Hûw Steer's Blog, page 35

Star Wars

I’m going to see Star Wars this evening. And it’s a big deal.

It’s not like anything’s actually ending. There’s been a new movie every year for the past five; The Mandalorian is out, Rebels and new Clone Wars and all these wonderful things that I haven’t had time to watch (yet). The Obi-Wan show is coming soon. Rian Johnson has a whole trilogy. Disney has made it pretty clear that we’re getting Star Wars forever. Which is just fine by me.

But this is an ending. It might well be the last film of the ‘Skywalker Saga’, as it’s now being called. Oh, I’m absolutely certain that Finn, Poe and Rey (assuming they survive IX…) will turn up whenever the sequel-sequel films happen, as they inevitably will.

But thematically, spiritually, this might be it.

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Context is probably important. When I was about five years old, my dad sat me down in the front room and said that he was going to show me something very important. Then the immortal words appeared on the screen, and I was hooked.

I loved Star Wars, and so did my friends. We’d run around with lightsabers and blasters without a care in the world. I grew up playing Star Wars: Starfighter and the glorious piece of history that is Lego Star Wars. I had half a ton of the actual Lego, too. I’ve still got my lightsabers. And the Lego. And everything else.

And I remember coming out of Revenge of the Sith, when I was 10. I remember how amazing it felt. I still have a soft spot for it, truth be told. But I was only 10, and so I didn’t really realise then how important that moment was. That, to all intents and purposes, was the end of Star Wars.

As I grew older, I kept rewatching the movies, playing the games. I started reading more of the books. I wanted more Star Wars in my life, and I could get some. But like everyone else I sort of assumed that there wouldn’t be any more films. Not after so long.

And then there were.

The trailer blew my mind. I was older, at university, away from the friends I’d run around and duelled with all those years ago – but we were all still excited beyond belief. We managed to get IMAX tickets. I even dragged my dad down on a three-hour drive to come with us.

If I remember rightly, my jaw dropped at some point in the first ten minutes of The Force Awakens, and remained firmly on the floor for the next two hours. The first sequence with Kylo destroying the village was spine-chillingly good. And then, a little later, the camera panned around to reveal the Millenium Falcon, and I was five years old again.

Having Star Wars back has been amazing. I’ve seen them all, and liked them all – yes, even The Last Jedi. Rogue One was a glorious war movie, Solo a seriously underappreciated heist piece. I’ve grown to love the new heroes and what’s been done with the old.

But now, tonight, the saga ends.

I’m sad about that.

But also, it’s Star Wars. And I’m still five years old. And no matter what happens, it’s going to be glorious.

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Review – The Story Scriptorium

“ The writing is sleek, the characterization is nuanced …”

David Milton Samuels‘ review of The Blackbird and the Ghost is up, and it’s very kind indeed! My thanks to David for reading the damn thing.

Check out the review on Goodreads here.

Review: Three Nights in Faral-Khazal

I’ve done another book exchange – this time with David Samuels, author of various tales in the world of Euvael. We’ve swapped books in order to review them – as in my previous exchange, I’ve saved the in-depth version for this blog.  Without further ado, here are my thoughts on Three Nights in Faral-Khazal.

Short stories are tricky things. Many are the times that I’ve had a nice idea for something self-contained only to have it spiral out of control into a novella – or, if I had a word limit, be unable to cram all the worldbuilding I’d like into so small a space. Even when you go up to novelette length the same problem remains: how does one fit proper worldbuilding into a short without running out of room for an actual plot?

It’s difficult. But David Samuels has nailed it.

Three Nights in Faral-Khazal is, as its title suggests, a trio of short stories set in Samuels’ world of Euvael. I haven’t read his previous offerings – which would usually pose a problem, as I wouldn’t know the basics of the world into which I was diving. But from the very beginning of each tale Samuels conjures his setting masterfully – I was absorbed from the very start. This in itself is worthy of serious praise. The Arabian-inspired world of Faral-Khazal is beautifully described – sultans lounge in sumptuous harems, wizards lurk in rickety towers, thieves leap from cages dangling far above the ocean – and it is a world in which Samuels deftly weaves three stories, each following different inhabitants of the many different corners of this world. But despite the separate narratives, nothing feels out of place, like it doesn’t belong. The three threads instead expand our horizons, letting us see more of Faral-Khazal than any one long tale could easily manage.

The characters are as diverse as can be – a master chef, a young thief, an ambitious businesswoman. Each has their own story to tell. I’ll now give my thoughts on each one.

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The Deadliest Dish is the first tale, and the one that explores the widest range of locations in Faral-Khazal. Kaira, chef at the royal palace, is tasked with cooking an impossible dish for the chief concubine. If she fails, she will die, like several chefs before her – so she will have to pursue alternative means of preparing her masterpiece. Namely, magic. What follows is an elaborate fetch-quest that wouldn’t be out of place in a finely crafted RPG: the Anchorite, a sinister wizard in a tower high above the city, demands that Kaira find him a roc in return for conjuring the ingredients she needs; in order to get the roc from the royal menagerie she must bribe its keeper, which requires her to steal from the chief concubine…

Kaira’s quest takes her all over the royal palace, which is in itself a place big and varied enough to be a world all of its own – yet it sits beautifully within the larger world that Samuels paints so beautifully. And the characters who walk within it are fully realised even in so short a space – the Anchorite is truly repulsive, the chief concubine sinister and domineering, Lemon the potboy truly endearing. Kaira’s trials are very well told indeed – and the final twist was a satisfying one. The ending of the tale, however, I felt was the weakest part. While the twist was well done – I certainly didn’t see it coming – the last few paragraphs of the tale confused me far more than they should. Kaira’s ultimate fate is only implied, and not all that well. It took me several re-readings to actually figure out what Samuels meant by his last words – and I’m honestly still not quite certain exactly what happened to her.

Second comes the much shorter Banquet of the Embalmer. Where its predecessor was an epic quest, this story is a mystery, a thriller. Tariki, an ambitious embalmer, shows off his latest commission – the recently defeated Reaver Queen – to guests after a celebratory dinner-party, only to discover that the corpse in his cellar isn’t who it should be. In order to keep his contract, and his reputation, intact, Tariki resorts to desperate measures.

The story is tight and tense, an effect aided by its tight confines. Though the mansion is large and opulent, with open balconies and grand rooms, the fact that the protagonists are trapped within its walls exacerbates the tension, especially following Kaira’s travels all around the vast palace. When the action comes it is swift and bloody, and the reveals of the various secrets and motivations are handled neatly. I do wish some more time could have been lavished on setting up some of the motivations, but regardless the story is a skilfully wrought and thrilling piece.

Third and finally is Ups and Downs. This story introduced me to the protagonist of Samuels’ previous Euvael novel, Emelith the Finder – and it did so beautifully. As my own writing might imply I’m a sucker for a well-written rogue, and Emelith is certainly that. Within the first few lines her relationship with the less lovable but still roguish Liyento is established, and Faral-Khazal’s criminal underworld hinted in just enough detail. Both thieves are after the same amulet, and the chase that ensues as they continually pickpocket and misdirect one another across the city brings the last piece of Faral-Khazal – the streets, the city itself from ground level (or not, as the case may be) – to vivid life.

The verticality of Faral-Khazal had been hinted at before, with the high balcony of Tariki’s house and the soaring tower of the Anchorite, but Emelith’s chase across the Hanging Graveyard, bridge of dangling tombs, really brings it home. The death-defying leaps across precarious coffins are seriously tense, and Samuels never lets the pace of the action let up, which, after the slower speed of the previous tales, is as refreshing as the fresh air Emelith leaps through. The hints at the wider universe of Euvael, and Emelith’s past and future adventures, made me really want more. I’m glad that she, of the three, is Samuels’ main character. He writes her well and clearly enjoys doing so – it’s infectious, and made reading this story, of all the three, a real joy.

Three Nights is a great piece of worldbuilding and a great window into a new and exciting fantasy world. Though there are flaws in the stories themselves, it’s Faral-Khazal that’s the real star of the show, and Samuels’ descriptions, from soaring spires to seedy underbelly, are genuinely excellent. I look forward to reading more tales from the world of Euvael.

Salvage Seven: Chapter 8

Back out into the cold… but this, I’m afraid, is where things really start to get interesting.

Prologue
Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

They had abandoned their little sanctuary all too soon, stumbling out into the miserably grey mountains early that morning. In a way, Gideon was glad to see the back of the shipping containers and the plateau, as comfortable as they had been. Everyone’s good humour had been ruined by Petra and Dawson’s fight, and though Handel had attempted to claw it back over a delicious meal and a few more beers he had been unsuccessful. There had been no real conversation, no attempt at recapturing their brief, genuine camaraderie. When the squad had assembled for Donoghue’s briefing, nobody besides the sergeant had offered more than three words to the others. On the narrow mountain tracks, freezing as they might be, as much as his feet might ache in his gradually disintegrating boots, and his lungs labour in the thinning air, Gideon at least had an excuse to keep to his own thoughts. They all needed the space from one another.

Donoghue had been entirely unenthusiastic about their unexpected assignment that morning. Their objective was another bunker higher and deeper into the mountain range – some kind of research facility funded by the Union but staffed by some of Arcadia’s more scientifically-minded scientists. What they’d actually been doing nobody knew, not even their financiers – and when the war had come knocking on Arcadia’s door they had, sensibly, abandoned their lab and gotten the hell off-planet. As far as Donoghue and anyone else she’d spoken to knew, the labs hadn’t been building weapons or anything else military, but they were still an unknown quantity, and one that Union Command didn’t want to leave unexplored. Salvage Seven, pretty much by bad luck, had been the first ones to get close enough to remind whoever was looking at the deployment maps that the lab existed at all. Their orders were to get up to the lab, search it thoroughly and identify anything useful for later pickup. Handel was perversely excited by the thought of so much expensive and experimental scientific equipment – but nobody else was.

It was freezing this high up, and the terrain was slow going indeed. They had had to abandon the jeep almost a mile back, the battered four-wheel simply unable to cope with the steep rocks, and had carried on climbing on foot. Any steeper and they would need actual climbing gear – but there was, at least, a kind of path that wound its way back and forth up the sheer mountainside. They had bundled up in whatever cold-weather clothing they could scrounge from the artillery barracks and set off. But it wasn’t just freezing, Gideon reflected as he stumbled over a few loose stones, catching himself on the cliff face – it was slow. Handel’s artificial limbs, slow at the best of times, had been rendered even more sluggish by the cold, and Yaxley was having to half-drag him up the path just to keep pace with the others. And the longer it takes us to climb, the longer we’re out in the cold. Wonderful.

Donoghue was on point with Dawson, manhandling a paper map that, while hopelessly out of date, was their only backup. At this altitude their PDAs were connecting to the Jeroboam’s mainframe via satellite link once in a blue moon. Even if they had been connected, they were sluggish in the cold and their screens were almost freezing over – hence the low-tech approach. Gideon was third in line, then Collins, who was fretting over his drones, having swaddled their case in as many rags and blankets as he could scavenge, his pack bursting at the seams. They had enough gear to carry besides; without the jeep all their rations and necessary heavy equipment had to be carried with them, split among all their packs. Gideon’s own was cutting into his shoulders already. After Collins struggled Handel and Yaxley, the veteran struggling on despite his ailing limbs, and at the rear Petra stalked, a scarf over her face, her long rifle ported across her chest. She didn’t seem to be feeling the cold in the slightest. In (mostly) single file, Salvage Seven clambered higher and higher up the mountain without a name, shivering and struggling in equal measure. The rain had turned to sleet, almost to hail. Gideon had almost never felt as miserable as he did now.

Over the whistling wind, Gideon caught the edges of Donoghue’s call to halt. He stumbled up to her and Dawson, groaning gratefully as he stepped into the half-cave they had found – by no means protected from the cold, but just deep enough for them all to cluster out of the worst of the wind. One by one, the others joined them.

“Coffee,” Donoghue ordered through blue lips. They all rummaged for their flasks and drank. Gideon’s lips and fingers prickled with pins and needles as warmth flowed through him; they’d been so numb he hadn’t realised just how cold they were. The seven stood in silence for a moment, savouring the moment of half-heat as best they could.

“Should be,” Donoghue said, her teeth chattering slightly, “about two klicks to go. And four hundred yards up.” She scowled weakly at their morose expressions and groans. “We make it today or we don’t make it at all. Your choice.” The sobering thought certainly shut Gideon up. “Handel,” Donoghue continued, “how are your legs?”

“Shit,” the quartermaster replied bluntly. “Lot of input lag. It’s like walking through jelly. Motors can’t draw enough power.”

“Gid,” Donoghue asked, turning to Gideon, “anything you can do?”

Gideon frowned, thinking. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to fix Handel’s legs in the field, but they were as complicated as any machine he’d ever fettled with.

“They’ve got backup batteries inbuilt, right?” Handel nodded. “Could just connect them directly, then. Double the power output.”

“That’ll burn them out pretty quickly,” Dawson warned, but Handel shook his head.

“I’m only getting about half output as is, it can’t hurt. Besides, this is a lab we’re going to, right? Must be some kit there we could use to fix ‘em.” Dawson nodded reluctantly, conceding the point. Gideon shared her sentiment. If there wasn’t anything usable, and if his legs did burn out, then Handel would be left a true cripple – at the top of a mountain, in the middle of a storm.

“Do it,” Donoghue ordered. “Sooner we reach the lab, the sooner we’re out of this shit.” Gideon nodded and set down his pack, kneeling in front of Handel, who obligingly hitched up his trousers. He worked as quickly as he could, fingers stiff from the cold and the tiny batteries in his tools complaining – but with a hasty bit of soldering the backup cells were wired in. Gideon could feel the wires beginning to get hot as he snapped the legs closed – this was an arrangement that wouldn’t last long at all. Handel, seeing his expression, nodded solemnly. He understood.

“Let’s go,” Donoghue ordered, and Gideon shoved his equipment back into his webbing and reluctantly followed the others back out into the bitter wind. On they climbed, yard by yard, bowing their heads into the wind and struggling up. Twice someone almost slipped and fell; the path had narrowed, in places little more than a ledge, forcing them to shuffle sideways, staring into the void. Gideon was one of those who slipped – but Yaxley caught him with one massive hand, and he was safe. Relatively. The fact that Handel’s overclocked legs let him move at normal speed was almost irrelevant, so sluggish was their progress. It took them more than two hours to creep around the mountainside, climbing the short distance upwards – but eventually, their teeth chattering and fingers numb, ice in their hair, Salvage Seven dragged themselves over the last ridge and onto the plateau where the laboratory was supposed to be.

Supposed to be.

There was a plateau; broad enough for a VTOL or two to land comfortably, if they could make it through the storms; but the cliff face that rose up to the peak was completely featureless. There was no building, prefabricated or otherwise, no generators, not even a shipping container – just barren rock, and ice, and emptiness.

“The hell is this?” Donoghue demanded of nobody in particular, grabbing the map from Dawson and examining it closely. “We’re here. We should be here. Someone check the coordinates.”

Collins coaxed his PDA into life, and, somehow, managed to find enough signal for a GPS reading. He shouted the coordinates over the wind. Donoghue swore.

“That’s right. Where the hell is it, then?” She folded the map angrily. “Supposed to be a multi-million research facility, not just a bunch of rocks.” She looked at the rest of the squad, but nobody appeared to have any ideas – until Collins tentatively raised his hand.

“Yes, Collins?”

“It could be hidden,” the technician offered, wincing at the sergeant’s razor-sharp raised eyebrow. “In the mountain. A hidden facility.”

“A secret fucking lab?” Donoghue asked, sneering. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” came a voice on the wind. Handel had wandered across the plateau to a nondescript cluster of boulders. As everyone turned, he held up a battered security camera, trailing broken wires. “Eyes on the outside. Lab must be on the inside.”

Donoghue sighed heavily.

“A secret lab. Give me strength.” She clapped her hands. “Alright! Split up, cover all the ground, find the doors. Must be here somewhere. Let’s go!”

The squad scattered. Gideon made for the cliff face at the rear of the plateau, as the others spread out across the stone. If the lab was this high up, they’d have to have aircraft to bring supplies and get to and from the real world. That meant a landing platform – on which, he presumed, they stood – and, somewhere, a hangar. A hangar meant big doors, and big doors meant a big wall, and on the freezing mountaintop there was only one that fit the bill. Unless, of course, it sinks into the ground or some shit. Or it’s not actually here. He tried not to think about that possibility.

The cliff face loomed over him, brooding black stone, its sharp crags worn smooth by the howling winds. Sleet spattered from the sheer rock, soaking Gideon even more as he came up to the wall and ran his sodden gloves over the stone. Up close it was no less featureless than it had initially appeared – there were no hidden hinges, no painted panels of metal that he could see. Gideon walked slowly along the cliff, eyes peeled, feeling for any irregularities, anything that felt man-made. There was nothing. Looking across the plateau, he could see that nobody else was having any more luck than him – six more frustrated expressions greeted his eyes. Come on. It can’t be that hard to get in. But as Gideon continued to search, the creeping feeling that there might not be anything here at all grew ever-stronger.

He was examining the stone up close, searching for artificial grain, when he heard a faint sound over the rushing wind, barely catching it; a scraping sound, of stone on stone. Puzzled, he turned around – and saw a recess in the rock wall, just a few feet from where he stood, a recess that had not been there before, a recess too even in shape to be anything but man-made. He darted over to it, but before he could get a proper look black stone slid up, seemingly from nowhere, and the hole was gone. What the… Gideon pressed the wall all around where the recess had seemed to be, running his hands across every inch of stone he had just touched, searching for the hidden keypad or scanner that surely had to be there. He found absolutely nothing, and the recess remained resolutely hidden. Frowning, he keyed his short-range radio. Static burst painfully in his ear, but there was a signal.

“This is Gideon. Did anyone just find a switch? Or something like one?”

“No,” came Donoghue’s reply. “Why?”

“I just saw… a hole. Something. It closed up, but it was there.” It sounded ludicrously weak – but Donoghue seemed to think it was enough.

“Everyone, repeat what you were just doing. Touch the same stuff, whatever. Maybe there’s a scanner hidden somewhere.”

There was a chorus of acknowledgements, and then the radio fell silent for a moment. Gideon stared intently at where he thought the hole had been, waiting… and then it slid open again, a recess in the cliff a foot square, and within it what looked like a keypad/retinal scanner combo, a red light flickering into life.

“There!” Gideon called down the radio, far too loud in his excitement. “There it – ” But the hole was already closing again, the scanner powering down. “Damnit, gone again!”

“Ok,” Donoghue crackled, “one by one. By the numbers. Let’s figure out who triggered it. I’m first.” There was a pause. “Anything?”

“Nope,” Gideon said, grimacing. He heard Donoghue sigh.

“Fine. Petra, you next.” Gideon rubbed his hands together, trying to nurse some feeling back into his fingers through the pitifully thin and sodden gloves.

“Anything?” Petra asked, a painful spike of static piercing Gideon’s ear.

“Nothing.”

“Yaxley,” Donoghue ordered. Gideon glanced around, hoping to see what the big man had been doing – but the sleet was thickening, and he could barely make out his silhouette halfway across the plateau. He looked back at the wall – and the stone slid aside again, revealing the scanner.

“There!”

“Hold whatever you’re doing, Yax,” Donoghue snapped. “Gid, we’re coming over.” Whatever Yaxley was doing kept working, and the hole stayed open. It was below eye-height, and Gideon had to stoop awkwardly, shucking his pack and peering into the recess as the others arrived. It was as he’d thought: a scramble keypad, digital numbers glowing scarlet, and a retinal scanner – neither of which they would be able to activate by ordinary means. Donoghue tapped Gideon on the shoulder, and he stepped back obligingly, letting her peer inside. The others clustered behind them both. The sergeant cursed quietly.

“Proper security, then. Figures. Anyone know how to bypass a scramble pad and retina?”

“Let me have a look,” said Petra.

“I guess you’ve broken a lot of locks in your time,” muttered Dawson none too quietly. Donoghue shot her a glare.

“Shut it, Dawson.”

“What did Yax do?” Gideon muttered to Handel as Petra examined the keypad closely.

“Twisted some bit of rock,” the quartermaster replied. “He’s still holding it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Standard scramble,” Petra reported as she pulled her head out of the recess. “Four to seven digit code on this model. We used to brute-force them with a software bypass.” Dawson smirked, vindicated, but Petra ignored her. “Trouble is I don’t have one with – ” She paused, as Handel produced a slender portable drive with a universal connector from somewhere in his webbing.

“Rated for anything up to level eight,” the quartermaster said with an evil grin, “if what my… friend told me is accurate. What’s this?”

“A six at best,” Petra replied, and Handel’s smile broadened.

“What about the retina scanner?” Donoghue asked. “You got a scientist’s eyeball in your pocket, Handel?”

“A strobe might do it,” Collins offered. He blushed a little as everyone looked around at him, surprised. Innocent Collins, the burglar? “I used to write software for a security firm,” he continued, a little protest in his voice. “These locks read light. A rapid enough flash in different colours used to overwhelm older models.”

“Let’s hope this lot forgot to update their kit,” Donoghue said. “Gideon?”

“On it,” Gideon replied. “Borrow someone’s torch?” One was produced, and Gideon set to work, peeling back the rubber housing and digging into the simple wiring underneath, as Petra set to work with Handel’s brute-force program. The LEDs were simple to rewire. Collins talked him through the right speed, the different colours, offering a couple of spare LEDs from his drone kit. Within five minutes, the torch was bulging with extra bulbs, crudely wrapped back together with electrical tape.

“Pad is… open,” Petra called, her voice muffled with her head in the recess. Gideon passed her the modified torch.

“Here goes,” she mumbled, and flickering light spilled over the edge of the recess in a maddening lack of pattern, red and yellow and blue-white coruscating. Petra cursed – forgetting, presumably, to shield her eyes. There was, on the edge of hearing, a faint beep. Then Gideon felt the stone beneath his feet shudder.

“I think we got it,” he said, but his words were drowned by the squealing of old metal moving, the scraping of stone on stone, as half the cliffside split apart before their eyes, revealing the dark and cavernous hangar behind, yawning like the maw of some great beast, warm air rushing out in a great, hot breath.

The squad stood motionless for a long moment, staring into the dark. Gideon didn’t think he’d ever wanted to walk through a door less, and, glancing to his left and right, he could see that everyone else felt the same way. Even Yaxley, stumbling over from his post at the nondescript rock, had shrunk back, just subtly. Then Donoghue clapped her hands, the sound muffled by her gloves and the wind but still very much audible.

“Come on, then. Let’s get out of the damn cold, shall we?”

She led the way into the belly of the beast – and, despite her brusque words, Gideon did not fail to notice that she adjusted the strap of her rifle so that the grip was nearer to her hand.

Salvage Seven: Chapter 7

You know how things seemed like they might be looking up for the team two weeks ago? Yeah. About that.

Prologue
Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

The only thing louder than the superlifter’s engines was the sound of Donoghue shouting.

Gideon tried not to listen, as he and Collins carried crates of munitions – sorted meticulously by Handel – onto the huge metal platform, where the huge lifter’s crew were waiting with all manner of straps and webbing harnesses to tie everything into place. He tried not to listen, as the spluttering engines of those artillery tractors that would still move under their own power grew louder, as Dawson and Petra drove them onto the lifter platform one by one. Gideon kept trying not to listen as he followed Collins back to the rough barracks where the rest of Handel’s neatly organised supplies waited for them – but he couldn’t not listen, because Sergeant Donoghue’s shouting-match with the superlifter captain could have drowned out a thunderstorm.

“What the hell do you mean we’re to stay out here?” she yelled, the engine noise from above not even a slight factor in her apoplexy, her face scarlet with rage. The ‘lifter captain was a tall man, clearly an experienced leader of men – but he cowered before her anger, stammering out an explanation as best he could.

“Orders… orders were to pick up the salvage, to- to relay messages to your team.”

“This shit?” Donoghue held her PDA up, eyes ablaze. “This shit is what they sent? We freeze half to death getting up here, we find enough live armour for a whole damn regiment, and their thanks is to send us further in?”

“I just relayed the message!” the captain replied, raising his hands to try and placate the sergeant. “Sorry. We’re not taking you back.”

Donoghue swore loudly, launching into another tirade of invective – but Gideon could tell that the battle was lost. By the time he and Collins had lugged another crate over to the platform, Donoghue had assembled the rest of the squad around her.

“Word from command,” she said, bitterness in every syllable. “They’re very pleased with our finds. Some manner of commendation down the line, noted in our performance reviews, yadda yadda.”

“So we’re getting a lift back?” Collins asked, blindly optimistic to the end. “Some leave?”

“We’re getting,” Donoghue replied acidly, “the privilege of going further into the mountains. Some bunker another thousand feet up. On foot. Alone. That’s our reward.”

Dawson swore, as did Gideon. Petra cursed more quietly, but with twice the venom; Yaxley was as impassive as ever, Collins wide-eyed with childlike sadness. Handel scoffed.

“Typical brass. Don’t know why we expected anything else.”

“Please tell me your… friends will see us right,” Dawson said to the veteran. Handel nodded.

“Oh, they will. Some of them aboard this very bird. It’ll all make its way to the right people, no worries about that.” He looked up at the gigantic aircraft. “Just wish we could do the same.”

“Well, no use crying about it now,” Donoghue said, sour words from chapped lips. “Let’s get this shit loaded, and then can it for the day. I’m not going anywhere without a decent night’s sleep.”

The squad dispersed again. One by one, the artillery pieces were loaded aboard the platform – ton upon ton of armour squeezed onto what amounted to a big lift. It looked far too much weight for even a capital ship to lift from the ground – but the superlifter’s crew seemed entirely confident. There had only just been enough room to drop the platform down on the plateau, not enough to actually land the vast VTOL aircraft – but, according to one of the ground crewers, they hovered for longer all the time. Gideon couldn’t help but be impressed by the colossal machine, over two hundred feet long, vast engine pods at each corner and on the spadelike wings spewing exhaust gases downwards onto the misshapen rock below. Gideon could have sworn that some of the rock was glowing hot. They were designed for rapid deployments, the superlifters, with enough cargo capacity and lifting power to drop a small fortress ready-made onto any battlefield, or to move huge amounts of materiel – and occasionally men – between ships in a fleet, if they were rated for vacuum. Command had been eager to press them into salvage service. And if the war flares up again, they’re ready to drop us straight into the field. Hooray for efficiency.

The last tank clattered onto the platform, dragged by a heavy-duty winch, its engine crippled by rust. Gideon shoved the last crate into place, as Dawson clambered out of the last gun and the ground crew finished strapping everything down, thick webbing straps looped through steel rings.

“Get clear!” shouted one of the crewers, flapping his hands at the salvage crew, shooing them away. Gideon scowled but obeyed, the squad gathering at a safe distance, as the crewers tightened straps, attaching their own safety harnesses to hardpoints at the corners. One of them spoke into his radio – and then above them, the superlifter moved. The airborne behemoth moved slowly, almost gracefully, its engines twisting just a little until it sat perfectly above the platform. Its underbelly yawned dark and open, a vast mouth like that of a creature of nightmare.

“Now they show off,” Donoghue muttered, only barely audible. Collins frowned at Gideon, but he simply nodded upwards. He’d seen this done before – and though it was impressive, he didn’t feel especially inclined to cheer the ‘lifter’s crew on. We could be going back to base. Could have had a weekend off. Instead, they were going God-knew-where, their faint hopes of reward dashed utterly.

Collins gasped, and Gideon looked up again, as the cables dropped. Huge drums unspooled, the four anchors descending slowly, steadily, on lines as thick as Yaxley’s thigh. With them dangling below it, buffeted by the wind, the superlifter went from airborne whale to colossal jellyfish, dangling its tendrils into the deeps. The anchors were massive steel hooks, the weight of a man, and Gideon held his breath as they swung nearer and nearer to the ground crew, heavy enough to take off their heads – but they were practiced, and they grabbed the hooks in groups of three, manhandling them down and locking them into place. The slack was taken in, the superlifter bobbing briefly in the air as it took the weight – then, its engines straining, it stabilised, and the winches lifted the whole platform, tanks and all, at least a hundred tons of metal, cleanly off the ground and up into the air. Slowly, steadily, engines roaring, the superlifter dragged its cargo up into its vast underbelly. Collins whooped as the platform clicked home, huge clamps locking it in place, the whale’s belly closed again. He would have applauded, had he not caught a filthy look from Donoghue.

The radio crackled.

“Salvage Seven, we’re good up here. Thanks for your help. And… sorry. For what it’s worth. We left you a little something by your shelter. Safe travels.”

And with that, and a renewed roar of burning fuel, the superlifter lumbered up and away, ponderous but still graceful, beyond the mountains and out across the plain.

The squad watched it go in silence, until the roar of its engines had faded completely and they were left with only the rushing wind against which to test their voices.

“Good riddance,” Donoghue muttered, shaking her head. “Right.” She checked her watch. “Fifteen-fifty. Orders say we ought to get started towards this next place as soon as possible.” She looked at them all, her expression leaving no doubt as to how she felt about those orders.

“The jeep,” Petra said, “needs refuelling. And a tune-up. Can’t really go anywhere without that.”

“We all need to recalibrate equipment,” added Collins, holding up one of his drones, which beeped forlornly, starved of battery. Donoghue nodded, unsmiling but satisfied.

“Good enough for me. I’ll spin it. Let’s get inside and take the evening. Get something hot on.” She grimaced. “Damn, I miss proper coffee. Handel, those flying fucks leave us any?”

“Better than that, Sarge,” Handel called, shoulder-deep in a single crate next to the barrack door. He emerged with a gleaming bottle in each hand and a gleaming grin on his face. “They left us beer.”

Donoghue finally let herself smile.

“Maybe they’re not total arseholes after all.”

*

It wasn’t just beer. Thanks to Handel’s friends in the quartermaster corps, the superlifter crew had brought Salvage Seven a glorious care package filled with everything they could have wished for – and more besides. Mostly there was food, real food, or close enough: ration packs of the kind that only senior officers would usually get, properly flavoured and textured; bread that, while not fresh, was at least not hard as a rock; chocolate that was only slightly melted; and, best of all, fresh fruit and vegetables, obtained from who knew where, crisp and ripe and beautiful. As Yaxley and Handel, working with the rudimentary portable stove that graced the artillery barracks’ ‘kitchen’, began turning the rations and vegetables into something closely related to an actual meal, Gideon sat back in a camp chair across the container and bit into an apple. The sharp juice struck his tongue like ambrosia, cool and delicious.

“Catch,” came a voice, and Gideon almost fumbled the beer Donoghue had thrown, the bottle – actual glass, not the battered tin that every Union-issue drink was stored in – cold and slippery. The sergeant came into view, swigging from her own bottle, four more swinging from her hand in their carry-pack. Gideon raised the beer in salute.

“Thanks, Sarge. Cold, too.” He raised an eyebrow, making it a question.

“Collins got the freezer running,” Donoghue explained, setting two more beers down on the counter where Yaxley was chopping vegetables with a combat knife as sharp as sin. It was clean – but Gideon suspected it hadn’t always been. The big man took his beer with a silent nod of thanks. Handel stopped stirring the big pot – something else the artillerymen had left behind – to take his.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, and he popped the cap off the bottle effortlessly with his artificial thumb. He took a long drink, and sighed. “That’s the stuff alright.”

“Three each,” Donoghue ordered. “No more.” Handel scowled, but Donoghue’s face was firm. “You can have another if you’re on watch. One more. We’re still on duty.” She took another drink, grinned. “In theory, anyway.”

She wandered out into one of the other rooms. Gideon sat for a little while, finishing his apple as Handel and Yaxley cooked. He’d offered his help, but Handel – sensibly – had refused it. That left him, for the first time in weeks – even months – with genuinely nothing to do. Those had been Donoghue’s orders: Clean up, eat something, have a drink, and be useless. He finished the apple, got up, stretched, and wandered over to the narrow stairs, leading into the second layer of shipping containers. They were all bunk-rooms, enough for dozens of soldiers to sleep in shifts, hot-swapping every few hours. For the artillery crews they would have been cramped and uncomfortable – but the salvage squad could have had four bunks each. Collins looked up as Gideon approached, his tech kit spread out across the floor, taking advantage of the new space. His beer was unopened and untouched.

“Alright?” Gideon asked, fumbling in his belt until he found the right shim, popping the cap from his beer and taking a swig. It was the most refreshing thing he’d ever drunk. “Thanks for the freezer.” He felt better disposed towards Collins than he ever had in that moment.

“No problem,” Collins said with a smile. He had a jeweller’s glass over one eye, was fiddling with the innards of a drone. His laptop displayed line after line of impenetrable code, its meaning utterly lost on Gideon. Collins moved a wire, frowning at the circuitry. He tapped a few keys, but whatever he did had no effect.

“What’s wrong?” Gideon asked, moving around beside his bunkmate to peer at the drone’s internals. The code might mean nothing, but this much he did know.

“Repulsor keeps cutting out,” Collins explained. “I’ve done a reboot and a patch but the software seems fine.” He grimaced. “Really not sure what else it could be. It all looks fine, but…”

A week ago, Gideon wouldn’t have even started this conversation, let alone leaned in to take a look – but he hadn’t had a drink in months and the beer was already going to his head, and despite their being stuck in the mountains he was feeling better – at least today – than he had in far too long. For once he didn’t want to shove Collins into one of the mountain passes.

“Let’s have a look,” he said, taking the drone from Collins and leaning in closely. He traced the gleaming copper lines, finding the little repulsor engine’s path. There. The corrosion was subtle but it was present, enough to cut off a circuit intermittently. He plucked an insulated probe from his belt and scraped it away almost automatically.

“Try that.”

Collins took the drone, tapped a few keys. The engine’s power lights lit up a steady green. The technician looked up at Gideon, a wide smile spreading across his face.

“Thanks, Gideon.” Gideon nodded back, suddenly embarrassed. Had he ever helped Collins out before, just because he could rather than because he had to? Had any of the squad?

“Don’t mention it.” Really, please don’t. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in a bit.” Collins smiled again, and Gideon left before he embarrassed himself further. The next section of bunks was empty, and Gideon flopped down on one of the low, narrow cots gratefully, pulling off his boots and flak jacket. Lightened, he lay back, setting his beer on the treadplate floor. It felt eerie to just… rest; to not be constantly worrying about their next foray, to not be cleaning his kit or carrying supplies or standing watch. But all those tasks were already accomplished. He was almost free. Almost. He knew that this pleasant peace could not and would never last for long. Tomorrow, they would be off again, but tonight… tonight, it almost seemed like everything would be alright. When Gideon closed his eyes, he didn’t even see the bloody mess of Corporal Atwell’s face. Even she had given him a break, just this once.

He kept his eyes closed, let fatigue wash over him. His sleep lasted for a glorious ten minutes, before his peace was shattered by the sound of Petra and Dawson trying to kill one another, again.

*

By the time Gideon stumbled into the other bunk-room Yaxley was already holding the two engineers apart, one gripped firmly in each massive hand at arm’s length. Handel was presumably still downstairs, but Collins was peering around one bunk, keeping out of range of any wild blows – and out of Donoghue’s furious gaze.

“What the hell are you two playing at?” she snapped, her glare hot enough to melt metal. Dawson, Yaxley’s huge hand wrapped around both her wrists, spoke first, venom in her every word. The skin around her eye was already blackening, swelling, courtesy, Gideon presumed, of Petra’s fist.

“She was messing with the jeep,” the engineer snarled, shooting daggers at Petra, whose face was as cold as glacial ice. “Sabotage. She was fucking with the engine, would have made it cut out on us fifty miles from anywhere.”

“She has a name, Private,” Petra said calmly, though her white knuckles told a different story, Yaxley’s hand gripping her shoulder firmly, his reach much longer than hers. Her words came clearly despite the split lip she was sporting, still oozing blood quietly.

“And she needs to start talking, Corporal,” Donoghue replied pointedly, turning her glare on Petra. Gideon grimaced as Petra held Donoghue’s gaze silently for a long moment. The sergeant had only a limited amount of patience to spend at the best of times – this had not been a good time for Petra to pick a fight.

“I was recalibrating,” the corporal said finally, her icy gaze melting before the heat of Donoghue’s rage, “the fuel injectors. For greater efficiency.”

“By ripping out the engine management system?” Dawson snarled.

“I needed to do it manually,” Petra said, her voice dripping with condescension, “because your stupid management systems can’t tell a simple repair from deliberate sabotage. Because you need your tech to spell it out if anything goes wrong, instead of just taking a look for yourself.” The ‘you’ was clearly not just directed at Dawson, and Gideon felt a stab of irritation. He was a practical man – he trusted only what his own eyes told him. Just because we’re Union doesn’t mean we’re idiots. He kept quiet, though – the last thing this argument needed was his input.

“So,” Donoghue continued, the raw heat of her anger fading a little but none of its intensity, “you took the jeep apart.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Petra replied sharply. “And I was quietly getting on with the business of making our lives easier when this one,” she pointed at the restrained and glowering Dawson “decided to take offence.” She reached up with her offhand to wipe blood from her lip. A little spattered on the floor.

“I decided to stop you crippling our only means of transport and leaving us stranded here,” Dawson snapped. “There’s nothing wrong with the damn jeep. I’ve kept it running perfectly well so far.”

“Well, just keeping it running isn’t good enough,” Petra countered. “It’s a piece of shit. I’ve dealt with plenty of them over the years. I know what I’m doing.”

“When you were throwing civilian cars into the battlefield?” Dawson said, derision dripping from every word. “Some of us trained on actual military hardware. Some of us know how modern technology works, and can fix a damn engine without ripping out anything newer than a carburettor!”

“And some of us actually know how a carburettor works!” Petra snapped back, her fists clenching even tighter, and Yaxley flexed his huge arms, keeping the two women firmly at a safe distance.

Donoghue raised a hand, using her other to pinch the bridge of her nose, grimacing.

“So. You were arguing over nothing, basically. As per usual.” Her glare left no part of her irritation to the imagination. “Who punched first?”

Both women were suddenly reluctant to speak, their arguments dried up. Donoghue looked from one to the other like a schoolteacher, anger blending with disappointment.

“Who hit first?” she demanded. “Come on!”

“I did,” Dawson muttered reluctantly.

“Of course you did,” Donoghue sighed. “But you threw the second, Petra?”

“I did,” Petra confirmed, sounding far prouder of herself than her counterpart.

“Then you’re both fucking stupid,” Donoghue snapped. She turned to pace a little, back and forth, fists clenched tightly, anger still plain on her face. “The war is over. And yeah, we all know how that’s likely to go, but right now it really is over. And we’re stuck together, for better or mostly worse. None of us want to be here, but we are, and while we are the least you can do is to stop trying to kill each other for the hell of it!” She was red with rage, Petra and Dawson both looking away, flushed themselves with embarrassment.

“If this happens again,” Donoghue continued, “then I will actually use my authority as a sergeant to come down on you like a ton of bricks.” She sighed, and for a moment her anger was gone, a deep sadness in its place of a kind Gideon had never seen from her before. “But I’ll let it go for now. For now only, understand? We’ve all had a day. We’re about to have another. But we’re in this together, like it or not. I don’t care if you like each other. You just have to work together.” She brought her voice back up to parade-pitch. “Are we clear?”

“Yes, sarge,” the two women mumbled. Donoghue glared.

“Yes, sarge!” the engineers repeated, louder, clearer, before the sergeant had to ask again.

“Good,” Donoghue said curtly. “Now clean yourselves up, get the jeep ready to go, and then come and eat something. Handel should be nearly done by now.” At her nod, Yaxley released Petra and Dawson, silently walking away back down to the kitchen. Neither woman looked at the other, instead walking away in opposite directions, to lick their wounds and let their frustrations simmer privately. Collins looked at Gideon, shrugged, and went back to his drone, leaving Gideon and his sergeant alone. Donoghue’s fists were still clenched, as was her jaw, as she stared down at the floor. She said nothing. Knowing he would regret it, Gideon cleared his throat.

“Sarge? You ok?”

“Technician Gideon,” Donoghue replied, her voice simmering with rage, “I suggest you leave. Those two fuckwits aren’t the only ones who want to hit something right now.”

Gideon got the hint. He left Donoghue in the room, alone, staring down at the floor, where a few tiny drops of Petra’s blood still glistened crimson in the harsh overhead lights.

SPFBO: Final Update

Alas, this is indeed my last update – at least about The Blackbird and the Ghost – concerning this year’s SPFBO. I got to the semi-final list, which was honestly far further than I ever expected to get. To hit the top 50 of so many amazing books is just fantastic.

Unfortunately for me, however, that’s as far as I’m going. The Qwillery announced their finalist a couple of days ago, and the honour has gone to Virginia McClain’s Blade’s Edge. Thus, I am eliminated. But it was by a worthy opponent, so I’m not too fussed!

Huge congratulations to Virginia for making the finalist list! I’ll be watching and reading in great anticipation to see who claims the crown this year.

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In other news, chapter 7 of Salvage Seven will go up at 7pm (GMT) this evening. Watch this space for your regularly scheduled programming.

November Update

Apologies for the lack of Salvage Seven this week – it’s been a busy weekend, but for nice reasons (was my birthday, woo). I’ll have the next chapter up this coming weekend.

In general news, various projects are ticking over. I’m taking a break from Salvage for a little while (don’t worry, there’s still plenty written up and ready for you to read) just to avoid burning out. Some editing might need doing on the last few weeks of work, I think. But in the meantime I’ve written an SF short based around submarine warfare, but in space (because why not).

For the Boiling Seas readers among you, I’m currently writing a little more Tal and Max! Definitely not the sequel to Blackbird just yet – this is a short piece for RockStarlit BookAsylum‘s Tales from the Asylum series. I’ve been taking far too long to get it done, but Timy over at the Asylum has been very kindly taking stories from lots of SPFBO authors. I’m almost finished. Honest. It may take a while to get posted, but it’ll happen, honest.

Other than that, not much to tell. I’ve been blessed with many book tokens and Amazon monies, so I intend to do plenty of reading in the immediate future (including of the wonderful first volume of Planetes, thank you parents). Think I’ll start with Ravenor for now.

Speak to you all soon.

Salvage Seven: Chapter 6

Space submarines is finished. I’ll get back to this story once I’ve done a little Blackbird-related work…

Behold, Chapter 6 of Salvage Seven. Back to work for the team, with a little friendly(?) competition.

Prologue
Chapter 1, parts 1 and 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5

Beyond the first of the mountains, upon a broad plateau, they came upon the gods of thunder.

It had been marked on their maps, thankfully; a Union outpost that had been abandoned to advancing Republic forces relatively early in the long, long battle. It had not been retaken until it was too late to make any difference – but, thanks to some canny sabotage from its retreating Union occupants, the Republic had been unable to take advantage of what they had left behind. When Salvage Seven clambered up over the last ridge, followed by Petra, bouncing along in the labouring four-wheel, they beheld the gods themselves.

“Holy hells,” Handel breathed as he dropped out of the passenger seat, his eyes wide. A similar sentiment had crossed Gideon’s mind, as it clearly had most of the others – even Yaxley looked impressed. Upon the plateau before them there was a forest, not of wood but of metal, several dozen tall trees glinting in the wan sunlight, rooted into the rock with heavy iron pins. They were the biggest guns Gideon had ever seen off a starship, their yawning mouths up to a foot wide, all still angled towards whatever part of the battlefield had last felt their wrath. They were all self-propelled, mounted on boxy tank bodies of a design that had hardly changed in centuries, but clearly had not moved in a long time; their tracks were beginning to rust, as were the iron stakes that held their retractable stabilisers in the ground. Conspicuous by their absence were the shells that the guns had rained down on Arcadia: the ammunition racks next to and strapped to the sides of every gun were empty, and a quick look around told Gideon why. The plateau had once been half as long again as it was now; its far end was jagged, the rock freshly broken.

“They blew it,” Dawson said, seeing the object of his gaze. “That’s what the report says, anyway.” Gideon nodded. Donoghue had shared the information with them the night before. The Union artillerymen, unwilling to let the enemy take advantage of their weapons, had rolled every shell they had over to the end of the plateau and rigged a simple, but brutally effective detonation system. The explosion had killed hundreds of their enemy – and when the survivors had finally made it up the rubble to the guns they had found them empty, and carrying the enormous shells up a mountain range had been near-impossible. The big guns had been effectively silenced – so the battle had simply raged on without them. There were always more.

“Alright,” Donoghue called, clapping her hands. “Don’t get distracted. Could still be a lot of explosives here, and if there are they’ve been sitting in the rain for weeks.” She nodded to Dawson. “See if you can get the long-range working. Any details about this place you can drag out of Command.” She turned back to the others as Dawson clambered back over to the four-wheel and into the back seat, bending to fiddle with their long-range radio – a direct line to the Jeroboam that, if they were lucky, would have a bored ensign who didn’t even know their designation on the other end. If they weren’t, they’d end up on hold for hours.

“We’ll sweep for shells first,” Donoghue continued, “make the place safe. Republic might have lugged some more up here. Yax, you’ve got point on that. Don’t blow us up. Collins, do your thing with the drones. Petra, Dawson, if any of these things still run I want to know it.” She looked around the artillery nest, nodding. “This is a real opportunity. We don’t die, we get all this secured, and maybe Command’ll give us a day off for once. We clear?”

The chorus of ‘Yes, Sarges’ was a little more coherent than normal, and Salvage Seven set to work. Collins got his drones in the air, programming in a series of aerial sweeps to hunt for any shells that had slipped the net. As they flitted back and forth overhead, the skinny man glued to his screen and calling out locations, the others split up. Yaxley, Donoghue and Gideon went their separate ways, climbing up onto each gun platform in turn and checking it for abandoned rounds. It was cold, high up the mountain, and though it wasn’t raining for once the wind was bitter. Gideon shivered as he climbed the short ladder up to the next gun. They were basically tanks, with the huge, reciprocating cannons angled upwards, a heavy blast shield protecting the gunners from its backwash. Recoil had smashed parts of the gun against each other, scraping paint from the edges of the shielding and other plates of armour; where there should have been shining, raw metal there was instead a light coating of rust from the constant rain.

He stood on the gantry for a moment, looking at the huge cannon, imagining the thunder of its voice deafening the crew who worshipped it, feeding and caring for their god of steel and brass as it rained wrath and ruin upon the insects far below it. He wondered what it would have been like to fight as an artilleryman, so far from the blood and misery of the main field, raining death without danger to one’s self. Except for air attack. And saboteurs. And flanking. At which point he would have been stuck behind the breech of an essentially immovable object, without proper armour or armament and laden with high explosives – in other words as horribly vulnerable as a soldier could be with all their limbs still attached. Maybe not the path for me, he reconsidered.

There were no shells in the gun’s breech or magazines, so Gideon moved on, climbing onto the next gun in the long line as Yaxley and Donoghue did the same. Petra was at the foot of the ladder, prying open a back panel on the bolted-down hull.

“Give me a hand,” she said, and Gideon bent to help; together, both straining at the crowbar, they managed to crack the thick layer of rust that had sealed the panels as effectively as any weld. Underneath it, the tank’s innards lay exposed, pipes and wiring gleaming with a thin sheen of oil. Petra stuck her head inside, tutting.

“Sloppy. Typical Union. Just assume their kit’ll keep working no matter what they put it through.” She emerged with a length of cable in her hand, the insulation rotted and the wiring inside corroded clean through, brandishing it at Gideon. “Look after your kit. First lesson we get taught. Christ on a fucking bike.” She slammed the rusted panel shut and stalked around to the front of the tank, where the engine was. Gideon didn’t follow her, but quietly walked on to the next gun in line. He didn’t mention the fact that he had fought for the Union and took as good care of his equipment as anyone in the squad – nor that the tank’s disrepair could easily be the work of the Republic troops who had captured the mesa. Petra did have a point, he reflected, as he clambered up atop the treads of the next gun, ducking under its backwash shield to reach the breech. The Union had begun the war with near-limitless materiel at its disposal; ships, guns, weapons – and soldiers. The Republic had barely had a quarter of those same resources, and had gotten very good at scavenging or outright stealing Union gear, adapting non-standard equipment and, in the lattermost case, conscripting civilians from its newly ‘liberated’ colony worlds to throw into the grinder. Idealists like Petra were the ones who survived long enough to forget that they’d never wanted to fight in the first place.

Dawson, having finally managed to radio in their find, started checking the engines and electrics too – though she stayed far away from Petra as she did so. As Collins’ drones whirred around above their heads Gideon checked breech after cannon breech, calling out the few shells he found still in situ so Yaxley could check them out. Most of the tanks were non-functional, whether drained of fuel by the retreating Union, welded in place by the spreading tendrils of rust, or so poorly maintained that they had simply corroded to death – but as Gideon worked and the pale sun began to dip below its zenith he heard engine after engine sputter into life, the screeching of unlubricated metal moving for the first time in months, as the two engineers performed miracle after miracle, bringing the gods back from the dead. They’d be unstoppable, he reflected as Donoghue called for a break, her voice almost whipped away completely by the freezing wind, if they worked together. But he knew that he’d get better odds on a galaxy-wide lottery.

At the end of Gideon’s chosen line of guns was a low, prefabbed building, one of several, little more than a few shipping containers laid end-to-end and stacked two high. Barracks, he decided; the artillerymen would have had to sleep somewhere. He’d been quartered in such things before, back when he’d been in the infantry. They were usually dropped in by air, landed by the big cargo-mover VTOL dropships that every starship carried in dozens. That, at least, explained how the Union had gotten the unwieldy artillery pieces up here, rather than driving them over terrain that even their dedicated four-wheel-drive had struggled to conquer. The rest of the squad had gathered in front of it – out of the wind, Gideon realised gratefully as he approached.

“Might as well go inside,” Donoghue shouted, gesturing to the doors. They followed Handel inside, and Gideon sighed in relief as the closing door cut off most of the howling of the wind. Within the block proper was an even better story – for once there weren’t any bodies rotting quietly in their chairs in the little kitchen or laid out on the unmade bunks. Whichever side had most recently abandoned this place, they had done so in decent order. Dawson immediately began rummaging in the cupboards for supplies as Donoghue sat down with a sigh, and the others generally made themselves uncomfortable. Handel disappeared into the bunk-room immediately – Gideon could hear him rummaging through lockers and abandoned bags, grunting dissatisfaction as he found nothing of value. Dawson passed around mugs of something that tasted like it was distantly related to coffee on its mother’s side. They all drank them gratefully – it was hot, and that was enough. Gideon could feel the warmth flooding through him, realising only now just how cold he had become.

“What did base say, Dawson?” Donoghue asked around a mouthful of ‘coffee’. The engineer shrugged.

“‘Your request is being processed, we’ll get back to you’, and all assorted bullshit. Like a damn call centre.” The sergeant growled her displeasure.

“We’ll be out here days at this rate. Keep trying them, see if you can get more than a drone. We’ll need an airlift for all this shit.”

Handel poked his head out of the bunk-room.

“Let me try. I know a few people. Reckon I can bump us up the chain a few places.” Donoghue raised an eyebrow.

“In exchange for…”

“A negligible percentage of the heavy armour bonus,” Handel said dismissively. “Nothing too extravagant.” Among the many salvage bounties the one for operational armoured vehicles was nearly highest.

“Just enough to grease the wheels,” Donoghue replied drily. “Of course. Give it a go, then.”

“Yes, sarge.” Handel pulled out his radio and disappeared back into the bunk-room, snippets of his conversation drifting through the door. Gideon caught Petra shooting the opportunistic quartermaster a filthy look, and Collins looking down uneasily. Neither of them were particularly happy with Handel and his like’s profiteering – Collins uncomfortable with the exploitation of what was, to him, a duty to the galaxy; Petra with the man’s apparent disregard for how the things he peddled had come to him in the first place. She, at least, was mistaken, Gideon thought, catching a glint of light off Handel’s prosthetic leg through the doorway. Handel knew the horrors of war better than any of them.

“How many of them will still run?” Donoghue asked, looking up at Petra and Dawson. Both women opened their mouths to speak, but Petra got there first, to Dawon’s obvious irritation.

“I’ve got six or seven at least that’ll turn over,” the Republic engineer said. “Most of them just need fuel. Or something small replacing; spark plugs and the like.”

“There’s a lot of rust,” Dawson interrupted, flashing a glare at her opposite number, “in the lifting gears. They’ll need some proper maintenance before they’ll operate properly. Just a running engine isn’t going to cut it. Wouldn’t have expected you to notice that,” she said to Petra with an utterly false smile. “The systems are complex.”

Petra bristled, but Donoghue, kneading her brow with one hand, raised the other firmly.

“Enough. Both of you.” She leaned back and sighed, and Gideon caught something that sounded like damn children on the breath. “So they’re in good nick. That’s the main thing. All we need is a way to get them out of here.” She turned to Yaxley. “Explosives. Anything?”

“Few live shells,” the big man rumbled. “Not many left. Defused.”

“Good,” the sergeant said briskly. “I don’t want any surprises left lying around, for us or whoever else gets here.” She drained the last of her ‘coffee’ and stood. “Right. Let’s check out the rest of them; check inside too, see if any kit got left – ”

Handel’s grinning face interrupted her, as the quartermaster stamped back into the room, the sheet metal of the shipping containers ringing under his feet despite the thin carpeting.

“One superlifter inbound to our position as priority two. ETA fifteen hundred hours.”

“Alright!” Collins beamed with satisfaction. Even Yaxley was smiling slightly, and Gideon couldn’t help but do the same. A way out. The Jeroboam wasn’t much of a home, but it was a damn sight better than this – and with thirty intact artillery pieces down here with them, there was no way that Salvage Seven weren’t being shipped home as express delivery for a pat on the back and some commendations. And a superlifter too! The Union wouldn’t send one of those aerial behemoths out for anything less than the most important pickups. Donoghue, smiling, clapped her hands to dispel the little hubbub Handel’s words had created.

“Ok! We’ve got… an hour and a half, boys and girls, so look lively! Dawson, Petra, finish checking the last few engines; Yax, same for explosives. Don’t want any surprises now, do we? The rest of you, we need to get these things ready for pickup. Handel, gather up all the small stuff as best you can; Gideon, Collins, you’re with me. Let’s get those stabilisers stowed away. Off you go!”

Shouldering their gear, Salvage Seven stepped back out into the wind – and, now, an equally freezing rain. But for once Gideon didn’t mind it; for once, he had a decent purpose. The three didn’t bother to split up, knowing full well that it would take all their strength to manhandle the retractable legs that held the guns in place and drag free the iron pins that held them in the ground. Sure enough, the stabilisers were corroded to the point of immobility – perfect when the guns had been firing, keeping them from bursting their chains and harming their crewers, but less than ideal now that they had to move once more. Each deployed their own methods to ease the rust; Collins used his drones to pulse tight, hair-fine laser beams along the rusted edges, sending orange flakes showering down to the wet stone; Gideon dragged his energised scalpel along those same joins, cutting through the thick rust with a not-inconsiderable effort. Donoghue, on the other hand, had taken a more traditional route. The ring of metal on metal split the air, Donoghue’s hammer striking her chisel over and over, punching through the rust inch by inch. Whoever was fastest moved on to the fourth stabiliser on each tank, and without discussion it rapidly became a competition. Collins might have had an advantage of efficiency but manipulating the drones took time, and while Gideon’s scalpel was sharp enough to slice the rust Donoghue’s brute-force approach proved equally effective.

By the time they lifted the last set of stabilisers in their line up and into their housings, it was six guns to Donoghue, four to Collins and five to Gideon. They paused for breath, all panting with the effort, tools hanging limply by their sides. Gideon looked up at the second rank of guns, over which Dawson and Petra were poring, neck-deep in their engine compartments, while Yaxley quietly carried the few remaining shells – presumably defused, though perhaps not – over to a safe distance, stacking them neatly beneath a crude awning someone had rigged up long ago as shelter. Checking his watch, Gideon saw that they had thirty minutes before the cargo-lifter arrived.

“Let’s step it up,” Donoghue said, glancing at her own chronometer. “No time to waste!”

“Maybe we should work together,” Collins offered. “I can split the drones up?”

Gideon and Donoghue looked at one another, eyes narrowing, and Gideon shuddered a little at the predatory glint in the sergeant’s eyes – but tried to return it as best he could.

“I don’t think so,” Donoghue replied, still looking at Gideon. A small grin crept onto her face. “All to play for. Let’s get on with it.”

She bent immediately to the nearest stabiliser and set to work, Gideon scrambling to follow her. As the minutes ticked away they powered through the tanks one by one, heedless of the wind or rain, the straining of their muscles giving more than enough warmth. Collins rapidly began lagging behind, his flitting drones unable to keep up with sheer human strength, as Donoghue’s hammer rang and Gideon’s scalpel sparked in the rain. He had to replace the power cell – they normally lasted days, even overclocked as his piece was – and retune the emitter twice, just to keep cutting, swinging the stabilisers up into their housing carelessly as he grappled to keep pace with Donoghue, who though red in the face from the effort of so many hammer-blows was still faster than him. They were at the last tank, neck and neck, almost before Gideon realised, with less than five minutes to go. The sergeant was at the front left leg, Gideon the rear left – in full view of one another. Gideon opened his mouth to speak, but Donoghue was already slotting her chisel in place, brow furrowed in concentration, and so he flicked on his scapel and bent to it. Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.

The seam of rust around the hinge was thick, but it parted with a little pressure from the glowing blade as Gideon drew it carefully downwards, knowing that he couldn’t rush even now – if he slipped he’d either break the scalpel or lose a finger, and neither option was appealing. Donoghue’s hammer rang out bright and clear beside him, but he didn’t look up – he had to concentrate. He could feel the tank shaking, just slightly, under the force of her blows, adjusted his grip to compensate, holding the scalpel like an artist’s brush. The first seam flaked away, finally, the sliced edges glowing faintly, and Gideon switched to the other side – thicker, more resistant to the drag of the blade. It was only around the top of the locking collar, but the incessant drizzle had caked the mechanism in corrosion, and the thin scalpel blade struggled to get through to the space beneath. He saw Donoghue from the corner of his eye – saw that she was already working on the locking pin, driving her hammer overhand. He grimaced and sliced faster, and felt the clunk as the stabiliser came free of the rust, settling back a little into its socket. He bent to the locking pin, seeing that the rust there was thin, dragged the scalpel swiftly around its circumference and grabbed the stake, dragging it free of the ground –

“Gotcha!” Donoghue cried, and Gideon cursed openly as he heard the sound of metal scraping on rock and more metal as the pin came free, just as his loosened in the rock. He pulled it free anyway, grabbing the stabiliser – but Donoghue was already slamming hers back into its housing, a triumphant grin plastered across her sweating face. She turned it on Gideon; genuine triumph and a little mockery.

“Well done,” Gideon said, smiling back. He felt disappointed, but he couldn’t help but grin at Donoghue’s triumphant expression.

“Something to be said for the old-fashioned way,” the sergeant replied, hefting her hammer with a smirk. “Nice try.”

“Almost had you.”

“Almost,” Donoghue repeated. Gideon chuckled. Then he realised that this might be the first time he and Donoghue had had a positive conversation – certainly the first time they’d ever made each other laugh. He smiled back at his sergeant, and saw actual good humour in her eyes.

“On you go, then,” Donoghue said, nodding to the final stabiliser. Gideon’s smile became malicious. Oh no you don’t.

“If we’re sticking to the rules,” he said, folding his arms, “then I believe to the victor go the spoils. Sergeant.”

Donoghue stared at him for a moment, and Gideon thought that he’d overstepped himself, the illusion of good humour shattering – but then her lip curled in a wry smile.

“Hoisted,” she said, “by my own petard. Fuck off and see if the others need help.”

“Yes, Sarge,” Gideon replied, saluting, and Donoghue returned the gesture – with two fingers.

SPFBO: Semi-Finals!

The Qwillery has just posted its last semi-finalist nomination for the SPFBO – and it’s The Blackbird and the Ghost!

So I’m now in the final five for the Qwillery – one of which will be picked as their finalist and reviewed by all the other blogs involved in the competition!

Check out Qwill’s review, it’s lovely! 

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Goodreads Choice Awards 2019

So, here’s something interesting. The Goodreads Choice Awards are happening. Lots of lovely books are being voted on in all manner of genres and categories.

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What’s interesting is that in addition to the chosen books for each category, users can write-in any book they like for each category. The top 5 user picks then advance to the semi-finals.

And someone’s voted for The Blackbird and the Ghost.

One vote isn’t going to cut it, though. If it’s going to stand even the slimmest chance of getting anywhere, it needs a lot of votes.

I’m hoping that’s where you lot come in.

If you read and liked, or even mildly tolerated, The Blackbird and the Ghost, please, please, please head over to the Goodreads Choice page and write it in, in the Fantasy and Debut Novel categories. It’d be a real help, and maybe, just maybe, the book will get somewhere.

HOW TO ACTUALLY DO THAT  (it’s slightly complicated)

Look at the list of categories on the left. Click ‘Fantasy’ and/or ‘Debut Novel‘
Scroll down to the bottom of the page, to the ‘Write-In Vote’ box
Type in The Blackbird and the Ghost. When it comes up as an option, click it
Click ‘Vote’
Bask in the eternal gratitude I will be giving you!