Hûw Steer's Blog, page 23

I Did It

This post comes late today, because I spent all day finishing the V2 edit of Boiling Seas book 2.

It’s got a title now and everything.

Proofreading to do and stuff to organise, but more news very, very soon.

An Experiment, Part 6 – The Chase

With ambiguous votes clarified, ‘run’ is the winning option.

You turn and run for it – towards the bandits, because there is nowhere else to go save into the cave or the fire. It is the only thing that saves your life. The bandit with the crossbow had a perfect shot on you, but you are suddenly inside his guard too quickly for him to drop his aim enough, and the bolt that would have punched you off your feet instead clips the top of your shoulder as you barge between the trio of bandits and sprint away into the dark woods.

There is still a hot line of pain across your shoulder, though – your sword-arm, such as it is. The heavy, blunt sword feels very heavy indeed now, but you cling to it, just in case, as you crash through the trees, all thoughts of stealth entirely forgotten. Roots snatch at your feet, branches whip at your face.

And behind you you hear the shouts of the bandits as they give chase, making even more noise besides.

Another crossbow bolt whips through the forest just inches from the back of your head. They are clearly not especially interested in taking you alive. You think you can hear the bandit who led you into the trap shouting among them, exhorting his comrades on. You hope that the bandit from the inn was beaten by its keeper. If you knew where you were going you could try to run back for the cover of the inn – but you ran in the first direction you could and have no idea where you are in the forest now. The warm glow of the inn’s light is certainly absent. But it is so dark, so cloying, that the inn could be just feet from you and you would have no idea.

All you can do is run, and run, and hope that the bandits will give up chase before you run headlong into a great tree or fall from a cliff-edge. But they show no sign of giving up, and the crossbowman is still loosing the odd bolt at you. One punches into a nearby tree and you flinch aside and almost trip over, your feet tangling themselves. Then you hit a root, and you do fall, tumbling down a short slope before managing to regain your footing.

There is a new noise here. You stay still for a moment, listening, hearing the bandits at your back shouting to one another, wondering where you have gone. You listen, and you realise what the new noise is.

You had forgotten about the river. It is there, right there, gleaming in what little moonlight can reach it. You almost rolled straight into it. It surges, swelled with recent rain.

And, tied there at a tiny jetty barely worth of description, is an equally tiny boat. It has no oars, no sail, but it floats.

“There!” you hear a shout, and you see torchlight, hear pounding feet and shattering undergrowth, and then the light of fire on steel.

You have no choice.

As another crossbow bolt flashes from the gloom and embeds itself in the wood of the jetty, you hurl yourself into the little boat, hack at its rope with your stolen knife, and as the first bandits pile onto the jetty you break through, and the current takes you. One last bolt flashes over your head as you cringe in the bottom of the boat – but then the river has you.

You lie there in the bottom of the boat. You are tired, you are wounded, you are bewildered – but you are alive. You let the river whisk you away into the night, towards what dawn you do not know.

dundundurr.mp3

As you may have gathered from this thrilling cliffhanger, this story isn’t over yet. But I’m going to take a break for a few weeks before carrying on – I want to have a think about where we’re going next and how to get there (in many different branching ways, of course).

Thank you to everyone who took part in this. You will reach Whetstone. Or at least you’ll have the chance to, if you want. Stay tuned for your second chance to do so.

An Experiment, Part 5 – The Camp

Unanimous votes to go to the camp – so here we go.

The bandit has a torch; a flimsy, guttering thing that half-splintered in your struggle. It is barely enough to light the way, most of its weak flame being absorbed by the cloying trees, but it is just sufficient. You walk behind the battered bandit, the blunt point of your sword pressed into the small of his back. He knows now that it is blunt, having had it up against his throat – but he also knows that his own knife, which you now carry in your offhand, is very sharp indeed.

You feel a little guilty for abandoning the inn to its fate, but you console yourself with the fact that the innkeeper looked extremely capable, and that the unconscious patron was at least still breathing. Besides, if this man does have anything worth taking, you can always return to the inn in the morning and share out your new gains. The truth is that you need money, and need it badly. Weeks of travel have almost emptied your purse, and it was not especially full to begin with. With some gold in your pocket you could buy a horse at Whetstone, or hitch a ride with a trade caravan, or even on a riverboat. Its gleam is that of possibility, in your mind’s eye.

“Little further,” the bandit hisses when you jab him lightly in the back. He is wise to be quiet. The forest is far from uninhabited, and you are two people alone in the dark, blunt sword notwithstanding.

It is indeed a little further. The bandit gingerly pushes some of the undergrowth aside, and reveals a clearing at the mouth of a cave, the remnants of an old campfire glowing gently on the ground. The bandit steps out into the clearing, hands raised slightly so you can be sure that he remains unarmed.

“Loot’s just inside,” he says. “You can watch me from out here. Not going anywhere. Swear it.”

Reluctantly you agree, and, with the torch in hand, the bandit steps inside the cave. The light keeps him visible, and, true to his word, he awkwardly picks up a metal strongbox and carries it out into the firelight.

“Here,” he says. “Take your share. Then you can go back to your pub and pretend I got away. Nobody’s any the wiser. Savvy?” You nod slowly, aware that the bandit is getting the best out of this deal in many ways: he escapes, largely unhurt, and with all the loot, instead of just a third of it. But when he opens the lid of the strongbox and reveals the gleaming coin and stolen jewellery that fill it almost to the brim, thoughts of anything save the money leave your mind entirely.

You reach out for the box, fingers closing around the first coin – and then you hear the creak of a drawn bowstring, and a voice saying, “Leave it.”

You turn, to see three more bandits standing behind you – not the ones from the inn, but a fresh trio, all armed and all looking very unhappy. One has a crossbow, pointed right at you. You realise now what made you nervous before: the cave, the campfire, the sheer amount of loot – all were far too large for just three people. And the bandit you fought, who steps around to join his friends with a cruel smile on his face, didn’t even break his word. He brought you here. You have only yourself to blame for assuming there would be nobody else there.

You could run. Dodge the first arrow and you could be away before the second is loosed. You could even try to fight, again assuming you’re not shot – you have a proper blade now as well as your blunt sword. Or you could surrender, and hope that you are considered worth some sort of ransom, instead of just a slit throat.

What do you do?

Whoever said this was a bad idea… yeah. Votes below.

An Experiment, Part 4 – The Woods

2 for chasing the bandit, 1 for helping the innkeeper. Looks like he’s on his own.

Sparing a glance for the stricken inn-staff, you hurl yourself out of the door and into the night, blunt sword in hand. You think that you have been blinded for a moment, before your eyes adjust from the warm light of the inn to the near-total darkness outside it. It is full night now, the tall trees casting long shadows across the road in the light of the stars, before swallowing up that light entirely.

You see the bandit run into the treeline, and he is swallowed too, but you sprint after him – or at least stumble quickly, still dazed from the blow to your head. A little blood drips into your eyes, and you wipe it away hastily, keeping your eyes on where the bandit disappeared. Then you are in the trees, and in the dark. You almost run headlong into a heavy elm straight away, but by reaching out with your borrowed sword you can feel anything that gets in your way. You certainly cannot see it. Your eyes adjust to the darkness but that only serves to show you many different shades of shadow.

But you can hear the bandit, stumbling even more badly than you. That shield was heavy, and the serving-girl stronger than she looked. You hear a dull thump and accompanying curse as the bandit hits a tree, can hear the undergrowth rustling. You try to move as quietly as you can so you do not overpower your quarry’s noise. It gets no louder as you push deeper into the darkness of the trees, but gets no quieter either. You are on the right track.

Or you think you are.

You pause for a moment, and are struck by the stillness of the forest, the absolute silence. The light of the inn behind you is almost entirely obscured, as are the stars above your head. There is no sound of movement, no birdsong, nothing. It worries you. You have been travelling through the forest for days, and you know that even at night, there should be noise. Something is wrong.

It is only the crack of a twig that gives him away, but that is enough for you to dodge the bandit’s wild swing and crack him across the shins with your blunt sword. He staggers, club swinging wildly, and you shove him bodily into the nearest tree, hearing the dull thump of bone on wood. The bandit is dazed again, but still dangerous, and in the dark you cannot quite see where his nail-studded club is. But you catch a tiny glint of starlight from some piece of metal, and it is enough to aim for, and your next blow catches the man below his ribs. It does not cut flesh, but it winds him, and you leap forward and bear him bodily to the ground, smashing the club out of his hand and pressing the blunt edge of the sword to his throat. You can just see the bandit’s wide eyes above your hands.

“Alright, alright!” he splutters, choking slightly as your sword presses on his windpipe. “I’m done! I’m done!”

You stay there for a moment, unsure what to do next. The bandit sees your hesitation.

“Look,” he said, “I know when I’m beaten. The other two are probably dead or prisoners. Stubborn buggers. But you let me go, I’ll make it worth your while.” He hisses in pain as you press the sword down a little harder. “Camp’s not far,” he says. “Our camp and our stash. I’ll take you there. Cut you in. Just let me go afterwards.”

You kneel there, the bandit at your mercy, and think. You could bind him, and drag him back to the inn. It is still a fair journey to Whetstone, but you are sure the constables there can be persuaded to ride out and bring justice tomorrow. The innkeeper would doubtless be glad to bring all the bandits to justice.

Your sword is blunt, but it is heavy enough to do real damage. This man does not have to leave the trees at all. That, too, would be a kind of justice.

Or you could hear the bandit out, and go with him to his stash – if you trust his word.

What will you do?

As ever, leave your votes below.

An Experiment, Part 3 – The Fight

Two votes for the sword and one for hiding.

You pull the sword off the wall and wrench it free from its lightly rusted sheath – which unfortunately makes a great deal of noise. The nearest thug turns, still holding the server at knifepoint – meaning that he cannot block you as you swing wildly at his stomach. The sword is heavy, its balance unfamiliar, and it turns out to be about as sharp as a brick wall. But you hit him, and you hit him hard, and he crumples around the dull blade like wet paper, the knife flying from his grip. The server, freed, gasps in what you hope is relief, but you have no time to check if she is alright because the second invader is advancing on you with studded club raised.

It’s at times like these that you regret never having taken a fencing lesson in your life.

You dodge the first blow by luck and manage to get your borrowed sword in the way of the second on some sort of instinct, though the impact almost knocks it out of your hand. The bandit is much bigger than you, his shoulders broad as a barn door. His club is long and he is angry, for he clearly did not expect a fight. You take a glancing hit on the arm, the club’s nails ripping your shirt, and you try for a thrust that misses completely. The man is grinning. He has your measure now, and does not think much of it.

Flailing with your sword, you manage to parry three of the next four blows and mostly dodge the last, which comes in sideways at your face. You duck, but the club clips the top of your head, knocking you to the floor. You feel blood run down your cheek, and look up to see the bandit looming over you, club raised.

Then the server hits him over the head with a shield. It is a heavy shield, and she can barely lift it in both hands, but it rings like a bell as it cracks the bandit’s skull. He staggers, reeling back, and you get to your feet and wave the sword in his general direction. It is enough. The man turns and staggers for the door as quickly as he can.

The server drops the shield and runs to the side of the fallen regular, who is curled up on the floor, clutching his ribs and groaning. He looks badly hurt – worse than you, at any rate. She looks up, clearly in need of help.

At the bar, the innkeeper is facing down the third bandit with his cudgel. The bandit sports a weal on her face that is already purpling into a bruise, but the barman’s offhand is bloody, his shirt sliced in several places. He too could do with assistance.

And through the open door, you can see the second bandit stumbling towards the treeline. Even dazed as you are, you could catch him easily.

What do you do?

I like how most of you assumed that ‘you’ actually know how to use a sword. You’ve gotten away with it – for now…

Cast your votes here or on Twitter – and stay tuned for next week’s continuation.

An Experiment, Part 2 – The Inn

1 vote each for the river and the road, but 2 for the inn.

By the time you come within sight of the inn, the sun has fully set. You gratefully open the door to find a largely empty common-room, lit by scattered gas-lamps and a crackling fire in the hearth set into the far wall. The walls are decorated with antique weapons, tarnished shields and old axes and swords, and even an enormous pike hung over the bar. There are a few tables, though only one of them has an occupant and he has the look of the sort of regular who is essentially part of the furniture. From behind the broad, oak-topped bar, the innkeeper offers you a weary smile. It is late, after all.

“What can I get you?”

You negotiate a bed for the night, the last of the inn’s lukewarm pot of stew and a satisfyingly full tankard, and retreat to a corner table, comfortably near the hearth. A server emerges from the kitchens and brings your food and drink over a few minutes later, offering another weary smile. You return one of your own, feeling slightly guilty to impose on their hospitality at such an hour. But the guilt is immediately erased when you smell the food, the first hot meal you have seen in days.

It is a relief just to sit down in a real chair, let alone to be warmed by the fire from without and the food and ale from within. You have been walking for a long time. The thought of the bed that awaits you above is like a siren’s lure, for all that it has cost you more than half of what remains in your purse. You may have to seek an odd job or two in Whetstone when you reach it.

None of the staff nor the lone regular seem particularly interested in conversation, which suits you perfectly. Explaining exactly what you’re travelling beyond the forest to do would take a long time – and might not make you many friends in the telling. But you do need to know where you are, so you can figure out what to do tomorrow, and so you stand to ask the innkeeper if he has a map.

As you do, somebody kicks the inn’s door in.

It is in fact three somebodies: two men and a woman in rough leathers and scraps of mail, large and belligerent and all carrying an assortment of nail-studded clubs and knives. They fan out across the common-room with practiced speed – this is not the first time they have done this. One kicks the chair out from underneath the drunken regular, sending him sprawling and flailing to the floor. The second menaces the server as she drops the plates she had been clearing, forced back against the wall next to the fireplace. The third, the woman, makes for the bar, holding her weapons high so they glint in the firelight.

“Money,” she snaps. “Now.” It is not a request.

The innkeeper snarls, pulling out a long cudgel from beneath the bar and hefting it with the ease of long experience – but he is one man against three, and the server is at knifepoint now.

But you, in your shadowed corner, have been forgotten by everyone.

You are sitting just a few feet from the door that leads to the kitchens – at best, there will be a cook or someone else you can fetch for help; at worst, there will be somewhere to hide.

Alternatively, you could simply make a break for the door behind the intruders – out into the cold night, alone. This is not your fight – or it does not have to be.

Above your head hangs one of the old swords – it is long, and heavy, and though it may not be sharp, the thugs at the bar do not know that. The innkeeper cannot fight back without help – and the man holding the server hostage has his back to you.

This, you think, is not my day.

What will you do?

Leave your choices in the comments. I’ll tot up the votes, and any that might come from Twitter, next Saturday – and then we’ll see what happens next…

An Experiment, Part 1 – The Crossroads

You have been walking west through the forest for two days, and the sun is setting. Amber light retreats wearily along the road before you, catching on the tops of the towering trees, seeming to set them aflame. You are tired, and hungry, and dirty. But you know that your journey is far from over. Tomorrow you must keep walking west, for your goal lies beyond the forest yet.

The path is winding, and you do your best to keep the sun before you as you walk, even as it slips below the treeline and out of view, leaving the orange glow of the horizon your only compass. The shadows are lengthening. There is little light through the trees in any other direction.

But as you duck beneath a hanging branch the path opens before you into a small clearing. At its centre is a tall signpost, with arms pointing in four directions: back the way you have come, and down paths to your left, right and straight ahead. There is a lantern hanging from the signpost, though it is long extinguished. You fumble in your pockets for your tinderbox, and manage to light it.

With the lantern, you can now read the signpost. The path ahead is marked with the name of a town, Whetstone. It is twenty miles away, and you cannot hope to reach it tonight. But you are going west. You could walk a little further, and camp for the night in the dark forest as you did last night. Then you could reach Whetstone tomorrow evening.

The sign pointing left – south – says that there is an inn some two miles distant. The sign is old and covered in lichen. If there is still an inn there, it will be dark by the time you arrive, and you will be going out of your way. But the image of even a straw mattress is hard to shake from your mind.

To the north, the sign is marked with the symbol for ‘river’, though there is no indicator of distance. If the river flows west, you could follow it out of the forest – or perhaps even find a boat to speed you on your way. But there is no guarantee you will find anything at all.

Which way will you go?

Leave your answers in the comments. Most votes decides what happens next.

UPDATE: You have until Saturday to cast your votes – any comments from Sunday won’t be counted, because I’ll be writing the next bit!

Stuff I’ve Been Reading

I’ve ploughed through quite a few books lately, thanks mostly to the power of Libby and being able to download book after book for free, and Comixology sales and being able to download comic after comic for less money. There are too many to cover in one go here, but these are the recent highlights. If you’re looking for something to read, I thoroughly recommend all of them.

I’ll do my best to avoid spoiling anything significant, but some minor bits might slip into the summaries.

Mister Miracle (2017-19) – Tom King & Mitch Gerads

I went into this book expecting to have a fun time reading about a minor superhero I’d vaguely come across in some old Justice League books. I did not expect a journey through the psyche of a depressed escape artist as he grapples with mental illness, family life, and leading an army of gods and aliens in a war against the embodiment of evil.

Mister Miracle is not ok, and his family know it, but he’s a minor god and when you’ve got to go to war, you’ve got to go to war. The narrative switches seamlessly between the domestic narrative of Miracle and his wife Big Barda trying to make family life work, to their efforts to defeat Darkseid in terrible battles across the cosmos. Sometimes both halves are happening at the same time. If, of course, either half is really happening at all. There’s not a single issue of this book that goes exactly where you’re expecting it to, and it’s fantastic.

The art is gorgeous, the writing is brilliant. This run won the Eisner Award. King and Gerads definitely earned it. If you like superhero comics, read this for a fantastic change of pace. If you don’t like superhero comics, read this anyway, because it’s bloody good.

The Black Locomotive – Rian Hughes

London railway engineers have found something underneath Westminster that definitely shouldn’t be there – or exist at all. An artist wanders the city and delivers evocative monologues on the development of urban spaces and the future of architecture. There’s a secret cabal of trainspotters who run Britain. Normally this would probably be too many plotlines for a single book, but Rian Hughes makes it work and makes it work beautifully.

Multiple viewpoints are neatly woven together into the wider narrative – and very neatly presented too. This is one of the most visually interesting novels I’ve read in ages; every character has a different font, and typefaces are used to great effect in the sections where it all gets a bit weird. And there are illustrations – dozens of beautifully-done architectural diagrams that bring new dimensions to the plot itself.

It’s a slightly bewildering book but it picks you up and sweeps you along for the ride, and what a ride it is. My only real complaint is the fact that it ends – suddenly, at the very moment when all the subplots come together and we glimpse the real story lurking underneath it all. Hughes had better write a bloody sequel.

Sharpe -Bernard Cornwell

Ok, so listing 21 books is cheating a bit, but thanks to Libby I devoured the entire series in the space of a couple of months, and I loved it. Cornwell is one of the best historical fiction writers there is: not only is his research meticulous and his actual history accurate, but the actual story of Sharpe, as he rises from lowly dog-soldier to command of his own regiment, is incredibly engaging.

Though Cornwell wrote the books in a somewhat eclectic order, chronological order is probably your friend unless you’re already a Napoleonic history buff. From Sharpe’s early years in India, the series covers the entire Peninsular War and the Hundred Days War that finished Napoleon off – and a little bit past them too. Cornwell expertly places Sharpe at pretty much every significant battle of the conflict – including, slightly incongruously, Trafalgar – occasionally borrowing glory from real historical figures but never failing to acknowledge his minor deviations from history in each afterword.

It’s a little bit pulpy, but it’s a proper rollicking adventure across Portugal, Spain and beyond, in a period of history where modern military tactics were just starting to be born. It’s fascinating, and it’s entertaining to boot.

And if you don’t fancy reading all those books, there’s an alternative that’s so good Cornwell actually rewrote Sharpe’s past so that he grew up in Yorkshire – because Sean Bean is that perfect a bit of casting. The ITV Sharpe series is a brilliant bit of classic British telly. It might have been shot on a shoestring, but it’s a fantastic watch. Keep an eye out for some actors in the background who you might recognise from slightly bigger roles today…

Now that’s soldiering.

WIP – The Scar

You’re all overdue some actual writing from me, I reckon. Boiling Seas editing will resume this afternoon, but you’ll have to wait for that… so in the meantime, here’s the first bit of the project I teased a few months ago. I’m a lot further in than I expected to be. If you like it, there might be more to come, so let me know in the comments!

Without further ado: the beginning of what is, for want of a better title, The Scar.

The sun was utterly without mercy.

He walked slowly, carefully, keeping pace with the trundling drone and the pool of shadow that its broad mirror-shade cast on the hard-baked earth beneath his feet. His suit was like an oven, even with its internal fans and coolant pump working at full capacity for once. Sweat dripped down his face. The toolbox in his hand was heavy.

Just do your job, he thought to himself, and you won’t have to go outside again today. Once a day was more than enough for anyone, even a veteran like him. Going out more than three times in a single shift was strictly prohibited. He’d seen technicians collapse from heatstroke after two.

The drone ground to a halt next to their target collector. He could hear the sizzling as the heat-reflective mirrored coating on the canopy was steadily seared away by the relentless, constant sunlight. He didn’t have much time. And if he broke a drone, he’d be billed for the repairs. So get the hell on with it and get back inside. He bit down on the fluid pipe inside his helmet, sucking down a few drops of water. Up here it was worth more than gold.

He set down the toolbox, knelt beneath the canopy, and popped open the collector’s access panel. From the outside it looked fine: the solar cell was free of dust, and though the things inevitably needed to be taken in and scoured clean of heat-blackening it would last for a good while yet. But it had stopped rotating. The whole array – two dozen cells, each twenty-five square feet – was mounted on carefully timed motors that followed the path of the merciless sun across the sky, not just to collect more sunlight but to shield their mechanisms from the wrath of that same sunlight. And this one had jammed. He could see from the shape of its shadow that it wouldn’t be long before the sun was in position to beat down on the motor and the support pillar beneath – which would probably ruin the cell entirely. Which would bring down his power quota, which would inevitably come out of his salary.

Thankfully he was good at his job.

Beneath the access panel the delicate tracery of wires was covered in dust. He took a small compressor out of the toolbox and blew away what he could with a jet of air. Even when the panels were sealed tight, some dust always managed to worm its way in somehow. With that gone, he could see the problem: several wires had fused in the heat, their insulating coverings melting together. It was a common enough problem. To actively cool all the hundreds of solar arrays with their hundreds of cells would take far more power than the arrays themselves could actually produce – and leave nothing for the people who actually needed that power. That meant that men and women like him had to stay on station, at all times, to make sure that everything kept working. Everyone thought of water as being life – but power was just as crucial.

He flipped the breakers, isolating the cell’s circuit, then proceeded to strip out the fused wires. It would have been tricky in the suit’s thick, protective gloves if he hadn’t done this a thousand times before. Cooling-suit technology had to strike a balance between functionality and protection. Newer models were getting slimmer all the time – some concepts he’d seen were practically ordinary clothes. He did not have a newer model. None of the power-techs did. That stuff was for low-wallers, those rich enough that they’d never have to set foot in the heat in their lives.

It seemed counterintuitive to break out a soldering iron when the sun was hot enough to fuse metal to metal on its own, but in the shade of the protective drone it was still necessary. He seared the new wiring into place, then flipped the breaker to check the circuit. Diodes flared into healthy green life. The solar cell’s motors whined as they began to charge up to move again – but he cancelled that, disengaging the motor manually. Stuck in place for an hour or more, the cell was out of sequence with the rest of the bank – which meant it would just get fried again. Sighing, he took another gulp of water before removing the crank-handle from his toolbox, slotting it into place, and then heaving with all his strength. Achingly slowly, the huge solar cell began to turn on its axis. It didn’t need to move far to catch up, but twenty-five square feet of metal and plastic would have been hard to shift even without the constant, oppressing heat.

Regulations dictated that he should have consulted the array’s computers to align the cell with the rest of the array. He eyeballed it instead. He’d been doing this long enough to get it right by himself. Besides, the array’s computer was a piece of junk, and would take ages to deliver the measurements to his suit. He didn’t want to be out here any longer than he had to.

Satisfied, he snapped the motor back into place – and after a long moment, he saw the cell begin to turn again – very slowly, but it was moving. Job done.

He closed the panel, gathered his tools, slapped the shield-drone on its flank.

“Back we go,” he said, though the verbal command meant nothing. He had to press a button to tell the primitive machine to trundle back to the array’s entrance. He trudged back across the cracked earth, through the swirls of dust that outlined the movement of the wind. The drone seemed even slower than its normal plodding pace. Probably more dust, he thought with a sigh. At least he could effect those repairs inside the building.

Finally, they reached the doors of the squat array hub, nerve centre of the 24 solar cells. He prodded the large buttons of the access panel with his clumsy suited finger, and the outer door of the heatlock opened. He entered, the drone following slowly, into the cramped room that served as repair bay and vestibule both. The outer door closed behind the awkward shield-machine.

“Scrubbing,” said the voice of the computer, a vaguely female lilt. He waited patiently for the whirring, ageing extractor fans to suck some of the dust out of the air. They hadn’t managed a full clean in years. When the green light over the inner door winked on, he removed his helmet. The air he sucked down was almost as hot as that on the outside. He left the shield-drone in the bay, cooling slowly now it was out of the sun, the tarnished metal of its heat-shield groaning quietly as it cooled and warped back into shape.

There were only three other rooms in the solar farm; the control chamber, the access point, and a tiny bathroom. The chamber had a bank of monitors, a creaking, ageing swivel chair, a large water-cooler and a single window, so heavily tinted against the relentless sun that it was practically black. There was a line of hooks for the operators’ heat-suits, and a rattling fan built into one wall. He pulled off his thick suit and hung it up, sighing in relief as his skin felt vaguely lukewarm air again. Underneath he wore shorts and a singlet – as little as possible in the heat. He drained a cup of water, poured another, and sat down on the sweat-stained chair.

He checked the status monitors, the ancient computers telling him that all the solar arrays were now working properly, drawing power from the cruel sun and storing it in the huge capacitors buried beneath his feet, there to be siphoned off elsewhere. One of the monitors had been flickering for months, and nothing he had tried could stop it. It was obsolete equipment – just like the barely-working fan, and the ageing shield-drone, and his stifling suit. The array had a central computer core but it did little more than monitor the heat-lock doors and keep track of when his shift ended. Everything was as basic as possible – because basic was simple, and simple needed less power, which meant that more of the solar array’s output could be siphoned off into the capacitors and then sold on to those who needed it below. Every drop of energy was precious. More precious than my comfort, apparently. Or indeed his life. Humans were not meant to be up here at all, solar bounty be damned. Heatstroke was common. Sometimes it was lethal.

But it was work, and it was what he’d been able to get, and it would do.

He wrote out a maintenance report, cursing the ancient keyboard with its sticky keys. He checked the status of all the other cells, then went back out into the repair bay and tinkered with the drone, opening up its motor assemblies and carving out a thick layer of dust. It got everywhere, relentlessly. But when he tested the motors they seemed to run a little faster. He wrote a report for that, too.

Then there was nothing to do but sit and bake for a few more hours, which he did, glancing occasionally at the monitors, until the computer informed him that his shift was over, and that his relief was on its way. He went into the access-room and waited. This was the one place that seemed to have had more than the bare minimum spent on it: the way back down to civilisation. The panels were polished, the lighting didn’t flicker, and the cooling fan was actually noticeable. This was the first – and often the only – room that safety inspectors got shown.

There was a chime, warning him to take a step back, before the floor of the access-room slid open. The shaft beneath the floor stretched down a long, long way, and though there was an elevator it was again only used for ‘critical’ purposes – in other words, not for the lowly engineers who kept the arrays running. For them, there were stairs and ladders. He bent down and pulled his replacement through the hole. She was sweating already, for the climb was long and hard enough even without the long day’s work waiting at the other end.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He knew her by sight but not by name. There was a rotating staff of a couple of dozen on this array, but he only ever saw a handful of them, and only then for a few moments at a time.

“Anything happen?” his replacement asked, stepping clear of the hole in the floor and stretching.

“Number five jammed, but I fixed it. Shield’s running slow. Cleaned it but haven’t taken it out again.”

“Course it is,” the woman sighed. “Anything else to know?”

“Nothing I found.”

“Alright then.” They switched places, and he lowered himself into the hole, taking hold of the ladder-rungs.

“Have a good one.”

“Have a good rest,” the other engineer sighed. “Can’t wait till sundown.” Which was another full shift and a half away. He grimaced in sympathy, then ducked down into the shaft and began to climb. The door closed automatically above his head.

Down the first ladder, onto a rickety metal stairwell which creaked alarmingly underfoot. The whole shaft was bored into the solid rock, and was surprisingly cool despite the baking heat outside. It was a welcome respite. He could feel a headache coming on, but that was completely normal – he’d been blasted by the heat often enough to know that he’d be fine until he reached solid ground below. He’d fill up on fluids as soon as he got there.

Down and down he climbed, through layer upon layer of ancient stone. Every array had a shaft like this, carved into the cliffside, safe from the heat above. The expense of taking such a safety precaution was just another of the reasons that the power company used to justify giving their workers the bare minimum of resources in every other aspect of their jobs. It didn’t take him down all the way to the bottom, of course, but it got him out of the sun, and that was enough.

After another set of ladders and a short, twisting stair, he reached the bottom, where the gleaming elevator sat, unused. His arms ached almost as much as his head. Water and a rest, he thought to himself, knowing that the latter was unlikely. Something would come up. It always did.

Technician Ahrize Soliman punched his access code into the door, and stepped out into the cool air and verdant splendour of the Scar.

Life Stuff Break (it’s over now)

Relatively quick update post this week, just to fill you all in on what’s been going on.

1 – COVID is gone and I’m better now. Came out of isolation a few days after my last post. But I did miss last week, because…

2 – I was moving house! After many delays and tribulations, I finally moved into a new flat last Sunday, which didn’t leave me much time to write a blog. It’s pretty cool. Most stuff is now out of its boxes, and we even have a sofa. The ‘we’ is me and my partner. Which brings me onto…

3 – No proper blog this week, because it’s my anniversary. So I’m a bit busy today eating food and building the LEGO Medieval Blacksmith with my girlfriend.

Oh, and I am now officially 2/3 of the way through editing Boiling Seas 2. Still haven’t thought of a title though…

Normal service will resume next week. I’ll sign off with a few pictures of our new bookshelf situation. There are gaps now. They will be filled, and soon…

Front room – mostly factual books, and the Riftwar, except the first trilogy which my mother forgot to bring down…Comics and manga. Food Wars #29 is being read.My personal shelf. Bottom is TBR.