Dan Abnett's Blog, page 6
July 10, 2011
Ice, Ice Baby!
I'm posting this picture to explain why I haven't been blogging as much as usual of late (sorry 'bout that). I've been busy with this little project. A few advance notices have appeared on Amazon and similar sites, but I thought it was time I blogged an official word here as well. It's due out for Christmas - it's a Christmassy kinda story, as you can tell by the, uh, Ice Warriors - so it's on a helluva tight turn around. But it's also a helluva big honour to write this year's major hardback (last year's Christmas book was by Mr Moorcock, if you recall). I'm loving every minute of it, and I think it's going to be a cracker.
OMG, I didn't just make the 'Christmas cracker' joke in public, did I?
Anyway - Amy, Rory, Matt Smith's Doctor and some Ice Warriors. Did I mention the Ice Warriors? I got chills, baby! Chills!
June 19, 2011
Salvation's Reach - an exclusive extract!
Because you demanded it, and I was crazy enough to promise it....
Here's an exclusive chunk of the next Gaunt's Ghosts novel, out this Autumn. I hope it entertains. Pausing just long enough to remind you that I'm appearing at Alt-Fiction in Derby this coming weekend (details in the previous post), I'll leave you to get on with Salvation's Reach....
At midnight, local time, a new star woke in the skies above Anzimar. The city's population was hurrying to attend the day's Sabbat Libera Nos service, which had been held in the temples of the Beati every midnight since the Crusade began, in the hope of vouchsafing a brighter tomorrow. Some of the hundreds of thousands of citizens bustling from their homes, or even their beds, or suspending their labour, at that time may have turned their eyes skywards, for since the very origin of the species, mankind has entertained the notion that some ineffable source of providence may look down upon us. The upward glances were vain, involuntary wishes to glimpse the face of salvation.
No one saw the star light up. The smog that night was as thick as rockcrete.
Ship bells rang. At high anchor at the edge of the mesopause, the Imperial Tempest Class frigate Highness Ser Armaduke lit its plasma engines. The drives ignited with a pulsing fibrilation, and then calmed into a less intense, steady glow.
Below the ship lay the troposphere and the stratosphere. The shadow of the terminator lay heavily across Menazoid Sigma, and the smog atmospherics were so dense there were no visible light concentrations from the night-side hives. Part of the world was in sunlight. The fetid clouds, brown and cream, looked like infected brain tissue.
Small ships buzzed around the Armaduke, like flies around a carcass. Fleet tenders nestled in close to its flanks. Launches, lighters, cargo boats and shuttles zipped in and out. The Armaduke's hatches were all wide open, like the beaks of impatient hatchlings. Entire sections of the frigate's densely armoured hull plate had been peeled back or retracted to permit access. The old ship, ancient and weathered, looked undignified, like a grandam mamzel caught with her skirts hoisted.
Above the ship lay the exosphere. The vacuum was like a clear but imperfect crystal, a window onto the hard blackness of out-system space and the distant glimmer of tiny, malicious stars.
The Highness Ser Armaduke was an old ship. It was an artifact of considerable size. All ships of the fleet are large. The Armaduke measured a kilometre and a half from prow to stern, and a third of that dimension abeam across the fins. Its realspace displacement was six point two megatonnes, and it carried thirty-two thousand four hundred and eleven lives, including the entire Tanith First and its regimental retinue. It was like a slice cut from a hive, formed into a spear-head shape, and mounted on engines.
It was built for close war. Its hull armour was pitted and scorched, and triple-thickness along the flanks and the prow. The prow cone was rutted with deep scars and healed damage. The Armaduke was of a dogged breed of Imperial ship that liked to get in tight with its foe, and was prepared to get hurt while it hurt and killed an enemy.
To Ibram Gaunt, closing towards it about one of the last inbound launches, the ship had the character of a pit-fighter, or a fighting dog. Its scar-tissue was proud and deliberate.
Like the ritual marks of a bloody-pacted soldier, he reflected.
The plasma engines pulsed again. Hold doors began to seal, and cantilevered armour sections extended back into position. Gaunt's craft was one of the last to enter the central landing bay before the main space doors shut. The swarm of small ships dispersed, either into the Armaduke to share its voyage, or away to planetside or the nearest orbital fortress. Formations of Fury and Faustus Class attack craft had been circling the ship at a radius of five hundred kilometres to provide protection while she was exposed and vulnerable. Now they formed up to provide escort. Buoy lights blinked. Lines detached. Fleet tenders disengaged and rolled lazily away, like spent suitors or weary concubines. The Armaduke began to move.
Initial acceleration was painfully slow, even at maximum plasma power. It was as though an attempt was being made to slide a building - a basilica, a temple hall - by getting an army of slaves to push it. The ship protested. Its hull plates groaned. Its decks settled and creaked. Its superstructure twitched under the application of vast motive power.
The other ships at high anchor unhooded their lamps to salute the departing ship. Some were true giants of the fleet, grand cruisers and battleships six or seven kilometres long. Their vast shadows fell across the Armaduke as it accelerated along the line of anchorage. To them, it was a battered old relic, an orphan of the fleet they would most likely never see again.
The Fury flight dropped in around the ship in escort formation. The plasma drives grew brighter, their flare reflecting off the noctilucent clouds below, creating a shimmering airglow. Mesospheric ionisation caused bowsprite lightning to dance and flicker along the Armaduke's crenelated topside until the advancing ship passed into the exosphere and the wash of the magnetosphere's currents swept the lightshow away.
Stepping out of the launch into the excursion hold as the ship ran out, Gaunt sampled the odour of the vessel's atmosphere. Every ship had its own flavour. He'd traveled on enough of them to know that. Hundreds or sometimes thousands of years of recirculation and atmospheric processing had allowed things to accumulate in a ship's lungs. Some smelled oddly sweet, others metallic, others rancid. You always got used to it. A ten or twelve week haul on a shiftship could get you used to anything. The Armaduke smelled of scorched fat, like grease in a kitchen's chimney.
He would get used to that. You could get used to the smell, the chemical tang of the recycled water, the oddly bland taste of shipboard food. You got used to the constant background grumble of the drives, to the odd noises from a vast superstructure constantly in tension. Once the drives were lit, the hull flexed; once the Gellar Field was up and the ship had translated into the Warp, the hull locked tight, like a well-muscled arm pumped and tensed. You got used to the acceleration sickness, the pervading cold, the odd, slippery displacement where the artificial gravity fields fluctuated and settled.
Once translation had been achieved, you got used to the ports being shuttered. You got used to ignoring whatever was outside. You got used to the baleful screams of the Empyrean, the sounds of hail on the hull, or burning firestorms, or typhoon winds, of fingernails scratching at the port shutters. You got used to the whispers, the shudders and rattles, the inexplicable periods of half-power lighting, the distant subterranean banging, the dreams, the footsteps in empty corridors, the sense that you were plunging further and further into your own subconscious and burning up your sanity to fuel the trip.
The one thing you never got used to was the scale. At high orbit, even with the vast extent of a planet close by for contrast, a starship seemed big. But as the planet dropped away to stern, first the size of an office globe, then a ball, until even the local star was just a fleck of light no bigger than any other star, the embrace of the void became total. The void was endless and eternal, and the few suns no bigger than grains of salt. Alone in the bewildering emptiness, a starship was dwarfed, diminished until it was just a fragile metal casket alone in the monstrous prospect of night.
The Armaduke was accelerating so robustly now, the fighter escort was struggling to match it. Course was locked for the system's mandeville point, where the warp engines would be started up to make an incision in the the interstitial fabric of space. The Warp awaited them.
The crew and control spaces of a starship tended to be kept separate from the areas used for transported material and passengers, even on a military operation. The transporters and those they were transporting needed very little contact during a voyage.
But the Armaduke was still twenty-six minutes from the translation point when Gaunt presented himself at the shipmaster's quarters. He did not come alone.
"No entry at this time," said the midshipman manning the valve hatch. He had six armsmen with him, all with combat shotweapons for shipboard use.
Gaunt showed the midshipman his documentation, documentation that clearly showed he was the commanding officer of the troop units under conveyance.
"That's all very well," said the midshipman, displaying that unerring knack of Navy types to avoid using Guard rank formalities, "but the shipmaster is preparing for commitment to translation. He can't be interrupted. Perhaps in a week or so, he might find some time to–"
"Perhaps he's done it a thousand times before," said Gaunt's companion, stepping out of the bulkhead shadows, "and doesn't need to do more than authorize the bridge crew to execute. Perhaps he ought to bear in mind that his ship is a vital component of this action and not just a means of transportation. Perhaps you should open this hatch."
The midshipman went pale.
"Yes, sir," he said, his voice as small as a shiftship in the open void.
"I hate that," said Larkin. He froze and refused to continue walking until the ship lights returned to their original brilliance. There was an underdeck tremor. A distant exhalation.
"Worst part of any trip," he added. The lights came back up, a frosty glare in the low deck companionway. He started walking again.
"The worst?" asked Domor.
"Yeah," said Larkin. "Apart from getting there."
"All true," said Domor.
They had reached the armoured hatchway of a hold space originally designed as a magazine for explosive ordnance. Rawne and Brostin were waiting for them.
"I want a badge like that," said Larkin.
"Well, you can't have one," said Brostin. "It's only for the kings."
"The kings can actually kiss my arse," said Larkin.
Domor looked at Rawne.
"This could continue all day, major," he said.
"And it still wouldn't become amusing," Rawne agreed.
"Gaunt wants us to see him," said Domor. "Is that all right?"
"Yes," said Rawne. "Provided you're who you say you are."
Larkin winked at Rawne.
"Come on, Eli, these'd be pretty shit disguises, wouldn't they?"
"What are you suggesting?" asked Domor, a smile forming. "We forced our own faces to change shape?"
"I've seen more fethed up things," said Rawne.
"Nobody here is surprised," said Larkin.
Rawne nodded to Brostin. The big man banged on the door, and then opened the outer hatch.
"Coming in, two visitors," said Rawne over his microbead.
"Read that."
A peephole slot in the inner door opened, and Rawne stood where the viewer could see his face.
The inner hatch opened. Rawne took Domor and Larkin through.
"Got anything he could use as a weapon?" asked Rawne.
"My fething rapier wit?" suggested Larkin.
Mabbon Etogaur was sitting on a folding bunk in one corner of the dank magazine compartment. The walls, deck and ceiling were reinforced ceramite, and the slot hatch for the loader mechanism had been welded shut. The prisoner was reading a trancemissionary pamphlet, one of a stack on his mattress. His right wrist was cuffed to a chain that was bolted to a floor pin.
Varl was sitting on a stool in the opposite corner, his las rifle across his knees. Cant was standing in another corner, nibbling at the quick of his thumbnail.
Larkin and Domor came in and approached the Etogaur.
He looked up.
"I don't know you," he said.
"No, but I had you in my crosshairs once," said Larkin.
"Where?"
"Balhaut."
"Why didn't you take the shot?" asked Mabbon.
"And miss a touching moment like this?"
"That's Domor, that's Larkin," said Rawne, pointing.
"Don't tell him our fething names!" Larkin hissed. "He might do all sorts of fethed-up magic shit with them!"
"I won't," said Mabbon.
"He won't," Rawne agreed.
"He can't," said Varl.
"Why not?" asked Larkin.
"Because how else would I be the punchline for another of Varl's jokes?" asked Cant wearily.
Larkin snorted.
"He won't because he's cooperating," said Rawne, ignoring the others.
"And if I did," said Mabbon, "Rawne would gut me."
"He does do that," Larkin nodded.
"What did you need from me?" asked Mabbon.
"A consult," said Domor. He had a sheaf of rolled papers under his arm, and a dataslate in his hand.
"Go on," said Mabbon.
Larkin took the pamphlet out of Mabbon's hand and glanced at it.
"Good read?" he asked.
"I enjoy the subject matter," said Mabbon.
"A doctrine of conversion to the Imperial Creed?" asked Larkin.
"Fantasy," replied Mabbon.
"He'd be a fething funny man if he didn't scare the shit out of me," Larkin said to Rawne.
"We're leading the insertion effort," said Domor. "There's training to be done, planning. We want to use transit time to get as ready as possible."
"Are you combat engineering?" asked Mabbon.
"Yes," said Domor. "Larks... Larkin, he's marksman squad."
"I saw the lanyard."
"We want to go over the deck plans and schematics you've supplied so far. It may mean several hours work over a period of days."
"I'll try to build time into my schedule."
"Some of the plans are vague," said Larkin.
"So are some of my memories. It's all from memory."
"If you go through them a few times," said Rawne, "maybe you can firm things up."
The Etogaur nodded.
"If you go through them so many times you're sick of them, maybe we'll actually do this right," Rawne added.
"I've no problem with that," said Mabbon. "I offered this to you. I want it to happen."
Domor showed him the dataslate.
"We want to talk about this too," he said. "This firing mechanism. We need to mock some up for practice purposes. You say this is fairly standard?"
"It's representative of the sort of firing mechanisms and trigger systems you're going to find," said Mabbon, studying the slate image.
"It's just mechanical," said Larkin.
"It has to be. They can't risk anything more... more complicated. They can't risk using anything that might interfere with, or be interfered with by, the devices under development at the target location. It's delicate. Any conflict in arcane processes or conjurations could be disastrous."
"So just mechanical?" said Larkin.
"Complex and very delicate. Very sensitive. But, yes. Just mechanical."
Larkin took the slate back.
"It looks very... It looks very much like the sort of thing we use," he said. "It looks pretty standard."
"It's the sort of trigger mech I would rig," Domor said.
"Of course," said Mabbon. "Tried and tested Guard practice. This is the sort of thing I taught them how to do. And I learned it the same place you did."
Larkin looked at Domor. There was distaste on his face.
"Go get the folding table," Rawne said to Varl. "Let's look over these plans."
Here's an exclusive chunk of the next Gaunt's Ghosts novel, out this Autumn. I hope it entertains. Pausing just long enough to remind you that I'm appearing at Alt-Fiction in Derby this coming weekend (details in the previous post), I'll leave you to get on with Salvation's Reach....
At midnight, local time, a new star woke in the skies above Anzimar. The city's population was hurrying to attend the day's Sabbat Libera Nos service, which had been held in the temples of the Beati every midnight since the Crusade began, in the hope of vouchsafing a brighter tomorrow. Some of the hundreds of thousands of citizens bustling from their homes, or even their beds, or suspending their labour, at that time may have turned their eyes skywards, for since the very origin of the species, mankind has entertained the notion that some ineffable source of providence may look down upon us. The upward glances were vain, involuntary wishes to glimpse the face of salvation.
No one saw the star light up. The smog that night was as thick as rockcrete.
Ship bells rang. At high anchor at the edge of the mesopause, the Imperial Tempest Class frigate Highness Ser Armaduke lit its plasma engines. The drives ignited with a pulsing fibrilation, and then calmed into a less intense, steady glow.
Below the ship lay the troposphere and the stratosphere. The shadow of the terminator lay heavily across Menazoid Sigma, and the smog atmospherics were so dense there were no visible light concentrations from the night-side hives. Part of the world was in sunlight. The fetid clouds, brown and cream, looked like infected brain tissue.
Small ships buzzed around the Armaduke, like flies around a carcass. Fleet tenders nestled in close to its flanks. Launches, lighters, cargo boats and shuttles zipped in and out. The Armaduke's hatches were all wide open, like the beaks of impatient hatchlings. Entire sections of the frigate's densely armoured hull plate had been peeled back or retracted to permit access. The old ship, ancient and weathered, looked undignified, like a grandam mamzel caught with her skirts hoisted.
Above the ship lay the exosphere. The vacuum was like a clear but imperfect crystal, a window onto the hard blackness of out-system space and the distant glimmer of tiny, malicious stars.
The Highness Ser Armaduke was an old ship. It was an artifact of considerable size. All ships of the fleet are large. The Armaduke measured a kilometre and a half from prow to stern, and a third of that dimension abeam across the fins. Its realspace displacement was six point two megatonnes, and it carried thirty-two thousand four hundred and eleven lives, including the entire Tanith First and its regimental retinue. It was like a slice cut from a hive, formed into a spear-head shape, and mounted on engines.
It was built for close war. Its hull armour was pitted and scorched, and triple-thickness along the flanks and the prow. The prow cone was rutted with deep scars and healed damage. The Armaduke was of a dogged breed of Imperial ship that liked to get in tight with its foe, and was prepared to get hurt while it hurt and killed an enemy.
To Ibram Gaunt, closing towards it about one of the last inbound launches, the ship had the character of a pit-fighter, or a fighting dog. Its scar-tissue was proud and deliberate.
Like the ritual marks of a bloody-pacted soldier, he reflected.
The plasma engines pulsed again. Hold doors began to seal, and cantilevered armour sections extended back into position. Gaunt's craft was one of the last to enter the central landing bay before the main space doors shut. The swarm of small ships dispersed, either into the Armaduke to share its voyage, or away to planetside or the nearest orbital fortress. Formations of Fury and Faustus Class attack craft had been circling the ship at a radius of five hundred kilometres to provide protection while she was exposed and vulnerable. Now they formed up to provide escort. Buoy lights blinked. Lines detached. Fleet tenders disengaged and rolled lazily away, like spent suitors or weary concubines. The Armaduke began to move.
Initial acceleration was painfully slow, even at maximum plasma power. It was as though an attempt was being made to slide a building - a basilica, a temple hall - by getting an army of slaves to push it. The ship protested. Its hull plates groaned. Its decks settled and creaked. Its superstructure twitched under the application of vast motive power.
The other ships at high anchor unhooded their lamps to salute the departing ship. Some were true giants of the fleet, grand cruisers and battleships six or seven kilometres long. Their vast shadows fell across the Armaduke as it accelerated along the line of anchorage. To them, it was a battered old relic, an orphan of the fleet they would most likely never see again.
The Fury flight dropped in around the ship in escort formation. The plasma drives grew brighter, their flare reflecting off the noctilucent clouds below, creating a shimmering airglow. Mesospheric ionisation caused bowsprite lightning to dance and flicker along the Armaduke's crenelated topside until the advancing ship passed into the exosphere and the wash of the magnetosphere's currents swept the lightshow away.
Stepping out of the launch into the excursion hold as the ship ran out, Gaunt sampled the odour of the vessel's atmosphere. Every ship had its own flavour. He'd traveled on enough of them to know that. Hundreds or sometimes thousands of years of recirculation and atmospheric processing had allowed things to accumulate in a ship's lungs. Some smelled oddly sweet, others metallic, others rancid. You always got used to it. A ten or twelve week haul on a shiftship could get you used to anything. The Armaduke smelled of scorched fat, like grease in a kitchen's chimney.
He would get used to that. You could get used to the smell, the chemical tang of the recycled water, the oddly bland taste of shipboard food. You got used to the constant background grumble of the drives, to the odd noises from a vast superstructure constantly in tension. Once the drives were lit, the hull flexed; once the Gellar Field was up and the ship had translated into the Warp, the hull locked tight, like a well-muscled arm pumped and tensed. You got used to the acceleration sickness, the pervading cold, the odd, slippery displacement where the artificial gravity fields fluctuated and settled.
Once translation had been achieved, you got used to the ports being shuttered. You got used to ignoring whatever was outside. You got used to the baleful screams of the Empyrean, the sounds of hail on the hull, or burning firestorms, or typhoon winds, of fingernails scratching at the port shutters. You got used to the whispers, the shudders and rattles, the inexplicable periods of half-power lighting, the distant subterranean banging, the dreams, the footsteps in empty corridors, the sense that you were plunging further and further into your own subconscious and burning up your sanity to fuel the trip.
The one thing you never got used to was the scale. At high orbit, even with the vast extent of a planet close by for contrast, a starship seemed big. But as the planet dropped away to stern, first the size of an office globe, then a ball, until even the local star was just a fleck of light no bigger than any other star, the embrace of the void became total. The void was endless and eternal, and the few suns no bigger than grains of salt. Alone in the bewildering emptiness, a starship was dwarfed, diminished until it was just a fragile metal casket alone in the monstrous prospect of night.
The Armaduke was accelerating so robustly now, the fighter escort was struggling to match it. Course was locked for the system's mandeville point, where the warp engines would be started up to make an incision in the the interstitial fabric of space. The Warp awaited them.
The crew and control spaces of a starship tended to be kept separate from the areas used for transported material and passengers, even on a military operation. The transporters and those they were transporting needed very little contact during a voyage.
But the Armaduke was still twenty-six minutes from the translation point when Gaunt presented himself at the shipmaster's quarters. He did not come alone.
"No entry at this time," said the midshipman manning the valve hatch. He had six armsmen with him, all with combat shotweapons for shipboard use.
Gaunt showed the midshipman his documentation, documentation that clearly showed he was the commanding officer of the troop units under conveyance.
"That's all very well," said the midshipman, displaying that unerring knack of Navy types to avoid using Guard rank formalities, "but the shipmaster is preparing for commitment to translation. He can't be interrupted. Perhaps in a week or so, he might find some time to–"
"Perhaps he's done it a thousand times before," said Gaunt's companion, stepping out of the bulkhead shadows, "and doesn't need to do more than authorize the bridge crew to execute. Perhaps he ought to bear in mind that his ship is a vital component of this action and not just a means of transportation. Perhaps you should open this hatch."
The midshipman went pale.
"Yes, sir," he said, his voice as small as a shiftship in the open void.
"I hate that," said Larkin. He froze and refused to continue walking until the ship lights returned to their original brilliance. There was an underdeck tremor. A distant exhalation.
"Worst part of any trip," he added. The lights came back up, a frosty glare in the low deck companionway. He started walking again.
"The worst?" asked Domor.
"Yeah," said Larkin. "Apart from getting there."
"All true," said Domor.
They had reached the armoured hatchway of a hold space originally designed as a magazine for explosive ordnance. Rawne and Brostin were waiting for them.
"I want a badge like that," said Larkin.
"Well, you can't have one," said Brostin. "It's only for the kings."
"The kings can actually kiss my arse," said Larkin.
Domor looked at Rawne.
"This could continue all day, major," he said.
"And it still wouldn't become amusing," Rawne agreed.
"Gaunt wants us to see him," said Domor. "Is that all right?"
"Yes," said Rawne. "Provided you're who you say you are."
Larkin winked at Rawne.
"Come on, Eli, these'd be pretty shit disguises, wouldn't they?"
"What are you suggesting?" asked Domor, a smile forming. "We forced our own faces to change shape?"
"I've seen more fethed up things," said Rawne.
"Nobody here is surprised," said Larkin.
Rawne nodded to Brostin. The big man banged on the door, and then opened the outer hatch.
"Coming in, two visitors," said Rawne over his microbead.
"Read that."
A peephole slot in the inner door opened, and Rawne stood where the viewer could see his face.
The inner hatch opened. Rawne took Domor and Larkin through.
"Got anything he could use as a weapon?" asked Rawne.
"My fething rapier wit?" suggested Larkin.
Mabbon Etogaur was sitting on a folding bunk in one corner of the dank magazine compartment. The walls, deck and ceiling were reinforced ceramite, and the slot hatch for the loader mechanism had been welded shut. The prisoner was reading a trancemissionary pamphlet, one of a stack on his mattress. His right wrist was cuffed to a chain that was bolted to a floor pin.
Varl was sitting on a stool in the opposite corner, his las rifle across his knees. Cant was standing in another corner, nibbling at the quick of his thumbnail.
Larkin and Domor came in and approached the Etogaur.
He looked up.
"I don't know you," he said.
"No, but I had you in my crosshairs once," said Larkin.
"Where?"
"Balhaut."
"Why didn't you take the shot?" asked Mabbon.
"And miss a touching moment like this?"
"That's Domor, that's Larkin," said Rawne, pointing.
"Don't tell him our fething names!" Larkin hissed. "He might do all sorts of fethed-up magic shit with them!"
"I won't," said Mabbon.
"He won't," Rawne agreed.
"He can't," said Varl.
"Why not?" asked Larkin.
"Because how else would I be the punchline for another of Varl's jokes?" asked Cant wearily.
Larkin snorted.
"He won't because he's cooperating," said Rawne, ignoring the others.
"And if I did," said Mabbon, "Rawne would gut me."
"He does do that," Larkin nodded.
"What did you need from me?" asked Mabbon.
"A consult," said Domor. He had a sheaf of rolled papers under his arm, and a dataslate in his hand.
"Go on," said Mabbon.
Larkin took the pamphlet out of Mabbon's hand and glanced at it.
"Good read?" he asked.
"I enjoy the subject matter," said Mabbon.
"A doctrine of conversion to the Imperial Creed?" asked Larkin.
"Fantasy," replied Mabbon.
"He'd be a fething funny man if he didn't scare the shit out of me," Larkin said to Rawne.
"We're leading the insertion effort," said Domor. "There's training to be done, planning. We want to use transit time to get as ready as possible."
"Are you combat engineering?" asked Mabbon.
"Yes," said Domor. "Larks... Larkin, he's marksman squad."
"I saw the lanyard."
"We want to go over the deck plans and schematics you've supplied so far. It may mean several hours work over a period of days."
"I'll try to build time into my schedule."
"Some of the plans are vague," said Larkin.
"So are some of my memories. It's all from memory."
"If you go through them a few times," said Rawne, "maybe you can firm things up."
The Etogaur nodded.
"If you go through them so many times you're sick of them, maybe we'll actually do this right," Rawne added.
"I've no problem with that," said Mabbon. "I offered this to you. I want it to happen."
Domor showed him the dataslate.
"We want to talk about this too," he said. "This firing mechanism. We need to mock some up for practice purposes. You say this is fairly standard?"
"It's representative of the sort of firing mechanisms and trigger systems you're going to find," said Mabbon, studying the slate image.
"It's just mechanical," said Larkin.
"It has to be. They can't risk anything more... more complicated. They can't risk using anything that might interfere with, or be interfered with by, the devices under development at the target location. It's delicate. Any conflict in arcane processes or conjurations could be disastrous."
"So just mechanical?" said Larkin.
"Complex and very delicate. Very sensitive. But, yes. Just mechanical."
Larkin took the slate back.
"It looks very... It looks very much like the sort of thing we use," he said. "It looks pretty standard."
"It's the sort of trigger mech I would rig," Domor said.
"Of course," said Mabbon. "Tried and tested Guard practice. This is the sort of thing I taught them how to do. And I learned it the same place you did."
Larkin looked at Domor. There was distaste on his face.
"Go get the folding table," Rawne said to Varl. "Let's look over these plans."
June 14, 2011
Alt.Fiction 2011
A timely reminder, now it's a little less than two weeks away, of the splendid Alt.Fiction weekend in Derby. This is the fifth year, and the guests of honour are myself and Alastair Reynolds. The event's packed to the rafters with famous names - authors, editors, agents, and other movers and shakers in the genre. Some will be moving, some will be shaking, and some will be doing both. For a taster, check out the main Alt.Fiction link here.
There's also a very full programme over the two days, with some great panels, discussions, interviews, workshops and readings, an overview of which you can get from the schedule here.
It should be a fantastic weekend, and I look forward to seeing as many of you there as possible. If you're a Facebook, Twitter or blog person, make sure you come and introduce yourself in person.
There's also a very full programme over the two days, with some great panels, discussions, interviews, workshops and readings, an overview of which you can get from the schedule here.
It should be a fantastic weekend, and I look forward to seeing as many of you there as possible. If you're a Facebook, Twitter or blog person, make sure you come and introduce yourself in person.
May 23, 2011
Paris in the meantime...
And so to Paris by Eurostar for Games Day France 2011.
Ah, Paris. We'll always have you.
Armed only with a stout pair of walking legs, I covered a fair bit of ground in the free time available before the event itself began. I was keen to get a few snaps that I could post here, because I have, I'm painfully aware, been somewhat twap in the blogatory department of late. We can lay the blame squarely at the door of Salvation's Reach (Gaunt #13), which I'm working very hard to finish. It's a corker, I'm telling you. A fething corker. As promised, I will post a taster extract soon.
So, in a hasty tea-break between the final bombshell chapters, here's a quick overview of the GD France weekend.
Paris is, of course, full of very familiar sights.
I also encountered some fairly familiar faces.
On Saturday, due to the crowds of people trying to get into them, we skipped the Catacombs and headed straight for the Les Invalides and the army museum. A side note, but you'd have thought that the alleged day of the Rapture would have been the one time everybody would be trying to get out of the Catacombs. Alors.
Les Invalides is pretty spiffy. There's a whole Palace of Terra riff going on, both outside...
...and in.
Along with the museum - a fabulous collection of militaria - we visited Napoleon's Tomb. The sheer mind-futzing irony of being here in the company of a man who is known to all and sundry as "Boney" is not immediately evident from this photo, I grant you. Trust me on this. There was more irony going on than in the whole of President Reagan's autobiography.
Lots and lots of cool stuff in the museum, including plenty of things that were very 40K. Notes were made. Ideas fermented. The unnecessary and malevolent deaths of favourite characters were planned. Don't you just love the rampart guns in the first pic here?
Of course, when processing inspiration like this, you always have to think "is it canon"?
And you know what? It was.
Anyway, Games Day France. At the start of the day, the French GW staff got themselves suitably psyched up for the show with the Gallic equivalent of a hakka. Une, deux, t--WAAAAGGHHH!
Not to be outdone, the Black Librarians got pretty revved up and out of hand too.
I was pleased to see, however, that France was clearly expecting me.
There were some great costumes around: take a collective bow, the fair ladies of Atomic Bamboo.
There was also some less successful cosplay. Here, we attempt a rustic recreation of the painting American Gothic.
The place was certainly heaving all day. BL did good business. In fact, Forge World and BL got cleaned out like they'd been hit by locusts.
Back to Corbec. He won the costume prize, you know. A great effort.
Distracting him by mentioning which Ghosts were going to bite it in the next book, I managed to wrest his straight silver off him for a moment.
He didn't take too kindly to that.
I tried to post comments on and off through the afternoon whenever I could, until I started to put the 'a' into Twitter. Then it was time for a rest and breath of fresh air in the Parc Floral.
It was a weekend of contrasts. For example, a cape in the museum on Saturday, worthy of a God-Emperor...
...and a rather more functional but no less heroic one on Sunday.
Anyway, I had a splendid time. I want to thank everybody involved for making me so welcome, especially the staff of GW France, and BL's Boney, Lindsey, George, Anthony and Julien.
Tourists often complain they visit somewhere and all they come home with is a lousy tee-shirt. I bet this guy wishes he had.
Thanks for coming and queuing, folks! See you next year!
The Emperor protects!
Ah, Paris. We'll always have you.
Armed only with a stout pair of walking legs, I covered a fair bit of ground in the free time available before the event itself began. I was keen to get a few snaps that I could post here, because I have, I'm painfully aware, been somewhat twap in the blogatory department of late. We can lay the blame squarely at the door of Salvation's Reach (Gaunt #13), which I'm working very hard to finish. It's a corker, I'm telling you. A fething corker. As promised, I will post a taster extract soon.
So, in a hasty tea-break between the final bombshell chapters, here's a quick overview of the GD France weekend.
(nb: in common with the picture above, my blog regularly involves a significant quantity of professional cobblers)
Paris is, of course, full of very familiar sights.
I also encountered some fairly familiar faces.
On Saturday, due to the crowds of people trying to get into them, we skipped the Catacombs and headed straight for the Les Invalides and the army museum. A side note, but you'd have thought that the alleged day of the Rapture would have been the one time everybody would be trying to get out of the Catacombs. Alors.
Les Invalides is pretty spiffy. There's a whole Palace of Terra riff going on, both outside...
...and in.
Along with the museum - a fabulous collection of militaria - we visited Napoleon's Tomb. The sheer mind-futzing irony of being here in the company of a man who is known to all and sundry as "Boney" is not immediately evident from this photo, I grant you. Trust me on this. There was more irony going on than in the whole of President Reagan's autobiography.
Lots and lots of cool stuff in the museum, including plenty of things that were very 40K. Notes were made. Ideas fermented. The unnecessary and malevolent deaths of favourite characters were planned. Don't you just love the rampart guns in the first pic here?
Of course, when processing inspiration like this, you always have to think "is it canon"?
And you know what? It was.
Anyway, Games Day France. At the start of the day, the French GW staff got themselves suitably psyched up for the show with the Gallic equivalent of a hakka. Une, deux, t--WAAAAGGHHH!
Not to be outdone, the Black Librarians got pretty revved up and out of hand too.
I was pleased to see, however, that France was clearly expecting me.
There were some great costumes around: take a collective bow, the fair ladies of Atomic Bamboo.
There was also some less successful cosplay. Here, we attempt a rustic recreation of the painting American Gothic.
The place was certainly heaving all day. BL did good business. In fact, Forge World and BL got cleaned out like they'd been hit by locusts.
Back to Corbec. He won the costume prize, you know. A great effort.
Distracting him by mentioning which Ghosts were going to bite it in the next book, I managed to wrest his straight silver off him for a moment.
He didn't take too kindly to that.
I tried to post comments on and off through the afternoon whenever I could, until I started to put the 'a' into Twitter. Then it was time for a rest and breath of fresh air in the Parc Floral.
It was a weekend of contrasts. For example, a cape in the museum on Saturday, worthy of a God-Emperor...
...and a rather more functional but no less heroic one on Sunday.
Anyway, I had a splendid time. I want to thank everybody involved for making me so welcome, especially the staff of GW France, and BL's Boney, Lindsey, George, Anthony and Julien.
Tourists often complain they visit somewhere and all they come home with is a lousy tee-shirt. I bet this guy wishes he had.
Thanks for coming and queuing, folks! See you next year!
The Emperor protects!
April 28, 2011
Get Your Demon Grinning
This Sunday, May 1st, my local comic store in Maidstone, the Grinning Demon, is staging its first small-but-perfectly-formed Con of comics and gaming and all things fun. Scroll down to see the poster image I ran a couple of posts back, or click here to see the Demoncon image.
Naturally, I aim to support my local comic store, so I'm going to be there in the morning between about 11 and Midday, and then I'll be back again after lunch with the other half of DnA, Mr Andy Lanning. Expect us both from around about 2 for a couple of hours. Andy may bring some artwork. I may bring some freebies. We'll sign stuff and chat. As you can see from the poster, there are plenty of other, much better reasons for attending.
It promises to be a great event, so come along and spend your May Day, demon-style!
Naturally, I aim to support my local comic store, so I'm going to be there in the morning between about 11 and Midday, and then I'll be back again after lunch with the other half of DnA, Mr Andy Lanning. Expect us both from around about 2 for a couple of hours. Andy may bring some artwork. I may bring some freebies. We'll sign stuff and chat. As you can see from the poster, there are plenty of other, much better reasons for attending.
It promises to be a great event, so come along and spend your May Day, demon-style!
April 17, 2011
Illustrious in Birmingham!
If you're going to be at Eastercon this coming (Easter) weekend, in Birmingham, then you can catch me – along with many of Angry Robot's finest – there. Known as Illustrious, this is the 62nd National Science Fiction Eastercon, and you can find out more about it here.
I'm going to be there on Friday and Saturday, and I believe the mighty James Swallow will be attending over the weekend too. This year, the theme is military SF, so it seemed like an ideal time to officially launch the UK paperback edition of "Embedded". I'll be doing a reading, and then joining with the other Angry Robots – including Lauren Beukes, Lavie Tidhar, Aliette de Bodard, John Meaney, Colin Harvey and Andy Remic – in a mass AR signing/robotfest at 4.00pm.
If you're not actually attending the Con, you can nevertheless catch all of us between 12.30 and 2.00 that same day at Waterstones, Birmingham High Street. You can find the official details of these events at the Angry Robot site here.
For those of you at Illustrious, there's also the NewCon Press event on Friday afternoon at 4.30pm. This is to launch their latest anthology – Further Conflicts – which I've contributed a story to. This is a collection of all-new military SF and I'm in some pretty – pardon the pun – Illustrious – company. The book is an exclusive, limited edition signed by all the authors. Details here.
I'm going to be there on Friday and Saturday, and I believe the mighty James Swallow will be attending over the weekend too. This year, the theme is military SF, so it seemed like an ideal time to officially launch the UK paperback edition of "Embedded". I'll be doing a reading, and then joining with the other Angry Robots – including Lauren Beukes, Lavie Tidhar, Aliette de Bodard, John Meaney, Colin Harvey and Andy Remic – in a mass AR signing/robotfest at 4.00pm.
If you're not actually attending the Con, you can nevertheless catch all of us between 12.30 and 2.00 that same day at Waterstones, Birmingham High Street. You can find the official details of these events at the Angry Robot site here.
For those of you at Illustrious, there's also the NewCon Press event on Friday afternoon at 4.30pm. This is to launch their latest anthology – Further Conflicts – which I've contributed a story to. This is a collection of all-new military SF and I'm in some pretty – pardon the pun – Illustrious – company. The book is an exclusive, limited edition signed by all the authors. Details here.
April 5, 2011
Your Prose Is My Crack
...or how I went to Adepticon and lived.
So I went to Lombard, which is in Chicagoland, and attended Adepticon. Adepticon is the Iron Man endurance version of Games Day. I was left feeling nothing but slack-jawed respect for the players and the organisers. In all seriousness, the sheer, determined fortitude on display was alarming. For three straight days, the crowd got up at silly o'clock in the morning, played their asses off, and went to bed at half past insane (if they went to bed at all). In the meantime, they came to get things signed, to talk, and to listen to two guys in suits yack on about being writists. Oh, and to give Forge World a gazillionty eleven thousandish bucks. True story.
Yes, Mr Nathan Long and I did suit up for our seminars. Both of them. This was due to a conversation we'd had in Baltimore last year which had gone something like this:
Nathan: Dude, we should do a signing like this totally wearing suits!
Me: Yeah, that would be, like, well rad. Let's do it next time!
Nathan: Yeah. Lol!
Me: Lol!
I paraphrase a little. Anyway, so we did. Twice. And once in swimwear. Okay, not the last bit.
"It's 106 light years to Chicago, we've got a full tank of prometheum, half a pack of lho-sticks, it's grim dark and we're wearing blast visors. Hit it!"
(alt. caption courtesy Matthew Farrer: "The tall one wants white bread, toasted, dry, nothin' on it. And the English one wants four whole fried grox and an amasec!")
An awesome show, anyway, and my thanks to Hank and the team for having us; Super Dooper Rik Cooper and Vince Rospond for handling us; Dave "silly heretic" Ploss for being such a stalwart pilgrim; all the podcasters and crews that interviewed us (I'll post up links as they come to me, but here's the first from the Eternal Warriors crew, and one from Dave); all the great guys at Geek Nation Tours; the Forge World crew of Kenton, Steve and Jon; and you. Yes, you. All of you who came and chatted and asked questions. There were way too many friendly faces for me to be able to name check here, because I'll end up forgetting someone and feeling bad about it, but you know who you are. If you shook my hand, or gave me a painted Iron Snake, or a purity seal, or a badge, or a ten Euro note, or a copy of your comic (stand up Dave Pauwels), or brought enthusiasm, friendship or a great idea (Bruce and Michelle Euans, I'm looking at you) or any of a thousand other things, thanks. Thank you. The game-play mindset of Adepticon was extra intense, so the questions and engagement levels were too. It was amazing, and entirely filled past the fill to here line with purest win.
And someone told me "Your prose is my crack", which was nice. And could have been worse. It could have been the other way around. Also, check out Dave's link above to see someone swear I'm better than Dickens.
I would also like to celebrate the motto supplied by Commissar Mel of Dicehead, who announced that "In battle, you don't always get a clean fork." That's just one of life's great truths, along with ADB's "Prose before hoes".
Ah yes, ADB. I'd wanted to go to Adepticon ever since Aaron Dembski-Bowden (who went last year) told me "man, it was the best weekend of my life!". Again, I paraphrase. He was more emphatic. For his sake, I trust that the estimation will be revised following his forthcoming nuptials though, to be fair, that will be a Tuesday. However, once I'd been HI DAN ABNETTed whilst at the urinals five minutes into the show, my warm feeling towards ADB ebbed slightly. I got HI DAN ABNETTed a lot. At the end of the show, I even got BYE DAN ABNETTed.
Anyway, this is sunny Lombard, gateway to the West.
It is important to remember there are no sidewalks in Lombard. Or, you know, Chicago. So on no account ever try to walk anywhere, like me, Steve and Kenton did. Unless you want to get tasered, shot, or complete the I-Spy book of People In Cars Who Do Not Want To Make Eye-Contact With The Three Weird Fucking Guys On The Roadside.
This was one of the more amazing things: a gift from the crew of a Canadian Leopard tank somewhere in Afghanistan (still covered in Afghan dust). The crew physically divides copies of my books so they can all read them at once, like a relay. This was presented to me at the Geek Nation dinner, and in front of actual people, which made it extra hard not to well up at their sheer awesomeness.
There were actually more people around than this photo suggests.
Let's go to work. Let's suit up and go to work. It'll be time-of-legend... wait for it.... dary! Time-of-legendary!
On the left, a normal-size Nathan Long. On the right, the extended remix Dave Ploss. Tall, is what I'm saying.
And here's Nathan with the weather.
L to r: Super Dooper Rik, Hank, and Vincent 'hands off the merchandise, bozo' Rospond.
Another moment of awesome sauce. A photographic record of the first copy of Embedded I have ever signed (avert your gaze, BL).
The candidate's debate was televised nationally for the first time.
Nathan Long: tough on questions and tough on the causes of questions.
The pitch meeting with Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce was going well. It was just about then that Nathan realised Dan had forgotten his pants.
This is what happens directly after you explain your "Chaos Culture And Stapling Babies To Your Hat" Theory.
Finally, it was time to go, but not before Dave had shown us the napcave (ie the car he had been sleeping in during the Con weekend). I told you Adepticon was hardcore. By the way, Dave is really tall and does a fine John Wayne impersonation. We invented a new game, which was to think of the least likely film roles that ought to have gone to John Wayne, and then get Dave to perform a line or two (highlights: John Wayne as Obi Wan, John Wayne as Rick Deckard, John Wayne as Ferris Bueller, John Wayne in Casablanca... in the Ingrid Bergman role). To understand how tall Dave is, bear in mind those are giant cars, and he's holding the Eiffel Tower.
On my way out through O'Hare, I was browsing in the gift shop. On one rack of general interest books, The Bible's Good Words For Every Day and The Lord's Promises For You had been placed next to Laugh Out Loud Jokes, which can't have been the intention of either publisher.
Anyway, good times. I hope to be invited back. A final observation: at the airport foodcourt, I was greeted with the words "Chicago tastes of the World". Hmm. Don't expect me to lick it, then.
Before I forget, a reminder that the rescheduled Embedded Forbidden Planet Exclusive Edition signing is this Thursday at 6pm. Here's the Guardian's review to help persuade you to read it.
So I went to Lombard, which is in Chicagoland, and attended Adepticon. Adepticon is the Iron Man endurance version of Games Day. I was left feeling nothing but slack-jawed respect for the players and the organisers. In all seriousness, the sheer, determined fortitude on display was alarming. For three straight days, the crowd got up at silly o'clock in the morning, played their asses off, and went to bed at half past insane (if they went to bed at all). In the meantime, they came to get things signed, to talk, and to listen to two guys in suits yack on about being writists. Oh, and to give Forge World a gazillionty eleven thousandish bucks. True story.
Yes, Mr Nathan Long and I did suit up for our seminars. Both of them. This was due to a conversation we'd had in Baltimore last year which had gone something like this:
Nathan: Dude, we should do a signing like this totally wearing suits!
Me: Yeah, that would be, like, well rad. Let's do it next time!
Nathan: Yeah. Lol!
Me: Lol!
I paraphrase a little. Anyway, so we did. Twice. And once in swimwear. Okay, not the last bit.
"It's 106 light years to Chicago, we've got a full tank of prometheum, half a pack of lho-sticks, it's grim dark and we're wearing blast visors. Hit it!"
(alt. caption courtesy Matthew Farrer: "The tall one wants white bread, toasted, dry, nothin' on it. And the English one wants four whole fried grox and an amasec!")
An awesome show, anyway, and my thanks to Hank and the team for having us; Super Dooper Rik Cooper and Vince Rospond for handling us; Dave "silly heretic" Ploss for being such a stalwart pilgrim; all the podcasters and crews that interviewed us (I'll post up links as they come to me, but here's the first from the Eternal Warriors crew, and one from Dave); all the great guys at Geek Nation Tours; the Forge World crew of Kenton, Steve and Jon; and you. Yes, you. All of you who came and chatted and asked questions. There were way too many friendly faces for me to be able to name check here, because I'll end up forgetting someone and feeling bad about it, but you know who you are. If you shook my hand, or gave me a painted Iron Snake, or a purity seal, or a badge, or a ten Euro note, or a copy of your comic (stand up Dave Pauwels), or brought enthusiasm, friendship or a great idea (Bruce and Michelle Euans, I'm looking at you) or any of a thousand other things, thanks. Thank you. The game-play mindset of Adepticon was extra intense, so the questions and engagement levels were too. It was amazing, and entirely filled past the fill to here line with purest win.
And someone told me "Your prose is my crack", which was nice. And could have been worse. It could have been the other way around. Also, check out Dave's link above to see someone swear I'm better than Dickens.
I would also like to celebrate the motto supplied by Commissar Mel of Dicehead, who announced that "In battle, you don't always get a clean fork." That's just one of life's great truths, along with ADB's "Prose before hoes".
Ah yes, ADB. I'd wanted to go to Adepticon ever since Aaron Dembski-Bowden (who went last year) told me "man, it was the best weekend of my life!". Again, I paraphrase. He was more emphatic. For his sake, I trust that the estimation will be revised following his forthcoming nuptials though, to be fair, that will be a Tuesday. However, once I'd been HI DAN ABNETTed whilst at the urinals five minutes into the show, my warm feeling towards ADB ebbed slightly. I got HI DAN ABNETTed a lot. At the end of the show, I even got BYE DAN ABNETTed.
Anyway, this is sunny Lombard, gateway to the West.
It is important to remember there are no sidewalks in Lombard. Or, you know, Chicago. So on no account ever try to walk anywhere, like me, Steve and Kenton did. Unless you want to get tasered, shot, or complete the I-Spy book of People In Cars Who Do Not Want To Make Eye-Contact With The Three Weird Fucking Guys On The Roadside.
This was one of the more amazing things: a gift from the crew of a Canadian Leopard tank somewhere in Afghanistan (still covered in Afghan dust). The crew physically divides copies of my books so they can all read them at once, like a relay. This was presented to me at the Geek Nation dinner, and in front of actual people, which made it extra hard not to well up at their sheer awesomeness.
There were actually more people around than this photo suggests.
Let's go to work. Let's suit up and go to work. It'll be time-of-legend... wait for it.... dary! Time-of-legendary!
On the left, a normal-size Nathan Long. On the right, the extended remix Dave Ploss. Tall, is what I'm saying.
And here's Nathan with the weather.
L to r: Super Dooper Rik, Hank, and Vincent 'hands off the merchandise, bozo' Rospond.
Another moment of awesome sauce. A photographic record of the first copy of Embedded I have ever signed (avert your gaze, BL).
The candidate's debate was televised nationally for the first time.
Nathan Long: tough on questions and tough on the causes of questions.
The pitch meeting with Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce was going well. It was just about then that Nathan realised Dan had forgotten his pants.
This is what happens directly after you explain your "Chaos Culture And Stapling Babies To Your Hat" Theory.
Finally, it was time to go, but not before Dave had shown us the napcave (ie the car he had been sleeping in during the Con weekend). I told you Adepticon was hardcore. By the way, Dave is really tall and does a fine John Wayne impersonation. We invented a new game, which was to think of the least likely film roles that ought to have gone to John Wayne, and then get Dave to perform a line or two (highlights: John Wayne as Obi Wan, John Wayne as Rick Deckard, John Wayne as Ferris Bueller, John Wayne in Casablanca... in the Ingrid Bergman role). To understand how tall Dave is, bear in mind those are giant cars, and he's holding the Eiffel Tower.
On my way out through O'Hare, I was browsing in the gift shop. On one rack of general interest books, The Bible's Good Words For Every Day and The Lord's Promises For You had been placed next to Laugh Out Loud Jokes, which can't have been the intention of either publisher.
Anyway, good times. I hope to be invited back. A final observation: at the airport foodcourt, I was greeted with the words "Chicago tastes of the World". Hmm. Don't expect me to lick it, then.
Before I forget, a reminder that the rescheduled Embedded Forbidden Planet Exclusive Edition signing is this Thursday at 6pm. Here's the Guardian's review to help persuade you to read it.
March 29, 2011
New Date For Forbidden Planet Launch Announced!
Thursday April 7th between 6pm and 7pm - that's for the exclusive FP hardback limited edition! Details here! See you there!
March 25, 2011
IMPORTANT! FORBIDDEN PLANET SIGNING!
Very sorry to report that we've been obliged to postpone tomorrow's Forbidden Signing event - see the link here if you need to. A REVISED DATE will be put up as soon as we've got it! This WILL happen - just not tomorrow!
