put us millions of miles from our target,” Eric reminded him. Space was big, unimaginably big. They could run the sublight drive flat out and it would take weeks to reach Pluto, and years to reach the nearest star. “But as long as we’re light-years from anywhere important …”

“How very reassuring,” Maryam said, dryly. “What are the odds of us hitting a planet?”

“Very low,” Eric said. It was theoretically possible for one starship to materialise on top of another, but starships were so tiny and interstellar space so huge that it was extremely unlikely to happen even if the crews wanted a collision. A starship that flew into a planet’s gravity well vanished without a trace. “We’ll be jumping in thirty minutes.”

He ran through the maths again, just to be sure. They’d certainly hop in the right direction, to be sure, but it was important to be as precise as possible. Military ships were supposed to be able to microjump, from what he’d heard, yet … unless their computers were light-years ahead of anything on the civilian market, it was unlikely they could get really close to their target. They’d have to adjust their calculations when they completed the first jump, then jump again and again … perhaps even alter course to ensure an easier jump. Perhaps …

John looked up. “No red or amber alerts,” he said. “We made a pretty good investment.”

Maryam snorted. “That remains to be seen.”

Eric said nothing as the timer ticked down to zero. They were alone, alone in a way they hadn’t been even when they’d been in the mansion. The nearest humans were thousands of miles away, perhaps further, and if they ran into trouble it would take a long time for any help to reach them … if ever, once they made their first jump. Starships didn’t vanish that often, thankfully, but … his heart clenched. Their parents had jumped out on an experimental ship and vanished without trace. He wanted to believe they’d find their parents somewhere out amongst the stars, but he knew better. They’d been declared dead a very long time ago.

The console bleeped, again. “We’re ready to jump,” Eric said. “Shall we?”

“Yeah,” John said.

“Do it,” Maryam added.

Eric reached out and pressed the button. The universe seemed to darken around him, just for a second, as if it were going to sneeze. He felt a dull pain in his chest, his head swimming lightly, then everything snapped back to normal. Maryam grunted in pain, behind him; John seemed unaffected. Eric told himself he’d get used to the sensation, one day, although he feared otherwise. Everyone reacted to the jump differently, he’d been told, and the effects never quite went away.

“Jump completed,” John said. “All systems remain nominal.”

“And we are within our planned arrival zone,” Eric said. A good result, for a first jump. He’d feared they’d be thousands of miles from the target coordinates. That would have forced them to redo the calculations from scratch. “We only missed by a few hundred kilometres.”

Maryam stood. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “Tomorrow, while we’re on our way, you two can get back to your studies.”

Eric and John groaned in unison.

“I mean it,” Maryam said. “If this doesn’t work out, and this whole crazy voyage becomes a failure, you’ll need something to fall back on.”

Eric snorted. They weren’t going to fail.

Montezuma – A Planetary Overview

A bit of background for the next The Empire’s Corps …

Montezuma – A Planetary Overview

Montezuma was discovered six hundred years prior to the Fall of Earth, but remained unsettled for nearly a hundred years before settlement rights were finally sold to the Aztec Revival Movement for a song, relatively speaking, at least partly to get the movement’s followers off Earth. The system appeared to be effectively worthless, by most standards; four rocky planets, only one even remotely close to habitable, lacking a gas giant or asteroids that could support a modern industry. The brief attempt to terraform Montezuma via the introduction of an Earth-typical biological package produced very mixed results, crafting a biosphere that was technically habitable, but requiring much hard work before the world could be formally opened for settlement. There was no reason to think the system would ever prove important, let alone profitable.

The ARM proceeded to draw up plans for colonisation. Prospective settlers were divided into three groups: investors, who received shares in the planetary consortium; freemen, who had no debt to the consortium; debtors, who would have to repay their debts before they became freemen in their own right. The first settlements were hastily erected around Landing City – renamed Tenochtitlán – and expanded rapidly. The prospect of a life free of the overbearing imperial state was very attractive to many, and the ARM had little trouble recruiting colonists willing to work for land and rights of their own. There were some rough patches – many debtors were abused by the investors who’d bought their debts, a common problem in the late imperial era, and chose to become bandits instead of working towards a futile goal – but four hundred years after settlement Montezuma was a reasonably functional society. The government had no illusions about its lack of importance on the galactic stage, but it also figured it had little reason to worry about the stresses and strains that would eventually tear the empire apart. It was so isolated that it was rare for more than two starships to visit every month.

This only lasted until a planetary geological survey discovered large deposits of various rare minerals buried under the surface. The government made the mistake of admitting what they’d found, which drew attention from a number of interstellar corporations, including the Isabella Interstellar Corporation. When the government proved balky about signing over complete mining rights, which would have left the planetary settlers with nothing, the IIC went to the Imperial Supreme Court and claimed dominance over the planet, on the grounds the settlement rights had been improperly sold. This argument had little validity, objectively speaking, but the IIC had plenty of supporters within the Grand Senate and they ensured the Supreme Court ruled the right way. Montezuma was signed over to the corporation, and the settlers – being trespassers – became legal serfs.

If the corporation had expected this legal enslavement to go unchallenged, they were wrong. The locals regarded – and still regard – their planet as having been stolen by legal chicanery. Resistance, active and passive, sprang up immediately. The planetary geography made it difficult for the corporation’s security forces to protect their mining installations, let alone hunt down the insurgents, and the lack of a high-tech society ensured that even when they did force the locals to work for the corporation there were limits to how effective they could be. The first decade of corporate occupation proved to be very cost-ineffective indeed.

The IIC’s solution to this problem was very simply. It brought in workers from off-world, recruiting hundreds of thousands, and offering them land and rights in exchange for their service. The new arrivals, who would become known – insultingly – as the Huéspeds – had no common culture, as they’d been recruited from all over the empire, but they rapidly found themselves forced to work together by pressure from the original settlers. They set up homes and settlements of their own, almost always under the corporation’s control. Intentionally or not, the IIC had created a situation in which the Huéspeds were dependent on the corporation. The insurgents made sure of it.

This situation persisted for nearly a hundred years, with bursts of fighting being followed by long periods of uneasy peace, until Earthfall heralded the collapse of the empire itself, along with most of the interstellar corporations and banking systems. The corporate system was no longer sustainable, not least because the insurgency was gaining steam again, leaving the planet teetering on the brink of a renewed civil war …

Montezuma is popularly referred to as a desert world, although that is not entirely true. There are vast deserts, true, but also patches of terraformed land that are surprisingly habitable. The local ecology digs deep, with roots going all the way down to underground aquifers, and while much of the surface looks dead to the untrained eye it is actually very lively. The majority of the planet’s indigenous life is poisonous to humans, but some small creatures make good eating, if prepared properly. The weather can be very dangerous, with vast sandstorms sweeping out of nowhere to sweep across the lands and force everyone to keep their heads down. The two seas – the Dead Sea and the Poison Sea – are so salty it is impossible to drink the water, at least without desalination. In recent years, both have become heavily polluted by the mining program and much of the watery ecosystem has been destroyed.

The majority of cities are based around oasis, which form above the aquifers. Water is heavily rationed, even after five hundred years of settlement; the farms and smaller towns, surrounding the cities, are carefully designed to use as little water as possible. Farmers and settlers dig wells of their own, naturally, but not all manage to secure a permanent footing before it is too late. The landscape is littered with the remains of settlements that didn’t make it. It is, of course, possible to extract water from the air, but the process is expensive and often unreliable.

The Aztec Revival Movement, like many others from that period, had only a hazy idea of what life was really like in the pre-unification period on Earth and the society they developed, while drawing deeply on Latin America, would be unrecognisable to the ancestors they sought to emulate. The planetary culture can be said to be one of grim resilience; the settlers are very aware their planet will try to kill them if they give it a chance, and they see themselves as fighting to secure a better life for their children. The corporation’s takeover only made that harder, spurring both resistance and a determination to survive long enough to outlast the corporation and its stooges.

In most places, society is heavily communal, with everyone expected to work together for the common good. (Those who refuse to work for the community are often ‘encouraged’ to leave.) Most local leaders are older people; the young, both male and female, are often regarded as too hot-headed to be trusted with real power. The planet originally had a global education system, but it didn’t survive the invasion; now, education is very varied and higher education almost unknown, at least outside the church.

The original planetary government didn’t survive the corporate takeover. The last President was never seen again, and most of the city government’s dismantled themselves rather than take orders from the corporation. Government has fallen back on a very tribal structure, outside regions directly dominated by the corporation, and precise standards of law and order vary widely. (Generally speaking, you can do whatever you like as long as it doesn’t harm the community: premarital sex is fine as long as everyone consents, adultery is a serious offense and everyone involved will face severe punishment.) Low-level criminals will be forced to do hard labour; high-level criminals will generally be executed.

The planet was never very technologically advanced, and much tech is around 1930s-level. Cars and trucks are powered by oil and gas, rather than fusion cells or anything more modern; communications and medical technology isn’t much better. The IIC did make an attempt to set up a modern datanet, but the system never became popular outside the core mining facilities. This isn’t a bad thing, as far as the locals are concerned. They can repair most of their tech, or improve upon it, without being forced to rely on off-world industrial nodes.

The corporation dominates the region surrounding Mictlan, a city on the edge of the Dead Sea, and operates most of the mining facilities there, as well as a number of other towns and settlements. The region is heavily polluted, with large swathes completely uninhabitable, and bitterly divided between the original settlers and the Huéspeds. The region is, at least in theory, ruled directly by the corporation, but in practice the Huéspeds have a great deal of autonomy and their own defence force. They need it.

The Huéspeds have no unifying culture, being composed of immigrants from right across the empire. They are forced to hang together, however, because they have two sets of enemies: the IIC, which regards them as interchangeable widgets and the locals, who regard them as unwanted interlopers. This has produced a society that is both composed of a number of different groups and yet capable of working together as a unified whole, when the cause is right. They work hard to remain useful to the corporation, without submitting themselves completely. The smarter ones worry about what will happen when – if – the IIC pulls out. They are right to worry. With the empire coming apart, affairs on Montezuma are the last thing on the corporation’s mind …

OUT NOW: Judgement Day (Ark Royal XX)

For uncounted millennia, the twin Dyson Spheres – one intact, and host to a population unaware of their origins or even the nature of the world around them; one seemingly little more than debris orbiting a dying star – have remained a mystery, their seemingly all-powerful builders as enigmatic as the supertechnology used to construct and maintain the humungous megastructures. But now, in the wake of HMS Endeavour’s discovery of the spheres and the arrival of a multinational fleet to explore – and exploit – the alien tech, everything has changed.

The Builders have returned.

And for all of humanity, and every other known race, it is nothing less than Judgement Day.

Download a FREE SAMPLE, then purchase here: Amazon US, UK, CAN, AUS. Universal, Books2Read.

Also, in honor of this occasion, for 03-07 October Ark Royal, the book that started it all, will be available free!

Alternate History Realism And Novel-Writing

Alternate History Realism And Novel-Writing

I grew up on the post-WW2  adventure movies, books, comics, etc.  I also read WW2 history.  The fiction was more fun.  The real world of WW2 and its aftermath is a world of the power of mass, of attrition.  The world essentially bludgeoned the Axis to death with vast numbers of machines and a lot of Soviet blood.  95% of the fictional focus on spy rings, secret agents, super-science weapons, black ops … was pure fantasy and most of the remainder didn’t matter much outside the specialist literature.  Even if the rocket planes and the other junk work, the numbers just don’t add up.

-Scott Palter

If you want to get a good flame war going on an alternate history forum, you just need to raise the question of Operation Sealion, Adolf Hitler’s plan to invade Britain in 1940. It has a fair claim to being the most heavily debated point of divergence in the alternate history community, not least because – on paper – it offers Hitler the chance to defeat the British and secure his western border before invading Russia. However, that chance exists only on paper. One does not have to be a pedantic nit-picker to realise that the odds of Hitler succeeding if he launched the invasion were actually very low. In order to win, Hitler would have to do the equivalent of rolling a dice six times and getting the same number every time. His decision to cancel the invasion was actually the right choice for him to make.

This does not, of course, make for good fiction. A novelist who wishes to explore a Britain dominated by Germany may be perfectly aware that Operation Sealion was a nonstarter, but he has no obligation to refrain from writing a book set in a Nazi-occupied Britain. The purists may argue that such a Britain could never have happened, unless the Nazis had the help of Alien Space Bats (for example, the 1950s Britain depicted in Doctor Who: Exodus), but this does not make the book bad fiction. The book’s setting may be impossible, yet this does not mean that exploring the world and the people caught up in it is inherently a bad thing.

There has always been, I feel, a gulf between novelists who write to entertain and timeline realists who insist that points of divergence, and the consequences of a changed POD, must be as realistic as possible. The former wants to draw in the readers by making the story as exciting as possible, by pitting their characters against their enemies in a very different world or simply exploring the brave new (alternate) world. Alternate history novels are often, at base, genre novels set in alternate worlds, drawing in readers who like the genre in question and are willing to accept or overlook the alternate history aspects. This is very true of entry-level alternate history books: Harry Turtledove’s WorldWar series combines aspects of science fiction as well as military fiction, while his The Two Georges is a detective story set in an alternate world. They also have the advantage that one does not have to know much about real history to enjoy the novels.

A novelist will choose his scenarios based on what is best for the story. A realist does not have that option. He may argue that the idea of Hitler refusing to declare war on the United States in 1941, after Pearl Harbour, is inherently unrealistic, and the idea of him declaring war on Japan instead is so absurd that it doesn’t require any further discussion. This works well, when it comes to developing a timeline such as the ones published by Sealion Press, but is often much less exciting than a novel (although they can serve as a setting for a novel, such as The Marsh War, which is based on The Moscow Option) and they do not always attract readers who are not already interested in alternate history. The novelist, on the other hand, will often go with the more exciting option of Hitler not declaring war, which would change World War II beyond recognition.

Much of this, I suspect, comes from the thrill of imagining very different worlds. A world in which the Confederate States of America makes its independence stick and does just fine afterwards may be unrealistic, and I would argue that yes it is, but it would also change the face of the world. A world in which Imperial Germany wins the First World War in 1914 will be very different from OTL, or a world in which Germany wins in 1918. These worlds would present very different challenges to the inhabitants, and create grounds for stories that might be unrealistic but are very exciting. An Imperial Germany that won in 1914 would be confident enough to pick a fight with the United States, or try to invade Britain, while Germany that barely scraped a victory in 1918 would be much less inclined to cause trouble, not least because most of the problems of OTL would still exist and could no longer be blamed on the OTL scapegoats.

This also exists at the tactical level. A realist will argue that Operation Sealion is flatly unrealistic. A novelist, particularly a military-fiction novelist, would ignore that and explore what would happen if the Nazis tried anyway. A realist might argue that a British victory in North Africa in 1940 was unlikely, but – again – a novelist would dismiss that and use it as the basis for a story. And why should he not? A spy novel following the intrigue in Vichy-ruled French North Africa after the British conquer Libya and are now massing on the French border would be very exciting, even if it wasn’t realistic.

The realist cannot afford to overlook details the novelist can pretend don’t exist, such as a bridge leading out of Washington DC that the Confederates somehow forgot to take during their attack on the city. A novelist can wave his hands and declare “Hitler took Britain in 1940;” a realist cannot do anything of the sort. A novelist can depict military units performing operations that are completely impossible, in the real world, and get away with it in most cases. I suspect more people would have overlooked American troops performing impossible marches in Stars and Stripes Forever if the rest of the book had held up a little better. A nit-picker might argue that the American tanks of an alternate-1944 will be very different to the ones depicted, but again the novelist won’t care; the realist, by contrast, will try to find ways to justify alternate tank development.

That said, the demands of a novel are often very different from the demands of a realistic timeline. At base, the Second World War was a contest of economics and the Allies (certainly after 1941) severely outweighed the Axis. It is simplistic to say that America outmatched Japan on a scale of nine-to-one, not least because as this doesn’t include superior American technology and training, but is effectively true. A novel often needs to overlook such grim economic realities to ensure a certain degree of tension, perhaps even help us to root for the underdog. I have a theory this accounts for some of the more controversial aspects of our community – the Lost Cause myth suggests the CSA was the underdog, even though this was not remotely true, and there are people who support the underdog without realising that just because someone is the underdog doesn’t make them the good guys.

There is, of course, a more controversial problem. Alternate history requires the author to use characters that are based on real people, either as POV characters (Robert E. Lee in The Guns of the South, Vyacheslav Molotov in WorldWar) or side characters encountered by the main characters (General Grant in How Few Remain, Otto Skorzeny in WorldWar), and it can be difficult to depict those characters in a manner that pleases everyone or even anyone. How would such a character react in a very different situation, or if they grew up in a very different world? The realist can depict such controversial characters as bad, without any need to present them as decent people even in their own minds, but the novelist does not have such freedom. If he is using a historical character’s POV, he must present the character as he would have been – or as close to that as possible – which raises uncomfortable questions if that character is meant to be the hero. If he is using the historic character as window dressing, the main character is unlikely to see him as we would see him. It is vanishingly unlikely, for example, that a young German officer attached to Adolf Hitler would see him as a genocidal monster – and if he did, it would raise the question of why he didn’t execute Hitler on the spot. A decent novelist would devise the story to allow the hero to eventually realise that the historic character is a monster, but this is difficult to do properly. It is far too easy for someone to accuse the author of whitewashing very real atrocities and the monsters who committed them. It is also possible to be far too simplistic – for example, Robert E. Lee in Leather Pants or MacArthur the Death Eater – purely to suit the demands of the story.

This can even be true of an entire society. It is unrealistic to expect the Germans of an alternate 1950s to know the details of each and every Nazi war crime, let alone feel shock and disgust; it grows worse as the years go on and the Nazis brainwash successive generations to believe that the crimes never took place or that they were somehow justified. A person born and raised in such a society will not question what has been taught, at least at first; it was relatively rare, for example, for Southerners to oppose slavery even when it was very clearly not in their interests, something that will only get worse if the South has fought and won a war to preserve slavery. A novelist must present a character slowly coming to understand that his society is not perfect, which can be very difficult (and also lead to controversy). He must also push technological development to absurd levels – Conrad Stargard or Schooled in Magic; unrealistic, from a real world point of view, but a very common demand for a tech uplift-themed novel.

The novelist also must try to work towards a relatively happy ending. The realist may study a timeline and conclude the bad guys are going to win, at least for the moment. The novelist has a certain obligation to make sure the good guys come out ahead. The Draka series is surprising, at least in part, because the bad guys win; their victory is, in many ways, the exact opposite of the novels in which the good guys win but there is some trace of the bad guys left to rebuild if left alone. The fact that Stirling portrayed his Draka POV characters as ‘good guys caught in a bad system’ only adds to the shock; they do not make any attempt to reform their society and indeed, if they tried, they would likely not succeed. The hints of reform at the end of The Stone Dogs are gone by the time of Drakon.

This owes much to our modern day perceptions. The concept of Robert E. Lee turning into an ardent abolitionist seems absurd, and given that Lee was a slave owner I would say it really is absurd, but it serves a useful purpose if the novelist wishes us to accept Lee as one of the good guys. The days in which slavery was regarded as a net good for everyone are long gone and good riddance; it is difficult, if not impossible, for us to accept a slaveowner as a hero. The controversy surrounding The Guns of the Southowes much to Turtledove’s need to present Lee, and Southerners in general, as better than the time-travelling Afrikaners. It works fine, from a novelist point of view, but much less for a realist.

Of course, the historical Lee had no way to know how his descendants, and those of his people, would judge him. Even when someone asserts that they would not have made poor choices in an alternate world – Oswald Mosley, for example, insisted he would not have collaborated with the Germans if they had successfully invaded Britain, but he made those assertions in his autobiography, which was published in 1968 and later repeated in a letter to Kenneth Macksey (who wrote Invasion). Was he telling the truth, or writing with the benefit of hindsight, in the certain knowledge the Germans not only did not launch the invasion, but lost the war? We have no way to know.

I am both a novelist and a timeline writer. I enjoy parsing out what might have happened if something had gone differently, and working out how the ripples of change spread across the entire world. I also enjoy creating worlds for my stories that are not, in my opinion, wholly realistic. Nor do they have to be. A reader who complains the setting is unrealistic is a reader who is essentially missing the point – the idea is to have a world to explore, not one worked out in every detail. It is quite possible that the destruction of the British Army at Dunkirk in 1940 would not have been that serious, in the greater scheme of things, but a novelist would use it to help streamline the invasion of Britain in his novel. Realism comes second to excitement; I will happily admit that I once advised an author to hand wave details rather than plot them out because someone would try to tie him down, rather than accept the world they were being shown and go from there.

There is, I feel, an interesting conflict between novelists and realists in the alternate history committee. Personally, I consider this to be futile – and dangerous. Most alternate historians entered the community through reading alternate history novels and going from there; my first alternate history novel was Tilting The Balance, followed rapidly by Hitler Has Won, neither of which are noted for strict realism. By contrast, many realistic timelines can be dry and unexciting to the casual reader; For Want of a Nail: If Burgoyne Had Won at Saratoga is a remarkable piece of work, and is rarely challenged as one of the more extraordinary contributions to alternate history, but it is also more of an alternate history textbook rather than a novel.

Realism is important. But so too are the demands of a novel.

And you know what? Real history is unrealistic.

Snippet – Conquistadors (Stand-Alone Cross-Time Invasion)

Prologue, Timeline A (Protectorate Homeworld)

“And so, the final preparations have been completed,” Captain-General James Montrose said. The holographic projection couldn’t hide the anticipation – and impatience – in his voice, his determination to get on with the operation before politics shifted and he was, perhaps, removed from his post. “The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division awaits your command.”

Protector Julianne Rigby, one of the Triumvirs of the Protectorate, studied him thoughtfully. Montrose was a man on the make, a man of burning ambition, a man who felt he had something to prove … a man whose hopes and dreams might carry him to the Inner Circle itself, where she sat, or sending him crashing and burning into nothingness. He was tall and handsome, wearing a uniform tailored to make him look both dashing and imposing … he’d had it put around, more than once, that his looks owed nothing to cosmetic surgery or gene-splice techniques. His dark hair was cut in a manner that recalled Alexander the Great, barely within regulations, something Julianne couldn’t help finding both amusing and worrying. Alexander had conquered most of the known world, true, but he hadn’t known how to keep it. His empire had barely lasted longer than himself.

Her lips twitched. A man like Montrose would be a threat, under other circumstances. He was charismatic, capable, and experienced, having cut his teeth fighting primals and teaching degenerates the error of their ways. The Protectorate prided itself on being a meritocracy, and an ambitious man could rise far even if he started with nothing, but there were limits. No one man could be allowed to put himself above the rest, even in name. They were lucky, she supposed, that they could send him to fight in other timelines. He would have a chance to earn his spurs, and develop the skills he needed to rise even higher, and the Protectorate itself would benefit. And if he lost …

“We will be in touch,” Protector Horace Jarvis said. “Your orders will arrive shortly.”

He tapped a command. Montrose’s image vanished, leaving the three triumvirs alone.

“I don’t trust him,” Jarvis said, curtly. “He’s too ambitious.”

“There’s no such thing,” Protector John Hotham said, calmly. “We need a man like him on the other side.”

Julianne couldn’t disagree, even as Jarvis swung his head towards her. The Crosstime Transpositioner was the Protectorate’s greatest invention – and the Interdimensional Gates a close second – but it had its limits. The 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division would be transported to another world, through one of the ‘soft places’ the scientists had charted over the last year, then … the division would be on its own until a second division could be rotated through the dimensions, or a pair of gates set up to allow instant travel between the two. Montrose would be on his own, without any supervision. There were agents in his staff, of course, with instructions to ensure he didn’t exceed his orders too broadly, but it was impossible to prepare for every possible contingency. A man like Montrose would have no trouble arranging matters so he didn’t violate the letter of the law, no matter what he did to the spirit.

Her eyes hardened. The Protectorate had discovered and colonised four timelines so far: one seemingly devoid of human life, one shattered by a disease that had seemingly come out of nowhere, and two dominated by empires that had reached a certain point and stagnated. They had never developed anything more advanced than wind and sail technology, with gunpowder remaining little more than a curiosity rather than a weapon of war, and they hadn’t posed any challenge when the first expeditionary forces had arrived. The occupants of the disease-ridden timeline had actually been glad to see the invaders, something that still amused the occupation authority. They were very loyal, far more than any degenerates or primals from the home timeline. They might even be qualified for full citizenship in a century or two.

“We are the only timeline that has developed technology,” Hotham said, echoing her thoughts. The researchers believed the Protectorate was effectively unique. Their explorations of other timelines tended to back the theory up. “There are limits to how far Montrose can go.”

“If he builds an empire, it will be difficult to dislodge him,” Jarvis countered. “Legally …”

He let the word hang in the air. Julianne saw his point. The Protectorate offered vast rewards to the men who conquered new worlds, from lands and titles to real power that could be passed down to their descendents. Montrose would be in a very strong position if he claimed the entire world for himself, and his senior officers, and trying to dispose him would be disastrous unless there was very clear proof of mismanagement or treason. Montrose had his supporters, amongst the Outer Council, and they would unite against the triumvirs if they thought they were treating their hero unfairly. And others, who had little love or concern for Montrose personally, would back him for fear of setting a ghastly precedent that could – would – come back to bite them.

“If he occupies yet another low-tech world, if he claims it all for himself, it is not a major problem,” Hotham said. “By the time his conquest is thoroughly developed, he will be dead.”

“Unless he encounters a high-tech world,” Jarvis said. “It could happen.”

Julianne wasn’t inclined to believe it. The chain of events that had led to the industrial revolution of the 1600s – the overthrow of King Charles, the rise of the Protectorate, the development of steam-powered technology – were so unlikely she might as well have rolled a dice six times and gotten the same number every time. It might be possible, but it was vanishingly unlikely. The mindset one needed to develop practical technology was rare, apparently. Timelines held in the thrall of empires, or superstition, were unlikely to make any real progress. Even in the original timeline, it had been hard for the Franco-Spanish and later the Russians to realise they had to innovate or die.

“Or he could run into something that could kill him,” Hotham said. His mockery was carefully hidden, but not carefully enough. It was no accident. “He has his orders in that case.”

“And we know he’s loyal,” Julianne added.

She studied the display thoughtfully. The researchers had done their best, but there was no way to determine anything about the new timeline until someone actually jumped in and took a look. The basic theory suggested they couldn’t access a timeline too close to their own, certainly not one identical in every detail save one, yet no one had been able to figure out how to find the point of divergence from outside. It was possible there was a timeline in which the Roman Empire had developed technology nearly a thousand years before the Protectorate, or even one in which the dinosaurs had grown into intelligent beings rather than being wiped out by an asteroid strike. Or something completely inexplicable …

“He has his orders,” Hotham repeated. It was true. If Montrose ran into something he couldn’t handle, he had strict instructions to blow up his base and everything else. The destruction of an Crosstime Transpositioner, in theory, would be detectable, warning the Protectorate that there was a threat on the far side of the interdimensional walls. “Now … do we clear him to proceed or not?”

Julianne kept her face carefully blank as Jarvis glowered at Hotham. The two men were polar opposites – one willing to take risks, the other too conservative to gamble everything on one throw of the dice – and the Outer Council had elected her, in part, to ensure the two men could never be deadlocked and throw the entire government into paralysis. It was her job to propose a compromise, and yet nothing she could reasonably offer one man would satisfy the other.

“We assigned units to his command, did we not?”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, carefully. He knew she was playing dumb. He just didn’t know why. “He is the force’s commander, is he not?”

Julianne keyed her console, bringing up the 6th Protectorate Expeditionary Division’s Table of Organisation. “We originally intended to assign additional logistic support,” she said, tapping the listing. “If Montrose found another primal world, the only thing limiting his reach would be local logistics. By the time we re-established contact, he could have the entire world.”

She met his eyes. “If we withhold two of the planned logistics formations, it would limit his reach, would it not?”

“A fitting compromise,” Jarvis said. “Sir John?”

Hotham nodded, curtly. Julianne suspected he wasn’t entirely pleased with the agreement, but he was too old a hand to think there was any point in arguing now. Crippling Montrose would be dangerous, if he ran into a peer power, yet all the researchers agreed that was unlikely. He should have no difficulty securing a lodgement and waiting for reinforcements, if the natives proved troublesome. The PEF was loaded for bear – or dinosaurs, her mind whispered – and had enough firepower, as well as supplies, to hold its ground against all anticipated threats. And if he did run into a peer power, he could at least talk to them …

“We can also expedite the second expeditionary force,” Jarvis added. “Once we have a solid lock on the other timeline, we can make sure Montrose is no longer alone.”

“Good thinking,” Julianne agreed. The sooner they added Timeline F to their conquests, the better. Their team as triumvirs would be over soon and they wanted – needed – something that would ensure their names went down in history. “Shall we proceed?”

She felt a twinge of doubt as the two men tapped their consoles. There really was no way to be sure what was waiting, on the other side of the interdimensional wall. The odds of meeting a real threat were unlikely – no one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet – but they couldn’t be dismissed entirely. There’d been no way to avoid giving Montrose considerable freedom to act as he saw fit, and yet … it might not be enough. If only there was a way to covertly recon other timelines …

We make do with what we have, she told herself, firmly. And the odds are very much in our favour.

Chapter One: Castle Treathwick, Spanish Wildlands, Timeline A

Captain-General James Montrose kept his thoughts under tight control as he walked through Castle Treathwick, inspecting the giant fortress one final time before the jump. The sheer size of the fortress was staggering – it truly was a castle, if not a design the original Lord Treathwick would recognise – and yet he was uneasily aware it might not be enough to cope with whatever the PEF found on the far side. There was no way to know what was on the far side. They were loaded for bear, based on what they knew from previous crosstime transits, but there was always a chance – however slight – that they would run into something really dangerous, perhaps even disastrous. Or fatal to his ambitions. To him, they were one and the same.

He was a tall dark-haired man, skin tanned from service in the primal regions of a world that largely, if not completely, belonged to the Protectorate. He was young for his role, barely in his forties; he knew, without false modesty, that he wouldn’t have been selected for the post without both consummate ability and careful politicking. It had taken two years, from the moment the crosstime researchers had zeroed in on another soft place allowing interdimensional transit, to ensure he was appointed commander and he had no intention of wasting it. The rewards would be vast, even if they encountered yet another world of primals who’d committed civilisation-wide suicide by stagnating. He’d be the first governor-general, able to parcel out lands and locals to his superiors; he’d be able to build a power base that might take him to the Inner Council itself. If he managed to take a seat before he turned sixty, he would set a new record. And it would silence, once and for all, the fools who whispered darkly about his bloodline. They would be forced to admit, at least to themselves, that he had done well.

The thought made him smile as he walked from section to section, speaking briefly with his regimental and aerospace commanders before sharing a few words with the men and women under his command. He wasn’t fool enough to believe they’d give him their all if they didn’t like and trust him personally, certainly when they were a long way from home. He’d had commanders who should have fallen foul of the Protectorate’s distaste for nepotism a long time ago, commanders who issued orders from the rear instead of leading their troops into battle. They had never quite known what was happening, and if they hadn’t been able to call on aerospace and orbital assets the primals would have given their troops a very hard time indeed. They might be primitive beyond words – it was popularly believed the primals couldn’t even speak, even though that was very far from true – but they weren’t stupid. A commander who underestimated them would get a black eye – and far too many of his men killed. James understood that, sometimes, men had to be sacrificed, but getting them killed for nothing was worse than pointless. Their friends and families would bear a grudge until the very end of time.

He put the thought aside as he surveyed the row of Cromwell tanks, ready to burst out onto the new world and take it by the throat. They represented enough firepower to daunt anyone, even a peer power, although James was honest enough to admit the primals were rarely intimidated for long. They had little choice but to fight, unless they wanted to join the Protectorate or simply cut their own throats. Who knew how the locals would react? Some had joined up at once, welcoming the intruders; others had fought, even though resistance had been pointless as well as futile. The videos of men on horseback charging tanks had been quite amusing, in a way, as wasteful as it was. They’d been brave, brave enough to join the PEF, but they’d been blown away effortlessly. And the shock had been so intense the remainder of the primals had simply surrendered, rather than adapting their tactics to give the invaders a very hard time.

James nodded to himself as he turned away and started the long walk back to the command centre. The man who had led the expedition to Timeline C was now wealthy and powerful beyond the dreams of avarice, with a seat waiting for him on the Inner Council if he chose to take it. James suspected, reading between the lines, that the older man – no fool – preferred to work in the shadows, rather than take control openly. It was tradition that, after serving a term on the Inner Council, a man would step into retirement to allow younger men to take his place. James knew he couldn’t abide it, at least not while he was young and energetic, and he suspected his predecessor felt the same way too. Glory and fame were important, but power was all that really mattered.

He stepped into the command centre and looked around, eyes flickering from console to console. Castle Treathwick was practically a closed environment in its own right, as isolated from the rest of the world as one of the giant orbital battlestations overhead. They were buttoned down as tightly as possible, just in case. They’d already encountered one timeline infected with something deadly – thankfully, modern medicine laughed at primal diseases – and there was always the risk of discovering something worse, something that might threaten the fortress and its garrison. James thought some of the planners had been drinking illicit substances, when they drew up contingency plans for scenarios no sane mind would contemplate, but there was no point in arguing with them. In theory, anything was possible. And besides, his enemies would use his doubts against him.

“Sir,” Doctor Cecelia Archway said. She looked ten years younger than him, with short blonde hair and a face that drew the eye, but he knew better than to underestimate her. Most scientists in the Protectorate were female, a tradition started by the famed Lady Treathwick herself, and no one would have dreamed of questioning it. “The Crosstime Transpositioner has completed the final set of checks. We can rotate into the other dimension in thirty minutes.”

“Good,” James said. It would have been ironic, indeed, if the checks had failed. A technical failure would be bad enough – it would give his enemies more time to plot to have him removed – but a failure to parse out the soft place and plan the transit would be disastrous. Castle Treathwick was a major investment, fully the equal of an orbital battlestation or a deep-space explorer, yet she couldn’t be moved as easily as either. “Any signs of trouble?”

“No, sir,” Cecelia assured him. “We should be able to rotate through the interdimensional barrier without problems. The receptors will just have to deal with the aftermath.”

James nodded, curtly. Castle Treathwick was surrounded by heavy walls and enough firepower to deal with any reasonable threat, from biohazards from Timeline E to primals with actual weaponry. They would see the castle vanish, when the Crosstime Transpositioner was triggered, and be replaced by … whatever was on the other side. The region had never been particularly heavily populated in Timeline A – the Spanish had largely left it to the natives – but that might not be true on the other side. The Inca Empire of Timeline C had established quite a few settlements in the region, and would have gone further if they’d had the tech to make them permanent. Luckily for the invaders, they’d barely progressed past sticks and stones.

“They’ll be able to deal with it,” he assured her. The odds were good the receptor team would have to deal with nothing more dangerous than a patch of desert, perhaps – although it was statistically unlikely – with a handful of nomads thrown in. If worse came to worst, they could always call down orbital bombardment and sterilise the entire area. “We jump as planned.”

The doctor nodded, and hurried back to her duty station. James smiled to himself as he took his seat and studied the main display. There weren’t many military assets – or townships – outside the fortress and the receptor force, something that worked in their favour. There would be no risk of an enemy force getting loose, let alone into the heartland, before it could be contained or simply smashed from orbit. The locals had largely been brushed aside, decades ago, and did their best to stay away from the townships. Some – descendents of Spanish and Mexican intermixing – had even joined the Protectorate, trying to build lives and careers for themselves in a world that didn’t give a damn about the colour of their skin. Others just wanted to remain alone …

General Stuart Essex joined him, looking grim. “Sir, they withheld the 2nd and 3rd Logistics Divisions.”

James took the datapad, cursing under his breath. The reason behind the decision was almost painfully transparent. His enemies wanted to make sure he couldn’t stake a claim to the entire world, on the far side, before they sent in reinforcements … and, on paper, there was nothing he could do to object. The public reasoning was simple, and unassailable. On one hand, the logistics units were needed elsewhere; on the other, James had strict orders to establish a foothold first and foremost, rather than haring off to take possession of everything. He had no need, on paper, for the kind of logistics support that could move an entire division from one side of the world to the other. And it was hard to argue otherwise when the demands of the endless war in Central Asia came first.

We should just carpet bomb the entire place, he thought, darkly. The Protectorate saw the entire region as a training ground, giving its soldiers a taste of fighting in an environment where defeat would be nothing more than a minor nuisance, but personally he suspected it was as petty and pointless as landing an entire army division on Mars. There’s no need to play war with the primals when we can put an end to them, once and for all.

He studied the datapad for a moment longer, then looked up. “We’ll cope,” he said, curtly. It wasn’t a major problem. There were ways around it, if they discovered an empty world, and if they didn’t … they might have more serious issues to worry about. Have the logistics officers revise their plans to account for the missing transports.”

Stuart scowled. James kept his expression under tight control. He hadn’t wanted Stuart for his second-in-command, even though the man was – on paper – perfectly qualified. Stuart was well-connected, which meant he’d been promoted ahead of other officers … often without the experience he needed to make full use of his new rank. He was a good organiser and bureaucrat, and the PEF needed a senior officer who knew how to handle logistics, but he’d never really been tested in combat. Worse, the various captains looked down on him for not being a combat officer. James had calculated it would make it harder for his subordinates to unseat him, if they thought they had cause, but it was a gamble. He would have preferred a more experienced man serving as his second.

Although a more experienced man would seem a worthwhile replacement if I slip up too badly, he reminded himself, coldly. And I needed support from his backers.

“We will have trouble keeping the regiments supplied if we run into trouble,” Stuart pointed out. James couldn’t help thinking he looked like a fussy bureaucrat, even though his family had ensured he and his siblings had the best genetic treatments money could buy. “Even with the remaining logistic transports, it will be difficult …”

“It depends on what we encounter,” James said. “We will adjust our plans accordingly.”

He smiled, rather dryly. If they encountered a timeline like Timeline B or E, there would be no threat. The local wildlife in Timeline E was remarkably aggressive – there’d been no humans to tame the beasts – but it wasn’t a threat to armed men. Local humans might be more dangerous, yet the PEF still had enough firepower to dominate the local region until reinforcements arrived. The only real risk was a peer power and that was vanishingly unlikely. No one had tried to invade the Protectorate yet.

Stuart nodded. “Do you wish to check in with the remaining captains?”

“They know their duties,” James assured him. He’d never liked senior officers peering over his shoulder when he’d been a junior himself. The captains were prickly and independent, not the sort of officers who’d be happy with their superior checking on them. They’d worked long and hard to earn their posts and they had no intention of letting their efforts be wasted, not when they might be able to climb even higher. “We did enough drills to know the captains can handle their regiments.”

Stuart saluted, then hurried off. James watched him go, keeping his thoughts to himself. The drills had been carefully carried out, pitting the PEF against a series of enemies from primal insurgents to modern-day armoured forces, but there had always been a question mark over their true enemies. They thought they were ready for anything, yet … were they? They’d worked out how to coordinate in the middle of a battlefield, against enemies who matched their tech and had the umpires on their side, but … what would they face when they rotated into a whole new world? The drills, even the live-fire field exercises, hadn’t been real. The coming transit was.

We’re warned to expect the unexpected, he thought, as he studied the live feed from the various regiments, departments and orbiting sensors. But if we knew what we were expecting it would hardly be unexpected.

The timer blinked on, counting down the minutes to transit. James keyed his console, checking the links to the receptor force. They’d be cut, the moment they jumped; he’d be alone, in sole command of an isolated force, a force that would remain out of touch with its superiors for weeks, perhaps even months. They would be completely alone, unable to summon reinforcements or requisition supplies. It was a terrifying thought, for all the fabbers and machine shops within the vast fortress. He’d been in the military for nearly twenty-five years and yet he’d never been out of touch with his superiors, not even when he’d been stationed briefly on the moon. He was solely responsible for the men and women under his command, in far more ways than one. Success would boost his career to the very highest levels; failure would send him crashing into obscurity, blighting the family name even if he never returned …

To win or lose it all, he thought. The family motto, stubbornly kept despite their ancestor being on the wrong side of a civil war … James had never been certain if the Protectorate quietly admired James Graham, First Marquis of Montrose, or if his family had been lucky enough to survive long enough for reconciliation, when it became clear that Charles Stuart’s cause was hopelessly lost. James could not stop himself from reaching for the stars, even though defeat – or even ambiguous victory – would ruin him. He could not fear his fate when the prize was worth any risk. I could not be me if I didn’t gamble everything on victory.

A low tremor ran through the fortress. James tensed, eyes darting from console to console. The Crosstime Transpositioner was ready. The armoured infantry and tanks were ready. The aerospace forces – flyers and drones – were ready, the latter linked to command and control stations within the command chamber. The point defence too … it was unlikely, to say the least, that they would emerge into a battlefield, but there was nothing to be gained by taking extra chances. They were already taking the biggest one of all. The medics, the intelligence staff, the logistics … volunteers all, mercilessly drilled to ensure they could handle anything, and ready. He could feel the tension pulsing in the air, training holding it at bay. They were ready.

His terminal bleeped. “Sir, the Council has just sent us a good-luck message.”

“Thank them for us,” James said. He had enemies on the council, but even his worst opponent would understand the Protectorate came first. If the mission failed, the consequences would be incalculable. “And tell them we’re beginning the final countdown … now.”

His finger ran down the console, taking them past the point of no return … although, in truth, they’d committed themselves long ago. Another tremor ran through the base as the fusion generators powered up, channelling vast amounts of power into the Crosstime Transpositioner. The power levels required to transit, even once, were so high that it was a given the system would not survive the jump, no matter the outcome. James had a private suspicion the council hadn’t pushed to correct that problem because it ensured enemies on the far side couldn’t capture an intact Transpositioner. The databanks had been carefully purged of anything that might allow the natives to build their own. James understood the logic, even though it worked against him. If they did run into a peer power, the last thing they wanted to do was make the new threat more dangerous.

“Now hear this,” Stuart said. His voice boomed through the fortress. “Ten minutes to transit. I say again, ten minutes to transit.”

James lifted his eyes and studied the display. It was just past midnight … it would be the same on the other side, allowing them to arrive in the dead of night. It was possible no one would even notice their arrival, at least at first, or … who knew? The basic shape of the North American continent would be the same, he thought, but beyond that …? The politics could be very different. Or they might not exist at all.

He braced himself as the timer started to count down the final seconds. It wouldn’t be long now.

Updates (Again)

Hi, everyone

This is just a very short update. I wrote two novellas when I was on holiday – one of which is now part of the collection, the other intended for Fantastic Schools – and now, given that we are back on and the kids are going back to school, I have completed the first draft of Judgement Day, the direct sequel to Endeavour and The Lone World. I hope to have the book edited in a couple of weeks or so, but obviously I cannot promise a precise publication date just yet. Watch this space.

My current plan is to go ahead with Conquistadors, the start of a new series featuring a cross-time invasion, then either do a new Learning Experience or The Empire’s Corps. I’m currently working on the plan for Schooled In Magic 26, The Apprentice Mistress, but I have a bit of a problem getting the plot to where I want it to go. My normal practice when dealing with plot-block is to write it out, then leave it alone for bit and see what happens. Hopefully, The Apprentice Mistress will be the third book in my planned publication schedule.

I’m tossing around handful of other ideas, which I will develop when I have the time. I intend to do a pure alternate history story at some point, set in 1950s Nazi-ruled Europe, or possibly a story featuring two young boys who buy an interstellar freighter and set off to have adventures; naturally, it doesn’t always go as they hoped. I’m also trying to draw up a list of plots for future Schooled In Magic tales, mainly for Fantastic Schools, that explore other boarding school and school themes in general: the school play, bullies, and other concepts that might fit into the universe without being world-shattering. Any suggestions would be warmly welcomed.

For various reasons, I also need to do a book – either the start of a trilogy or perhaps a stand-alone – that follows an ISOT/Ring of Fire theme; basically, something gets sent back in time to change history. As you may know, if you were following my work from start, one of my original ideas was to send modern day Britain (2007 Britain, to be exact) back to 1940 and see what happened then; I’m tempted to try redoing that series from scratch because there were a lot of good ideas in it, but at the time I was not remotely able to do it justice. There are other ideas – I am tempted to mess around with sending the modern HMS Queen Elizabeth back in time instead, as well as a handful of others – so feel free to let me know what you would like to see.

Anyway, back to work for me. If you have time to leave a review, please do so: every little review helps a great deal.

Thank you for your time

Chris